Thursday, April 30, 2009

Rethinking Pretty Much Everything

I think I need to start writing my life as more of an exciting adventure and that way I'll be even more fascinating than I already am, and I know what you're thinking. "Kurt," you think "How would YOU ever be more fascinating? They would have to invent a new number, and it would be called 'Pew!Pew!Pew!' so that whenever someone says 'How fascinating is Kurt?' the correct answer would be 'Pew! Pew! Pew!' like lasers from the Star War." and then I would be all "Well you're right, but I am far too humble and attractive to allow them to make a new number just for me." and then you would just sort of tilt your head and stare at me in awed reverence until it became awkward and I would yell "Say it don't spray it!" and throw sand in your eyes like dirty street fighters do, and you would be super-confused, and then I'd be all "Sorry. I meant 'Take a picture it would last longer!'" and then I would throw down some flash powder and disappear in a cloud of smoke but you couldn't see it because of all the sand. There's like nothing I can't fix with flash powder.

So here goes my adventure:

The room is dark and cool. The thin light traipsing through the blinds is casting useless shadows against the wall. I'm laying as still as I can, praying they don't hear. My heart is hammering in my chest and sweat is standing out on my forehead. Terror and panic, wrestle with each other trying to topple the wall of stillness I'm working so hard to maintain, trying to force me to run. But I will myself to remain still. A pair of soulless footsteps drum a thin timpani down the hallway just outside the door. I hold my breath for fear of the tattle-tale sound it will make. The steps drift off down the hall and I exhale. The sun continues to rise and now the light is less feeble and I can see my surroundings more clearly. The room looks disorganized and like perhaps a group of homeless people have been squatting in it. Still I don't move as phantom noises drift under the door. I'm looking for a way out before the footsteps come back and I have to make a decision. I swallow hard, scared now but ready for what comes next. Suddenly an alarm sounds and then the foot falls grow until they are right outside the door. The pounding begins and I can see the thin hollow door flexing where the latch is. They'll be in within a minute. And they call out to me...taunting. "Dad! Are you going to get up or what? Seriously. I'm going to miss the bus if I have to make my own lunch! Get up!"

I was going to throw some flash powder at this point in the story but when I tried to do it in practice, I accidentally set part of my mattress on fire. They should put warnings on flash powder if you ask me. Like "Warning! Does not really make you disappear so don't try robbing a bank and then using this to escape because unless have a real escape laid out you are going to get caught and maybe that stupid DA is still mad about the time you broke into his car and took a dump on the passenger seat, but how were you supposed to know it was HIS car? so now he's totally going to prosecute you to the full extent of the law"

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Big Science Wednesday!

Maybe you don't know this about me, but before I was an unemployed hobo, I was a marginally employed research technician with most of a degree in Physics. And don't get all stuck up and defensive that you didn't know that because that's okay, the most important works about my thrilling life will probably be written after I'm dead, like everyone else I didn't study in history.

My research has indicated that people reading this blog want more non-Effed up content and science and when I say "my research" , I mean "some shit I just thought up while I was shaving and wondering why the sink was draining so slowly and when was the last time anyone cleaned all the gross hair and toothpaste spit out of the drain anyway(s)". So here it goes. I'm going to talk about Entropy which is a really awesome thing in thermodynamics and I'd get deep into the Maths of it, but it turns out those are really hard especially when the only thing in your notes are crudely drawn doodles of boobies and different attempts at practicing your signature.

What Entropy says is that the universe naturally tends to seek disorder. That any system, has built into it, a tendency to devolve into randomness. That all things break down and the subsequent changes of state are a function of how the energy of said system seeks to be freed.

I had to look that up because I missed the majority of my lectures in thermodynamics because my lab partner had great cans but she was totally a prude and wouldn't show them to me, and I bet she was an Amish and not a hot Amish like the girl from Witness but a regular "fuck buttons" Amish. And she wouldn't show them to me even though I wrote her this really clever thing about the Three Laws of Nipple Dynamics. And then she asked to have her seat moved so I guess she misses out on the great love of her life, too bad sister...you blew it!

The reason I'm writing about entropy is because when I got done shaving I looked in the mirror and realized my hair is filled with entropy and every morning when I wake up I feel like I need to check it for squirrels because if I was a squirrel and I saw that thing on top of my head I would definitely want to live in there and procreate and all the baby squirrel calves or pups or goslings or whatever would be running around and then my hair would be an even bigger tangle of squirrel semen and rodents humping so of course I'm going to check for them. And the entropy of it all is just ridiculous but at least it isn't falling out, so there's that.

Squirrel Check in progress. I don't know why my forehead is
so shiny. Elfin Magic?

Also I wanted to write about entropy because it seems like my whole life is stupid with it and maybe if I write about it I will be able to cope better and my Personal Life Statement is something like "live everyday to it's fullest and try to understand the world around you and your interactions with it" but then I would probably want to add something about zombies or ninjas or maybe Pop Tarts©, so the new version could be "Live everyday like an awesome ninja who surfs free porn and try to better understand what makes Pop-Tarts© so awesome and the rest of the world too especially your interactions with zombies when you're tanked on Brandy Alexanders." But that's seems really long so I guess I'll just go with "If she's stacked, go for it." because I'm not even sure if Personal Life Statements are even a real thing and also because it makes a nice slogan for the business cards I hand out on Ladies Night at the local bowling alley.

Also Entropy is cool because when my posts have no point and people are all "Dubya Tee Eff?" I can just shrug and say "Entropy?" and then try to kill them with my mind, which never works other than to make my forehead shiny I guess, but me standing there staring at them and flaring my nostrils and chanting "Explode. Explode. Explode" in a scary whisper is usually enough to get them to leave me alone.


Pointless Letter of Complaint

Dear Today,

You suck. I've been sitting here starting posts for like 10 hours now trying to think of something funny to write about but all I can come up with is more jokes about cat antidepressants and the google keyword search "toothless bowljob" that somehow linked to my blog but nothing is coming out right (twss) and I don't even know what a bowljob is but it sounds kind of stupid and more like something a desperate kid trying to get into a fraternity would try, like filling a bowl with something gross and then doing something really gross with the gross contents of the gross bowl, but I was never in a fraternity and the only experience I have with them is when we used to go to their parties at the Rochester Institute of Technology when I was a lot younger. And the highlight of those was when the deaf people who lived next door would have super loud grunty sex and the whole party would come roaring to a halt as 200 people listened to the deaf girl come real loud because she had no idea how noisy she was being because she couldn't hear herself and the fraternity brothers would all cheer and the girls at the party would all look embarrassed and I would try my best moves on no one because we were underage, but in my head I was picking up women left and right and what a stud I am. But really I was just a dork listening to Angry Deaf Sex and nursing a cheap cup of bad beer. I also don't now what "toothless" has to do with anything.  I think if I had to do something gross out of a bowl, not having teeth wouldn't really help or hinder me in any way. So on top of not being funny, today I am confused.

And the other keyword search I'm wondering about is "Glitter powder disco balls story" which I don't remember writing but if I did it would be about a guy who wanted to impress his girlfriend so he glued glitter to his privates and when they were getting intimate he whipped his underpants down and shined a halogen light on himself and did a little twirl for that "Saturday Night Fever on my ball sack" look, but then he got tangled in the cord and swooped too low and touched the super hot halogen bulb to his shiny naughty-bits and then he screamed like a girl and ran around in circles waving his hand in front of his junk like he was a Southern Belle with "The vapors*" and the girl wasn't impressed but just kind of sat back and realized she wasn't going to be getting any which was okay because really this guy is kind of an idiot, and the whole time he's still running around and fanning himself and the sparkle lights are shining all over the room just like a real disco and then "Staying Alive" starts playing and the audience laughs super hard. Because testicle jokes are always the funniest.

