Solidarity

At work last Tuesday I found myself with an urgent need to visit the restroom.  “Number 2” as they say in most cartoons, daycare facilities and ladies auxiliary clubs.  In my line of work I have to wear a badge that clearly identifies who I am at all times.  The badge is attached to my belt with one of those stretchy spring loaded strings that can also be used to choke a full grown man.  Allegedly.

I entered the stall and dropped my pants to the floor.  At that time there was someone in the stall next to me “having a tough day” (shitting out a tree trunk by the sound of it).  He was really going for it!  I was sitting quietly when I noticed that my badge happened to land on the floor in such a way that it slid under the wall between the stalls so my smirking badge face was under the wall and staring directly up at the man giving birth next to me.  At this point I know he saw my badge appear under the wall and now I have a dilemma.  Do I yank my badge back under so he can’t see it?  Do I just leave it there?  Do I try to flip it over?  What to do…

By now it doesn’t matter.  This poor co-worker is passing a tire iron in the midst of his work day and all of the sudden my half grinning image slides into existence by his feet smiling up at him.  As if to say “Hey pal, we will get through this together, you and me.  No, it’s cool.  I work here.”  Now I’m thinking that he thinks I did it on purpose as some sort of toilet judgement.  

“I know what you are doing and now HR will know too.  I work here.”

“Mind if I watch you split your ass wide open in our sacred place of business?”

“Don’t mind me and my arrogant security ID.  I just needed you to know that I know what you are going through.  I work here.”

The pained groaning stopped as soon as my dumb badge slapped onto the floor so I know he felt some sort of shame or judgement.  At a minimum I know he was caught off guard.  I personally don’t like to be identified in the middle of a bathroom break as a general rule, so I wasn’t very happy myself.  “Attention, It’s me Employee 23219453 about to move my bowels before God and Country. The year of our lord two thousand seventeen.  May we all make it through to the other side.  Amen.”

So here we are, two working stiffs trying to conduct God’s business in private and I basically just broke down the wall and forced him to deal with my existence as a man, a co worker and as a fellow defecator.  I didn’t plan on bonding in this way, but all roads lead somewhere I suppose.

He finished up and rushed out of there with a bang of the stall door and some squeaking of loafers moving quickly over the tiled floor.  I was actually a little disappointed that he didn’t gently push his badge under the wall into my stall.  I will never know who I made badge eye contact with that day. There is someone out there who sees me walking through the hallways at work and shares with me an uncommon bond that may never have happened any other way.

*Walking up to the door of the stairwell by my office.  Reading a sign on the door that says “Caution Active Bees in this hallway!!!”  I pause with my hand loosely gripping the doorknob and let out a deep sigh...*

Get busy livin', or get busy dyin'. That's god-damn right. For the second time in my life, I am guilty of committing a crime. Bathroom Stall Privacy Violation. Of course, I doubt they'll toss up any roadblocks for that. Not for an old crook like me...

I find I'm so excited I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it's the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain. I hope I can make it across the border. I hope to see my friend and shake his hand. I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams.

I hope.

Fever Dream

Hi.

Not sure if anyone is still here.  I lost this thing for a while.  Just found it.  It is always the last place you look right?

Since no one is reading, I can describe a crazy dream I woke up from this morning.

I was a movie producer and came up with the best possible idea for a movie.  It combines pop culture, nostalgia, an A-list movie star and a potential for star-studded cameos.

Conan The Barbarino

The cast of Welcome Back Kotter reunites and we add Arnold Schwarzenegger in full Conan garb as "Conan the Barbarino".  John Travolta can do a walk on and be all confused about why there is a new Barbarino.  Boom Boom Washington will get beheaded in the first 5 minutes in a hilarious mixup.

Mr. Kotter:  "What is best in life?"

Conan:  "To crush your enemies, to see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentations of Horshack"

When I woke up, I was fully erect (per usual) but this time I knew it was a result of Conan the Barbarino and John Travolta facing off in an epic sweaty man fight with swords and grunting and bad acting and hair pieces and Gabe Kaplan weeping.  And really, don't we all wake up that way sometimes?

Barbarino Prime (Travolta):  "Up your nose with a rubber hose!"  *swings a rubber hose at Conan*

Conan:  *impales Barbarino Prime on a huge sword*

Barbarino Prime:  "Off my case...toilet face..."  *dies*

I have to stop lacing my corn flakes with cocaine right before bed.

Conversation with my Daughter

Daughter: Dad, what do Boy Scouts do?

Me: Discriminate against homosexuals and athiests?

Daughter: No, what do they do in the woods?

Me: I think they pretty much descriminate everywhere.

Daughter: I'm hungry.

Me: Hungry for Equality? Me too, Daughter. Me too. *staring meaningfully into the distance while my Daughter picks her nose*

Pest Control

During our 4^th of July festivities yesterday, the topic of pest control came up since at any given moment our heads were surrounded by a swarm of gnats making us all look like walking mushroom clouds.  The conversation went exactly like this.  Exactly like this.

Me:  *waving casually at a pesky gnat* Wouldn’t it be grand if we could come up with a sort of permanent solution to rid ourselves of these bothersome little bug friends?

Brother-In-Law:  That would be most welcome!

Me:  Indeed! 

