It stopped right after it hit your face. Honest.

For the past few weeks, I have given in to the temptation of warm, cheesy Baconator burgers on the way home from work quite often. The full-length mirror in my bedroom has begged me to stop. I am now in the process of de-Baconing myself. On the third day of primarily eating large salads filled with nuts, I produced three major shits within four hours. Big ones; ones that left me feeling as if I'd suddenly stopped carrying a suitcase full of three huge batches of shit. I think the build-up is coming loose from the walls of my intestines, and everybody's getting out while the gettin's good. It's almost like my insides can touch again, and they've never been so happy. I can't wait until I get over these vain concerns about my health so I can order two Baconators with jalapeno poppers. They don't sell those items at the same place, but I'm prepared to make the effort and later claim that it all just fell in my lap. It's not a true addiction, but that doesn't make it right, either. I sleep now, looking forward to tomorrow's output. I don't have cable.

It's not really a signature so much as a stain

Looking ahead, we have made every attempt to keep our traditions and high standards in mind, though we have been challenged more severely in these last few months than ever before. While noting areas in which we strive to improve, it is important to emphasize that there are a lot of things we've done right, and that several of us can take pride in making some prudent decisions at the many points when it would have been easier to stop the boat and throw the bastards overboard. Having said so, the following directives will take effect immediately and will remain in force during daylight hours:

- Seriously, no more with the goats. Apart from the obvious, the laundry staff are finding this increasingly tedious, and we do live in a world in which webcams are pervasive. Once is funny, twice is a smile, three times is a spanking.

- "Shuffling the cards" is no longer to be used as a euphemism in the presence of minors. This also applies to related hand-gestures.

- All females below the rank of Princess are to be dressed in obviously feminine attire. Further episodes of confusion, followed by disappointment, then anger, must be kept to a minimum. A good rule of thumb: Anyone hiding behind a curtain should easily be able to hear and/or see a skirt rustling past before they jump out and make the mistake of their week.

- Pulling the covers over anyone's head will cost you fifteen dollars. No exceptions.

- Members of the orthodox rite will remain in clearly marked areas. This will keep everyone honest.

- No pizza on the antlers. No pizza on the antlers. No pizza on the antlers.

Chorizo sausage for lunch?

Was there a time when you were so desperate for attention that you tugged on someone's arm and forced them into a situation in which they were entirely uninterested, or otherwise ill-suited to deal with? Have you abused the good graces of others who were simply tolerating your sad, undeveloped personality and chattered on and on about the minutiae surrounding your personal relationships with half/step-siblings, cousins, or other relations distant enough that no one unlucky enough to show you a moment's kindness should suffer the burden of wasting a second's attention on something that even you don't really give a god-damn about? If this is the sort of tedious turd you are, help is immediately available for a song. That song is a combination of the words "Fuck you, Sunshine" and the melody of your choice, though our staff suggests Gaelic folk ballads for the best match between cadence and rhythm. In addition, there is nothing left in this world to keep you around, so you'd best pick up a hobby or start swimming westward. Knock and maybe they'll let you in?

I saw it, but I didn't believe it until you called

There is much danger involved when you take matters into your own hands. If the matters weren't in your hands to begin with, then they probably weren't intended to be meddled with, and unless your safety was at stake, it's a safe bet that all you've done is caused more complications than were necessary and bruised the soft edges of relationships you didn't deserve, anyway. All those who don't heed the word can sniff my shit.

Things touched cannot be untouched

Everyone can see what I'm doing. Maybe now is not the time to scratch what wants to be scratched nor pick what needs to be picked. This may be the perfect time to scratch and pick, which will demostrate my indifference and/or that I'm oblivious to my observers. If I'm going to scratch and pick and adjust and engage in other Me-time activities, I'd best undertake each task with a little extra flair, if only because it'd be a shame to waste this opportunity to submit my entry for World's Greatest Ball-Shifter, of which my observers are likely to be expert judges. I know that I was born to this world to be very, very good at something, and so far, it sure ain't algebra. From here, Greatness is simply a garden stroll away.

Gathered around the ankles, we fight.

