Tuesday, September 29, 2009

An Open Letter to Autumn

Okay, Autumn. We need to talk. I thought you were supposed to come in like a lion and out like a lamb or something and I was just starting to enjoy the persistent sweating of summer when POW! here you come all arrogant and raining on my life and stuck up and showing off your new TV line-up. I don't need this kind of pressure. I was all content with being non-reflective about the course of my life. Just flitting from one sexy party with bikini model super-agents to the next. Never worrying that my life is actually progressing temporally in any way. Never focusing on the way my driver's license was expiring or that maybe that class reunion I just went to was my twenty year reunion and that totally doesn't necessarily mean I'm twenty years older because maybe I graduated early because of how smart I am. You don't know, Autumn. Maybe I'm twenty years wiser and you should just shut the fuck up. Did you ever think of that? Of course not. And it totally doesn't mean I'm getting older just because I need to take a nap after work, so why don't you just take your grey skies and cram them up your ass.

But no. You have to be all "Look at my Leaves!!!" You big show-off. Why do you have to be that way Autumn? Didn't your Dad pay enough attention to you as a child? We're you like the middle child or something? Why do you have to rub my nose in things? No one likes a bragger, Autumn. No one. You're like that kid who always raises his hand in class and has all the answers but nobody will date him because he wears his Quiet Riot iron-on decal shirt like three days a week and has big brown glasses and totally is into D&D. D&D can be sexy, you miserable season. Ask all the girls I never met but I'm sure who are out there. D&D pretty much makes girls panties explode and that's why we played all the time, not because our own social skills revolved around quoting Monty Python and making jokes about math. Things change, Autumn. That's your whole point isn't it? You Effing Jerk.

Oh sure. Some people are all "The leaves are so pretty. Let's have a harvest festival." Well those people come from the kind of broken homes where supportive parents who encourage their kids to accept the passage of time with some type of dignity. But the other word for that is incest. I know I read that somewhere or maybe I just made it up but you get my point. Answer me this. If I was so freaked out about getting old would I spend so much time seeking the approval of random strangers on the Internet instead of forming lasting relationships with actually people existing in the real world? If I wasn't coping with turning 40 in a couple years, would I be comfortable sitting at home and drinking Brandy Alexanders with imaginary voices in my head all day. Hardly. I would kindly ask that you please shut the fuck up now. I think you can pick up what I'm laying down.

I have to go, the new CSI is about to come on.

Monday, September 28, 2009

And By "Promotion", I Mean "This Sucks."

So I was totally due for that promotion at my job because it's been a month and I've shown up pretty much every day except for a couple times when I had been out real late the night before solving crimes, or making witty remarks in a tuxedo, or drinking Sloe Gin Fizzes by myself and crying, and I'm only getting more handsome, which may seem impossible because that's like saying "I think the sun is getting brighter" or "I think the ocean is getting oceanier." or "I think your mom is getting sluttier." but it's all true. I mean the handsome part. Not the ocean part. I don't know how that would get oceanier. Maybe if we added some more fish and sea monsters and pirates. But if there were more pirates than pretty soon everyone on the sea would be either a pirate or a victim. Because that's how it goes with pirates. You can't just be indifferent when it comes to pirates. Unless you don't mind get a hook jammed into your skull. Than you can be just as indifferent as you damn-well please.

And I know most people wouldn't consider working harder for more hours for the same amount of money a promotion, but I do because when the boss offered it to me he smiled and said something like "we can always find someone else if you aren't willing to do it" and then he cracked his knuckles and made threatening eyes at me, so voila! Promotion! And it was right then that I could have stood up on the desk and yelled "Freedom!!" like Braveheart and then maybe "You can't handle the truth!!" or "Wolverines!!" out of respect for the late great Patrick Swayze, but instead I just took a sip of coffee and nodded because I had decided that the best way to protest this development was through peaceful resistance. So later, when he was at lunch I took a crap in his recycle bin. We shall overcome.

