Friday, May 29, 2009

Celebrate Good Times

So this is my 200th post since I got here and while I don't think that qualifies me as super-human it definitely means I am pretty goddamn impressive. A great author once wrote "If she's stacked go for it" and I think we can all agree that those are timeless word of wisdom and also that whoever said it was probably a genius. It's not relevant to my 200th post, but at least I had Pop-Tarts© for breakfast, so there's that.

I guess the thing I'm supposed to do is look back and reflect at all my time here on The Monster Apathy with a wistful look in my eye. Remembering the early days when I was still doing something I'm not doing anymore, and Wow! have I grown as an author and look how impressive this all is. But then I realized that I'm pretty much churning out the same stuff I was back then only now more people read it, so it's not me that's changed or grown or learned anything it's you. You've all come such a long way since you started and your decision to read this blog is quite a testament to both your character and your intestinal fortitude and for that I give you a hearty "Huzzah!" except I'm not sure what that means and it makes me want a Blizzard© from Dairy Queen for some reason so I'm going to go do that, whilst you all hang around and talk about how cool you all are now. 

The other thing I'm supposed to do is thank you for reading for this whole time but really I've just improved your lives, so I think I'll thank myself instead. I'm doing it in letter form because I love getting mail and I rarely get any that doesn't involve threatening language and a lot of legalese about "cease and desist" and minimum distances I can be from certain school yards or people who have a super big mouth and are totally stuck up, so this will be a nice change of pace.

Dear Handsome,

Way to trick people into reading your crap for 200 times. You must feel awesome. Like you've pulled off some elaborate heist. Well let me be the first to tell you that if you were in the Great Muppet Caper you'd be Lew Zealand, the goofy clown-looking one who throws the exploding fish and not anybody cool like Gonzo or Charles Grodin. And also I think you have a library book that is way overdue, and if you haven't learned how to set people on fire with your mind  by this point you probably never will, so there's no point in staring at the landlord, whilst he drives around on his riding lawn mower and thinking of Jalapeno dunkers, because that's just not even working a little. Also, maybe it's time to change out your toothbrush, because it now looks like your brushing your teeth with an albino caterpillar and the bristles are so soft that if you switched up and started brushing your teeth with a kitten you'd get more scouring power. Anyway(s)... way to be a dipshit 200 times. I think they're probably still buying it, because as long as you don't cost anything you're only wasting their time. Huzzah!

Hugs not Drugs,
Hattori Hanzo, The Voice in Your Head 

ps: I fucked your mom last night. HAHAHAHAHAHA!
pps: You can start calling me "My New Dad in My Head" if it makes you more comfortable.

That didn't go as planned at all. I'm such an asshole.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

I Still Hate Eels.

I've reached a "tipping point" and that is totally some pseudo-psychology term that means something and you can probably find out about it in a self-help book that I haven't read because really how can you help anyone this brilliant? You could say "I'm sure you know that you are a genius, but I'll tell you anyway(s)." but then I'd be all " Chuh!" which looks weird when I type it and maybe you're thinking I was sneezing, but I totally wasn't. I was being dismissive. Which is like sneezing without covering your mouth, as far as not being an asshole goes.

Okay, so my tipping point is that I can no longer clean my house by hiding things under other things and this is a great disappointment to me, because that's really a lot less work than actual cleaning but I'm getting to a point where soon all my possessions will just be in two monolithic piles in my living room. And I don't even know what would happen if you tried to make two monoliths next to one another, because by definition there can be only one, so it's pretty much Highlander in my living room, and in one pile is porn, and cds, and DVDs, and lotions, and nail clippings, and a sports bra, and in the other there is porn, and unpaid bills, and the remnants of a pillow fort, and a bunch of sandwich crusts. And the first monolith to cut off the head of the other one will gain all it's power and that was pretty much the coolest movie ever, because it's not very often you have Sean Connery getting decapitated in movies anymore. Also I think there were boobies, but I could be mistaken.  In my mind there are always boobies. I'm pretty sure there was a close-up of a just-showered nipple in Bambi. It's like my fatal flaw that I always think there were boobies.  One day a super-villian will have me tied up with ropes and a giant magnifying glass will be about to burn me up with the sun's deadly rays and he'll be all " Hahahaha! You can escape if you just tell me what was in the other room back there." and I'll be all "Boobies?" and then he'll laugh and fly away on a jetpack and I'll be left to my own devices to secure my own escape. Which I will, of course, but that's hardly the point.

I just looked up and realized I was still typing that whole time and not just thinking. So that last paragraph pretty much just won me a Pulitzer. Even I don't know what I'm talking about. At least it came back to breasts. That's my comfort zone. 

Anyway(s), now I have to go through and sort out all my piles of stuff and I have to lift things and hope nothing too gross is underneath and I don't know what I'm afraid of, but I'm at least 50% sure that I'm going to lift a Calvin And Hobbes Anthology and eels are going to come pouring out of a juice glass I forgot about and bite me in my face. And it's not like I would knowingly let eels into my house, but those fuckers are wily and maybe one of the kids answered the door and thought "That's a cute snake! Look! It's smiling at me!" and let it in and then POW! Eels. In my unwashed juice glasses that smell like a martini that's gone over to the dark side, and in my dirty laundry that smells just a little too much like a night of sex and debauchery which would be impossible without using a time machine or a very strong imagination, so pretty much the laundry is just gross and I'm pretending it smells like sex when really it just smells like feet and ketchup stains. And now eels.

Debauchery is an awesome word. I need to start using it more. Like at the grocery store I could be all "I want to buy a box of debauchery, where should I look?" and then the stupid kid in the smock will be all "Huh?" and then I'll get all up in his grill and yell "Quid Pro Quo?!" and then flash a gang sign and run away.  I like leaving people with a story to tell.

He looks like he's telling a hilarious joke, or maybe singing "Happy Birthday" but really he's about to bite the fuck out of someone.  Eels are an asshole.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Not About Jimmy Carter

I was writing this long post about Jimmy Carter and yeah that's totally normal, why do you ask? Because Jimmy Carter is totally relevant and topical, and look, maybe I just had a story about how I saved his life and now I bet you feel pretty stupid because what president's life have you ever saved. None, that's who. None Presidents. So shut up. I didn't really save his life anyway(s), I just wore a t-shirt but I won't spoil the surprise because once someone spoiled a surprise for me, and my parents thought they were doing me a favor by hiring a magician for my fourth birthday but they really just wanted to surprise me so when the magician said "Pick a card, any card!" I did, and when he said "Look at your card!", I did and when it wasn't the ace of clubs but just a piece of paper with the words "You were adopted! Pow!" on it I was totally surprised.

