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It's about 9:30am, I'm sitting in a booth waiting for my guest to arrive, and my Borscht is still too hot to eat at the moment. Rudy Romanovich is the man, "Rasputan's" proprietor; he's hooked me up with some old KGB and Red Army gear in the past, and now he's in the back room looking for something special for the interview. I don't drink, but my guest is quite the lush, so a little homemade motherland vodka from the freezer will grace our booth tonight.
I've set my self upright, so I can peer over into the next booth to try to hang on a word or two of whatever the local ruskie mobsters got going on today. Damn good thing I bring cash only here. I don't want Ivan to get frisky with my identity.
About 10:20, my guest comes hoofing through the glass doors, and as usual he's not wearing any pants. His trademark blue coat and red bowtie were replaced with a black alligator skin jacket and a bolo. A couple of the late-night patrons take time out from their kidney/potato/whatevers and fall silent. Some just follow this stubby creature around with pity in their eyes, while some have started to give out chatter of recognition. None of this even seems to effect him at all. A veteran of film and T.V. for over 60 years, Porky Pig has seen it all and left a trail of "dead" that would be the envy of the likes of Stalin himself.
TG: Well, you haven't aged much. (Not true, but what else could I say?) I guess some cartoon characters are just ageless. How are you doing, Mr. Pig?
PP: Fuh-fine. P-Porky...cuh-c-call muh-me-ah Porky.
TG: Uh okay, Porky.
PP: Buh-be-a-b-b-buh-better.
TG: Well, what's life been like for you these days?
PP:Wuh-wuh-wuh-well, i-its been a be-uh-bit b-better than the p-past.
TG:Well, you have been playing golf. I saw you at the charity putt putt, spay a mutt celebrity golf tournie. How'd you end up doing?
PP: Oh, fuh-f-fuh...shitty!
TG:Well, at least you finally made it here.
PP:W-w-w-where the f-fuh...hell is my g-glass? I want t-to start on the-a-this bitch ruh-right away. Oh, the hee-uh-hell with it.(Porky proceeds to down about half the bottle, letting a little drip down the front of his saggy pink sextets).
TG: Porky, most people think of you as a lovable, if not somewhat bumbling character. What they don't see is the darker side of Porky Pig. Tell us a little about that part of you. The part that I've heard you refer to as "The Dirty Black Forest Ham".
PP: Oh, gee-o-god. W-where to start? Um, we-uh-well I uh had started doing the hard drugs a-bee-a-bout the t-time that Me-uh-Mel Blanc st-started phoning it in. We-a-what p-p-people d-don't know about Mel was that he was jee-ah-just a c-corporate suit tee-uh-taking credit for shit that he nee-a-never had anything to dee-a-dee-do with. Thee-uh-that's another story, altogether. B-b-b-but, about that time I-ya h-had all this mee-a-me-me-money, and Petunia started lee-ah-letting herself go a bit. The-uh-first little kink in the le-line right there, I'm afraid.
TG: I think you really need to give me more on this. I'm not naive. I have heard a thing or two about you and Foghorn Leghorn running around with the Hanna Barbara crowd and really stirring it up on the Sunset Strip during the '70s. I mean, the incident with Josie and the Pussycats an' you two, my gosh. Elaborate for us, please.
PP: We-uh-well, as the late R-ree-uh-Rick James said, "Cocaine is a hell of a drug."
TG: But, that doesn't explain the severe gang-rape of Jinx and Minx?
PP: Those Puh-Pussies, er-uh, Pussycats sure had a mean streak. Fuh-Foghorn had gee-a-given them some P-P-Puh-PCP laced wrapping papers, soaked in formaldehyde and they got all Bundy on us. EE-uh-It was f-fuh-some pretty w-wild shit, and Jinx and Minx just happened to be tied ee-u-up.
TG: Well that explains why their show was cancelled. Okay, while were on the subject of wild, have you ever...you know...tried bacon?
PP: We-uh-well t-technically I'm just a cleverly disguised satyr, but I do enjoy b-bacon, especially Petunia.
TG: Satyr, really? All this time?
PP: Yee-ah-yes, I have to gee-uh-get my legs waxed regularly.
TG: I'm feeling a little disenchanted now. Seriously? Damn! I just don't know what to say. Well, I must ask about Daffy Duck. Which one did you get along with the best: Crazy Daffy or Pathetic Daffy?
PP: Cu-crazy Daffy wuh-was a f-fuh, damn genius. When they h-had to step in and put him away, I was heart broken. His replacement was mmm-more popular, but only became the bee-a-butt of the j-jokes.
TG: And what of you're relationship with the man, Buggs Bunny?
PP:Cuh-certainly a fuh-force to be r-rrr-reckoned with. He-uh always felt above the rest of us and hid away in his trailer with his special friend. Nee-uh-noody knew that he and Elmer Fudd were lovers, 'cept Sylvester and he told me over some t-tweety pie.
TG: Really? Damn! So Buggs was gay then? I would have thought that Sylvester was, out of the lot of you.
PP: Beastiasexual.
TG: What, because it's consensual?
PP: Ree-uh-right.
TG: What was "girl" Buggs like in the sack?
PP: A tee-uh-tease.
TG: Pretty damn sexy though.
PP: Yee-a-you got that right.