So now I have to get to work an hour earlier and that kinda sucks because something something daylight savings time and also because I need to get my beauty rest because if my looks go I don't know how I will ever secure the nickname "The Silver Fox" as is my plan. It's all in my manifesto. I'd let you read it but there's a part in there about my last big jewel heist and I don't want to leave to many clues for the fuzz.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

You Read It.I Have to Get Back To Work.

I've only got twelve minutes to write this post and maybe you think that sounds like a long time, but you are very wrong because you know how it takes a giant ocean-liner like forever to get up to speed? Well that's how it is with my brain except my brain wouldn't let the poor people on like the Titanic did, because everyone knows it was poverty in steerage that sank that ship and not some innocent iceberg that everyone gets all racist about. But my brain is like that ship because it takes it a while to get up to speed because it is so big and it's like the tortoise and the hare only my brain is also the hare because it is so fast once it gets going and also I am very loving so it's much more like a warm-blooded bunny, than some asshole reptile who is all self-important and "hard-working", whatever that means, and fuck him anyway(s) because last time I checked turtles like to rape shoes, while bunnies only rape each other with love. So there you go.

The reason I only have 12 minutes is because I got promoted at my job and I know what you're thinking... "Of course he did. The good looking ones ALWAYS get promoted. And while normally I would be furious at such a gross injustice, in this case it's Kurt and that makes total sense because he is such a handsome genius that I want to steal the hat off someone I meet on the street and then take a crap in it, and then put it back on his head and laugh and laugh and laugh, and it's totally okay because when the cops show up I'll just tell them I was thinking about how handsome Kurt is and they be all 'Oh. Yeah. We get that all the time. Plus, we often get unexpected heterosexual boners for him to.' "

I always cause heterosexual boners in our law enforcement community. It's not so much a gift as it is a curse. Like the monkey's paw...only sexier and with cops.

ANNDDDD Time!

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Advanced Sarcasm

I just invented a new kind of sarcasm because I've been trying all the normal kinds and my coworkers weren't getting it. And I tried to make it obvious I was being sarcastic all over them by making big wide eyes after I said something snarky...you know...the kind that says "You should probably think about what I just said because maybe at first glance it sounded nice, but if you really think about it, I'm calling you a moron." But these people seem as immune to big eyes clues as they are to indifferent dismissive shrugging, and I don't know about you, but people who are deaf to body language messages freak me out, because what if they are sociopaths or sexual predators or like love talking about The Hills or something?

So I've tried switching up a little, and now when I say something sarcastic I say it really slow like a turntable at the wrong speed or like they are differently-abled, which is how I'm supposed to say "retarded" now that they've taken that word and made it all poisonous and racist and PETA hates it or whatever, and they still just look at me funny but sometimes they get it and make faces and I've also taken to adding an insult at the end, as like a big sarcasm hint so now I'm saying things like "Yeah. Iiiii thhhhiiinnkkk ttthhaaatt ssssounnddss grrrreaaat, motherfucker."

And at first I think they thought I was have a seizure because one guy stuck his wallet in my mouth, but now they just look at me, and sniff my coffee and then shrug and walk away. So it's a sort-of victory. But all-in-all...that's like the dumbest expression ever. Why did I just use that? (Niiiiccceee jjjobbbb, KKKKurrrrtttt. Asshole.)

I don't think they are getting it still, so I'm going to change tactics again and go so sarcastic that time reverses itself and flowers wilt and women get the vapors and I don't mean that like it's secret code for menstruating. I mean it like they'll swoon and fall back onto divans which appear out of thin air, I guess. I don't know. Women's bodies and what happens to them when they get the vapors are two big scary puzzles to me. Like if a Rubik's Cube was handcuffed to a landmine and you had to solve it and if your hands drop below 60 miles an hour they explode.

