Monday, December 31, 2007

The Girlfriend Says Hi in 2008

Another year has gone by, time-wasters. I barely survived it myself; dunno about you. I got locked out of my car by my sadistic (and by that I mean "cute,") girlfriend. I pounded on the window and whined to be let back in, but only succeeded in hurting my wrist. I tried to build a hotel for some orphans, but was horribly injured when the basement fell over. Angry squirrels twice carried my father off into the forest, but we've kept our hearts full of hope and our colons full of joy. This is the key to our ongoing happiness. But enough about me. I wanted to dedicate this post to all of our friends (girl and otherwise) and characters. I will give each of them a space to tell their story.

The Hardass Goes to a New Year's Eve Party

The Hardass clumped up the steps and onto the porch of his buddy's house. A little piece of paper with glitter glue smeared on it told him to "come on in!"

He grasped the door handle with one of his giant hands, wrenched it off and ate it. He punched the door down and moved into the foyer like a steam locomotive with sex appeal.

"Why hello there, baby! I'm glad you could come! Have some punch!" said Chastity, strewing herself into his concrete arms. She immediately went limp and drooped like seduced Silly Putty. "Glee!" she squealed, and dripped to the floor.

"Damn," The Hardass grunted, and stepped over her.

"Hey there, big guy!" said Rob, the station's desk clerk.

"Where's the Fluff, Rob?"

"Over by the buffet. But seriously man, how are you? I haven't--"

Rob's pleasantries were cut off with sudden ferocity as The Hardass threw him out a window.

"He stood between me and the Fluff," he growled by way of explanation to the stunned guests. Sighting a bowl of the marshmallow delicacy on a table next to a platter of graham crackers, he rumbled toward it like an iron rhinoceros.

"This stuff is damn awesome," he grunted, and tucked the entire bowl into the armpit of his denim jacket. He went into a fighter's crouch, eyes darting around the room. "I'm done here," he rumbled to himself.

Lowering his head, he exited through the nearest wall and thundered off into the new year trailing insulation and Sheetrock.


Well, thank you The Hardass! May we see more of you in '08.

Next up is Paul the CrimeFighter. He wasn't available, but he did send a box of glazed doughnuts and a nice letter:

I wanted to tell you all at the Blog how grateful I am for your faithful reporting of my heroic deeds. Thanks to the team of You and I, we were able to take Crime, wad it up into a little ball, throw it into the toilet and then do unspeakable things to it before we flushed it. Crime, in short, is on the run. It has been ware. Very ware. These doughnuts, in all their round, shiny, sugar-encrusted glory are symbolic of the round, shiny, sugar-encrusted, glorious way in which The Stupid Blogger and I have kicked Crime in the privates.

Bob bless you all.

--Paul the CrimeFighter.

P.S.: Pthabbth says "moop!"


Why, thank you, Mister CrimeFighter! The Blog appreciates your candor and baked goods.

We've also received word from Ernald the Whiny from the island of Tarnation. He's finally met the Lord of the Nitwits and found him to be an engaging fellow with a keen interest in different types of non-dairy creamer. This is what we'd expect, honestly. More detailed reports to follow. I promise.

The Girlfriend, taking a break from her full-time job of being cute and sassy, has also a few words to tell you, time-wasters. "I didn't know I was taking a break from being cute and sassy! What're you trying to say?"

In response, I wish to remind her of how adorable I find her cute sassery, and that I have cookies I'm willing to share. I pet her on the head until she calms down. We share a cookie, and all is right.

Sounds like a good way to kick off a year.

I'd also like to thank all of you who have taken the time to indulge in stupidity by leaving us comments. Kevin? That means you, you butt farmer.

And now I leave you with a word of encouragement and great hope from The Stupid Blogger: Swine.

Saturday, December 29, 2007

Saturday Ramblings

A squirrel ran out in front of my car the other day. I hate it when they do this, because squirrels are not particularly bright animals. They'll be dashing across a busy thoroughfare and be within a few feet of success, can even see the safety of a tree trunk waving them on, when their courage fails. They stop, turn around, and are immediately flattened by my car.

The squirrel in question, however, was fairly goal-oriented and actually ran in a straight line from one side of the street to the other. And he escaped a terrible fate.

There is a life lesson to be learned here. Set your goals and stick with them or your body might, in the space of a second or two, assume the approximate shape of a ping-pong paddle. Although I doubt if anyone would consider using you as such, in that condition.

"There you go, getting intestines all over the ping-pong ball again! Geeeez! Don't you ever think of anyone other than yourself?"

I was thinking about goals the other day. Any motivational speaker unworthy of his exorbitant fee will tell you that setting goals is the number one key to ultimate success. But what is a goal?

First of all, setting unreasonable goals will lead to failure and depression. On the other hand, one should not underestimate one's own abilities, since I believe we are all capable of much more than we think. But...can one really know what is a reasonable goal, if we don't know what we're capable of? For instance, I told myself prior to writing this that I would not end any sentences with a preposition. So far, that's a goal I have stuck with. But back to the subject at hand.

I think men are more self-conscious than women. No, don't try to argue with me, because that will make me mad. And when I get mad, I tend to write very long articles and post them on blogs.

For example, when a woman sees an old friend in the mall, they wave wildly, leap up and down, and even go so far as to construct a bullhorn out of organic materials, such as tree bark and grass. A man, on the other corny foot, will simply nod slightly in the general direction of his long-lost brother. If they were really close, he might even extend an index finger, raise it heavenward, and give it a quick, abrupt jerk downward.