TG: Any chance of you and Petunia getting back together?
PP: N-no.
TG: Why not?
PP: Shu-she and Droopy have been together for years. They're retired and living it up in the Azores, at the mu-me-uh-moment.
TG: I always liked that Droopy and you knew that he was quite the ladies man. Okay, looking back on your career, what would you say is your proudest achievement?
PP: E-easy. The time that I-I-uhhhh dee-uh-did my last sign off.
TG: But it was always the same, right? "Thee-uh-thee-uh that's all folks!"
PP: Thee-uh-this one d-didn't air.
TG: Really? What was it, then?
PP: Fee-uh-fu-fee-uh-fu-fuck off, folks!
This is something that Logo and The Barefoot Mistress have turned me onto. This is where you write a fictional story with 55 words, no more and no less. Of course I, being an aspiring fiction writer, will throw my hat into the ring. I don't write "nice", so hang on. Pools of blood collected in the folds of the tarp. Devin:"This wasn't necessary, you know?" Jean:"His head is...busted open." Devin:"Hey, we can't go back to yesterday. Grab the corners." Jean: "Oh, dear God. The wedding band...moving...it's slipping off."
What do you suppose the conversation could possibly be about here. I want your ideas.
Just an ounce is all I needed from this woman. The guy that married her was very lucky she said yes and broke off another engagement. Yes, so am I.
No one has permission to link this, BTW.
'Cause all he had to do was give me a little push. I'm sure that there have been times where he's looked at me and said, "That boy needs to be put out of his misery." But he still tolerates me, even though I'm an official menace to society, now. By the way, that drop is well over a thousand feet. I hope you're kosher with me hanging this up, Einar (my sole 3-D friend who knows that I blog, and still won't visit regularly--'s-okay, stay in the shadows and let me do my own thang).
After all the goodwill poured upon me, I go and do a stupid thing like this. Well, this is more like what I look like on any given day. Who am I flipping off? You, that's who. You better bring it with a little cheddar if you're gonna impress me, 'cause I flip off people on an hourly basis. It's not a lifestyle choice. I was born this way. From the book of Grunt: "And lo, he held up his gigantic hand and giveth the Devil the finger and saith, 'Go f-ck thyself, Satan. For I doeth the Lord's work: kicking total burks in the nuts, and yea, it is glorious.'" Any questions, poofs?
Or is this just going too far? Any takers?
This is in response to a "Face Off". I am in no way thinking that I was the "Hippie" in question, but she said to bring it, and baby, I do what I'm told, mostly--if it involves cupcakes. Also, in keeping with the theme, I took this one after getting off the bog. Hence, the look of contented relief. Ahhhhh! I don't know how much more I should keep on teasing Crystal, but I figure that when it stops being fun, I'll only do it twelve more times. This is much less naughty than "The Great Ass Off", but I figure that the other end needs to represent, yo. Join in the fun, or I'll pour acid on my beautiful face in protest.
What are the lyrics to "Eye of the Tiger", anyway? Hell, it was just about killing me today. This dude I work with was singing his version that went, "It's the eye of the tiger; it's the cream of the crop." That's wrong. That's more than wrong. That's Captain Kangaroo screwing a monkey without a condom wrong. I fought over and over with this guy about this. I said, "You are going to make me punch you out for being so ignorant, you twit. It's 'Eye of the tiger, it's the thrill of the fight'...no, 'will to fight', uh, 'Key to the fight'? Shit, now look what you made me do, twerp!" So, after a bit, I decided to take his version and give it a twist, chorus: "It's the pie of the tiger; it's the cream of the corn. Rising up to the bowl on the table. Making love with a forklift and a rabid raccoon. And you're wearing all of your mother's clothes: Smelling the diaper." Pretty damn catchy, if you ask me. A long, long, time ago, I walked into my brother's room and as soon as I opened the door he threw a jar of Vaseline at me. The funniest part was that he was asleep and had a trumpet in bed with him. Hell-if-I-knew what was going on in there, so I cheezed it on outta Dodge, quick. Just a couple of days ago, I was in a building and needed to use the restroom. It was occupied and I heard some noises of frustration coming out of there. I knocked again and added, "You alright, buddy?" Honest to God, this was the reply, "Well, I'm sorry mister, but I'm busy right now trying to take care of some nuts that aren't cooperating with me." Gee-Zeus Almighty! I burst out laughing right at the door and the dude wasn't too happy about it. He absolutely did not get it, at all. It turned out that he was a plumber working on the toilet. This one is from a while back, from my "Hoover Salesman" years. (No questions about this one, okay? In good time.) My associate/roomie was keeping me up at night talking in his sleep in Portuguese. I had tried to tell him that he did, indeed, talk in his sleep and that it kept me up. He didn't believe me, so I used my voice-activated micro-cassette dictaphone to capture his conversations with the Sandman. Surprisingly, I slept well that night. But, I thought that this meant that nothing had happened, and I'd have to wait a little longer to prove to him that he was a sleep yabber. Upon review, I caught a few busses and loud motorcycles and me slamming my body against the wall (this happens). But, near the end of the tape I caught this: "Uuuunt....Uhhhhhoooo...Ahhhhhhhh...AHHHHHHH!...(then a little quieter) Oh no, the dangit, ehh." I was wondering why his sheets were gone, and now I knew why: I captured him on tape having a wet dream. This was much better than getting evidence of him talking in his sleep. I ended up giving him the tape, after a little blackmail. Next: There was this dude that was uber fascinated with bodily functions. Namely, farts and such. His idea of fun was giving you a "buttercup". This is where you capture the essence of your fart in your cupped hands and fling it right into the nostrils of an innocent bystander. This guy also recorded his farts and gastral groans. He had this recording that he called "The Growl". It sounded just like a dog, but it was a fart. Here's the topper: This guy found out a way to collect his farts and concentrate them in a Mason jar. This is how he did it: he'd sit in a tub full of water, take the water-filled Mason jar and submerge it with the lid facing down; he'd then open the lid of this jar and catch the air bubbles of his farts; this would then push out a little water each time a new fart was caught; he'd close the lid while in the water to seal the fart in. Eventually, all the water would all be gone, and what you had left was just one, pure, concentrated fart. We had this little get together and here this guy comes holding this jar that he'd been working on. We all thought that it wouldn't work, but boy were we wrong. We all gathered around in a circle and this guy opens the lid to the "Fart" jar. At first, nothing; then he started shaking the jar up and down and fwah, that was the nastiest fart ever invented. DAMN!!! This is just the tip of the iceberg. A guy like me is flypaper to stuff like this.