Anyway(s), my sarcasm will peel paint. And how I'm going to work it is, I'm going to be so sarcastic that only I know I'm doing it and they'll just think I'm polite. Here's a sample that happened this morning:

Me: Hi, Doris. How are you today? (Hahaaha. Get ready. Here it comes!!)
Doris: I'm fine thanks, you gorgeous hunk of man*. How are you?
Me: I'm doing good. A little tired maybe. (Buurrrrrn!!)
Doris: Oh that's too bad. Are you having trouble sleeping?
Me: Yeah. I got this new pillow and it smells like semen. (Zing!)
Doris: Uh....I...Oh...
Me: HAHAHAHA! Just kidding! It smells like pussy and salsa, but that makes total sense. Trust me. (Take that!!)
Doris: I...I think I better go back to work.
Me: Sounds like a good plan because everyone here thinks you're lazy. (So much subtlety!!!)
Doris: Wait. What?
Me: Also, you wear bad shoes and your breath smells like a natural gas leak times a million. (Pew!Pew!Pew.!!)
Doris: You're a real asshole, Kurt. You know that?
Me: There's no need to be sarcastic. Sheesh! (Double secret sarcasm! Vicious!)

I know. You must be so jealous of my brain right now. I am. I totally wish I was as smart as me.


*She only thought this. But I can always tell when someone thinks I'm handsome because they need only be awake and looking at me.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Open Letter To Some Dumb Kid

Dear Kid at the Laundromat,

Look. I appreciate that you've never been away from home and that it's lucky you can even identify a quarter (It IS the big one!) given how much you smell like someone that a racist group like the KKK or Greenpeace or whatever tried to light on fire, but after dousing you with some horrible accelerant, got bored and some of them wandered off feeling very disillusioned and like it was time for racial unity or whale unity or whatever, but a couple die-hards decided to hang around and just pee on you instead. Seriously. Can I get a contact buzz from day old tequila fumes? Can a human being smell MORE like a multi-cat litter box that is filled with old sponges and and left-over sauerkraut?

But back to my point. Go sit over there. I'm afraid your stupid might be the virulent kind and I haven't had shots since that one time the doctor came at me with a needle and I shouted "Diplomatic Immunity!" and then tried to put the sphygmomanometer* over his face but the cuff wasn't big enough but at least the Velcro got stuck in his hair plugs, so my plan sorta worked. Now I just have to be extra careful around rusty things. I got your tetanus booster right here! (Grabs wang and makes a "honk! honk!" sound).

Where was I? Oh yes. You're stupid. Also you're too young to be a freshman, because I remember my first freshman year at college and I was pretty much all man and not a kid at all, except for the still being a virgin part. That was not quite all man. But fear not because I got drunk and made bad choices soon after and on top of getting rid of my virginity I had the bonus challenge of trying to get rid of crab lice**.

You too will be making bad choices soon enough. Like as I watch you load all your colored clothes into that dryer and then measure out a big cup of new All-color Cheer© and pour it over them. I'm not sure what your plan is, but maybe you are onto something. Maybe there is a shortcut here I don't know about. Also I'm not sure if that bong you just accidentally added to your whites should be washed on "delicate" or "permanent press". It did have a cool dragon sticker on it...maybe "brights". Good thing used bong-water smells like sunshine and not like ass-gravy from a hobo with only a cursory awareness that he keeps crapping his pants. Mmmmm! Bong-water fresh!

Another pitfall you should be aware of is I hate you, and your fraternity and if you're going to insist on calling every thick-necked mongoloid football player who walks in the door "Brah." I'm going to hit you in the face with a dash of Snuggle© and scream "Sic Semper Tyrannis!" and then "Excelsior!" and then "Where's the Beef?!" for comic relief. And maybe it won't blind you, but it will make your eyes downy-soft and that's pretty much the greatest gift of all. You're welcome.


Hugs Not Drugs,

K-

PS: That nausea you're feeling is what we call a hangover. Usually you want to avoid looking at infinity spinning things when you are in this state. But I see that you are the brave sort who is unafraid to throw up in the utility sink. Bully for you!

PPS: Hey Kid! You wanna get smarter? Go read my article on Mama Pop! That fixes everything!

*I pretty much look for a reason to use this word every day of my life. Because even though everyone knows it's a blood pressure cuff and it totally does not make me smart to use it, I FEEL like I'm smarter. And it's very important to be in touch with your feelings, like happy or sad or burrito or Chips Ahoy! or drunk.