This may seem odd to women, but to men it is all that is needed. While women, upon discovering this prodigal, scurry off to Panera Bread and discuss the preceding twenty years of history at great length, men communicate all they need in the nod of a head or shake of a finger.

"Hey, there," says the nod. "I always wondered if you escaped from that Vietcong prison camp. The last time I saw you, you were being tortured for giving me your last crust of bread as I was scaling the prison wall on my way to freedom. Thanks, old buddy."

But now I'm hungry, so if you'll pardon me, I believe I shall go run over an indecisive squirrel on my way to self-consciously order some food. See, I have goals!

Tuesday, December 25, 2007

A Little Christmas Tune

A little musical Christmas gift. Notice how enthralled the audience is. They never move. And the guy on your left is caught in a permanent, mute cheer.

Monday, December 24, 2007

FooDaddy's Gift

Listen Here!

The snow was falling like the tears of hedonistic dwarves mourning their misspent lives as I climbed into my car and drove gingerly to FooDaddy’s house. It was Christmas Eve and the spirit of the holiday was fast taking over my soul. And squeezing it really hard, too.

He wasn’t expecting me, but I knew that FooDaddy understood the true meaning of Christmas, that it meant being with friends, and so I was not concerned about my arrival being taken poorly. In fact, he was always so glad to see me that I was merely waiting for my copy of the house key, so that I could frequently enrich the lives of him and his friends at a moment’s notice.

Not long ago, he had given me clear instructions to always call before arriving. Knowing he was only doing this so that other friends, who were standing nearby, would not feel less important, I really didn’t pay much attention and merely gave him a thumbs-up, so he would understand that I had seen through the subterfuge and divined his true meaning.

I slid sideways into the driveway and parked with many glees in my heart. This was my favorite time of year. The lights, the music, receiving gifts, Santa, snow, receiving gifts...it was a marvelous potpourri of yummitude. I had even purchased FooDaddy a present and couldn’t wait to hand it over.

Ringing the doorbell, I waited impatiently for the flinging of the door, the jovial “ho-ho-ho,” and the beginning of the holiday festivities. After the third ring, I saw a slight movement in a curtain, the peering of an eye, which seemed to widen at the sight of me. Another thirty seconds crawled by on broken limbs as I stood in the cold. Ha, ha. That FooDaddy was some prankster.

At last, I heard the rattling of chains, locks, and deadbolts (FooDaddy is very security conscious) and the door opened. FooDaddy stood there, an expression of surprise on his face. Apparently, he had thought I would forget my closest friends on Christmas, but that just isn’t me. I stood on the porch, my arms thrust straight out, holding the wrapped package just under his nose. He started backward.

“What’s this?”

“Just a little Christmas cheer!” I said, accidentally bumping his nose with the box. It had been a gentle tap, but the blood began to flow.

As FooDaddy had to excuse himself to staunch the onslaught, I took the liberty of entering the house and removing my coat. Imagine my surprise to find the living room full of people. FooGirl was in attendance and regarded my arrival with something akin to hysteria. She was so glad to see me, that she began pelting me with brownies and screaming something about her party being ruined. That girl sure knows how to party. It seemed I had arrived just in time to give the proceedings a much-needed shot in the arm. Here I had just arrived and I was being literally buried in food.

I picked up a couple of the brownies and ate them. They were terrible, but I ate seven more just to show I was truly in the Christmas spirit. And then I ate another for New Year’s.

“Here, open your gift,” I said, seeing that FooDaddy had returned, wads of toilet paper protruding from each nostril.

“I’d rather wait,” he said. “For Christmas morning. I love the suspense.”

FooGirl nudged him and whispered something in his ear. He glanced up, a look of hope glimmering in his eyes.

“You think so?” he asked, smiling widely at FooGirl. “If I open it, maybe he’ll...right then.”

He set to work tearing open the box with a gusto quite impressive for a fellow of his temperament. Obviously, FooGirl had known that indulging me in my foolish desire to witness the opening of the gift would encourage me to stay much longer that I had originally planned. Ah, to feel wanted on Christmas. It is the greatest gift anyone could...

FooDaddy let out a shriek and the box, buoyed by the dozen flapping ends of mangled wrapping paper, floated gently to the floor. It landed on its side, however, and the contents fell out onto the carpet. FooGirl bent and picked up the gift.

“Don’t touch it!” FooDaddy loudly warbled, trying to swat the box out of FooGirl’s hands. She looked at him quizzically.

“What’s wrong with it? It’s just a model car. See, he even brought glue, so you could put it together.”

“Never!” FooDaddy was backing away slowly, his trembling hands held palms out in front of him. “I will never assist the Prince of Darkness by constructing that model car. He will have to build his evil kingdom without me!”

I was completely nonplussed by this sudden turn of events. Apparently, all my religious upbringing had come up short and failed to teach me that Satan’s method of world perversion was not by tempting people to have fun, but rather by enticing them into the lurid world of model cars. But how I was to know that the Devil’s favorite car was the Chevy Cavalier?

Tom Beaklaw, the World's Crappiest Newsman

Thursday, December 20, 2007

Beth Prevails

Merry Coughmas!


It's that time of year again, time-wasters! The snow falls, the heating bill goes up, and the icicles form on the edge of the roof. It's time to seek out children happily sucking on said icicles and remind them of the countless birds that may have crapped on that roof during the summer. It's time to wink merrily and shuffle away through the snow like a dirty elf.