This is my gesture of solidarity to a dear blogmate of mine. Two can play this game, chica. I challenge all of you to an "ass off". Please, no dirty bottoms, let's keep it clean.
Yes, it's true. Remember a while back in the post "Kids Eat the Darnedest Things"? Well, the kid that I mentioned can't stop talking about me, apparently. I was talking to his dad today and he mentioned that his boy likes to play with his friend Matt. I'm all, "Hey, that's cool. He's got a little friend named Matt." Then he corrected me saying, "No, it's you. He thinks you're in the room with him playing trucks and watching Blues Clues." I then asked, "So, what exactly happens when 'we're' playing?" He then relates this morning's episode: Well, he's sitting on the floor and I'm trying to get ready for work and he looks up at me and says, "Sharma's sad. Her shirt green. Matt fix Sharma. She's happy." I don't know who this Sharma is or what exactly I did to her, but I'm glad that I am capable of making a woman happy. I don't know; I think this is really cool, but I hope that I don't all of a sudden become this kid's bogey man. This has had me thinking: Maybe I should start getting my shit together, so I can get married and have some kids of my own. Oh, lordy-lord! End of times is nigh.
Two men discuss existential matters. One of those is men is moi. Moi, sees an innocent man coming down the sidewalk with a wheelbarrow full of sod. Moi asks the man out of the blue, "Hey, Jack, when's it all going to end?
The dude with the barrow says, "I got three trees left, then it's all finished."
Guy conversing with moi, "Really? Because, I've still got to do a few things first before the world ends."
The dude with the barrow stops, sets his wheel barrow down and thinks. After some strain, he gives this reply, "Well, I don't really know about all that. I gotta finish today."
Moi throws this in, "The Mayan calendar ends at the year 2012. So, I figure you got 'till then, buddy."
Barrow boy looks worried, picks up his barrow, then walks down the road to an empty lot to dump his sod out.
Man with moi says with slight reprove, "You know, that was a little mean to do that to that poor guy. He seemed a little slow and you probably freaked him out."
Moi: "Well, I don't see what it matters." Then, jokingly, "It doesn't seem like he has much to live for, anyways. I think it inspired him a little."
Man with moi, with even more of a rebuke, "How can you say such things? That guy is a Child of God." Dude with barrow takes his shirt off, revealing his fleece-upholstered man titties, with two little islands of pink "eyes". Both of our gag reflexes are triggered as Fatsquatch plays through.
Moi: "I take back what I said about him. I think he's got a bright future ahead of him on Animal Planet."
Dude with moi: "That's a fact."
Moi: "Did you see the way he looked at you? He thinks yer purdy."
Dude with Moi: "Shaddup!"
Barrow boy is halfway down the street and gets chased by a bee (our best guess), and we get to see the "ripple" effect.
Dude with Moi says, "That bee doesn't stand a chance. He's got, like, four layers of fur there."
Moi: "Makes you wonder if his mommy knitted that sweater for him."
Dude with Moi: "His poor, poor mother."
Moi: "Yeah. But, at least she takes real good care of him. Look how his coat shines!"
My dear blogmates: Let me know if you have any "Fatsquatch" sightings around where you live.
I channel my inner Chiba. Who do you channel? (Sonny Chiba: "The Street Fighter". Also, he played the sword maker in "Kill Bill".)
Anybody up for a little Ace of Spades?
Who wants to rumble?
