Saturday · Sep. 10 (2005)

After hours of research I have discovered the truth:

A mime will scream just like anyone else.

Saturday · Mar. 19 (2005)

the downward spiral

So, you eat a bowl of Sugar Smacks or whatever, and after the cereal is gone there is that puddle of milk at the end that is 40% sugar. So, you add a little cereal to that because you want to taste the condensed sweetness of the puddle. After you eat that, there is of course a little puddle of milk at the end that is half the size of the first puddle and is by now like 60% sugar. So, you add a little cereal to that, this time just out of a sense of advancing science, and then after you eat that there is basically a half millimeter of pudding left over at the bottom that is roughly 200% sugar. So, you add cereal to the puddle and eat it because you're already sick, and, what the fuck, by this time the experiment has its own inertia.
Then, after that, there is an even smaller puddle of milk...

12 hours later, you wake up on the floor with your cheek stuck to the tile after dreaming that you're a ball of fire, and Ella Fitzgerald is pointing at your feet and laughing and holding a pair of hedge clippers, and your gums are bleeding, and you don't know what month is it for like 15 minutes.
When you finally go to pee, there are ants in it.

Thursday · Mar. 17 (2005)

Telling doodle drawn while on the phone with a lawyer

I'm not even part of the proceedings, I just sort of absent-mindedly Rorschach'd.

Wednesday · Mar. 02 (2005)

The Hard Way

Last night I ate a cheese pizza. This morning while processing the result on the toilet I suddenly sneezed, causing an involuntary body-wide clench. This has had two unfortunate results-

1. I need a new toilet, as the old one now looks like it's waiting for a young Arthur to stroll by and prove himself to be king and

2. There is a specific act which I'll never pester a woman for. Ever.

Thursday · Feb. 10 (2005)

Goya Jamaican Style Ginger Beer

Remember when you were 5 and Bambi's mother gets shot offscreen? Right, well, for reasons best known only to themselves, Jamaicans have made a soda out of that, and Mexicans have taken it upon themselves to bottle it. The dominant ingredient in Goya's whimsically named "Jamaican Ginger Beer" is neither ginger nor beer-- it's capsicum. Sound familiar? It does if you read the bit between "keep away from children" and "keep away from face" on the side of a canister of pepper spray. No kidding, go check it out if you need to. How it can be legally called "ginger beer" rather than "keep-away-from-face beer" in a country that won't let toys shoot soft plastic missiles is beyond me, but you won't drink this stuff twice unless the agent interrogating you doesn't like your first answer.

Also @ McSweeney's Reviews Of New Food .

Saturday · Jan. 22 (2005)

The record thing is goofy enough, but I just heard someone actually defend the cassette tape

Boy, I'll tell you what, I sure do miss the analog warmth of the clay tablet.
Remember how distinctly not plastic cave carvings were? What a drag! If you wanted to correct a mistake, you had to switch caves completely. Try getting a modern family to do that. "Hey, put down the Gameboy for long enough to walk to another cave, Johnny! Your dad messed up the parable of the deer hunt again." Fucking right! And marble... everyone makes a big fuss over the beauty. Don't get me started on that mable noise-- screw up a marble carving you have to go mine a fresh ribbon of marble, make a slab, buff it, and start all over again, all the while begging Tiamat that this time you don't sneeze when trying to carve out a blasted which can't easily be fudged like a or a .
Goddman nightmare.

No, it was all complete bullshit before the clay tablet, let me tell you. Once we figured out that a fire-baked clay tablet did nothing but get stronger with time, we had the writing thing all figured out. You could erase, you could edit, you get it just right, then blamo, it's set in hardbaked earth. That was writing, bitch. The Cuneiform characters themselves had grooves and depth, whatever you read just had this warmth to it, you know? It had love. The rough edges made you love it more.

Nowadays all you've got is this digital piss. Oooh, lookit me, I'm tapping buttons! Big deal. Fucking infants can make characters just mashing their chubby digits on these laptop things. There's no art to it. Who wants to develop eye cancer staring at some "document?" Document, there's a laugh. We'll see how your newfangled laptop document looks in 3,000 years. We'll just see who can read what. "But I wrote this on the train ride over here!" you whine "what convenience!" Right. "Convenience." You know, if hits like the Code of Hammurabi had been written on one of these things it would have gotten a worm or something 5 years in and we'd all be having sex with the stab wounds in the pets of our enemies' children without any real fear of evenly-weighted retribution. You might like to think of that as a society, but not me sir. Good day!

