Teeing up a dinner-roll

Are you able to wipe your ass with the same hunk of tissue you just blew your nose on? No? Then that makes you a coward, and me pretty fuckin talented.

Twirly tots full of taters and dogshit

The stink of great beasts had been as oppressive as the heat itself, and the accompanying humidity served to magnify the impact of both on all concerned. Dehydration headaches were in direct competition with vomiting fits for the Symptom of the Day, both brought on by the lurking monsters, who were at times the community's worst enemy, and at others the source of their greatest wealth. Whether in pursuit or seeking shelter, there could be no escape from the clinging stench they carried, which dispelled any pretense of making a stealthy approach just as effectively as their size. When at long last the snows came and brought down their reign, the smaller creatures of the world discovered that flowers were not only beautiful to look at, but also offered a pleasant scent that would no longer be sublimated to the heretofore dominant odors, which soon melted away with the ice. This discovery rivals the dawn of fire-making and the application of wheel as a pivotal step toward a human society worth living in. So you should be glad that there aren't dinosaurs anymore, because they were huge and fucking stank worse than the birdhouse at the zoo. Think about it.

If monkeys make music, who wins?

The part that really hurts is when you say that I've got no goddamn right asking about it. Apart from the illogic underlying it, this statement brings into play a variety of questions relating to the granting of natural rights, human rights, lite-brites, and ear-mites wearing their Speedo trunks too tights. I daresay, absent a good lawyer and a stitch of clothes between us, you've done some damage to your standing with such a claim, though it'd be foolish to say that you couldn't recover by changing tactics and opting for the "magnanimous concession" approach. This would fit in with a long tradition of hot/cold strategies that not only make the world go around, but keep many a wayward sailor off the street during the Pinching Hours. Having observed the contortions of your decision-making process over this five-hour period, though, I'd wager a nut or two that none of this calm counsel will do any goddamn good, and that the secret history of your goddamn goat-head tattoo will remain unre-goddamn-solved. Goddamn it. Not like He ever listens to me, but goddamn it, anyway. We may as well tell the horse he can come back in now.

Outworked, outplayed, and outstained

Take the eraser out of that pencil and erase all of the awful things you've ever done when nobody was looking. Break the pencil over your knee and throw it into the fire so no one can go behind you and write back in all the nasty deeds of your life. Enjoy the lie you have become, and when confronted with unwelcome reminders of the horrors that once defined you, strangle them with quickness and high cruelty. This is the way to Immaculate Enlightenment - the only way - and anyone who would deny it aloud is two words away from snuffing you out like a candle.

Found in the Sandcrack - Your Soul!

Crippled by hours of repeated blows to the knees and ankles, it will be difficult to ease yourself back into a relaxed state of mind, so we'll understand if your scheduled check-in by phone is, shall we say, not exactly a PG event. For that matter, you can lay off the PC, too, if it'll make you feel better throw down on the lesser races for a few minutes (we promise not to take it personally - we're all friends here.) However, it would behoove us all to ensure that clarity and concision are the watchwords of the night, since setting up another date with a guy like Frau Blisters is bound to be outrageously expensive, plus he'll start bragging around that he's got us as repeat customers. We really need to keep our mailboxes free of that flavor of direct-marketing, as you all know what a time-crunch we're under; even minor distractions will undo a rat-ship like ours.

Kind faces have kind eyes and two dollars

When people ask me what I believe in, I never tell them. But if you must know, I choose to believe in a Greek Jesus. That's the one that died for the sins of Man, then got Man drunk and snuck a finger up his ass.

Dazed by days and days of daisies

Considering all that's happened, leaving the west gate unlocked was an enabling act, very possibly the enabling act, that made the rest of this week as unpleasant and unproductive as it has been. Even without the results of the investigation "suggesting", or, less kindly, "clearly showing on videotape" two people that look a lot like you and Lou inside the cages shortly before the first escapee was spotted downtown, there's a lot to answer for here. For leaving the gate unlocked (not to mention wide-open with chalk-drawn arrows marking the way out, lined with balloons and so forth,) there is a standard disciplinary response, which is a formal reprimand attached to your file, and for repeat offenders, an advisory review with the possibility of suspension and/or termination. This alone is quite serious and would have affected your professional future for some time to come.

However, the sum of your alleged behavior and the resulting clean-up operations made necessary were never imagined by the policy-makers of this facility, which is why we've had to turn you both over to the state authorities. It may be our lack of imagination that has put you in detention, rather than before a board of inquiry, but in view of the significant mischief the events of last Friday have precipitated, we feel that we no longer have the luxury of disciplinary discretion. As one would guess from considering the high number of escapees, this was a daunting task made no more excusable by the ease with which they were tracked down. It is only a minor comfort that so many chose to hide behind furniture rather than take to the wooded areas nearby, which would have prolonged the search and surely led to multiple tragedies. On balance, it is much easier to spot a fort made out of cushions than it is to hunt down a dug-in shelter using natural camouflage, though it is more expensive to replace the cushions if they are discovered to be soiled in any way. So far, we've been very lucky.

Simlarly, you may be able to get some clemency at sentencing since there was very little property damage, not that someone would credibly argue that a mob of half-dressed, mostly-toothless elderly folks had any serious capacity for wanton destruction. It will be difficult for anyone to claim that they require financial compensation for someone posing as the Vice-Prince of Westphalia taking a dump on their deck, regardless of what time of day it was and/or how special a child's fifth birthday party may or may not be to their overall development (Incidentally, those people own three dogs, so we're triple-certain to walk away from that one without spending a dime.) However, we are confident that the decision to end your employment at this facility rests on firm ground. Good luck in your future endeavors, and never, ever come near us again. Ever. For real. Never.