I knew the Jimmy Carter post was in trouble of being sent to the "draft forever"pile because as I got about halfway through it I started finding crumbs on my desk and tasting them to see if I could figure out what they were, and that kind of Genius Detective Work, I normally save for after I've posted because it requires a lot of concentration so the fact I was starting early means Jimmy Carter sucks. And I found banana cake and Cool Ranch Doritoes and what may or may not have been a snickerdoodle crumb and then I realized my diet may not be going so well, and then I realized I was never on a diet in the first place because my naturally high metabolism keeps me slender and I have six pack abs all over my body even on the inside so as you can see a little banana cake isn't going to hurt me at all.  And then I found something brown and I have a pretty strict rule about taste testing brown things and I sniffed it because brown is a very untrustworthy color and the only good thing it might be is chocolate. And all the bad things it might be are pretty much anything else. It didn't smell like chocolate so I made The Boy test it. It was chocolate, lucky for me. I would hate to have to visit the emergency room with that kid again. The nurses are getting suspicious.

And then I started listening to music instead of writing about Jimmy Carter and that's another bad sign because I'm pretty much instantly distracted as soon as a song I know is on, and now this post is starting to bore me too because I just closed my eyes when I typed that last bit and instead of "song" I typed "dong" and I didn't even laugh so maybe it's time to retire for the morning. As soon as "dong" isn't funny, it's nap time. That's in the Bill of Rights I think.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Err...Your Guess is As Good As Mine

The Hillbilly next door was being super helpful this morning, because he was making an ungodly racket at 6am, and at first I thought maybe he was trying to stuff one of his ducks, from his box of ducks, through the mail slot, because whatever he was doing was making a very duck-like "err-Ra!" sound but then I realized it was metal being bent, not ducks being posted, so I had to call the SPCA back and tell them to cancel the SWAT team or whatever they were sending. And then they told me I never called in the first place, so thanks a lot, Hallucinogens. I really think getting some of these street drugs through the FDA might be a good idea, and maybe you think I mean crank,or huff, or meth, or whitchow or whatever* but I don't. I mean the industrial cleaners the street sweeper uses. That stuff is awesome. You put it in a dry cleaning bag and then tie it over your head and it's like a race to see if you get high or die first. So far "high" has always won, but according to how much I've crapped my pants it's been close a few times.**

Also, upon reading this back I wonder what a "godly" racket is. Because I know all the ungodly ones sound like the Hillbilly starting to hit things with other things and swearing profusely at things, and smoking under my open window which isn't loud but is definitely ungodly because Jesus never smoked,  and being tattooed, but not the good kind that looks all rad and sexy, the bad kind like you would show off right before you got shanked in prison because you did it yourself, and sure maybe you spelled "boobs" like " bewbs!" but that's okay because the guy stabbing you with a sharpened spoon can't really read so good anyway(s). And really he is your target audience.

I was just consulting the ultimate reference source on ducks*** and what the noises they make  mean and it turns out "err-Ra!" is Duck Spanish for "I'm looking for a place to live that has an appropriate amount of both water and shore-side high grasses and isn't a box."  And you may ask yourself "I wonder what 'Duck Spanish' is?" and to that I say, stop talking to yourself because only crazy people or very very handsome people do that. So I'll tell you about Duck Spanish.

The Boy once surmised that since all animals spoke, but it was a language he didn't understand than they must all be derivatives of Spanish which is another language he doesn't understand.  And that's not because he's a racist, it's because he hates Dora the Explorer and even Diego can pretty much get fucked as far as The Boy is concerned, so he never learned Spanish. So cats speak Cat Spanish and dogs speak Dog Spanish, and ducks speak "Duck Spanish". Oddly enough, emus speak Latin. But that's because they are The Boy's nemeses. We took him to the zoo once when he was four and he got one look at those giant flightles birds and his eyes turned to slits and he scowled deeply and said "Stinking Emus!". No one knows why.  It's probably best not to ask. 

This post was written under the influence of "What the fuck?" apparently. No's random Tuesday I think, so I totally meant to be obtuse.  Who's the genius now? (Hint:Me.)

*I don't know the names of many actual street drugs so I just like to make them up and then when someone looks at me all confused, I just shrug at them like they aren't cool and walk away. It's how I "Just Say No". I think "Whitchow!" is an awesome name for a drug because that is the sound a ricochet makes in comic books. And maybe there's a cool metaphor for what the drug does to you in that name, but I can't think of it because I'm too whacked on street cleaner fumes.

** I do not endorse this behavior. Crapping your pants is gross.

*** from "Ultimate Reference Source on Ducks" by Hattori Hanzo, or some shit I just made up.

Monday, May 25, 2009


So I'm sitting in front of the computer this morning trying to give myself a pep talk about writing and it's really not going so well, because at first I'm all "You can do it!" and then I started this long paragraph about goats because my brother totally asked for a goat for his birthday, but my parents refused him, so he was all sulky and disgusted in his non-goatiness, and that means he holed up in his room all day and watched the Porky's Blu-Ray© I got for him. But then I read back that paragraph and realized that it was total shit, and sure maybe goats are funny, but guess what? Not that fucking funny.

So then I turn to myself and I say "Self..." only I never address myself that way really. Usually I'm all "Hey! What's a handsome genius like you doing in a place like this?" and then I waggle my eyebrows at myself in the mirror and try to do a handstand, but I didn't want to seem narcissistic. Also "narcissistic" is a really hard word to spell right on the first try and did I just do it twice or is spellcheck being an indecisive bitch again? (*presses "ABC check" button*) Okay, that proves it. I'm amazing. And not a narcissist for saying it, because it's totally true and everyone knows you are allow to brag about true things. Like my friend Mike one time told me to pull over because he was going to throw up "all over the place" and I just laughed and gave him a wet willy, and now my car smells of rotten saur kraut and hot garbage, because he wasn't bragging or being narcissistic at all. He really did a horrible job of cleaning it up too and that sucked because I had just had it detailed. And by "detailed" I mean I picked all the weird sticky pennies up off the floor and threw them out the window at bicyclists because fuck them and their smug eco-friendly transportation. Dicks.