Sunday · Jan. 09 (2005)

All of me

I have Jennifer Aniston's old nose in a box.
I give it a playful little lick, now and again. On the bridge, you know, no penetration. I'm not weird. We haven't met, it would be assumptive.

I don't know the details of the break up, but if Brad wants a little something for the transition to the single life, I'll give him Jen's old nose for free, no charge, no fuss.
I don't think you should take advantage of people's personal problems.

Wednesday · Dec. 22 (2004)

dong resin vs. Altoids cinnamon chewing gum

Hey wow, look, gum packaged in a 19th century lookn' tin. It's even got a kind of Dickensian and windy bit of ad copy, just like all the shit used to. "The Original Celebrated Curiously Strong." The lack of punctuation really sells it to me. It's gum tablets, huh. In a tin. Not cardboard, but metal. That's hot. I buy a $1500 laptop and it arrives on my door in fucking damp cardboard, but the breath gum is showing up wearing a full suit of armor. Bitchn'. Must be some serious gum. It's also twice as expensive as the other gum, but it does come in that cool tin that makes me feel like Ishmael gearing up for the Pequod, so what the hell. I've got $2 to spend on gum. Thank god I stiffed that salvation army bullshit outside the store, or I'd never be able to buy this. Cool, okay, peel off the plastic.. plastic is kind of a downer, takes away from the antiquity deal. I'd sort of expect the odd piece to have gum weevils or whatever since stuff always used to show up with weevils in it before they discovered that weevils are allergic to plastic, but whatever. Okay. Little tablets. I'd better grab six or seven, I want to see what the fuss is about. I know it's supposed to be strong, but so's the coffee in Starbucks and that pussy-ass hot sauce with the dead guy wincing on the label, so there's probably a little wiggle room with regards to what's "strong", here. Fucking American public is all soft and fat these days, so even the gum wearing the metal plating should be no big deal to an espresso drinker like myself.

Oh god...
Gaaaaah! Gatha gatha tha! Gaaaaaaaaaaa!
Shit, did I say that out loud? Great, now people are looking at me. I can't feel anything below my nose. I think I'm drooling. Yep, all down the shirt. Shit. fucking gum. Jesus, is this strong. Tastes like straight-up whiskey. God, it's getting stronger as it breaks up. Gauh! Why? Why would they even make gum like this? Who the fuck is this for, cannibals? "That missionary was tasty and all, but now me have stubborn ass-breath." "Me have just the thing for that." Who the hell is buying the whiskey gum? "Oh, I love my Henry so much. 40 years of me yammering on to him about my problems and all he does is sit there and wince and chew gum. Even when he lost his arm at the tin can plant he works in, all he asked for was some gum. He's a rock." Why is this in the candy isle? If I saw this in a child's hands I'd slap it away from them like it was a cobra.

Gaaaah! I'm fucking dizzy. I think I'm going to pass out. I think I'm passing out. I'm passing out.
Is that Jim Morrison?!
"Ride the red snake, son. Ride it to the other side of time."
Shut up, Jim. Your pants smell. Go change your pants.

Help me. Why am I stuffing more of this Satan into my mouth? Stop! I can't. I keep fucking doing it. My tongue feels like I used it to exfoliate Florence Joyner's feet. Thaaath.

"Altoids." What kind of a name is "Altoids?" Not even a word. Sounds like "alkaloid." Shit, cocaine is an alkaloid. Think I just figured it out. I just bought nine tins of this shit. I just spent $40 on fucking Colombian breath gum.
"It's a small price to pay to see each thread in the tapestry that is the universe."
Shut up Jim, you've been dead for 30 years and you're still fat.

Sunday · Dec. 19 (2004)

Decapitation should be legal

Decapitation should be legal. You hate something enough to go to all the trouble, mess and expense of cutting its head off, they surely had it coming. You know, you can buy a gun at Wal Mart, and maybe 60% of homicides get solved, so, relatively speaking, killing people is not that big of a hardship. To go that extra step, to go all the way down to the City of Decapitation, something you're far more likely to caught doing, there has to be some build-up from the other side. You never read about drive-by decapitations... well, on prom night with the limo and the 6 drunk girls crammed through the sunroof and the low-slung overpass, but that's not what I mean. I'm talking about "Well he called me a fag like 20 times that night, and I'd had a few beers by then, and I 've got that Swiss Army knife Claire gave me for Christmas, and it has that saw thing next to the fish scaler, so..."