First off, I just want to say that I'm glad to be alive. Nothing says, "Ahhhhhhh! I want to live...I want to liiiiiiiiive!!!", more than getting sideways in a utility van going down a snow covered road. It's just sad to think how much I would have been missed--what great adventures not lived--had I succumbed to ditching the "Blue Goose" into a canal. Someone up there wants me alive. I better not piss them off, now.What else, hmmmn? Well, I cheated on my diet and went down to Carl Jr's to see if I could catch the local MILF union #203. Instead, I made another elderly lady friend. This is starting to get real weird. I'm starting to wonder if I'm really some senile old bugger who thinks he's just this young dude. That would explain a few things, like why I get cranky if I haven't had a nap. Anyway, this lady is telling me her life story and is being really sweet to me and all. Then, she starts bashing all the Mexicans that she works with there. I'm sorry, but don't bash the Mexicans around me. I've worked with my share of them and they're usually hard workers, smart, and funny as hell. Here's a little photo for y'all, proving my solidarity with my pachuccos from jobs past.
(My chinos were in the wash, man.)
This was a photo that I submitted to "Crip Fancy" a few years ago for a hopeful layout. I was wanting to mix in with some new social circles at the time. I went either by the name of "Pachucco de Guero" or "The Red-Haired Mexican". I really thought that my submission would make it into publication, but alas, it was not to be.
Here was their reply:
"Psssssh, man you are one loco gringo. You wearing a Cub Scout handkerchief on your donde capaesa, for god's sake. It looks like you got a couple of catapillers out of the garden and glued them to your face, puto. Get a life, white boy. Your mother's prolly worried sick about you. Go get some therapy while you're at it, chingala. Oh, and quit sending us these creepy pictures, man.
Nice '70 Impala, though.
Sincerely,
Geno Tovar."
Well, I must say that I was a little defeated after getting that rejection letter. But, I did not let this one negative experience keep me from being friends with the Mexican people. I mean, my brother looks Mexican. We have placed bets in our family to see if my brother was not conceived by the milkman. He's dark complexion is totally out of place with the rest of the family, or "day walkers" as I like to say. My mom says it's from our Cherokee blood line. I'm still not buying that one at all, mother. Oh, I've long since ditched the facial hair. Being someone suffering from Dick Clark's Disease (DCD) I will forever look twenty five, but sadly can never grow a kick-ass 'stache. I need a hug now.Please excuse any horrible spelling errors in Espanol. Plus, the punctuation is wrong, because I don't have the right characters.
My bro and I decided to check out the state of some rivers and streams for fly fishing, today. So, I'm driving his big MF'n 1972 Suburban (The Banana Wagon) and he's sitting quietly looking out the window, when he pulls out this freakin' Hostess fruit pie out of nowhere. I'm all like, "Where in the hell did that come from?" I didn't see him come in with the fruit pie and we sure as hell didn't stop at a grocery store or gas station. I thought he was friggin' David Copperfield. He sighed and then mumbled that he had it in the saddle pouch in his seat cover. So, my next question for him is, "Well, where's my damn fruit pie, then?" He kind of looked around his jalopy and came up with all sorts of crap, like jerky, chips, Little Debbie stuff, and on and on. "I thought that you were trying to lose weight, man? What are you doing with all this stuff?" I felt a little pissed, because I don't want to get a double hernia when I'm his paul bearer. So, after he just kind of ignored those questions, I asked, "What are you gonna do next, pull a leg of lamb out of my damn ear?" It was about that time that the worst smell came wafting in the Sub. This lightened the mood a bit. I went first, "Oh, shit, that is awful. It smells like someone wiped their ass with a dead skunk." My brother's contribution, "And they forgot to clean themselves, too." Then my turn, again, "What? That didn't make any sense. No, they took the dead skunk and fashioned a makeshift diaper, crapped themselves, then wrapped their ass in visquine and stood out in the sun for five hours, took the remains and threw it in a wood chipper." My brother, "Then they burnt the skunk." Me, "The dang skunk is all shredded, man! How you gonna burn that?" Brother, "With matches". So, down the road we see what we think is evidence: a medium-sized mound of hairy flesh. I remark, "What's that, some deformed dog?" My brother catches a better glimpse, "No, it's a goat." Me, "But, it doesn't seem to smell that bad." The smell got worse the farther away we got from the goat corpse. Down the road about two-hundred yards, my brother notices something, "Hey, farmer John over there is burning a big pile of shit, and something else." We couldn't identify the magic ingredient besides the hay and shit, but damn, it reeked! The thing that was funny was this farmer guy had a big grin on his face. He must've been trying to piss his neighbors off or something. We got to a popular spot on the river, below a reservior, and a fish and game officer was hassling some kids. We didn't get our licenses yet, but had our gear. We weren't going to poach, honest:) So, I say to my brother, "Looks like Ranger Bob over there is giving out his number." My brother says, "Hello little Billy, I'm Ranger Bob. Do you want to touch my flashlight?" We have no respect for authority. After our scouting trip, we determined that the water was too swift and muddy, from the spring run off, for good fishing. So, we went to a good mom and pops diner for a quick lunch. It was there that I got an answer to a question that I've had for a long time: Would I ever do it with a dwarf? I know that the question is discriminatory and insensitive, but if I had said "little person", then I'm sure some might think I was a pedophile. Anyways, the answer is, yes. I used to play a game called "Would you do her?" with my friend "18-hole". Let's just say that there really wasn't any way of winning this game, just a way to reveal how much of a slut you were. So, I did say once that I'd do the old chick from "Who's the Boss?". Does that make me sick? Back to the story: There was this "little lady" working as a server at the diner, not our server, though. I must say that she was pretty. Once I played my little game in my head, I started to feel really awful that I had. It was wrong to think like this, and I started to wonder what her life was like and other things about her. It was then that I went past the thoughts of the "deed" and thought about what it would be like to be married to a little person, have little people as children, and how family and friends would accept us. My conclusion was that I would be fine with it; actually, it wouldn't even matter--it would be great. We could have the coolest miniature home on the block, a couple of yorkies, and horseback riding would be less dangerous on shetlands, anyway. It was then that I noticed that she had a wedding ring on. Ceste la vi. A fun thing to do out in the country is the "wave fake". This is fun because all these friendly country folk like to wave at you when you pass down the road, like you know them. So, my favorite move is the "put the hand up, hold it in the air, get them to wave, then brush back your hair with said hand while they can still see you. Is this amusing, or just mean and stupid? It's great, though, when you can see them get all embarrassed or pissed off. Coming back, I was getting real punchy-tired, and started saying the word "titantic" over and over again. It just didn't sound right to me at all, titantic. Of course, the word is titanic, but this did not deter me from trying to figure out the incorrect version's phonemic oddity. I had my brother a little worried by then, because I started making up my own lyrics to songs. Example, Eddie Money's "Two Tickets to Paradise" chorus: "I've got flu rickets and head lice. Put it on a plate with some wild rice. Eat it up it tastes so nice. Na na na na, na na, na na, na na!" This bugs the ever-lovin' shit out of him when I do this. Good times.
