Jar Jar Binks is teaming up with Randy Jackson and Danger Mouse to lay down an album's worth of slow jams and Calypso tunes. It's totally true because an angel of God visited me in my room three times in a row and told me to stop abusing my brain with drain cleaner, that the Celts are the primary ancestors of the indigenous peoples of New Guinea --and btw, Jar Jar Binks is making a comeback!
Some of the leaked song titles include:
"Oh, Annie Man Will Do! (Show Me Your Darkside)"
" It's Da BBI (Binks Bitches Inc.)"
"Say Da Mana Cuz I Don Have Time, Walter (WTF???)"
"Tally My Banana, Oh!"
"The Ballad of Qui-Gon Jinn (with Gordon Lightfoot)"
I had this dream last night about an old friend of mine that I haven't seen in years. In this dream he was single, but in real life he is married. The other part of the dream was that he had used condoms strewn about his pad and a huge assortment of sex toys. Now, I think you might now where this is going, but wait, there's a big wtf twist! The dream became focused on a pet of his: a magical cat. This guy hates cats in real life, so why in hell did the dream include this? The cat was magical, though. It knew how to make its own Fancy Feast dinners appear out of thin air, balls of yarn would just fly about the place, and it would even talk in a weird cat voice.
So, Kenny, is it true? Are you now single, creepy with sex implements, and own a magical pet cat? I'll be waiting for your answer.
I went to a family reunion last Friday. It was my mom's side of the family. I've never had a family reunion on my dad's side of the family because my dad and his half-sister are just barely acknowledging each other. While I find my father's side of the family more interesting, in a clinical way, I do get along better with my mom's side of the family. It was a good get together and I got to have some face time with my cuz Brett (formerly, The Incorrigible Vagabond) who inspired me to start blogging in the first place. I just wish all of my sisters were there. I wish I could get more into that, but I said that I wouldn't.
The other things: went off roading, bought a cowboy period-style piece for target shooting, pulled a nearly overturned truck out of a culvert with my truck, slashed my wrist while trying to roll up a window in my damned truck when the handle broke and the jagged left overs dug a nice trench in me. That gas station attendant was real spot on with her getting me first-aide supplies. I spent my Sunday asking God "why" and avoided people. I think it's the manses. Anyway, it was a full weekend.
My imagination gets all the chicks. I hate it. Even if I have a woman my imagination goes out and gets a better one. I can't compete.
The other thing I hate about my imagination is that it conspires with my memory recall to bring up weird nudity that I've seen over the years, and places it right in the silver screen of my mind at the most inappropriate times. For example, I am talking to a woman about her new grand kid and Tara Reid's Frankennipple pops into my mind. Things resembling sea monsters eating nachos, shaved voles, and rude vegetables compete for my attention constantly in crucial times. This is why I am not the CEO of Dairy Queen right now. The real kicker is that in times of loneliness and arousal my imagination leaves me and can only think about stuff like how good an actor George C. Scott was. I mean, Patton...are you kidding me? That guy is a national treasure.
The thing about nudity and my imagination is that it can only do one body part at a time accurately. If my imagination tries to create a whole composite, then things start to get a bit strange. Let's try this for example, if I were to imagine a whole nude woman and then bring that creation to life in the real world, she would resemble Salvador Dali's "The Bather".The cruelty of my imagination is unending.
This is not totally about my imagination, but I was at my friend's house this Saturday. It was sad because they got a replacement pet for their elderly blue healer: a cute black lab puppy. Nothing says "You're gonna make great mulch for the rose garden" to your old dog like having it train the replacement. I could tell that old Blue was pretty depressed about it all because she didn't even bother telling the pup where to go bathroom--it just peed all over the floor inside. I mean, how can you do your job when your morale is low? The bonus part of training your replacement is that you can train them wrong. Take that, master's shoe! Okay, that part involved imagination.
There are certain kinds of cereal that I believe to be alive when you prepare them for consumption. I'm talking about the floaty kind of cereal. You pour the milk on them and the little bits of cereal try to escape, jumping off the edge of the bowl in hopes that an ant will whisk them away to freedom. If they are smart the bits will choose the most opportune moments to jump, like when you are moving your bowl from the counter to the coffee table. It's there that the cereal bit can drop on the floor and become undesirable for human consumption, banking on there not being any dogs or babies to eat them. The other places that cereal can drop are in sofa/recliner cushions, baby seats, and in the folds of the morbidly obese.
There's also the kinds of cereal that comes into play: being the type that mom buys and you don't want to eat, kids. That cereal goes on to live an exciting life of adventure in the waste facilities of the world. I think that, in this case, I'd want to be generic, sugar-free raisin bran or anything that involves natural ingredients--the cereals that are made up entirely of delicious poison and cut the roof of your mouth don't stand a chance.
It's unfortunate, however, that the liberated bit of cereal really does nothing with its freedom other than watch feet nearly crush them to death. The anxiety of being free cereal must be great, but so too is the need to not be eaten.
Time machines would be great. But there is something that I would do with that technology to make all of our lives kick tits: The "Just In Time" Machine (patent pending). This works great for hitting those historical or personal events that you want to relive, witness, or fuck with the space-time continuum just so you can make sure that your mother-doesn't-marry-someone-better-than-your dad-so-you-can-exist kind of thing, because we all know that you get an awesome Toyota 4x4 truck that you can take your girlfriend to the lake in and you can screw her all night and she won't get pregnant kind of "new" present life. Longest sentence ever! But wait...there's more!!! The Just In Time Machine (patent pending) really shines in future travel. It is perfect for nailing the perfect spots for witnessing natural disasters, accidents, assassinations, celebrity wardrobe malfunctions, and even Jesus Christ himself!
Dogs need to get jobs, buy things, and learn how to drive. It's the only way we can fix this economy.
I went in for my quarterly cancer examination today. Things checked out great with one exception: my hemoglobin is low. I asked my doctor why it was low and she couldn't say. This got me thinking about possible causes. I came to the conclusion, after much thought, that I was raped in the night by the Hemogoblin. I made this deduction from the fact that my ass hurt when I woke up this morning and rose petals were stuffed in my shoes. True story.
Fun Fact: Work is slowly robbing you of your will to live.