Sunday · Nov. 14 (2004)

Red Beans & Ricely Yours

I don't know if this is a well known and cliched image of Satchmo or what, but I've been using it as wallpaper for a week, and I like it so much I thought I'd share.

Click the little one to get the supersize.

Also... if you claim to love someone... why the hearty green fuck would you make an exhibit out of how the guy eats and shits?

"Man, I never really connected with Ain't Misbehavin' before, but now that I know ol' Lou was moving turds like Moses moved Jews out of Egypt, it totally makes sense to me."

Is that really what Louis wanted? "Cough... I'm dying... make sure... cough.. there's an exhibit about the shit pills and weird obsession... cough... the trumpet thing ain't quite enough."

Also, if you blew on something that hard... would you grease up the back exit? I wouldn't. All that pressure... I mean, there had to be some blowback.

I'll bet Louis went through a lot of drummers.

Thursday · Nov. 04 (2004)

Hints that things aren't going your way

• You catch yourself quoting at length from the works of Nitzsche, Kafka, and Star Wars II Attack Of The Clones in your replies to quick little "how's it going" emails from friends in foreign counties.
• You discover yourself reasoning things out, like how the concept of evolution doesn't really come up that much anyway, and how pigeons are probably birds enough for most places.
• You idly calculate how many homosexuals you could realistically hide in your attic and basement.
• You find that you're hoarding porn, even that weird-assed Japanese porn that you're not really into, just in case you should swing that way in the next 20 years.
• You find your thoughts wander to gauging just how hard it would be to fake up a library card under an assumed name. You wonder if you could sell these.
• You stop yourself halfway though an email demanding a personal apology from motherfucking Al Franken.
• You read about Cuban boat people intently enough to figure out exactly where they're fucking up.

Monday · Nov. 01 (2004)

Gnash

A Bear Gram doesn't sound like what it is. A "bear gram" sounds like 80s street lingo for that off-white shit you paid $85 for, and is in fact roughly 65% drywall material.

"What's with Lenny? Why is blood leaking out of his skin pores like that?"
"Bear gram, man."
"Duuuude."
"He's been trying to bite through that stop sign for the past forty minutes."

Saturday · Aug. 07 (2004)

Cheap Koan 49

Everything is in your mind.

And yet, there is still room.

Saturday · Jul. 31 (2004)

LIKE THE DOLPHINS CAN SWIM

Stop telling me Anne Frank is some kind of big "hero."
All she did was sit quietly for a while. Anyone can do that.

Batman fights monsters, with nothing but millions of dollars and his RAGE.

Wednesday · Jul. 28 (2004)

Lemon Aid

Everyone is so down on these "free speech zone" protest cages. I don't think you're thinking it through, Look, you get twenty of your friends in one, padlock the door, get everybody to grab the bottom and lift-- bingo, a nice portable barrier between you and every cop who gets a stiff three inches when his hand brushes against his pepper spray and tazer. You could do it. Shit, once I saw three guys make off with a FryGuy from a McDonald's Playland, and they really bolt those things down to the concrete. Remember, these are temporary structures, there's no way they could stand up to twenty determined people, even if you are all vegans. Wear sunglasses and a gas mask and you're an unstoppable cube squadron of complaining! You could theoretically march that thing right into the convention center, drop trou, and BA the whole gang.

Listen, only one cube would have to get on TV, and they'd never try to pull this fence shit again.

E-Flail

Ever lose your mind and inappropriately assume familiarity with some person who you don't really know via email? I do it a lot, and I never learn my lesson. And so, I present :

E-mail, the dong resin way!

1. First, over-assume familiarity to the point where you call your mail victim "Cunt Cheese" second mail in, and expect to inspire no offense whatsoever with such obvious-to-you jocularity.
When they never mail you again, wonder briefly if you got it wrong.