For all you know, it was one of mine

You have come to me on this overcast morning, hoping to recruit me for your cause. In the first place, I am annoyed that you've interrupted my breakfast. No, I was not in the act of eating any breakfast, but I haven't entirely ruled it out, either. As such, your approach constitutes a pre-emptive interruption of a possible breakfast, and casts a dark shadow over my prospects for getting in a little brunch. So, from the word Go, you're standing on my dick. Moving on from there, your pitch starts with a series of hypothetical questions, beginning with obviously hyperbolic entreaties to save the world from evil, which you then narrow to more modest exhortations to take on mundane tasks which I, being a clever person, am expected to recognize as the finer strokes in the Big Picture. All for one, one for all, e pluribus unum, and let's get this party started, because we all know who let the dogs out - hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo-hoo - who let the dogs out. To this end, I am to sign onto your program and pay attention to my electronic mail for further calls to action.

I'm only putting all of that together now, admittedly, because while you were persuading me, I was studying your nametag (which gets high marks for looking professional - the black stripe suggests both functionality and high-tech,) and what appears to be a professional-grade clipboard, complete with little clamps to hold pens, plus a built-in calculator and interior compartment for God-knows-what. Whoever sent you here must have dressed up in all this gear and stood in front of a full-length mirror in order to craft an image which is at once formal enough to suggest respect, but casual enough to lend an air of volunteer-spirit, as if you'd thought of all this on your own. Hell, maybe you did. If I'd been paying closer attention, it's possible I'd know for sure.

The bottom line is this - I'm not giving you my name, because I don't want a bunch of shit mailed to my house, giving me righteous guilt because I won't donate money I don't have to like-minded organizations that I don't belong to. Further, I'm not giving you any more of my time, because I'm in my shorts, barely concealing a half-stock, and I have a mighty loaf to pinch. And last, I won't give you thirty seconds lead time before I release the hounds because I didn't train sixteen man-eating beasts as an idle threat, and you smell tastier than you look. You're a clever person, so I know you saw the sign on your way in; you made your full-body cast, now pee in it. Bon chance!

Caught in the act

There were many great things about Stew, probably ten or fifteen if you had to write them all down. I do remember that he would get this magazine in the mail every week, so he'd sit in his underwear and read it from cover to cover as soon as it arrived. Even if he was already dressed, he'd pull off his trousers and make a point of sitting down with his feet up until he'd read the whole thing. If you wanted to talk to him during that hour, forget it. A couple of times, I noticed that he'd pulled his nuts out through the pee-hole in his undies, so they dangled out while he thumbed through the magazine. I'm not sure if he always did that, but I think it's something he insisted on doing as time went on, just to make it feel more like a ritual. This also stopped most people from bothering him while reading, since it's tough to get around a pair of nuts unless you've got a really good excuse. If the house is on fire, it's OK to disturb the nuts, but for something like a phone call, it can wait. Come to think on it, most phone calls can wait, nuts or not.

How it gets from house to house

Unfortunate as it sounds, this rash you've been staring at (which is not polite, FYI) is going to be showing up on your chin by nightfall. It will then spread down our neck and into your pits. I'll apologize to you when God apologizes to Judas (so, later.)

Douse it with a pail-full

Seven small people went wandering in the city center, ignoring the signs and refusing to heed advice. They traveled in two columns, side-by-side, and they pressed straight through other groups rather than going around. At a distance, they looked menacing, and as they got closer, they appeared comical and harmless, until they were within feet of you, and by then they were utterly frightening. But by then your time was up, and they either shoved you off the path or stamped right over your fallen body. Luckily, they wore small shoes, and only left small bruises.

Down by the river, a trio of black bears took afternoon tea, each insisting that he was the rebirth of Jesus Christ on Earth, and that the others were a pair of poseurs. A nearby hot-dog vendor laughed quietly through his nose, since he understood that supernatural saviors always give themselves away through their fondness for pickle relish, and all three of the bears had instead requested extra mustard and extra napkins. An old woman passing by asked the time, and the bears pretended not to understand English. The old woman approached the largest of the group without fear, reached out and tapped on his wristwatch, and repeated her query in Spanish, since you never know anymore. Enraged, the bear responded by taking off the watch, walking over to the hot-dog vendor, and dropping it into the pickle relish. The old woman straightened her spine, went over to the pan of relish and stuck her face right in it, sucking down every stray bit of pickle, and the watch itself. Almost instantly, she hunched over and shat out a full-size grandfather clock, which struck 2:30 p.m. and chimed out the first half of Auld Lang Syne. Seeing this, the bears fell off their chairs and laid on their backs, giggling and kicking their legs in the air. The hot dog vendor wordlessly unlocked the brakes on his cart and moved a little further down the promenade, since he could see where this was heading.

Two blocks away, two police officers joined two more police officers and began discussing the disgusting things they would do in shopping mall restrooms if someone dared them, and it wasn't long before a juggling exhibition broke out. A pair of men in expensive ties walked past and one remarked loudly that juggling was invented by Communists, whom he had found to be very difficult companions since they refuse to believe in nipples. The officers stopped juggling suddenly and began feeling around inside each other's shirts, ending the inspection with relieved sighs and pats on the back all around. The passing men turned around and joined the police in their moment of relief, and during a new conversation, one of the officers mentioned that he'd read an article claiming that you should cover your religions in lipstick before heading down to the club. The cleverest of the group smacked himself on the head, and explained the mix-up slowly, with animated gestures, until each man understood what had taken place. This should have ended the impromptu meeting on a high note, and a round of handshakes seemed to indicate that all would end well. Nevertheless, the police concluded by delivering a savage beating, which happens least on Tuesdays, but not never on Tuesdays.

