Tim: This man...he fucked Pedro, the school mascot!
Amish: I did not! You told me-
Tim: Shut the fuck up! Someones takin the fall for it and it aint me!

Man, this was a boring post.

Here: this is the best sammich you will eat, ever.

blackbean burger
wheat bun
pepperjack cheese
circular red onion, 3
green pepper
yellow pepper
red pepper (optional)
tomatos, 3
pickles, 7
ketchup
mustardio

. . .

I am leaving town soon. As part of this mission, I will hunt down, seduce, and then leave old professors in exchange for grad school letters of recommendation. This mission will occupy many months of my life, or at least the bulk of this weekend.

Andy, when I kick Barbara L. out of bed, I will send her your way.

. . .

Ryan, when do you leave work Thursday?

. . .

You should see me. I slept for about three hours last night. I feel awake, but I look like a double zombie--a zombie that dies and then, after some zombie shaman with faint recollections of his previous life waves a rattle over his double corpse, is brought back to the zombie world as a zombie. There are suitcases under my eyes. But my hair looks damn good.

This is what I get for trying to sleep sober.

Here's a flippin post for ya.

Macgyver for President, FUCK YEAH!

That is all, for now...

No posting today??? Bum deal.

Slow

It must be a boring day to post. So I'll post a question and you can all answer it.

What is your favorite wierd smell and why?

Mine include, the smell of tire stores, why? I dunno, just smells good.

Things that are not included on this list, comic book stores. Sweaty nerd never smells good. Ever.

Looters

I can not believe how fucked New Orleans is. The pics are freakin freaktastic. NYT has some good shots on the front page, as do all the major papers.

When I was a kid I hardcore jonesed for a flood in Albia. I thought it'd be badass swimming around the square or boating over to Meagan's house. Of course, all the busted sewer pipes and dead animals and trash . . . that would sort of foul it up.

I just . . . I'm looking for stats on disabled employees, and I found a gov't webpage for "small bus employers." And I was like " . . . is the government like . . . officially calling businesses that employ the disasbled 'Short Bus Employers'? But it turned out to be an abbreve for small business employers. ho ho ho. merry fuckmas.

Uncle Ben is a silly bitch...

I just burnt the shit out of my tongue on one of his godforsaken rice bowls.

And speaking of godforsaken...Illinois.

But honestly, why the fuck would anything require six minutes in a fucking microwave set on high? I pulled this rice bowl out of a freezer at Walgreens, I didn't dig it out of the center of an iceberg. And then they want me to let the thing sit and cool for three minutes???

Why did I get it so fucking hot if I'm only going to let it cool back down?!?

For this reason do I hate cooking. The instructions are always confusing and/or stupid and I always end up cooking something three or four times before I actually get it right. That's not a good success rate. I have to fail four times before I have any hope to succeed. Chefs must have a lot of friggin patience.

It's a good thing landing a plane isn't like cooking, or there would be far fewer pilots.

Greg (a writer I've mentioned here before) got fired yesterday. No one is sure why, but there is a lot of speculation. I personally think it had something to do with his habit of making conversation in the bathroom. That's just creepy.

I picture Greg stepping up to a urinal next to the manager of our department. He glances over and says, "Hello Tom." Tom glances back. "Hi."

Greg continues, "So Tom, I was working on the remitance manual last week and..."

Tom cuts Greg off, "Do you realize that I'm currently in the middle of urinating?"

Greg seems confused, "Yes, and I wanted you to know that I was really excited...well I don't know about really excited but I was hopeful that..."

"You're fired Greg. Get the fuck out of this restroom and clean up your desk, cause you are FUCKING FIRED."

Greg leaves the restroom in a flurry of fly zipping and cursing.

Tom breathes a sigh of relief, "Fucking nutcase tries to talk to me while I'm taking a piss..."

The good news is, if they don't find a replacement by this time next month, I can apply for his old job. I'm not sure I want it, or if they'd even hire me, but it might be worth a shot.

-----------------------------

I swear I've daydreamed this exact same senario: Man 'gang-raped' by three women, at gunpoint.

Sounds like the description of a movie Amish would rent, doesn't it?

It was not inserted orally...

(courtesy 8-Bit Theatre)

Making out with your sister

I got a spam today with the subject line:

In 1972 U2 Real Bad. Limp Bizkit Bikinis Cliff Notes

Here is your quiz: what is the average wage for a carpenter's assistant in Iowa?

Here is your hint: I made it up.

Carol is moving to West Des Moines. Yes. I have offered to tour her around all the hip hangouts I visit with my hip and secret friends during our hip and secret meetings. Yes, those friends are better than you.

Wes—you had expressed interest in a sort of random trip up here during this week. Still interested? Because I and my apartment are at your disposal. That offer does not stand for Amish. If Amish comes here I will slap him hard, in his slut mouth. But then I will hug him, and maybe buy him a breadstick.
Alyssa and I are often told we look like siblings. When we were still together, the plan was that next time it happened, we sould say something like "Yeah . . . but Mom doesn't know." And grin and start making out. Man, that would have been awesome.

Wake me up when September ends...

Thanx everyone who took part in the follies and supported us.

This does not inclue Novo or Cricket, you fucks. Especially Cricket. Novo I can understand missing the follies because custodial arts are hard and time consuming. But Cricket?! What were you doing? We called you and you sounded bored. Well, actually, Cthulhu (sic) called you but you couldnt hear him over the bar. You made Baby Jesus spit up all over the Virgin Mary.

Train riding is fun. I should do it again and again instead of driving.

No one dies a virgin, Life screws us all. - Michael J. Trent

I may have posted this before, I don't remember. If so, enjoy reading it again.

The following is an actual question given on a University of Washington engineering mid-term.
The answer was so "profound" that the Professor shared it with colleagues, and the sharing obviously hasn't ceased...

Bonus Question: Is Hell exothermic (gives off heat) or Endothermic (absorbs heat)?

Most of the students wrote Proofs of their beliefs using Boyle's Law, (gas cools off when it expands and heats when it is compressed) or some variant. One student, however, wrote the following:

"First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time. So we need to know the rate that souls are moving into Hell and the rate they are leaving. I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, it will not leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving. As for how many souls are entering Hell, let us look at the different religions that exist in the world today. Some of these religions state that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to Hell. Since there are more than one of these religions and since people do not belong to more than one religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell. With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to increase exponentially. Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle's Law states that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell has to expand as souls are added. This gives two possibilities: 1. If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell breaks loose. 2. Of course, if Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell freezes over. So which is it? If we accept the postulate given to me by Teresa Banyan during my Freshman year, "...that it will be a cold day in Hell before I sleep with you.", and take into account the fact that I still have not succeeded in having sexual relations with her, then, #2 cannot be true, and thus I am sure that Hell is exothermic and will not freeze."

This student received the only A.

The Chupacabra....caught?

This morning I was listening to Lazer 103.3 and in between Mancow and music there was a news brief that mentioned a robbery on the south side. I wasn't really paying close attention but I could have swore they said it was a south side U.S. Cellular store. Ryan, have you heard anything?

This weekend's follies were a success. In fact, I was surprised at how much everyone seemed to enjoy our performance. Further proof of our awesomeness. As if any further proof was needed.


At age 4 success is not peeing in your pants.
At age 12 success is having friends.
At age 16 success is having a drivers license.
At age 20 success is having sex.
At age 35 success is having money.
At age 50 success is having money.
At age 60 success is having sex.
At age 70 success is having a drivers license.
At age 75 success is having friends.
At age 80 success is not peeing in your pants.

Manha Manha

-stark open. person sitting on a bench-
"Manha Manha" Extreme close up that stutters back to a full shot from the 4 beats of man-ha man-ha.

*do doo-dee doo-do* Person continues to sit, shot now shows whole person, bench. Wide shot. Little movement.

*Manha Manha* Stutters back to the extreme closeup.

*do doo-doo do* Person looks around, crazy closeup madness.

*Manha Manha* Stutters to wide shot again.

*third do doo-dee doo* Person continues to sit.

*Manha Manha* In pops antagonist! Cartwheels into scene? Pops out at the end of the Manha's

*doo bit* BenchBoy not sure what he saw, looks around hesitantly, not wanting to look nuts.

*Manha Manha* Popper pops back in dancing for a few seconds.

*doo bit* BenchBoy scoots to another side of the bench, shocked. Looks at air, maybe rubs eyes.

*Manha Manha* Popper pops in, drumming on benchBoy's head.

*bit* Benchboy really freaked. Stands, looks behind.

*Manha* Popper comes in, does something of the following:
Jumping off the bench
pantsing benchboy
slugging benchboy
kicking him in the crotch
giving him flowers
dumping a bucket of water on benchboy
throwing confetti
etc.

Finally should come to a conclusion where benchboy gets ahold of Popper and starts strangling him, then Benchboy dissapears and Popper walks off camera.

Thoughts? Mind you, not all of these will be used as it's only meant to be 60 seconds long. The joke would get sickening after much more than that. I just want options.

Whale Riders

JOHNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!

That Granta in your bathroom—I have decided that I must have it. Actually, that I must have part of it—so do not put it in the wood chipper yet. I must have the James Joyce interview at the end, because it is all fucked up, and about the weird dream language in Finnegan's Wake.

Also he talks about sexing the hell out of your mom.

Ooooooh!

If any of you crave the picaresque life of a professional tree trimmer, I have just completed a full occupational report on the subject.