*clinking our tea cups together*

I took down some of the top solutions and came up with a few of my own.  Hopefully you find this list helpful this summer.  Note:  None of these methods have been tested by professionals.  Lawsuits are most unwelcome.

n      In a five gallon bucket, combine the following:

o       Urine (does not have to be your own)

o       Feces

o       Rotten eggs

o       Sweat

o       Green Tea

o       Strip naked and pour the mixture over your head.  Then run through your yard screaming “Victory or Death!” as loud as possible.  The bugs will surely be intimidated by your dominance and vacate the premises.  Also do this in your neighbor’s yards as they are most likely plagued by the same bug infestation.

n      Screaming mad laughter.  It is a well known fact that most insects hate the sound of merriment.  Run through your yard low to the ground and laugh heartily towards the grass. 

n      Every hour light your entire lawn on fire.  

n      At night, casually walk across your lawn and mention the giant pile of dog shit you saw two streets over.  Go into detail about how large and horrible smelling it is.  Bugs are nothing if not curious and they will take the bait most assuredly.  Then move out of your house immediately.  They will never be able to track you.

n      Dress up like an abominable snowman and stomp loudly through your flower beds.  Who isn’t scared of a Yeti?  Mosquitos will go batshit crazy trying to get out of your yard, bet your ass on that.

n      Disco.  Play “You Should Be Dancing” by the Bee Gees at top volume from all the windows of your house.  I assure you, the pests will “hustle” their way out of your neighborhood.  They will definitely get “Saturday Night Fever” as they…run away from…disco balls.  Other 70’s references.

Good luck in the age old battle against bugs and other outdoor pests this summer.  If all else fails, just get a gun and start shooting.  Even if you hit one wasp, I think that sends a message to everyone else right?  

Do’s and Don’ts on your next job interview

“The economy is headed straight down the large pipe that carries all human fecal matter into our great oceans.”
--Barack Obama

If that quote doesn’t scare the shit out of you, nothing will. I am nothing if not a realist. There are many people out of work these days; even you. You are out of work. You may not know it yet, but you are. They just haven’t told you yet. You have been fired. Your services are no longer required. Hit the streets. Fuck off. I’m serious.

Now that you are out of work I want you to have this list of Dos and Don’ts for the interview process. Be a do bee, not a don’t bee, and this will all work out OK. Just don’t swim in the ocean.

DO – Arrive for your interview thirty minutes early; preferably on a zip line smashing through the main window of the CEO’s office.

DON’T – Reach across the desk and stroke the cheek of your interviewer with your index finger and say “I could be real good to you.”

DO – Bring a list of questions about the company to ask at the end of your interview. Questions like:
-- Where all the white women at?
-- Is this the type of party in which there will be hookers?
-- When the CEO embezzled over 25 million dollars worth of company funds, was there at least an ice cream cake party at the bottom of everything? Was that his motivation?
-- Do the water fountains turn on automatically when you get near them? I find that after 9 AM, for the rest of the day, my god damned arms just won’t work or really move much at all.
-- Is this the company that makes Angry Birds?
-- Can I get an Angry Bird?
-- Are the Angry Birds artificially angry or do you purposely provoke them?
-- Are they actually birds or actors in suits?

DON’T – Shoot anyone while you are waiting to begin your interview. Some companies take this as a sign of weakness, since real men and women fight to the death via hand to hand combat with people who infringe upon their personal space.

DO – Open your mouth as wide as you can and keep it open at least 25 to 30 times during the interview. This will keep you relaxed while at the same time allow your interviewer to examine any recent dental work you may have had. Happy Teeth equals Happy Pete. NOTE: This will only work if your interviewer is named Pete.

DON’T – Inquire about the “availability” of the secretary you met when you arrived.
1. She is definitely available.
2. Not to you, dumpy.

DO – Complement your interviewer on their appearance as soon as you see them and as many times as you can in the next hour. Accompany this with physical aggression whenever possible. This will quickly establish your position as the alpha dog, while making the interviewer feel very good about how they look.

DON’T – Produce your resume until it is asked for or at all. If you do decide to take your resume out, don’t consider your penis a resume. It is not that.

DO – Wear a suit or a nice dress to your interview. Take it off as fast as you can before you get inside the building. The maintenance staff should take good care of your clothing outside while you dazzle the entire office with your natural god given talents.

DON’T – Use open handed slaps as punctuation for your sentences. This will result in an interviewer with very red cheeks which will cause you to laugh and not concentrate on securing your new job.

DO – Dance.

DON’T – Care.

DO – Crack your knuckles frequently during the interview process. This demonstrates an inner toughness and hints at the fact that you may be a bare-knuckle boxer in your spare time.

DON’T – Bring a lunch to your interview. You will most likely be presented with a five course meal at any interview that you attend. If you aren’t offered a meal, call 911 right away.

DO – Ask about the benefits the company offers. Among the benefits you should inquire about:
-- Friends with benefits
-- 401k, 401j, 401x, 402a, 403b
-- Dental reconstruction and titanium plating
-- Brain implants that give you the ability to see through walls and shit
-- The power of flight
-- Personal time off (ask for 30 weeks, but don’t go below 20)
-- Lawyer fees and general “bail me out of jail” crap
-- Ice Cream Allowances

DON’T – Sit on the lap of your interviewer at any time during the process. They will most likely try to sing you a lullaby and put you to sleep while rocking you gently. After that? God only knows what would happen.

DO – Immediately show outrage when asked about your salary requirements. I recommend saying: “If they won’t give me what I want, then you tell them I’m gunning for them! You tell them I’M COMING! AND HELL’S COMING WITH ME!”

Good luck on the job hunting trail. At least now you are armed with the knowledge you need to ace any interview. Before, you were just a baby with a suit on trying not to crap on the floor. Now you are an adult trying not to crap on the floor.