So in conclusion, Today. You still suck and I still have nothing to write about and I wish I could think of something and also for a hot pretzel because I haven't had one in like a year and I'm craving. But guess what, Today? No fucking pretzels anywhere in the house. You are such an asshole.

Hugs,
Kurt

ps: "Asshole" is such a funny word it's ridiculous.


* I also just learned that "the vapors" was turn-of-the-century code for menstruating and I have totally misused the term but it's funny so it stays. 

Fellatio Eyes and LIH

5:30 am is an asshole.

If 5:30 were a kid it would have a too thick forehead and little piggy eyes and big beefy knuckles and it would pick on all the other times and it would be a terrible bully, and then I would get pissed at it and threaten to send it away to military school, but I never would much to the chagrin of cute little 8:45 who keeps getting pantsed in front of the girl's volleyball team by 5:30 and now it's starting to wet the bed again and even though it's Mom tells it it's okay and these things happen, 8:45 has no self-confidence at all now and also hates girls and will always abuse his GFs verbally and will threaten to cunt-punch them if they don't stop being so lippy and all because of 5:30 am, so basically 5:30 am is the cause of all domestic violence. I think that's pretty much "Case Closed" and "Your Witness" and "I'll be at the bar if you need me."

If 5:30am where a girl I wanted to date it would give me the wrong phone number at the bar and when I tried to call it right then on the spot, because I'm like a genius detective and no I've never been burned by that trick, I'm just really smart. Shut up. And when I called the number 5:30 gave me it would be the AIDS crisis hotline and I would look up at 5:30 like "What the fuck? I bought you like 10 Brandy Alexanders and you were totally making fellatio eyes at me." and she would be all "Hee Hee! Whoops! My mistake!" and then she would leave and I would have to stalk her because we all know fellatio eyes is what "no" really means and sometimes love has to be pursued, but carefully because restraining orders can last up to 2 years it turns out.

If 5:30am were a dog it would go out of it's way to shit in my yard even though it knows I walk around drunk and barefoot all the time, and sure maybe once in a while it's nice to me and chases away squirrels and repo men, but usually it just howls at 5:30 in the morning, which is totally ITSELF so that means "for no reason" and it wakes me up and if you think hangovers are better if you can enjoy them for longer than you are mistaken. The long hangover is the 5:30am of Slightly Anticipated Vomiting.

If 5:30am was a dresser it would...okay that's stupid. I'm just out of ideas and looking around the room now. If 5:30am were a blog idea it would be about how adorable this cat was that I saw and it would talk about what I had for breakfast and it wouldn't even mention that it was Pop-Tarts because they are too cool for 5:30's school, and it would rely heavily on using UR for "you are" and "OMG" for "Oh Em Gee" and "LOL" for pretty much everything else because it doesn't understand that if it is Elling than it is probably Oh Elling too, because otherwise you'd have to say "LIH!!" which stands for "Laughing in Head*" and "Laughing In Head" is just another way to say "fucking crazy" because when you only laugh in your head it's because maybe your Aunt locked you in a cedar chest with a cat and a dog and a mouse and a bear and it was supposed to be a fight to the death but you couldn't stop crying like a baby so they had to let you out and then they told you it was the worst New Year's Eve ever and it was all your fault.

HEY! I think I just invented something! I'm totally going to start saying LIH!! when something someone has written so annoying that it makes me crazy and yep I'm pretty much a genius. Wait...I just looked it up and someone else thought it up first and now I'm all deflated. See what an asshole 5:30 is? It ruined my dreams.


*I said "head". Heh. You know...like fellatio. Awesome.

Monday, April 27, 2009

It's Things Like This That Make Me Glad I Have A Blog

Oddly, I don't remember this one.

Nemesis #1 This Week (with Update!)

My brain hates me so much that it might as well cook up an elaborate scheme to befriend me after it gets a face lift,  and then we hang out and become best friends, and then POW! Guess what? It's a trap and he steals my woman and ruins my business and makes my children choose to go with him to the carnival instead of me, and when it's over it reveals that it is my brain and I'm all flabbergasted and go "What the Eff, Brain?! Why did you ruin my life?" But the twist is he's all "Meh. No reason." and then he and my love and my kids turn their backs and go back to the carnival and they stop at the cotton candy booth and I fucking love cotton candy in reasonable amounts. Because if I eat too much I feel gross. Fuck you, Brain!

The reason I think my brain hates me is because of all the effed up dreams I keep having. It is obviously sending me convoluted messages from my subconscious trying to get me to jump off a bridge, which is actually okay around here because all the bridges are low and that would only be like a 15 foot fall, so I guess my subconscious just wants me to get annoyingly wet and it probably wants me to wear jeans when I do this because wet jeans make me crazy and I yell unpredictable things when I'm uncomfortable like "Jesus! Can you move it along? " and most hookers don't like it when you interupt them at their craft. They are perfectionists mostly, it seems. And then the hooker would stab me, so checkmate! Brain. You've done it again and had me killed.

I swear I'm getting to the story. It's just You-Know-Who (not Voldemort), is also in charge of what I think about and what I write and obviously he's stalling. Jesus. Can you move it along, Brain?

In the dream, I was living in this hippy commune and everyone wore white robes and okay maybe it was a cult, but it was a nice one and there were no secret rape rooms, or baby-birthing dens of continuous fornication except probably my bedroom. (zing!) and the people weren't all weird and zealoty, I mean except for the white robes. Most people don't hang out at home in a white robe except maybe Moses, and he didn't even have a home for like 40 years so he didn't either. So forgetting the robes and before you even ask, I don't know if the men had underwear on or if the place smelled like balls, so don't even ask. Not central to the dream's main theme. 

So we're all hanging out (zing!) and then this group of strangers stops by and asks if they can spend the night, and because I'm living with super-hippees we say sure and let them in, and they have a robot with a spike for a head as a pet, and that should've been my first clue, but I was more fixated on how cool it was that they had a robot and I was trying to keep this other bearded guy from sitting on my lap, probably because I didn't want to have to deal with his balls, and all the other people in the house are welcoming the Strangers* and I'm just sitting there in the arm chair watching this whole "Last Supper" type image with men in robes, and woman in robes, and bearded strangers and killer robots and they are all laughing and I turn for a second to do something like talk about robes or whatever...I don't know, and when I turn back it's a scene out of Dante's Inferno. There's an effing impalement for fucks sake. And the children are all screaming and the strangers are making sweet non-consensual love to all kinds of things and the robot is stabbing with his head. And I'm all "Time out! Stop! Time out!" and I realize it's a dream and then I wake up. 

I just sit in bed in the dark for a minute reflecting on how fucked up that just was, and I wonder if maybe I'm repressing a childhood memory or something because what the fuck is up with that? And I try not to think about what it means because screw you, Sigmund Freud I'm all about the Baby Steps© and then I wonder if I'm hungry and I say "Yeah. I could eat." out loud and then I go make a sandwich and I forget about it until just now, when I'm writing and I guess my brain thinks I'm feeling inclined to share my weirdness with the whole world or at least a hundred + people in it.

Like I said my brain hates me.



*"The Stranger" is also that wicked move where you sit on your hand until it falls asleep and then you masturbate and you can't even feel your hand so it's like a stranger is touching you and probably everyone knows about that and it's funny and sure maybe you tried it and it made you all sad because of what it implied but that was okay, until that jerk from the front counter burst in on you and was all "What the fuck are you doing in the broom closet?" and "Why are you naked?" and "Holy shit! Call 9-1-1!" I hate McDonald's.


UPDATE: YOU can avoid being my nemesis by reading Mama Pop and my Monday morning idiocy over there.

Friday, April 24, 2009

Hey What's That Over There!