For anyone who knows Grant Tracey--last night it was discovered that I am turning into Grant Tracey--unkempt hair, black glasses, going to collect an MFA. Hopefully I will not write sort-of boring literary fiction for the rest of my days.

Projects and You: How We'll Win the Space Race!

I need bodies. Preferably you guys, and preferably live.

I have a video project that, with the recent follies, requires just such insanity and acting skill.

The project is an artsy music video, and I'm torn between three songs. (strangely enough, all Cake songs)

We have: Comfort Eagle: Concept for this is two of you in leisure suits (think Cordova) determined to get somewhere, strutting down the street, shoving people out of the way in time to the music. Where are you going? Why did you shove old widow Hamistra into that passing bus? I still need an ending as well as a few sight gags.

Shadow Stabbing: I refuse to actually use a typewriter at any point of this. For some reason this one brings up images of travel. Searching. Needs fleshing out or abandonment. We'll see where I go with it.

Manha Manha (think muppets): Early in the song it goes from silent to light and goofy for brief moments. I was thinking have scenes of peace, or mundane daily happenings (people at a bus stop for instance) and then have, say, goat go cartwheeling through with squirrels taped to his ankles. Something like that. As I flesh these out I'll know what I need. Hopefully by tomorrow.

Thoughts? Desire to take part? Desire to smack me for such stupid ideas?

Chocolate-covered cherries.

So, I'm a limo driver now, right?
I drive people around from place to place to place. Yay. Thus far, I've driven a bunch of coorperate bigwigs, Dan Quayle, Bruce Springsteen, and Jimmy Buffet.
Fun stuff.
I wear nice clothes and greet people with a polite smile and a terse nod, introducing myself cordially, opening doors and hefting baggage.

But all is not sunshine and snowpeas in this world of mine.
No. There is a dark side, and a sinister thing it is indeed.

I also double as a taxi driver.
Which can be fun. Drunks are funny as hell sometimes. Especially when they can't remember where they live.
I get to mess with people in ways I never thought possible.

But all that changed, one fateful night....
I get a call to pick some lady up at one of many local taverns. This one's called "Suds 'N Grub." It's about nine feet wide and fifty feet to the back wall. A straight shot of nothing but bar.
It's some lady's birthday.
She's too drunk to stand upright.
It takes two of us to get her to the taxi. Some guy she was drinking with hands me a $20 and tells me where she lives. She sure as fuck don't know.
I start driving. She comments on various things that only make sense in the mind of a drunk. Calls herself Ol' Suze. She's part Navajo. About the size and proportion of Paris Hilton, but old and wrinkley. Smells like she grew up in a moonshine still. And today, she tells me over and over, is her birthday.

So. I drive her home. It's a few miles from the pub. She learns my name several times, and tells me I'm purdy. I smile politely and keep driving.
We arrive to her trailer.
I get out, and go around to open her door. Lord knows, she can't.
She spills out onto me. Laughs in my face causing my cordial smile to melt from the flammable fumes that issue forth from a relatively toothless maw.

I help her to her door, as she can't exactly walk on her lonesome, and I'd feel kinda bad leaving her sprawled out in the gravel drive, crawling to her tincan.
So I help her.
Door's open when we get there.
She pries herself in through the doorway and promptly begins to swear in no less than three different languages; English, Drunk, and Something Like Mexican.
Someone had stolen her stuff.

She sinks to her knees on the floor, babbling about her pa's chair, and her television and her ma's coffee table and her bed and...
it goes on a bit.

I hear a noise outside.
Glance out the door.
There's some scraggly-looking bloke hiding in the bushes by the stairs, barely keeping his balance. Looks like he's drunk too.
She notices me looking at something and asks me what.
I mention there's a gent in her shrubbery.
She goes to get her shotgun.

Holeee sheot.

At this point, what happened is kind of a blur of fuzziness and uncalculated manouvres. I got the gun from her somehow. Threw it to the ground and proceeded to stand on it. Her tiny little self found it impossible to move my six-foot, quasi-viking frame, so she proceeded to scream at me and beat on me with drunken little fists.
The gent in the bushes also started yelling.
Neither made sense.
I whipped out the cell and called the cops.

It seemed to take them forever and a day or two to get there.
Afterwards, I was stuck answerign questions for about an hour.
Went home.
Caught the end of Titus with my roomies.
Took a hot bath and treated myself to some of Mr. Russell Stovers' chocolate covered cherries.

For Dave or anyone else in Albia

Wellsy, if you read this: you know you're hungry and broke. You know you've been eating earthworms the rain has dredged up. Come to my parents' house tonight for dinner. Do it. Do it. Do it.

That applies to goathead or anyone else. Except for Ryan. Because we don't allow the illiterate in our home. YOU FUCKING ILLITERATE BASTARD!

A tale of aquariums, apocolyse, and the really gross.

Dream time kiddies.

It starts out at as a historical account of monorails. Why? I have no idea. It was playing out like a documentary. When it got to the coolest monorail in known history. One at an aquarium that rode more like a rollercoaster. I was riding around on that for awhile, watched the fish, sharks, people. When I left, I ended up in this library-type building. Old, huge, filled with books and people hunting for specific volumes.

More wandering, and I leave. I've taken a backseat, in a stationwagon. An old one. I'm not me anymore either. Towns seem emptier. Everything is grittier. I'm a child traveling with a family, presumably one of their children.

The rest is far to wierd and gory -too much detail, thanks brain- The end.

Merry Triple Xmas, Master Shake

Wellllllllllllll, my dad bought a projector. What this means is that maybe we should meet at my place pre-show, and maybe Ryan should bring his Xbox. That's what that means. I'm leaving from work, so am unable :( To return home, that is. Ho ho ho! Merry Xmas.

Hot Groupy Action . . . or Blackened Grouper Action

Last night: Where the hell were the groupies?! Listen: if you're a groupy and you're afraid that our show is so good that it will kill you . . . then you're probably right. But that should not stop you from coming out, throwing your underpants onstage, screaming loudly into the ear of the old man in front of you, and finally storming the dressing room and carrying us all away to your hut of bliss.

Admittedly, since I left town immediately after the Police Reports, I may have missed out on the hot groupy action.

Today's research request is, paraphrased: My client is on the offenders list for child abuse. But she's never abused an adult. Can she work as a private nurse with the elderly? To which the answer is, of course: of course. We hate the elderly ourselves.

Best line from last night's show:

DAVE: I'm a toast-making robot . . . made out of cardboard boxes. I rode a train from Denver for this?

HOLY HELL! This is what happened yesterday: I stopped at Target to get an auto car charger. Doop e dooo, walkin through target, walkin through Target SWEET LORD! There was a nipples-high display of Pitch Black. Only it wasn't Pitch Black; it was Pitch Black II, the Sequel. WIth a Sour Bite.

And it was cheap. I like the old pitch black better, but wes seemed to think the new sour version was superior.

I guess this year's show has proven that any man dressed in a bra or a dress will provide a better laugh than any dialogue we write. Nards.

Ayn is coming with a knife.

In Wartburg's 'request information--other' field, i just wrote

Can you send a course catalog? This is what we crave. We crave it. We crave it hard.

Now: will they send it? i think they will! Ah ha ha ha ha! MWA ha ha ha ha!

Ayn is coming.

With a knife.

My Dumb Job

I've been asked, among other things, to find out if you need to have a BA before you can enroll in med school. "Is that really necessary? And who pays for it?"

Beh.

Follies and Birds (black)

Here are all the police reports that Dave and I have posted, minus the crapola ones. Well, minus some of the crapola ones. Some of these will need some heavyass goofiness from Dave and Andy. Heavyass. This is the order I'll read in, unless there are objections or bribes.

If we can find the Clive police report for Andy stealing leather chairs from a bar's dumpster, we'll use that too.

Andy: Don't forget your Connery getup, your pill bottle. We'll get hot tamales or something to fill it up with. Or actual viagra capsules. That'd be awesome. In a my-penis-is-bursting-all-over-the-stage kind of way.

Dave: . . . I hope you are still alive. If so, get that robot exoskeleton. And get in the nay sayin mood.

Tim: Don’t forget a BIG box of condoms for the groupies.

Ryan: . . . you better memorize your lines and cues, boy. By God, you better. Illiteracy is no excuse.

I'll be leaving from work at 4:30, which should put me in Albia around six. Can anyone get the robot suit from Grt's prior to rehearsal/the show? and where are we meeting to practice at 6:30? My place? Don't be late! Because we desperately, desperately need to go over this at least once. Should we have an emergency word to trigger the ending in case of major script memory breakdown?

Oh: Rominger is unavailable. This means----we're fucked for an Amish part. Unless WES wants to do it.

WES.

Here:

A person advised that there was ababy raccoon with a bunch of kids around it. The raccoon was removed.

A caller reported a subject was slumped over in a vehicle. An officer checked and the subject was working on the car.

A person called about a male that threw a bottle down and broke it all over.

A caller reported that a deer jumped through his windshield.

A person reported her child was out riding a bicycle and came across a male subject lying on the ground by a local church. Officers arrested a man for public intoxication, possession of a controlled substance and possession of drug paraphernalia.

An officer was flagged down by a person who reported seeing a dead bird in an alley and was concerned about West Nile virus.

A citizen called to advise of a dog disrupting a yard sale.

A citizen reported that there was a car that was on the detour road and a male subject was holding down a female subject. Officers responded and reported that they were tickling each other and then they were pushing the car back to town as they were out of gas.

Library employee called to report a man acting strangely (in the fiction section.)

A person reported that someone had thrown his mail on the ground and stolen his mailbox.