The difference is invaluable.

Urgent Questions: XIV

How many times has the earth opened up under your feet and expelled hellacious demons and winged creatures screaming the cries of the eternally damned? Zero? Exactly. Will you go sleep in your own bed now?

Did you ever have one of those days where you just waltz into your boss’ office and say “Hey baldy, I’d like to let you in on a little secret…*whispering* you had me at…*sob*…expense report. *uncontrollable sobbing*” That’s an excerpt from my upcoming book “One way ticket to layoff-town: The fast track to poverty and homelessness.”

If Doctor Feelgood gave you a prescription for the “summertime blues”, would you tell him “I got the fever, and you got the cure! All this heroin makes my veins feel like tiny highways in hell! I would shake your hand, but I don’t know where mine are, and you look like a stone gargoyle with rainbow eyes! Great Balls of FIRE! Good Golly MISS MOLLY!” That’s not Doctor Feelgood, that’s your parole officer, and welcome back to rehab.

I can’t go to weddings anymore. I quickly find myself surrounded by 40 year old men all dancing like Fred “Rerun” Berry from What’s Happening. That’s enough to scare anyone into a coke habit.

When I hear people say “He really dances to the beat of a different drummer!” I think to myself “Why did God create so many retarded drummers?”

If four and twenty blackbirds were baked in a pie, would I have you arrested for animal cruelty right away, or let you continue your disgusting cooking habits?

If Mr. Clean grew his hair out and started panhandling down by Penn Station, would you call him “Mr. Filthy bum who needs to get a job”?

Will I ever be able to look at a park bench and not think about the time that I named one “Hazel” and tried to pass her off as my girlfriend? Will you ever stop bringing up the time Hazel and I showed up at the prom, and her dress was a little tight, and everyone called her Fatbench? She never got over that, thanks a lot.

If Mister Mister played a concert with Duran Duran, would the crowd puke from laughing so hard at all of the double-named bands playing on the bill, or would some jackass yell out “Freebird Freebird!” during the encore?

Will Tony ever wake up next to Lucy and think to himself “Lucy is an Italian whore’s name. Why in the world did I marry an Italian whore? Did I honestly think that she would give her heart to me and only me? Does she ever long to be back on the street, turning tricks and smoking Italian crack while eating meatballs? What have I done?” Relax Tony, Lucy is your dog. How many times do we have to go over this?

If you opened up a restaurant in Manhattan, would you call it “Craptastic Wonderburger Emporium of Country Fried Skullduggery and Yumtummery”? I would really appreciate it. That was my Grandmother’s dying wish.

If you wear a bowtie to your cousin’s wedding, and it suddenly starts spinning like a propeller during the ceremony, will you hurriedly try to stop it from spinning, or will you go with it and stand up in the church singing “Hello my baby, hello my honey, hello my ragtime gaaaaaaal!” while tap dancing? Good choice.

Q and A

I’ve been away for a while, it is true. I just got back from a fact finding tour of Las Vegas. I found so many facts. So many. All of the facts revolve around prostitution, autoerotic asphyxiation, prisoner’s rights and jailhouse etiquette. I won’t bore you with the details.

I thought it would be a good idea to reintroduce myself with a little Q and A session I recently did with Anderson Cooper of CNN. He was gracious enough to sit and interview me for 17 hours at my request. He fell asleep a few times but I just sprayed him with “water” to wake him back up again.

Quotes? What quotes? Around the word water? I don’t see any quotes there. You must be crazy. I sprayed him with water (wink, wink).

What wink? Stop making shit up.

I took down the transcript of the entire 17 hour conversation and whittled it down to a select few highlights.

Cooper: You have been called by many “The male equivalent of Liza Minelli”. Explain please.

M.O.M: Well Anderson, male is really a subjective term, you see what I mean? Are you male?

Cooper: Yes.

M.O.M: Well I’m sure I could find someone who says you are female. Who is right really? Who has the authority to make that call? Are you God?

Cooper: No I am not God. And a doctor has that authority.

M.O.M.: Well, when a doctor rolls up in here to check my Division Symbol then I guess we’ll know for sure.

Cooper: Division symbol?

M.O.M: My genitalia. I call it ‘Division Symbol’. One line separating two circles? Liza Minelli calls my genitals “Finger of God” hence the comparison. Next question.

Cooper: Roger Clemens implicated you in the recent steroid scandal that has rocked Major League Baseball. Were you involved in any way?

M.O.M: Andy, I can’t really talk much about this topic due to pending litigation. I will say this though: Roger Clemens had peanut-sized testicles long before he ever shot himself with that stuff. Don’t ask how I know, I just know.

Cooper: Can we get some of the crazier rumors out of the way that have been written about you?

M.O.M: Please do. I am an open book.

Cooper: One blogger wrote that you are actually 256 years old and immortal.

M.O.M: Two words: *leaning forward until nose touches Anderson Cooper’s nose* Russian. Dracula.

Cooper: *visibly shaken* Uh… Another reporter claims that she once found you naked and weeping at the foot of your bed while reading a Barbeque restaurant menu.

M.O.M: There was a *clears throat* ah, there was a 2 for 1 special *composing himself* 2 for 1...*pausing for 10 minutes while brushing tears from his eyes* Move on, can we move on? Next question?

Cooper: President Obama once punched you in the ribs.

M.O.M: True.

Cooper: Can you elaborate?

M.O.M: I can, but I will not. I will say that “Quartigont” is not a word in Scrabble or any other god damned place. If Obama is reading this he knows what I’m talking about. *raising voice* QUARTIGONT!