So if you wanted to, you could go over to Mama Pop and read my awesome article on "Army of Frankenstein", which is a new Dutch movie that is in pre-production and is probably the coolest arrangement of letters YOU'VE ever seen. Because where you grew up all the letters were dorks and got noogies, and indian burns, and swirlies and that one mean kid was always picking on the "L" and going "What's the matter, L? You think you're a 1 with a tail? You gonna run home to Mommy now, L? With your tail between your legs? HAHAHHAHAHA!" And then your L goes in and shoots up the school and man I wish you didn't have to go through that tragedy and could have just had a cool arrangement of letters like "Army of Frankenstein".

Dumb Blog, Why Are You Following Me*?


I'm doing my usual thing when I don't know what to write about which is looking around my desk and saying things in my head like "Once, this pen..." and "So, I'm tearing the pages off my Star Wars calendar..." and it's pretty much a miracle that every post I write isn't about envelopes because those are on my desk too and I am feeling a little less than inspired this morning so yeah...a post about envelopes would be rad. And then I'm all "Shit. I could write a post about envelopes. Envelopes are cool." and then I'm doing that thing again where I've said the same word too many times and now I'm chanting "Envelopes. Envelopes. Envelopes" at the computer screen while I try to think of something to write and then someone walks in on me and I feel silly because when I turn to look at them I'm trying different annunciations and that one comes out "En-Veeee LOPE!?" but it sounds like a question and The Boy just kind of stands there blinking at me. I really don't blame him.

And then I see this cool drawing of a panda The Girl has left for me since I'm trying to get some good artwork for this blog because the current design makes my eyes bleed eels, and okay it's  not that bad, but still it's pretty awful and if you think this is some underhanded attempt at soliciting help from people with design skills than I am deeply offended and I challenge you Sir, to a pistol duel at dawn, but watch out because I use the "other" set of dueling rules which exist only in my head and involves shooting you with a rifle from a hidden vantage point as you leave the building and then dragging your body out to the dueling range and standing over your corpse in my knickers and probably dabbing the corners of my mouth with a silk napkin or something as everyone comes running out to see who the winner is. And then they hoist me up on their shoulders and are all "For he's a jolly good fellow!" because everyone secretly hates you and your assumptions about whether or not I want your help, please. 

And now I'm thinking about what it would be like to bleed eels out of your eyes, and that is making me feel woozy because 1) I motherfuckin' hate motherfuckin' eels. and b) I don't want my eyes to bleed anything except maybe love and beauty because those are nice and don't live underwater in reefs, and look all friendly as you swim past, but guess what? that smile is just a trick and now you've got an eel eating your face. Happy? Me neither. Love and beauty would never try to eat your face, they would just sparkle a bit. Sparkles are way better than eels is my point.

Where was I?

Hattori Hanzo: This is pretty much the dumbest thing I've ever read.
Me: I know. It's hard to be the best at what you do.
Hattori Hanzo: Not a compliment.
Me: Lucky for you, I took it that way.
Hattori Hanzo: What was that whole dueling thing where one minute you're sniping people in Victorian England and the next it's the final scene in "Angus" where the fat kid is triumphant and getting the girl?
Me: Shut up. You don't know. Maybe it was "Rudy". You don't know.
Hattori Hanzo: What exactly are you sniping WITH in Victorian England? A musket? That's a good plan.
Me: You better lay off. I'm getting angry.
Hattori Hanzo: Don't. Just stop right there.
Me: You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.
Hattori Hanzo: Oh shit. Not again.
Me: RAAAAAAARRRRR!!!
Hattori Hanzo: Well there's no way I'm sewing all those buttons back on.
Me: That was a good one though, right? I'd make an awesome Hulk.
Hattori Hanzo: You don't think anyone is still reading this do you?
Me: Seriously. I need these buttons sewed back on. I have a job interview on Tuesday
Hattori Hanzo: You can't wear your "jammie" top to a job interview. Also, that one has barbeque sauce all over it from Tuesday.
Me: En-veee LOPE?!

* I've reached the point in my writing career where titling posts after bad puns related to Broadway showtunes is reasonable and funny and I'm chuckling to myself about "It's a Hard Cock Life" so really maybe it's time to step away from the computer for a bit.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Day Four Sounds like "Darfur" a Little

Day Four of the kids' spring break and it's beginning to feel like a military exercise except in my military no one ever gets up on time or wears pants or washes the dishes unless I threaten to go Full Metal Jacket on them.  They are seriously destroying my house so that sort of makes them like termites except termites don't also spend hours arguing about who was the first one to touch the stuffed talking penguin or whatever, and also termites are a little more endearing because it feels good when you kill them, but these are too big to kill without someone noticing.  And also I don't want to because they get me Christmas presents and that's something that termites never do unless your idea of a Christmas present is to have your ceiling fall on you, because then, guess what? 

"Ho ho ho, motherfucker. 
Love, Termites."

So okay the kids are better than termites, that's step one in the not-killing-them process. There are three steps, I think acccording to something I just made up while I was standing in front of the mirror looking at all the bags this morning.

1. ) Identify something that you want to kill more.
2.) Some middle step that I forgot because I found a zit and it was super-gross.
3.) Kill something else like a bug or a boss battle in a video game or a fifth of bourbon.

So I think we can all agree that I need to patent this process except the zit part, and maybe in there instead I'll put an intermediate "Hmm... better think about all the consequences" step, but I don't usually think about the consequences so I'll have to call my BFF and find out what people do when they think about the consequences. And that's a really weird word when you say it out loud and now I'm saying it over and over, so when The Girl finally gets up I'm sitting at the computer and chanting "consequences" and smiling broadly and she seems a little freaked out, and when I tell them it's time to do the dishes she hops right up and gets to work with this slightly popped-out Rabbit eye thing.  And when The Boy starts complaining she elbows him in the ribs and tells him to "Shut up, Dad's acting weird again."

I love with fear. It really is the best way.

In related news: Apple has removed the "Baby Shaker" app from it's iPhone store probably because someone stopped being on drugs for two seconds.  The whole thing was a picture of a baby and an annoying crying sound and you had to shake your iPhone until the baby was dead. Get it? 

I know. I know. Tasteless and funny go so well together. It's amazing they haven't done a duet like Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder or Your Mom and Pretty Much Anyone with a Cock.




PS: There is nothing in this post about "pansexuality" I just haven't used that label in a while and I was worried that it didn't think I loved it anymore. And I totally still do, Baby. 

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

The One Where I Insult Your Mom and Become BFFs with the Unemployment Office


I have no idea what's happening to my life. One minute I'm all repeling off cliffs and breaking up international underage sex slave rings and I'm all cool and wicked and awesome. And probably the most respected in the western hemisphere if not the world, and the next I'm standing in the shower and yelling "Ow! Ow! Ow! Fuck you!" and I'm giving the scalding water the finger and that seems totally rational because this goddamn shower has been pushing it's luck for a few weeks now and it turns out if you take a shower for longer than 7 minutes the shower gets all psychotic like Glenn Close when she boiled the bunny, and is that reference even any good anymore? Like... it seems like a cliche. Forget I said that. It's psychotic like your mom is when she's been quaffing qualude and Jim Beam cocktails behind a dumpster for like an hour while waiting to go on stage in the "Saggy Baggy Elephant Book Reading and Striptease review". 

I had no idea that was going to happen. Please accept my apologies.

Your Mom did. 

Last night.

The other part of my life that is spiralling out of control is  all this stupid mail I keep getting from the Unemployment Office. Jesus. Are we BFFs all the sudden or what? Because I've always wanted a bff I could talk to for long hours on the phone and laugh at people with and tell dirty jokes to. You think you got what it takes, Unemployment Office? Because I don't.

Look, Unemployment Office, I like you... you've got a good heart and you give me free money, but if  you haven't figured out that I'm just using you, than you need to take a step back and examine your own issues. I'm not your goddamn analyst, Unemployment Office.  You need to stop sending me letters every other day on your urgently colored papers. Fucking Purple doesn't convey your messages with any more Oomph than white does. I can read, is my point, Unemployment Office. Stop treating me like a goddamn child.  