An individual called from a local business to advise his girlfriend had called her mother who has called ID, and now her family knows where she is. Caller said that her brothers were there knocking on doors and there were six men with guns at the mother's house. [I don't know about this one . . .]
An individual came to the law center in reference to someone throwing cherries at them. They did not want to press charges.

A person called about a car that was sitting in front of a local residence. A girl in the car was yelling into a phone. An officer stopped the vehicle and found that everything was okay.
A citizen reported that smoke was coming out of her neighbor's apartment. An officer responded, along with the fire and ambulance crews and reported that her neighbor had burnt her toast.

An individual reported a ferrett was at her house. Animal control responded and took the animal to the clinic.

A citizen called in reference to someone putting a Christmas tree on his lawn. He advised that he is allergic to them and he has a fake one.
A caller reported two people going through a dumpster. Last time they did this, they left trash all over the place.

Fuck. Dave, you're right.

Concerning the Presence of a Robot Costume in Gertonia, the King of Gertonia writes:

tim unfortunately u shall be the one that will be fed to the pigs for david is correct. well alas i must make haste with the typing cause there seems to be a very large group of people that have come to throw thier cell phones at me so i must defend myself. farewell tim and dont forget to tell sally i love her.... and tell little jimmy that he can do anything u put ur mind to...... and baby sarah tell her that daddy is not gone just away.....

But I think it should be andy in the robot suit, instead of a santa suit...because we have no santa suit.

Need. Game. Now!

I'll get to the game in a moment.

I was leaving Design this afternoon. At the beginning of the year, the marching band practices in the field right outside. I'm putting my earplugs in and I hear the director yelling, "Get ready, Halo, Halo, then Super Mario Brothers!"

Did he say: Halo? Thankfully he repeats himself and as I walk to the bus stop, they start playing the action music from halo. I damn near cried with joy. First the Imperial March, now Halo music. Beautiful. the bus came before I heard anything mario related though.

Now to the game:


Brains!

We have to wait till october for this. And the best part: they're making it for the mac too! *dances*

More Transportation anyone?

Happily I had a strange dream last night. Yes, happily.

I dreamt I found this device that would make me phase away and transport somewhere else. I was transporting all over the place till I somehow ended up in some montana railhead. sleepy town with a lot of trains. Not really knowing how to use the device I tried to get myself somewhere more exciting. I ended up on the freeway of some big city. Exciting, but not what I was hoping for.

Government Cover-up, Not Involving the Dreaded Bee-Men

As I walked to the water fountain just now, I could have sworn one of the secretaries blurted out, very cheerily, "J. Allen Hynek!" And since this is a government building, that's obvious proof that the UFO crash in Roswell was real, Project Blue Book is still active, and Hynek has been kept alive using unnatural technology harvested from crashed extraterrestrial crafts.

Sake!

A way-too-long article on Sake. I'm not sure if LA Times requires a sub for their front page articles.

This is for all the lonely people, especially those who kill for fun.

Whoa! Calm the fuck down! You: come over here. Yes. Good.

Here is a story about brutally murdering an entire family with an axe.

This is going to gross you out, but . . . well, never mind.

Never mind.

Well, okay. You can highlight it if you want to read it. Once when I was drunk I made this note to myself like: you know what would be a really fucked up serial killer? One who had been scorned by the women of a certain family, and who was immortal, and would like . . . take a leg or arm or whatever from a female member of each generation of this particular family, preserve it, and then, centuries later, sew all the parts together. That would be disgusting. It would be a bizarro sexdoll. Or maybe he could revivify the body into a sort of zombie bride.

Tonight's Follies practice: 9 pm? Goatranch? Will Andy and Snake both be in attendance?

Who was going to give dave the spare black clothes? I can not remember this.

Hopefully I will find a yellow shirt at goodwill.

Tim's dinosaur is the Retardawhorus Rexalot

Tim, I know you have as much patience to read the last week of blog posts as I do with playing the NES rom of M.U.L.E. So to recap what Ive said:

1) I am going to be home THURSDAY MORNING @ 730am (well...in Ottumwa) So We will HAVE TO PRACTICE THAT EVENING ASA-Fucking-P. 630ish?

2) Paxton said he has all the costumes. I will shoot him one more letter just to clarify that. We might have to aquire the bottle, the bra, and the bludgering tool (my money should be on Amish's big fucking wrench)

3) Paxton aint gettin no fucking script ;) Ill send him off a copy tonite with the confirmation.

4) POLICE REPORTS? They must be like Bigfoot: only a few eye witnesses and no real proof besides the audio tapes. Dont worry, he does exist.

5) Paxton wanted us to be in Albia tomorrow nite so we could at least get our Berring Straight (hahah what a well hidden pun). We dont have to be there, but he wants us. Like asian children. PLEASE DO PRACTICE TOMORROW NITE!!!

I promise next year we will take a break from the Follies. Its a real hassle now we're all grown up.

The Follies!

1) Dave: where are you? Tomorrow I'll review the blog for old information, but for now I'm too lazy. And I have no idea where you are!

2) Did someone say we need to be in Albia tomorrow (Wednesday) night for rehearsal? I am pretty sure that someone said this. However, most of us can not make it; it would be Dave and, reluctantly, me up on stage. So we're going to rehearse up here tomorrow night instead. Ha. Ha! Dave--if you're in Albia and your name isDave, maybe you could print the script for Pax?

3) Dammit, I was supposed to put up police reports. Balls. Here:

An individual called from a local business to advise his girlfriend had called her mother who has called ID, and now her family knows where she is. Caller said that her brothers were there knocking on doors and there were six men with guns at the mother's house.

A person called in reference to a cat that was in her yard.

A person called in reference to hearing noises and there was supposed to be no one there.

More tomorrow.

Costumes: If you're in the show and have these items, let us know:

1) A red bra.

2) A yellow sweatshirt.

3) Electrical tape.

4) A bathrobe.

5) An empty pill bottle.

6) Really weird clothes for Amish.

7) Something to serve as a beating device. A funnoodle? A large cardboard tube?

Simply Hilarious

Quickly! We must all go out and buy the iPod flea!

Hurry! We're in serious danger of being uncool if we don't!

Stobor

Ryan's posted article on robots taking over reminded me of something.
Not too long ago, I was privledged enough to drive Dr. Calixto of Brazillain/Canadian origens (don't ask) to what was essentially a convention of people with lots of cool letters after their names.
The thing was mostly on the blending of computers and biological...stuff.
He used a really big word to describe it. I can't remember it now, 'cause I'm dumb.

Anywho, he mentioned meeting a little Japanese dude who happened to be the God of All Things even Remotely Technological in All of Japan. Everything from shovels to butt-massaging, ass-cleaning toilets.
This man came with a robot.
It was a concept for a security device. It's roughly the size and shape of your standard beagle.
It scans it's assigned area, using all kinds of specialized scanning equipment.
If it happens to locate somone or something that's not supposed to be there, it chases it down.
An internal camera starts to run.
The security portion of the divice kicks in.
It begins to bark at the intruder.
In theory, it's supposed to intimidate them, chase them down, corner them, get all kinds of pictures, and thus have a) the infiltrator captured for the police to haul off and b) video evidence of the person trying to break in.
The video they showed was hilarious.
A little Japanese guy in a ski mask was "sneaking" into a yard.
Teh robot discovers this. Goes on Security mode and begins to bark and chase the man.
The man walks across the lawn to a corner, sits down, and takes his ski mask off.

Maybe their criminals are different in Japan.
If so, I'm rather disillusioned. I never thought of Ninjas to be such push-overs.
Anywho...pansy ninjas aside, the contraption costs about as much as a new Benz. It's not quite ready for market yet, but when it is, you can count on seeing it in pawn shops with a hefty pricetag and maybe some busted-out camera consoles.

Dr. Calixto also pointed out something else of interest.
Back in the day, there was this Native American wench by name of Chipeta. She did lots of good stuff for the Utes, apparently. There are many memorials and stuff here to commemorate her.
Chipeta museums, Chipeta lake, Chipeta Rd. Chipeta Memorial...etc...
"Chipeta" he said, with a bemused smirk, means "blowjob" in Portuguese.

Unmentionable Incidents and a Lapse into Solipsism

Boy, that incident sucked. I mean, it would suck, if it had happened. Thank God nothing that unmentionable ever happened. Or that incident-like.

Perversely, this may now be my favorite part of the Follies: the part where Amish comes out onstage and stares blankly into the crowd while trying to remember his lines. Or, actually, it's just knowing that that moment is coming. This isn't an insult—he's not as illiterate as ryan, even if he is too good to read the blog. It's just so fucking funny to remember the Irish Wake, and Amish with that notebook piece of paper barely hidden behind a Bible, and the "Episcop—Epistopol—Epistolaryan—Epis—Episqua—"

We need an Amish standin for the first two nights and I have failed to call Rominger. Obviously, I also failed to post police reports. I am a big failure. A big one. A fucking big failure! If you need some envelopes mailed on time, do not call me. If your wife is going into labor and you are holed up in a squalid mud-and-thatch political prison cell somewhere deep in a Romanian forest, and you expect me to remember to stay sober so I can drive your wife to the hospital, then I am not your man.

In Cedar Falls, I told Sarah about the newfound popularity of dollar-bin ancient beers here, spearheaded by Goathead. The tastes of the 70s. And she laughed and was like, "Like Old Style?" And I was like "Ha ha ha! Actually, that's exactly right."