2. Drink a lot of coffee. Don't skip this step, you'll need a lot of paranoia to get through the rest of this self-created hell. You're going for the level of coffee that creates the same sound when you crap as the sort of polite applause that Fiona Apple generates with one of her very stoned pseudo-political podium speeches... just enough coffee so that anything besides an instant reply from your new friend goes through the following cycle :

• kind of a bummer
• personal slight
• total rejection of you, your race, and all that you stand for
• rape

3. Wallow in sudden deep, deep hatred for this person who has rejected you so violently and so completely out of turn. Wonder what you could have done to deserve such shitty treatment from Cunt Cheese. Further figure that it must not be Cunt Cheese, but that it's you. Work it over for a good 16 hours or so. Become certain that it's you. Wonder what you did. Figure out what you did. Re-read mails to confirm what you did and then find out that it was probably something worse than what you first thought. Clearly they took you as obsequious. No, maybe they took you as manipulative. Wonder how to craft an apology for what you did, one that addresses what you think is most likely the thing you did, but one that doesn't possibly re-enforce the other thing you may have done. For example, if you decide that you were too vulgar, but perhaps instead you were tight-assed, try to be lighthearted and playful without coming off like a pussy. Work it over for another 36 hours or so, just enough so that it looks natural. Scrap that and start over.

4. Finally get mail from the person. They don't seem pissed at all, but they kept it short. Are they hurt or just busy?
Wrestle with the tone of your reply. Should you apologize? Wonder if you'll look weird apologizing for what might only be an imagined offense. Try to work it out- if you do apologize, you put the person in a weird spot where they're suddenly way more deep in your psyche than they need to be, considering all they were trying to do is get a simple note across to you. If you don't apologize, you'll seem dense to your own offensiveness and you'll totally misrepresent yourself. Think it over for a good 48 hours. In your conflict, eschew any playfulness and instead come off terse and pissy.

5. Sign off email "Thanks, Asspaste!" and repeat from step 2.

Wednesday · Jul. 14 (2004)

Progress

I mostly brew my own coffee, and when I buy it from the outside I peel off those increasingly more complex lids and just drink straight from the cup like an adult.
Listen, I don't know why coffee suddenly comes in a 24 ounce breast, but I really don't have time for this shit. Having to get my caffeine fix from a cup with a picture of Shrek 2! on it is infantilizing enough, I don't need the full on oedipal Freudian jive of a freakn' nipple on my formerly masculine cup of joe.
I think that's the put-off for me, that what used to come in a ceramic mug with a metal spoon sticking out of it is now basically a 24 once sippy cup designed to be consumed by Pugsly Addams while resting between the twin hams that are his man-boobs as he navigates his SUV.
It's not cool, it's a another small slide in the wrong direction.

Today however, I let novelty drive the dong bus and I decided to give the cap a whirl. What the hell, you only live once, right? Wouldn't want to be dying in an airplane toilet mishap, and right as my knees meet my face before joining the rest of me into oblivion regret not having given the modern coffee lid a try. When your life is flashing before your eyes and you don't know what's become of your scrotum, it's always the little things that haunt you isn't it.
Of course, you can't just drink out of a modern coffee lid, you have to get a feel for it, one that I lack completely, so I instantly burned the complete and full crap out of both my lips. I look like Jay Z imitating Mick Jagger doing a Mush Mouth impression in a wind tunnel in Utah at the moment. If I nod off and do a face plant on my desk, there's no way I'm peeling off this thing without two people and perhaps a donkey pulling both sets of limbs behind me.

I miss the flat lids. You knew that shit didn't work just by looking at it. Some things should be left alone.

Saturday · Jun. 05 (2004)

Ronald Reagan dead at 93. Gorbachev rips off latex mask to reveal the head of a locust, bellows 'GAME ON' at the sky as warheads crank around on their launchers to once again point towards Washington while sickle and hammer banners unfurl Europe-wide

Sorry, shot my load on the post title.

Thursday · Feb. 26 (2004)

King of the spews

"I dunno man, he manages to rip free of three of the nails before the Romans finally have to shoot him. Mel really macho'd the fuck out of this thing. Also he fights a shark near the middle. I dunno, with eyebeams. JesusBeams, whatever, it's badass. No, you don't see beams, the shark just burns up. Then he decapitates one of the Bad Jews with his halo. No, I'm not kidding, the thing is nutty. I know. Well, somehow it works. It's not like I'm making it sound. I don't know, people don't want to badmouth it, I guess. I really didn't expect the bukkake scene in a mainstream movie like this. Well, it's off-screen but implied, you see it all over his face. I know. I can't believe the Pope was cool with that."

-This thing I say loudly into a cell phone just outside the Jesus Movie.