And then I do a little Ricky Roma impression from GlenGarry Glen Ross and I say "You'd know if you ever spent a day in your life.You fucking child. "and I call the Unemployment Office a "cunt" and then I laugh because that's a funny thing to say to the Unemployment Office because I'M the one never spending a day in his life, unless you count writing hate mail to the shower, which occupies at least four hours of my day now and I could probably list as a part-time job if I had a resume that wasn't written on Crayola Magic Paper© with "3D Explosion!©" markers and features an alien hijacking a racecar so it's pretty much raping your eyes with how cool it is.

Stupid Shower.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Kidnapped!!

I woke up this morning and I was pretty sure I had been abducted and left to rot in an Iraqi prison somewhere or maybe some kind of advanced cave or maybe Guantanamo Bay, because all the lights were on and I was completely disoriented and that can only mean one thing, that my career as an international sex symbol* / jewel thief had come to an end, because why else would they have the interrogation lights on me. And the first thing I got worried about was that I never did get around to looking up what "water-boarding" is and part of me hopes it's got something to do with being pulled behind a boat and doing radical jumps but I sorta doubt it and the other part of me is imagining a "pink belly"  but I don't know where the water comes into play except maybe they make you spray a fountain of water up into the air using your mouth while the torture guy slaps your stomach and if the stream falters than he gets to do it again, so I'm super glad I've been practicing my continuous mouth-water-squirting in the shower for pretty much my entire life. 

And then it dawns on me that I'm still in my clothes from yesterday so that's pretty gross, especially since I have a big smear of peanut butter and chocolate on this shirt and what the hell kind of blowgun dart did they hit me with because I don't even remember feeling the prick**or hear that cartoon "Shhhhwuuup!" sound, or stumbling around dramatically like I'm beyond drunk and everything goes in slow motion and sounds get all thick and like a record player set on the wrong speed. And then I crash dramatically into a lamp and it tips over but I fall down too and then I pass out.  

And then I see that my cell phone is next to my hand so these guys are either very not cautious about my calling for help and escaping, or else I'm somewhere where cell phones don't work and I start listing all those places in my head for a second but I quickly realize this isn't a bomb shelter because of the sunlight streaming through the big window over my head, and most bomb shelter don't have those and the carpeting is too nice to be a cave or inside the Lincoln Tunnel***.  And I'm all proud of myself for trying to be proactive like a guy whose been thrown in a trunk and thinks to listen to all the sounds as the car drives so that later, after he escapes, he can lead TJ Hooker or Manimal or whoever back to the kidnapper's hideout. I'm so glad I went to Genius Detective School.

And then I realize that I'm still lying in my bed and for a second I think about what kind of a fucked up kidnapper brings your whole bed back to their torture dungeon, especially mine because it is a bitch to get it down my steep and narrow staircase and I'm suddenly really impressed with my abductor's ingenuity and thoughtfulness, but maybe Stockholm Syndrome is already setting in , so I can't really trust those emotions now, can I?  And then I remember all the peanut butter cookies and the ice cream and Wow!  I wonder how the kidnappers knew I sugar crash so hard sometimes, they must be really clever and nefarious.  And then I look at my cell phone and I have a bunch of messages that say "Hey, You there?" and "Hello?" and then I finally figured out I had just fallen asleep with the lights on. Also without brushing my teeth, so my mouth pretty much tastes like an ashtray with IBS took a crap in it.  And don't ask me how an ashtray can contract IBS because I think it's genetic.


* At first I typed "sex cymbal" and then I spent a bunch of time imagining some mean clown who leaps in on unsuspecting couples right as they are about to achieve orgasm and crashes big cymbals together and then I think about what a dick that clown is. Because I don't know about you, but when I'm having an orgasm the second-to-last thing I want to see is some jackass in facepaint and with big floppy shoes crashing cymbals at me.  The last thing I want to see is a cop with a flashlight going "What are you doing in those bushes?"

** TWSS! TWSS!

** The Lincoln tunnel is a horrible location for a hideout, and if that's where I am then I am dealing with some real idiot kidnappers and I ought to be able to talk my way out of this one by offering them all the money in my bank accounts if they let me go, but HAHAHAHAHA joke's on them because the IRS seized all my bank accounts! Suckers!

Monday, April 20, 2009

Strongarm Unemployment Tactics

I got a letter from the Unemployment People who I want to call Nazis but everyone gets all touchy when you talk about Nazis so let's just say I got a letter from the Unemployment People who may or may not have been members of the National Socialist Party in 1940. The crux of the letter is "Get a job you deadbeat fuckwad" and I'm just paraphrasing here, and then it proceded to tell me about a job I wasn't qualified for and doesn't pay enough and is an hour and half from my house , and if I don't apply for it or explain why I'm not going to apply for it, they are going to kill me. Again, I'm paraphrasing.  Maybe not kill me, but definitely make my life less full of free money, and at this juncture my portfolio of genius investments (ie: a Snoopy Snow Cone Machine and a vintage Playboy I found for a quarter at a garage sale) may not be enough to get me by without some assistance, so now I pretty much have to apply to this horrible job. 

I mean it's not horrible like "stuffing dead animals into sacks, and the sacks are filled with bees" terrible, but it's not  "Porn Movie Reviewer" or "Pop Tart© Taste Tester" either.  I suppose it could be worse, but now I have to try and walk a tightrope between writing a sincere cover letter that shows off my formidable skills, and trying to sabotage the shit out of the whole process so I can still collect my unemployment. Here's what I wrote:

To Whom it Might Concern but only a little,

Hi. My name is Kurt and maybe you've heard of me because I am super-famous for all the different kinds of herpes I have.  If you have heard of me, you visit the exact kind of nightclubs that I do and (*wink*) I promise not to tell your wife / beard. Hahahahha!  

There's nothing wrong with exploring your options you know. It's totally natural. Like just the other day I was telling the prostitute I was beating up that if she didn't want to use safe words it was her own damn fault, but the point is I was teaching her a valuable lesson about being willing to experiment and try new things. That's what you should do. You should try new things. Like me, for instance. HAHAHAHAHA!!!

I am a very reliable worker most of the time, but sometimes I have problems getting a ride to work because every machine I touch magically seizes up and can only be fixed by having it exorcised, but I don't think this will be a problem in your print shop because I plan on napping most of the day anyway(s). Also, does anyone there have a teenage daughter who is having Daddy issues and may feel neglected and/or unloved and is seeking the attention of the wrong kind of handsome, albeit herpes-infested men? I'm just asking. Don't get all huffy. You wouldn't want me to hunt you like the most dangerous kind of prey, would you? HAHAHHAHAAHA. I'm kidding, I already know where you live.

Attached you will find a resume that is probably mine, but if you're going to be all uptight and check things let me save you the trouble. Don't. Each of those references is actually a phone rigged up to a bomb that will explode when you call it, and whoops! there goes your precious factory. Maybe you ought to just put me on the payroll and call it a day.

Love,
Kurt

PS: The cops will never believe you if you call them because I have bribed them in my head like millions of times, and if I've learned anything, it's that pretend bribes are way more effective than real ones.


So I think I was able to maintain the subtlety I was hoping for,but I am more than willing to listen to any feedback from my loyal readers if they think there is a better approach.  And by "listen to any feedback" I mean "listen to people talk about how handsome and brilliant I am". If that's the kind of feedback you have to give than by all means. On a side note, Does anyone want a snow cone? I ran out of flavoring a while ago so now all I have is "gravy" and "pickle jar juice" flavored but still they are a bargain at $1500. Cash.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

The One Where I Don't Write About Coke Zero©

I've been trying to write this hysterical post about how a Coke Zero© tried to kill me this weekend and I've tried a bunch of different ways and it's not working so once again you are going to get the shaft and I'm going to talk about nothing again. Win/Win. 