Right, so my next level of pep talk went like this "Jesus Christ. It's not rocket science. Just type anything." and that wasn't very good advice because I just typed the word "pussy"100 times and then got real sleepy and layed down for a early morning nap. So it turns out that I do have standards (surprise!) and that came as a surprise to me too, but I guess even us Genius Detectives have a day when our training fails us. 

It's like that time I dropped half of my piece of cake into the couch. I couldn't get it out without getting frosting everywhere, so I had to just squish it into the cushions and hope that no one else at the funeral would notice. And they didn't! So this is the feel good story of a lifetime, and I don't know who those people even were, but if you're dumb enough to hand out free cake at a funeral you have to expect a certain number of uninvited guests, I think. Like a reasonable number of transient, hobo, or unemployed people are just GOING to just show up and squish cake into your couch, so you better man up and deal with it.  And okay, maybe it wasn't the couch, it was the casket, and I never should have opened it in the first place, but I overheard someone say that the dead guy got his face  torn off in an industrial accident, and I am a huge fan of those so I was pretty much morally obligated to see that. And brother, let me tell you... gross. Even Mike would have been impressed by the vomiting that little caper generated.

And the last level of Pep talk I have is "Fuck this. " and then I go get some cake because I told that stupid funeral story and now I want some. And sure maybe everyone doesn't have cake just laying around waiting to be wanted, but everyone isn't me and I totally do. 

See the part above about being a genius if you are confused in any way. 

Friday, May 22, 2009


So because I am a serious, commited writer, even though I am totally on vacation from writing I still wrote my Friday column at Mama Pop.  I know...I find it hard to believe that someone this handsome and clever could be selfless and giving too. But it's totally true. Also the handsome part. Seriously. Go back and read that again because it's double-true. 

Here's some old school funny:

Hattori is Sick of Me

Me: C'mon! Hurry up! Think!
Hattori Hanzo: I don't work well under pressure. Just give me a minute.
Me: (*hopping*) C'monC'monC'monCmon!
Hattori Hanzo: What are you 12?
Me: We have to post SOMETHING! Otherwise...
Hattori Hanzo: What? We won't be on vacation anymore?
Me: I know. I'm ridiculous.
Hattori Hanzo: Why not know... not write ANYTHING?
Me: Beyoncé is really prententious to have that "e" with the squiggle.
Hattori Hanzo: You're stretching.
Me: Seriously. What's up with that? That é doesn't make her french or anything. It's not like I need to wear a monocle and a tophat to listen to her. It's Effing Destiny's Child.
Hattori Hanzo: This is just pathetic. Just go back to the couch and take another nap.
Me: And how come woman don't think it's weird to pay a doctor to fingerbang them?
Hattori Hanzo: Seriously. Just stop.  It's okay...the people who read you will still be there when you get back.
Me: Hey watch! I can do a cartwheel!
Hattori Hanzo: No! Stop being an attention whore. Naptime.
Me: (*half cartwheels into wall*)
Hattori Hanzo: Well I hope your happy. That was your Mom's favorite Precious Moments© statuette.
Me: I had a Precious Moment with your Mom last night. 
Hattori Hanzo:(*shakes head*)
Me: When I fucked her.  Get it?
Hattori Hanzo: I really wish I was more than a literary construct. I would dump you in a heartbeat.
Me: Hold me.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Still Not Writing

Hattori Hanzo: Hey, why is the bathroom light on?
Me: What are you my Dad? What's next? A shellacking for not whitewashing the fence?
Hattori Hanzo: No. I just think we should be more eco-friendly.
Me: Your mom is eco-friendly.
Hattori Hanzo: Don't start.
Me: I left it on intentionally.
Hattori Hanzo: Yeah. Okay, I'll bite. Why?
Me: So I could see your mom when I boinked her from behind.
Hattori Hanzo: Classy. Did you just say "boinked"?
Me: I did. But seriously, I left it on because I don't want to come back from vacation without a tan.
Hattori Hanzo: You don't tan. You're like one of those animals that lives for generations in caves without seeing light. Your skin is the color of God. If Saul saw you on the road to Damascus, he would be blinded.
Me: I know. That's why I was tanning in the bathroom.
Hattori Hanzo: You can't tan under one incandescent light in the ceiling.
Me: You know what you are? You're a dream-crusher.
Hattori Hanzo: No. I'm a...
Me: Asshole? Look at this skin...I'm like a buttery pale taupe now.
Hattori Hanzo: That's actual butter isn't it?
Me: Yeah. With a little of The Girl's blush and some dirt blended in. Looks awesome, no?
Hattori Hanzo: You left a big oil stain on the couch. And I nearly killed myself just now in the bathroom. That stuff is slippery.
Me: I couldn't find the regular butter so I used butter-like spread. But the good stuff. You know. Like "I can't believe I'm not tanning!"The kind that is always soft and melty.
Hattori Hanzo: Ooo! Your mom is soft and melty! Your mom is soft and melty!!!
Me: Don't be a pervert.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Mad Science

Hattori Hanzo: So, how goes the self-imposed vacation?
Me: Shhh. My stories are on.
Hattori Hanzo: So... getting a lot done then?
Me: Actually, I've accomplished plenty. Dick.
Hattori Hanzo: For example?
Me: Well I discovered that if I dip the belt of my bathrobe in my coffee mug, I can wick most of a cup up and then I can suck on it for the rest of the day for delicious coffee flavor.
Hattori Hanzo: THAT robe?
Me: Yeah.
Hattori Hanzo: The robe that touches your ass all day?
Me: Yeah. So what? I'm not sucking the coffee out of the robe's ass part. I put a duct tape "Do not use" box around the ass part. I believe with great power comes great responsibility.
Hattori Hanzo: You can't quote Spider-man everytime you do something gross. So what else have you done?
Me: I invented a new obscene gesture. Wanna see?
Hattori Hanzo: No. Not reall...
Me: (*obscene gesture*)
Hattori Hanzo: ....
Me: Why did you just speak an ellipsis?
Hattori Hanzo: I don't get it. Was that supposed to be...
Me: Yeah. You know...with lube...
Hattori Hanzo: But...I don't think the body will even do...
Me: That's what makes it obscene.
Hattori Hanzo: That would be hard to pull off in traffic. Especially with the twirl.
Me: I feel I'm up to the challenge.
Hattori Hanzo: Ugh... what is that smell?
Me: Old Beef Gravy. Sorry.
Hattori Hanzo: You dipped the other end of the robe belt in gravy?
Me: I have to push the boundries of science. It's in my nature.
Hattori Hanzo: I'm at the point where I'm amazed you ever had a job.
Me: (*obscene gesture*)
Hattori Hanzo: I still say that part with the coconuts is impossible.