None of these groups met on that day because they had been given bad directions. It turns out that Fourth Street doesn't run all the way down to the river. Small mistakes like this keep many of us safe - for the moment.

I, Buttplug

Brandishing a stolen saber high above my head and screaming bloody murder all the way, I charged down the hill into the outskirts of the town, which is where I first encountered the slums of the working serfs. They were some mellow cats (or perhaps just sleepy from working so much) and asked me to tone down all the yelling, and maybe sit down by the south well for a few minutes and take it easy. Although I had begun the hour with no intention in my heart except to lay waste to the refuge of mine enemies, I felt compelled to obey the counsel of these chillin' villains, though rarely have I taken orders gladly from anyone so conspicuously idle, the only obvious tension in any of their bodies confined to the grip the fattest one brought to bear on the bucket of fried chicken under his arm. The tall one next to him asked if I was cool, and if there was anything I'd wanted to drink whilst I hung out. I attempted to answer him, but my retort was lost in a coughing fit, brought on by both the fast I had been keeping since before the day of battle (which precluded the quenching of my thirst with any liquid but the blood of mine enemies,) as well as the fistfuls of dirt I was inhaling - the clouds kicked up were a result of my exciting entrance. In retrospect, all the hollering didn't do me much good, either. Brought out of their homes and alleyways by the cacophony of my tracheal trauma, a gaggle of swervy chicks showed up with wineskins and pitchers, which they dipped in the well and brought to my lips, perchance to calm my breathing. Not all of the ladies smelled so good, but they all stank like Heaven.

Regaining my breath, I spat out a long, winding trail of unconnected words, alternately loosing ransom obscenities and the names of bodyparts, which, rather than repulsing my erstwhile nursemaids, only caused them to hold me closer. Milking this for all it was worth, I elected to deceive them into thinking that I'd passed out. The ultimate reward of this subterfuge, however, was to be carried off by the men who had previously been surrounding the chicken bucket, and let down onto a cozy featherbed, which ran alongside several others, some with strange symbols embroidered onto them. Unsure of my next move, but assured that I was sufficiently sheltered, I rolled over and dozed off.

Since then, I've slept on that same featherbed over a thousand times, and my roommates helped me get a job with the gatherers, which is cool since you don't have to wake up at the buttcrack like those dudes on the farm. Farming's decent work, I guess, but I'm not wired for it. I sold my sword to make my first month's rent (before the gathering gig kicked in,) and I've been planning a hike back up the hill for months now, but I haven't gotten around to it. Whenever I talk about the trip, Ralph picks up a stick and waves it over his head, which he combines with a girly impression of me screaming, but I've seen him do it so often by now, I'm just like 'Whatever.'

I guess I'd like to go back to being all glorious and shit, but hey, who am I kidding? Those other assholes I was adventuring with are probably still lost in the Brown Hills somewhere, threatening some rube who lives under a flappybush with nut-loss if he doesn't help them figure out how this map works. If I do ever see them again, I've planned to respond by looking the dirtiest one straight in the eye and grabbing my titty at him, combined with the "thbbbbppt" sound. Really, what do you say back to that? Nothing. Not a God-Damn thing.

When you chew gum, you disobey the Lord

Underneath the snide tone of your message, we could all tell how much you miss it here, and we heard that tinge of regret that you'll never be able to return to us, even if you wanted to. You probably could sneak in for a visit or something, but the risk that you'd be captured and assigned to another facility should keep you at a sensible distance. It's just as well for everyone, really, since they've already put someone else in your room. The more sentimental people say that no one could take your place, but the new guy has indeed taken your room, your bed, your spot on the exercise line... and at the dinner table, he's literally taken your place. Those old women don't know shit, do they?

Otherwise, things are changing everyday around here. Our annual batch of clean underwear came down the chute on Wednesday, which meant a very tense period of bargaining between the few who still value the temporary comfort such items can bring, and the rest of us who were interested in seeing somebody sell out his or her dignity for some of that temporary comfort. Not the best hat-dance I've ever seen, and the relay race was a bit less challenging since spoons have been forbidden, but still better than anything I ever saw on cable TV. The hulk who used to be your soap partner sat and watched from the corner, and he kept waving his hand in the air as if surrounded by mouse-sized bees. They other hand was, predictably, occupied. I guess some things haven't changed yet, though he says he's been trying to turn a corner in his life. Despite universal antipathy for him, it has become a feature of our communal breakfast to look out into the garden and watch him do naked jumping jacks. We call it "The Dance of the Bushy Moustache."

One from the stinky vaults, 10/29/1999

The hole in the ground wasn't as deep as everyone thought it was. A lot of men had spent their own time and money to figure out its actual depth, but each man reached a point where approximation and guesswork was satisfactory. Standing over the hole, you can see the top of a ladder a little way down. Its rungs extend out of sight, but we don't think they reach the bottom of the hole. No one who climbs down has ever reported reaching the end, and there are a lot of explorers who haven't returned to report anything at all. Grandma says that they might've reached the end and fallen off in the dark, or they could've slipped because they were tired or clumsy. Uncle Feelips told me that this is the hole in the ground where old people come from. There's a door at the end of the ladder, the way he tells it, and when a middle-aged person gets down that far, the door opens and an old person takes a Polaroid and knocks the middle-aged person off into the pit. Then, the old people get together and have a meeting to decide who looks the most like the person they just got rid of. The winning candidate climbs up the ladder and picks up where the middle-aged person left off. This is why, Uncle Feelips says, old people appear to have such crummy memories. Last week, Grandpa came downstairs with a folding chair on his head. He started giggling and pulled his pants down in the kitchen. Uncle Feelips kept pointing and whispering, "See? See? I told you! See?" Then Grandma came in and they did the wild thing on the counter. Uncle Feelips sure makes a lotta money with those videos he puts on the computer. That's how I got this bike.