See what happened is I was drinking a Coke Zero© and I choked on it and I kept coughing for like 2 hours, so the idea was that a Coke Zero© was trying to kill me and I would talk about how it thought it was such a bad EmEffer because it had a black label, which is totally racist by the way, and Coke Zero© should grow the fuck up and realize we are all brothers and sisters no matter what the color of our skin is or whatever it is people who are being self-righteous about racial equality say. And just because you gave to the World Wildlife Fund doesn't mean you support racial equality, Coke Zero©! And don't give me that shit about pandas being black AND white and that's how you are showing your belief in unity, because we both no that's just a coincidence. But Pandas are badass and fix everything. So maybe you HAVE learned your lesson.

And then the Coke Zero would get all up in my grill* and threaten me and I'd be like "Step off*, Coke Zero©! I will fuck your shit up, yo*!" and then we'd stand there doing that weird "heads-too-close-together-so-it-looks-like-we're-gonna-kiss" thing, but we're NOT gonna kiss because Coke Zero© and I are mortal enemies now and at the end of that face thing part I bob my head at it and it flinches back, so I win the face fighting part.  And then it makes a shooty finger thing at me but it holds the gun sideways so you know that it's super-street, and no I don't know how a bottle can have hands to make threatening gestures with, but this one totally does and this whole thing takes place in a garage where there are some sweet Honda Civics being worked on and there are non-descript tools laying around and maybe Coke Zero© would find me in one of those blue, car-guy jumpsuits that are all grease-stained and has my name in the white oval over the left pocket only instead of "Kurt" it says "Lightning" or something cool. And sure maybe I built this garage from the ground up using only the sweat of my brow and my insane street racing skills, but that doesn't mean I want criminals like the attempted murderer Coke Zero© in my shop. That's just whack*, yo.

And then it comes time for the big race-off and Coke Zero© is there with all it's badass contemporaries like the new Pepsi and all those aggressive sounding energy drinks that run around all spazzy and with their eyes popped out and Coke Zero© is leaning against the hood and taunting me as I walk past but I just ignore him because me and my posse are too cool, and we're also probably walking in slow motion and the reflection from the starter lights are all in my sunglasses and yeah I'm wearing sunglasses at night, so what? and also probably chewing a tooth pick. And Selma Hayek is there because she has great cans but really I respect her for her awesome skills as a mechanic and I wonder how she gets those massive boobs under a low-rider on that scooter-dolly thing, but that's not my problem because I'm just the driver and all I do is drive to win. And today you are going down you horrible felon, Coke Zero©.

I'm really glad I didn't write about that though. Because it was stupid. In related news, I think it's funny to turn the new Pepsi logo into an overweight fat guy with his belly button showing.
(see illustration)



* These are all "street" words, so I don't know what they mean or if they are current or what, but I'm guessing not since I know them and the closest I've been to the street is when I watched that re-run of "Boyz in the Hood" a couple months ago.  But otherwise I'm totally legit, yo!

UPDATE: You can find more hysterical stuff from me over at Mama Pop! Lucky You!

Friday, April 17, 2009

Goat Button

I Am A Shameless and Dirty Word Whore

You can totally go read this hysterical article I just wrote over at Mama Pop if you want. Like, don't feel obligated. I mean...sure I read all your shit...but it's not like we're fucking related or anything. I mean...I don't need your fucking charity! Go to hell!

I mean "Please".


PS: I labelled this as "Turtle Rape Shoe" just so I wouldn't forget. Here's a new video in case you still need entertainment:


The Newest Lethalest Weapon

I desperately want to be in a buddy cop action drama comedy and in it a young handsome cop on the edge would battle injustice with a grizzled veteran officer two days before his retirement and maybe that cop could be played by Danny Glover and he would always say "I'm getting to old for this shit!" and the audience would laugh. But really the antics of the younger, handsomer, more crazy cop would be what everyone came to see, and instead of being a raging Australian anti-semite it could be me.

But the trouble is I don't know anyone in the film industry and I'm really not that interested in actually, you know... doing anything, and also I don't have a friend who would make a suitable Murtaugh because none of them are middle aged, crotchety black men. They are all beautiful super-intelligent bikini models or high-powered corruption-exposing vigilantes or they are unemployed hoboes like me, and don't put your racism all over me because I have no idea if they are minorities or not, because I don't see people like that and also they are mostly pretend except for the hoboes so they pretty much are like an out-take from Captain Planet in terms of diversity. Their diversity would fuck up your friends' diversity in a dance off. It would pull off a super-rad version of "The Worm" and then stand up and shout "Top That!" and then it would cross it's arms and make a "Fuck yeah." face.

So instead I've decided that MY MIND will be my Martin Riggs in the pretend film I'm not making and MY BODY will be the Murtaugh because it's a little cranky and likes to complain a lot and it wishes it had just taken that early retirement like it's wife asked it to. And My mind is all "Woot Wo0t! Let's jump off a building and set things on fire and have some amazing trick like putting our arms out of its socket that we'll use in a ridiculous number of situations and we'll always escape from things, and hump Renee Russo!" and then my Body says "I'm getting too old for this shit!" and the audience laughs and maybe cringes a little at the thought of humping Renee Russo. And then something blows up and there are evil South Africans and Joe Pesci is there, and I don't know what will be Joe Pesci since my brain and my body already have roles. And I also don't know what will be Chris Rock. But I know "being awake" is definitely Mr. Joshua, because it's crazy like Gary Busey.

So maybe coffee is Joe Pesci and this delicious bagel can be Chris Rock and instead of exploding anything maybe I'll just have a nap, but I'll jump real high when I go to get into bed, and my body will yell "Oh shiiiiiiiittttt!!" and the audience will laugh and maybe hold their breath for fear of my safety but it's okay, Audience... it's all just pretend. And my Chris Rock bagel will go flying and my Joe Pesci coffee will just sit on the end table going "Okay.Okay.Okay...." and then internet porn is Renee Russo, so Score!

Except now a bagel is trying to get into my body's daughter's pants and I can't even follow this stupid head movie anymore and this is why you should never make sequels because you end up annoyed with your coffee and racist against your bagel. And racism is never okay even if you do yell "Diplomatic Immunity!!" because if the Lethal Weapon movies have taught us anything it's that it is okay to shoot people and pull down their house using your truck if they are racists.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Adventures in Unemployment

Today looks to be an exciting adventure because I won't be sitting around the house watching Swedish Vampire movies in my dirty bathrobe and wondering how long I have to wait until I can reasonably say it's time for my next breakfast. Instead, today I get to drive over to the unemployment office and prove to them that I am in fact looking for a job*. And that is like a trip to the Land of Make-Believe© on the Bubble-gum Express© in the Land of Rainbows©. I can barely contain my enthusiasm, and if you thought by "contain my enthusiasm", I meant "get enough booze into me fast enough" than you are probably entitled to some type of prize and also, you are clairvoyent and might even be a witch and Fuck you, Witch**! get out of my head!

The thing with the unemployment office that I don't like is all the unemployed people that hang out there. I mean...gross. Get a job, you leech. I'm only unemployed because I'm waiting for the employer who wants the perfect blend of handsome and genius in its employees and no I'm not being fussy, because maybe I could go work at McDonald's but not after I got banned last week for jumping up on the counter and demanding to speak to Mayor McCheese about his pickle policy. And I can't go work for Burger King either because that big plastic head makes me sweat profusely and maybe pee my pants if you think that is a brave reaction, but if you don't than seeing that big creepy head just makes me extra handsome and that makes ladies swoon and that's bad for business because someone could trip over all those passed out ladies and fall and hurt themselves and then they would sue BK and I wouldn't feel guilty at all because I tried to warn them.

