Tuesday Post

I just ate some yogurt. It was Greek yogurt, not the filmy New World yogurt that’s packed with deliberate bacteria and is meant to be medicine. Do you think that I wasted an opportunity to improve my health with medicinal yogurt? I could have treated my guts to a party, but instead I put form before function and ruined everything. Or did I? It’s hard to know what to eat these days, though I baked myself a creamed egg two Sundays ago. Haven’t eaten since.

Oh wait, there was that yogurt just now.

There Are Limits

I have too much work ahead of me to get into this, but I think it’s important to note that a man shouldn’t be cut off from his people for applying the wrong pasta to a particular dish. He should be beaten severely, or locked in a small room with some iguanas (if he’s scared of iguanas), or have his beard or necktie snipped off with scissors, but he should not be cut off from his people. That is too much.

I don’t like pasta myself, but I hear it’s fashionable in some circles.

Peril At Every Turn

Listen, the foam is falling off my office chair armrest and the deadly metal within is poking through. Next time I go in for a proper arm lean I may skid off the armrest and shear the flesh from my arm. I don’t like this possibility, but it’s better than drowning in rice porridge or being crushed in the street by enormous Americans trying parkour. Danger indoors, danger outdoors. Can’t even hide out on the roof without being shat on by starlings.

She Bears My Right to Arm Supports

Liking Sarah Palin

It goes without saying that I like Sarah Palin because she supports my right to collect firearms sufficient to punch my way out of the city when the zombie shit goes down. But what I like most about Sarah Palin is her creamy peanut butter center! Of course, I enjoy the chocolately coating as well. The two combined create a terrific taste sensation. She also reminds me of my Aunt Floratine, who spent her evenings sewing delightful outfits for the badgers she trapped in the crawlspace. She drugged them, you see. If you try to dress a sober badger in a pinafore you’ll get your face eaten off.

What?

O, the passage of time, with its attendant sorrows and panic and sudden suspicious odors, etc. Stupid. Anyway, I don’t remember what the question was, but the answer is of course I want to type into my blog again, at least for now and at least until next week, when I will reevaluate this decision and disappear for another 16 months.

Little has occurred since last I wrote. Of note:

-Rafe went to Cote D’Ivoire and became lodged between a chest of drawers and an automated meat-pie vendor. I saved him, though barely, and he lost the false whiskers he was using to disguise himself.

-In April I nearly threw out a set of knives that once belonged to Charles II, but I kept them when I discovered that the handles were hollow and stuffed with smaller knives.

-Last summer I found tunnels under the boiler room leading to a cave full of ripening cheese. Whose cheese this is and what it is doing in my mystery cave, I haven’t the slightest.

-Flavian returned to claim his inheritance; when he realized that no one of money had died yet, he mooned about the house for three days and then wandered off into the fog. His last postcard indicated that he was again in Haiti and had consumed nothing but pistachio nuts and warm cola for two weeks.

And that brings us to the present. Just heard a terrific joke about voles.

Late Morning

Earlier today I was returning from the kitchen with a piece of strawberry pie when I spied Rafe lying on the sofa, bleeding a bit at the nostril. “What did you do?” I asked, readying my fork. After a long pause and a series of pathetic sighs, he looked me in the eye. “I taunted a man on the street. He wanted my forty-three cents for a bus ticket to Saint Louis. I called him a cretin and a one-eyed fatty, so he lunged at the woman next to me and punched her in the nose. She apparently found this unfair, so she turned and punched me in the nose. Then I punched her back, and so forth. Anyway, there’s something burning in the foyer.” I set my pie on the mantle and hurried into the foyer, where I noticed the hat rack ablaze. I opened the door and threw the rack out. The fire quickly smoldered and extinguished. When I returned to the living room, Rafe was gone and my pie plate was empty. Am considering replacing the rack with a low porcelain shelf, as this is not the first time I’ve lost pie due to hat rack fire.

Science

The current financial crisis reminds me of the time at camp when I was pulled from my bed at two in the morning and forced to search for owls. The counselors issued each camper a bit of red paper meant to be wrapped around the head of one’s flashlight, for science teaches us that light shot through red paper does not scare owls. We were to observe owls, not scare them; science teaches us that observing animals teaches us about science. At any rate, I didn’t find any owls. I also didn’t find any unopened bags of Doritos lying about, which is probably what I was really looking for.

Wednesday, Again

The idiot Flavian just blew in from Haiti, filthy and light of purse. He claimed that a local woman in a bear costume tried to bludgeon him with with a jar of apricot jam. It was probably only a hurricane, but who am I to question one man’s love of truth? Everyone knows there are no fruit spreads in Haiti.

Naturally I expect our mumblety-peg warfare to resume tout de suite or whenever he's done watching the Flintstones, whichever comes first.

Wednesday

Ran into Violet in the woods today. I demanded to know what she was doing skulking around the woods like a common polecat. “I could ask the same of you,” she hissed. And I was all, “Fuck you, I’M LACTOSE INTOLERANT!!" Our eyes locked in mutual suspicion, we slowly backed away from each other and bolted our separate ways. After a bit of laborious contemplation, I realize I should have dealt her the wages of sin on the spot, but it’s too late now. She is a simple sort, and further antagonism would only perplex her. Perhaps I’ll send her a box of those licorice candies she detests.

Quickly

Have noticed one of those dreadful Roombas sweeping through the guest rooms. Did not put it there, or, in fact, introduce it to my home in the first. Don’t know how it got in. Intend to dispatch the thing as soon as I locate a suitable firearm.

Topic Drift of the Future

If I ever have a crappy personal website instead of this awesome free blogspot website, I’m going to play this trick my readers: every time they click on something in my menu bar, the website is going to go black. When the reader clicks on the “back” button, they’ll get a recipe for black-bean hummus. Then, when they write me peevish e-mails about my lack of content, I will write back “Yes, yes, I know black-bean hummus isn’t real hummus.” Christ, I’m not that stupid.

Plans, Vol. 1

People keep asking me if I’ll be blogging from the Republican National Convention, and the answer is yes, I will be blogging from the Republican National Convention, if by “blogging from the Republican National Convention” you mean “showing up at the Xcel Center with a Power Bar and a briefcase full of Jesse Helms EVPs on tape.” If I can’t sell them there, I can’t sell them anywhere. Of course, I’ll probably spend some time walking behind conventioneers, stepping on their heels so their feet come out of their loafers. When they turn around to see who deshod them, I’ll quickly hand them a kitten and run like hell in the other direction. Then they’ll be stuck outdoors with a kitten, because you can’t bring kittens inside the Xcel Center. Believe me, I’ve tried.

That Best Portion

One thing I hate is when people ask if I cook. No, I do not cook, ever, and it’s not because I can’t. It’s because I prefer to have other people do that sort of shit for me. This is also why I do not change linens, recycle, phone people on their birthdays, pour tea, or pick papers off the floor unless they are banknotes.

That best portion of a good man’s life;
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love. -Wordsworth

Oh, fuck off.

What?

I was recently taking care of some solemn business when I said to myself, “Why engage in such business? It is beneath you.” God’s foot! It was like a mighty light went on in my head, shorting out the widget that transmits thoughts to my mouth mechanism via fiber optic cable. I immediately ceased all action and took to drink.

At any rate, that was weeks ago, the schnapps cupboard is bare, and my laundry is still in the washer.

Hospitality; Mice Films

I just finished gluing all of the pages of The Grapes of Wrath shut. Last night I glued some Raymond Carver, Don Delillo and The Color Purple. I’m not going to read these again and I don’t want anyone else reading them, either – they’re going straight to the guest room nightstand. I may even glue the volumes together so that Fat Old Molly has one dustable object instead of four.