Friday · Feb. 06 (2004)

Genius at work

"What's all this about a food product? We're a drywall concern, Jenkins."
"Exciting new product, sir : thin slabs of lightly-baked dry cracker meal marketed as a base for cheeses and the like, or to the spastic person who would rather appear gluttonous than drool in public."
"Interesting. Naked unglazed cracker meal? They must stale in a manner of minutes after exposure to air."
"Yes sir. Inedible."
"How do you plan to package such a fragile product?"
"Well sir, we think the obvious way to go is a tough, form-fitting ripstop plastic sleeve with a false seam down one side."
"Yes, yes... name the product Cracker Meal Everywhere. No, not enough sex appeal... Crumbs In Your Hair... no, you could never get a pun like that over."
"Saltines sir. The name preserves the surprise, and sets up a false expectation of flavor."
"Excellent. Slaughter those two baby goats and begin production immediately. Hail Satan!"
"Hail Satan!"

Thursday · Jan. 22 (2004)

a small mid-day rant

The whole idea of plastic surgery is to stop aging. Olivia Goldsmith didn't have a mishap, she won. If sleep is so great for creativity, why doesn't anything in Mexico work right? The whole concept of an iPod is to cram a lot of music in a small portable space by lowering the sound quality of the music. Why don't you just hum? That sounds like complete shit and it's every song you could want.

Thursday · Dec. 11 (2003)

RIP XXX WASPS

As I'm sure you know, the lightly pornographic Abercrombie & Fitch quarterly catalog is no more. Can't say I've ever seen one in the flesh, as I like to buy my overpriced racially-charged ugly lifestyle shit at FUBU, but I do sense the loss. After all, naked white girls don't just grow on trees in this culture.

I remember as a child of 15 with no older siblings or cable to supply me with filth, catalogs you could masturbate to were, literally, not very easy to come by. I often had nothing to get through a long winter's night with other than an Orvis catalog and a warmed can of frosting. Orvis. Even when you're 15 and nothing but a throbbing erection with toes, Orvis is a very hard ride. The few women it does offer in between the monogramed dog beds and obviously gay airline piloty guys in khakis tend to look something like a Norman Rockwell painting of a PTA meeting taking place in Martha Stewart's barn. Reading The Crucible. Durring a depression. In Vermont.
Sex is definitely not what Orvis is selling. Orvis gals grimace like the female half of the American Gothic painting, a joyless, tight-lipped rictus that screams not so much "fuck me" as "whoever left the Ben Gay where I normally find the Vagisil is fucking dead after the photoshoot."
Or, imagine trying to fuck Lura Bush.
Right. Not exactly Hustler.
Still, it's what there was, and I made the most of it. I'd play "Master and Servant", or, the Ovris-enabled version, "Suburban 15 Year Old And The Sexualy Repressed Goon Squad Of The PMRC."
"I've been a baaad free minded teenager!" I would moan. "I've been listening to filthy heavy metal and you're here to deal with me, aren't you, stern woman."
"Yes" they would sternly reply in my fevered 15 year old brain, " We're going to do it missionary style twice a month for the next 40 years of your life in a tight, unforgiving wedlock."
"You're evil!" I'd gasp. "Give it to me L.L Bean style! Unbutton only the uppermost button on that shapeless tattersall man-blouse lumberjack-looking thing you can either sleep in or wear to the mall! Uh! God, I love that half inch of collarbone!"
"Hurry up and finish, we've got Mark Twain books to protest in the morning, worm."

As far as A&F goes, I myself am okay with the catalog's departure, since I'm cool for wank material as long as they don't change the Mrs. Butterworth's bottle.
Well... they could make the opening a little wider, but I don't want to sound like I'm bragging.

Sunday · Oct. 19 (2003)

dong resin vs. the very modern toilet

Finally, at long last a restaurant with a toilet modern enough for me to take a dump into it. I've been holding it in since birth waiting for technology to snap to and create a shitter that lives up to my exacting high shitter standards. Stephen Hawking's throne isn't this nuts. Why the hell does this thing have a red LED light on it? What possible feedback do I need from a toilet? Of all the major home appliances to hear from, The Can is right at the motherfucking bottom of my list.

*Whooooosh!*

Aw shit, it's one of these. Okay, let it finish, then-

*Bah-whooooosh!*

Woah. Did I make it flush twice? I didn't move.
That's some flush. Like a jetski in a koi pond. Why make the flush so powerful? What the fuck do people here eat ?
" Yes, I'll have the innards of six Baby Ruths, some olestra, two wheels of cheddar, and the small bag of hair, please."