So, I was going on my Sunday evening hike and I came across these two men on the trail. We all stopped a bit to talk about the canyon and I asked them how far up the trail went and so forth. Anyway, the "leader" of the two starts asking me a lot of personal questions and then introduces himself with a hand shake. The quiet one looks me directly in the eye, and with no irony says, "They call me Hawk." Besides the obvious question of who "they" was, I was tempted to just come right out and say that I wasn't interested in being raped in the forest.
My activity on this blog has been in decline (for me, at least). Ever since I got back from my vacation awhile back it has been hard for me to focus on certain things. Since it has been a whole week (!) since my last post I have decided to share with you some of my new-found passions: fun, lobster racing, snipe awareness, touching my nose with my_______, making dirty thoughts pop into people's heads without doing anything dirty, dust bunny rancher, likes a wide variety of hats (does not wear hats), bonsai tree liberation, taco cart maintenance, fish bowling, star gazing with Bob (imaginary mentor--I'm all grown up now).
Aside from these new pursuits and hobbies, I have been busy deconstructing my milieu. See, I had this dream. In this dream I was involved in an activity where the adult men and young men were gathered into a gymnasium. We were told to bring a gun. When we were all present, the leader told us to stand apart from each other a certain distance and then to fire our guns in turns. I kept asking the leader why we were doing this. He told me that it was better to be obedient and assured me that no one would die or get hurt badly. I was rather nervous in the dream because I was only ten feet away from a boy pointing a double-barrel shotgun at me. I pretty much knew that I would be wasted with one shot. I persisted in questioning every grownup in the group and everyone seemed to ignore me now, instead laughing with each other and acting rather casual--this was all going to be fun. End dream.
This impressed upon me the futility of warning a body/group of the foolishness that they are engaged in. A group is an organism. It will do many things to protect itself.
I've been thinking about the collective state of mind versus the individual: happiness. I really believe that a member of the collective will sacrifice their individual self for their collective self out of the need for security and comfort over autonomy and truth. The collective will rarely, if ever, truly listen to an individual who threatens the state of the collective; whereas, the individual can become completely absorbed by the collective.
Collective/group reality seems to be just as subjective and prone to credulity as that of the individual, if not more. Group think is prone to depersonalization as well as a lack of critical thinking. The responsibility of scrutiny is dispersed completely. It is no wonder that large groups of people have taken in claims, concepts and myths in confidence from jugglers of perception and emotion.
This all takes me back to the days when I was studying social psychology. It is nice to shut the brain down and make everybody happy, but I don't think that they understood what it was that made me unhappy. The more I think, the more it seems to unravel who I am. My real interest in life is thinking. I am a thinker. Speaking in general, if what I think about makes you feel uncomfortable, then that is tough shit. I am a big enough person to handle your mind garbage, why not you mine?
My older brother had "the" poster with the magic nipples in it. I was an avid watcher of Charlie's Angels reruns, but was more devoted to Wonder Woman. I will remember her for her character of "Blond Girl" in Logan's Run and for her paintings, using her nude body as a brush. This is proof that Texans are different from the rest of us and that is why we like them. Mostly, though, I will think about another fellow being that lost their battle with cancer and how fortunate I am to have survived my battle with that disease.
Of Ed:
I was lucky enough to have spent many nights of my youth watching The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. I would sometimes crash my parents' room and watch this with my dad while my mom was busy doing mom stuff. There was something about Ed that made you like him, or fear him. You just knew that if you met him in the right circumstances that he might "heyo" you to death. Ed was one of the few people that could put "Trademark Laugh" on a resume and it would get him the job. At least he and Johnny can do the show again.
Of Michael:
Pop genius, pure and simple. I really got into my brother's 45's of the Jackson 5 and his early solo stuff. I wasn't even ashamed to like him when he released Thriller, then things started getting weird...Howard Hughes meets Elvis weird. From hyperbaric chambers to Elepant Man skeletons, and the occult to Bubbles the Chimp. Throw in Brooke Shields, Webster, Neverland Ranch, and a bunch of young boys and you have only a grain of sand on an entire bizzaro world beach. He seemed only to be visiting this planet, anyway. Somehow, I am happy for him. As tragic as his death may be, I really didn't want to see what advanced age would do to him. I found it painful to watch him make attempts at becoming "adult", having kids and canned marriages. He just could never be old--he needed to exist elsewhere, away from normality. Maybe he really was Peter Pan. There won't be anybody nor anything like him again.
You're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't. So, the best thing is to say that you are always thinking about it, whatever "it" is, and hang out with good people.
My mind is still on vacation. Astral travel is much cheaper than getting away physically, but I am no yogi.
My mind thinks of silly things quite often. Lately, I've been fascinated with how Dustin Hoffman says "uh-oh", you know, the "Rainman" catchphrase. I also have an equal fascination with how Jackie Chan says "uncle". He sounds like he's saying "unkhole". There's nothing wrong with it. It is just something that I get a kick out of. So, I've been thinking how great it would be if Jackie Chan and Dustin Hoffman did a movie together, called Uh-oh! Where's Uncle? Dustin Hoffman would just reprise his Rainman character and team up with Jackie on a quest to find his Uncle, who was kidnapped by international gangsters that ride motorcross bikes around the Bronx--the Bronx having the Canadian Rocky Mountains as a prominent backdrop (just like in Rumble in the Bronx). Apparently, Hong Kong filmmakers didn't even try to match their shooting location to their intended setting. Oh, and when is the last time you were traumatized by hordes of breakdance-couture, dirtbike riders in the inner city? Did they try to steal your grocery-store-owning uncle, too? Well, my friends, all of this nonsense will go into this production. Dustin Hoffman will use his savant super powers to process information from almanacs, phone books, and the "Adult" ads in Craigslist to track down the bad guys. Jackie Chan will just randomly beat people up, run around and jump alot, and smile at stuff while pronouncing things wrong to our delight. The best part is that they both will say the catchphrase "Uh-oh! Where's Uncle?" a lot.
I have sensitive eyes. Noise isn't the primary obstacle for me getting to sleep or staying asleep. Light is the main culprit for my arousal or inability to zonk out. I happen to live on a busy street. This damn street, and paranoid neighbors with their motion-sensing flood lights, make me go into fits when I'm trying to get a little shut eye. Up until now, my solution has been to use my black Pink Floyd "Division Bell" concert t-shirt to throw over my face. It still has that unwashed stench of concert sweat and weed and will stay that way--you never wash concert t-shirts, teens. The problem there was that I had woke up a few times with this t-shirt almost strangling me, having wrapped itself around my neck. So, I broke down, went to Rite-Aide, and bought myself a teal-colored, silk blind fold. I didn't opt for the one with lace, though.