I say, what do you think of Stuart Little? While I’m impressed with his carmanship, he holds but a small place in my heart. I have no patience for Mickey, Minnie, those three blind assholes, Fivel, Mighty, and Jerry. I do like the Rescuers, however. When it comes to screen mice, I look for intrepid self-starters who wear cape-free human clothing while delivering children from swamps. I also appreciate mice films that feature large, skull-encased diamonds. Yes, The Rescuers is where it’s at.

Economy

Just sold Rafe’s soiled tuxedo to a person on the internets. I also located a robot I want to buy. The robot is expensive, and I will have to sell at least 4 more tuxedos to cover the cost. What in the holy fuck is going on? Just a year ago, I could buy twenty robots for the price of two tuxedos. Now I can’t trade a saint’s finger for a bottle of sherry.

This reminds me of the time I sold a set of Diana Ross cupboard knobs to a man in Schenectady. He didn’t have any money but he owned a parsley farm. “So? Send me some parsley,” I told him, and he did. He’s dead now, but what of it? He got his knobs and I got my parsley. I don't see what all the fuss is about.

Email

I’ve just completed a ceremonial Skimming of the Email. Puhh. Do I take milk with my porridge? How often do I read Keats? Do I actually campaign for real ale, or do I sit back while others do the footwork? I used to receive such questions with glee, knowing that my answers fuel worlds. I still feel that way, of course, but typing responses has become a hassle. Someone has pried the H, A, R, Tab, and 5 keys from my keyboard. The keyboard itself cracked in April when I whaled Rafe with it. Some good-natured indoor shotgun fire recently damaged my monitor casing and cast a permanent yellow haze over the screen, and my mouse mechanism appears to be clotted with some sort of fruit-based mucosity. Last week I took the side panel off the tower and found, amongst other things, the afikomen. E pur si muove. I can still use the contraption to play Minesweeper, so my weekends remain full.

A Sorry Welcome Home

Devastation. Just returned from my seaside holiday to find my moth collection ravaged by squirrels. What’s more, I’m not even sure it was squirrels; it may have been field mice, or a wayward vole. This reminds me of the time I brought my moth collection over to Violet’s house when she was ill with the croup. “This will cheer her up,” I thought. Wrong - she took one peek and suffered a series of acute seizures. How was I to know of her winged-thing phobia? Fortunately, Violet is a family friend and not a friend of my own making. I would feel horrible about it all had I met her in school, or at the park. As it stands, our friendship is an ancestral accident, like red hair or strange earlobes, and I really can’t be bothered.

6 Down, Smurf-colored. 14 Down, Inuit's ride.

I wanted to begin this post “I was just filling in the Wednesday crossword when it occurred to me,” but it is useless. Nothing occurred to me while I was filling in the crossword. I often go days without anything occurring to me. “With which known substance will I now compose this sandwich?” “Better six feet under than one house over.” “Will man reach the headwaters of the Congo in my lifetime?” These are the sort of perplexities I consider, and nothing more.

I say, what do you think of puffins? For lo, they are sea birds.

Avant Garde Gothic Condensed Medium, or Trebuchet Narrow, or Some Such Shit

I’ve decided to adopt a new font for my private correspondence. I have also decided that, when the snow recedes, I will find a new stick. My old stick is decrepit. It’s cracked, it has lichen, the end I wrap in flaming kerosene-soaked rags is misshapen. Embarrassing. All I’m saying is, next time we forge a bloodthirsty mob, don’t judge me by my old stick. I’m as angry as the next man, and so help me god my new stick will reflect this.

Dignity, Seriousness, and Duty

Incredible. Having a terrible day. What did I do to deserve this? I remember the time I walked a mile in someone else’s shoes. That day was even worse. Have you ever opened a tin of corned beef at an inappropriate time?

I’m just trying to make sense of the senseless.

Often

Often, when I am wandering lonely along the shore, mist brushing my nose and wind whipping my hair, I grow melancholy thinking about the time I tricked a baby deer into falling down a well. I stop and sigh and let the tears roll down my cheeks. Why do these thoughts make me so sad? After all, it wasn’t really a baby deer, it was just my friend Schaffer dressed in a puffy hamburger costume. I guess the sadness comes when I think of how cute baby deer are, and how Schaffer lost all those Big Mac coupons while he was thrashing around down there. One could argue that the puffy hamburger costume saved his life, but that’s hardly an excuse for tears. No, no, no – surely this pathos lies with the baby deer. Hmm.

Monday Afternoon

What is that woman's name? I can't remember. She's excessively white and foreign, and she was in that movie about being dead and hysterical. In real life she was married to Tom Cruise for a while. But who?

Anyway, I was just thinking of her, as she often sends cruel, unsigned emails to my home. "Stop bootlegging my DVDs," she wrote recently. "Stop impersonating me at parties," she wrote. "Stop prowling my lawns; no way did you lose your pet ferret again," and "bring back the copper piping you pried from my siding."

Whatever. I've had it with trying to make a living. If you need me I'll be at the Ground Round taco bar.

Doom

I would have posted sooner, but I was gripped by a sudden fear of clocks. Also, I had a stomachache. Also, I was camping. Also, I was irritated by the mere sight of someone: she was bug-eyed with curly hair and she was buying several sacks of donuts. As Lord Halifax said, “Nothing has an uglier look to us than reason, or a sack of donuts, when it is not on our side.”

As you can see, it is not so much the price of things, but the cost. Can't talk now - time for pie.

He Narrowly Escaped a Substantial Drubbing

I once wrote a profound book entitled “Similar Ducks.” It involves several similar ducks standing about, looking askance. It is illustrated. It is a thing of beauty. It is available for the low low price of $49.95.

Recently, some lathered desperado from the plains complained that my ducks had pointed beaks. “Ducks have rounded beaks,” he bawled, shrugging and smiling as if to casually deflect a savage beating. "Your pointed beaks make me think your ducks aren't ducks at all, but just random birds." I clenched my teeth. “My ducks are some sort of rare, Asiatic duck, the like of which you are not aware." He refused to believe me; I leisurely reached for my bit of lead piping and

Look, I’m already tired of this story, so how about a joke instead? What did the crawfish say to the armchair? Answer: Something something ottoman. I can’t remember how it goes. Do fuck off.

Examining Internets Hams

Don't have any news at the moment, so I thought it would be a good time to examine internets hams. These are photos culled from the internets; they are not my personal hams. I don't even eat hams.

If, upon examining these internets hams, you spot a clue, please note it in the comments field. I have been examining these hams for several minutes and I can't come up with any workable clues.


Gift Ham


Business Ham


Canned Ham


Ham of Distinction

Continental Breakfast Does Not Include Sausages of Any Kind

Would have posted sooner, but my coffee didn’t show up until ten o’clock. Was going to tell you a true story of darkest calumny on the morris dancing circuit, but never mind all that. The good news is I just kicked a fine 5”x 8” hole in the wall; the bad news is I can now see and hear the pasty chortlers and haw-haw men on the other side, so I’d better check out of this hotel toot sweet.

I Don't Want to Hear Stories About Dolphins or Teenagers with Cars

I was just remembering that my mother bought me a beach towel in 1984. I had to bring the beach towel to the municipal pool because I didn’t have a beach.

I would like to add that everyone I knew had her own beach towel (or towels) long before I had a beach towel of my own. This caused me pain. I’m not saying this so that you will counter with your own stories of deprivation and suffering. I don’t want to hear those stories. I want to hear stories about hobos with sinister agendas, or ghost horses that diagnose lymphoma – that sort of thing. I also like stories about old ladies who die and then come back to life in disgust because heaven didn't cover its sofa cushions with plastic.