That story is funny in my head. Where it counts. Where all of you live. Because you're all figments of my imagination, right? Right. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Now get naked.

Let me say one more thing about the Follies: if I ever get back on that stage after this year, it will only be because Dave Paxton has agreed to let Undead Presidents perform. And that includes the stovepipe hat that shoots roadkill entrails and stillborn cat embryos into the crowd. It also includes Kevin, nude with white hair, as Streakin General Washington (or me: Streakin Abe Linkin? It rhymes!). And a girl has to dress up as Betsy Ross and have sex with a mountain lion on a bed sheathed in the American flag that is suspended from the ceiling and twirls around, over the crowd.

This just in, from an email between me and DHS. I've written to them before about their fucktarded website with its broken links and jacked up blank pages.

Me: Do you have a telephone number? I can’t find oine anywhere on the site, unless I want to report child abuse. The Contacts button still summons a blank page.

Them: To report child abuse you may call 1/800-362-2178 or the local Department of Human Services Office in the county where the alleged abuse took place.

Fuck!

John?

I can't remember who kept talking about the speed of light Saturday, but here's an article.

I would like to wake up in a public place, on the grass, just after dawn.

Alyssa notices that I have not blogged yet today. Actually I didblog, but then I unblogged. What I blogged was the photo of Garrett at left, as well as a not-really-humorous story about getting spam email that looked like this:

FROM: Heather

SUBJECT: Add inches to your girth!

and wondering, for a few stupid seconds, why Heather would desire more girth in the world. But of course it was not Heather of HP fame; at least, I don't think it was.

Have you ever heard the Theory of Everything? It's a usually good radio show/podcast. By usually good, I mean that it's entertaining, and may make you think. But there's a lot of pathos in those podcasts. They will make you angsty. The most memorable episode is this phone interview that's maybe 15 minutes long. It's mostly this young woman rambling, with music in the background, about how she used to work as a low-level intern for a government affiliate that catalogued satellite photos from space, and about how she used to be in love with this guy in a tiny band but is sure that they'll be reunited, even after five years apart, because of a dream she had. And the whole time this melancholy/freaky electronic music plays in the background.

"Living in the Moment" and "Grant Application" are both good episodes.

If you listen, tell me if you think the guy's voice is weird as hell.

The MS Office paperclip is giving me these long looks today. He's even more amorous than usual.

*wants to beat head on desk repeatedly*

Shelving of DOOM

First day of a new semester.

I have an office now. I had to paint it, clean it, organize it. And in return I got two things: shelving that has amazing aim, digging a nice bloody spot on my wrist, and freshmen who don't realize that the advisor's office I now reside in, is up a floor (neon signs apparently aren't good enough). One particular pair at least saw the signs, and then griped about having to drudge up a whole floor. I laughed on the inside. Why? Cause when the bears get hungry, they're the ones they'll catch. That's why I take the stairs, I'll be able to outrun the bear food.

In other news, I have become Mountain Cricket, fuzzy faced geek and part time lumberjack. Okay, so less lumberjack and more result of a long weekend that I just got shave lazy.

Blargh.

I purchased a Dictionary/Thesaurus the other day.
Apparently, according to the friendly people at Nichols Publishing, there is no other word that can be used instead of "event."
I got mad at the book. It now supports the kitchen-table leg that's too short.

Not sure why I told y'all that.

Going to D-Con again this year.
Yay me.
I'll come back with stories and photos that nuny'all be interested in.
But I'll show and tell anyway.
I'll participate in a long-weekend of drunken debauchery and parties and malnourishment, sleep depraivation, and otherwise raucous fun.
I've done this before.
And every time I do, I come back a little wiser, a little thinner, and a little more nerdy.
Last year, I swapped stories with fellow-nerds, hung out with the likes of David Carradine, Ray Parks, Ernie Hudson, and James Marsters. I played card games with a guy I know only as "Poopshoot."
I fell in love with a Ceylon, then had my heart broke (They are evil, after all.) I was abducted by COBRA elite and interrogated. I was shot down in cold, calculative blood by a Predator, and nealry molested by a Nazgul.

I can't wait to go back.

Here...take this. Its called a Chrono Trigger.

Hootinannny. Did you realize that 10 years ago today Chrono Trigger was released?

And over a year ago Square Enix pulled the plug on a fan-made 3d version of the game? Check it out. Chrono Trigger Ressurection.

Damn corporate bastards. Why didnt they just...buy it off them? Thats how Ms. Pacman came to be. Namco caught MIT people remakin pacman and told em to make the game. Fucking Squenix.

Insert directly into the urethra

Awesome.

For Yran.


. . .

I'm probably staying in tonight, but juuuuust in case I don't: anything happening? Last week Ryan called me once I got back to Ankeny and told me to drive back to West Des Moines. Terrible!

. . .

Everyone! Memorize your lines!

. . .

Cricket: how was the voice acting? Did it turn out to be a porn shoot? That's what I thought.

. . .

From a report I'm writing:

Drugs for treating ED can be taken orally, injected directly into the penis, or inserted into the urethra at the tip of the penis.

Good Lord!

I'm gonna go pass out now.

Devil Ether --or-- How I Yet Live, Despite a Brief Disappearance and Two Hours of Sleep

John and I rented a 20-foot red convertible, filled the trunk with pills and two pints of devil ether, and drove across Iowa. We swallowed those candies like M&M's, man. John was swirling aroiund in the passenger seat, screaming at unseen Roman hordes, while I stared down the road through my two fists and swallowed 21, 22, 23 beers. We crashed through Christine's kitchen, rolled through the hallway wall, stopped after spearing the couch, and then the floor gave way and we plunged into Christine's basement bedroom, convertible and all. Her turtle did not survive.

And then we got up at six and drove back.

Dave, take comfort in this thought: we have not practiced for the Follies at all. Also, take comfort in this: Amish might not even be available until Saturday. This means I need to call Rominger.

The police reports: I like the ones you put online. I have some more in my trunk; I'll try to put them up tonight.

If everything fails, this could be the year you finally take your dump onstage.

I will spend the next few days memorizing my lines at work. Everyone: we're supposed to do this Wednesday for Pax, right? Andy, can you make it? Ryan? Ryan, do you even have Thursday night/Friday night/Saturday night off?

Fucking Follies! Next year I'm going to be out of the state, under an assumed name. I'm not even telling anyone what grad school I ship off to until after the show.

Do not forget the wisdom of Michelle's mother: the Follies are a sinful celebration of ignorance thinly disguised as wholesome community entertainment.

. . .

I have advised Wes that if anyone mocks his newly shorn skull, he should look dejectedly down and mutter something about trying to get a headstart on what the chemo will do. At which point Amish will pop around the corner, point at whoever administered the mockery, and yell, "Asshole!"

Speaking of Wes and Amish and the sweet sweet picture their intertwined and nude bodies makes: I forgot to print a script for Amish. Not that it matters, since he can't fucking be in the show until Saturday. But would you mind printing him one? Assuming you're going to see him sometime soon?

Book Idea: When Geeks Get Married, a study of geek-themed weddings.

I had a book idea based on a google image search I just did. The search was "star wars weddings" and the results were....scary.

observe.




That little girl is like, "WTF is this? I wanted a cute little boy to be ring bearer with me. I was going to kiss him on the cheek when we were alone under the dinner table. And they give me a fucking robot!?! I didn't sign up for this shit."

Where is Tim?

Tim, you didn't die on me did you? You crazy bastard.

Last night was Summerslam! I think. I'm not sure which wrestling event it was, actually. There are so many anymore. It was great, whatever it was called. I haven't watched wrestling in over a year so I had no idea what was going on, but I had Kevin sitting next to me filling me in.

I got there late so I missed a couple of the matches, but the one's I saw were all cool. The Hogan/Shawn Michals match was particularly entertaining. That was all due to Kevin's commentary though.

Toward the end Kevin predicted every move Hogan made. "Oh, he's gonna get up and shake his head. Now he's going to get punched. Michals is about to get a finger pointed at him. Oh! There's the finger. Now he's going to block a punch. Oh, and then return punches. That's right, now throw him into the other rope and kick him on his way back! That's right. Now drop the leg on his trachea. It's a tracheotomy!"

Then when it was over he even predicted the Hogan/Michals handshake. It was amazing. Kevin is a wrestling wizard. He commands the figures on the tv to do his bidding.

If anyone sees Tim, give him a message for me:

Heartache is a bitch. But you know what's worse? Catching fire while barbequeing drunk.

It's no contest.

My name is Gato; I have metal joints. Beat me up and earn 15 silver points!

FOLLIES FOLK: Have you all been practicing? I have! Please say you have been! This would mean having to teach Ryan to read something besides his heathen eighties comic book writings. Also, what police reports did we decide on? I sent Andy/Tim memos on what ones I thought would work...

I have 5 boxes of mac & cheese, 2 complete sets of spagetti, and a shit ton of rice.
I hate being broke.

Tim, put on your shirt

I'm going to watch Boggy Creek in Martin's basement sometime after 8:00pm.

Anyone who wishes is free to join me.

Be there, or be SQUARE, motherfuckers.

......

My fucking shift key is broken. Shit sucks.

Sooo busy. So damn busy.

This is the first time all week I haven’t had a stack of twelve folders sitting on my desk screaming at me, “Edit me you lazy bastard!”

Yesterday, fueled on free soda and a sincere desire to impress the manuals people, I burnt through the stack of folders like a propane torch through the flesh of a rhino. It was slow, tedious, and very stinky, but I was so glad when it was over. Now I’m lounging around my cube eating plums surfing the net.