What did I see? I saw an old homeless couple staring at a woman in her yard. The funny part of it was that the woman had her ipod ear plugs in and was shaking her booty while doing yard work. She had no idea that she had an audience. Also, I sneezed super loud and the car parked next to me had its alarm go off. Coincidence? I also discovered a new Mexican joint. Man it was good. The best chile verde I've ever had. It was freaking hot too! This is coming from a guy who can use Tabasco sauce as eye drops. Junior, the dude, asked me if "Ju alike-a-spicy" and being full of myself I said yes. I had to stop at regular intervals to catch my breath, but it was so exotic, nothing like I've had before; damn good thing I had plenty of lime-aide. All anyone has to do to get me to do their bidding is feed me great chile verde--Mexican food tramp! To top it all off, I bought the Buzzcocks new album "Flat-Pack Philosophy." If you're curious about this group, go for their collection "Singles Going Steady". Their songs "Orgasm Addict" and "What do I Get?" are priceless. If you like Greenday and the likes, this is their source. Tara, flowers!
This is what I get for eating too much spaetzle and gravy. I demand a retest! Only something like this would happen visiting Crystal's site, where I linked to the test. Please don't leave me, dear readers. I...I can change.
This is it, huh? Hell, I didn't know that this is what I was about at all. I guess I need to just let go and follow my celluloid. This test came to me courtesy of Queue_t's blog. Check it out if you like creative stuff like scrap books and such.
Today I'm not feeling it at all. I need some inspiration. Please leave funny comments, jokes, weird stuff, or whatever. I'll kick it off by asking this: Have you ever kissed a pig all you wanted? If the answer was "yes", then shame on you, pig lover. If the answer was "no", then what stopped you? I'll be retreating to my Grunt cave to play my guitar and eat some crackers.
I know that some of you here are going, "I knew it. There just seemed to be something wrong with the guy, after all." Well, I think that you are legally allowed to have up to three voices in your head before you're considered certifiable. For the record, I have two. One sounds like Captain Caveman and the other is Momma, from the movie, not the book, "Carrie". My intermediate voice in my head doesn't count as a third voice, because this is my direct representitive of my head. This voice sounds like Matthew McConaughey's "Wooderson" from the movie "Dazed and Confused". Example: "Let me tell you what Melba Toast is packin' right here, alright. We got 4:11 Positrac outback, 750 double pumper, Edelbrock intake, bored over 30, 11 to 1 pop-up pistons, turbo-jet 390 horsepower. We're talkin' some f-ckin' muscle."
Momma's voice is marked in Italics--Wooderson, in purple quotes--Captain Caveman is in red bold.
Okay, Momma is not only the voice of my conscience, but also my "killjoy". Her shrill voice permeates my brain whenever I attempt something stupid, vulgar, and or dangerous. Just think of the part in Carrie that Momma shrieks, "They're all gonna laugh at you!" That's what I'm talking about. Captain Caveman is my inner primate.Wooderson, well, he's all-right!
Case in point: I had a moment today where I dumped my clutch real hard at an intersection, Uhnga Bunga!, and my truck left a nice patch of rubber...No! "What?" You shouldn't have done that, mister! "But it was kewl, man" Uhnga bunga, must pick nose waiting at next light. No! No! They're all gonna laugh at you! "Chill, Sister Bringdown. It's all good. I just gotsta scratch it a bit." Oh, ho, ho, hoooo! Nose need more finger. Deeper! Deeper! No! You'll hurt your brain and then they're all gonna laugh at you! "Yeah, man. That's a little gross. I'm with the chick on this one." Uh-oh, finger slip and find caverock. Must wipe under seat. No! That's disgusting! Use a napkin! "Fling it out the window, man." This time Momma prevailed.
Stay tuned for more...