What?

I have been trying for months to return to my online worldwide internets blog, but to no avail. Not blogging is like sleeping on a superb U.S.-manufactured mattress or drowning in a bowl of cooked groats – alarming, then blissful. Nothing pulling the conscience forward, no sulking over site statistics, no bathing, no communicating with savages via moderated comment. No beautiful contempt writ large, no punitive anecdotes, no shopworn exhortations for cash. It’s sad, really.

I remember the days when blogs lent meaning to life with their gunslinging and confederate gibber-jabber and pervasive cat photos.

Slightly Ruined

Wait, I have an even better idea for a movie. It’s like the movie Waitress in that it’s a lighthearted look at poverty, adultery, pie, and domestic abuse, except MY movie will feature a band of ape men on an olde tyme horse-drawn firetruck that keeps pulling up to the action and dousing the actors until they run off the set in tears. You can’t tell if the actors are crying tears or just dripping water, but why should I care? Stupid Felicity movie, you die now.

Anyway, does anyone want to buy my old go-fast boat? I’m selling it cheap due to its slightly ruined state. The next time I smuggle I’m going to be LOOKING WHERE I’M GOING instead of showing off for my smugglees by steering with my bare feet.

Aha!, etc.

Good idea for a movie:

Mary Poppins comes back from the dead to mind two very towheaded children who, despite serious and vague credentials, are not quite Nazi-style Aryan - probably because their maternal granny was a homosexual. The children live in a grand mansion infested with tiny ants. Mary Poppins suggests sprinkling cayenne pepper near the ant entry points. “This discourges the ants,” she says. Obviously, dammit, cayenne does nothing to discourage ants, so after the Tripods snatch Mary Poppins and provisions run low, the children feast on ants. Also, the children shrink to the size of ants and hunt ants with ant spears and wear ant pelts. This keeps them alive until the end of the war. Cameo by Jackie Onassis.

I had a second idea for a movie starring Taylor Dayne as Taylor D’ayne, a roadtripping single mother who will stop at nothing to crap in the haunted toilet at the Winchester Mystery House. Unfortunately, it features an animated underwater fantasy sequence involving ominous Disneyesque characters. I've been warned that animated sequences have gone the way of Steller’s Sea Cow, i.e., nobody cares about Steller’s Sea Cow, so I may have to replace it with my usual black and white stock footage of a villain slicing a steak with a comically small knife.

The Quick Brown Fox Jumps Over the Lazy Dog

Here is my dilemma. All I have left to live for is 1.) this blog and 2.) my wits. Do I start posting again, or devote my time to honing my wits? No, no, no - wait, I meant nits. I have nits. So, do I start posting again, or devote my time to phoning my nits? Soon my nits will be nymphs, and then full-fledged adult lice – they grow up so fast! I don’t want any louse of mine to wonder where I was all the time, why I never bothered to call, or why I was drunk, or absent, or both, during his soccer matches and birthday beatings. I don’t want to be a shitty host. I want to be a vital part of my nit’s lives. Then again, maybe I want to blog more often. Such decisions are never easy.

New Plan

I just had a fair to middling idea. Instead of mailing my tax papers directly to the IRS, I’ll first mail them to Dairy Queen Corporate Headquarters. The Dairy Queen CFO will note the error and instruct her secretary to return my papers along with several certificates for free Dilly Bars. As I have no use for these certificates, I will forward them to the IRS along with my returned tax papers. The IRS will be flattered by my casual largesse and will dispatch a inordinately large check my way. Do you see the beauty in my scheme? The cycle of life, the perfect circle? One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh, and so forth? The sun also riseth, et cetera? At any rate, if this scheme doesn't pan out, I'm moving to Florida to get work on Days of Our Lives.

Purity

I just had a wonderful dream. I was walking around inside a giant metallic kiwi when I found a package of Pepcid. Then I ate the Pepcid. Suddenly, I was at the Yalta Conference and a man seated next to me had acid reflux. "Too bad - I just finished a package of Pepcid all by myself. I'm fresh out," I told him. Turns out he was Stalin.

I had a couple solid Stalin jokes prepared for this post, but I've decided to save them for marriage.

Milestone: Do You See This, O God?

I just tried to switch this ancient, weak Blogger blog to the Mega Extreme New Beta Blogger with Added Calcium for Stong Bones and Teeth. I was unsuccessful. Hmmm. So this is what it feels like to fail. What a strange... sensation. As you may know, I've never failed anything before. Don't quite know what to do with myself now. How does one live? Or as Edward Kennedy once asked, "How can people have hope when we tell them that they have no recourse if they run afoul of the New Blogger?" And more importantly, how can I come down from this ghastly sugar high? Just finished a package of gummi fish and I can't feel my feet.

Update

Just ate some cottage cheese with a plastic fork. It was good, but it wasn't toasted to perfection. I usually refuse to eat food that isn't toasted to perfection. Occasionally I will eat food that is grilled to perfection, or perhaps roasted to perfection, but that is another matter. What I seek in a cottage cheese is consistency and probity. It matters not the size of the curd.

This reminds me of the time when I was eight years old, scanning the ground around the pool concession stand for dimes. If I could find a dime I could buy some Sixlets. Did I find a dime? Hell no I didn't, which is exactly my point.

Forgive Me

Normally I would never post on the holy Sabbath - or on any other day of the week - but what I have to say is important. It just occurred to me that my grandmother doesn't like Chaka Khan. I don't know why it took me so long to figure it out, but it's obvious; she hasn't any Chaka Khan albums, and never mentions Chaka Khan in any of our conversations. Of course, I have not spoken to my grandmother in two years; perhaps she has spoken of Chaka Khan to the other grandchildren, and perhaps I should have researched this eventuality before airing such dirty laundry on my blog.

Fleeced Again

Just bought this box of tissues.



After I opened the box, I saw that the top tissues were slightly dented. I would return the tissues for a refund, but I can't because I've misplaced the receipt. This is just one more example of Proctor & Gamble interfering with my peace of mind. Other examples, as you may recall, include the 1987 Pringles Cheese-Ums Recall, the flightless nature of Always Maxi-Pads with Wings, and the federal law prohibiting private ownership of bald eagle feathers without a permit.

I Shall Now Put My Life in Danger By Viewing a Midday Episode of Laverne & Shirley

Laverne & Shirley is on in 2 minutes. Regarding this episode, the TV schedule says "Driving Test. Squiggy needs help to pass a driving test."

Anyway, I'll let you know if he passes. This may be a close one. Pray for me.

UPDATE! 2:04 pm. I've already lost interest in this episode, but how about a lunchbox anecdote instead? Once, when I was in elementary school, I had a Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox. Sometimes I would accidentally leave sandwich ends or cheese pieces in the lunchbox overnight. The next morning, my Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox would stink. Also, one day a girl named Jonie barfed in the lunchroom and we all had to move to another table. Peace out!

In the Meantime

Joseph Kynaston Snodgrass Tungsten Reeves tagged me for a meme while I wasn’t paying attention. I intend to supply my responses soonish – but in the meantime, I’ve created a meme for him. No one else is allowed to answer these questions. This is a one-man meme.


Private Meme for Squander Two Only NO ONE ELSE IS TAGGED AND HE CAN’T TAG ANYONE EITHER! HANDS OFF!

1. What is your favorite shade of yellow? You can’t say mustard – that one’s taken.

2. If you were a pregnant woman, which would you rather give birth to: a healthy baby stoat who wishes to study carpentry and will leave you without stretch marks, or a large human baby with rabies and a peg leg? Note: the human baby can also solve crimes.