Just don't give me any more of this bunkum about snowmen being harmless. They're racist, plain and simple. What do we do with brown sand? We force it into a castle for the imperial master to destroy at his whim. What do we do with brown dirt? We dig in it and till it and disrupt it until it's too loose from struggle to withstand the force of our fingers, thrusting seeds beneath the surface where they might yield a bountiful harvest - for us. What do we do with white snow? We make it into a fat, smiling, legless man, devoid of purpose except grinning and keeping an eye on all those who inhabit the neighborhood. It looks like a man, so it gets respect and songs sung about it, and sometimes even actual clothing. I've seen as many as three snowmen together on one lawn before, and you know what comes next. I'll bet those bitches own the banks, too.

Blue is still blue, but don't get too cocky about it

I don't think the sunscreen had an awful lot to do with it. I agree that the distinctive scent can sneak around corners and hand anyone with an open nose its bold calling card, but I don't think that alone would be enough to give away both our exact hiding place and/or our identities. For all those kids knew, there was an open bottle of sunscreen somewhere, and when's the last time you got up out of your chair or interrupted anything less urgent than a yawn just to make sure the sunscreen wasn't drying out? Answer: Fucking Never. You don't get a full squad of twelve-year-olds with fixed bayonets charging down a sealed corridor at you based on a whiff of anything, though there may be exceptions to this rule. A warm waft of fresh cinnamon rolls might work. Porkchop sandwiches also come to mind. Upon a moment's review, delicious snacks of many sorts could easily be singled out as the prime agent in provoking violence, had there been any snacks present. Alas, we were miles away from tasty meats and cheeses, and the blame must fall on the most obvious cause: When Fred jumped down out of the rafters and shouted, "You guys are fucked!" His follow-up trick, pointing to the area where the rest of of us were (until now successfully) staying out of sight while adding, "and here's that crew that's gonna do the fuckin'!", simply sealed the deal. Those of you who continue to labor as his apologists should just give this shit up and get happy that he's dead.

Finding you Undelicious

I haven't been knocked, and I haven't been tried. I guess we're even as far as that goes. I would like to hear more about the way you feel about me, and the way you'd like me to feel about you, and the way you'd like me to feel about you, which will require some gesturing. There is hope hiding behind my half-drawn eyes, and I hope you'll hear the hounds hopping in my heart as they howl the hours away with the haunting hymns of huckle-buckle-beanstalk. For all the fumbling of my furtive fingers, you have not yet given the A-OK nor the Hey-No-Way, which leaves me at a crossroads between Go-All-The-Way and Go-Home-and-Munk-in-a-Sock. This is either the twilight zone or the tipping point, and only time will tell, though if I know anything about time, it'll only tell us what we already know (not helpful.) Nothing is certain, but I'm pretty sure that I don't want to leave the room just yet, and there isn't much chance that you will ever find your way out if you haven't started by now.

Quietness, in small drops

i am no longer interested in the machine. the machine is broken. fuck the machine. the machine has no regard for its own success, so the only thing you will get from trying to fix it is a nail through your soul every goddamn time. the machine doesn't need you. the machine needs you. the machine needs you to exist. the machine needs you to want to fix it. the machine will not let you fix it. the machine has been running on empty for so long that it has learned to depend on being empty. any attempt to fill the machine will result in time wasted and disappointment. the machine will not collapse. the machine needs to collapse to prove that it's time to fix the machine. the machine will not be fixed. the machine functions exactly as it is told and will not be fixed. the machine works the way it was designed to. we will never have a new machine. as long as there are lines of earnest people waiting to jump in and save the machine, we will always know which way to point when we mouth the word "Chump."

It's not like you mean to pee on your hand

Ralph managed to pull all of the old stuff off the shelf, so we have a fighting chance of keeping our contribution to this fiasco under wraps. So long as they don't think to go through the itemized receipts of every little old lady in this town from the last twelve years, we can safely play the dumb card for at least another week. This leaves our most pressing problems: A. Coordination of stories (and holy crap, we have NINE people to keep straight), B. Bribing the law (Fred's sister is back in town, so done and done), and C. Obfuscation of incriminating evidence. There's no way guys like us are going to be able to clean up the scene or dispose of anything without leaving nine or ten breadcrumb trails of stupidness back to this doorway, so we'll have to go with the "more is less" approach. From this point on, wash nothing, rinse nothing, and let the trash pile up like it's still November. The more red herrings we can scatter about, the more likely it is that the sherrif will do as he's done a hundred times before, dropping his hat on the ground behind his squad car and stamping it into the mud in frustrated resignation. Meanwhile, you and I will still be here, shrugging our shoulders and eating Ho-Hos. This is the good life.