I've mentioned before that when it comes to crazy people, I'm gravity. A girl I was seeing in college, which wasn't that long ago for an academic late bloomer like myself, she would always ask me, a psych major, if she had schizophrenia. She was serious and I was scared. One thing that I noticed about her was she was easily distracted (oh, wow, a plane!) and liked to talk out loud to herself...in the f#cking G-D library!!! I'm fairly accepting of a person's natural, God-given, defects of body and person. That also goes for scars--emotional and physical. But, the minute somebody starts to stalk me, it gets a bit hard to feel any empathy for another's problems. I don't mind people obsessing over me, just don't show up conveniently in an elevator with a psycho, thousand-tooth grin on your face where I can't get away from you. I could talk about the crazy people in my life throughout the years, such as an old man named Leo, who wrote me the most psychotic poems and showed me his collection of urine samples (yes, this is true folks), but I won't. I will tell you, however, of the guy I met yesterday. I was at work and out in the parking lot was a guy, late forties, in this wicked, vintage Triumph sports car. One thing you need to know about me is that I am drawn to fine autos and have a respectable working knowledge of auto mechanics. Let me look under your hood sometime and I'll put a smile on your face (*cough* Mustang *cough*). Back to the story, so I go up to this guy and start asking him about his car. The minute I take interest in this guy's car his eyes light up, and he then goes into show 'n' tell super-overdrive. The first show 'n' tell item he pulled out was this 50 caliber bullet, that turned out to be a cleverly disguised crack lighter, you know the type. But, it was cool, and I made the mistake of telling him so. He then said, "I've got pictures of my other cars, do you want to see them?" I'm like, "Hell yeah, man!" Big mistake. So, he pulls out a whole damn photo album from a duffel bag that is full of hand guns and my heart just sinks right into my belly. So, while this guy keeps going on about his cars, I can't concentrate because of all these guns. I made another mistake by trying to "not look" but look at the cash of weapons that this dude had in his bag. He picked up on this right away. "Hey," he said to me, "I see you like what's in the bag there." I didn't respond, even though I know enough about guns to talk shop with him. He then says, "Well, then, you're really gonna like this," and pulls out a tazer and zaps the f'ing thing right in front of my face. I took a few steps back from the guy and he just says, "Zap...this guy puts out (X) amount of volts and will kill you if it is used incorrectly. It's come in handy for me, yep!" I'm a pretty solidly built guy, albeit nice and baby-faced, so don't tangle with me. However, this guy just had me freaked. I've never felt so intimidated and creeped out in my life. What came next was the cherry on the top: He asks me, with his eyelids fluttering slightly, to come with him to see his collection of seventy guns, and a 50 caliber handgun with explosive rounds (I didn't even know they made one of those). I just said that I didn't have time for that sort of thing and walked away, fast! One thing, I'm getting a big sign made that has a giant arrow pointing down at me, saying, "I am not into dudes. Please leave me alone, creep." Why dudes and not the womens? Uggggh!I know that this was the "man predator" equivalent of the strangers with candy routine. Good thing I'm not stupid or attracted sexually to men. I know that if I was, I'd be tied up, tazed, and jack-hammered up the anus, waiting to be disposed of in an onion patch. This just proves that I would not last ten seconds in prison. Damn my boyish good looks! You know, this experience has helped me know what some of you girls go through being harassed by creeps. I'm going to wear a man burka for the next couple of weeks. I don't want this guy to see me again.
I'm not talking about a kit to emotionally rape someone with, but something like the rape kits that they do at the ER. Do they have these? If not, then, why don't they?
Hello folks, Grunt here, I feel it's time to reveal something rather personal and secret to you about my sexual orientation: I, The Grunt, am a bedosexual. There, I said it. Oh, how I feel liberated!!! It seems that since I was a little tyke I would sneak long naps without my parents knowing. In school I'd drift off thinking of my bed and how lovely it would be if only I could sleep with it at that moment. At work it's a constant battle of desire vs. duty. I know that my bed is lonely and it never has a headache. But, I'm such a lousy lover. My bed told me the other day that I don't spend that much time with it anymore. I apologized, but the bed just sat there looking hurt. One thing about my bed is that it's cool if I cheat on it. It knows I love it, and that's all that matters. All I have to so is change its sheets on a regular basis.
Sometimes, I just lay on the bed and do nothing; It doesn't even mind. Other times I'll bring in a book and read it, or sit on my bed and play my guitar. I also like to try different positions with my bed, you know, roll around a bit. But, I don't do anything sick. A bed is not a woman, and should not be used as such.One of these days, I'm going to put another bed next to it and go crazy. I just can't get enough of bed, sometimes. Hmmmn? Well, I knew I could confide in you guys. I don't feel like such a freak now.
All of this talk has me thinking of getting some bed right now.
Is there such a thing as cheddar flavored bubblegum? If there isn't, then there should be.