Monday, May 18, 2009

'Labial' is not Corporate-Speak

Me: I think we need a vacation.
Hattori Hanzo: From What?
Me: From all this unemployment. I miss working. This sucks. We need to get away.
Hattori Hanzo: Umm ...I think maybe we just need a job.
Me: You need to think outside the box.
Hattori Hanzo: ...
Me: You need to shift your paradigm.
Hattori Hanzo: Why are you speaking in corporate clichés?
Me: We need to optimize our throughput.
Hattori Hanzo: You have no idea what any of that means.
Me: We need to maximize our synergy.
Hattori Hanzo: Seriously. Knock it off.
Me: We have to have full divestiture from discrepination.
Hattori Hanzo: Now you're using made-up words. You need to stop this immediately.
Me: Heh. We need to minimize our point-to-point labial constructs.
Hattori Hanzo: I'm pretty sure that "labial" means something different than what you think it does.
Me: You need to think outside of your mom's box is all.
Hattori Hanzo: I hate you.

PS: I totally am taking it easy this week, so don't be all "Yo, Holmes! Where the writin' at?" because that's really improper phrasing, sentence structure, and wording. Also, wanna see how far I can flip my slipper into the air? It's awesome.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Sick Days, Biscotti and Porn

I was going to try and call in sick today because I was up too late reading comic books and crying a little making sweet, sweet love to the woman of my dreams, and no "of my dreams" does not mean "pretend" because she is totally real and if you don't believe me than I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers, and then, once I'm done quoting a movie at you I'll shift my eyes one way and when you look I'll run away in the other direction, and I'll probably call you a name for good measure. Like maybe "Fucker." or "assclown". I'm sorry it had to come to that. 

That's what she said.

So I look all over Blogger for the phone number I had to call in sick with, and I totally got my "I'm not even a little sick but rather faking it so I don't put you in the awkward position of calling me a liar even though I totally am" cough ready, but I couldn't find the listing anywhere and then I thought maybe that was an unlisted number and then I got angry because who the Eff makes a fucking Call-In number unlisted? Like what if I got hit by a bus? How would my relatives, assuming they noticed / heard / cared call Blogger and tell them I wasn't able to write today (*cough*). 

That's like the self-fulfilling prophecy, and okay maybe I don't know what that means but I like the idea of prophecies because they are like God's version of superpowers,  and "self" means me, and "fulfilling" means you give women orgasms, which is totally possible in real life I'm told, so "Self-fulfilling Prophecy" means I have the super-ability to give out orgasms, and that is probably completely true. 

I just looked up "self-fulfilling prophecy" and it doesn't mean that at all. 

Stupid language.

Not having the number to call-off listed is, self-defeating because Hey! Guess what? I'm not coming in anyway(s). I'll just tell the boss that the phone company came and burned down my house for non-payment and that's why I didn't call and that works on two levels because even if he doesn't believe the arson part he'll be all "They probably just shut his phone off." because I have that air about me and also one of handsome swagger.

Then I remembered I don't even know who my boss is, and that we've never met, so I would like it if someone from Blogger HR would contact me. Also, I'm still waiting for my first paycheck and I need to know what kind of medical I have because this paper-cut from The Green Lantern #220 the origami vibrator I folded last night looks infected. And while I'm waiting to hear back I think I'll enjoy a delicious latte and a biscotti, which is Spanish for Stale Nut Cookie apparently, and Hey! If I worked in porn that would be a great porn name. They'd be all "Give it to me, Stale Nut Cookie!" and then I'd be all "Cut! Larry! I need five! The wings came unglued!". And maybe you want to know where the wings were, but like I said I'm not coming into work today. (*cough*)

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Bats and Tennis Rackets

So you know what's weird? 

I don't even have a follow-up to that because I was going to say "bats" because they freak me out, but then I had this whole moment where I was terrified I might be turning into Jerry Seinfeld and he always had bad pants and shoes and I don't need that kind of comparison drawn. Also it seems needy to start a post with a question. Like I need validation or something to continue. I totally don't. I'm going to type this crap without regard for what you want to talk about, and to even imply I have a direction in mind is practically the same as lying. I don't. Except for bats. I kinda want to talk about them, but guess what else?  My mom has an ingrown toenail. There's always that. .It's good to have a fall back position in case the writing goes too wonky. 

So bats are all pretty much assholes, and before you get all "But they eat infinity bugs and mosquitoes and their poop is good fertilizer" allow me to just flex my bicep and kiss it, because I'm not listening to any of that hippy crap. They're assholes. They fly around and make weird noises and on three separate occasions they got into my living space and the first time was awesome because I put a comforter over my head like an impenetrable bat-proof shield and then I swung a tennis racket at it, but I couldn't see what I was doing because my shield wasn't see-through and I ended up forehand smashing the shit out of a "Precious Moments" figurine that my mom gave me, and that was no big loss, because those creepy, big-eyed fuckers make my bladder let go, but just a little. 

Meanwhile the bat totally escaped my blind but madly skilled and deadly tennis swings because it was doing that crazy "I just changed directions because why the hell not" thing that bats do when they fly and then it flew out the window, but I didn't know because I was still under the shield, so I wandered around the living room breaking things with my Spalding for a solid 10 minutes until finally someone said "It's gone, Jackass".

And you might think that was hilarious and who could blame you, but wait...remember I said three? That means I have to relay two more hilarious bat-based stories in order to give you people closure and I'm all about satisfying people.*

The second one flew in circles around my head for like a week and a half and I had small kids and every time the bat got within 10 feet of them they would scream like someone was trying to stab them in the ear with a fork so it went like this:

Me: Stop screaming.
Me: Stop screaming.
Me: Stop screaming.

But luckily that only lasted for 3 hours, until cooler heads prevailed and just put a box over it when it landed on the curtains and then shooshed it outside. I smashed another "Precious Moments" figurine just to be safe. It was the one with the kids leaning in and kissing and their giant skulls were all drawn together probably by gravity and I think the boy had on one of those old union suits and one of the buttons was undone so you could (*teehee*) see part of his ass.

The third time, I saw one flying around the living room and just shut the lights off and went to bed hoping that it's feelings would be so hurt that I was ignoring it, that it would just die from neglect.  That one disappeared so it's probably still living in my hair or something. 

See this one has his ass covered so it wasn't the porn one I had, but I'd gladly smash the shit out of it, because Dubya Tee Eff, no one should get married that young.