It's the time of year when the roads get covered with salt and the pansies drive 25MPH all the time.
(These are the same people who slow way down for construction barrels that aren't even on the road, accidents on the other side of a concrete divider, mailboxes, etc... )

Yes! It's time for me to get my annual cold! I appear to be very susceptible to nasal infection. On one hand, this makes me feel bad, because...it makes me feel bad. Alternatively, I'm happy to provide a welcoming home for all those wayward germs. It makes me feel all warm inside. And gooey.


Also about this time, a major holiday occurs. Christmas! That means it's time for my friends and family to ask me for gift ideas.
This always stumps me, because I can't think of anything in that delicate, narrow intersection of desirability and cost.

Affordable gifts tend to fall into a special sub-category of their own: practical gifts. I could use more ink for my printer, but that's no fun to shop for. That's like asking someone to run errands for you, and then asking them to put a bow on it. I could also use a small canister vacuum and some more cat litter. Asking someone (your girlfriend, for example) for cat litter for Christmas is weird. "Make sure it's the clumpy kind!"

Weird does not always equal fun.

On the other end of the spectrum, a geForce 8800GT would be dandy, but that's a $270 computer part. None of my friends are Donald Trump, so putting that on the list would be kind of presumptuous. No, "Donald Trump" sounds like a good euphemism for "bowel movement" and should be left out of the holiday spirit altogether.

Practical gifts are no fun to shop for, so they're out. Most of my hobbies require expensive equipment that I can't even afford myself and asking someone else to help support them would be a major bastard move...

So...

As long as I'm already committed to being a bastard, I may as well go ahead and ask for expensive stuff! Here's a helpful list of great ideas.


  • A geForce 8800GT PCIe graphics card with all them shader units and megahertzes and shiny bits and such. *nerd noises*
  • A weekend in a private zeppelin and permission to drop balloons full of maple syrup on the politicians of my choice
  • Oh, and on the celebrities of my choice
  • My very own red Maserati with faux kitten fur upholstery and built-in sody fountain
  • An electric rifle that only stuns morons
  • A permit from the John Ball Zoo that lets me get into the prairie dog pen any time I want
  • Also to be allowed to feed them marshmallows

These are only ideas. Something to get you started. Feel free to come up with your own gifts loosely based on the above. Seriously. I won't complain. I love you all, and I will accept whatever contributions you can make to the FooDaddy Enrichment Fund with glee and flatulence.

Saturday, December 15, 2007

Time To Be Strange.


I had a day off of work today. I spent a wonderful terrestrial rotation just wandering about the town without a point. At one point I had a point, but it didn’t last for very long. It turned out to be rather dull.

Lame.

So here’s a quick rundown of my day. I started it as most people do by waking up. This was a decision I had contemplated for quite some time before actually putting it into action, with a sexy girlfriend.

Those last four words? I didn’t actually type them. I’m not denying their truth, but they are the Girlfriend’s work. She was within range of my keyboard, and I was distracted. Knowing me, I was probably too busy lying about something and she made her move. Score one for her. I’d like all three of our readers to give her a hand! Ain’t she dandy?

So where was I?

I decided that I needed to go shopping. There was no reasoning behind this decision—I just felt that it had to be done. I had already taken stock of my supplies and found that I had plenty of bread, potatoes, used .22 casings, socks, cats, cat socks and microwaveable chili in non-microwaveable containers. So I figured I’d go out and buy stuff I didn’t need.

I went to Linens ‘n’ Whatevers to get some irregular pillowcases. I have one in the shape of a Volkswagen Beetle (the old one) and one that is open at both ends. Not bad for sixteen cents! I also picked up some “factory second” scented candles. I picked out three of them. One is purple and smells like an enticing mixture of warm squirrel fur and rubber bands, and the other two are red and smell like wax. These were also under a dollar. I am a fiscally responsible visionary.

My shopping complete, I moved on to the park, where I spent an hour with my Canon Digital Rebel XT. I took a lot of badly-lit pictures of the inside of my lens cap.

“Sweet kitten-flavored popsicles!” I yelped when I saw the quality of these shots. “National Geographic, here I come!”

This thought made me so happy that I ran around in vaguely ovoid patterns until I fell down.

I checked my cellular telephone, or as I like to call it because I’m lame, my “tellular celephone”. It was only two P.M.! Still plenty of time to go down to the river to yell at trout.

Well, as many of you who have spent an appreciable time in Grand Rapids could have told me, there are no trout in the Grand River. I’m a creative individual. I do not give up easily. I switched tactics on the fly, and whiled away a happy 40 minutes yelling at turds.

Having put the floating poo in its place, I crossed my arms and belched smugly. I crossed “scatology” off my list, and hiked back to my car.

I have been borrowing my grandmother’s 2003 Buick LeSabre for a few months now, and I never get tired of all the little toys it’s got. If I am ever curious about how hot the engine’s coolant is at any given moment (and I am) I can find out by pressing a button. The computer also keeps track of the number and species of bugs in the radiator. General Motors surely outdid themselves on this machine.

The LeSabre’s seats are electric. Great fun. I like to mosey right up beside somebody on the highway and match speeds with them. Then I reach down to the controls, and move my seat forward. I am then going very slightly faster than the guy next to me if you add my seat’s velocity to the car’s. And all without negatively affecting my mileage.

Gosh, that makes me giggle. It also works with a friend in the passenger’s seat. Next time you have the opportunity, move your seat forward just as you’re parking at your destination. Tell your friend that you actually got there before he did. See if you can win money like that.