** This is untrue. I never had crabs. One of my roommates did though. We made him a commemorative t-shirt that was sensitive as only 20-something year old men in college can be. I think we rhymed "Bitchin' " with "Itchin' " or something equally clever.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Hey! I Wonder What It's Like When Kurt Has Writer's Block ?!?

I don't have a plan for this post at all, so this is pretty much off the top of my head, and it's like the same way a very talented jazz ensemble, who I would make slow-motion wanking motions at if you took me to see them, can riff on a theme for like an hour until you're begging your date to buy you another Brandy Alexander because it's been like forever and Jesus Christ, do you even understand how much I hate jazz? Do you care? The least you can do is get me drunk. And then she gets all stuck up and asks if she knows you, and then you realize she isn't your date but rather some girl, and the only thing she has in common with your date is her skin color and her teeth, and I guess that makes you a racist for only dating one skin color, but you ARE in the albino part of town, and you know what they say "Once you go white, it's pretty alright." or something like that. Maybe it's "Once you go hairless, you never are chairless" or "Once you go pink eye, you never get the stink eye."

I know all the popular phrases.

Another clue that she isn't your date is maybe she's conscious and doesn't seem to be drugged. Stupid prude albino.

So far I think this is going swimmingly. I especially liked the part about hating jazz because I really do and if that makes me eligible for some kind of humanitarian honesty award than so be it. I have to free your mind so the rest will follow. Also along the same lines as jazz are people who whistle all the effing time. I know I just talked about this like a couple weeks ago, but that same guy is whistling all the time, and I can hear him no matter where I am in the building and he seems to get especially worked up whenever he hears "Marquitaville" or any of the vast catalog of a Mr. William Joel, who I also feel sucks like he's got cock coming out of his ears. (Wait. What?)

Seriously, if I had to choose between a room of Billy Joel music all the time or a room filled with angry bees who only like to sting handsome people whose names start with "K", I would choose the bees, because in this "Lady and the Tiger" scenario, Angry bees are the lady and Billy Joel is the tiger. I would throw down my coat so the bees wouldn't have to step in a mud puddle is my point. And I would tie a flaming branch to Billy Joel's tail so he would get scared and run away and I would be in the background laughing and shrieking "Sing THIS a song, Piano Man!!" and I'd be pointing at my junk and doing a swirly hip move like "invisible hula" and then I'd probably get motion sick and need to sit down for a while. But that's okay, because Billy Joel will never get his filthy paws on Mowgli now.

Maybe I do need to plan these out a little better. I went back and re-read this and I feel like someone just cracked me in the puss with a frying pan.

Heh. "cracked me in the puss." Heh.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Don't Be A Prick

I just want it known ahead of time that I, for one, am all in favor of hilarious traps. Like when I tell the cops I haven't been drinking when they pull me over for swerving too much and then I take a breathalyzer and it comes back clean and they let me go...hahahaha! Too bad there's not an LSD-alyzer! Now let's see if I can't get up to 88 miles an hour and go back in time.

See? Hilarious!

But when the trap is sprung on me, I definitely think that it is less funny, and really not very clever...like...SOOO obvious and I totally only fell for it so I don't hurt their delicate little kid feelings and I'm pretty sure I qualify for sainthood. It sure was lucky The Boy is as quick as he is though, because if I had caught him it would have been less holy and more "holy shit am I going to kill you". They gets all uptight and racist against potential saint candidates who kill their children in a fit of rage. Hey don't hate the playa...hate the kid of the playa who can't run fast enough.

What happened is this: They dumped a box of pushpins on the floor of my bedroom and then, instead of cleaning them up, they just turned off the lights and closed the door. TADA! Clean! That is pretty much the best cleaning plan ever and they were probably like "Wow! We cleaned that spill up so fast! We must be marksmen. (Ed. - They're just kids so they don't know what "marksmen" means. Heh. Let's keep laughing at them!) Dad will be so proud of us that he'll probably take his shoes off and walk in the room to inspect our thoroughness. He'll be so proud! Now let's go eat bees, because Dad never told us not to!"