*That's what she said.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Knock it Off, Spring.

I was laying in bed this morning trying to push off the naked bikini supermodel because she was totally up in my grill, Yo. And she totally has terrible morning breath which is an unfortunate side effect of all the blow-jays but I can't get her to stop. Also she might be pretend. And ok, Chief Inspector, I guess the one thing you didn't learn at Genius Detective School was manners, and yeah, maybe she IS my pillow, but I totally woke up with it on my face and I was all "Step off, Pillow!" and I shoved it roughly, but then it fell off the bed so I feel bad. I guess it's tough to love me sometimes. I'd pretend to understand, but I really don't.

Love is everywhere this time of year and that is the real reason for this post, because I'd like to take issue with that shit. I mean, I wake up and the birds are chirping and it smells like tree blossoms so even the plants are humping each other and when I walk past the canal, and totally don't think about throwing myself into the cold water gaining a needed release from this life of misery and woe awesomeness and sexy behavior that I have, the ducklings are all leaving tiny v-shaped trails behind their proud parent ducks and I look at my kids and then I hit them because they never leave cute trails behind, just dirty dishes and underpants, and HEY LOOK I'm writing about having kids and how tough it is! HAHAHAHAHA!'s funny because it's true! 

So the asshole ducks are looking cute, and even bugs are holding hands probably and when I go to the grocery store, silently hoping my tires were squashing a million young ants in love on the way, I park and before I can turn the car off this young couple comes out and they are holding hands. And I know what you are thinking. You're thinking "Kurt. You are so awesome." , but please try and stay focused because even though that is true I'm trying to tell a story.  

And then the couple does some romantic stuff like RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY CAR! And I'm not talking about sensual boob honking or super-deep frenching all over my life, I mean like tiny kisses where their lips just brush each others and then they lean back and look in each others eyes and their hearts probably flutter and somewhere a puppy is born, and I have to quick put up the big cardboard thing that covers my windshield so my car doesn't get too hot and it says "Honk if you Smurf!" and has Papa Smurf taking Smurfette from behind over the sink in a dirty bus terminal bathroom. 

Okay, maybe I made that part up and just ducked down low in my seat and tried to cover my eyes with my hand, but I can still see and now he is walking her to her car and his hand is on her back guiding her gently and protecting her from highwaymen or whatever and they take like six steps between each kiss, and it's so obvious they are stupid-in-love, and that's just awesome, so I take my hand away and allow myself to enjoy the loviness of it all, and birds are chirping and probably the sun has a big smiley face on it and white gloves that it is waving back and forth in a weird little sun dance, and the flowers are singing songs and in the olden days they would say everything is "happy and gay" but no one says that anymore, because gay has come to mean "anal sex" in the minds of people who don't know what they are talking about, and if everything was "happy and anal sex" that would be one weird happy cartoon song with singing flowers.

And I am not jealous, if that's what you're thinking, because I have tons of love in my life, because of your mom and also Come here, Pillow. I didn't mean it.

Monday, May 11, 2009

Bronson Pinchot is Not Working to his Potential and I Totally Relate

I was thinking about how 20 years ago at about this time I was getting ready to graduate High School with an awesome 2.0 GPA and my whole life was stretched about before me and no that's not even a little depressing because if I could have known how famous and handsome I would end up being I would have been much cockier than I was, so basically I was a humble genius and that's the best kind, because arrogant geniuses go on to invent horrible weapons of mass destruction with little thought to their applications and they have crazy men living in their closets and...'m just remembering the plot to Real Genius, so I'm pretty much way off track once again.

All this talk about 20 years ago and geniuses naturally made me think of Bronson Pinchot. I don't know. Don't look at me like that. I'm not driving this brain. It's like that drunk friend who sits in the passenger seat and starts fucking around with the radio and you're all "Knock it off, Brain!" but it just laughs and burps real loud and then grabs the steering wheel unexpectedly and you swerve all over the road and wonder why the hell you are even friends with this asshole anyway(s) and then you get the car under control but now you're thinking about Bronson Pinchot. That's my brain. It's a complete dick sometimes. But once it sobers up it usually says it's sorry or throws up comically, so I have to forgive it.

So I'm wondering what the hell Bronson Pinchot has been up to because the last thing I remember him in was The Langoliers as Craig Toomey and that was an awful movie, so I went to IMDB can do this yourself... you don't have to take my word for it... I mean if you are calling me a liar. Which I don't recommend because I have a furious scissor kick to the throat waiting for someone if you do. And that someone might just be you, or more likely that box of stale Frosted Flakes that no one ever eats but lives in my cupboard anyway(s). 

Where was I?

Bronson Pinchot has done a lot of voice-over work for cartoons if you were wondering, and also he was in something called " Slappy and the Stinkers" where he played Roy and that's an awesome thing to have on your resume so I looked it up on YouTube and it's like The Goonies only with a sea lion instead of the big Mongoloid guy, and looks like the hilarious adventure of a lifetime because the trailer has a lot of people slipping and falling and a bunch of stupid kids screaming and an adorable sea lion named Slappy, and they use the word "stinkers" like 150 times in the 2 minute segment because HAHAHAHA! "Stinkers" is funny. And now my brain is less from having watched it, and then I think about how I never really used that 2.0 GPA to leverage my genius so I'm frustrated and then I went into the kitchen and scissor-kicked the shit out of some bitch-ass Frosted Flakes so now I feel all better. 

Here is what happened to Balki*:

*Balki WAS in True Romance so that is his saving grace because that's the coolest movie ever and if you don't agree with me then guess what? Scissor-kick.

PS: My New Mama Pop article can be read here, if you don't check it every Monday like I wrote in the manifesto. Jeez, what good is it having a manifesto if no one reads it.

Saturday, May 9, 2009

Pointless Saturday BullS-H-I-T.*

Because It's topical and I'm lazy and it's Saturday So I'm not even supposed to be here today! HAHAHA! Remember? From Clerks! Dante kept saying that and it was hysterical? Well now I'm saying it. Laugh Motherfucker!

*It totally doesn't work to spell out dirty words when you are writing because you can still read them. I feel like an English Teacher all the sudden. Like maybe some beautiful private school girl will stay after for assistance and I'll be all "Let's H-U-M-P" and she'll be all "Huh?". But then I write it on the board and she'll be all "Gross. I'm telling the principle." and then I'll be fired. But I will have learned a valuable lesson and knowing is half the battle. And maybe the other half of the battle ought to be stuffing stuck-up private school girls in my trunk after chloroforming them but I'm above that because I'm a Real American Hero©.

