Sunday · Jun. 17

Dawn of the bread

Does bread know that it is bread? Or does it long to be wheat? At which point does it become toast? Is the moisture which escapes when you toast it the soul of the bread leaving dead toast behind?

Is the smell of toast in the kitchen a haunting by the long since bread?

Saturday · Mar. 31

A desperate plea from the Bob's Big Boy statues of the greater Las Vegas area to (still) attorney general Alberto Gonzales:

Mr. Gonzales, you're not a popular man. You're oddly boyish looking and not quite human-sized. The general public has tired of you. We have a lot in common you and we, and so, we hope you'll set aside a moment to hear us out.

People don't think about us Bob's Big Boy statues much anymore, and that's fine. We understand that. We're corporate icons of a bygone era. All we wanted was to fade away gracefully-- maybe enjoy the occasional pop cultural nod from the Simpsons or David Lynch. We'll happily endure the bleaching of the brutal dessert sun, the cracking and peeling of our aging fiberglass bodies, and the random sad bunch of drunken frat boys with camera phones who all think they're the first to pretend that we're raping them from behind. We know who we are. We were built as 8 feet tall chubby young boys with our crotches thrusting enthusiastically forward like something censored out of the first seven editions of a William S. Burroughs novel. We can take it. We're Big Boys.

But now, something very dark looms on the horizon. Very, very dark. We ask that you take a moment to consider just how dark, Mr. Gonzales: a giant robot Michael Jackson, mere feet away from chubby young boy statues which are both frozen in a crotch-forward position, and are completely incapable of running the bloody doo-dah fuck away from said robot.

We can't make stuff like this up. We're living a punchline to a joke even Jay Leno would turn down, and it's terrifying.

Mr. Gonzales, you're the last person we need to inform of the political value of making a show of protecting children from predators, and frankly, absolutely nothing we can think of is more showy than stopping a giant robot Michael Jackson from molesting giant fiberglass children out in the dusty den of sin that is Las Vegas. It would make your predecessor's need to spend nearly nine grand covering up the tits on the DOJ statues drop right off the cultural map. Your niche in the judicial culture would be assured.

We recognize that you're a busy man these days, we get that. As I shout this desperate plea to a pasty weblogger wasted on a whole Smurf village of mushrooms yelling at nothing while trying to write this all down on a slice of American cheese with a sharpie marker in an abandoned Big Boy's parking lot in the hot Nevada sun, men with any smidge of political clout who were once willing to make mindless showings of protecting kids from The Evils of Whatever are all busy at the moment fussing about with the war and handing over the internet to the highest bidder and so on, leaving no one but yourself to come to our aid. We choose to see this as providence. Helping us would be helping yourself to a more noble legacy than you face now. Think it over, please, Mr. Gonzales, and quickly; we could be each other's only hope.

Thursday · Mar. 15

Mouthful of caulk

Marshmallow Fluff. If that German bestiality porn with the horses was a toaster, Marshmallow Fluff looks like what you'd have to shake out of the bottom of it every few weeks once you figured out why the kitchen smells like a sneaker. How is this stuff popular? For kids? "Here Johnny, have this sandwich made of peanut butter and something somewhere between a pap smear and the innards of the facehugger from Alien."

Wednesday · Feb. 28

Planes

Say there. I want fat kids next to me on the plane.
Fat, fat, little children.
Planes are chilly, fat kids are warm. Also, they tend to pass right out without saying much. Best of all, I'll look to any number of stewardess like a guy who doesn't mind a bunch of fat stranger children around him. This is good. Stewardess like that. They're drifters, they just want a guy who can plant a few roots. Got fat kids you want to get somewhere you're not? My e-mail's on the bottom of the page. I will not actually read the e-mail as I'm not going anywhere, but knowing you and your fat children are out there is nice. I know the post directly after this one is entitled "Think of the children in leather", but not to worry, that's just harmless irony.

The stewardessy line of thinking got me to wondering just how much of modern society is structured around impressing stewardess. Turns out it's a lot. There's the obvious stuff -- barf bags, noise hair clippers, those fake balls they sew into your scrotum if you lose a testicle through mishap or horseplay-- all stuff guys would just let go if there were no cute chicks in starchy outfits to impress, but upon closer inspection there's a deeper level which reveals itself. The planes themselves, for example. Boats are a fine way to get somewhere, and fast enough for most places given the general warmth and manners of most foreigners, but the drawn-out nature of a boat trip doesn't really lend itself to fast cheap sex with a waitress in a small toilet. Same for trains. No, planes, like gin, muscle relaxants, and those little stabby things people use to hold cobs of corn clearly evolved out of the basic need to have sex with a waitress and disappear quickly. If the goal were travel, as is the conceit of the airline industry, planes would get to places on a time table based the Earth's rotation around the sun, rather than Jupiter's, as is the case now.