So then my feet began to play a deadly game of cat-and-mouse with all the pins on the carpet and it was like watching the Bourne Identity only Matt Damon is my foot (They have about the same acting range! Zing!) and the pins are that weird French assassin with the messenger bag and the carpet is Belgium, because Belgium always seems a little more carpety than the rest of Europe. And the spot under my computer desk would be Brussels because that where most of the pins were living...only now it's Tokyo and my foot is Godzilla, (who is also as talented as Matt Damon. Double Zing! Hi-ya!) and guess what little tiny Asian pin-man? You just got stepped on and now Godzilla is freaking out, and swearing and threatening to sell his kids to the Internet.

Moral: Godzilla is a real dick when he steps on pointy people who should have been cleaned up instead of hidden

Saturday, September 5, 2009

Leftovers

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I wrote this for Mama Pop, but someone else had already written about it, so here's a treat just for YOU!


Every once in a while a film comes along with a title that is just so awesome that I don't even care what it's about. It could be about people who sit around all day not talking and if you call it something good then there's like a 1000% chance I'm going to be all up in the EmEffer. The Men Who Stare At Goats is one such movie. And I know what you're thinking... Men Who Stare At Goats are probably dangerous bestiality types and it's a movie about dark carnal knowledge of farm animals. But it isn't. It's a supposedly true story about America's Psychic Spy program. What was that sound? Was that your mind being blown? I thought so.

The film, which is based on the awesome book by Jon Ronson, stars Ewan McGregor and Danny Ocean and the serial killer from Se7en and The Dude from The Big Lebowski and yes I know what they're names really are, but I thought it was more fun that way and more like an interactive game for you, so welcome to my theater of the mind! (*cue spacey music (Get it? Kevin Spacey!)*) All that punctuation just made me tired. I think I better lie down.



Any way, it turns out that the government had a whole big program for real that was training soldiers to try and kill people with their minds and I don't know about you, but if God ever sat me down for my performance review and asked me to list three goals for the coming year they would be 1) Be a Better Person 2) Make A Difference in My Children's' lives 3) Learn to kill people using my mind. Because that is the definition of awesome and also a nearly victimless crime, if you don't count the victim. And why should you count them? I mean...they're already dead. What are you? A crooked politician? Lighten up, Tammany Hall! That's right..I just compared you to a historical political machination from the early 19th century. What of it? Someone had to say it.

Also, The Men Who Stare At Goats features "More Than A Feeling" by Boston prominently in the trailer so I think we can all agree that stadium rock is due for a revival because there aren't enough "just another bands out of Boston on the road tryin' to make ends meat." anymore and instead we have the Jonas Brothers and Miley Cyrus and other Disney-spawned hell beasts and I wish someone would come along and stab my ears with a fork because that is just soul-crushing. Oh...that fork thing...that's not true...please no one stab me anywhere with a fork.

Where was I?

Oh right... the trailer. Here. Watch this:



See? Goats fix everything.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Sometimes You Probably Wish I Would Stay Gone (UPDATED WITH IMAGE!)

Artist's Rendering. And by "artist" I mean "Roguishly Handsome Genius"


Dear Bagel Lady,

I don't know why you have decided that it's a good idea to be my nemesis. Maybe it's because you live the sheltered life of a shut-in and you have no idea who you are messing with. Maybe you just want to start some shit. Either way, ignorance may be bliss, but it's not a good excuse because trust me I've tried to leave restaurants before with all the silverware at my table and they're all "We're calling the cops." and I'm all "You'll never take me alive!" and then I flourish my cape and try to disappear but that doesn't ever work, so they just sort of blink at me and ask for their silverware back again, a little more forcefully this time, and I sigh and give it to them and I claim I didn't know you can't take the silverware home, and that's where the ignorance lesson comes into play. Because I get arrested anyway(s).