3. Do you use a sawing motion when you floss your teeth? Because you’re not supposed to use a sawing motion.

4. If you had a 4-ft possum tail and you had to conceal it for an important business meeting, would you tape it to your back, or against your leg? You might also consider wrapping it around your abdomen, I suppose.

5. If you were a 200-meter tall man, where would you sit?

6. Who would you like to have drowned in chocolate? Who would you like to have drowned in borscht?

7. It turns out that Jerry Garcia is still alive and would like to hit the road again. Would you rather follow the Grateful Dead, or have the Grateful Dead follow you? You must choose one or the other. Please stop screaming.

UPDATE! He speaks!

Meat Analogue Sandwich

I am eating some sort of meat analogue sandwich on gluten-free bread. It's good, but not that good, because someone burned the meat analogue. What to do? It's hard to get good meat analogue these days. It's not like the old days, when an enterprising chap could simply step out his back door and pick his own analogue.

*sigh*

Thank you, I'll be here all week.

Goodbye, Blog Hiatus. Goodbye, Giant Nest.

Over the past few weeks I've been touring the country in a giant bird nest on wheels. During the daylight hours, I hitched rides by attaching my giant nest to the backside of cars; I'd stop at convenience stores to buy heat-lamp frankfurters and search for the Prophet Warren Jeffs. By night, I'd park my nest and read magazines by candlelight. Inevitably, the giant nest caught fire. To make matters worse, I never found the prophet - someone else got to him first - but I'm all caught up with my Smithsonian back issues. I say, did you know there are two Chinas, one rich and one poor? It's true, but not very interesting. I find myself bored with China. All that land and no Six Flags water parks. Wasteful.

I was careful to wear a short scarf, so as to keep it from tangling in the nest wheels

Hiatus From My Hiatus: My Newest Chef d'Oeuvre

I just wrote a book. It's about a lady who lives in the olden days, just like in The Portrait of a Lady. Her name is Daniella Peabo-Bryson, and she always sits in her parlor with a smallish, ornate box in her lap. She has a golden arm but it rarely figures in to the story line. Anyway, every time someone bothers her, she cracks open the lap box and a terrible gray cloud seeps out and fills the room with a sulphury, corpsey odor. The book just keeps on going like that, stink cloud after stink cloud, plus I put in some fruitful conversations about buying wigs and hunting with dogs. Daniella's not just conversing with herself, either! She is talking to her suitor, Tim Mee. One day, Tim Mee finds a piece of dental floss in his mashed potatoes. Suspicious, and also gross. Things really blow up after that, I must say. That Tim Mee is a rascal! He is also a homosexual. It's a plot twist. Here is an excerpt:

"It turns out I am a homosexual, Daniella," Tim said, and thoughtfully chewed his shirtsleeve for a moment. Daniella scowled at him. Then he started. "Now, Dear, don't open the box! You mustn't get cross! NO!" He stumbled back and crushed a lampshade against the mantel. Too late! The box was open! Choking stink cloud, everywhere! "Barffellklsfj!!" He barf-bellowed into his chewed shirtsleeve as he staggered to the door. As usual, Miss Peabo-Bryson remained unperturbed by the noxious cloud.

In addition, the book will feature fantastic illustrations drawn with mechanical pencil.

Blog Hiatus Update

Just checking up on my blog hiatus. So far so good. Superficially, everything is fine, but what you probably didn't know is that I just ate a few apple seeds - accidentally - so I may die at any time. That reminds me of a story:

Once, when I was worried that someone would find my money, I taped it under the sofa and forgot about it. Later, when I traded that sofa for a new sofa, I forgot to transfer my taped money to the new sofa. When I found the guy who had my money sofa, I told him I forgot my leg medicine in the cushions and could he please let me find my leg medicine. He said sure, so I retrieved my money and got out of there.

But that's not all. I also use the leg medicine story to get free admission to the state fair. Every year I tell the admissions guy that I left my leg medicine at the root beer stand. "I need that medicine to live," I tell him. One year, when the state fair guy got wise and asked me why I take leg medicine, I told him I don't take leg medicine, and then I punched him in the face. Then I sprinted past the other ticket guys and bought myself a scotch egg. The trick is to eat the scotch egg while it's hot - it's no good when it's cold.

Blog Hiatus Still Going Strong

I just received an email from Euston Jaffrens, King of Fried Chicken. “Stop by my restaurant and I will feed you the best plate of fried chicken you ever tasted,” it said. I pedalled over to King of Fried Chicken only to be greeted by an empty dirt lot. No fried chicken as far as the eye could see. So I rode home and wrote to Euston Jaffrens: “Dear Mr. Jaffrens, I tried to find your restaurant, but it was not where you said it was. Please advise.” He promptly wrote back, “Sorry for the inconvenience, please accept this coupon for laser hair removal. Dr. Euston Jaffrens.”

Dammit, Dr. Jaffrens, I don’t have time for your laser hair removal. I barely have enough time for fried chicken. When Marguerite Duras said, “The best way to fill time is to waste it,” she was referring to just this kind of fried chicken hassle. I know this because we were in the Popeye’s drive-thru when she said it.

Let me tell you, that woman could really put away the fried chicken.

Marguerite Duras: Writer, Filmmaker,
Fried Chicken Enthusiast

Day Two of Official Blog Hiatus

Now that I am on blog hiatus, I feel compelled to post something. It’s just like mother always said: “Lose one shoe, too bad for you; lose two shoes, fuck off I’m not made of money.”

Just kidding. Mother would never say anything with an internal rhyme.

Summer Hiatus, By the Way

I don't know if you noticed, but I'm on hiatus. To learn more about my hiatus, or hiati in general, check out Wikipedia's Hiatus page. If you don't want to learn about hiati, I can't help you. Go back to Russia.

Polystyrene, the Earnest Cousin

I was thinking I'd post something pretty soon, but I want to take the time to make it good. I don't want to rush it. I want to create a thoughtful post about the sort of things my readers are into - namely, plastics. Of course, some of my readers are into other related polymers, but I can't be everything to everybody. I have to focus on one thing at a time.

Listen, I Don't Want Hear About My 401k

I was just about to turn off my computer and hide it in the cupboard for the night when I stopped, because I had one more thing to say. It was about something... I'm already forgetting what I wanted to say. I can't remember.

Sometimes I wish my cat would wear a nice suit. Nothing too expensive, just something nice. No cumberbund or anything, but something nicer than khakis and a sportscoat. And on rainy days, he could wear corduroys and a navy blue turtleneck. But if he tried to tell me about my 401k, I would put my hand on his shoulder and say, "Listen, I don't want to know the details."

Allow Me to Consult My Computer Dictionary

Do you think I should buy a canoe? I don’t really want one, but I hear they’re all the rage.

According to my computer dictionary, a canoe is “a light, slender boat that has pointed ends and is propelled by paddles.” Who cares? As far as watercraft is concerned, I think I’d prefer a fine pontoon; that way, I could walk into a bar and say, “I must admit, I have a fine pontoon.” The rabble will never appreciate this tremendous joke, but it is worth something in the proper milieu.

Let That be a Lesson to Him

One thing I find satisfying about Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is that I still do not know how to pronounce Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. I always say "Makh-mood Abidjibbijab." And what of it? If he doesn't like it, let him furnish me a letter of complaint on organizational letterhead.

People Used to Be Apes

For your FYI: People used to be apes before they evolved into people. Do you think people used to be apes? I do. This was before we had cameras, of course.

If I was an ape with a camera and I was evolving faster than my fellow apes, I'd take photos of my fellow apes to show my human grandchildren. If I was an ape and I was evolving at a rate similar to that of my fellow apes, I'd break their cameras so they couldn't take my photo. Otherwise they would probably show their human grandchildren my early ape photos and tell the kids that I evolved slower than the others because I never learned sums.