Seat races over, I bid my friends a good evening, and counted up my money. I had won thirteen cents, a broken comb, a button and a twig. The twig I fed to my cat, Benchley, and the rest I put in my safe.

Time for a nice relaxing evening. I drank some stuff I found in the closet that looked like ginger-ale, but tasted like pine cones. It was very tasty. I had it over the rocks, which was stupid. I could have used ice, and then it would have been cold.

I finished off my vacation day with a video game. It’s that one for the Xbox 3Sitty where you play the role of a heroic man with electric hands who zaps mutants who mutter incoherent religious diatribes, avoids giant, lumbering creatures in diving helmets and whacks stuff with a wrench.

This is a real game.

Before going to bed, I chewed up a very tasty antacid tablet (“moon pie” flavored) and crawled under the sheets with all the garbage that Benchley likes to bring up there to play with during the night.

I really hope I get another day off again soon. I had a blast.

*Disclaimer: I didn’t actually have a day off from work, so to anyone who saw me there: I do not have an evil twin, or even just a sarcastic twin. Not anymore, anyway.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Video Experiment

As some of you might have feared, I have finally gotten my hands on a camcorder. With nothing better to do, I decided to record for posterity Beth's method of making her World-Famous Chili. Poorly shot? Yes. Poorly edited? Most definitely. But it feeds my ego, so bear with me.

Saturday, December 08, 2007

More Blog Madness

Hey, swine. I've added some audio to my latest post

The Limb of Satan

He scratched his nose and flipped the page of a nearly worn-out Maxxim magazine.

It was tight quarters in the 737 bathroom, but he liked it fine.

"Tap, tap", someone knocked politely and cleared their throat.

Lonnie "Limb of Satan" Duggins made a loud, juicy farting sound with his mouth and groaned horribly.

The knocking person said a muffled, "...uh..oh, sorry" and disappeared.

Lonnie glanced over at his video iPod he'd duct taped to the mirror. The movie was nearly finished. The iPod's battery indicator was flashing weakly.

"Pig twats!" Lonnie grunted.

The iPod flickered and went dark.

Footsteps approached and a voice came through the door, "Sir, are you doing alright?"

Lonnie thumped his feet on the door and groaned a little more.

"I'll be ok pretty soon."

Outside the door, "Ok...you've been in there for an hour and a half. Let me know if I can do anything for you. Shall we have a doctor for you in Tulsa."

Lonnie turned a page and made another bowel-centric mouthnoise.

(piteously) "No, I'll be done pretty soon." Hot damn! These magazine womens were foxalicious!

The footsteps went away.

Lonnie uncapped his tarnished brass pocket flask and sipped from it. This was travelling like the Almighty had intended when She invented Boeing (Someone else invented Airbus).

More footsteps outside the door. Feet shuffling around.

Lonnie picked up his water bottle and poured the vile smelling liquid he'd prepared out on the floor so it would run under the door.

Feet hopping. A muffled squeal. Footsteps disappear.

Lonnie scratched his belly right under the waistband of his Family Guy boxer shorts and grinned.

He was irresponsibly rich--having been born the only son of a pork magnate who left him a gigantic fortune after dying in the bed of a transvestite Jewish hooker. He could travel any way he wished--he had four private jets--but he loved to impose his eccentric methods on humans of lesser resource.

Lonnie heard the captain's voice through the speakers announcing that they would land in about 3 minutes.

He struggled to his feet, stuffed the magazine halfway down the toilet hole and glanced in the mirror.

He was wearing a ragged brown bathrobe over two layers of promotional Marlboro t-shirts (both never washed). He scratched the four day's stubble on his jowls and beamed at himself.

This had been a nice trip.

He took a key out of his pocket and raked it across the face of the iPod on the mirror a few times.

Then he peed in the sink and left the bathroom just in time to get back to his reclinable seat in row 1-B before the plane landed in Tulsa.

Thursday, December 06, 2007

Instructed Ladyhunting 5; Extended Epilogue


Part Four

So having conquered the Gladiator of Awkwardness in the Arena of Love, I winked at Danielle and threw many bills on the table and scooted out the door of that chick farm, Bob Evans.

I needed transportation, and I needed it within a half hour. Danielle was going to be out of work by no later than 10:30, and the unscrupulous valet man had absconded with my station wagon. I stood there on the curb, squinting into the darkness at the three cars in the lot. I scratched myself and liberated some paint flakes.

"Hmm." I mused. I find that there are occasions where musing is almost required, and this was about as musey as they come. From my point of view, I had two options: I could steal one of the parked cars and run the very real risk that the one I picked would turn out to be Danielle's, or I could build a new one from scratch with the materials I had at hand.

I took inventory. A pocket full of loose change, another pocket full of tight change, a butane lighter I kept to start small fires, a linty, dried-up gummi bear (red), nail clippers (in case I got lucky), cell phone with a dead battery, pictures of my cats, a broken padlock without a key, a small satchel of rabbit food and a little wad of rubber bands.

"Suppose I could use these quarters as wheels, and make it run off butane and rubber bands..." I grumbled. I put my equipment back in my pockets. Not good. I rummaged through them again, on the off chance that I'd written down some sort of wisdom from TSB regarding lack of transportation. A lot of good that did me. I only managed to drop my gummi bear down a storm drain at my feet.

"No sense crying over lost bears," I said to myself in a deep, manful voice. I dried my tears and perched on top of one of those newspaper vending machines and waited for Danielle to come out.

Fifteen minutes later, she did. She burst through Bob Evans' double doors wearing a clingy blue shirt with slits in the sleeves, dark blue jeans and a radiant smile.