As gay as I look wearing this thing, I have got to say that it feels divine. It is more than that, though; my eyes feel cooler and I don't wake up as "baggy" as I used to. The downside to this blind, versus the Floyd shirt, is that there is no olfactory enhancement that stimulates wicked dreams. In fact, this silk blindfold promotes more sedate and sensitive dreams, where I sit around drinking chai and asking people about their feelings. This pisses of that little part of me that says, "Oh, go shove a corn cob up your ass, you sissy boy!" I think, in time, this little part of me will come around.
It all hit me today. I watched enough bad T.V. to rob my brain of all independent thought.
Symbiotic relationships--like remoras and sharks--are fascinating to me. I like picking out who the "remora" is and the "shark" in any given relationship. My truck needs a remora. That would be awesome. I would be going down the freeway with a few of them stuck to my truck, cleaning all the foreign debris that collects on it. While we are talking around the wishing well, it would also be nice if our cars fed off of bugs in the air like a whale does with krill. No pollution or trips to the pump, just free energy and less mosquito bites.
I have come to the conclusion why the sasquatch gives off such a horrible smell: skunk lovers. Since the best kook psuedoscientists have produced enough hardcore speculation as to their numbers (3,500) it must get lonely out there for a hairy and horny biped--much like a long-haul trucker. Eyewitnesses testify that a horrible smell accompanies the beast--a smell that has nothing to do with the body odor that comes from a large man in a yak hair covered, latex gorilla suit. No, the sasquatch tides themselves over with the odd skunk here and there with a behavior that is known as "misting" in cryptozoological circles. I do not wish to get into the mechanics of such, but I will just say that the natives of this country did not call the sasquatch "skunk ape" for nothing.
I was hoping to join a cult in the wilderness but nobody would take me. I tried my damnedest to find Bigfoot but could not grow sufficient facial hair to fit the part of an expeditiouswacko. I did have the boots, though.
I will have to report about this sometime down the road.
It was on the side of the road and had a saddle blanket tossed over most of it. This scene reminded me of the horse that my friend Kenny and I found up behind his house back when we were kids. We sort of followed our noses to this bloated horse. Its hoof had broken off and must have been shot to spare it the suffering. That was probably the worst smell I've ever come across, other than a dead bull that our scout troop came across while bow fishing. We all started firing arrows at the bloated corpse to see if it would explode; instead, just an awful aroma wafted through the ravine. That is probably one of my favorite scout moments, other than burning things and smuggling in Penthouse mags at jamborees.
Anyway, this scene today did not ruin my grilled turkey pesto sandwich that I had afterward.
While on the rescue mission, I did get in some time to check out the local scenery in Steamboat. This was a very short hike and well worth the time to go see.
As for everything else, well, life gets stressful for all of us now and then. We either experience it because something is happening to us or to someone else. I've said this many times, that it isn't because my life is disrupted that I'm freaking out, it is that it is hard to witness someone that you are close to destroy themselves.
I feel for anybody that has had to deal with addiction. I feel, also, for those that have had to help those who were addicts. I am learning that the things that an addict says has to be taken with a grain of salt, even the things that are truly mean spirited. Today I had to read an email from this person that was a full on assault to my character. The months leading up to this day, being involved, I've been fairly stoic and in control. But, this message today broke me down. I was in the shower and without sensing it beforehand, I started sobbing. It just came out. It felt bad. It felt good. I needed it.
This whole week I've felt horrible and have not wanted to get out of bed. I have to keep reminding myself that this person, who is very dear to me, is suffering far worse than I. So, I get up and go to my lousy monkey job, grateful that someday I will be able to know this person again without the distortion of alcohol and pills getting in the way.
The past 72 hours of my life have been surreal and trying. I've traveled nearly a thousand miles in that time without any prior plan to do so. I've had to do things that I have never done before and never in my wildest imagination would have thought that those things would have to be for a certain person in my life. I wish I could be more explicit than this, but I won't. I feel like I've just taken that little possessed girl from The Exorcist on the road trip from hell. Well, "feels like" is not really what I mean. I mean that I, in fact, did transport something out of control from a long way away, after having helped detox it, having "it" escape, "it" be arrested by the Routt County Police in Colorado for DUI, and having to deal with more bail bondsman on a Sunday than I am accustomed to. Oh, and I learned another thing, ATM withdrawls on my debit card are limited to $300 per day and certain services take cash only. Oh, and the motel I stayed at had crap wifi and drunken parties going on all night long. Fuh! King! Aw! Suhm!
Did I mention that I had previously taken Friday off to have a three-day weekend to celebrate my birthday a little late?
If a certain co-worker tells me that he had the worst day because he had to take his daughter to dance class, I'm going to start shooting people from the bell tower. Well, I'd throw water balloons, but you get my drift.
If you never got to see me before chemo and radiation and during, go here. Anyhooter, I finally cut my hair for the first time since I lost it. I went from this, (about 14 months worth of growth)... To this...This is about as "before and after" as you're gonna get--I even did the dark-light frowny face "before" shot and the sunny/smiley "after" mug. I liked the long hair, to a point. Having to work outside the majority of the time, it was getting tangled from the wind and soaked with sweat and attracting dirt. I was also starting to draw the ire of the oldies and not-so-oldies that are squares.
So, I decided to go to a local "McBarber" and free my scalp. I decided that I wanted to go short all the way around to prove to myself that I have healed emotionally--that being almost bald again would not bring back horrible memories and feelings. Anyway, when the lady started cutting my hair we started talking and I shared my story with her. When the cut was done (fast) I asked her for a bag so I could collect some of my hair. She happily obliged. So, after I got done being a creep and having to explain to people not to worry, that I have a restraining order pending on myself, from myself, I approached the register to pay and the stylist says, "This one is on me!" I got a free, freaking haircut!!! People are now confused when they see me, but this is due to the town's tainted water supply. I mean, a year is a long time to remember what someone looked like with short to almost no hair.
Hank did say that. I don't think that he was the first to say it, but that certainly sounds like the dirty old man.
I would like to modify that statement thus: There are worse things than being alone, like being left alone with___________.
That is a blank that we all must fill. I would like to hear your answers. Mine is Dick Cheney or Richard Simmons.