The typists aren’t so happy about my vigorous work because now they are stuck with the rhino and they only have a book of matches. Silly bitches.

Since I’ve been so busy I haven’t really had a chance to post about anything that’s been happening lately and there has been some cool shit going down. I won’t be able to relate all of the kickassery, but I might throw one nugget of coolness at you.

Cause I’m mining a whole mountain of coolness, baby. That’s right.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Strippers and Seventies Chairs

Sunday nights are stripper nights. I can’t talk about the details cause its kind of a secret and we don’t want to scare the strippers away by allowing Amish to find out where they’re hiding. He’d flush them out like a fox in a whorehouse...err...hen house.

Anyway.

Ryan and I stumbled into the secret stripper den a few weeks ago and we’ve been going back ever since. It’s been pretty damn amusing. There are typically between five or fifteen off-duty strippers at this bar, and strippers are like cops: they’re never really off duty. Cops always want to hassle you, and strippers always want to get freaky and naked.

Last Sunday I really wasn’t feeling the stripper vibe, so I left early. It was a nice night and the bar isn’t too far from where we live, so we had walked there. On my way home I passed a dumpster where three nice leather chairs were sitting. Three fucking leather chairs! I was thinking, “Who would throw away three perfectly good leather chairs?” So, being the un-wasteful fellow that I am, I decided I would recycle these nice chairs.

The chairs were sort of a retro seventies style, armless kitchen chair with a metal base and even though they weren’t as—say—Ryan’s TV, they weren’t very light either. Each probably weighted about fifteen or twenty pounds. That wouldn’t have been a big deal if I only planned to take one, but I was looking for the big score and in my slightly drunken state I thought I might be able to pull it off.

After a lot of struggling and positioning I decided that two was all I was going to be able to manage without the aid of a wheelbarrow or a pack mule. So I half carried, half drug these two chairs four blocks back to our apartment. These were seriously the most unwieldy sons-of-bitches I could’ve imagined trying to carry. I kept considering dropping one and coming back for it later, but I was like a soldier carrying two of his wounded buddies—I was leaving no man behind, even if it meant one chair hoisted over my shoulder smashing my face, while the other hung at my side smacking me in the ass with every step.

I tried to avoid the sidewalks since the scene might spark the curiosity of anyone who happened to see me, so I cut through backyards and empty lots. That probably wasn’t a good idea either, because midway into my trek I saw two police cruisers drive up the road in front of me. One stopped, backed up, looked at me for a moment and then went on. The other stopped and the cop got out of his car and waited for me to slowly trudge my ass to the street. Well, there was no way in hell that I was going to drag those chairs to the street if he was just going to make me drag them all the way back to the dumpster, so I dropped the chairs and walked up to the cop.

It didn’t occur to me until he took my ID and radioed it into the dispatcher that I was probably drunk enough to be taken in for public intox. Suddenly the chairs were the least of my worries.

Luckily, after he determined that I wasn’t wanted for anything more serious than dumpster diving, he let me go and told me, “In the future, you might want to ask the owner of the business before you take their garbage.” Yeah, I’ll try and do that officer. I’m sure they would appreciate a 1 a.m. call from some drunk wandering back from the bar, “Hey man, can I have those leather chairs you threw away?”

So I finished lugging those fucking chairs the rest of the way to my apartment. I briefly considered jumping in my car and going back for the third, but it was getting late and I felt like I had just got done competing in a piano throwing contest, so I called it a night.

The next morning my arms were covered in bruises and my legs were a little sore, but it was all worth it to see those beat up old leather chairs sitting around my kitchen table. Free furniture is the best furniture.

The chairs go great with the Old Style, too. Now I can drink the seventies while I’m sitting in the seventies! Now if only I could find a bed from the seventies, and a woman in her seventies...oh yeah.

Call it "Love Theme of Boggy Creek" or call it "Shit Sandwich"

Boggy Creek review. True story.

So, Paxton wants to see what we got on Wednesday. Pffft. Like thats goin to happen. He has the "Irishmen Skit" in Act 1 (or as I call it, The Trains from the Slums) and our usual Police Report spot in Act II (also known as Auschwitz ...sic.) Hilarity ensues. Im expecting this reaction from most of Albia.

Someone must pay!

i'm in design on a computer with a sticky shift key. I walk over to the cafe and the atm to find the space empty except for a little note on college of design stationary. the atm was not just removed for maintence, upgrades, or just being naughty. it was fucking stolen! who the fuck does that?

granted, the building is open 24 hours a day and at night this place is dead. but what level of stupidity do both sides have to not have the thing bolted into the wall? this shocked me as there are no indication that anything criminal even happened there. because of these stupid fucks i almost starved to death. that's right, death.

i hope they enjoy their paultry hundreds, because tonight i'm cursing their asses with faulty internal plumbing.

-

i'm overhearing the story, whoever got it, took it during a power outage. got away with it, but they found it in a ditch, beat up, but not cracked. hah, fucker didn't even get his paultry money. he's still getting a leaky bum.

-

so, fun in ankeny tonight?
yes/no? (please choose one)

Your Boggy Creek Plans

Found: photos of me punching a moth to death! Last summer!

Lauren needed the coat hanger Mothcalibur, but I need only my fists and several years of training with the father of Vargas.

. . .

We just got a new employee. Before she sat down at her desk she removed a container of sanitary wipes from her bag and spent 3-4 minutes wiping everything down. This whole room reeks of baby powder and cleaner.

. . .

Here are your boggy creek plans:

Use a shovel and redirect the creek to my apartment. It is the midpoint between John and everyone else. We have booze if you like booze and we have Pitch Black if you like Pitch Black. Someone should bring some Dew of the green variety. We also have orange juice if you like orange juice and far too many potato chips left over from Alyssa's party, (I think) unopened. Alyssa's getting freaky deaky with Heather all night, so the apartment is mine to destroy.

I do not have a game cube. Wait: I do! . . . I think? I should check on this.

How is this plan? We could meet . . . seven? eight? nine?

Oh, and Wes: If you come to DM at all this weekend, this is your night to come.

So come!

Oh, and if anyone else wants to host, that's fine too. I really would not be saddened about not having to do dishes. Also, my TV is not awe-inspiring. But as you may remember, it is the TV of Love.

Catholicism is wrong. Egyptology is a joke. Transformers are gay. Now that I got your attention....

...since no one replied to my earlier post...am I just goin to be naked as a nekked baby in a meth house for the Police Reports?

As far as practices go... has anyone thought of that? I have seriously studied the fuck out of the script. There is no fuck left in that script.

Are we even still doin the follies? No mention in a while. And Ive already bought tickets back... non refundable too.

The Creek that Bogs

I would like there to be some Creek Boggying and some Brother Smashing tonight, if at all possible.

I am open to times and places.

Comment.

You cockherder, you fuck your shitcavity with triumph.

I do yet exist. Been spending far too much time toying with and customizing the setup of my new laptop. Its fun, but has yet to result in something that has done much for my productivity. Ah well. Other than that I continue to work on random things. I was kind of getting buried in my disorganization, so I am currently kinda putting things on hold a bit to try and dig out. In the not too distant future I'm hoping to move on a couple game ideas though (I always say this, hopefully this time it will be more true). In the mean time, a few links I came across in my purging of old shit from my computer...

First, if you couldn't guess from the title. It would appear that sexylosers is up and running again. Someone else seems to have taken the helm from Hard, some Clay fellow. Anyway, fun fun. Although I hesitate to be associated with it in the presence of, well mostly anyone.

Next, a creative commons licensed beer recipe. Could be an interesting project to pick up: Creative Commons Beer.

Then, some hacker types find all the secrets there are to know, Super Smash Brothers Melee, Secrets!

A rather short thing about using home depot things for costuming. Maybe of interest or sparking of ideas for follies, or for puppetry (morgan). home depot costuming

Finally, a Cthulu themed comic.

Thats all for now, I go back to sorting through old links and blog posts.

Broad shoulders, giant mustache...either hes Custard or a Machoman

Hey. im fucked. I need the following for the follies:

Black Pants
Black Long Sleeve top of some sort.

Why? Cuz my pants are ripped and now becoming a skirt.

...did the blog font change???

Outside by the blue, blue moon

Know what would be interesting? If Alyssa were loaded rich, or empress of a small island, and could afford to have veggie burger companies make her entire veggie animals—like a veggie patty shaped like a pig, or a peacock, or something. and she could roast it and bite into its flank like some weird barbarian queen, and the best part is that everything would be edible, even the nose!

There were no periods in that whole paragraph.

Andy and I were served up a whooooooole lot of free . . . soda at lunch today. It was not nearly a whooooooole lot enough. But it was nice. Perhaps that's a regular occurrence on this day, explaining the African-hospital-like megacrowd?

I'm writing this because I am desperately bored. My hands hurt from typing about sex therapists and gambling therapists and poetry therapists and drama therapists and adventure therapists and music therapists and art therapists. Most of these jobs are not even worth the time that I devote to them. But I must devote something to them, even if it is but a one-page report written between readings of Bookslut and Slate and Penny-Arcade (I can justify going to Penny-arcade.com now because Tuesday I had to write about cartoonists).

Someone get that weasel out of the bathtub.

The Fightin' Hobos will rise again!

When the hobo revolution comes, these fuckers are dog meat.

Why is it that whenever I hear about some poor bastard being unjustly beat, I want to exact the same punishment to the perpetrators? Two wrongs don't make a right. Or do they?

Is an eye for an eye instinctual?