Why is it so warm? It's been ten minutes.

Anyone who tells you not to judge a book by its cover is trying to hide something. The elements a person deliberately portrays in their external appearance can often lead an observer to reasonable guesses on why this facade was chosen, and what inadequacies it is designed to disguise. Hence, it's indeed wise not to judge a book by its cover, but instead to regard the cover as a calculated deception which, even under the gentlest scrutiny, will be simple to decode. The following signs have been commonly observed and accurately identified within the margin of error:

--Man or woman more than 40 years old wearing a baseball cap backwards: Wants to portray a well-to-do person who eschews formal airs, projecting a patrician who is comfortable among plebeians because he is so "real" at heart. In reality, a deeply-closeted homosexual who would step on your throat if there was a chance to impress any 15-17 year old girls who may be watching. See also Church of Satan.

--Man wearing a baseball hat with an "NYPD" or "FDNY" logo: Wants to portray a callous jackass who, following the lionization of rescue workers during the 9/11 tragedy, is haplessly attempting to associate himself with "heroic" institutions in hopes of broadcasting his patriotism to anyone who might otherwise doubt his courage and/or worth in the Universe. In reality, an actual member of either the New York City Police or Fire Department who has been up to his eyeballs in easy ass for five years, and now he wants you to challenge him on "faking it" so that he can prove himself (usually by showing you his scars in public,) after which he will add you to the list of the facially-cumshot. You won't argue.

--Adult male black bear wearing a three-piece suit: Wants to portray a circus animal who, after years of cruel treatment, has finally outmaneuvered his captors and ventured out into the human world, where he uses his anthropomorphic training to amuse his way into the hearts of all the city-folk; a lurking possibility that he may turn dangerous and maul small, slow children exists, but is quickly dismissed when they see him roll on his back and play with that ball. In reality, the Second Coming of Jesus Christ, but He continues to be misunderstood by humans and the MSM, and thus fills His days dining for free at three-star restaurants and covertly removing portraits of Caucasian Jesus wherever He goes.

--Woman and man with matching (but not necessarily identical) polo shirts, khaki shorts and baseball hats: Want to portray a happy, professional couple, reasonably successful and secure enough in their individual identities that they'll happily advertise the extent to which their gnawingly narcissistic "romance" has played out. In reality, probably good people whose other clothes were all set on fire by their angst-ridden, medication-savvy pre-teen child, and didn't have time to stop at Monkey Ward's to pick up something that doesn't make them look like pretending, suburban dumbfucks. See also Church of Satan.

--Overweight man in jeans and vastly-oversized T-shirt featuring cartoon character(s): Wants to portray an average kind of guy who hasn't yet "grown up" and is prone to be pretty dang wacky if you get him going. In reality, a contracted employee of a federal intelligence-gathering agency who is, operating under strict orders, very interested in how pert and full your breasts have become over the last five months, and where they may go from here.

--Man or woman dressed in obviously "ethnic" dress from another country: Wants to portray a local person who is proud of their heritage (real or imagined) and wants others to know that he/she has an international perspective, and to that end is prepared to have their outfit mistaken for pajamas and/or military garb. In reality, exactly as presented, but recently farted and obviously making no attempt to conceal it.

The return of the aura

A: Is there something crawling around up there?

B: Yeah, probably.

A: (pause) So, are you going to go up and find out?

B: I can't imagine why I would.

A: Aren't you concerned? Curious, maybe? Wouldn't you like to creep around up in the rafters with some pointy weapon and visit a little lethal aggression on an anonymous pest-creature? It's OK to kill animals - They don't have a Jesus to punish you.

B: That's not funny. Why would you say that to a person who doesn't have any legs? You're a cruel bastard.

A: Well, I'm not the one who -

B: That's enough.

A: You don't ever let me talk.

B: I would try to listen more, but I'm completely middle-fingered out tonight. Try again tomorrow.

A: (pause) OK.

B: OK.

Placid, and yet there were no strangers nearby

With only moments to go before the authorities get that door open, I am compelled to reveal my grudging respect for the decision you three have just taken. I mean, Freddy, you came up with the idea, so credit for quick thinking does go to you, but Jay's got to be commended for giving such vocal, strong approval, and enabling a good plan can be considered just as valuable as daring to dream it up at all. Of course, we must recognize Jan's eagerness to the first off the block, which, in turn, committed the group to following through in the best spirit of "all for one, and one for all." In high-stress situations like this, hasty execution of a desperate course of action is the only path available, and for what it's worth, if I was a man that'd busted a door down and captured a roomful of people, I would certainly be put off to discover that several of them had loaded their trousers with fresh crap right before I came in. I might not be so shocked that I'd let you escape, but I'd say that your success will depend on how delicate the sensibilities of state troopers are in this neck of the woods. Honestly, that's even money.

Incidentally, in case this is the stupidest idea ever, I do intend to keep my pants clean. You probably don't know this, but I have some traumatic experiences with diaper rash that I don't intend to relive. Either way, I wish you the best of luck; up till now, it's been great.