Monday Evening

I was going to liveblog Kenneth Branagh's reading of Goebbels' personal diaries on PBS, but I've decided against it. I'm too full. Just ate a turkey patty.

Counting Canadians

I spent all last week gearing up for Canada Census Day and now it is here. I can’t stand the suspense. Counting Canadians is one of my favorite social rituals. The most Canadians I’ve counted in one room is four, but that’s not counting half-Canadians or naturalized Canadians or men wearing pleated trousers.

Once I met a man named Shane. He was Canadian, but he was living in America. He wore great cavalry mustaches and regularly threatened passersby with a steak knife – all to avoid the usual penalty for being openly Canadian in America, which is having your eyes put out and your national park camping permit revoked.

I Was Born In Diet Pepsi, and I'll Die in Diet Pepsi

I just made up a new language. It's called Z-Drippy, and it will be the official language of my new nation-state, Diet Pepsi. Diet Pepsi will officially exist as soon as I can get PepsiCo to sign some paperwork. In the meantime, why not learn a few phrases? And because body language is 70% of communication, I've included some rudimentary gestures to help you along:

Where is the toilet?
Z-drippy toilet? (cup crotch with both hands, hop from one foot to the other)

Can I exchange money here?
Z-drippy money? (squint, pound fist on table)

How long will my flight be delayed?
Z-drippy delay? Delay? Delay? (flare nostrils rapidly)

I need a doctor. I have a sliver in my foot.
Z-drippy sliver? (sit quickly, remove shoe, point to foot)

I would like a double room.
Z-drippy DOUBLE ROOM. (jab index finger into receptionist's lapel)

How do I get to the beach?
Z-drippy beach? (smell hand with keen interest)

I'll have the salmon corn cakes.
Z-drippy! (point to item on menu)

I'm an American.
Z-drippy? (point to self, bare lower teeth only)

I'd like a cool, refreshing Diet Pepsi.
Z-drippy cool, refreshing Diet Pepsi. (rest forehead on table)

It Works Every Time

Good idea for a restaurant: Buy a restaurant that has all its parts intact. Put a sign on the door that says “Under New Management.” When patrons come in and sit down, give them some menus and take their orders. Then, go back into the kitchen, make yourself a cup of tea and work on a crossword puzzle. Eventually, the patrons will leave, and it will be too late for them to eat at another restaurant. Ha Ha! Suckers! It works every time.

This restaurant concept would not work with me as a patron, because I’m convinced that this is how most restaurants do business already. The difference is that they actually stock their kitchens with food. I’d never waste my restaurant money on food. I’d spend that money on quad bikes.

Vacation

I need a vacation, but I can’t figure out where to go, how to get there, how to pay for it, and how to avoid getting bedbugs at the hotel. Specifically I am looking for a holiday residence within walking distance of two Starbucks so that if I suffer some sort of embarrassing incident at one location, I can quickly and easily walk to the second location. It would be helpful to have a third Starbucks in the vicinity as well, for the same reason. A fourth Starbucks within walking distance would be superfluous but acceptable.

UPDATE: A fifth Starbucks would get on my nerves unless it was a very small Starbucks, i.e., serving drinks for take-away only, no tables or chairs or walls of merchandise.

And Misspell Should Be Spelled "Mispell"

Ate a pancake this morning. Do you think "Iraq" is misspelled? I think it ought to be spelled Eee'rahck, but I can't seem to coerce anyone into caring. I just wish we had some discernable priorities regarding countries that force us to misspell their names. Seychelles, for instance. Also Maldives. Also some other places I can't remember right now. I'm on my way to the kitchen to prepare a sandwich.

Recent Postcards from Larry Basket

I've been exchanging some postcards with my friend Basket, who is visiting Tasmania. I'm not going to include my replies, but for those of you who worry about Basket, here is what he has to say:

Postcard from Basket 1: "You may as well know, I have four new parakeets now. The sea is beautiful," he wrote.

Postcard from Basket 2: "You've never taken a fancy to parakeets, have you? Terrible cuisine here, by the way."

Postcard from Basket 3: "You really ought to give my parakeets a chance. You might find that you like them. You might expand your horizons a bit," he wrote. "Been getting 10, 12 hours of sleep per night."

Postcard from Basket 4: "I am growing suspicious of the horses here. The gleam in their eye chills me to the marrow. Do you think they could be centaurs? Somebody stole my good hat."

Postcard from Basket 5: "I found a charming souvenir briefcase full of briefcases, each briefcase slightly smaller than the briefcase surrounding it. Like those Russian dolls. The smallest briefcase had in it a folded piece of bubble wrap. Wish you were here."

At any rate, that's the last I heard from Basket.

I Found a Website on the Internets

I just found a website called cheese dot com. This website primarily concerns cheese. I'm only mentioning this because I like cheese; I'm not going to link to cheese dot com because I don't really want others to look at it unless they are serious about cheese.

Gospel of Judas

I don't understand all this commotion about the Gospel of Judas. I translated it years ago. Boring. Scarcely worth the effort. Judas mentions Jesus only once, in passing, and the rest is ordinary diary drivel. Some excerpts:

Why do all my black garments fade to different shades of black? My black trousers faded blue-black, my black turtleneck is violet-black, and my black hoodie is green-black with black-black trim. Dorcus claims that no one will notice these shade irregularities, but she's the one who pointed them out to me in the first place. What, so I should never wash my black clothes? This sort of thing really gets on my tits. (Judas 3:1-4)

Dorcas thinks she's a good lyre player, but she's not. She knows, like, two chords, and they're both wrong. Somebody save me. I think I'm going to have another piece of carrot cake before it dries out. (Judas 4:2-3, 5)

Just got home from running errands. Traffic was horrible. Saw Jesus at Crate and Barrel. He did that thing where he pretends to not see me, but I KNOW he saw me. How could you not notice me? I'm the only man in town with natural strawberry-blonde hair. (Judas 23:1-3)

I can't find my tiki-style sake cup set. Dorcus insists that she didn't throw it out with the nasty old Tupperware last week. Please. I wasn't born yesterday. She's wanted me to get rid of that set ever since we got married. Didn't throw it out, my ass. (Judas 16)

Dorcus's sisters are over, ostensibly to discuss the kitchen remodel, but all I'm hearing is "wah wah, gaining weight, wah wah daughter smokes marajuana, wah wah wah that's not what I heard..." Kill me now. (Judas 19:8)

I was tidying my scrolls just now when I had a great idea: why not surprise Dorcus with a new scroll? She's already read all these ones, and I know she'd like something to peruse while Matthias is at his karate lesson. (Judas 20:4-6)

It goes on like this for four volumes.

*sigh*

Oh, why did I take Coptic in high school? I should have taken something useful, like French. Then I could have translated something important, like the short stories of Gerard Depardieu.

Attention!

I've been profiled by Norman Geras. You may have seen him recently - he's the fellow you always find loitering at the train station, peeling open melty chocolate bars and casually attaching the wrappers to passersby.

UPDATE: Oops. How embarrassing. Turns out the guy at the train station is Gorman Neras, unemployed piano tuner and no relation to Norman Geras. My mistake.

UPDATE UPDATE: Turns out Gorman Neras isn't unemployed. He tunes pianos regularly, and is paid handsomely. And his name isn't Gorman Neras; it is John Robinson.

UPDATE UPDATE UPDATE: Turns out my ergotism-related hallucations are back. Not only is John Robinson not Gorman Neras, he doesn't eat chocolate bars and he wants me to stop harrassing him with questions. I don't even know if I have a Normblog profile anymore.