I fell off the newspaper machine.

"Sweet minty Reagan!" I hooted from the shrubbery. "You is attractive."

Danielle whirled. "Paul? Get outta those bushes. That's where the squirrels live."

I leaped three feet vertically, hovered for a split second, and then moved laterally. I landed at Danielle's side and hit her with an S5 grin.

"That's Sexy 5," I explained, using bold. "It's a scale, sort of like tornadoes, and 5 is the strongest." I brushed some leaves off my torso in a very alluring manner.

"I can barely keep my clothes on. It's taking all of my concentration to maintain a legal appearance, so do a girl a favor and throttle back on the grins? Unless you want to bail me out of jail."

I put a few teeth away.

"That's better. So? Where's your car?"

"That's an interesting story," I explained, indicating the seriousness of the situation by molding my face into that of a politician with bowel discomfort.

"Have a Tums," Danielle said.

"Thanks. Well, I had a car when I came in here. A real nice one too, with white stripes on the tires. But....well, remember when I went to the bathroom about forty-five minutes ago? Before my banana creme pie?"

"I'll take your word for it."

I bit my lip and lowered my head slightly. "I was actually out saving orphans from nuclear meltdown, and my car got stuck in some melted nuclears. I had to climb out onto the roof and throw the children to safety. They cheered, but...but..." I stared stoically at a gas station in the distance, gritted my teeth and began to weep in a reserved, masculine manner.

Danielle put a hand on my shoulder. "There, there," she said. "Were you insured?"

I nodded.

"It's okay. We can take my car."

I sniffled and looked around. I pointed at a cleavage. "That's pleasant," I said.

"That's what it's on display for. Come on. Where are we going? An interesting fellow like you must have some idea how to keep busy on a Thursday night."

Aww. Despite the hardships thrust upon her, this girl's faith in my hairy prowess had buoyed her through it all. This encouraged me to the point where I felt comfortable rooting through her purse.

"Quit that."

"Well, I thought we'd go skiing."

"It's June."

"Pah."

"Regardless of your dismissal, it's still 70 degrees."

"You're probably under the impression that skiing involves snow and other such frozen delights. I'm aware that one can cover a hill in one's backyard with snowcone dribblings, but that gets expensive. No, what I have in mind is dune skiing!"

"That sounds kind of fun! Like, redneck skiing! Do we use barrel staves and twine and sticks and stuff?"

"Not us professionals." I said, and steered her toward a Mazda 3 hatchback.

"Well, Mr. Professional, what do you use?" she replied, steering us back toward her car, a silver Chevrolet Cobalt.

"Luggage rack pieces," I said haughtily. "And hose clamps."

Danielle unlocked the Cobalt and got in. I tried the door, but it was still locked. I pulled the handle several more times before Danielle yelled out the window.

"The Mazda's not mine."

"Pah," I said, and got into the Cobalt. "To The Dunes!" I announced in a gentle holler, and hooked a casual foot out the window.

Tuesday, December 04, 2007

A Night at the Movies

Listen Here!

I was just preparing to leave work for the day when FooDaddy came in to begin his shift. Upon spotting me, he lurched backward and even paled a bit. His reaction startled me and I glanced over my shoulder to see what monster was closing from behind. There was nothing in sight, however, and it was obvious that FooDaddy's reaction had scared the creature away.

"Boy, that there was a close 'un," I said. "Almost had us a calamity."

"Almost?" FooDaddy regarded me with a gimlet eye, probably purchased at a flea market, and sighed a little. "I thought you would have gone home by now."

"Well, I would have," I said. "But I was waiting around for you to arrive. I was just about to give up and leave anyway."

FooDaddy muttered something that sounded like, "So close, dang it." Aloud, he said, "Well, it appears you've caught me. What's up? Surely not more bowling." He shuddered, probably from the cold.

"Nope!"

I was touched by FooDaddy's eagerness to revisit our bowling adventure. I knew he had thoroughly enjoyed the experience, but wished he wouldn't bring it up with such regularity. It was obvious that he wished to again go bowling, but these hints of his were beginning to wear thin.

The other day, he placed a bowling pin on a partially closed door, so it would fall off when opened. I knew he had taken care to position it so it would descend harmlessly, but even so it almost hit me on the clavicle. Later, he inadvertently dropped a bowling ball from a high shelf and nearly cracked my skull.

As subtle and touching as these little hints were, however, I was in no mood for bowling and wished he would just get a clue. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's someone who can't see and properly interpret the obvious. I, myself, am an expert at this and it is how I know that FooDaddy's little games are not, as some might think, callous attempts to cause me harm, but rather his clumsy way of showing friendship.

"Nope!" I repeated. "I've already conquered bowling, so there's no reason to ever try it again."

"So, what, then? What do you have in mind this time? Beating up old ladies?"

"No, but that's a thought. I was actually thinking that you could come on over to my place and we could watch action movies."

"Action movies?" FooDaddy tried to conceal his excitement over this prospect by yawning widely. I wasn't fooled. "You mean those movies where large, muscley men charge about with huge automatic weapons and kill countless enemies, all the while saving beautiful and inexplicably naked women from the clutches of unrealistically evil men who always have eye patches and greasy hair? Those movies?"

"Yeah! It'll be great! You can bring a couple friends along and I'll supply the swine rinds and sody water."

FooDaddy shuddered again. They really needed to turn the heat up in this place. "I'll eat before I come," he said. "I'm not a big fan of swine rinds."