*Hiss!*

It's angry. I think it's angry. Looks angry. I shouldn't have mocked it. Do they make telepathic toilets? Probably. Damn Japanese. I know this is a Japan thing. Japan has way too much free time.

*Gurggle-hiss!*

Okay, it's settling down. Kind of a shallow bowl. Stupid. I guess a deep bowl wouldn't scream "THE FUTURE." It's very important that this toilet send a clear message to all the lesser, punk-ass restaurants on the block. You want to shit like it's ten years from tomorrow? Of course you do.

Shallow bowl. I hang my scrotum over that thing and it flushes, it'll suck my ass to Australia like one of those paper seat guards.
I'm not sure ass-first with cheeks akimbo is the best way to arrive in Australia.

*Bah-whooooosh!*

Whu-?
Why are the ones in the other stalls flushing? I'm the only human in here. They can't communicate, can they?

*Bah-whooooosh!*
*Bah-whooooosh!*
*Bah-whooooosh!*

Jesus. Hyenas do this... one hangs out near a watering hole, waits for a weak prey to show up and then it calls out to the pack.

*Gurggle-hiss!*

Okay, it's flushed. I guess it's timed or something. Try to shit quickly.
I feel weird showing my ass to this thing. I don- shit, the light's blinking! Jump up! Abort! Abort!

*Bah-whooooosh!*

I can not motherfucking believe the suction on this thing. I felt that on my ass hairs. I barely escaped. I'm on this thing when it flushes it'll suck out my innards like a fat kid with a juice box. Didn't that happen on airplanes in the 70s? The stewardess finally opens the bathroom door at the end of the flight and there's nothing left but a pair of sneakers and a pen.

*Gurggle-hiss!*

I must be triggering that, somehow. The light is probably one of those motion detectors. Try to sit down out of it's path. Why do they put that right there? Hard to avoid. Looks like HAL 9000. Did we really need an electric eye right over the crapper? Yeah, those small simple flush levers were a real hassle.
No cure for cancer, no flying cars, but they got the toilet thing to George Lucas level toot sweet.
Okay.
We have ass to bowl contact.
"Open the pod bay doors, HAL."
Heh. Comedy gold. I'm blogging that line later.

*Sigh*

Was that me?
Did my ass just sigh?
Can asses sigh?

*Siiiiiiiiiiiigggggggghhhhhhhhhh*

Oh shit.
Abort! Up! Get up, damn you!

*Bah-whooooosh!*

I don't have time for this.
Fuck it. I'm going to just go. if I get wet, so be it.

Now I can't.

Distract yourself.

That Celine Dion perfume... that's like 45 bucks for a tiny bottle. "Celine Dion" is just a name, right? I mean, they don't like, harvest that, do they? Shit, for $45 a bottle I want genuine Celine Dion stuff in there. I want genuine Celine Sputum. Her head is kind of weird. Sort of oblong and loafy-
Ah, that did it. Here we go-

*Siiiiiiiiiiiigggggggghhhhhhhhhh*

Shit! Faster! Shit faster!

*Bah-whooooosh!*

Awwwwwwwwwww man.
Splendid.

That's great. 50 gallons of public toilet water right up my exhaust port.
If I lean my head back, I can gurgle.
Welcome to the wonderful world of Hepatitis. Hepatitis A through Kid Rock.
Shit, I'll bet if I concentrate, I can figure out what the specials are.

Great, now it won't flush.
Must be tired, it's been at it all day.

Monday · Oct. 13 (2003)

Too many motherfuckers own tigers

The news seems chock full of tiger maulings these days. Why? What kind of messed up macho pet arms race ends your ass up with a goddamn tiger?

"A pit bull, Dave? Haha! Fucking faggot. Dig my mongoose, you ovary. They burrow, Dave, a fucking mongoose will kill the shit out of your pansy-assed pitt bull."

"Oh yeah? Shit, I got a credit card, I'm getting a colony of army ants, bitch."

And so forth, onward to tiger.

Thursday · Oct. 09 (2003)

To certain Irish girls on my street :

See, darker-skinned people can do that cornrows thing with their hair, because their scalp doesn't poke through, and make them look like a potato peeled by Ray Charles in the back seat of a school bus.
Think it over, please. You have so many other options.