BTW, I went into the wilderness on Saturday for a little adventure, climbed a slate covered hill, slipped, fell, and hurt my neck. It was nothing serious, but waking up this morning wasn't fun at all.
I have a new mantra that I repeat to myself at work: You people make me sick.
I am good at making things that don't work.
If I were to have one super power I would want the power of super persuasion.
I think a duck is stalking me, maybe even trying to kill me. I was attacked by this duck when I was leaving a local Burger King. I think it is the same duck that I came across up in the mountains--a very odd place for a duck to be hanging out. I'm going to have one embarrassing obituary if things keep going this way.
First off, I need to Apollo Creedologize to the following: Californians, Californians on my mother's side of the family (I really do love you), and my father's side of the family that scare me with their war stories, cowboy boots, and unibrows.
Today for Cinco de Mayo I went and had some delicious food made by Mexicans at McDonald's. The plan was to go to the Mexican restaurant in town that employs white people and one Samoan. Yeah, I do get a bit head scratchy about that one sometimes, but then I drink something with lots of caffeine in it and go on with my life.
Just when it is safe to think I can tell people that I wasn't made out of parts and reanimated--that I have family--shit goes all 'razy again with a member of the family. Did I mention that I am my family's emotional waste facility? I am signaling the aliens to pick me up as we speak. I think I am robust enough to take their experiments. I have to accept the harsh reality that when I find the "one" she will have to be set down at the family table and presented with the "loving cup" ceremony: Gooba-gabbo! Gooba-gabbo! We accept her! We accept her! One of us! One of us!
If anybody asks, I'm out working on my Camaro, waiting for a French exchange student to help me ski the "K-12". Oh yeah, I don't have a Camaro.
I didn't grow up on a farm, but when I was younger the area I grew up in had quite a few real farms and ranches. There aren't many of those around now that Californians are leaving their quagmire of economic hell to cheaper pastures and snatching up McMansions by the dozen--so they can show little Johnny and little Suzy what a cow looks like. On top of all that we get the indignity of being told that we are backward hicks with no sense whatsoever and that our state should become more like the state that they had to move away from. It's awesome.
I like many Californians. Heck, I'm related to a whole bunch of them. It is one of those most awesome things that I get to participate in: family get togethers. I think all of the ones that involved the Californian branch of my mother's family consisted of me being acknowledged superficially, then ignored for three awkward hours. I'll say it again: It's awesome. At least my dad's side of the family have the social grace to say that they think I'm a loser to my face, then proceed to make fun of everything I do and that I'm a pussy. Hey, I can't help the fact that I haven't had the opportunity to kill a man, legally.
I think this post promised farm animals. Sorry.
Anyway, when I was a lad I had a paper route. Part of that route took me into farmland. It was there that I discovered the joy of baby cow season. I wasn't a happy kid. These baby cows took that unhappiness away from me for a brief moment. There is nothing more cute in this world than a baby cow. Puppies don't even come close, in my humble opinion. I think it is because you know what kind of fate a baby cow has that makes you appreciate that short moment it has of finding life fun and brand new. Let's face it: nobody's lining up to play Frisbee with flossy, other than to throw parts of her onto the grill.
So, today, I was not feeling particularly great. It has been a while since I've been truly depressed, thanks to my friends at the Pfizer corporation. But today was beyond chemical help. I needed more: Baby cow therapy. Hey, I've used a lot of colons in this post so far! High five!
I headed off to the county behind the mountains that divide where I live from Marlboro country. When I got there I was received with plenty of friendly waves from total strangers. My truck may not be a shit-kicker delight, but it gets the nod due to its vintage. After the welcoming committee, I went up a valley where the baby cows, kids, and the occasional juvenile alpaca roam. I parked my truck and stared lovingly at the jumping, kicking baby cows like a pervert watching moms at a playground. Well, I wasn't planning anything like that--I'm not a sicko. Let me rephrase that whole thing: I was not getting off on them; just that I made the mother cows feel a bit uncomfortable with my "hamburger" eyes.
When I started feeling better, I started to think happy, ponderous thoughts. I wondered to myself, just at what point do cows become boring? I haven't seen adult cows do much of anything noteworthy, other than feed an overfed nation. I mean, no cow has ever invented anything useful. I'm pretty sure a dog or a monkey has.
Wait...
New. Foul. Odors. Yes, cows have done remarkable things.
This is one of my favorite pianists playing one of my favorite pieces, by one of my favorite Russian composers. Check out the wicked left-hand action. I've loved this pianist, Anna Gourari, ever since I saw the Werner Herzog film Invincible. She's not only talented and beautiful, she also makes "oh" faces when she plays--kind of like Hendrix did when he played the guitar.
Enough of this high-brow crap.
Today's joke comes directly from my childhood--a little gem that used to crack us kids up back in the day.
There's this Indian chief that is constipated. He goes to his shaman to seek a cure.
Shaman: "What matter, Big Chief?" Indian chief to shaman: "Ugh! Big Chief no fart!" Shaman: "That problem can take care of. Try this soup. It has many beans. It will make Chief fart."
So, the Indian chief goes away to his tepee and partakes of the shaman's special soup. The chief wakes up in the morning feeling even worse. He goes back to the shaman.
Shaman: "How soup, Big Chief?" Big Chief: "Ugh! Big Chief no fart!" Shaman: "It worse than expected. I'll make even stronger soup so chief can fart."
The Indian chief does as he's told, just like last time and eats the soup. The next morning the chief feels the worst that he's ever felt. He has his sons carry him to the shaman's tepee to see what can be done.
Shaman: "Big Chief don't look so well. Still no fart?" Big Chief: "Big Chief still no fart! Big Chief kill shaman if no fart this time!" Shaman: "Big Chief will fart. I have concentrated soup with strong chilies, many beans, and chunks of boar fat in it. Big Chief will fart, or I will willingly die if fail."
The Indian chief is carried away by his sons to his tepee. The chief eats the shaman's strongest soup and goes to sleep. Early in the morning the shaman is woken up by an explosion. He gets out of his tepee to see what happened. When he looks out he sees the villagers running up the hill screaming. He grabs one of the frantic braves and asks him what happened.
Shaman: "What happened? What make big noise?" Frantic Brave: "Big fart! No Chief!!!"