Cooper: Mother Theresa once collapsed your windpipe with a round kick.

M.O.M: That is not true. It was a front kick. She was a sweet woman, but a mean drunk.

Cooper: One more we can maybe put to rest: You once stared a man to death.

M.O.M: Unfortunately, that one is most definitely true.

Cooper: What happened?

M.O.M: It was at work. Raining outside. Windy. Someone came up to me, a Monday I believe it was, and asked me a question. *pauses to collect himself* I turned in my chair and said ‘What did you just say to me?’ I remember it like it was yesterday. He said: ‘Looks like you got a haircut this weekend? Did you just get the one hair cut or did you have the barber cut all of them?’ It took about two minutes from start to finish. I stared into his soul. His toothy smile turned to a straight line, then a frown. Then he was gone. I can’t really talk about it. Don’t ask me questions on Monday. What day is today?

Cooper: Tuesday

M.O.M: Well, it’s your lucky day Coop. *stares*

Cooper: If extraterrestrial life exists, and you could say one thing to them, what would you say?

M.O.M: Quartigont.

Cooper: Quartigont.

M.O.M: Yes. I owe Obama an apology. Not only is that a word that is THE word. You see what I’m saying? That is the only word that accurately sums up the human spirit and at the same time would put the fear of God into those invading alien bastards. You see?

Cooper: I’m not following you.

M.O.M: And why would you?

Cooper: I think that wraps up our interview here. On behalf of CNN, I’m Anderson Cooper. Goodnight.

More Letters from More Folks Just Like You!

Happy '11 everyone! Twenty-eleven. Or two thousand eleven. Or Two. Zero. One. One. for all you computers reading today. So far I have had an eventful new year. I didn't just break my own resolutions, I broke everyone's resolutions in my immediate vicinity. I am like a tornado of resolution breaking strength. A Tsunami (pronounced "Tits-Nami") of resolution eviscerating glory.

Anyway, I have received many letters from many many people spanning many many many area codes and homeless shelters. I present them to you. Please having some fun now.

Dear Mr. Atommmmmms Mannnnnn Arrrrrrrrrr,

Here there be pirates! Hoist the main sail and be smart about it ye scurvy dog! First man back with the treasure map gets the first swig of rum! ARRRRRR!

Signed,
Captain Jack Ass

Dear Captain Ass,

My hoisting days are over (bad back, you know). Either way, I find your language offensive. Scurvy is a very serious disease. Plus, it is a seriously bad idea to drink any kind of alcohol and perform intensive heavy labor as is found when trying to man a crew aboard a large water craft. ‘Just say No’ and stay in school, Captain Ass. Um. Arrr?

Dear blog writer,

What did you do for your New Years’s?

Signed,
Curious in Caracas

Dear Curious,

How many years are we talking about here? Every New Year ever? The last ten? Your pluralization skills are giving me the absolute shits here. Go back to school.

Anyway, with regards to your question, I spent my New Year the same way I always do:

-- Wake up
-- Violently kick all the sheets and blankets off the bed because I swear there was a spider on them. I know I saw it.
-- Look around some more for the spider
-- Toss out a few idle threats in case the spider is hiding and watching me. He can hear me, believe it.
-- Sprint downstairs (spiders are fast)
-- Catch my breath and just start screaming in case the spider got some friends
-- Continue screaming until I pass out
-- Hopefully wake up in time to watch Santa drop a ball on the Easter Bunny while cupid tries to shoot him with an arrow.

I heard that they dropped some sort of massive crystal ball very slowly on a pole in Times Square? Is that right? What is that supposed to signify anyway? The calendar date is changing, let’s rig a massive paperweight to some pulleys and lower it slowly from a high point to a slightly less higher point? Man, if that doesn’t get you fired up for another year of working in a cubicle, I don’t know what will.

Dear Martina Navratilova,

You are my favorite lesbian tennis player. Do you have any advice for young lesbian tennis players just starting out? When you were hitting tennis balls, did you pretend they were testicles to give you an extra burst of energy? You must hate testicles right? Because they are man balls?

Signed,
Athletic in Atlanta

Dear Athletic,

You have no idea how much I hate man balls. No idea. At Wimbledon in 1989, I caught a tennis ball in my mouth and chewed it to bits in pure anger and rage. Male genitals have no place in this world or any other. So say I.

Anyway, follow your lesbian dreams. And send me detailed accounts of those dreams. So I can help you. With tennis...rackets..love..thirty...set match...um...

(Editors Note: The writer of this blog is not female, a lesbian, a tennis player or Martina Navratilova.)

Dear Mr. Peanut,

I enjoy your blog occasionally. Occasionally I do not enjoy it. Right now, you are running at a 43 percent success rate with me. In baseball you would be on the all star team with a .430 batting average. In football, you would be a third string quarterback with a 43 percent completion rate.

So my question to you is: Are you going to be a baseball man or a football man?

Signed,
Half-and-Half in Halifax

Dear Half,

I’m going to be a curling man and I’ll tell you why. I use the same techniques when eating dinner that are used in curling. I cut my steak and then frantically brush at my plate until the piece of steak ends up in my mouth. Don’t ask how that works, just love it for what it is. Anyway, screw you and your 43 percent. You can enjoy 98 percent of my fist against your lower jaw the next time I see you. Take care and God Bless, Father.