Sunday · Sep. 28 (2003)

It's not ball cancer, but it's a start

I see we've mapped out the genome structure of the poodle.

Naturally, I pray this will lead to some sort of cure.

Thursday · Sep. 18 (2003)

Smurfed

There were 99 Smurfs and one Smurfette.
Think about that.
By the time she was 30, when she let loose a quiff, it must have sounded like Scatman Crothers after a six pack.

Thursday · Sep. 11 (2003)

I'm a loner, Dottie. A rebel.

It's not uncommon to bump into various biker gangs in the middle of the night at my local Wal Mart. It's the only thing open at 3 am, there's often some chapter or whatever at the checkout counter.
Tonight? SOCB, The Society of Christian Bikers, who were, according to their jacket patches "On the Road to Peace With God".
So, they're there, I'm there... we're a bunch of guys in dark wardrobes hanging out, waiting for the checkout lady ( that's a fine convergence of dominant personality trait and job title, eh?) to figure out why her drawer won't open. I'm checking out the rich tapestry of smells from about 200 Stuckey's pecan shoppes and Waffle Houses, when the Checkout Lady took me, humble dong resin, as one of the holy rollers. Not just as one, in fact, but evidently she took me to be the alpha Christian biker, because it was I and not they who she asked "So... you guys are a strange mix, huh? Christian bikers?"
Evidently, she was from the 1950s, where being in a bike gang was more of meth amphetamine thing than a lawyer/ dentist/ interior designer thing like it is now.
"Not really, lady ", I offered in my best Merle Haggard, " We both just like nailing hippies to stuff."

Mild grunts of derision from behind, but by that time, I had my change and was shuffling for the out door.

Thursday · Sep. 04 (2003)

You're never too young for homophobia

When you greet an old friend with kids you've never met before... do you intentionally get their genders wrong?
I do.

Cable is outside the budget, I have to improvise if I want a sitcom, and few are the dinners that aren't made less dull by the occasional parentally snarled "Hold your fork like a man, goddamnit!"

This blows

I get a few hits from military addresses, so I hope this plea finds the right set of eyeballs.
Hello boys... ladies. Whatever ya are.
Listen, the fact of those fake memorial bugles with the electronic playback are making the rounds on our news.
Now, I know you'll probably reject the suggestion I'm going to make at first, because you take this subject very serious, as well you should. Those are, after all, your brothers and sisters in the casket, but that's exactly why I ask you to consider this : the people who actually get you killed, they who march you right into a shitstorm for the glory of Halliburton or whoever's paying that day, these people have never been more threatened in their lives than when their AC breaks down in the nasty Washington DC summer heat. These are the people who, after you've been violently killed, can't seem to manage to set aside enough cash to get you a real live bugle player who can Satchmo it up over your final foxhole for 5 lousy minutes, after you've given them, literally, your whole lives.

Add to that the wonderful feeling you must get if you are assigned this special duty... being the official Milli Vanilli for the day, faking like you can bugle while you know you're unintentionally pissing all over some comrade's memory with some cheap, ordered-down-from-on-high schtick.

It is for these people, the soft, shitty desk jockeys that have no idea of what it means to be doing something from a perspective of service, that I implore you, to do this one thing:

If you should get the electronic bugle duty... put the mouthpiece to your ass.

I know, at first it sounds like a horrible idea, and such displays of personal liberty are not really your thing, but think it over : The bugle will go on playing as normal, some of the dimmer people will actually marvel at your talent, and most importantly, you'll be sending the right message to the asslick who shifted this particular decimal point in the military budget.

Dong resin, and your country, thank you.
Unlike your commander-in-chief, we actually mean it.

Tuesday · Sep. 02 (2003)

Query

When a person with a stapled stomache farts... is it a higher pitch?

I imagine a sneakers-on-basketball court situation.
*pweeet!*

Thursday · Aug. 21 (2003)

Billions served

Big flap over the huge ten commandments monument which is still on display right outside of the state judicial building in Montgomery, Alabama, despite a Supreme Court ruling that finds the monument a very blatant flouting of the separation between church and state.

This is a pointless debate. It should stay right up.
The Alabama judicial building keeps throwing around very encouraging words like "justice", which can be real confusing if you should foolishly take people at their word. A 53-hundred-pound granite flashing neon sign that illustrates the sort of hypocrisy and anachronistic thinking that you're actually going to be subjected to inside the courtroom is a very good thing to have around outside it.
Imagine if instead of "billions served" the McDonnald's sign said "diabetes, motherfucker".