8 Sequential Auditory Signals Indicating that Rafe Has Fallen out of Bed Again and Has Opted to Sleep on the Floor for the Remainder of the Night

1. The Thump
2. The Cry
3. The Sniffle and Cough
4. The Scrape Across Floor
5. The Impassioned Sigh
6. The Cussing
7. The Silent Fury
8. The Tranquil Hush
9. The Snore

Today's Fortune as Told to EWP by Beautiful Doll

"Beautiful doll makes delightful friend. Eat carrots every day for health. See physician for moles that change in appearance or texture."

What the Financial Times Doesn't Want You to Know

Mild Profit-Taking
"Japanese real estate stocks extended gains into the eighth straight day on Tuesday morning, making up for mild profit-taking in some other sectors in the wake of Monday’s sharp rise. By midday the Nikkei was up 0.3 per cent to 17,384.53," claims the Financial Times. Boring. What the fat cats in Tokyo don't want you to know is that all of these "other sectors" experiencing so-called "mild profit-taking" are secretly financing the design, manufacture, and distribution of the first animate human children made entirely of prosciutto and faux fur. The manufacture and sale of these "Quasi-Nutria Meat Moppets" and "Woolly Stink Cherubs" is legal in most countries, with the exception of Belarus, which has frequently expressed concern over the manufacture (though not the sale) of meat-based concept children.

Prices Jumped to Their Highest Level
"Crude oil prices jumped to their highest level since Hurricane Katrina on Monday... as Iran announced it had tested new weapons during war games in the Strait of Hormuz," claims the Financial Times. Whatever. I heard it wasn't Iran. I heard it was that that little old couple, Sylvia and Sidney Schumacher. Why, just this morning I was having breakfast at the lodge when I overheard a girl they called "Baby" say, "Wait a minute. I know Iran didn't test new weapons in the Strait of Hormuz. I know because Iran was in his room all night. And the reason I know is... because I was with him." Then Baby was all, "Daddy, I'm sorry I lied to you, but you lied to me too," and for crying out loud, that was the last straw. I left without finishing my Frosted Flakes.

Securing a Cash Inflow
"GM agreed to sell a controlling stake in its finance arm to an investment consortium led by Cerberus Capital on Monday for $7.4bn, securing the troubled carmaker a cash inflow of $14bn over the next three years," claims the Financial Times. But that's not all GM has sold. Woo-hoo! I showed up at their estate sale with a five dollar bill and I left with two Nancy Sinatra albums, some photos of Yosemite and a newish bucket full of shrink-wrapped sponges. I thought I saw some old Radio-Electronics magazines and a briefcase full of socks, so I plan on going back tomorrow for the $1 bag sale.

Everything's Ever So Slightly Gone to Seed

Turned forward the clocks the other day. It was a tedious process, clock after clock after endless clock. Yesterday at this time it was a different time, slightly later, and also a day earlier. It was a different world. In fact, it was similar to TVs "A Different World," but without Denise Huxtable chilling us to the marrow with her relentless, unprovoked dancing. It was like, yesterday there was no Denise, today there's slightly some Denise, but one hour later. All attributable to this purported time change, with the endless clocks and the turning. Profound, isn't it - with the clocks, changing with the wind. A thing of beauty. Life cycle. Cosbys.

I Hear You

Broke another halogen lamp in a fit of rage. Now I have this terrible skin rash. It is as if God is trying to tell me, "Listen, stop buying halogen lamps, they are pieces of shit."

The Archipelago is Off Limits, So to Speak

Just got off the phone with Wikipedia. They claim that birds common to Franz Josef Land include kittiwakes, fulmars, and gulls. This may be true, but I doubt it. I will believe it when I see it - and there is no general admission to Franz Josef Land without special permit, so I'll probably never go. It is not worth it to me. I don't see the point in acquiring special permits for anything. For example, when I drive, I do so on my own merit. I do not search out written permission from the state. Nor do I loiter about waiting for permission from car owners. I simply take their keys and I drive off. What can they do to me? If they do not like it, let them set after me on their bicycles.

Time Management

Sometimes I can’t blog because I’m too busy. It’s like, I wake up in the morning, have a cup of coffee, practice xylophone, have some lunch, go squirrel spotting, have some coffee, spot more squirrels, send some faxes, have some dinner, spot some squirrels, drink tea, go to bed. Sometimes I think my xylophone monopolizes too much of my time. How I loathe the xylophone. I’m beginning to think that the time I spend practicing xylophone could be better spent sending additional faxes, or spotting squirrels.

Website Content Update

I just looked at my blog, and it turns out I haven't posted anything since Monday.

Tuesday: Tuesday was a great day. I can't remember what happened.

Wednesday: Wednesday was fine.

Thursday: Waited for some calls. When the calls came, I was furious.

Friday: Today is Friday. I'll tell you how this goes next Monday.

It Makes a World of Difference

I just thought up a fantastic story about a king who likes fox hunting, but then one day he is poisoned by a can of jumbo sardines. He doesn't actually eat the sardines, he only holds the tin in his hand. The tin is coated with touch-poison.

Touch-poison is my favorite poison, though I am also fond of ear-poison. Ear poison is a type of touch-poison, but it has to go into the ear. That’s why they call it ear poison.

I had a couple more thoughts I wanted to share with you about ear poison, but my microwave peach cobbler just dinged.

Chris

I was wondering what kind of neck tattoo Chris should get now that he has benign hair. By "benign" I refer to definition 3a: "of a mild type or character that does not threaten health or life." I used to lie awake at night worrying that Chris would get his hair snared in a tree branch as his horse raced out from beneath him, or that his manly ringlets would be sucked into a vent as he passed the laundromat. Anyway, now that his locks are shorn, what kind of neck tattoo should Chris get?

What kind of neck tattoo should Chris get? Morton Salt Girl Bleeding Bottle of Grey Poupon Chinese Character for Grey Poupon Ziggy in a Hot Air Balloon Likeness of His Own Face with the Old Hair Angry Dragon Opening Package of Cough Drops Simon and Garfunkel (after Greatest Hits cover photo)    Free polls from Pollhost.com

My New Meme

I've just created a fantastic meme. You can answer these questions on your own blog if you like, but I'm not going to officially tag anybody until my friend Schaffer returns from his Nigerian business trip.

What is your full name?
What is your date of birth?
What four cities have you lived in?
What four TV shows do you love?
What four credit cards do you currently use?
What are four credit account numbers assigned you, and when (month/year) do they expire?
Do you have four credit card pin numbers, and if so, what are they?
What does your mother's maiden name look like if you type it four times in a row?
What are the first four digits of your social security number?
What are the last four digits of your social security number?
What number did you leave out of your nine-digit social security number? (That's your lucky number!)
What are the first four lines of your mailing address?
What are your four favorite banks?
What are your four favorite bean dishes?
What four people do you wish to tag with this meme?

Man Burns Hand on Remarkably Hot Hat

I just spoke to a man who burned his hand on a remarkably hot hat. "The hat was in my car, in the rear window. I reached back to pick it up, and I was like, ow, this is really hot. Then I thought about it for a minute and I was like, wow, how does a hat get that hot? It was remarkably hot." By the time I met him, the man had been milling around the parking lot for 15 minutes trying to get people to touch his hat. "Here, feel how hot this hat is," he’d say. "You won’t believe it. It’s not as hot as it was, but it’s still pretty warm."

For those of you wondering, the hat resembled a Greek fisherman’s cap without the little braided cord across the bill.