Dear Madam,

You are three months overdue on your Netflix payments. Please immediately return the following titles:

-- Lassie Get Out!
-- Osama Bin Lassie
-- Lassie and the Bandit 4: Makin Puppies!
-- The Piano
-- Alvin and The Chipmunks 6: Oh my god their voices are even squeakier than before how in fuck is that possible?
-- The Notebook
-- The Notebook 2: Electric Boogaloo
-- Four Weddings and a Fifth Wedding
-- Richie Rich
-- Halloween 37: Just kill me already. You walk faster than I run somehow and I’m ready to die.

Please remit payment immediately, or return these titles, or we will be forced to notify the proper authorities.

Sincerely,
Netflix Collection

Dear Ms. Flix,

Fine. You can have all of these awful movies back. Except one. I claim ‘The Notebook’ as my own. You will have a hellish apocalypse on your hands if you try to take it from me. I am not afraid. I will die for this movie. Will you? He reads her *sob* their story. So she will remember...god, this is hard...their love...from...The Notebook! *collapsing in a pile of tears*

Dear dear dear oh dear,

Well, I’ve done it again! Open the door, birds come at me! Close the door, crap my pants! Same thing happens every year! Why do the holidays do this to me? There go the birds! They fly right at me raising a ruckus and knock my toupee askew! They are so loud and fluttery! What should I do?

Signed,
Messy in Montana

Dear Mess,

If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, birds fly through open doors. It’s. What. They. Do. Those whore birds would fly through every door in the universe if they could. Keep the door closed you silly such and such! That would eliminate the embarrassing bowel movement issue as well. Just stay in your house and cling to your toupee as if your life depended on it, you monumental boob.

Dear person who types this mess of a thing,

My bubble bath has worms. Can you recommend a carpenter? My shoes are no longer walking. The sun is falling down into my soup cans! Will you attend the seminar?

Signed,
Balls

On that note, I bid you all adieu. Which as we all know, in French, means “Git off’n my property!” Wait, that is the Wild West translation. It actually means “Go forth and multiply. Especially with Barry White playing in the background or something with a wicked bass line.” Those French people: so horny.

What I Want for Christmas

-- Barbie Dream Plastic Surgery Operating Room Playset. Complete with real silicone! Stick-on scar tissue! Inflatable breast balloons! Ken Psychiatry Outfit with comfy couch!

-- A REALLY smartphone. No, a GENIUS-phone. I want a phone that automatically calls people that I’m thinking about or that I may have dreamed about one night and then tells me why. “Hey! I didn’t want to call my estranged stepfather!” “Oh, didn’t you?” Genius-Phone says with a raised eyebrow and a half-smile.

-- Blow-snower. Snow-blotter. Blow-thrower. Show-bomber. I’m so drunk.

-- Santa Claws

-- This thing which tells time

-- I want to have a romantic comedy filmed that doesn’t involve two people who would never otherwise love each other fall in love. I want the opposite of this: “He’s a crack addicted janitor. She’s the President of Chile. In a world where crazy happens, watch love happen in ‘Chile Willy.’ This time, it’s for cocaine.”

-- Defecating with the Stars. “This week, Danny Bonaducci and Willie Aames compete in the final bowl showdown! Will the notoriously stingy judges give out any 10’s this week? Did anyone have corn for Thanksgiving? Find out Wednesday on ABC!”

-- Cadbury Turkey. An entire Turkey filled with that stuff that is in Cadbury Eggs. You want me to be thankful at Thanksgiving? This would go a long way. Get it done.

-- A bowl full of mush

-- An old lady whispering “Hush”

-- An episode of “Oprah’s Favorite Things” where she gets the crowd frothing at the mouth for some expensive giveaway and then just gives them directions home and a kick in the teeth for being so greedy and materialistic.

-- Black Monday through Friday. I think every week day the stores should open at 3AM and have an entire section of expensive stuff on sale for a dollar each. Give out nail-studded clubs at the door. Eventually, the idiots will be sorted out and the strong will survive (with three hundred TVs each). You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.

-- Re-release of the lost classic: “How the Grinch Stole Labor Day”

And all of the Who’s all snug in their houses
Dreaming of Labor Day wazzles and wowzes
While the Grinch snuck down in his mean Grinchy way
And with his dog Max de-Labored their Day

But the Who’s didn’t need what the Grinch took and more
Perhaps Labor Day didn’t come from a store?
Perhaps Grover Cleveland put reconciliation with the labor movement as a top political priority and fearing further conflict, legislation making Labor Day a national holiday was rushed through Congress unanimously and signed into law a mere six days after the end of the Pullman Strike.
I’m paraphrasing here.

-- Alternate version of “Charlie Brown’s Christmas” where the final “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” sing along with the Peanuts gang was dubbed over with “Kung Fu Fighting” by a drug-addled staff member. He was caught trying to animate Snoopy giving a round kick to Lucy and immediately incarcerated. The 60’s, am I right?

-- Kind of related to the last one, I would like a box of the most dangerous dessert known to man: Kung Fudge

-- Peace on Earth Goodwill to Men. Well, not all Men. Just the good looking ones. So, Peace on Earth goodwill to Attractive Men. Don’t care what you do with the uglies. Peace on Earth, Goodwill to Hot Men, Indifference to Uglies and Extra Goodwill to Supermodels. Wait. Peace on Earth blah blah blah forget the uglies and Super-human steroid enhanced strength to Supermodels to make them beautiful and scary as shit and prone to rage blackouts. That.

Urgent Questions XIII

If Mr. Peanut came tip tapping into your house with his top hat and cane, would you join him in an impromptu tap dance routine, or would you crack that nut and make Mr. Peanut Butter?