Not really. I was watching a bit of mind numbing stimuli on the TV whilst eating some eggs and toast this morning. When I eat I don't pay attention to shit. So, when I eat I usually need to have the TV on to something hypnotically dull. On The Discovery Channel there is this absolutely überboring program called " How It's Made". See, if you ever wondered how pens, lobster bibs, or jack hammers are made, you can just tune in to that program and turn into human goo from the boredom. Personally, it is more of a trance thing for me. Watching the automatic assembly lines with the sound off, and some CAN in the player, that is what gets my void on. Anyway, this morning I learned that the first cotton swabs were called "Baby Gays" instead of Q-Tips. So, there I was eating my cocoa puff equivalent cereal when my brain received this fun fact, and then started laughing like a stoned college student, milk dribbling down my chin. It was at that point that I thought of looking through my bags of leftover prescription drugs from past medical adventures and see if I had any Oxes or Loris left and just make today a complete "shit the couch" circus. My better judgment prevailed and so I went to work.
I dropped by my sister's place today to find out that I have a new friend. My sister got a cat from the animal shelter, a seal point mix. I used to be indifferent to cats until I befriended a black and white "Sylvester" some time ago. That cat was affectionate. Unfortunately, it was killed by a coyote. I thought that cat was an anomaly amongst cats, but this new cat of my sister's is the bee's knees. The papers say that her name is "Princess" and we all thought that was pretty gay. So, this cat has no name at the moment. If it was a male, my vote would be for "Terence Hill". You just can't give dogs people names.
Anyway, my sister has been through a lot lately and she needed a faithful companion to love her and keep her company. It is amazing how much one little being can make life better.
I guess you just can't blame a guy for wanting to get laid, though;) BTW, I know elkspeak and this guy claims to have slept with Rachel McAdams, was a secret adviser to the Obamas, and invented the delicious desert that we all know and love: ice cream. Amongst other embellishments, this elk claims to have been the first member of the Cervidae family to land on the moon. The problem with lying your way into people's pants, hearts, and lives is that that you end up more alone and lost than you started out.
Farewell, Scott. It was nice knowing the fabrication that was you. And like a coward, you took down your blog and tucked your tail between your legs without so much as an apology, defense, or an explanation. This is how you lose respect and lose friends--people who would have heard you out. But, no, you slid back into your mossy crevice, waiting for the right time to reemerge and troll upon trusting people on the internet. I really hope that you get your act together and respect people enough to tell them who you are and not who you think would impress them. I, at least, hope that the good guy that I saw in you was real and that you can take from this humiliation something to build upon: truth. It is the only way that you will find happiness and I will gladly eat my harsh words towards you if you do so.
For those who need a back story on all of this, go here and especially here.
I'm sorry to have to kick your ass, Scott, but you need a good old ass kicking to get you started in the right direction. May your best efforts in restitution be rewarded.
Sunday, I went up into the mountains behind where I live to go for a bit of adventure. Sunday was the best in a few awesome days of spring weather that has been long over due around here. I decided to check out some old mine tailings that I had spied over the years--see if I could access them. Here is the first mine shaft that I reached. It wasn't that big. I crawled in and it did eventually open up enough to walk in without crouching. On my way out I noticed that there was a spot where the shaft ceiling was vertical. I pointed my flashlight up and there were about a dozen bats right above me. I must admit that I turned into a bit of a spaz and ran out of the mine, tripped right before I had to crawl, and got all muddy. At least it wasn't guano. This is the reward for hiking in leafless oak brush. I had to come down the mountain in the dark, but I was treated to herds of deer, relics from forest fire crews, and a duck. Yeah, a duck. I had no idea that ducks got that adventurous. I was at around the 6,500 foot mark on the hill and I hear this rustling in the brush. I got real curious when that rustling started going "quack-kwa-kwa-kwa-quack". Thinking that I was either going crazy, or the psilocybin was starting to kick in. I ran towards the thicket to see if I could flush this thing out and there it went: a damned duck at that elevation with no bodies of water around. I'm thinking that this duck just had enough of the daily grind of people throwing bread crumbs at him and all that quacking. Sometimes, you just have to get the duck outta dodge and go up in the hills.
Ah-hahaha!
P.S. When you bushwhack through oak brush that was burnt from a forest fire, you'll end up looking like you lost a fight with a big bag of Kingsford.
Just letting you know that I am doing well. Life is life and family issues are a source of never ending excitement.
I talked to a friend today that I haven't heard from in awhile. BTW, I did end up going on an epic hike today and my policy of taking a flashlight with me now has paid off. I was in the dark for quite some time. I will do a post about it later, with pics!
More blog pals are jumping ship lately. I feel sad about this, but that is just how it goes.
My hair has still not been cut since I was made bald from chemo. You'll get pics before I cut it.
Clyde, my truck, has finally been fixed. I have had steering problems since the beginning of the year. It started with one component seizing, then causing a chain reaction of failure throughout the whole steering system. Here is an inventory of parts replaced: right and left tie rods, drag linkage, upper and lower ball joints on both sides of the axle, front axle locking hubs, passenger side axle stub shaft u-joint, steering gear box, new front discs and pads (because I might as well do the brakes if I've gotta do the rest of that shit), and a partridge in a pear tree. So, I did all of the above repairs myself, with a little help from a friend's brother's 12-ton hydraulic press. Oh, my friend was there to make fun of me here and there. This is proof that if you want to go off road and get a bit rowdy that you have to be willing to pay the price. Let's just say that doing it myself, as much as that sucked, saved me around $1k. Oh, and I'm going to have to take it easy for awhile, or until my wallet cools down.
I've been asking people this question lately and I want to hear from you: How do you wang chung? What is wang chunging? What sort of time frame and commitment is involved in this sort of thing and how many people does it require? Is there a risk of chaffing?
Is there such a thing as pet circumcision?
Why are there so many songs about rainbows? No, why do people say that, and then upon further inspection, you find that there really aren't--that there are more songs about rainy days--yet, people still sing that damn "Rainbow Connection" with total blind faith that Kermit the Frog is not a lying sack of green shit?
Let me hear your thoughts on these.
FYI: Bigfoot is completely covered in thick hair with the exception of his genitals and crack. He likes those to be clean shaven.
So, there I was at this IHOP. The server dude kept calling me boss. It annoyed the hell out of me. I could taste the grill on the pancakes and their urinal was so brown from urine buildup that the smell made me tear up. On top of all of this it made me fatter. The kicker is that I paid over $13 for this experience. So, you tell me how the economy can be in the shitter when people still pay to eat the shit?