So now I'm working on my spreadsheet that shows all the places I've applied to because they want that as proof that I'm not sitting at home and writing blog posts all day, and what do they know anyway(s)? So I start writing down a bunch of cool sounding places like NASA and this one strip club where a friend of mine says the strippers are really nice and sometimes they don't even charge you extra if you touch them where they pee, and also to the Justice League© because the unemployment people should totally be ready to face the wrath of my super powers if they feel like starting some shit, so pretty much the whole list is kind of like an implied threat which is how my life is too, and on the last line of the spreadsheet I said I had put a resume in at the unemployment office on account of the recent job opening that would come up when I broke my case worker's whole entire face because he decided to start some shit. And then I drew a picture of a dinosaur eating the unemployment office.

I should also tell them that I need double unemployment because the twin that I ate in the womb or whatever is starting to come back alive and his name is George Stark and he hates me because of how weak I am and there are crows everywhere, and shut up if you think this is the exact plot of The Dark Half because it totally isn't and I really just want that extra secret twin unemployment money to help baby orphans.

Help them understand how rich I am. Hahhahaha.


* Apparently "flying around the world in a jumbo jet full of drunken bikini models who are high on life and also ecstasy, and solving impossible crimes and getting in The Adventure of a Lifetime" does not count as a valid career choice. These unemployment people are so stuck up and random.

** If you really are a witch I was just kidding. But if you are looking for someone to curse, I'm not saying my Hillbilly neighbor necessarily deserves it, but he did say you looked like "a man who just had his cock broken off and glued to his face like some type of magical cock-unicorn." I totally didn't even laugh and I warned him about how you could probably even see his thoughts. But he just said "Witches are a bunch of gay!" and so as you can see I'm pretty much a defender of all witch-kind and totally don't deserve to be cursed.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Really. Just Don't.

I want you all to be aware of something. I have absolutely zero agenda or plan going into this post so pretty much it's anybody's guess where I'll end up. I'd like to think that this kind of non-planning will lead to a magical fairy story about humping unicorns, but I sorta doubt it. Usually what happens is I end up writing about peeing in the shower or something. 

The thing is, I have all these three word phrases in my head and I don't know which one is worth chasing down. There's "Biting Girl Scouts" because I was thinking about how funny it would be to just randomly bite someone. Like not hard or anything ...Just enough to shake them up a little and that's probably because I've been watching too many Swedish Vampire and Japanese Zombie movies lately and I've got biting on the brain. And then I was thinking about what would be the best target demographic to bite for no reason and for whatever reason Girl Scouts came to mind, and maybe that says something about me, but what are you Dr. Freud? I'm not your psychiatric hypothesis! I also thought about biting old people, but then I thought they would just taste gross.

And just now I got a text message asking me what I was up to, and I wrote back "working on a pointless clog" because my stupid cell phone always replaces words with what it thinks I mean and so "me" becomes "of" and "blog" becomes "clog" and because my fingers aren't agile I claimed at one point that someone was "muffing of" instead of "hugging me" and I never go back and check to see that what I typed was correct, so I'm pretty much untrainable and I should get started on a fabulous career of not texting people for a living. Also sometimes I forget to turn it off "letter-by-letter" mode and I send text messages that look like this "Wgw apd wmt pm pdww*?" and then I hit send and I still don't know how to stop a message once I've hit send, so pretty much that employer thinks I'm an idiot. But he is so wrong that I could just barf.

How is this going do you think? Yeah. That's what I thought too.

Another topic I wanted to touch on was how I've decided to replace my anti-psychotics with Pez© because if anti-psychotics were also strawberry flavored and chewable maybe I would spend less time digging holes with my hands under my front porch so that I could grab the demon who keeps leaving stuff in my mailbox. Sure, you would think it was just the postman, but there was a movie once that said "The Postman always Rings Twice" and since movies are my best friends and never lie to me especially if they star Will Smith as a man on the outside of something and he says "Oh Helll No!" before he punches / shoots / ejaculates on someone, I feel I have to dig a bunker under my porch to stop that phoney-baloney mailman imposter because he doesn't ring at all. And what would happen is, just as he starts to put the mail in my box (twss!), I would be all "Oh Helllll No!" and then I would ejaculate on him. Except it isn't the mailman, it's my landlord. Again. Okay...no more Pez© for medication.

Writing posts is easy!


The Deadly Eye Virus Pirate

I'm in the grocery store yesterday because the manager is a flake and can't ever remember when my bans end, and I'm looking for stuff for The Boy's birthday dinner and there is nothing really interesting about this post already and I think I remember reading somewhere that I'm supposed to have a"hook", but I'm not even sure I know what that means so I'll just put in a stripper pole.

So as I walk past the stripper pole and all the gyrating and grinding women with dollar bills poking out of their thongs like some angry bush made out of shamrocks, I decide to grab some milk from the dairy case and I promise I won't write anything about THAT decision because although it sounds interesting and what the fuck difference does it make if I ingest 1% fat vs fat-free, it really isn't interesting and I'm walking the razor's edge of boring you to death, but that's what happens when you read with FIRE! You might get burned!

So the strippers are pretty much humping everything and I've grabbed "some" milk of undetermined fat content, when I see this mom* walking into the store and she's got like a thousand kids with her and they are all vaguely dirty, like not gross with two trails of snot hanging out of their nose that you can see because of all the dust that has settled on them, but just a little smudgy at the edges, like all kids get by 5 o'clock at night in springtime. The thing is one of those little bastards has on an eye patch and that's a problem because I instantly think I'm about to be robbed or maybe shanghai'd. And I know that seems a little defensive but when you spent as much time as I have pretending your couch is a pirate ship, and the rug is the ocean and the dog is a great white shark named "Fish Sandwich", then this is pretty much a survival instinct.

Also any kid in an eye patch has been getting in some shit. You don't get eye patches sitting quietly at your desk and doing your cursive practice, you get it by putting your eye near shit it's not supposed to with malice to the EXTREME! You get it by poking things and squeezing things and fucking around, and yeah maybe this kid was cute and he had on big square plastic glasses over his eyepatch and he walked all slumpy like maybe he got yelled at in the car for robbing the Dutch of their gold in the Caribbean or whatever, but I know he's getting ready to run me through or slit my throat or wear a frilly shirt and flounce around a bunch. Also there is a chance he has some eye virus or something under that patch and if I get too close he will lift it and infect me, or maybe green light will come out and hypnotize me and he will totally steal my soul and I can't risk that because I would drop the milk and it would spill all over the strippers who are now whirring their panties around and putting their vaginas on mens' laps provocatively to the tune of "Can't Touch This" by MC Hammer, and that seems a little weird but I've never been in a strip club so I'm just guessing what pretend strippers might do.

So the pirate child and/or deadly virus assassin walk past me without incident and I am relieved but still I'm keeping one eye on him** in case he decides to start some shit, and I accidentally walk into the store manager who has already been alerted to my presence and he says "Has it been 10 days already?" and I'm all "Chuh! Buy a calendar, Poindexter!" and then I give myself a high five and he just looks at me funny. And I try to warn him about the fungal kid with the eyepatch except all the Nyquil and cat anti-depressants make my words slurry and what comes out sounds like "Twatting cuff nuts!" and I don't know what that even means when I hear it, and I make a face like "What the fuck did I just say?" and HE makes a face like "Cuff nuts?" and then I cuff his nuts and run away shouting "Freeeedom!" like Braveheart©. And I drop the milk before I get to the door in case they have one of those invisible gates that make people's heads explode if they try to steal and maybe I'm making that technology up but why risk it? Also, I'm not a dairy pirate.

*Your Mom. Also, I'm not assuming she was a mom here because I know the difference between sexy and sexist, and I've lived my life by those tenants, and also I asked her as she passed 'Are all these kids yours?" and she just whispered "Kill me." so that's a big "yes".

** Get it? One eye!? I'm like the Dom Deluise during the end credits of Cannonball Run of Pedophilia. I don't even know what that means, Just laugh. Do it! Do it!