When stars fall from the sky, do you chase them running through moonlit wheat fields to see where they landed, or do you just wait for one to land on your house and put an end to your miserable existence? Hey, cheer up, will ya?

Do you ever think that maybe your dog is smarter than you? That maybe he or she has the answers to the mysteries of the universe, and just lacks the ability to communicate them to you? That maybe, just maybe, your dog is the answer to all the world’s problems? Oh, that’s right; dogs do eat their own crap, don’t they? Never mind.

When your cell phone rings, do you flip it open and begin talking animatedly about your exciting day, or do you instantly regret your “Funky Cold Medina” ringtone?

If hindsight is 20/20, is foresight 50/50? What about foreskin?

When a doctor hits your knee with his little reflex hammer, do you ever wonder why the hammer is skin colored and it appears to be attached to his testicles?

Why are people so afraid of clowns? It’s not the clowns people need to be afraid of; it’s their lethal poisoned lip makeup. Making out with clowns is the death bringer, not the clowns themselves. Just keep your distance and you’ll be fine. Or will you? *scary music followed by a tight closeup on Bingo the Clown’s inflated red lips, which mouth the words “You’re next”*

Will I ever see a day where alien beings land on earth and tell us earth-dwellers how to get our grooves back?

If California got all high and mighty one day and decided to become their own country, do you think Nevada could invade and take them in a fair fight? Nevada has all that casino money and tons of deserts to hide in, but California has all those Los Angeles freaks, plus Alcatraz. I call it even.

If a bubble floated out of the sky and popped on top of your head, would you freak out looking around for other bubbles, or would you just put your hands on your hips, bend back at the waist and laugh long and loud at your good luck that day because the bubble didn’t land on your erect penis?

When you squat down to talk to a friendly peacock about their day and to check on their family, just to see how little Billy is doing in school, do you ever wonder how you learned so much about this peacock and his family from just crudely written notes in peacock language?

How often do you spin in a tight circle and finish by thrusting your index finger straight up in the air triumphantly while shouting “WOO!”? Really, that much? Maybe you should cut down on those 10 cups of coffee a day; you sound a little nuts.

How about this time, we don’t forget the gravy?

BICWWIG

Bicwwig.

Meet my new work motto. It applies to everything I do each minute that I do it.

The Best I Can With What I Got.

I manage a team of three bodies. I say bodies, because they breathe and are alive.

Otherwise? Bicwwig.

I gave one of the dudes an assignment to copy some files from one server to another. The files got copied all right. Right into the recycle bin. I fired a ninja throwing star into the wall next to his head.

Bicwwig.

I asked another to do a list of ten things, very specifically described in painstaking detail. Four got done, the rest ignored. I dropped a one ton weight on his head while he held up a comically undersized umbrella.

Bicwwig.

The third one built a house out of bricks. I huffed and puffed and sent him a thousand emails asking him what the status of his task was, but I couldn't blow down his wall of stupid. I finally lobbed a grenade of intelligence through his window only to find that he had a force field of indifference. He is impervious to intelligence, you see.

Bicwwig.

I do the best I can with what I've got. Give me lemons and I'll make lemonade that tastes strongly of failure and tears. Give me vodka and I'll make karaoke that tastes the same way.

Bicwwig.

The color of embers in a dying winter fire

I went to a birthday party with my kids this past weekend. It was at a place called “Bounce U” which is basically just a few huge rooms with giant inflatable slides and bouncy things. Oh, and screeching kids. It has that too. It also has snot and crying kids. And pizza. One of the workers there was a 20 year old girl with a “smartphone” and a giant head.

‘Was the head inflatable?’ he asked knowingly.

Alas, no.

‘How smart was the phone?’ he asked indifferently.

Not smart enough to know it was being operated by a human pumpkin.

Her head was orange. I mean basketball orange. Gorgeous Hawaiian sunset orange. Apparently the tanning phenomenon has spread to the point where fake tans don’t even actually have to be the color tan; or even in the brown family.

“I went to Aruba for a week. I got such an awesome Orange! I mean, I think I was the orange-est one on the whole beach!”

She looked annoyed to be in the same state as these frolicking youngsters, much less in the same room as a 20 foot tall rubber slide that continually spewed out rolling toddlers who were either terrified or laughing or both at the same time. I can only imagine the text messages she was forcibly sending into the atmosphere with her tangerine speed-thumbs:

“OMG. This kid just bounced on his head! LOL! I’m a pumpkin-headed buffoon!”

“I’m totally texting at work! Someone just tried to stick a carving knife into my head and cut a toothy grin into it! OMFG!”

“LOL. My boss is such a jerk. I’m so over this place. I just had to extract myself from a basketball hoop because someone mistakenly shot a three pointer with my face.”

And so forth.

She was also, strangely enough, dressed like an Indian princess. She had the required “Bounce U” t-shirt on, but otherwise she had on furry moccasin-like boots and in general looked like a Cherokee. I moved a safe distance away and yelled “Hey Pumpkin-hontas!” to see if she would react. She didn’t (unless you count moving your thumbs over a blackberry keypad and eye-rolling dramatically as reacting).

She was orange.

Anyway, my kids had a good time bouncing around. The name of the place suggested that it was a place of higher learning, but there were no diplomas or graduation ceremonies. Maybe we’ll get one in the mail. I would like our diploma hand delivered by “Tangerine Dream” so I can tell her what a horrible Halloween decoration she is. Then I’ll make her wait in the garden for rabbits to dig her up and eat her.

She was orange.