Truth in advertising, however it's come by, is a very good thing.

Tuesday · Aug. 12 (2003)

Hardball

Running politicians always do the exact same thing : "I'm for the children". Doesn't matter what they're up for. "I'm the state comptroller that will save our children."

I'll vote for the first motherfucker who announces "Kids? They're kind of self-absorbed, huh. Some of them look weird. They all seem retarded at some point... well, not Haley Joel Osment... he's kind of sexy."

Wednesday · Aug. 06 (2003)

dong resin vs. the roll of plastic baggies at the fruit isle

Aaaaand....grab.
Fuck. Okay, do over.
Aaaaaaaaaand, grab.
Fuck. One more.
No, wait... use both hands this time, stop trying to just snatch one and look cool. You look like a spaz.
Good. Now, where the fuck is the opening... Okay, no big deal, just tweeze the bag with two fingers until you find the opening. No, the other end. No, the other end.
Wait... No, I guess it was that end. No, the other end.
Wait...
" Gah! "
Did you just say 'gah' out loud? Settle down, you look like The Hulk trying to put on a condom. Fuck, people are looking. Grab another bag. That's not the perforation. There. No, there. No. No. No.... wait, go back.
Fuck it, just snatch a bag really hard.
Well, way to go, Bingo. That's like nine bags wrapped around your fist there. You look like you just got nabbed by Spider-Man.
"Do you need help?"
"I'm fine, thanks."
You need help. Understatement of the year.
"Shut up."
"Excuse me?"
"Not you."
Well, she looks terrified. We're going to go to jail for molesting a baggie dispenser. Look, wad these messed up ones into a ball, cram them in your pocket, and just grab one, gently.
Very good. there's the perforation. Don't try to snatch it, just poke at it. Good. okay, one bag, now. again, just tweeze with your fingers until you find the seemed end. No, must be the other one. No, must be the other one. Wait.. turn it sideways.... no. Hey, I wonder if they ever send these things out with no opening in them at all... like every third baggie is just a plastic sheet. Nobody would complain and bust them, you feel like a retarded person not being able to open a simple baggie.
One more try.
No. No. Wait........ no.
Jesus.
Forget it. Go to the donut case and get one of those wax paper baggies.
Oh, well look.. they've switched to plastic, too. Splendid.
Okay, grab a box. That's right, I'm going to the checkout with my huge square box of two apples. Here, toss in a bagel or you'll look insane.

Checkout Lady : " How many donuts, a dozen? "
dong resin : " Two apples and a bagel. "
Checkout Lady : " .......... "
dong resin : " See, the bagel makes it normal. "

Thursday · Jul. 17 (2003)

largesse

Everybody has their own measure of success.

Mine is being rich enough to get results when I say "bring me my midgets".

Sunday · Jul. 13 (2003)

perspective

Try to look at life this way : even the worst child molester carries a little candy.

Thursday · Jul. 10 (2003)

Labels

Transfat doesn't sound like what it is.
TransFat sounds like an airline where everyone gets a bundt cake.

Reality

Look motherfucker, you don't need a Humvee.
Not at all.
Not even the pretty yellow one.

You're a dentist, not the left leg of Voltron.

Saturday · Jul. 05 (2003)

fear

I wonder how many midgets you can having living in one apartment before you get some sort of label from the other people in your neighborhood. A guess right off the top of my head? Six. Fewer than six probably feels intuitively like a family, but once you get six of somebody, it gets a little janky. It starts to feel like maybe they're making plans or something.

Five midgets?
"Oh, that's the Andersons. Lovely people."
Six?
"Don't make eye contact, Dave -- It's those fucking midgets. I saw one of them buying up a lot of rope at the goddamn Home Depot the other day, keep the children well away."

Friday · Jun. 20 (2003)

The pioneer gets all the arrows

Is it because I asked you to wear the Nixon mask in bed?
Is it because I emptied a pouch of pop rocks in your intimate area?
Is it because I want to answer questions for myself and don't just roll over to the accepted point of view regarding child slavery?
Was it because I put the cat bell on that deaf girl, was it because I winked and told the spanish check out clerk "no offense" when I paid for the Spic N' Span at the Wal Mart, was it the cardboard pine tree I left in your panties? Was it because it was an X-tra strength cardboard pine tree?

Why must personal boundaries be so painful to discover?