PS: I should probably mention that if you have a child who wears or who has worn an eyepatch and you are all offended that I would make fun of a little kid for such an affliction that is probably out of his control, then I would like to ask "Are you new?" and I would hand you the 'Welcome to my blog" starter packet which features a glossy letter-sized brochure that says "Suck it up, Princess" and has a picture of me making wanking gestures in the air. Because I am a caring nurturer.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

A Run-In With Hattori Hanzo

So this was waiting for me in my inbox last week and it came from Miss Yvonne who totally understands the importance of a good "Your Mom" joke and also gets that whenever someone is super-handsome and a genius and probably has some personnal hygiene issues, but so what because of the handsome part, that you should be in a constant state of giving them awards. And so she did and she even dissed Hattori Hanzo so that's extra awesome and..

Hattori Hanzo: I don't think people still say "dissed".
Me: Of course they do! Like the Beastie Boys! "Walk straight up to your face and dissed you! Bacha-Waaah!"
Hattori Hanzo: That's from Paul's Boutique in like 1988.
Me: Still a valid sentiment.
Hattori Hanzo: No, it's not. And why would you want to diss me anyway(s)?
Me: Because you never rinse out the sink after you shave.
Hattori Hanzo: That's you.
Me: Because you forgot your Mom's birthday.
Hattori Hanzo: Also you.
Me: Because you can't spell "zombie apocalypse" right on the first try.
Hattori Hanzo: Still you.
Me: Because you hate splinters.
Hattori Hanzo: You. And that make's no sense.
Me: Your Mom makes no sense.
Hattori Hanzo: I have no Mom.
Me: See? You disavow your family. You're such a pudknocker.
Hattori Hanzo: A what?
Me: A pudknocker. 
Hattori Hanzo: You're reverting to 8th grade. I think it's time for your nap.
Me: Never! Death to tyrants!
Hattori Hanzo: Seriously buddy. Just settle down, you're flaring your nostrils menacingly.
Me: Sic Semper tyrannis!
Hattori Hanzo: Okay...just put down the milk jug.
Me: Aaaaaaaarrrgghh! (*crashing sound*)
Hattori Hanzo: Holy crap! Are you okay?
Me: Wow. Where am I?
Hattori Hanzo: You're on the floor in the kitchen. You swung the milk jug at my head, but missed, got tangled in the fan cords, and fell on your ass.
Me: I'm sorry.
Hattori Hanzo: That's okay. Naptime?
Me: Yeah I think it is.
Hattori Hanzo: Let me help you up.
Me: Sucker!
Hattori Hanzo: Ow! Goddamnit! Where did you get a Darth Maul Pez dispenser?
Me: Hahahahahaaha! Eat Pez Fuckwit! Pew! Pew! Pew!
Hattori Hanzo: I'm bleeding.
Me: (*running around in circles*) I am the Champion! No Time For Looooosers! Cuz I am the Champion...of the worrrrllldddd!
Hattori Hanzo: Where do you keep the bandaids?
Me: (*panting*) In your Mom!
Hattori Hanzo: I kinda hate you right now.
Me: Diplomatic Immunity!!!


Stupid Prosy


So Prosy totally tagged me to write a "10 things you don't know about me" post, but I hate those EmEffers, so what I usually do is lie my ass off when I do them because it's easier and funnier and then you aren't exposed to my crippling depression even when I've taken 6 expired cat anti-depressants in one day and also drank a dozen or so Brandy Alexanders, and don't try and tell me that's gay because my fighting skill set goes through the roof when I'm getting my Alexander on. So here you go:

1) Certain TV shows and movies make me fall asleep and I don't know why, but it's always at the same point in the show and usually it's a crucial plot point and I wake up 10 minutes later completely confused and unsure of what just happened so I rewind it and then I fall asleep again in the same spot. And then I wake up again, and I'm all "MotherEffer! Did I fall asleep again?" and so I rewind it and then the whole process starts over again, It has nothing to do with my interest in the show, or the amount of action going on. I think it's some form of sexy autism, to be honest. It took me 3 hours to watch one episode of Battlestar Galactica once. I mean one "Girls Gone Wild" DVD.

2) I keep peeking into the Hillbilly neighbor's house because I haven't heard the Saddest Dog in the World for some time and I'm worried that they may have eaten him and that they have finally slipped into post-apocalyptic survival mode and if I peak into their windows they'll shoot guns at me, so I kind of have to lurk just below their window frames with a dental mirror and they caught me doing it once and i said I lost a tooth, and that made enough sense to them that I was able to escape. Not really. But I do worry that the dog is hurt or something when it doesn't wake me up at 6am with it's yowling.

3) I try to kill things with my mind pretty much all the time, like especially The Saddest Dog in the World when it is yowling at 6am. So far no luck, although one time I squinted too hard for a long time, hoping that crow's feet were the missing ingredient and the dog stopped barking and I was terrified I had killed it with my mind, and then I started planning out my world domination, and then it started yowling again and I had a headache. So screw you, Telekinetic Murder. Perfect crime, my ass.

4) I've never been to a casino except once when I was 12 with my Dad and we didn't bet or anything, we just had to pee. That's a dumb fact. I know...I've never placed a bet in a casino. That sounds more absolute and shocking, and I know you all just totally went "Holy Eff! No way!" But I swear it's probably true and if you don't believe me I will para-sail over your house and napalm your ass. Wait...what? Napalm is illegal? Stupid environmentalists.

5) I can't believe this is only the halfway point of this list because I swear to JeHooba I've been working on this thing for like 1000 hours already and I could have pretty much built the pyramids by now, but actually it's only been about 15 minutes so never mind. Also, the number 5 is an asshole, and if I have to explain that then I don't even know you anymore.

6) I used to hate kids who worked on farms and had paper routes and all that self-righteous BS, because I was too lazy to, and who do they think they are anyways? Also those same kids always saved their money and bought THEMSELVES a motherfuckin' Atari, and Yar's Revenge and if I could go back in time I would not try to kill Hitler, I would go back and kick that kid in the nuts and steal his Atari and How's that for a life lesson, you pompous asshole? And then I will have altered his perception of the world and he will become a cynic and then the birds will churn the air over Great Rock, and the Monkey will hold up Simba and everyone will sing 'The Circle of Life" and what was I even talking about?

7) I like saying "meds" for "medication" and this is a new trend in our society in the last 10 years and I'm only mentioning it because I am here to tell you, Society...someone noticed that shit. One minute it was only cool, bearded hipsters in Brooklyn talking about skipping their "meds" and "Band of Horses" and the rise of Bollywood while puttering about in their American Apparel briefs, and now it's my aging sexagenarian mother* and when she says it my ears try to run away like they do when she starts saying things like 'Don't Go there!" and "You Go Girl!" and then I want to shoot myself in the face with a flare gun, but maybe that's just because I'm off my meds.

8)I've never had to go to the hospital to have a foreign object removed from my body except once when I was little and had a sequoia stuck in my eye. Okay I'm exaggerating it was just a your mom. Ha-ha-ha see what I did there? But seriously, I have had a bunch of "Oh Shit!" moments where my eyes get real poppy and I start clawing at my nose or my ear to get whatever it is out of there. Like jellybeans and quarters are pretty much my mortal enemies.

9)High School wrestlers make me nervous, and I don't think it's homophobia or anything, but something about them seems "off" and a little terrifying like every time I see them on TV, I have this weird moment where I picture them coming around the corner at me in a locker room, and I have to change the channel. I might be repressing something here. Can't be too sure. Also when I see them I black out, pee my pants, and wake up under a blanket in the closet, muttering to myself and crying. That's probably just a funny coincidence though, like bumping into my English teacher from third grade at the grocery store 2 weeks in a row when I wasn't even stalking her much because that bitch made me miss recess ALL the time saying I was a "behavioral problem".