Mea culpa

I know, haven't been around lately. It's the dog days of Autumn and a tornado ate my homework. My keyboard got stolen. My laptop ran away. My house got sick.

Er.

I've turned into one of those thumb-typing smartphone-absorbed parents that I hate. I'm kind of embarrassed about that. I'm going to Droid rehab for the next two months. They make you write letters and actually sit and talk to other human people.

Field trips to the post office.

Should be a blast.

I hope this post finds you well. As autumn enters my heart, lo I find my soul pining for the fjords and yearning for the dew covered fields of my youth. Mayhap a chance kiss of rain should touch the palm of my hand, then shall I see you again.

Wait. Sorry, I had the "poetry lock" key on. Damn thing keeps getting stuck.

Lotus Notes is a Busybody

Quick mini-rant here:

Lotus Notes is an email software developed by IBM that we use at my company. It was made out of granite and fire in 1723 and hasn't been upgraded since then. I tried to attach an Excel spreadsheet to an email and gunpowder fell out of the screen.

It's old.

Anyway, I was tippy typing away on an important memo today about very important coroporate-type stuff and I happened upon the need to type the word "uninstall" as in:

"I would love to uninstall Lotus Notes and send it to the woodshed for a proper whipping."

So the ubiquitous red squiggly line appears under "uninstall" which is Lotus Notes' way of saying:

"Heyyyyy mister, I don't rightly recognize this here word 'uninstall'. What is that, some kind of new-fangled whosy whatsit?"

*tobacco spit*

*spitoon ding*"

Turns out, Lotus Spell Checker has a major issue with this word. So I right-click on the squig to see what the mighty Lotus suggests I do with it. Instead of a list of possible re-spellings or alternate definitions, I get this:

"No suggestion."

Oh? No suggestion? You went out of your way to squig my word and now you are backing away with your hands up saying "I just know its bad, I don't know what to do with it though! It's bad! I know it!"

Don't give me crap for words that you don't even have the slightest inkling of how to handle.

"That one got too many letters! Squig it!"

"That one is wayyy to fancy-like for this here email! Squig it!"

"Me don't like! Too many big letters in front of small letters!"

Lotus Notes is the equivalent of Fisher Price email for toddlers, if such a thing were to exist.

That is all.

That’s How Much I Love You

I have cheated on you twenty-five times in the past ten years. That works out to under three times a year, which is well below the national average.

That’s How Much I Love You

I went to see Twilight with you and disguised my vomiting by putting my entire head inside the super sized popcorn bucket so you could still enjoy looking at Taylor Lautner’s abs.

That’s How Much I Love You

I opened a checking account in your name and filled it with wishes from my heart and smiles and fluffy things. When the clerk asked me if I was going to put any money in it, I said “Love has no price you simple minded barbarian” and gave him the old “How’s Your Family” (don’t ask).

That’s How Much I Love You

I chased a dog through the streets of Manhattan so I could tell him how the dimples in your cheeks make we want to stuff them with kisses. The dog bit my scrotum and urinated on my shoes.

That’s How Much I Love You

I High Five everyone I meet multiple times regardless of what they are currently doing. I was impaled by my dentist’s drill as a result.

That’s How Much I Love You

I would write your name in the stars every night if I could, but my penis doesn’t reach that high.

That’s How Much I Love You

I detained the mailman for thirteen hours because I thought he had a picture of you, but it turns out it was a pamphlet from the Church with angels on the front of it.

That’s How Much I Love You

I put cocaine in your eggs every morning and pot in your brownies every night so you have enough energy to get through the day and enough slacker-ass laziness to get to bed on time.

That’s How Much I Love You

And finally, I stopped sending you flowers pursuant to the court mandated restraining order you had filed against me.

That’s How Much I Love You

It's a Major Award!

Well, it appears as though someone besides my therapist is reading this blog. I have been named "Blogger of Note" at Words of Wisdom! Needless to say, I am humbled and very appreciative. There are tons of great blogs featured there all the time, you should go check the site out.

For any new readers who get caught in this verbal bear trap: Welcome. You will find after seconds of reading the things posted here you may feel dizzy or slightly nauseous.

This is normal. Do not be alarmed.

Just open a window and get some fresh air and you should feel better momentarily. Here are some especially wonderful collections of words that form paragraphs that are generally coherent:

22 things you didn't know about me until now -- This should give you a good idea of just what kind of a fruit loop you are dealing with here.

New Year's Resolutions -- A list of my New Year's Resolutions. I got all of them done except...most of them.

Fun things to do when you are bored -- Self explanatory and true.

Welcome newcomers, I hope you stay a while. It gets boring talking to myself all the time.

M.O.M.

Book of Lucille: Verse 10, Chapter 11

And so during the End of Days, a great fire came down upon the Earth. And that fire started many smaller fires. And those smaller fires started many little campfires. Everyone had little isolated cookouts and ate many bratwursts and hot dogs and hamburgers and drank copious amounts of beer while trying to ignore the raging inferno that started the whole thing. True to form, America ate more than the entire world combined because America is the fattest land in God’s entire Universe. God used the fire test to redesign Americans with much smaller mouths and no stomachs. His Will Be Done.

Book of Buster: Verse 10, Chapter 45

When the Angels return triumphantly from the fields of Holy Battle, they will probably get drunk that very same night. If you don’t want any Holy trouble, just stay home. Drunk Angels are constantly looking for fights and usually end up vomiting on God’s sandals. I don’t need to tell you how pissed He gets when that happens. Ever see a solar eclipse? That is God in the middle of a rage-blackout right before He goes looking for his whuppin’ stick. Praise be to the Sun and sore-assed Angels.