Friday, May 8, 2009

Mega-Sharks and The Chicken Dance and Just Oh Never You Mind

So It's Friday and that can only mean one thing. Just kidding. It can mean lots of things. Like how would me saying "It's Friday. " ever only mean one thing? If you're  literalistic then it means that tomorrow is Saturday, and if you are a Jewish than it means the Sabbath will start at sun down, and if you are your mom it means it's time for your weekly VD test and also something horrible about all the men you are sleeping with. 

And If you are me, it means I just wrote a new article on Mama Pop, and sure maybe we've talked about Mega-Shark Vs. Giant Octopus on here before, but I thought maybe you needed a reminder because you keep leaving your retainer on your plate after dinner and I swear to Christ if I throw it out,  you are digging through the garbage for it, just like in every after school special you've ever seen, except I won't be the supportive parent digging along with you, I'll be the asshole parent yelling "Get your fucking hands dirty, Princess!" while I drink cheap dime store hooch. I have no idea what "cheap dime store hooch" even is, but it sounds appropriately hobo, and there meets my needs as a visualization.

Seriously. Go read it. I'm hysterical. Ask anyone.

Here. Watch the Chicken Dance from Arrested Development.  If you have never seen the show I don't wish you were dead. But just maybe hit by a bus.  But a small bus. I mean... not full of handicapped kids or anything...that would be traumatic for them. Like the little shuttle bus that takes Seniors to Bingo. And it wouldn't hit you hard, just hard enough to break your legs. And Hey! Maybe while your in the hospital you could catch up on Arrested Development! It was the greatest show ever and that's a scientific fact.

My Head Smells Like A Coconut, But That's Another Story

So I was going to write this whole post about how my head smells like a coconut now because I ran out of my usual shampoo and had to use the girly stuff and it was called "Shea Butter" and I don't even know what the fuck that even is, and now I feel like Gilligan because I washed my hair in something coconut. But that was before new evidence came to light and I had to rapidly change my blogging agenda to address this very important information, because I am fluid and dynamic like the majestic Narwal, swimming the cold Arctic waters searching for a meaning to this, this great puzzle we call life. And also for someone to stab because I'm an effing whale with a horn, and if you don't think that is the bee's knees than you are drunker than I am. Which seems highly unlikely.

Turns out the Hillbilly neighbors have a box of duck.

When The Boy told me, I had to have him repeat it.

Me: They have a box of..?
Boy: Ducks.
Me: A box of ducks.
Boy: Yeah. A box of ducks.
Me: You actual...
Boy: Ducks. Yeah. The box doesn't have a lid though. The ducks can get out.
Me: So they just walk around in the apartment,
Boy: Yeah. They're cute. Except their poop is weird. Have you seen duck poop?
Me: Yeah. It's green and slimy. Let's get back to the ducks though.
Boy: Okay. There are six I think. Three adults and three baby ducks.
Me: And they just spend their day getting in and out of their box?
Boy: Dad. They're just ducks. Not landmines.

And so it went for pretty much the whole morning because I am fascinated by the concept of keeping forest animals in corrugated cardboard, and who the hell thinks ducks are good to have in an apartment? and The Boy says sometimes they bring the duck box outside so they can play in the lawn and I don't know how I feel about the concept of "playing" with a duck, because I'm pretty sure they aren't built for play like a dog is. I mean when I think of "playing with a duck" I think of some dirty kid trying to poke his finger up the duck's asshole. And that's not playing. That's bestiality.

And I think about calling the SPCA on them, and then I think maybe the World Wildlife Fund because they have such a cool panda on their logo, and then I think about calling Captain Planet, but then I remember he's not real so shut up, and then I think about calling for a pizza because all this thinking about ducks is hard work and I'm starving and then I see that a re-run of an NCIS is on, and I hate Mark Harmon when he's not in Summer School and I sit there and watch the whole episode all "Pfffft! Right! Like that would ever happen!" and then it's over and I realize I just sat through ANOTHER show I hate for the sake of hating it and I wonder if that is NCIS's core demographic. People who hate NCIS and watch it to hate it more. And...wait...what was I supposed to be doing. Something about ducks. (*shrugs*)

Thursday, May 7, 2009

The Cool Thing About the Internet is That This Can Exist and No One Can Stop Me

For whatever reason the second thought I had this morning was "Is Anna Kournikova still playing tennis? Because she was never really the superstar everyone made her out to be." And then I looked it up on wikipedia and found out that she likes the movie Pretty Woman and that her favorite TV show is Desperate Housewives and that she enjoys the music of Enrique Iglasias, which I didn't think was even a remote possibility for anyone. And it turns out she never has ranked higher than 8th in singles tennis, but was rated #1 in doubles for a while but then the article was all tennis talk about matched singles and 30-Love or something, and then I saw this cool picture of an ostrich in a Zoobook©, so I stopped caring.

But the point is, I'm pretty much a time machine, because I had no idea she had stopped competing in professional tennis in 2003 and it's weird that I would wake up this morning and she would be my second thought and it wasn't even a "I sure would like to [Fuck] her" thought...wait...I did that wrong I'm supposed to put a code word in the brackets not the actual swear, because then I'm drawing attention to it instead of trying to hide it from your virginal eyes and I'm not even sure "virginal" is a word but I refuse to look it up because I have Diplomatic Immunity!! So maybe I'll go back and put a [diddle] in the brackets instead* or maybe an {expletive deleted} with curly brackets because those seem fancier, or maybe I just won't bother at all because Hey Look! Knight Rider Reruns!

The first thing I thought of this morning is super-secret, and maybe if I told you a S.W.A.T team would bust through my ceiling and use those super cool, heavy-duty zip-tie things on me  and they wouldn't even care that they were breaking my collection of rare (but Stolen!) Faberge Eggs and I would have to ask them to "Do be careful?" because suddenly I'm British and maybe Lara Croft without the cans. And also I break free of the zip-ties and say something witty about it like "Time to take out the trash." You know...because they're like garbage bag ties...and then I'm a whirlwind of Jai-Ho kicks and Windmill arms and withering looks and poisonous sarcasm and then they are all dead or have broken legs and are crawling around on the floor and moaning and their buddies are picking them up under the arms and carrying them like it's Vietnam in my living room or something and I just kinda go "Pffft." and laugh dismissively because they should know that when you mess with the bull you get the horns and I still never divulged the secret of what my first thought was this morning so I'm pretty much a national treasure. 