Cell phones can also be traced using the stewardess theory of design. Man invented the cell phone... we know this because cell phones where perfectly good ten years ago and we're still designing them. How far have baby bottles come in the centuries since they were first developed? In the late 1950s they became plastic because it was safer. Baby bottles quit being designed once they could reliably squirt milk and not shatter the bones in your foot if you picked up a wet one. Clearly the work of women. Cell phones, by comparison, have been so designed that by now they're pretty much useless. Try and use a ten year old cell phone with one hand. Now try a modern one -- see? Too small. You actually need two hands to work it open. Small and loaded with flashy stuff which looks cool but never works. What is a modern cell phone for? To sit on that tiny flip out tray and get a stewardess to bend down and check out the 100 X 80 pixels of that puppy wearing the funny hat you have on there from Cute Overload. She will have to get very close to make out anything, possibly within four inches of your crotch.

Anyway, cell phones can't fight off the AC chill, which is why I opt for fat children. No part of the animal should be wasted. Even asleep they pump out enough BTUs so that you won't have to actually touch anything, which is good because they're always sticky.

I'll explain the stabby corn holders and muscle relaxants thing when you're older.

Tuesday · Dec. 12

Think of the children... in leather

This gives me an idea: it'd be interesting if someone proposed intentionally moribund legislation so wrong-headed, image-driven, and just flat out fucking goofy that tracking who bought into it revealed just how unfit for their jobs those legislators were-- sort of like the mole hunt they did in that Mission Impossible movie, `cept in reverse. An un-intelligence mole hunt. The equivalent of pretending you put booze in the punch to see who starts to act like they're drunk. Not that I think for a second this is what is going on here with Senator McCain, I've no doubt he's so empty a douche nozzle that trying to get everyone on the internet to play Little Brother strikes him as a reasonable way to come off as being hard on child porn (heh - that was fun to type), but I wonder if there was ever a point in the Senate's history when its members would care enough to try such a thing, to try to flush out the impressively dim among themselves with a fake bill.

" What's this? You want to make white women ...wear antlers in public? Antler antlers?"
" Yeah, it's to keep the Negroes off of them."
" Huh."
" Not bad, right? We got like 90 signatures so far. Lot of momentum on the Moose Or The Noose Act these days. Trent Lott's baby before his troubles, he drafted it after the Make Them Wear Bells proposal went tits up. Sign it for Trent, willya?"

Maybe that's what happened to the Whig Party. Never hear from them anymore. We used to have more than one and a half political parities in the US. We used to have The Whig Party. One Tuesday in the 1850s there were a whole bunch of Whigs clogging up the Senate, then by Thursday it was just John Tyler and nine nervous looking Democrats hugging themselves and wondering why suddenly all the extra legroom. Bet someone dope-billed the Whig Party. Bet the Whigs suddenly tried to make nose whistles in church punishable by tar, or make scorpion chewing mandatory. Something like that.

"Where the hell are McManus and those Whig guys? And hey, who tried to pass this bill requesting that 'goodly Christian men of The United States should sand down their nipples to chest level so as to remain appropriately modest in the winter months?!'"

Wednesday · Sep. 06

The official "good one, Steve Irwin" post for dong resin's joint

I've noticed a trend since Steve Irwin's death in the media to qualify any snark made about the silliness of it with a quick mention along the lines of "yeah, but remember when he had his infant son in one arm while feeding that crocodile?" Usually implies a parental ability and sense of responsibility somewhere between Patsy Ramsey and whomever that is indirectly responsible for the warning label on industrial bandsaws which read "no, not with the baby."

First of all, you don't need to qualify goofing on a guy stabbed through the chest by a stingray; even Aquaman never had that happen to him, and they've had to come up with new ocean-themed dangers for that guy every month for decades. Like one time Aquaman had to fight off a really pissy manatee who'd slap you soon as look at you. A slow, languorous slap maybe, but those big flippers could eventually leave a welt, and it was really upsetting a couple of older people at the beach until Aquaman showed up. This was right after his two-parter showdown with the angry soft ball of wool. Stingrays, however, would at their worst appear in Aquaman as little but blissful scenery between the purple beds of kelp and that young muscular ward in the speedo who seemed to have his mouth agape a lot. Getting killed by a stingray is roughly analogous to getting taken out by a moth: you know that out in the Amazon somewhere some guy wearing an all-cotton outfit in the wrong cave suddenly turned on one of those super powerful flashlights, a flashlight which they later found lying in a small pile of shirt buttons next to his watch with no band on it, but you're not all that apprehensive on the porch at night when you have to take the dog out for a pee.