My point is, every morning when I come in at 4:30 you look at me like there is something with tentacles climbing out of my eyes and also like maybe I'm lost and also also like you are suspicious that I am homeless. Well I am NOT homeless, so cast your hobo dispersions elsewhere, Whore of the Bakery, because I'll not stand for have unfair indigence assumptions made about me. That's pretty much an act of war in most civilized countries and if you don't believe me than you can look it up. But you're probably to dumb to have Internet access* so you'll probably just look it up on the bottom of a muffin or something and then squawk because the information you seek doesn't come from baked goods. It comes from the heart. And also from my mouth.

I know you want me to take the day-olds. I get it. They're gross and taste like dwarf feet and you're going to have to count them if you can't pawn them off on any suspicious, would-be hoboes and counting is probably a challenge for you because you go "1,2,3,Apple Turnover, 5, Jelly-filled,18, Strudel Topping, 37..." or something. But I don't want the day-olds. I want one of the shiny bagels on the racks behind you. And when I give you a stern look with one eyebrow raised I expect you to understand that's what I mean. Don't make me say it, Flour Slut.

Just give me a nice fresh bagel and I'll be on my way. Don't sigh and wipe your hands on your apron and then glower at me like I was trying to sell you a half-dead porpoise that had antlers glued to it and I was calling it a "porpalope"** and you are all "I don't have anywhere to keep it" and I'm all "Just keep it in your trunk, it breaths AIR" and I stress "air" like there's some other breathing option, but we both know there isn't and then you're all "How does it swim with antlers?" and I'm all "What do I look like? Jacques Cousteau? Do you want this porpalope or not, lady? I haven't got all day!" And then you're all "It's only 4:30 in the morning you actually do have all day." and then I get huffy and throw the porpalope down too hard and it goes from half-dead to all dead and then I scream "You just killed an endangered species! Deal with THAT!" and then you say "His right antler just came unglued."

The moral of the story is "Sell me a fresh bagel, yo!***"

Hugs Not Drugs,
Kurt

*I think we can all agree that people without Internet access are so dumb that they can't even do something that clever people can, but I can't think of what that might be, but that doesn't make ME dumb because I have to focus my attentions on bigger problems like world peace or how do I get this Pop-Tart© out of the toaster without burning my hand again.

**"Porpalope" is the best word I've ever invented. It's my gift to you.

*** I added the "yo" so this cautionary tale would have maximum street cred. All good cautionary tales have mad street cred. Just look at Slingblade. Your Witness!

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Kids

I wrote this earlier this summer and never posted it because I was a perfectionist, but guess what?! I've given up all hopes of quality! SO you WIN!! Enjoy!!:

Boy! A lot of Celebrities sure are dying!!

Ugh! Kids! Having them home for the summer sure can be trying!

I give up. I was pretty much creatively bankrupt to begin with, but with it being summer and there's a billion kids up in my grill all day, yo...it's getting super tough to be brilliant day in and day out because how can you be brilliant when all your time is spent making sandwiches? I don't know what the hell is wrong with these kids but every five seconds somebody needs a sandwich. It's like they have tapes worms only HAHAHHAHA! not the funny kind. The kind that makes you assemble food in stacks.

"Why sandwiches?" you might ask.

My guess is because they are annoying and my children are trying to kill me. I should mail a package to my friend at the paper containing all the documentation necessary to convict them in the event that something should happen to me. I should keep a list of all the sandwiches I've had to make in a safety deposit box and then hide the key, and when Haley Jo Osment and the ghost of Bruce Willis come to solve my death POW! Those kids are going to fucking jail. And don't give me any of that crap about them being minors, because they've never even lifted a pick-ax in their lives. HAHAHAHA! Get it! Miners?! Let the record show it's awesome being this clever.
On top of making sandwiches, the other thing the kids are good at is fighting with each other and that is especially awesome because God hates me and has made it rain for the last infinity days so we're all trapped in the house, and I'm not saying I'm going to hurt anyone but all the sudden I find myself relating to The Shining a lot more than I should and that's too bad because I'm going to hate to have to kill Scatman Crothers, because he has such a cool scratchy voice and also he was on Scooby-Doo back when they did those episodes that featured weird famous people like Jerry Reed and The Harlem Globetrotters.
I'm not even sure where all these kids came from. I thought I just had the two...but I'm really blowing through bread over here.