Don't be alarmed! I'm just having to spend my first full day of spring break at the HCI for a regularly scheduled poke and prodding. The problem is that I will be there from 8:40am till 4:30 pm going from one clinic and tests to another. I am certain that everything is fine. Like I said, this is just part of the regularly scheduled programming.
Oh, I can at least share a dirty joke with y'alls.
This dad is tired of his half-wit son, Timmy, not going anywhere with his life and figures that he just needs to get him laid for motivation. So, this dad sends his son off to the outskirts of Reno with $300 and an address to a whore house that his buddy from work gave him. We now enter the whore house.
Timmy: (Puts the money down on the barrel head) My dad gave me this many dollars for a pretty lady to turn me into a man.
The Madame: Hmmm, well, that's nice of your daddy, but my ladies aren't into tutoring little boys. Y'all got some experience?
Timmy: (Confused) Uh, I think I do. Yeah, I've had experience.
The Madame: (Skeptical) Something tells me you don't, sonny. Tell you what, there's an old sycamore tree out back with a bunch of knots and holes in it. Why don't you go out there and practice on it first.
Timmy: (Still confused) Okay!
So five minutes pass and the madame goes out to check on Timmy.
The Madame: Boy, what on earth...What have you been doing out here?
Timmy: (Proudly) Going number two!
The Madame: No, son. You've got to practice by screwing the tree (explains what screwing is). Now, I'm going to leave you out here a little bit longer until you get the hang of things.
Timmy: Okay.
This time the madame waits a couple of hours and then goes out to check on Timmy.
The Madame: So, you think you've got the hang of it yet?
Timmy: (Exhausted, yet feeling triumphant) Yep!
The Madame: You think you are ready to try it out with one of my girls?
Timmy: Uh-huh!
The Madame: Well, all right then. Let's get you in there, tiger!
The madame escorts Timmy into one of the rooms where one of her girls awaits. The madame closes the door and lets nature take its course. Three minutes pass and the madame hears her girl start screaming like crazy. She runs into the room and finds Timmy chasing the girl around the room, poking her with a broom stick.
The Madame: What in the hell do you think you're doing to that poor girl?
Otter Pops need to stop using artificial flavoring. Don't they realize that I can tell the difference between real and imitation otter flavoring?
I was at a hardware store this weekend and noticed that there is a company that makes urinals and toilets named TOTO. This got me thinking: There needs to be a toilet that plays Toto's "Africa" while it is being used. I thought about this one. I really did and I thought of other possible songs that would work on the toilet and none did. Black Sabbath's "Sweat Leaf" sort of did, in a stoner sort of way, though.
There is a need for the existence of a mythical being or creature that cleans between my toes at night and leaves money under my pillow. I call that mythical creature a wife.
Gurngh!
Update: REO Speedwagon's "I Can't Fight This Feeling" seems appropriate for the musical toilet idea.
So, there I was driving down a busy road going fifty in a forty. A Geo pulls onto the road right in front of me and slams on its brakes. This is a four-lane road with a suicide lane in the middle. I slammed on my brakes and the rear brakes lock up on me, causing me to slide sideways. The cars behind me are desperately trying to stop as well, trying not to run into me. My slide then takes me in to oncoming traffic. That is when a bit of Einstein's Theory of Relativity comes into play. Time just slowed down to nothing and my senses were sharp. My hands did this magic thing with the steering wheel and I ended up 180 degrees the other direction perfectly positioned in that middle suicide lane, where the cars behind me and the oncoming cars passed by me A-OK. Aside from feeling like I was the center of attention and suffering from extreme embarrassment, I felt incredibly lucky and drove off unharmed. All of my personal effects were thrown over to the passenger side, but, other than that, I was fine. Do you want to know why the person in the Geo stopped? Way over on the other side of the street was an old lady starting to cross the road--there isn't a cross walk at that point. So, being nice trumps other people's safety. I hope emotion does not triumph over logic on the road, ever.
Nothing much to say. It has been cold and snowy around here and I'm freaking out. My finger feels like it has a toothache. The highlight of my day was musing upon my turkey avocado on rye sandwich. Damn tasty, it was. Make a fine Jedi lunch, it would have. I've been watching an old French documentary called Blood of the Beasts. Check it out if you like watching a draft horse get dropped by a captive bolt gun, oh, and the slaughter of calves is just the ticket for those needing some extra motivation to eat less meat. My new favorite weapon of niche destruction is now the English Axe. I think might be on youtube.
I like taking titles from classic movies and screwing with them.
Clyde might get a new paint job this summer. I'm seeing if it is in the budget and how much of the work I want to take on myself.
An ATV ate my right index finger this weekend.
The bully at work is now afraid to talk to me.
I saw I Love You Man this weekend and parts of it were so true that it was Spinal Tap scary. It makes me wonder what my friend's spouses really think of me.
My mom's surgery was a success. I spent over twelve hours in a place that used to make me throw up. Fun. I got some laughs out of the day, though. My mom forgot to tie the back of her gown and bared her ass at a bunch of people. I started yelling, "Nurse, come help my mother cover up." Another moment of fun came when the head nurse was talking to us and he said, "The surgeon will be in soon to go over the nuts and bolts of everything." I then replied, "Hey, I didn't know that nuts were involved in a hysterectomy." The nurse and his assistant did not laugh. My mom did, however.
On Monday I got into an ugly confrontation with a co-worker in the parking lot. He was supposed to be covering for me last week and basically did nothing. Some people were not aware that I was off doing other things and thought I had stopped doing my job well. I gathered up some facts and told my superiors about what happened. Well, one of my bosses told the guy that I was the one who told him (basically this guy was letting his subordinate push him around and passed the buck to me). Well, this fellow, who is quite a bit bigger than me, comes at me in the parking lot, saying that I am turning everyone against him and that I am trying to get him fired. I felt like he was trying to bully me, well, he was. Anyway, I am a nice guy until you back me into a corner. People's first impression of me is that I wouldn't stand up for myself or face off with someone. Well, they are terribly wrong. I don't like to get mixed up in this kind of shit, but when it does happen, I don't fool around. I held my ground, laid out the facts to this guy, and then told him to step it up or get the hell out. He took a step at me, did this weird, nervous laugh, then got in his car when I wouldn't back down. He called our boss about five minutes later and started talking shit about me, yelling at our boss, and basically trying to bully him into getting his way on this. Today, my boss talked with our head boss about this (I was informed)and our head boss was impressed with my handling of the situation and wrote the douche bag up, effectively insuring that he will not go any further up the promotion chain. It's been a long time coming that someone finally took care of this guy and I didn't even have to lay a finger on him. Bullies aren't used to people standing up for themselves.