And if you think it rhymes with "Foobies" than you are totally wrong. So Ha! (*looks around*)

*Your Mom Puts a diddle in the brackets. Twss.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

A Boy Named Flu*

I'm not too worried about the Swine Flu, not because I want to die a grisly flu-related death like all the people in The Stand do, because I'm sure I would be a survivor and would feel the inexplicable draw to that old lady in Oklahoma or whatever and as I trudged there through the wreckage of mankind's folly I would have tons of time to ponder life and that's what I'm all about. No, I'm not worried about the Swine flu because I haven't read anything about it and therefore am immune to it. Ignorance is pretty much the best flu shot ever, I think.

Luckily, I've picked up just enough of a whiff of what the story is off the internet to be dangerous. Like I'm pretty sure all bacon is poisonous now which makes this the worst flu ever and also that you can only get it from kissing Mexicans or something, and I'm trying to think back to all the people I've kissed in the last couple weeks, and none of them were Mexican but one did speak Spanish, albeit brokenly, so I guess they have to go into quarantine, and I'm going to drive over to their house now and tell them that I think they might have dirty Mexican Swine Flu, and that's because of all the Spanish and they be all "Que?" and then I'll throw them in the brig.

Sorry, Mom.

Okay, not the brig because Mom doesn't live on a pirate ship, and if she did I would be hanging out with her a lot more even if it meant getting the swine flu and having her list off everyone I've ever met who is dead and what a terrible person this Barack Obama is because she heard he smokes and he's black, but that's racist so not that, but he really IS black. Have I seen pictures?. Because Pirates are awesome. Even old racist possibly Mexican ones.

The other reason I'm not scared of Swine flu is because of its name. It must feel so insecure like that one boy in school whose name was Tracy** and he spent pretty much his whole life saying "It's a boy's name too, asshole." and Tracy got in lots of fights and he'd grow up quick and he'd grow up mean, his fists got hard and his wits got keen and he'd roam from town to town to hide his shame.

Maybe that's why I should worry about the Swine Flu. Maybe it's going to mess up everyone (even non-Mexicans! Zoink!) because it has an inferiority complex. If it had a cool name like the Flesh-Eating Virus or Mad Cow Disease*** then I would be a bit more worried. But they named it after pigs and pigs are only scary if you've seen "Hannibal" or "Snatch****", and if I had to fight off something metaphorically with my immune system I think it would be much easier to take a pig than it would be to knock-off a mad cow.

Now I feel bad for Swine Flu. I should send it a Hallmark card with a handwritten note and a poster of a kitten hanging off a tree branch that says "Hang in there!!!" and The swine Flu could put it up in it's cubicle at Deadly Virus Inc. and when Anthrax walked by bragging about all the chicks he nailed down in Cabo over the weekend, little Swine Flu could look up at it's poster and feel like all he had to do was hang in there. Here's what the card would say:

Dear Swine Flu,

I'm sorry that you turned out to be less deadly than everyone thought, but look at the bright side! That endorsement deal you did with the surgical mask people is going to pay off in spades, and you can always kill third world people. I know they don't count as much as Americans but keep at it. And Hang in there!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!! LOL!!!!

Hugs not Drugs,

* This is the single cleverest title to a blog that I've ever thought of, and I didn't even plan it out so you can pretty much start standing and clapping slowly or making fart noises with your armpit or whatever, because there will be no encore. Here...I'll start. (*claps slowly*)

**I never knew a boy named Tracy, but I wish I did because then when I was about to get beat up I could point hysterically and jump up and down and shout real fast "HIS NAME IS TRACY! HIS NAME IS TRACY!" and sure that may seem like cowardice but it's survival of the fittest out there and that Tracy kid is fucked anyway(s).

*** Mad Cow Disease's real name is cool too: Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy. I don't know if that is it's maiden name or the name it changed from when it got to Ellis Island or what because I'm not your history lesson, but I think it's safe to say that I am handsome.

**** I said "Snatch". Snicker.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Getting Dumb and Hyphy and Other Stuff I Don't Understand

Because my brain hates me, it told me this morning to "Get Hyphy" and I'm not even sure what that means but I think I've heard it before somewhere and it's funny sounding so maybe on some level I registered something cool and modern and I don't have to keep telling people to "get jiggy wit it" and then they look at me like I'm "special". And I don't mean "special" like I know some cool magic tricks or I can walk on my hands or I can Jai-ho dance without knocking over any lamps. I mean the other kind that is sadder and much more offensive.

So I look up "get hyphy" on the internet because that is what not-quite 40 year old men do when things confuse them, they look them up online because that way if you can't find what you are looking for you can just go find some squirt porn or something. Win/win. And I find this very helpful article titled "How to Get Hyphy" and it's on eHow so now my "probably written by someone white" alarm is going off and the level of difficulty of the instructions is listed as "moderate", so maybe getting hyphy isn't as easy as I thought.

The first step to get hyphy is "Get the Music" so I go and listen to a bunch of E-40 and The Federation , but I'm still not feeling very hyphy and also I'm still not sure what that means so now I know why the instructions are moderate. And then it says I have to "speak the lingo" but I have to look up all the definitions on Urban Dictionary so that totally torpedoes my street cred, yo. And then there's stuff about "stewy" dance moves and "ghost riding the whip" and I'm totally over my head. So I go to wikipedia and look it up, realizing that I have now given up all hopes of street cred because the most white thing that ever happened was me going to wikipedia to find out about outdated urban culture from the West Coast. It's so white that the Queen of England called me up and asked me to quit being such a punk-ass, yo.

So I decide maybe getting hyphy is more work than I'm up for and then I look at the date of the article and it's 2007 so that explains why I'm thinking about it, because the deadline for coolness has expired and the modern youth culture is on to something even weirder now probably and I'm stuck picking through the pop culture dumpster hoping to find a half-eaten banana or an expired Hostess Fruit Pie of Hip-hoppiness. My only solace comes from the wikipedia entry that says:

"An individual is said to "get hyphy" when they act or dance in an overstated, fast paced, and ridiculous manner. Those who consider themselves part of the Hyphy movement would describe this behavior as "getting stupid" or "going dumb." "

I act in an overstated, fast paced and ridiculous manner pretty much all the time so that means I was Getting Hyphy since third grade when I got in a fight with this kid Scott because he borrowed my matchbox car for too long so I attacked him by grabbing my windbreaker and spinning around really fast like a tornado and the zipper from the windbreaker caught him in the cheek and he started crying and bleeding and then I took the car back and walked away and later got in big trouble for zipper-whipping. I've been "getting stupid" my whole life is my point.