Fuck.

You are all my zombie love slaves. Now get to zombie-ing! And slaving for my love!

This message is primarily for Goathead, but I'm putting it here to find out what the rest of you are doing tonight.

So Goathead: I'm probably staying in tonight to write a brilliant literary scifi horror adventure novel full of zombie love slaves and betentacled basketball playing androids from the far-flung future, and thusly can afford to hit that . . . "cafe" for lunch, if you still want to go. I'm guessing you have but an hour? So maybe whichever of us got there first could order for both.

Anything happening tonight? Anyone?

Penguins

Last night we were wondering what happened to Beakman after his TV show turned into a cheap DVD in WalMart's five dollar bin for drunks to laugh at.

Beakman's World entry

Beakman and the Annoying Girl.

I told you that girl was played by different actors! You ignorant bastards.

Curing your schizophrenia, one sestina at a time.

These are the jobs I'm researching this morning:

Music therapist (...okay)
Art therapist (.....okay?)
Drama therapist (...what?)
Poetry therapist (....I'm leaving.)

So Andy and Alyssa, don't worry about our worthless English majors. All this time we could have been high dollar poetry therapists!

Wholesome family fun

I don't know why the media is making such a big deal about wal-mart selling booze. Sure they point out the fact that wal-mart makes a big deal about selling with families in mind (hence the horrible and explicit-labeled music section).

But they still have a gun counter...

And their bulk sibling, Sam's club sells booze. So why the surprise? At least Sam's club doesn't also have a gun counter and booze.

I'd be more appalled if Disney started a chain of resturants like hooters across the country and touted it as a "family" establishment.

Don't touch that little boy, Neo.

This is a poster that's being distributed by the Archdiocese of Indianapolis in order to help recruit priests. I soooo want one! I about pissed myself when I saw it. Wouldn't it make a great conversation piece in the Goat Paddock/Cybertron?

Here's a little more info about the creation of the poster:

Father Meyer said the poster, on which he is featured as the "Matrix"-style priest, had its origins in a skit that he saw during his first year at the North American College, the U.S. seminary in Rome. The skit, put on by a group of older seminarians, was based on the film. In it, a group of priests fought Satan in a series of mock martial-arts confrontations. The concept was really brought to life, however, in a meeting with the archdiocese's Youth Council. During the meeting, the concept of Father Meyer dressing up as Neo, Reeves' character in "The Matrix," was jokingly suggested by one of the students. "It was one of those things where everyone laughs and then you move on to the next topic. Only after the meeting, I came back to this one," Father Meyer explained.
--via www.catholic.org

From now on, I'll be choosin the adventures around here.

Good God, man!

Good God!

This is what I have trouble understanding: how the hell does traffic completely stop on a damn interstate?! What set of conditions is necessary to bring a writhing snake of cars to an utter standstill? Somewhere near the front a car has to be stopped, right? Because if a car in the front is moving at normal speed, the car behind it should be moving at normal speed, and the car behind it—

But still, somehow, traffic finds a way to stop completely.

. . .

I left my toothbrush at the Goat paddock, which I guess is now also . . . Cybertron. This was after the massive gay orgy. Kevin and Ryan and Goathead and I were all drinking and watching Beakman and decided, why not all make out. It was disgusting. And then the police arrived and they sort of shrugged and said, why not all make out. And then the mayor of Des Moines came over to find out why the police were calling for more and more backup, and the mayor sort of shrugged and said, why not all make out. And then God Himself descended to chastise us but He said—

And then the weight of all those bodies sent us smashing through the floor, into the Den of Complaining Minorities below. And they reallyknew how to do some makin out.

I really did forget my toothbrush, though. Damn it.

. . .

Packages look much cooler when they're stamped all to hell. I got a literary journal in the mail yesterday that's stamped with three different stamps, two mailing labels, three red MEDIA MAILs, a bar code, and the postmark, and it looks cool as hell. I'm a spy now, and this is my passport. Yeah. Yeah.

Wobbly boredom

There, you see? A figure, spectre chasing anyone coming this way. We'd best stay out of his domain.

Dave Wells: Star Hustler! (aka Photoshop boredom)

This is what our skies look like now. Originally, I had a mountainous view...but most of you fucks are in Iowa. So I left it piney.



According to the internet, Mars is going to be closer then it has been in 6,000 years. The 'net says that its going to be almost the size of the Moon. Something like this would be damn cool and like that dream I had with all the moons and the girls in red. Anyway, cool as it is, its wrong.



It will be boring like this. It will all start tonite to be a bit brighter and sorta tag along the moon. Boring boring boring. It will be this damn bright on Halloween. Sweet ass? Not really. It will just be a nice red dot by the moon.


I am, however, still putting money on this to happen...minus Tom Cruiz or Spielberg's dirty scientology hands all over it. We can only trust Martian Manhunter and no one else when it comes to Mars.

This cat ate too many pizza.

Too many pizza!

That is the exact phrase I searched to find this cat, the number two result.

(NOTE:The cat who ate too many pizza didn't work out for us, so we had to find another less disgusting cat to fill in. The only other equally large cat I could find morphed his body into a page saying "image stolen from a bunch of hypersensitive losers." Sort of.)

. . .

Earlier this week an inquiry was made regarding Boggy Creeks. I tell you people, none of us have any damn idea what we're doing this weekend. But creeks are boggy and meant to be watched. Let us keep this possibility open.

. . .

Does anyone ever wonder what the hell is going on with sex? What's with you, sex? Jesus. Come on.

I'm writing a sex addiction report, and every time I glance at my screen: sex! I'm going to sites like www.sexhelp.com and www.sexaddict.com and www.beautifulblackbooty.org. Well, not the last one. But if this shit doesn't make the IT people take notice, nothing will. Supposedly they comb our records for odd websites worth reporting to management. And if we fuck around, we're dumped into the Yeti chamber. And there is no sex in the Yeti chamber. Not the good kind, anyway.

. . .

You people are never getting another choose your own adventure story again.

Call of Timthulu

original image from poorlydrawn.com

The last game in my Halo marathon last night

Where's my bitches?

Have fun in hell, pervert.

I'm writing a report on sexual addiction.

Dirty!

This is all it will say:

Have fun in Hell.
Pervert.

Choose Your Own Adventure

Something jars you, and you wake up. The May issue of Butt Frenzy falls from your lap, and the miniature bottle of airline tequila has drenched the area around your crotch. You catch the scent of old hobos and realize it's coming from your groin.

Around you, people are screaming. You are on an airplane, you remember. You are flying to Romania to attend a vampire-hunting conference. You have no idea where you are now, but outside the window the blanched peaks of mountains rise up like the humps of a rollercoaster.

The plane jolts again. It's tilted to the side, so that your face is pressed against the window. Those mountains are coming ever closer, are really jabbing at you now. Their peaks remind you of that time in college when you woke up and all the naked frat boys were—never mind that now. The door to the cockpit opens and a pilot runs out, screaming. His face is on fire. A small monkey claws at his neck.

Everyone is screaming except for a man in an expensive suit. He's conversing with his wristwatch. He's opened his briefcase to reveal a parachute. He kicks open the doo, grabs hold of a seat, and is buffeted by bodies as passengers are sucked into the atmosphere. He gets that parachute on and gets ready to jump.

If you go tackle the international spy, go to section 3.

If you grab the issue of Butt Frenzy and masturbate like a maniac, go to section 7.

. . .

SECTION 2

You jam buttons on the watch. The spy screams and bites your wrist but it's too late. The watch chimes and the screen turns red. CONFIRM, it says. You jab it again, hoping for teleportation.

The spy stops screaming. You fall in silence for a few moments.

Then the lasers appear in the sky.

They come down from the clouds, piercing fog and air and vapor. They train across your face and it's not until seconds later that you realize you're being dematerialized. It doesn't even hurt. Your last thought is that you never—

. . .

SECTION 3

You were never in football. The most physical sport you've played was a connect 4 tournament in junior high that devolved into a fistfight. You were forced to swallow a handful of red tokens. "Connect whore!" one of the kids yelled, and kicked you in the stomach.

But now you manage to tackle the spy. You get your arms around his shoulders and he turns to ward you off, but you're both sucked out of the plane and into the void. "Fuck!" he yells, but the rush of the air swallows his voice. He bites but you've got a firm hold, and he's starting to notice that your crotch, whish is pressed against him, is wet. He doesn't know that it's wet with tequila. . . . that is just tequila, right?

If you pull the cord on his parachute, go to section 6

If you jab mindlessly at his high-tech wristwatch, go to section 2

. . .

SECTION 4

"That's my issue of Butt Frenzy." you admit. "I actually wrote an article for it."

"Really?" he says, clearly interested.

"In the back," you say. "About plus-size thongs."

"My wife," he says, then grins and looks away. He's embarrassed. "She's a plus-size lady herself."

"Plus-size women are people too," you say.

"What are you saying?"

"That some plus-size women are beautiful too."

"Okay," he says, and punches you in the stomach. You go down like the connect 4-swilling panzy you are. "No funny shit here. Are you trying to sleep with my wife?"

"What—" you say, but he kicks you again. And he keeps kicking. Then he tackles you.

The rain of blows would continue all afternoon, but a passing Yeti has seen the two of you brawling and assumes you're making love. The Yeti has not been laid in a while, and decides to join in the fun. Unfortunately, an afternoon of Yeti love leaves you both in several pieces, scattered about the snow like the sections of a heavily used vibrator. Have you ever seen white lines in a heavily used vibrator? That's plastic stress, man. Calm the fuck down. Shit.