Stop Trying to Sit on My Sofa, You Insensitive Swine

Lately I've been collecting interesting rocks in a suitcase, but now my suitcase is missing. I thought I'd put it next to the sofa. Now it's not there. I've adapted to my loss by storing my newest rocks on the sofa, but how long can this arrangement last? Would-be sofasitters balk when confronted by my interesting rocks. They don't want to sit on my rocks and they don't mind saying so. When you get right down to it, I don't want people sitting on my rocks. Pull up a chair if you are so inclined; it matters not to me. My primary objective is to recover my suitcase and the interesting rocks within.

No More Poems

That's it. I'm not writing any more lazy free verse office supply poetry for Paul. I don't like what it does to people. For example, Orlando's Jan Peters read my last poem aloud and both of his canaries died. Mr. Kinny read one of my office supply poems and decided to move out of the neighborhood. I received an email from him two days later. It said, "I have downed several trees and am constructing a small cabin on National Park land. What can they do to me? Absolutely nothing. What do you use for chinking when you build your cabins? Write back soon." I haven't replied yet. I'm trying to remember what I used for chinking last time I built a cabin. I'm also trying to remember when I built a cabin, and where I put it when I finished it.

Everything I Do, I Do for Paul, Post #2

Swingline(R) High-Capacity Staples, Box Of 2500
Breeze through the trees
Then come the bees
No way with that spray, I like me some bees
Shhh, I'm trying to sleep
Swingline(R) High-Capacity Staples, Box Of 2500
Have you any floss?
I have a popcorn kernel thing
Between my teeth
Just like Huey Long used to say
"Flossa Flossa Flossa, I'm the Bossa"

Who you callin drunk?

Everything I Do, I Do For Pall

What is this? I go away for a week and nobody cares but Paul?! Oh, that is it. I'm going to institute a new Topic Drift blog serial, "Everything I Do, I Do For Paul." This new blog series will deal primarily with my feelings about office supplies. I must warn you, however: this new scheme will involve anguished free verse. You may not care about my feelings about office supplies, but Paul cares. Of this I am certain.

"Everything I Do, I Do For Paul" Post #1



Avery Table of Contents Dividers with Pockets
You remind me of feeling free
You remind me of feeling the freedom that comes with
Never knowing if Mamma loved me
She never told me I was good
Avery Table of Contents Dividers with Pockets
Whutchoo keep in yo' pawkets, bitch?

On Ralph Waldo Emerson

1
"Let not a man guard his dignity, but let his dignity guard him," said Ralph Waldo Emerson, probably while sitting on the can, eating pistachios out of a paper sack. Dignity isn't a given; it's often a taken, and then the guy's off a-runnin'. Will you catch him? Not in those shoes you won't.

2
While I believe that he meant well, I do not believe that Ralph Waldo Emerson was a good painter. Did he paint, and if so, oils or houses? I don't know. You wait here while I do a Google search.

3
A famous quotation of Emerson's goes a little like this: "A friend is one before whom I may think aloud." Pffuh. You know as well as I do that this man had no friends. Shut up, Ralph Waldo Emerson. Nobody likes a blabbermouth. Try to be the one who's interested in other people; everyone likes that guy. Plus, he's usually a pushover who'll buy you a drink.

4
Finally he says something we can all agree upon: "Children are all foreigners." And all foreigners are children, I do think. We keep things simple.

5
Ho! This one is positively cake-taking! "Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail." No sane man would postulate such balderdash. If you leave a trail on my land, so help me god I will find you and I will cut you. First, of course, I must buy land. Watch this space.

Then Your Eyes Shall Be Opened

It's been a terrific week; I have been dreadfully ill, but not so ill that I couldn't eat a two-month ration of caramel-plugged Hershey's Kisses in one sitting.



Don't you know, I wasn't actually sick when I ate the Kisses. I became sick the next day or something - why split hairs? - and the only obstacle between me and more Kisses is my fear of the unknown. Will I die if I eat an entire package? Or will I be as a god, knowing good and evil? Hard to say.

The Whole Place was Liable to Go Up in Flames

First I felt a strange sensation in my left ear, but I attributed the feeling to the fanatic wind that whistled down the lane and extinguished my last piece of coal. Then I felt a strange sensation in my sinuses, but I attributed the feeling to the damp that invades my garret. Did I think I was getting a cold? No, I did not think I was getting a cold. I did not think at all. Perhaps that is where I went wrong. Or perhaps I should have sold my timeshare in October, like the man said. At any rate, my affliction will not cut into my Olympics-watching time, because I hadn't planned on watching the Olympics.

The cold-medicine box said I should be feeling groggy by now, but I'm fine. If anyone wonders why I just drove the neighbor's Honda into the compost bins, they should keep in mind that the keys were left in the ignition, and that the bins were never meant to sit so close to the house anyway. The heat generated in those bins is tremendous; the whole place was liable to go up in flames.

Tonight, I saved lives. Tomorrow, I will rest.

I Have Assembled My Monkeys Here Today For a Reason

Jefferson Bust Loves Memes Too

Four jobs Jefferson Bust has had:
1 Sit very still on thrift shop shelf
2 Successfully wait in ambush in Jeff Nelson's refrigerator
3 Sit very still on bookshelf
4 Guard houseplants

Four movies Jefferson Bust can watch over and over:
1 Last of the Mohicans
2 Kurt and Courtney
3 Clambake
4 Short Circuit

Four places Jefferson Bust has lived:
1 Living Room
2 Hallway
3 Bedroom
4 Sunroom

Four TV shows Jefferson Bust loves to watch:
1 Lou Dobbs Tonight
2 Ghost Hunters
3 The Jeffersons
4 Waiting for God

Four places Jefferson Bust has been on vacation:
Jefferson Bust doesn't go on vacations

Four of Jefferson Bust's favorite dishes:
1 Jolly Ranchers
2 Meow Mix
3 Cabbage
4 Milk

Four sites Jefferson Bust visits daily:
Jefferson Bust isn't allowed to use the computer because he has a gambling problem

Four places Jefferson Bust would rather be right now:
1 The swimming pool
2 James Taylor sit-down concert
3 Monticello
4 Cinnabon

My New Pen

Books: They're Not Just for Carnies Anymore

I was just lining up my books on the bookshelf when it occurred to me that I've never read any of them. The last book I read was The Valley of the Dolls, and I needed Cliffs Notes just to get past chapter 4. They didn't have Valley of the Dolls Cliffs Notes back then, so I had to make do with the mimeographed Tale of Two Cities glossary I found on the bus. I kept thinking that the book would be better if Neely was a talking car. Not just any car, either, but a Jeep Grande Cherokee 3.7-liter V6 with independent front/multilink rear suspension and Quadra-Drive II 4WD. I mean, is that even possible in just one car? If you're looking for rugged off-road capabilities and a five star crash test rating, the Jeep Grand Cherokee can't be beat. At any rate, I think the book is flawed.

Superfluous Lunch

I was just sitting at my desk when Bee brought me an apple. It was cut into pieces. But I already had an apple today! I can’t eat two, and now I have this redundant, fragmented apple that won’t keep because its innards are exposed to the elements. I don’t know what to do about it. This reminds me of the time I was invited to a lunch picnic after I’d already eaten lunch; I attended the picnic anyway and ate a second lunch. When I returned home, I discovered that I’d also been invited to an impromptu afternoon pool party – but because I WAS TOO BUSY EATING A SUPERFLUOUS LUNCH, I missed a perfect opportunity to float face-up in a pool. It also reminds me of the time young Napoleon Bonaparte was building a diorama for his literature class and he wanted to portray the scene from King Lear where Ophelia drowns, but his friend Luc told him that that’s a girls scene, so Napoleon scraped the whole project and built a miniature bullet train diorama. He got an F because nobody had written a novel about bullet trains yet.