Street cred back through the roof, Yo!

Monday, May 4, 2009

Rules for Life #1

If you're ever in the shower and you can't remember whether or not you've washed your ass yet, wash it again. Because it's better to waste 10 seconds or whatever than to walk around smelling like ass all day.

Also, go read Mama Pop. There's an awesome article that you can just tell was written by someone handsome about Bikini Ninja Zombie Hunters. I'm pretty much the Hunter S. Thompson of Pedophilia. 

Also, Your mom just rolled over and said I smelled like ass. 

Jr. High Was an A-Hole Because of This Movie

So Revenge of the Nerds was on G4 last night, and I hate that movie so much it makes me crap blood.  Now, you may ask yourself how that is possible seeing as how I have such an awesome sense of humor and yeah maybe up until this point you thought I was a great humanitarian and that's why I probably have like a thousand Nobel Peace Prizes and that I am incapable of any kind of negative emotion, but you would be wrong. If that movie was a starving orphan in some place hot and gross and there were flies climbing all over it and it's belly was all distended I would be all "Good. Fucker." And the reason for that is because of one tiny little fact. In 1984 when the movie came out I looked pretty much exactly like...well check it out:

Your Author before all the handsome genes kicked in and some douchebag from the biggest asshole movie ever circa 1984.

Turns out there was this guy named Andrew Cassese, and in Revenge of the Nerds he played "Harold Wormser" and maybe you don't see the resemblence because it's hard to get past how a stud like me could ever have been a goofy looking kid, but hey guess what else? The Space Shuttle exploded too, so crazy shit can happen is my point. Yeah, deep in the 80's while everyone else was Wang Chunging and putting on Madonna pre-whore arm bangles, I was just this dorky kid who had to tolerate a little mild ribbing on account of his excellent taste in too-short pants and his glasses that have probably been recycled for use in the Hubble Space telescope thing. 

So when the movie came out it was all rated "R" because of boobies and maybe that would spurn others to hate those as well if they were in my shoes, but Boo-ya! I overcame that. However, I wasn't allowed to watch the movie because my parents were all stuck up and hated me, so all my classmates go to see it and then they came into school the following Monday and Hey Look! It's Wormser! HAHAHAHHAHAHAHA. And I was all confused because I didn't even know what a wormser was and it was about two weeks before my  best friend enlighted me and then I saw the picture of him and I was all "Oh fuck." only since I was only in eigth grade maybe I just bit my lip and peed my pants a little or something. And Hey! Guess what else? You know how in the movie, at the end, all the people come to realize that Nerds are actually cool and they had a big dance-off and the overwhelming unity of the whole campus showed us that it was okay to be different and unique even if that was a little dorky and had too-short pants? Well the people at my school must have left early and missed that part because "Hey Look! That kid looks like Wormser! HAHAHHAHAHAHA!" 

I repeat. Fuckers.

So when I was old enough I went out and rented it and watched it and I was all "Hey that is pretty funny! Fuckin' Nerds!" and then I looked around because I hoped no one from Jr. High was around to hear me and would remember that "exciting" phase of my physical development, but luckily I was sitting in my house alone, crying without realizing it and cleaning my father's 45 for like the billionth time. Of course by that point I had grown up enough so that all I had to do was stare at a girl and her panties would explode. And that may sound like a good thing but trust me it was. 

Friday, May 1, 2009

On Not Harrassing the Mailman (Court Ordered) (UPDATED! With Whoring!)

I've been trying to add some excitement to my life because I can't keep picking fights with the mailman for no reason, because he's going to lose it eventually if I keep laughing at his shorts and knocking all the mail out of his hands like he was that one kid in high school with the highly disorganized Trapper Keeper that had papers shooting out of it all over the place and wasn't it funny to trip that kid even though he would grow up to be a roguishly handsome, famous, super-genius writer? No. No, it wasn't. That was a trap.

But anyway(s), I also can't keep picking fights with the mailman because he has a wingman now who is this old retired guy who walks along with him and maybe they are friends, but if I was a postal carrier that would be the kind of thing that got me in a shootin' mood because all I want to do is walk my route in peace and then POW! here come Old Man McTalkerton telling me about bean sprouts and the rheumitiz or whatever and I really wish I didn't have all these black thoughts about ending the pain and why did I ever buy that Glock? and hahahaha a postal employee shooting things joke! Oh Em Gee! How did I get so fucking clever? Must be all the Cleverology lessons I had as a kid. Seriously. Raise your hand if you saw THAT coming. Okay, now put your hands down. Effing liars.

So instead of being all "Nice shorts, cunt." which is how I have been greeting him, now I just say "Good afternoon" since he usually has his hand on the pepper-spray if he sees me on the front porch in my robe,because it worked really well that last time and here's a little known fact: pepper spray must work extra good if you are attractive because I didn't feel like sneezing at all. It felt like bees in my eyes. And then the cops came because you really can't run around in the front yard screaming and running in circles and swearing and not be full clothed below the waist because people get all freaked out. Probably by how masculine I am but also because they are disappointed I won't take the robe off. I hate disappointing people.

And the other thing I used to do is yell after him as he walked away "Your mode of delivering information is outdated at best, and archaic at worst! The speed, expense and negative impact on the environment your job has, are inherently backward! " and also "I fucked your mom last night!" but he usually just keeps walking. The old guy turns around sometimes but who cares because he's old and probably didn't hear me right and thinks I was offering to "pluck your lawn" and I don't even know what that means, but what am I the Dog Whisperer? How should I know what old people think? It's probably just a lot of buzzing with a Cream of Wheat commercial thrown in every now and then. And also "Please let me die."

I think instead I'll take down my pillow fort and make an obstacle course, because I still haven't beaten my world record since last time and I really want to have that victory bounce on the bed later where I hold my hands up over my head and jump in circles while singing "We are the Champions" or sometimes "The Rose" because Bette Midler has such a pretty voice and then I bang my knuckles on the stucco on the ceiling and I yelp and fall down and take a bad bounce off the bed and land in a heap by my wardrobe, whimpering and nursing my bloody knuckles. Stupid obstacle course.

UPDATE: More Mad Me on Mama Pop! This one's about Star Trek and how the Wrath of Khan is probably the greatest film of all time, and if you don't agree than we can still be friends, as far as YOU know.