"Okay, how 'bout I provide sody rinds and swine water?" I looked around quizzically. Somehow, FooDaddy had managed to disappear before my eyes. I ran outside, where I found him frantically trying to unlock his car door. Apparently, he didn't see me running toward him, waving my hands in the air and shouting, because he finally gave up on the stubborn lock and leaped headfirst through the closed car window.

As he drove away, I shouted after him. "Tomorrow night at six!" I know he heard me, because he swerved a couple times.

* * *

The night of the event, I sat at home, watching the clock and occasionally snacking on swine rinds. They're really not that bad, especially when dipped in sody water. My company was a little late, but I wasn't concerned. I had plenty of time. I ate another swine rind and popped in a movie to watch while I waited.

Finally, I checked my wristwatch. It was only eleven. No doubt they had gotten stuck in traffic or left home a few minutes late. At last, I heard a knock on the door and, upon opening it, found FooDaddy and several of his cohorts standing there.

"Sorry we're late," they chanted. "We were attacked by an army of mentally disturbed badgers."

"What a coincidence!" I said. "That's the first movie I planned on watching! It's called 'Badger Hell' and in it, the hero, Barf Rasmussen, has to defend New York City from an army of mentally disturbed badgers, led by his arch-enemy, Arch Enemee. I've already seen in twice tonight."

"Oh, well, then you don't really need to see it again," FooDaddy said.

Although I knew he was just trying to make sure I had as much fun as everyone else, I waved aside his protests. "No, no. I know you all will enjoy this, so have a seat, eat some swine, and I'll start the movie."

I backed the movie to the beginning and settled into my chair as the opening credits rolled across the screen. Suddenly, a huge, drooling badger appeared on the screen and I'm ashamed to say that I yelped and started in my chair. Ha, ha. No matter how many times I see that, it always gets me. Gosh, it's scary!

"Well, that was pretty great," FooDaddy said, rising from the couch and zipping up his coat, which he had never removed in the first place. "But it's late and we need to get going."

The other guests agreed and stumbled over each other as they tried to exit.

"Well, thanks fer comin'," I said, elated at the success of the evening. "Maybe next week we can meet up again and see the next thirty seconds of the movie!"

That time, I'm not sure if they heard me, because they were already driving out of the parking lot. FooDaddy hangs around a speedy group, that's for sure.

I was so jazzed that I was unable to sleep, so I finished the swine rinds and movie by myself. I thought about the evening and became choked up as I realized what great friends I had. After all, not everyone would come over to my apartment and watch thirty seconds of a badger action movie. And enjoy it!

I was certainly a lucky fellow and decided to repay this friendship by making sure they all had the opportunity to see the badgers just as much I did. It would be selfish of me to keep this all to myself. Since Christmas was approaching, I went to Amazon.com and ordered a copy of "Badger Hell" for each of my friends. Now they could scream their way through the holidays and enjoy the thrills and chills many, many times. But there's no need to thank me, guys. I'm just bein' a friend.

Sunday, December 02, 2007

Pieces of Pickle



I'm lying here under an electronic octopus--one with iPods and headphones and other ganglia writhing about upon the bedclothes.

I am not afraid. I........AM..........PICKLEWEASEL! (not to be confused with that weak sister, Beowulf).

No, I am a brave venturer.

I sally forth to exchange oddly dis-satisfying pokes (yea, even Superpokes) on Facebook, invite various celebrities to be my buddies on MySpace, fiddle around with a desultory game of Solitaire, post a few intelligent business-type remarks on a message boards or two, delete 78 emails that promise me, with fascinatingly colorful descriptions, a larger...um...penis (well, THEY called it a: 1). "trouser mouse"; "pocket python"; "little love soldier"; etc).

Yes, it's been a big day for old Pickle Weasel.

The Bride of Pickle Weasel stayed up in the mountains with several weaselly relatives. Weasel hisself demurred to go--way to much estrogen floating around that cabin.

So, Pickle Weasel stayed home and watched the weasellings.

Hmmmm....so far this post appears to be living up to the stated purpose and theme of the Blog.

So, anyway, I've had a long and relatively tranquil weekend.

Mrs. Weasel has returned, but (lamentably) the shipment of all-natural supplements designed to make her so ecstatic has not arrived, so it appears that sad little shreds of remaining weekend will also be tranquil.

Aaaaerrrrg......! Boys...the octopus has got me. The iPod is synching my brains out, the earphones are pounding away like little jackhammers and.....all.......is........los....t.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

The Hardass Rescues a Kitten


The Hardass clumped down the gritty centerline of Downtown’s coldest street. Snow blew into his face and some of it collected in his crags. He hated it for this, and punched each flake as it descended with his innate hairy power.

“Damn snow. Poofy and sparkly. Hate it.” He pushed onward, fantasizing about nuclear ordnance.

“Mister! Hey, mister!” squealed a small child. The small child was obviously distraught.

“What the damn do you want?” grunted the Hardass. The small child was about the size of one of his giant, metal-flaked boots. He leaned down to inspect it. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“My kitten! He’s stuck in a tree!” The small child pointed to a maple tree with a kitten in it.

“Damn,” growled the Hardass. He stomped to the tree, leaving deep treadmarks in the solid asphalt. He got right in the tree’s face. He put his nose right against its bark.

“What’s this all about, eh?” he growled.

The tree said nothing.

“Not a talker, huh? Well then. How about a heaping serving of asskickery?” The Hardass drew his titanium knuckled hand back and slammed it into the tree. The maple rocked, and an ominous deep cracking came from its base.