Burning Questions, part the 12th

When someone tells you to “put that in your pipe and smoke it” do you reply with ‘Well I already did that last night…except…except the pipe was your butt and the…thing that…you want me to smoke was your mom…in your butt.’? You really have to work on your comebacks, compadre.

Do crowded malls make you think of how commercialism has completely taken over our culture; falsely implanting thoughts into people’s heads that they must spend money on things they don’t need? Me? I think of Cinnabon with soft serve vanilla on top of a cinnamon bun with M&Ms and Twizzlers on top. Oh, and all of that commercialism shit too.

If Aunt Jemima met Mrs. Butterworth in a steel cage match, who would make me fatter quicker?

If you had to give one of your fingers to science, which one would it be? Don’t say the middle one and then giggle like a 10 year old child, this is science dammit!

If Mr. Jones and Mrs. Robinson met on a busy sidewalk one day, would they point at each other and say “Great Song! Jinx! You owe me a coke! AH-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!” until Mr. Roboto came along and blasted them to hell with his super laser? Domo origato, Mr. Roboto *traditional Chinese bow*.

How many miles can you run before you realize that the sun isn’t chasing you, it’s just trying to burn you to death slowly? It’s a cruel, cruel summer.

Have you ever lifted your leg as high as you could, and stomped down on an anthill yelling “I am your natural born DOOM come to LIFE!” while laughing as the ants scatter and try to salvage what they can of their little sand hill? Really, what did they ever do to you? Are you jealous because they can lift ten times their weight, and you are winded just from lifting your foot? And not for nothing, FYI, by the way, etc; you look like a horse’s ass in that Viking helmet.

If you could wave a magic wand, clap your hands three times, click your heels together once, jump up in the air, twirl around in a circle, bow to your partner, promenade left, do-si-do and…hey, how did this turn into a square dance?

Have you ever invented a type of punch, and named it? Like Dragon Strike, Thunderclap or Lightening Burst? Well shape up, or you just might be introduced to Flavor Blast; a delicious triple punch to your taste buds! OK, it’s just lemonade, but I think it’s quite tasty.

Dontcha wish your sandwich was roast beef like mine?

Dontcha?

Quick Hits

I decided today, after many long hours of contemplation, that I am a “torso man”. I love a long torso; at least a 3:1 torso to leg ratio.

Please post your ratios so I know what I’m dealing with here.

My wife has an amazing ratio, which is why I married her of course. No other reason. It’s important, OK? If your ratio is sub-standard, there are many stretching exercises you can do. Work on your ratios.

One of the first questions on my submission form for my summer camp is “What torso:leg ratio are you, and are you planning on lengthening that ratio in the near future”.

Don’t be left out in the dark with a weird head-connected-directly-to-legs body.

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I was recently on a family vacation in a scenic location with a touristy town-type area. While walking through this touristy area, I walked past a bar that had an altercation in progress. The owner of the bar was in the process of kicking out a kid that looked at least 4-5 years underage to be drinking anything other than Apple Juice. The conflict rapidly got heated and the last thing I saw was the kid grabbing his balls and exclaiming over and over again:

“I’m from QUEENS! I’m from QUEENS! You don’t know what you dealin’ with! I’m from QUEENS!”

I immediately grabbed my balls and was about to exclaim:

“I’m from JERSEY! Garden State Bitch! I’m from JERSEY! You don’t know what you dealin’ with either! NEW JERSEY TURNPIKE!”

In reality, I was shivering in a garbage can for fear of getting punched in the kidneys. Plus my balls hurt because I was holding them too tight.

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Lindsay Lohan got out of jail today.

You can exhale now.

She was in tears for the entire two weeks of her 90-day sentence because the Starbucks barista in her cell didn’t know how to make a Double-Venti Frappa-Whappa. Charles Manson has been crying about the same thing for over thirty years, so this is a common prisoner complaint, I suppose. Plus, the cocaine in her daily celebrity packet was low-grade Colombian instead of the good stuff.

Stay in school, y’all.

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I used to play soccer as much as possible (football for anyone outside the U.S.). Lately, I look more like a soccer ball than David Beckham, but I’m starting to get back into shape (the shape of a Beach Ball OH SCHNAP!)

Running is a very uninteresting pastime. Running on a treadmill is the most uninteresting of all activities. Have you heard of this thing? It is a machine, really. A machine that has a big rubber band that

Just.

Keeps.

Going.

I mean, stop going already! I’m sweating like Moses here! I tried running outside, but the hills! And the weather? Oy Vey!

To mix it up, I tried running on all fours like dogs do, but I quickly found out that dogs are better at it than me. I also freaked the fuck out of my neighbors when I came shuffling past their driveway on all fours and sans-clothing (that’s French for ‘sexy as hell’).

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Five Four things I want to accomplish this week (knocked something off the list this morning already):

1. Lengthen torso.
2. Write a letter to my congressman regarding my proposal to have all rain clouds seeded with Skittles. If they can do it in the commercials, they can do it in New Jersey.
3. Assassinate Snooki. Did you know Snooki is making more money per year than all teachers in New Jersey combined? Hurray! If you see your 11 year old daughters sizing up ill-fitting one-piece bathing suits and spray-on tanner, detonate your television with all the explosives you can find. Thank me later.
4. Bedazzle Scrotum.
5. Karate moves in public on my way to see my therapist. Don’t mess with the bull, son; you’ll get the horns.