. . .

SECTION 5

"Butt Frenzy," he says. "Paint me polka dot."

"What's Butt Frenzy?" you ask.

"Only my employer," he says. "I've been sent to Romania to locate the finest superstitious, malnourished booty in the old Soviet Bloc."

"That's weird," you say.

"But compassionate," he says. "I consider my mission one of diplomacy."

And he's right. Something breaks in your proud brain and you know he's right. And then you realize that you could love a man like this. You could cook him pancakes, and ground squirrel, and you could dress up like a naughty mailman for him.

"I could dress up like a naughty mailman for you," you say.

He grins. "I've got a special delivery," he says, "of 42 orgasms!"

The two of you set to building a hut out of old petrified wood and debris from the crashed airplane. You melt snow for water, and eat passing creatures for breakfast. In time you get used to living in solitude on a patch of frozen rock. You sleep in a bed made of old airline chairs and meditate in a lean-to made of cockpit doors. You're really calm and satisfied for once in your life. And then a Yeti stumbles into your home and tears you both limb from limb. Which you deserve. Perverts.

. . .

SECTION 6

Silky cloth billows out of the chute and clocks you like a drunken brawler. Your head snaps back but not far enough to crack your spine and end this miserable existence. Damn, you think. Damn. Because your brother is still living on your couch back home, has taken to urinating all over the bathroom when he's drunk or high or buzzed on caffeine. And you can't confront him. You just can't . . .

The chute slows your fall and you and the spy drift toward the mountain ridge. This is the Alps , by the way. You idiot. But for some reason the snow is not too deep. You and the spy land on a flat place in the rock, stand ankle deep in snow.

"Well—" he says, but then the issue of Butt Frenzy falls into the snow at his feet. It was sucked from the plane too.

"Ooh—"

"Butt Frenzy!" he says. "I'm more of a Garter Madness man myself, but—"

If you claim the magazine as your own, go to Section 4

If you whistle and look away, go to Section 5

. . .

SECTION 7

Only a selfish, troubled individual would spend his last minutes alive with a dirty magazine. When the plane finally charges headlong into the side of the Alps, you are engulfed in flames and thrown from the fuselage in a fuel explosion. You rocket through the sky, flaming the entire way, like a bottle rocket. Finally you crash through the roof of a primitive shack, land on a plank dinner table in the middle of a family of 7. They are shocked. They are also poor, but their fortune changes with you. You wake in a cage and spend the rest of your life being hauled from local fair to local fair, peddled to sideshow crowds as the Overcooked Man.

After something like 17 years (time has really lost all meaning for you, but your beard is now to your knees) you've turned enough tricks on the side to buy your own freedom. You step from the cage with knees shaking both from malnourishment and excitement. You make a three days' walk across the Alps. You stumble over something and assume it is a stone but it really is a seat from the old plane that brought you here. A tear comes to your eye, and then a rogue Yeti charges from the treeline. That Yeti is crazy for dismemberment. Just crazy for it.

How I gave up tactile feeling in the name of fine Mexican cuisine.

Does anyone else think that autographs are weird, weird things?

And have you ever realized that autograph and autobiography both use the auto to mean "written by oneself"? And of course they both have the graph, to mean "obtaining to the Cartesian graph system." Which is how all autographs and autobiographies are plotted.

I believe I have cooked my finger. This is how I believe I have cooked my finger: tonight Alyssa made a quesadilla. Alyssas make all kinds of wonderful foods; this is what you do when you don't eat meat. And I stole her idea and was cooking the veggie burger to add to the quesadilla. Near the end of this process I had to cut the veggie burger into little pieces. The plastic fork I used snapped and my finger smashed into the surface of the Foreman grill and although it did not hurt at all the tip of my finger is now a bit numb. I think I cooked the nerves clean out of it.

The quesadilla, at least, is delicious.

Adventures in the Art Institute Restrooms

I walked into the bathroom just a moment ago and approached the urinal...only to find a six foot trail leading either from or to the depository of peepee. I just wonder if it came out of there or went into there. That means 2 things: either the porcelin is coming alive or some lazy fucker didnt want to take 3 steps closer. However, it may be possible that a person was afraid of the urinal because it was spouting out urine, hence they pissed six feet away.

Ive grown out my ring fingers nails. They are the longest I can remember theyve been. It really is nice to have long claws. Cutting things, opening things. I want them to be so long that I can go to upscale coctail parties and pluck grapes/olives with them. But then my hair would have to be a yard long and grey and Ive have to be a gamblin loner too.

So, my train leaves a week from tomorrow and Ill be riding the train overnight. Im afeared a Steven Segal Movie will break out or have to lead Rinoa across the sides of the carts and not get caught (that FUCKING mini-game hell). Ill be back in Iowa at 939 am Thursday. And I wont be goin to Moines will you all that night.

A Very Bathroomy Post

This is what I don't like: I was just filling up my water glass (it's tall and plastic and covered in bats and moons, and when you spin it in the air the bats swarm around your hand). The janitor in the women's restroom flushed a toilet and the water pressure at the fountain went down enough that water stopped filling my Halloween glass and started splashing my knuckles.

What does this mean?!

I have been in three restrooms in the past ten minutes. I am trying to find a place to hide out and finish that book I was complained about finishing earlier, but janitors keep coming in, or other people, and I worry that they will suspect that I am not actually utilizing the plumbing. They will hear the pages rustling. And then they will open fire with the uzis that our employers mandatorily carry.

But I just went into the most obscure bathroom of all (at least on 1st floor) and there was a little ziploc baggy. In the baggy was a tube of ointment, and a sponge. The sponge was about the size of a silver dollar and much thicker, and it was soaked. I know this because I picked up the baggy to try to see if there was a name on the medication, so I could maybe alert the owner. Why did I not figure out what this was before? Why this medication and this sponge were in the bathroom? The only words I needed to see were "apply to inflamed—"

And then I washed up thoroughly.

From Saturday, by Ian McEwan

With eyes closed he sees the newspaper offices. The curled edged, coffee stained carpet tiles; the ferocious heating system that bleeds boiling rusty water; the receding phalanxes of florescent lights illuminating the chaotic corners; the piles of paper that no one touches for no one cares to know what they contain--what they are for--and the over inhabited desks pushed too close together. It’s the spirit of the school art room. Everyone too hard pressed to start sorting through the old dust heaps.

The hospital is the same. Rooms full of junk; cupboards and filing cabinets that no one dares open; ancient equipment in cream, tin plate housing, too heavy, too mysterious to eject. Sick buildings in use for too long that only demolition can cure. Cities and states beyond repair, the whole world resembling [his son’s] bedroom. A race of extraterrestrial grown-ups is needed to set right the general disorder then put everyone to bed for an early night.

God was once supposed to be a grown up. But in disputes He childishly took sides. Then sending us an actual child, one of His own--the last thing we needed, a spinning rock already swarming with orphans.

Only Real Fun Will Work

I almost feel bad taking the top spot from Cricket's zombie illustration. So someone must post immediately after me, must drive me down into the basement of the Attic Apartment, where I will crash around in the dark and break countless bottles of preserved jellies and jams—

Does anyone know the difference between jelly and jam? Is there a difference?

Earlier in the bathroom I ran into the head of my department, the grandaddy of IVRS. He's rarely seen, is a bit intimidating and weird, and I realized—he's just like Willy Wonka! Except that his factory is a glass-lined office instead of a monumental gated building, and he produces memos and authorizations instead of delicious candy bars. And instead of sending out golden tickets to us workers, he pours his coffee into the sink and grunts a greeting while I try to skitter out the door.

I loved the first Wonka movie as a kid. The candy bars looked so dog damned good. And they do in the new movie, too, they have the same oversized shape, like a Hershey's but a little shorter and a lot wider, like an envelop of chocolate. And the colors, too, are perfect and gaudy. I used to jones hardcore for a scrumdiddlyumptious bar.

Who the hell would read Entertainment Weekly?

Here you go. This is a present. I just found out Kurt Vonnegut writes for the hippy magazine In These Times. This is a collection of the things he has written there, none of which I have read.

You know how I wrote "just found out Kurt . . ." just a second ago? I can never figure out if that should read "just found out that. . ." I used to prefer the absence of that, but now think it keeps things clear. Opinions?

It is a fun joke to make fun of Ryan's illiteracy. I can do it here, because when he looks at this post all he will see is an imposing jumble of scratches that could as well be a review of The Bell Jar as an admission that last night after he passed out I administered an enema of poisonous spiders, all of which are now crawling around in the moistest caverns of his body, wondering where the hell they are.

I've told you this before, Andy, but occasionally—very rarely—I think about the fact that after years of pining you actually dated Dawn Belle. That is amazing. That is incredibly amazing.

. . .

I completely forgot to talk about Halloween! I must talk about Halloween every post from now until fucking 31 October. Cricket's zombie illustration is what made me think of it today, and I imagined an enlarged version on the door of whatever apartment is host to the grand party. I will be the Headless Horseman.

Okay, one more thing, and then I'm really done. Does anyone know how you go about asking old profs for grad school recommendations? I'm timid as hell about this. "Hey, remember me?" I'll say. "Write me eight letters!"

Now to do this on a large scale:

Goat almost felt bad for tricking it like that. Then he remembered he had a gun trained on it's brain eating ass.
Original image from poorlydrawn.com

The shit hit the fan. Literally. It flew everywhere after that.

Servbot OWNS more then Dan. Just a little more. Eeeety beeeety more.