My appetite has slowly shriveled down. I couldn't finish a burger and fries the other day. Tonight, I couldn't finish a measly two-entree dinner at Panda Express. When I was younger, I once ate 1/3 of a turkey, three kinds of potatoes, trimmings, and a half of a pie. It's like a scene right out of the Simpsons, where Homer is distressed that he can't eat anymore and says something to the effect of, "I see food, but I'm not hungry. What's wrong with me, Marge?" It's probably all for the best, though. My Lucky Charms ass aint getting anymore charming, so it's only right that I don't eat like a pig. The thing is, I should eat better food, home cooked food, but I hate cooking. After so many years of my youth were spent in front of a grill and fryer, I despise food preparation. The thing is, I'm a master at cooking short-order style breakfast and lunch. Beans on toast: check. Vindaloo was something of a specialty of mine, as well. Now, every time I cook it's pure drudgery. I need some of that magic Wonka gum. I don't even mind turning into a giant blueberry. At least, then, I wouldn't have to cook. This brings me to older women, I mean elderly, they are the ticket. Damn, they can cook, but I don't know if I can keep up with them, now that I've become a little bird now (thanks, Antony and the Johnsons). What I mean is, they demand that you eat it all, and these women don't know how to cook for anyone other than the seven kids and that fat-assed husband they had, or just themselves. Case in point: Joyce, the one responsible for the turkey dinner mentioned earlier. She had seven kids and liked to cook. I helped Joyce out with a few things and she'd always want to cook me dinner in return. The thing is, she would cook this massive dinner for seven people who weren't there. I'd feel bad, real bad, if I couldn't eat till I passed the appetizer. Think about that one for a bit. 
(The lady who tried to kill me, with food: Joyce and I after the infamous turkey dinner. My colon couldn't take anymore)
Then, there's that old Mexican lady I visit from time to time. Well, at least at her restaurant (actually her sister's) I pay her for the food, but she gets so upset if I don't eat there all the time. I think I've settled my women troubles: date women 20 or more years older than myself. Hey, Sophia Loren is in that group. However, I think I would rather go for the artsy domestic goddess, a little younger, though: Kate Bush. Hell, she's written a song about her flippin' washing machine, why not one about me eating her scrummy Yorkshire pudds The Boy With the Bush in His Eyes. Oh, I know what you guys were thinking. Get your minds out of the gutter...so mine can float on by. But, beyond the fact that she's married already, I figure that in time she'll come to her senses and, well...maybe not. Anyways, she is an older hottie in my book, though, and her wack song "Wuthering Heights" can make me weep like a sissy girl. Is that so wrong? 
Where was I? Yes, I can't eat much anymore, but I'll level out, I'm sure. I'm slowly but surely getting svelter. I don't like to cook. Most of all, I want these things to come into my life: Kate, Bush, bangers and mash. I don't think this too much to ask for.
Blogger is doing its best to make me look retarded. Hey, that's my job! I can't edit any of my posts without the screen freezing, then all that I had fixed is lost forever. I tend to post things hastily, then I see how things appear on the published page. I then go back and make a few fixes, and viola, blog magic, everyone craps their pants in delight. Not now, though, no: Blogger wants to screw with me big time. Well, Blogger, you're a punk-ass biatch. I'm going to dip my finger in pine tar and stick it in your ear. I'm going to shove hot, green pennies up your nose and in your mouth, you chump sucker. I'm gonna tie your nether regions to a big kite, set it loose, then have a barbecue afterward--and you're not invited! I'm gonna rub Fiberglas into every pit, crevice, and fold on your body, make you run laps at high noon in the desert, and then throw a wool shawl covered in ants over your sunburned corpse. Bring it, you twerp!!!! P.S. Isn't it odd that the Blogger spellcheck does not have either blog or blogger in its vocabulary? Not that I need it.
Hands up, who here ate Milkbones as a kid? I can sure as shinola count myself in that select group. Why stop there, I think that I tried out a little of everything that my pets ate, even the damn fish food for crying out loud. I think that the worst thing that I ate was raw hamburger meat. I loved that stuff. The only bring down was getting a bad case of worms when I was four. I still remember the taste, though. After those things, I developed a taste for boiled noodles and margarine. I think impacted bowels are a sign of sophistication and status, because most of those hoity-toity types are already full of shit, anyway. If it weren't for a couple of strategic enemas, administered by my poor mother, I'd probably be dead by now. I'm still waiting for a 25-year-old clump of pasta to pass. All of which brings me to this: Toddler Fear Factor. What would they eat? Hell, a guy at work brought in his two-year-old boy to work the other day, and I must say, he's a cute guy. He even learned my name and kept repeating it. While the grownups were talking, this kid was playing on the floor. To our horror, this kid grabbed this hairy looking spider and stuck it right in his gob. His father rushed right over to his boy and proceeded to do the "doggy negotiator" routine, "Drop it, drop it. That's ca-ca, yuk! I'll give you some chips if you drop it." No luck, the kid had already masticated the former spider. We all felt a little grossed out. He did follow it up by pointing at me and repeating my name. Clever kid. So, I'd like to hear stories from you about what gross things you've eaten as a kid, and/or have witnessed other kids eating. Don't spare any details.
Check it out and see if you likey.Cash
120 dB'sI'm figuring out some stuff with blogger, so humor me. These aren't album critiques, rather, album gushings. I'm not responsible if you end up buying any of these and end up hating them.
There's this guy at work who likes to relate his dreams to me. I guess I'm some kind of oracle--more like I can't run fast enough to get away from crazy people. Did I mention that I attract lots of crazy people? No comment on my blogger friends. The jury's still out, right? So, this past while, this guy's dreams have included me in them. This has me worried. I asked the guy why I was so prominently featured in his dreams and he blushed and put his head down. He never said anything, but his silence was loud and clear. If I were gay my life would be a snap. Aaaaaaah!