10) I tried taking a class in Archeology when I was in college so that pretty much makes me Indiana Jones, which was the whole point and really the only reason anyone ever took archeology after 1981, so I think we've got some common ground here and this pretty much makes me a "man of the people" even though I don't like to leave the apartment so much anymore because my Fail beard is kind of lumpy and my bathrobe got accidentally dunked in the toilet when I was talking myself through my manifesto the other day and I had to throw it off for dramatic effect and that's when it got dunked, and maybe the toilet was clean, but how clean is a toilet ever really, and I sort of sniffed it to make sure it wasn't gross but I didn't "aggressively" sniff it because who wants a big snort of toilet water smell? And then I finished my manifesto performance with some big fist waves and a curtsy and then I just put the robe back on and that was six days ago. But otherwise I'm totally a "man of the people",


*Yes my Mom puts the "sex" in "sexagenarian", or whatever your stupid "Your Mom" comment was going to be. Nice try, Dink. I'm way ahead of you.

Monday, April 13, 2009

Finger Mounted Bang Bars

So I'm out in the front yard talking to my Hillbilly neighbor about how bitchin' his low-rider is, but I don't know any of the cool car terms so I try faking him out by nodding intently as he details all the features of this testament to the art of primer painting. He's all "I've got a Fuller-mounted bullion wheel*" and I let my eyes get a little wider and make a "hmm." sound that obviously conveys how impressed I am and that I had only seen a non-Fuller-mounted bullion wheel in the past and the Fuller really does do marvels for torque or whatever, which I know so much about from all the stacks of Car & Driver I have piled around the apartment and obviously this "hmmm" also conveys my subservience to him because he has a much bigger penis than I do, and it's probably from all the Fuller mounting. 

Really though, all I'm thinking about is the purple glowy neon that he has rigged up  along the floorboards  and how nicely it augments the words "My Bitches" he has written in cursive along the passenger side door. And then I think about all the classy ladies one would be able to attract in a purple glowy low-rider with bad paint and a chain steering wheel. And then I think about how it would be a miracle if anyone other than a blind person bought this car because it is a complete nightmare and why the hell would you sell a car to a blind person? That's just reckless. And it's also mean, because everyone would know that they obviously were blind and have no idea what their car even looks like, so the blind driver would be treated differently as he careened drunkenly off parked cars on both sides of the street, and I'm pretty sure that's racist so the Hillbilly better vet out his potential buyers very carefully unless he wants to be a big racist. And I'm not sure how you would vet a blind person other than by throwing shit at them and seeing if they have sonar or whatever as they bob and weave to avoid getting hit by the oranges you are chucking at their head.

And the other thing I'm thinking is that I have to pee. 

I duck my head down and make a show of looking under the front axle. Another non-committal grunt from me that says "Wow, this was a very impressive and surprising squat! I cannot believe what you've done here!" but then I look back and he's got this quizzical look on his face, so I know I've just done something wrong and obviously I'm not looking at the Filbert-Mounted billiard rod or whatever it was, so I cover it up by saying "Are those 18s?" and then he smiles and tells me they aren't, they are 20s or 24s or something and it really doesn't matter, he could have said they were "asparagus" and it would've made the same amount of sense to me and I don't have a goddamn clue what we're talking about other than the fact that something, I think the rims maybe, are bigger than I had pretend-thought they were. And then he turns on the stereo and it's more rap-metal and I'm pretty sure the whole bed of the low rider is one big bass speaker and also I'm sure I'm pretty sure I'm sterile now from the massive dose of Disturbed I've just been exposed to. Ooo-Wa-Ah-ah-ah! 

I nod sagely and now he's talking about torque ratios and horsepower calculations and my mind kind of glazes over so I just nod a bunch and stare at the shiny chrome skull he's using as a hood ornament and I'm wondering what I can have for dinner because we just had pizza but I'm really hungry for it and there's that new shop in town and they have a wonderful sweet sauce but they were really expensive and that's too bad, because I sure would like one of those again tonight, and then I realize he's not talking anymore and he's staring at me, and I'm still nodding so I stop, and then I smile and say something brilliant like "Heh. THAT doesn't come standard off the floor!" and then we both laugh with great whimsy and shake our heads and "hohoho"  and then I go back to thinking about pizza and I wonder if they have pinapple and ham because that would go great with that sweet sauce.

* I really don't have any idea what he said. Other possibilites include "Filbert-mounted Sway Stick", "Fungal Mounted Crate Rod", and "Finger-mounted Bang Bar" and I'm pretty sure it wasn't the last one, but I was looking for an excuse to say "finger-bang" and I found one, so high-five! Way to go, Me! I'm the Richard Pryor of Pedophilia.

Friday, April 10, 2009

Shameless Pimpin' Yo.

So in keeping with my Keanu Reeves love from yesterday, I posted a new column at my new time on Mama Pop about "The Day the Earth Stood Still" which my brother brought over yesterday in a totally ironic move by the universe. Here's a picture:

The middle finger was an accident. Or WAS it?


For those keeping track I now have columns over there that go up at 11am on Monday and Noon on Friday. Sort your calendars out, because I know you need more me in your life. 

Crime and Punishment

So it's Good Friday and like there has been some big galactic slide whistle blown that cues the audience into laughing about a prat-fall, the flags are all at half-mast and not the little ones like at real people houses, but the big ones at schools and Post Offices and also as predicted, I have no clue who died because I've been wrapped up in my life of adventure and discovery and not been paying attention to what the hell is going on. Obama's still alive right? Because that would suck. 

And of course it's Good Friday so my first thought is that we're flying them at half-mast for Jesus and how that's kind of false advertising because he comes BACK. So then what? You'll fly the flag at mast times 1.5 which is like upside-down halfway up the other side? And then I think about the Bugs Bunny cartoon where he's running around and making Yomesite Sam run the flags up and down the two forts during the civil war and I laugh. But then I'm afraid Jesus will think I'm laughing about him, so I only laugh at half-mast out of respect.

It's going to be a quiet weekend and not just because you-know-who is dead (and no I don't mean Voldemort) albeit temporarily.  The kids will be off doing the Catholic Easter Weekend Calvalcade of Masses with their mom, so it'll just be me kicking around the homestead solving crimes and stopping international cartels of blood diamond smugglers. Either that or I'm just going to lie in bed a lot and read. And yeah maybe I mean comic books, but there is also a chance that I mean something important like Thoreau or Depardieu* or that Russian guy whose name starts with "D" and whose books I keep on my bookshelf to impress company at how hip I am literature-wise, which is just ridiculous because the only company I get is the meter reader and she does not want to peruse my limited selections of Russian existentialist literature most times. She doesn't even want a cup of coffee no matter how much I beg. Sheesh. Give someone their own company truck and just watch how stuck up they get. That's why I'm going to throw a garment bag over her and duct tape her feet and force her to listen as I read a selection of Dostoevsky as I pour hot coffee into her shoes. Someone needs to knock the chip off her shoulder. And that someone might as well be me. 

Seriously though... does anyone know who died? I mean I could look it up but that sounds like work and instead I'm going to pretend it wasn't a person so much as a concept. Like "American Industrial Dominance"  or  "The Last person who thought Taco Bell used real meat." or something epic like that. Wow man. Heavy. I should get going. I have funeral pyres to light in my neighbor's dumpster because he absolutely refuses to turn down the rap-metal in this time of national mourning. I guess he thinks the flags are at half-mast because of all the bodies that keep hitting the floor. 


* To make this joke I totally had to look up Gerard Depardieu and his IMDB profile features this picture, so I'm pretty much a hero for taking one for the team like this. And I'm not saying I'm like the hero cop who gets shot in the head from behind while doing a routine investigation and the whole community should rally behind me as I make a slow recovery, but if you guys want to have a bake sale than be my guests.