Knocking it over, then up

Re: your latest scheme to get revenge on The Church, I must confess that I'm a little disappointed in your lack communication up to this point. For three months we hear nothing and then, out of the blue, we find a Fed-Ex envelope pinned to the college flag hanging outside my front door. Is this professional? It's certainly not discreet. Further, the pile of napkins enclosed, bearing the scrawled drawings and mad rantings that outline this venture, were, shall we say, in less-than-mint condition. Recycling is always great, but re-using is something you must be more selective about. By any reasonable standard, what you have passed along is a bonafide biohazard, and that's not just my opinion - it's the State's. The page-numbering was also a bit confusing, though I'll grant that switching between Esperanto, Old English and cuneiform symbols as frequently as you do can "loosen up" your attention to such details. As for the plan itself, the wife and I think it's some of your best work yet. Rubber masks will be here in two days (UPS-willing!), and then we'll be hot to trot. I hope your associates in Prague aren't just blowing smoke up your ass this time.

Greasing it up

Due to a lack of interest, Module 5.1 (scheduled for Thurs. 10 a.m., Mohican Room) has been cancelled in favor of a more "hands-on" opportunity, which will be an old-style Gypsy beat-down in the north parking lot (registered attendees only.) The Council has agreed that this will preserve the spirit of the original workshop, while providing more time to do some networking and get laid. Vegetarians are encouraged to re-register for their red badges (aka "Get Out of Meat Free!" buttons) so that they can continue to associate with real people during future social functions. All those bearing blue and/or other out-of-date badges will suffer twenty-five minutes of naked humiliation at the hands of guest-presenter Barbara Billingsley, so consider this fair warning. Following the enthusiastic response so far, the sign-up list for goat shenanigans has been re-opened to allow those who have been through the experience to re-live it nine or ten more times. If you do intend to remove someone else's name from the list and insert your own (or a friend's,) be sure to erase the original name completely, hence releasing the staff from adjourning a mock proceeding to "get to the bottom" of anything. Obviously, we're a little busy up here, and have little concern for your nonsense.

An official pardon: Granted

In addition to my previous statement, I would like to express my condolences to all victims of the tragedy. As always, no more that 26% of the victims truly deserved what they got. Further, there are several unlicensed vendors going around doing unflattering impersonations me soliciting a patrol of young boys, and if this doesn't stop, I should at least see a few duccets in royalties. Otherwise, I have little to add, and I move on to the next phase of this ordeal secure in my convictions, proud of my physical stamina, and all the time nude as a bee.

Mandible research begins with a nude man

Pretending to check around in your pockets isn't getting you anywhere. Just kick him in the nuts and run like a cheetah (on all fours and covered with spots.) If you're stalling just for the fun of it, you can always distract him with the old "Oh-my-gosh-what's-that-thing-over there" trick, and then pull a quarter out from behind his ear. This involves planting the quarter ahead of time, highlighting the importance of advance planning. If you can get away with a few card-tricks, go for it, but once his attention begins to drift, you've got to bring him back with the hysterical declaration that you've dropped an ovary and must find it NOW! This can work against you, as trained agents may be called in to assist in the search, and they never wash their hands before giving it back. Then, try a few poems, any poems - as long as they rhyme. If, at any moment, you sense that he's all done with you, it's time to jump the shark and resort to yelling "Hey, take a look at these!" By then, you've done it: You're across the border without paying the bridge fee. Fight the power.

Calypso, but only for a few miles

In the spirit of looking ahead, I've ordered seven sets of toenail clippers, which are twice as big as fingernail clippers and five times more likely to be confiscated during a pre-boarding security pat-down. I never declare my personal hygiene items during the security check since they're easy to explain away as long as you're Whitey. If they don't consider the semi-chub I've developed during the pat-down a potential weapon, those bitches are fooling themselves with a capital "foo".

Apart from that, toenail clippers are also useful for removing "skin tags", which are inexplicably known as "moles" when they're round, but most of mine look like I've got small, wet corn-flakes hanging off of my body. My aunt (who is a nurse,) refers to these extra bits as "hangin' titties". I suspect this particular aunt had some interesting experiences in the girls' locker room in junior high to have arrived at such a metaphor. Anyway, she reccomends clipping the skin tag off with toenail clippers, quickly staunching the flow of blood, and then assuring any concerned on-lookers that, yes, I did intend to cut myself this way, and yes, I promise not to do this to you when you're asleep. People always believe you the first time that you promise not to cause them harm. If you have to assure them for a third time, it'll be best to move on to someone else, preferably a stranger with a sweet ass.

Tongs didn't get washed

• When you pull back the first few layers, you'll notice the color getting darker and maybe a little moisture, but don't let that slow you down - There's lots to be done.
• Substituting yarn in Step 12 is not recommended, although readers have written in to tell us that if you use purple or brown yarn, it can be totally hilarious.
• Sudden movements must be kept to a minimum during the entire procedure (and especially during Steps 4-10, 16-19, and, obviously, before and after Step 41.) You don't want to invite more resistance than you'll already have, and if you could get permission to do this, you wouldn't need instructions on how to do it in the first place!
• Keeping all restraints clean and serviceable is a labor of love. You can always get new ones, but keep in mind that your resources aren't bottomless, and the staff at Home Depot will get to know your face if you show up every other day.
• When you do pull the van over for gas, food, or other necessities, make sure someone stays in the driver's seat. We've all seen that movie before, haven't we?
• Under NO circumstances should any witness be pursued or otherwise acknowledged. Everyone knows that this town is full of nosy old women, anyway. The cops won't do shit.
• Personal hygiene isn't something that only happens to other people - Dress for Success!
• Afterward, brag about your workmanship only to your friends among the mentally incompetent and the elderly. No one else deserves your attention.