If you want to watch an incredibly good, but strange German film, watch Stroszeck. It has a dancing chicken, a blue-darting inmate, an armed robbery that nets a frozen turkey, a musical retard, a whore, a bunch of rednecks, and some pimps. It's not a film for everybody, that's for sure. Fun factoid: This was the last movie that Ian Curtis, of Joy Division, watched on TV just before he hung himself. Very poignant, considering the ending of the film.
Stuff. That's what you have and what happens. I could go on and on, but George Carlin has already covered all of that before and much better than I ever could. Here's some stuff that's happened.
My truck (you know him as Clyde) has, in recent months, decided that steering against the will of its driver (me) is good sport. This has led me to ponder the reasons why and unload my bank account in buying tools and parts necessary to rebuild the entire front end and steering system of my truck. Why? Because, I am obsessive. And that, folks, is why I am not married yet. The good news is that I rock and my mechanical skills prove this. I also was able to do all of this for under half of what it would have cost me to have someone else do it. The downside is that I am now officially disabled and walk with a hunch. Parts that have been secured under 120 foot lbs. of torque for over thirty years and all sorts of weather do not want to be separated. The solution is to use a bit of the good slippy sauce, a long breaker bar, and a BFH. My will and knuckles were stronger but now pay the price. The final upside is that I pissed off my neighbors and got to pound on a pickle fork really hard.
I've started finishing a lot of my "nerd" projects as well. All of those electronic effects and amplifiers that were laying about the room, providing evidence of the decline of my mental health, well, no more! I am selling off the brand name stuff that I no longer need and have fixed and the homebrew stuff will get put to use.
I will be taking my mother into surgery on Tuesday. She had precancerous polyps growing inside of her uterus. Seeing as how she has had lymphoma and breast cancers before, we are not taking any chances, and I am giving up hope of having a younger brother. She will be getting a full hysterectomy. That is right: we are taking her Def Leppard CD away from her. In all seriousness, it is a relief that the doctors have a way to take care of things before they progressed.
During my many voyages to various auto parts stores, I had some rather frustrating experiences. I went to the local Lobotozone and asked to purchase a certain tool to set the preload for my new ball joints. The dude looked at me like I was the dumb one and said, "I ain't never heard of adjusting no ball joints." The more that I explained in detail the process of proper installation and adjustment of 4x4 ball joints I realized that I had might as well been explaining to him the existence of Bigfoot. The only problem with that is that he would have then told me that Bigfoot was his mother, and I would, by his demeanor, been forced to accept that as fact. I have come to the conclusion that these employees of certain auto parts stores are just "flipping" brake pads and dropping spark plugs into the "fryer".
I think that the name "Roscoe" should make a comeback as a name for boys.
First of all, I feel like I can't reciprocate any acts of friendship on Facebook because I quickly tire of being on that site. I would rather just call you or respond to you here.
The other thing: I finally started looking around on Facebook and looking for people from my past. Big mistake. You can think that you are ok with how things have turned out in your life. You can think that you no longer have any animosity, hurt, or feelings for those people from your past. Then, you go ahead and start looking. You see them smiling. You see that they are happy. You see that their life didn't fall apart without you. In fact, they are better off without you. You also see those assholes that didn't give you two thoughts are still vacant, yet, somehow they got it and have a wonderful life. No justice as you thought was needed, or the way you thought it should happen to them. Those that ruled during high school are also doing really well now--not how it happens in the movies. The worst part is that it got to you when you looked them up. You are not as over it as you supposed you were. It makes me feel like like that odd ball misfit all over again. But then again, I am that. That's why you guys come here, right?
Of course, this is all conjecture, but the point is that it still got to me. I still can feel like I'm not included in whatever it is that "they" were in on. That really disappoints me. I think I would have been fine if it weren't for coming across a certain person. That one girl was the lynch pin. I think it is funny how you can have certainty for something that is so completely not going to ever fucking happen that it is not even funny. It has happened to me several times and I can only sit back and laugh at my folly. I am a great person to talk to, to hang out with, and to say is your friend, but somehow there is something about me that ultimately causes people to pass on. It should bother me. It does a little. But I have just come to the conclusion that I am not easily accessible on a certain level. There are not that many in this world that it would end up working out with and I get tired of that fact. There are reasons for me being on this earth. Maybe those reasons take me places that others don't want to go. I have, for the most part, accepted that. It is just that last night I had a huge moment of doubt and reflection. I wished I hadn't even crossed her path.
Of course, this post is just my way of chastising myself for allowing myself to relive past disappointments. We all go there, now and again, and it is never as bad as you make yourself to believe it to be. Going to that "place" brings about an unreliable way of perceiving past events. You project and interpret things incorrectly all to beat yourself up over something that you no longer have anything to do with. Anyway, I welcome all one-liners that refer to me as a "weeping pussy". Thank you for your time.
If aliens did instruct the ancient Egyptians on how to build the pyramids, how come they don't drop by there more often? I'm thinking summer home.
If you and I were stick figures, dots and dashes would imply various things: emotions like surprise, looking at something in particular, nipples, wieners, poo, pee, and Morse code. Right now I am ---------- at a very pretty lady in another window, which causes me to become a bit ! In fact, \!/ dots and dashes are a bit naughty.
Dot, I'll be back in a dash...I need to take a slash.
I've often wondered what the consequences of my actions will be. I've also wondered what the consequences of my in-actions would be. I've never considered what the future held for my actions until I stopped doing something. I never thought about what would happen if I did nothing while doing something. I have thought about Rambo in both cases.
God did not put me on this earth for your amusement. This is something that I kind of fell into.
Satan once said something similar: God didn't put me in hell to be the Devil....
I guess the point I am trying to make is that my depravity is contingent upon your gravity.
Have you ever replaced the tie-rods on a truck that is over thirty years old? Well, I did today and my arms are dead. Everything was rust welded together and it took everything I had, including inventing new and improved swear words, to get the old parts off. The funny thing is that taking off the old parts took forever and putting on the new parts took twenty minutes. If I were to be a mechanic for a living it would have to pay at least a six-figure salary for it to be worth my pain and suffering.