Vitally Important Link

Before you see the opera bouffe, read the interview.

It’s Time to Put Your Feet Up and Take Your Mind Off Your Troubles

ITEM! Apparently, the Wall Street Journal offices are rife with disease. I know this because people keep finding Topic Drift by googling “wall street journal staph infections.” As I always say, torpid speculation in conjunction with five distinct Google searches constitutes a convergence of evidence, or proof.

Is it safe to handle your morning Wall Street Journal? Not on your life. Staph can be deadly. Just read the WSJ online, or better yet, discontinue your subscription immediately, pack your bags and enlist in the French Foreign Legion. You deserve it! It’s time to put your feet up and take your mind off your troubles. In addition to putting up your feet, you will need to be able to do 30 pushups and 50 situps. You must be able to climb a 20 foot rope without using said feet or a ladder, and you must be able to run 8 kilometres with a 12 kilogram rucksack in less than one hour. You must do 8 chinups with your palms away from you as you grip the bar, and you must not be married. These are not my personal stipulations; they are the grandiose stipulations of the French Foreign Legion. Who are you to question the French Foreign Legion? Let’s eat.

It's Not a Stick

Just the other day a guy walked up to me and told me that my shoes were untied. “Good one,” I said as I turned away, “But I’m not wearing any shoes.” But the guy wouldn’t give up. He told me that I definitely had shoes on. Pfff! How could he know? I was wearing my Rabbit Thunder ice hockey mascot uniform! He said he had the feeling that, inside my rabbit uniform, my shoes were untied. So I stepped back and clobbered him with my carrot.

Later during my routine I noticed an enormous woman hollering and gesturing in the stands. I knew something was up, because Rabbit Thunder fans always sit quietly or read the paper during my routine. When I moved closer to the stands, I lifted my earflap and listened. She was all “WHY DID YOU HIT MY SON WITH YOUR HOCKEY STICK?! HE WAS TRYING TO ASK YOU FOR A DATE, YOU STUPID RABBIT! WHY DID YOU HIT MY SON WITH YOUR HOCKEY STICK?! STUPID RABBIT!”

Well, I never. “IT’S NOT A STICK, IT’S A CARROT,” I shouted in reply. I held my hockey carrot aloft and pointed to it with my other mitten. “I HIT HIM WITH MY CARROT.”

Aaaawwk!

I was wondering how people feel when they come to Topic Drift and I have nothing new to offer them. Sad, probably. Sometimes I get overwhelmed by the labor involved in signing in to my account. All that typing and tabbing and entering and waiting. Then I get hungry and I have to make toast. By the time my toast is ready, the Mary Tyler Moore show is on. Then it's time for ice cream, them I have to floss and brush my teeth or I'll just keep eating until sunrise.

Here's a good joke: What did the crane say to the zebra? Aaaawwk.

He said Aaaawwk. It's all in the delivery. The thing about this particular joke is you have to ask the question very softly, very gently. Then, after your dupe leans in and whispers "What? What did he say?" Then you let out the terrifying deafening drum-shattering AAAAWWWWK! It really makes people angry, this joke. The angry means success. Make no mistake about it: your dupe doesn't even have to be fluent in English. As they say in the theatre, "The language of angry is universal."

Why I Use Word Verification Comment Technology

Listen, if you have a problem with my Word Verification scheme, just shut up and have a cigarette. Stop being so pushy. Commenting on Topic Drift is like falling off a triceratops: it’s a privilege, not a right, and if you tell the wrong people about it, you’ll quickly build a reputation as a lonely lowly mooncalf who bays at the lovely lonely moon in the frightful night sky, with the baying and the mooning and the sky with the moon, amen. Besides, International Word Verification makes it possible for two diseased children from Kwatzankore to visit America every year for lifesaving leg transfusions.

I do what I can. Some people give blood, some people give cash; I use International Word Verification, and I’m not sorry.

Cowboy Movie

I just dusted the plant. Don't you hate cowboy movies? I do. The only cowboy movie I'd watch is a cowboy movie where the cowboys are actually domestic cats trained to use a human toilet. This movie would feature approx. 70 minutes of cowboy cats and their toilet theatrics; suddenly a human toddler shows up and spies a small cowboy cat using the toilet. He laughs and laughs and laughs! Hilarious! Then he runs out of the bathroom, trips over his Elmo, falls heavily and emits a piercing shriek that lasts anywhere from four to seven minutes. All this noise scares the cowboy cats, so they hide under the sofa until someone opens a can of Fancy Feast.

When Hollywood starts making the movies I want to see, I will go to the theater. Until then, stalemate.

Japanese Japan Candies from Japan Chicago Americaland

I'm feeling a little under the weather. My tongue feels wrong and my throat, it's not right. Fortunately, Bee gave me some Japan candies from Japan. She didn't go all the way to Japan for them, she only went as far as Chicago. The candies are tan cola taffy with interior chunks of effervescent white powder and cola-flavored gummy material. They have all the Americaland cola candy beat. You wait here - I'll take a picture.


Delicious! Note the white speck - that's a fizzy part. And the darker speck, that's a cola gummy speck. You may wish to print out this photo and keep it in your wallet.



You get the idea. Cola Head puts on his nicest denim overalls and dusts the candy brick.

The candy website has a silent cartoon about an anthropomorphic strawberry who lives in an enormous strawberry and goes into hysterics when another strawberry pets a pear. I don't know how the cartoon ends because it was too tedious to sit through.

Overheard

Today I heard someone approach the office fax machine and say "Big money! No whammys!"

Disgusting.

They Shut Us Down

Doreen and I wrote so many comments so quickly on my last post that Blogger disabled my comments – right as I was about to tell Doreen where to go. Go to hell, Doreen.

Confidential to Doreen: I’ll be over at 6 for the salmon aspic dinner.

Spring Rolls

I had vegetable spring rolls for lunch. They were delicious, and they didn’t have any of those stupid noodles inside.

Disgraceful Enthusiasm in the Heartland

Word has it that in some parts of America, a salutatory “How are you?” doesn’t really mean “How are you?” but simply “Hello,” or “Hey,” - and that in Minnesota when you greet people with an innocuous “How are you?” they will fling wide the gates of dignity with a hearty “SAY! I’M doing just FINE! HOW ARE YOU?”

So… how do I proceed when someone from, I don’t know, let’s say Jersey City, asks, “How are you?” Hmm. It’s a risky enterprise. I don’t want to look foolish in front of Jersey City citizenry– that much is certain. I don’t want Jersey City Man to think I’ve never set foot outside of the tri-state area. In fact, I’ve been to Canada on two occasions. Doesn’t matter, though. I guess I want what everyone wants: I want the citizens of New Jersey to believe that I am just as sophisticated as they are. And I want it in writing.

Will let you know when this happens.

What Really Happened at City Hall, or My Emotional Emotional Mayor

The tears rolled down his cheeks as the mayor gingerly placed the burrito in my open hands. "The values that laid the groundwork for an ambitious agenda will allow Minneapolis to rightfully claim its place as the Great American City of our time. And we should settle for nothing less. Also, we offer chili sauce in Mild, Extra-Mild, and Clear." With that he collapsed on the countertop, sobbing and wretching and clutching his chest. I wanted to leave quickly and quietly but I tripped over a mop and dropped my burrito. A replacement burrito seemed out of the question, given the inevitable bureaucratic hassle and the mayor's fragile mental state.

Consecutive Days without sun in Minneapolis: 13

URGENT HUMAN RIGHTS PETITION PLEASE SIGN IMMEDIATELY

The Veronicas should be disowned by Australia.