Dumping After Hours Is Strictly Prohibited

The people waiting downstairs will have to wait until we’ve sorted few things out. The constant stomping and stinking will just have to go on a few minutes longer. We still have the problem of the cat to deal with: It isn’t nearly drunk enough. And the sheets in here are really nasty. A can of disinfectant will need to be put to quick work. After that, the phones will have balloons placed over them to prevent the obvious trouble, and of course the floors will suffer terribly, but there’s nothing to be done about it now. Just one more thing: Any munk tracks on my pillow, and there’s a fucking war in this house. Got it?

Nothing Ventured

Without the cover of the bushes to protect them, twelve young men, many of the unshowered variety, were easily located and driven into the river by a pair of hippopotamuses. Once underwater, the group of men were quickly swept away by the rapids, and those who were not permanently towed under the waves were thrown against the rocks until the guts oozed from their slacken mouths. One of the men did manage to cross the river with his life, but he soon realized that he had crossed over into Montague County, and fuck that. One of the hippos looked across the river at the man and shrugged her shoulders. He quickly swam back across the river, and she kissed him, and the three carried on like horny mice until they were sore, pink and stinky.

Pummeled Oysters with Bad Attitudes

Running the water all night long might’ve been a mistake. The faucet won’t swing from left to right anymore and the stuff coming out of it sure as shit isn’t water. The plates and cups in the sink will have to be moved to another location while the situation is being sorted out. IMPORTANT: Don’t breathe a word of this to His Majesty; there may be a way to cover this whole thing up before he even finds out. If not, we’re all doing the hot squats for sure. Get the parachutes ready, just in case. And no more singing in the bell tower, and you know why.

Plates are Spinning in Your Heart

Ugly is one of the words most overused by Americans to describe things that are actually more shabby, gaudy, violent, or arty-farty than they are ugly in the original sense of the word. For something to be truly ugly, there need to be three of them in the same room, and they all need to have droopy tits.

Stop Smelling My Farts

The ownership of the ferns remained in hot dispute, and in the absence of proper documentation or an ounce of common ground among the parties, it looked like the only way out was a big fat punch in the ass. So, fuck you.

Message For Those With Good Reasons

Since last week’s briefing, the Third Sub-Committee has successfully met Objective Square-Seven. The project to discover inexpensive and offensive military applications of the Pee Cramp (SW-7XJ1) has yielded bountiful and forbidden fruit. The members of the Third Sub-Committee are hereby ordered to submit a full report to the Secret Section by the end of the Winter, and six (6) half-hour segments are expected to run on network television news programs not more than ten (10) days following the opening of the Peach Festival. With any luck, no one will pay any attention and the enemy will be taken by brute force and lots of shooting. Those objecting to the use of the Pee Cramp on innocent civilians are advised to grow up and watch a prepared videotape, which is being made available to the Full Committee, until you can show us a goddamn smile. The tape (VT-9TS6) features images of men getting hit in the nuts with tennis balls. Heh. That is all.

Tidy is a mountain you don't climb

Do not execute a full-fledged jig while Sandy is still in the room. Make sure to return the chocolate wrapper to its proper spot in the box when you're done rubbing it between your toes. Never lunge toward a woman's face if her left eye is squinted shut and her arms below the elbow are hanging akimbo. It's imperative to grab the nearest old person's belly and shake that beast for all it's worth in the event of an oncoming herd of horny kindergarteners. In no case is it appropriate to summon the Dark Lord with a demon totem that resembles Mary Lou Retton. Always insist on keeping your hands and feet uncovered when facing down a film-school asshole's mother in single combat. Refuse any offer of financial compensation that would lead to accepting a hickey on your left one. Push strongly for better representation in the local government for smegma, children who are stupid but love cupcakes, and Very Handsome Men. When all these edicts have been followed, return to me for your salvation.

Playing down the rashes and sores

Turn right, because if we go around that tree again, I'm going to drop trou[sers] and give these weasels a little something to look forward to. I forget if north is toward the shadow from the sun, or if it's left of the sun when it's at its highest point, which was a couple of hours ago, anyway. Surely we can make it back to the cabin before she regains enough of her composure to chew her way through the sack, karate-kick herself out into the open air, and seriously bruise the gathered faithful in both visible and rarely-visible areas. I've heard tell that chipmunks always seek the north side of the trees because it helps them to regain their orientation when they wake up the next morning, stinking of Tequiza and cheap ladies. I don't mind climbing a tree this high in order to get our bearings, but if you're going to keep looking up my shorts, you'd best be prepared to tuck some folding currency between the cheek and gum, if you see where I'm headed with this. Praise be, we've finally made it. Uncork the lube-tube and fire up that camera - By God we're going to get an A+ in this course or lose all hope of ever growing facial hair again in the attempt. Wagons roll!

With jellybeans, if you please

There's no substitute for a snazzy hat and freshly-shaved buttocks. There are forces that would like you to believe that you should say it with flowers, but if you're serious about making your point, there's really only ever been one option open to you. Zip open that hat box and foam up the buns, because the longer you wait, the longer it'll take for your friends and clergy to get the message. Once that's settled, you can continue your march across the map of Europe, or just across the bathroom rug! You're in the driver's seat this time, so conquer as much or as little as you like. With a clear finish-line staked out in your head, it's only a matter of pitter-pat until you press your chest against that tape and bring down showers of confetti, flowers and loose ass all around your face and shoulders. Shit yeah. If wild tigers are not a factor in this metaphor, there is no stopping you.