Okay, first one: Hmmm, definitely some sensitivity...let's try squeezing it...AAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!! It was a zit. Second one: Not really feeling anything at all...just kind of sits there. Must be a mole. Third one: Oooooh! Yeah, this feels good...let me just...AAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!!! AAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!!! It was a zit on a superfluous third nipple.
I've been thinking about sitcom Ideas lately and the first one that comes to mind is one involving hardcore-punk/ metal Icon Glen Danzig and the legendary Florence Henderson. Okay, Glen Danzig plays himself in this and Florence plays his mother. Danzig's career is in a slump and can no longer afford to support himself, so he moves back in with mommy. It's called (are you ready for it?) Mother. I don't think I need to draw a picture for you guys on all the wackiness that would ensue. Such mismatched Misfits--har-har. I'll have something real to write soon, don't worry. Why can't blogging pay my bills, after all that I do here? I don't know why this is all underlined either. I've learned to not mess with blogger when it gets all diva on me.
I've got the key to the electrical room. The boss is gone. That 10:40 has been canceled. What do you want to do?
Well, It seems I've been beating up on my kids again. Pardon my post, but I'm baffled by this: Have any of you fellas ever sat on your own nuts? I swear I did today and it made my ears ring it hurt so bad. This hasn't been the first time either. What is with the phenomenon of the sack getting all mammoth as you age, anyway? I could think of at least one other thing that would be more useful if it did this. I can't believe I'm actually telling y'all this.
Whoomp, dere it is! Guggs is responsible. Go to his blog if you want to do one for yourself. A few of you gals made it into mine. Joy!
Because that's what I have done my whole life. I'll never stop, either. When I find whatever it is, I'll share...I promise. Here's to the agony and the ecstasy: the grunt of life. I'm no more the Grunt, than any of you. Viva la Grunt!
P.S. Click on the photo. Blogger makes this picture look weird.
Today has been another stressful Saturday for me. I get stressed on the weekends because that's when family get togethers are common. It seems that my family's fortunes have really been shat on again and again, and it always breaks my heart to hear what the latest shit sandwich is. Mustard please. My 400 pound brother is________. My sick, disabled, and mental health problemed elderly father is________. My oldest sister is about to: A) loose her home B) have heart problems C) husband still won't get a job D) son is getting held back a grade E) psycho, drug addict mother-in-law is compounding the whole deal. Fortunately, my other two sisters are doing fine, but the single one lives by herself and I worry for her all the time. My mother just runs around constantly, trying to do her best to stay away from dad. It feels as if I've taken a few glass-laced Brillo pads, lit them on fire, then swallowed them down. I'm not bowing, that's called a "Ahfak, I'm 100% Hydrochloric Acid!" stretching technique. I've got my own major life problems to deal with. I'm the baby of the family, but I'm their mediator. No one can communicate with my dad like I can, because anyone else usually runs away crying, including my 400 pound hulk of "He aint heavy, he's my brother". My dad has progressed in the past two years, but still can't lift his arms past his shoulders and still has his moments of panic and depression. At least I don't have to wheel him around anymore. Now he has a cane and likes to hit shit with it and make strangers angry. My dad was a sergeant First Class during Korea and knows how to manipulate, yell, and just make you feel small. The idea was to tear them down, then build them up. He never gets around to the last part. He hasn't been able to work since the eighties, due to all of his health problems. Or, that's what his line is, anyways. Why did I come last and late into these people's lives? Why can't I have been born to someone else? Like, I could be feeding off of Angelina Jolies' teat right now. Hell, she's got enough to go around. The answer is simple: Even though you and yours are flawed, you still love them. I know for a fact that I'll probably be burying my dad in the next decade, if not sooner. My brother will probably come right after him, if he doesn't change his ways. My oldest sister will probably be killed off by her insane in-law ma and manchild hubby. That leaves my mother and two sisters. My mother's mother and her mother have all died with dementia, so she's got that to look forward to. As usual, my two middle sisters will make out okay. As for me, look at all the material I have to work with. Today, I tried my best to bliss out. I went and watched some horses run around in a field. One male was getting frisky and tried to mount a mare. The mare kept backing up into him to push him off. The stud didn't get the drift until the mare gave him a swift kick in the chest. The stud ran away whinnying. I learned a lesson there. I went to my favorite Mexican restaurant, the one with the old lady who obsesses about me. I watched an NBA game, had some food, and tried to get the Brillos to stop burning (Mexican food was not a good choice). This old chica stood there and talked to me, like I was a regular pachucco. She wondered why I don't speak Espanol, and I explained to her that I knew many bad words and had taken Espanol in 8th grade. I added that my assigned name in that class was "Ramone". She laughed and said that she would help me with my Espanol. She's going to call me Ramone from now on. Nothing worked today, until I listened. Something about a woman's voice is so soothing. I don't care that it came from an old Mexican lady, either. The vocal patterns of a woman are so lyrical, I have a hard time remembering what they say. The music in their voice is what I hear, and that is what I needed today to quench my burning Brillos. P.S. I could barely stand to reveal that much about my problems and my family, so please, don't ask me to elaborate.