Secondly, and more importantly, keeping a baby under one arm while dealing with a crocodile is the only thing I ever saw Steve Irwin do that I agreed with or understood. Listen, get me anywhere near a crocodile, or one of those large mean swans at the lake in the park, and I want a mess of babies on hand to cloud the issue of the thing eating my crotch. A mess of babies. I want a baby under each arm and a baby in one of those Swedish chest things... no not Anita Ekberg, the backpack things.. the "Bjorn." I want babies in those, one on my chest, could probably get two on my back. No not two, babies are squishy, roll `em right around me -- a bandoleer of tossin' babies. I want to be the Chewbacca of spare babies. And Miracle Whip. Almost forgot the Miracle Whip. I don't want to go through the humiliation of tossing kids at a crocodile only to have the thing ignore them and come after me. The crocodile tossin' babies get a light coat of Miracle Whip.

Anyway, I'll bet the stingray which killed Steve feels awful. I mean they're like covered in mucous or something.

Wednesday · Aug. 30

New word for the day:

Gwenvy -- noun/ verb:
A burning and highly specific deeply covetous desire.

Common usage: "damn dude, for a guy you sure have a hard case of the gwenvy --oh. Sorry, Fergie."

Monday · Aug. 28

For the three of you who liked the old Screenhead so much:

Quit hassling the new guy(s)-- they're doing something else entirely, with different goals. Stuff changes. I'd have quit the old one by now anyway.

Go play in the sunshine for 15 minutes, or call your mom on the phone. You'll miss her when she's dead.

Thursday · Aug. 10

Fluids

Yeah yeah yeah-- no liquids on planes, now, swell, whatever. Say, are they still handing out earphones with long rubberized cords which could strangle an elephant? They are? Good, I'll definitely need that when in-flight water magically becomes $9 a bottle and I have to kill someone to get a drink.

Right now I'm watching Attorney General Alberto Gonzalez on the news hovering around behind Michael Chertoff looking sheepish because he had to do what everyone who has a shitty desk job has to do: stop looking at internet porn long enough to seem busy because the job unexpectedly flared up for a moment and the boss popped his head in. He looks unhappy. Al, get back to forgetting about the actual threat to our lives and return to that totally necessary war on net porn, willya? I've wanked it twice this morning and, to be honest, I sort of missed the company; it's just not the same without you, pal... this is a little embarrassing, but I find I need the attention to finish now.

Monday · Jul. 03

A change is as good as arrest

Back to hooking then, I reckon.
Nice thing about assless leather pants: even after being paid to blog for a couple of years, they always fit.

Saturday · Jul. 01

2 am

Walking around the neighborhood all by yourself: suspicious.

Walking around the neighborhood with a small animal chained to your wrist in a bondage situation so that it might shit everywhere: normal.

Tuesday · Jun. 13

Tuesday

Tuesday is the same suck as Monday in that you're still about a week away from anything like a weekend, but it has the enhanced treachery of pretending to be a little closer to it, the fucker. Tuesday is the weekday equivalent of that thing where you're just about to sneeze for forty minutes but never do, and instead just sit there at your desk looking like a cobra trying to digest a bag of caramels and a 9 volt battery.

Sunday · Jun. 11

... as I was saying

Small things I've discovered in my absence:

--If you're going out for a while, say a weekend, take the time to toss a couple of those cheap pet store turtles into the clothes dryer and set it to a long running cycle with medium heat. The thudding noises keep burglars away, and when you come home the house smells delicious.

--The people who carry a lot of electronic gadgets to talk to other people tend to have the absolute least to say. The people with the most interesting things to say tend to be in tiny windowless rooms you can't get officials to admit even exist. Neither group knows what ginger ale's actual flavor is meant to be.

--If you leave an old couch outside your apartment for a short bit, eventually you'll meet a libertarian candidate for the 2008 presidency. Getting them to leave the couch will be an uphill effort. The chances they'll be wearing Zubaz are about about one in four.

--Chimps share 99.4% of their DNA with humans. Think about that: 99.4%.

The atom bomb, the McGriddle, and paying attention to Ann Coulter as something besides potential food exist solely in that other .6 percent of our DNA. Point six.