Jan and the can of spread

It is impolite to publicly take pleasure in the misery of old people. Having said so, it's a great comfort to those who have to deal with old people that they sometimes lose control and involuntarily shit themselves. The elderly are often frail and and are hence mistaken for a race of pitiable and humble beings, worthy of the deference and disproportionate indulgence usually reserved for very small children who don't know anything yet. But old people know lots of things, and some of them have lived long lives characterized by cruelty, disaffection, and selfishness. It was in preparation for their autumn years that the Good Lord invented IBS (Incontinent Bowel Syndrome) and similar ailments which have no Heavenly purpose but to force old bodies to disobey their evil minds and fill up the pants with a quart or two of Divine Retribution. For this miracle, and in the purest sense it is a miracle, it becomes unnecessary for younger people to ever kick old people, as long as we recognize that the matter of settling the karmic account has already been taken care of. Some may question the validity of this miracle, since there is a large class of people who enjoy sitting in their own waste, which would negate the justice of the miracle's impact. On the contrary, punishing aged scat-freaks in any way would be totally unnecessary, since they are always beautifully sweet young people, and beautifully sweet old people. The miracle, for them, becomes a blessing, and the beat goes on. If you do know any pleasant old people, it's almost certain that they are scat-freaks. God has blessed them, every one.

Counting down means the end is always in sight

Two fists are all it takes to shut your piehole. Two fists are useless unless connected to two arms, unless some elaborate pre-planning has been carried out. Two fists with nails through them are enough to make people feel guilty for thousands of years. Two fists need to be washed before handling food, digital media, small children, or the back of a nun's head. Two fists are all it takes to interrupt an otherwise routine bris. Two fists can be your best friends when everyone else is paying attention to someone just like you but prettier. Two fists are the judge, the jury, and that's it, because there are only two of them. Two fists will be around long after everyone's forgotten why they like you in the first place. Two fists can be combined to form one big fist, but no one does that because it looks silly. The best thing about two fists is always the other fist. Two fists guarantee entry at most any Masonic rite ceremony. Two fists are too many, but one never seems like enough. Two fists will fit up there, but they've gotta go one at a time. Two fists made this country great, and someday, they'll belt your kids for acting even tougher than you.

Fortune smiles on those who dare

It isn't going to do us much good to bicker and spit about who it was or what they've been eating lately, so in the interest of moving forward, let's all rise, leave the room, and come back in a few minutes while this candle burns the air clean. After all, I never promised you a rose-garden. While we're up and around, we can do a lap or two around the building, allowing us to jostle our constricted genitals that they may swing freely, and to shake loose the fabric of our trouser-legs so that they may once again be wrinkle-free. Better still, let's lose the slacks altogether and do a nakey-run out to the neighbors' mailbox and back. In the event of bee-attack on the way, we've got one of those five-gallon jugs of calomine lotion in the library. What can I say, I love the smell. Afterward, we can regroup here and continue belittling the lesser races behind their backs.

Gritting teeth and losing syrup

Letting one go at your mother's head is plain old wrong. Whatever resentment one has built up against her, your mother is always to be respected, at the very least for that unpleasant day when you ripped up her vagina (head-first, no less) and bleated your baby-cries of gratitude to a roomful of strangers, only to segue into a prolonged jag of pooping whenever you jolly well felt like it and speaking only in tounges like the Pentecostals do (which is fucking creepy in any state. How dare you speak that way to your mother! Your "experimental time" with Marxism also hurt us deeply, but that's not for here.)

Mothers make us beautiful, and some mothers try harder than others. Conversely, it's always your mother's fault if you turn out ugly, but it's your father's fault if you lack the gumbas to rise above it and still get laid all over the place. I'm sure someone could make a witty point if he or she begged the question enough to include single-parent and step-parent scenarios, but at that point we're just sucking poison out of a wound that needs no healing. Let it burn. Let it burn! And then blame your father.

What you missed while Grandma pinched one

Later tonight, I'm gonna poke you with a stick. When I say "you", I really mean the Rights of Man. The stick isn't real, but it will hurt at least as much as a real one would, especially if it were made out of ultra-strong titanium spikes and also had holes drilled through it to reduce wind resistance. I learned the part about the helpful holes from watching TV and films that depicted college fraternity hazing rites that involved paddles and butts. Anyone else who saw these movies and then went on to join a fraternity, which would necessarily be run by other people who had watched these same movies, has a little explaining to do. Not to me, but to little parts of themselves. I could care less. The assaulted legion of man-boys' raw, bloodied ass-cheeks, however, deserve their day in court. Perhaps a legal scholar could enlighten me on how a class-action lawsuit would work in this context, wherein the buttocks are considered complainants in a struggle against the total Man.

Addendum: After a quick Google, it turns out that The Rights of Man v. The Rights of Ass-Cheeks (1974) is not merely a river in China. You guys are in so much deep shit.

Vanilla Sorbet? Whatever!

Normal people often misuse the word "factoid" to denote a fact, usually one they consider obscure or otherwise worthy of being made more cute by the addition of the suffix "-oid". In fact, a factoid is defined as a statement that has the appearance of fact, but is not likely to be true. Hence, the common usage of "factoid" runs counter to its definition, and all normal people who make this mistake are fucking dunces. You probably know a few people who do this on a regular basis. These people are the dead-weight in your life, and they require elimination. Misuse of a word is not the charge; but said misuse is positive evidence that this ugly, wretched sot belongs to a class of person known as "normal", and therein lies the litany of reasons to remove this person (or persons) from the rest of your week. If a person is known to be sub-normal (ie, retarded, incorrectly medicated, suffering from the gout, etc.,) they are to be forgiven this trespass and all others short of malevolent violence. We give chances away to those who need them, and all others can suck it up off my titty.