“Like that? Bastard.”

The tree said nothing.

“Holy naked strippers! You just don’t get it, do you?” the Hardass growled into the tree’s stupid face.

He punched it again, and it fell over. The kitten jumped free, and the small child scooped it up.

“Thanks, mister!” he said, and ran off.

The Hardass saluted him.

“Time for some strippers,” he ground through clenched teeth. He hitched up his steel-cable belt and moved toward the Red Light District like turgid thunder.

Saturday, November 17, 2007

Satan's Toothpicks

“So, watcha doin’ tonight? Huh? Huh?” I struggled to keep up with FooDaddy’s long stride as he made an amusing pretense of trying to outrun me.

“Nothing much,” he said. “Some friends and I are thinking of going bowling.” He stopped sprinting long enough to glance at me suspiciously. “Why?”

“I thought I could come along, you know, maybe shoot some hoops, score a goal...have fun?”

“Hoops are basketball and a goal is golf,” FooDaddy, a well-known sports expert, corrected. “And I really don’t think...I mean, bowling is really dangerous and not for the novice.”

“I ain’t skeered,” I said. “Come on, lemme come.”

“I’m taking my girlfriend,” FooDaddy said, “and she doesn’t like your hair.”

“I’ll wear a hat.”

“She thinks your voice is annoying.”

“I’ll be quiet. A muzzle, even. Come on, man!”

FooDaddy shook his head slowly, regretfully. “No, I don’t think...”

“I have coupons for a free game.”

* * *

The bowling alley was crowded when FooDaddy and I strode in and made our presence known by simultaneously stumbling into the automatic door. A gaggle of giggling gals watched with interest as we suavely attempted to escape the door.

“Leggo my foot,” I said.

“I’m not holding onto your damn foot,” FooDaddy snarled. “What do you think I am, some kind of pervert?”

“Please don’t make me answer that,” I muttered and gave the gazing gaggle a dazzling grin. “Hello, ladies!”

The gaggle inspected the grin, shuddered, and crumpled it into a nearby wastebasket. Then they all marched off to the bathroom together, presumably to wash their hands. Finally, FooDaddy and I shook ourselves free from the evil door and scrambled to our feet.

“Where are the batting cages?” I asked, looking around in some confusion. “This doesn’t look at all like laser tag.”

FooDaddy sighed, the long, wavering sound seeming to rip from his very soul. “We are here to bowl,” he said, struggling for patience. “You can’t play laser tag here until you’ve made at least three touchdowns.”

“Oh.” I was somewhat embarrassed by my ignorance, but the discomfort was quickly forgotten. “Hey!” I said. “You said you were bringing your girlfriend. Where is she?”

FooDaddy looked suddenly stricken and ran from the building toward the parking lot, yelling something about forgetting to unlock the trunk. He worries me sometimes.

Not knowing how long FooDaddy would be gone, I decided to go ahead and gather my gear. With this plan in mind, I approached the service desk.

“Can I help you?” The young female employee was young and female and I just happen to be very good with young, female peoples.

“Why, yes,” I said, raising an eyebrow suggestively. “I’m a world-famous bowler, but I seem to have forgotten my...gear in my hotel room, so I’ll need to borrow some. I have a coupon.”

“You’re a professional bowler, but you use coupons?”

Oddly, the young female didn’t seem impressed by my obvious street savvy. I smiled manfully, but held back a little so as not to melt the young female’s knees. “Unless you give pros complimentary games.”

“Uh, no.”

“Oh. Well, then I guess I’ll need to rent some gear.”

“Okay. What size shoes do you need?”

“No shoes. I’m just here to bowl.”

The young female rolled her eyes, glanced at my feet, and handed me a pair of rather unstylish and fuzzy shoes. “Here,” she said. “You’ve got weird feet, but these should do. Now, please leave me, because you’ve got really weird hair, too.”

I walked away, grinning. The little vixen obviously had a thing for me. Poor lass. Her heart was destined for breakage.

Just as I was leaving the counter, FooDaddy and FooGirl walked in. FooGirl looked a little peeved, or so it seemed from the way she kept attempting to beat FooDaddy with a tire iron. He dodged the flurry of blows and laughed.

“Isn’t she adorable?” he asked, running to and fro to escape FooGirl’s onslaught, while procuring his bowling shoes.

“Yeah,” I said. “Nothing like blunt trauma to spice things up. You guys ready to roll some pucks?”

They were and we made our way to the nearest open lane. We put on our unsanitary shoes and then FooDaddy explained some of the finer points of bowling to me.

“First,” he said, holding his bowling ball at arm’s length, “you need to choose a bowling ball that’s not too heavy. Otherwise, you’ll end up...&*#@!”

“Dropping it your foot?” I ventured.

“You’re a natural. Second, the little wooden things at the end of the lane are called pins or, as we like to refer to them in the bowling business, ‘Satan’s Toothpicks.’ And that’s pretty much all there is to it.”

FooDaddy and FooGirl both went before me, as I was intent on observing their technique, so as better to devise a method of victory. I had to smother laughter as first FooDaddy and then FooGirl shot their baskets. Both of them hit some pins! And I thought they were good at this game. When it was my turn, I hefted my bowling ball. This game was mine, baby! I drew back and let it fly.

There was a moment of silence and then FooDaddy cleared his throat. “Uh...why did you throw your bowling ball over your shoulder?”

“It’s my secret technique,” I said, standing smugly with my heels together, my toes pointed out, and my hands clasped behind my back. “What better way to avoid hitting the Toothpicks than to throw the ball in the opposite direction?”