Since cricket blabs about his dreams, I shall as well:
This last dream was a doozy. Ill skip past the part about me driving the 3 wheeled Mr Bean car and Amish callin me on the phone to discuss dress sizes or me being in jolly ol' england crossing this 10 mile shallow bridge only to start to see the world of faeries. the entire gang came to denver cuz i had crashed the general lee into the school. So michelle decides to put me into some sort of submission hold. Rommy then belts in: "Now dont be fuckin my wife. After all, I have to close her legs like gateway a few times. Did I say gateway? Its more like a rusty garage door: Hard to close."

Just fucked up.

Strings of Advanced Code

Good morning!

It's almost 11.

I can think of nothing to say, and will write more after lunch.

But first: I have a terrible dilemma. The dilemma is: should I go to the library over lunch or not? If I don't go get a new book, I will finish the only reading material I have here long before the end of the day. If I do go, I won't finish the Vonnegut book I have here because I'll have spent all my time getting a new book. I essentially cancel my need for the library if I fulfill it.

. . .

Earlier today, one of the counselors down the hall said, testily, "persistance pays." And then she hung up the phone. And just now she said, in a sultry voice, "what did you dream about?"

One of the research requests that came in last night is for job details relating to "COMPUTER PROGRAMMER (DATA ENTRY)." Which should be simple, because the 17 year-old kid doing 13 word per minute data entry down the hall in the secretaries' room stops filling out fields on tax forms every half hour to whip out a couple strings of advanced code.

Yesterday I walked around Grand Avenue with a book. I saw a glimmer on the street, because there was a smudgy white thong in the gutter. The front of the thong was covered in sequins. In this moment I decided that I should carry my camera at all times, if only its gears weren't soaked in liquor spilled from amish's defective bottle of jack daniels. And if only its lens didn't make a sound like an unoiled robot sent back from the future to kill us all every time I tried to turn it on.

Okay, now I'm really shutting up till lunch. I hope to return with more engaging tales that have nothing to do with libraries, but maybe something to do with underpants found in the street.

Kellynn and Tim: "I know its old...but still good" (referring to the 5 pizzas they brought into the Attic Apartment one year ago)

Two Faces that Say, "I Just Ate a Handful of Honeybees!"

And they were delicious.

Under the Radar

I will be out of net contact unfortunatly. Work is the only place I can get sweet internet goodness (like the attic) and my last day is tomorrow. So, farewell till I can get back online.

So now we can build an unselfish society by devoting to unselfishness the frenzy we once devoted to gold and to underpants.

You should all of you go read some Kurt Vonnegut. How did I ever fall away from this author? I read a lot of Vonnegut in high school, initially because Slaughterhouse Five was one of the more attractive choices on Foster's booklist, and then because it was excellent writing. The stories are great but the way they're told is greater. The style is completely laid back, completely outside the story. The narrator is the narrator and is almost a character. This is an author who cares more about ideas and language than literary conventions.

Last night we went to a bookstore. I collected Kevin from his new apartment outside Merle Hay and we went to Goathead's, where Goathead was deeply entrenched in a Halo dispute, and by the time we got to the bookstore we had mere minutes to shop. I found a copy of Breakfast of Champions in the V's. When I opened it I found that the text was illustrated, and that the previous owner had scrawled his name in the front. And can you guess what that previous owner's name was? His name was Tim. With an underline beneath it. He did not connect the bars of the T. So I bought the book.

What about that episode where Beakman made the rat and the girl fight to the death for his pleasure?

Good Lord, John! You people going back to school makes me feel ancient. I'm going to crawl back into my subterranean cave of slumber, from which I will emerge again in a few aeons' time, when the flavor of humanity's pride again wafts across my tongue, and I hunger once more

I want to go back to school! Fuck. Well, I don't really want to go back to school. But I don't want to go to work anymore. I should be a stay-at-home mom. But without the kids.

I took the godforsaken GRE. The questions alternated between stupidly easy and spine-crackingly hard. There were vocabulary words I've never heard of, and I live a cloistered life in a pile of books, popping out occasionally to get drunk and fall off Andy's and Ryan's deck. There were also math questions that beat me, mutilated me with a fire poker, carved their initials into my back with shards of broken IBC bottles.

There were headphones and earplugs. You get your choice. Most of the people in the testing room were headphoned or plugged, but I felt too much like I'd be flying a helicopter, and I put that shit down.

The hardest thing was the fucking amateur hour word processer. Half the GRE is writing—-one essay and one critical response to an essay—-and the GRE's computers do not use MS Word. They don't use Works. They don't even use anything as advanced as Wordpad. When you write your GRE essays you use a blank square of screen that . . . well, it can't do anything. No underlining, so when you want to list the title of a book or movie you have to use that damned _thing_. No italics, either. No font or size options. You have to punch out your thoughts in something like 15 Arial, which is terrible. I can only write in 10. And with a small screen. Having big words that take up a tenth of the screen gets me confused and disoriented, like I'm trying to assemble a card house one card at a time, with no larger picture.

. . .

John . . . poor, poor John. And your back to schoolness. Everyone's going back to school. I really do hate that I'm stuck here working for the devil government instead of learning with all the cool kids at cool school being cool and drinking cool juice. Maybe we could do something this week before John is again made into academia's bitch? I'm guessing you're with the one they call Christine this weekend?

Curses!

I guess we'll just have Beakman & Beer night without you.

Ryan, don't forget to pick up that Beakman DVD.

Sunday Post

I offer nothing in this post. In fact I have offered too much by typing this. I will now retreat to my vodka and leave you in the joyous nothingness. I am quite jealous of you for it.

*beats self with a cricket bat* pretentious motherfucker, enough of that.

I've decided my car is one of three things: past warranty, filled with rage against me, or finally and most entertaining: Haunted. During a happy drive I had, my rear left blinker went out.

"Fuck! They both couldn't go out at the same time?" The right rear blinker had gone out a month earlier.

I figure I'll get the problem fixed today. I didn't feel like making the trip then, nor getting at the burnt out bulb. So today, I go to take out the bulb. I can't remember which bulb is the brake light and which is the blinker. I have Christine hit the brake pedal to light the bugger up.

I am greeted with the darkeness of the entire rear left side. This include the upper rear brake light. Only the left hand side of it.

Curious.

We turn the car on and try the turn signal. The blinker magically works again. Frustrated, I put it back together. Not that it takes long to reattach everything, and when I'm done have Christine again hit the brake and signal left.

Everything now works... Save half the rear window light...

So we open that up. This bulb is most definitly burnt out. So burnt out, the filiment is trying to escape the bulb. That is how burnt out it is. The rotten tooth of a light is now in the queue to be made into a necklace (by christine, of course,) in much the manner a warrior might take a veneer from a fallen enemy.

Replaced, everything works. For now. The air still works intermittenly (with no noticable outward factors contribuiting to its malfunctioning. Bumps or a sneeze can make it work and break). And that horrible clunking that has manifested itself at random moments during turns lead me to believe -like my spoiled milk- goblins have something to do with this.

Have a lovely sunday everyone.

Two Students Enter--

To the GRE!

I hear they're replaced the standard computer-based multiple choice test this year with a hollowed out pit, five ravenous grizzlies, and a naked one-armed Russian known as "The Penetrator." So wish me luck.

Bad Movies

I don't know why I still run across negative reviews for movies like "Deuce Bigalow, European Gigolo." Does anyone actually expect a movie like this to be good? No, so why does it need a negative review? Everyone knows it's going to suck! Fuck.

It just seems an exercise in overkill. The bucket of shitty movies condemns itself.

Cartoonist. Stop humping the undead.

Fair Gentlemen of Verona:

Listen: I hate you people for not posting more. You're all dead to me. Dead as hell. Who is Ryan? I know no one named Ryan. Mel? Who's Mel? Jorge? Who would name their kid Jorge?

Okay.

I don't hate you.

Your mother and I are just disappointed.

We found . . . your "magazines."

I'm trying to explain to your mother that this is a phase, and that you are probably snorting glue. Probably not just snorting it but applying it to your nipples, and liberally, and then pretending you are a department store manequin, touching the hardened shellack of your skin . . . we have tape of you entering J.C. Penney's after hours. Your mother hired a private detective and he brought back a VHS loaded with . . . did you have to use that drill bit? Did you have to wear that power tie from the men's department? The store sent us a $22 bill. Do you think we can afford that, with your therapy bills?

I have to write an occupational report on 'cartoonist.' . . . this is one of those reports where I say, What the hell? There is no occupational information for this because it's barely an occupation. How many people succeed in this career field? It's not that common! But if anyone knows of anything . . . any sort of occupational stats . . . let me know.

Response to Andy's Post

What shall we do to the state of Utah, Mr. Christopher?

"BURN IT! BURN IT ALL!!"

How many people wanna kick some ass? Too bad Optimus got beheaded, or I'm sure he would.

Who wants to watch MST3K: Boggy Creek tonight?

I do! I do!

Goats and Lemurs and Old Ladies Getting Run Over

I was crowned King of Ireland the other night. I don't know if anyone knew about it. There seems to be some confusion over my name. People don't realize I'm a person and not actually a goat. So some news sites are claiming that a wild mountain goat was crowned king of Ireland, but of course that's obsurd.



Scientists have recently discovered Mr. Christopher's cousin. I like to call him blinky.


Some old dude ran over his wife, twice. She survived, dispite her old age and the fact that she had been run over, twice! I have a feeling it might have been attempted murder, but I guess we'll never know.