Gretel made Hansel

For a variety of reasons, serial killers are statistically more likely to be bed-wetters. I am hopeful that, when this information is passed around through the gossip networks and idle-chat opportunities that fill your meaningless life, it will cause the end of at least one relationship, owing to the identification of this tell-tale sign. Because of the nature of the serial-killing game, the total number of murders may not be reduced, since the killer could simply move onto someone else, but the culture always benefits from a little shake-up here and there. If you should pass on this little fact, take note of which members of your circle declare an end to their bed-intensive relationships. Now you know who the killer is in your midst. If your first-aid kit isn't presently stocked, go ahead and leave a note for someone to get on that shit.

Folding it over

If I decide to cut off my thumb, it commits the rest of my hand to a life of increased responsibility, and I am not bold enough to impose that extra strain on an innocent hand. It's not something you should have to think about in order to make the right decision, but I thought if I gave it a little overthought, I could out-clever myself and prove that it's really great to cut off a thumb, even though it is one of the very few features I've been gifted with that make me inarguably superior to a barnyard cock. This has been a futile effort, and I am here to report that cutting off my own thumb would almost never be justified. There, that's the wiggle-room I needed. I should also mention that barnyard cocks are incredibly stupid and crow all day long, not only at the "crack of dawn", contrary to popular legend. Oddly enough, I learned this when I was living in New York City. The difference between the crack of dawn and the crack of a dirty person's ass does not exist in that town. That's why I drink soy milk.

There is such a thing

You can only take in so much at once before your memory gets overburdened. Or, as my father likes to say, you can't get ten pounds of shit into a five-pound bag. Applied to experience, this metaphor is perfectly apt. For example, if I were going to have intercourse with twenty-seven people in one sitting, I wouldn't be able to remember them very clearly as individuals. No matter how sober I was or what excellent notes I was taking, I'd still draw a blank later when asked to recall Partners 11, 12, 15, 17, and 23. Honestly, I'm having a hard time picturing Partners 11, 12, 15, 17, and 23 right now, and I haven't even left the house yet.

Being as how it's the truth

It is easy to be humiliated, but it takes a high level of intelligence to know that you have been humiliated. Sometimes you get hit with an insult or or bested in an argument, and your opponent will believe they have humiliated you, when in fact they have only made themselves seem cruel, ugly, or stupid, thus turning the shame around on them. Or maybe they're just an asshole to begin with, which makes it far more difficult for them to push negative stigma onto others. But sometimes, you have been well and truly screwed, and you just have to sit in it and feel like a jackass. There are a few cocktail recipes that can bring this sensation on without the time and trouble of orchestrating a colossal fuck-up, but the majority of them involve a thick Russian liquor that tastes like lawngrass, which carries its own shameful connotations from the moment you cradle the bottle in your hands. The only one that qualifies in my neighborhood bar is called a "Fat Elvis." It involves Frangelico, creme de banana, and cinnamon schnapps. It's supposed to taste like peanut-butter and nana sammiches. If you drink three and then do three lines of coke and then go sit on the shitter, you'll totally have a heart attack and be famous forever.

Lucky Ducks

It's a great thing that milk comes out of breasts, hence through nipples, because that makes it easy to find. If milk was hidden a little better, it may have taken many more years for us to figure out that it was A) There and B) Drinkable. If milk came out of the anus instead of the nipple, we would be some kinky mamba-jambas. Television standards would certainly reflect this more flexible attitude toward what parts of the body we are ashamed of, and dinner-time programs would include elements that you, in your limited world-view, would condsider tasteless. In this alternative reality, however, your grandmother would probably tape these shows and send money to crooked evangelists.

Choices make fools of us all

Everyone can eat my hog. Really, that's what it's there for, and it won't bother me in the slightest. For all I care, you can go ahead and eat my hog. What do I care? If you choose not to eat my hog, there are plenty of other choices out there for you. Whatever choice you make will mark you for the rest of your life, even if you don't remember what that choice was or what the outcome was; that's just how time and space work. Ergo, if it's all the same to you, you can eat my hog. Bitch.

Flabby Johnnys

It is true that I have a very flabby johnny. But it is also true that I never let that get me down. There are many different images that I summon when trying to fall asleep, and out of the main twenty-seven, there appears not one flabby johnny. When taking any major decision, it is crucial to arrive at this frame of mind before tallying the final votes.

Medical Curiosity

Have you ever heard of a medical condition called "trunk-butt"? Whether you have or not, I wonder if it would be worse or better to be suffering from said condition on the moon, inside a pressurized space-suit. Who do you turn to with questions like this?

Why I don't blog

I do not blog. Mostly, this is because I am not Jesus. If I was, or if I had enough energy to pretend to his high thrones and sceptre-holder, maybe I would have a minute or two to devote to such horseshit on a regular basis. However, there is something to be said for walking the walk when it comes to living your life in a way TRULY devoted to the tired maxim that you shouldn't care what anyone else thinks of you. From this point, I can make the decision not to blog from a very sturdy pedestal. No more comment is necessary.

Kittens are delicious. If and when the eggs I laid in your still-warm feces crack open and release a swarm of Me all over your comfy little bungalow, we'll chat further. Stay close.