My brother bought this DVD collection of old driver's Ed videos--the really gross, violent ones. It's been a hoot watching them. I've got to hand it to the Ohio Highway Patrol, circa 1958; they make great gore flicks. It was interesting to see how little damage some of those big old cars would receive, yet the passengers would get totally mutilated by having nothing absorb the energy from the crash, as well as no seat belts. There was one scene where they were pulling this dude from a roll over and his lower half was gone. Yum!
I've been thinking about what kind of super power I'd like to have lately. I'm really thinking that being able to control odors would be awesome. I was working on a roof today and happened to stand right over a restroom ventilation exhaust. It was like mixing the smell of a witch's crotch and a homeless pirate covered in bile. I got pretty sick after that and dry heaved for a bit. Some smells are so bad in this world that I'd rather spend a day living in a dead elephant than smell those smells. The worst smells that I've encountered were houses of people that I came across in England. One house had fourteen dogs and crap was everywhere. The people living in the house didn't bathe and there was rotting food just laying about. The other worst smell was an apartment of a schizophrenic guy who kept all his urine, sperm, and feces in open buckets laying about. His name was Leo and he wrote me poetry. The last worst smell was that of an old man whose leg was gangrenous and his shin bone was visible. There were all sorts of vermin running about his place and I picked up a tray of "green", which used to be some kind of food at one time. To put all of this in perspective, I used to work as a garbage man at one time.
Steve Martin. What in the hell? I think the last funny thing he did was Bowfinger and that was just one thimble full of wet in a Sahara-sized dry spell of comedy. He used to be my comedy hero. His stand up routines were absolute genius. Now, I think the best thing that he has going for him is his banjo playing, and I don't mean that as a cut. I'm thinking that it is time for him to move on and to stop embarrassing himself and making Peter Sellers spin in his grave. But, Steve, if you are reading this, I think that a good way to revive your comedy career would be to change Leslie Nielsen's diapers on live TV, thus, killing two birds with one stone.
Your heart either swells with joy or shrinks with pain. Your body either weakens or is carried by its virtue. Your mind is always enlightened no matter how hard the truth may be.
My heart is in pain. My body is weak. My mind expands now a bit further and I understand the nature of unconditional Love's duress on the one who takes upon him another's cross a bit more.
How can it be? It is the truth that hides behind self imposed blinds that hurts the most when revealed or discovered. Love allows you to express your disappointment and hurt without imposing further debt. This is the hardest exercise, yet the simplest path towards the fullness of joy. Our lusts dare reach such heights on wax wings. Withdraw not your hand when your pride fails you. Be there for those that you love, because, it may be you having to tell the hard truth about your imperfect self sometime.
I took the above picture while hiking in a deep canyon in the Wasatch range. It's a bit out of focus. I was frightened. I could not hold my camera phone still. What are the chances that I would come across such a mythical creature in the real world? But there it was: a garden gnome roaming around in its natural habitat. I was just happy to get out of there without a shovel mark or a bearding.
Here is another rare creature: the "ghost-eyed" Yogi. This is rumored to be the ghost of a tortured circus bear, a brown bear from Russia. Apparently, the bear died from dysentery--he drank the water down in Tijuana. They say that if this bear appears before you while you are eating a taco, you will suffer from lethal diarrhea.
This is the place where bad animals and garden gnomes go when they die: to motor travel lodges along the old highway systems around the U.S., doomed to entertain and scare the shit out of lost souls who can't afford to stay in a real hotel.
Oh, and yes, that gnome is giving you the finger, the other gnomes belong to the Crips, and that baby bear is giving a hand job to the bear on the left.
Scientists need to find a way to harness the power of dog farts. This would end the energy crisis.
I asked a hypothetical question of some of my friends recently. The question was, "If clown tears cured cancer what would be the best way of collecting them?" Here were some of their answers:
Run over their floppy shoes with those little cars of theirs.
Onion goggles.
Torture.
Hide their liquor.
Tell them that they are a chicken and if they don't start producing eggs that you will start taking off toes one by one with a pair of bolt cutters.
I want to hear your suggestions.
I think everyone on my mom's side of the family has found me on Facebook. I guess my dad's side of the family is too busy getting drunk and hitting each other. I'm just happy that only one of my relatives knows about this blog.
Whatever happened to nun chucks?
I often think about the Hamburglar's motivations for stealing all those hamburgers. I don't see how he can eat them all himself. I think he is in love with Wimpy and is trying to win over his heart.
Have you ever been someone's PDA?
When you have erotic dreams involving people at work do you find it hard to look them in the eye the next day? I do.
You haven't lived until you've seen a cow eat an orange.
Squirrels are dreaming about nuts right now.
Dogs are dreaming about smelling bad things right now.
Cats are dreaming about how they are going to ignore you tomorrow.
Cow's are dreaming about winning a speed boat race and saying "Moo!" at random things.
This is my "bored" look. Muhammad Ali protects my slumber from evil leprechauns and monsters. Let's see...I know! I will take pictures of a tract that I defaced. This here is a tract from "Religion" brand religion. You may have heard of it before. Anyway, whoever does their art, I want to do a special happy dance for you, because I always get a big kick out of your work. Ok, the text here is fairly simple (read: idiotic). Playing on the whole, "God didn't create Adam and Steve" mentality, I just wondered if God just did away with the whole Adam guy altogether (defective nipples or something) and this guy Steve just shows up one day picking fruit, which we all know is gay. Eve is patient with Steve, and his coast to coast nipple chain (with a junction down to Foreskinville), but soon resorts to animal therapy instead. The caption reads: "If Adam were really Steve". Steve's says, in a "Oh, what a beautiful morning" voice, "Mmmmm! Fruit again!!! La-la-la-la!" Eve is engaged in a deep one-on-one with Scamper, the squirrel. She is saying, "Oh, Scamper! You are the only one in the Garden who truly understands what a woman needs." Scamper is embarking on his first of many "WTF" Garden moments.
You know, I think this really happened. I should go check the Bible to make sure.
Jar Jar Binks is teaming up with Randy Jackson and Danger Mouse to lay down an album's worth of slow jams and Calypso tunes. It's totally true because an angel of God visited me in my room three times in a row and told me to stop abusing my brain with drain cleaner, that the Celts are the primary ancestors of the indigenous peoples of New Guinea --and btw, Jar Jar Binks is making a comeback!
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