FooGirl looked at me in disgust, with perhaps a hint of pity. “You’re supposed to hit the Toothpicks,” she said. “You want to hit as many as possible. If you hit them all, it’s a strike.”

I shook my head in amazement. “Geez, everybody’s got a union these days!”

“No, it’s...” FooDaddy gave up. “Just try again.”

Somewhat abashed, I retrieved my bowling ball. Pausing to perform an ancient Native American bowling ritual, I drew back the ball and let it fly.

The pins scattered like driftwood being hit by a UFO landing for repairs. I mean, dude, they just went “bammo!”

Again, there was silence. I stood there, basking in the glory of my amazing shot. I turned to FooDaddy and executed an unsightly victory dance. I felt a little bad about that later. After all, the dance had never done anything to me.

“How about that?” I asked. “Pretty amazing goal, huh?”

“Yes, it was,” he said, “but you’re supposed to shoot for the pins in our lane, not the ones three lanes down.”

“You know I hate rules,” I said, turning away. No one was going to pour frozen molasses on my victory. Not unless they had waffles.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Orbital Rambling; The Old Man in Space


In a landmark mission undertaken last week by the private aerospace agency, Stunned Owl Labs' Aerospace Research, an Old Man was put into deep orbit. Project GEEZER went green on Tuesday, and has so far been a stunning success. GEEZER, which stands for Geriatric Eccentric Extraterrestrial Zoological Extended Reconnaissance, seeks to study the effects of space travel on the old and crusty.

Zero-G bitching and orbital rambling are two of GEEZER’s target areas.

The ship, GEEZER 2, is powered by the revolutionary Hadron Collider Drive (basically a miniaturized particle accelerator with a form of atomic supercharger powered by ointment). Its sister ship, GEEZER 1, was taken out of commission a year earlier due to extensive cane damage to its heat shielding and denture bite-marks on the reactor housing.

In an exclusive audio recording taken just days ago in the ship’s onboard laboratory, we are given insight into this fascinating study:


Old Man: Whut's this can run on, eh? Devilfire? Terlet water? Hey! Git that pokestick away from me!

(Cane whomping noises)


Researcher:
Ow! We just need to take your temperature, sir.


Old Man: Last feller tried that doctor buggery on me ended up in the 'firmary with a bust foot, y'eddicated bandersnatch.

Researcher: It's not like that any more, sir. This instrument goes in your ear. It only takes a few seconds, and is totally noninvasive.

Old Man: Y'think you kin git yer Satan-sticks in m'coal chute if'n y'bamboozle me with yer fancy book-chatter? Not likely, son. I'mma git me some grits and yell at the sparrows. You an' the resta the moon monkeys kin poke each other with yer therma-hoosits all y'want.

(Sound of dentures floating away)


Old Man:
Consarn it!


Researcher:
Sir, we are in geosynchronous orbit twelve-thousand miles above the Earth's surface. You won't be able to see any sparrows.


Old Man:
Nunna you shiny-panted sky hooligans packed any?


Researcher:
Packed any...sparrows?


Old Man:
Fiddlesticks!

Researcher: Please sir. If you'd just hold still for five seconds, you can go back to your chair. I only need to record your body temperature for today.

(Sound of slipper hitting the bulkhead)


Old Man: Newtfarts, you do! That other feller, the one with the fat head 'n' the glowing devil typewriter did it on the yester!

(Sound of thrashing)


Researcher:
Please come back here, sir!


(Sound of slipper hitting flesh)


Old Man:
Naw!



After this exchange, reports indicate that The Old Man spent the next six hours floating around in the cargo hold swearing at boxes, and was only induced to return to his cabin when researchers, using a blowtorch, cut the hinges off the locked door and promised him he could have some ice cream.

Mini-Story #3: Snail Sage

Once upon a time, in a land not so far away, but impossible to get to, there was a snail who learned the meaning of life.

"Yay," said the snail, anxious to show his appreciation to the Elements for entrusting him with this bit of jealously sought wisdom. "Now I can sell this information to the highest bidder, become fabulously wealthy, and live as a snail should!"

Just then a hungry Frenchman noticed the lone snail inching its way toward bliss and promptly ate mankind's only hope for true enlightenment. The moral of this story is this: never try to sell someone happiness, because they will end up eating you for lunch.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Quickie-Story 2.1; Tree Men


There once was an old man named Jim who lived in the trees. He liked to hang way up in the oaks and throw things at little boys. One day, one such little boy came wandering through the woods. The old man caught him out of the corner of his eye, and readied his bucket of pine cones. When the little boy walked under the tree where Jim sat, he stopped for a second, and looked up into the tree to see where the chuckling was coming from. It seems that Jim was unable to control his laughter, and had also wet himself at the thought of being able to hit the little boy with his pine cones. The little boy, whose name was Booyah, pulled out a gun. Jim farted and ran off. Booyah smiled. The squirt gun had proven useful. He silently thanked his father for suggesting it.

Moral: There is no moral.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Mini-Story #2: The Tomato Boy

There was once a little boy named Rodney who loved to eat dirt. One day after eating his daily handful of dirt, Rodney decided to eat a tomato for dessert. The seeds from the tomato began growing inside him and before long, Rodney had a tomato plant sprouting in his stomach. And now every time Rodney burped, he coughed up a tomato. Seeing the financial possibilities, Rodney's father built a roadside stand and began selling Burp Tomatoes, which he does to this day. The moral of the story is never buy tomatoes from a roadside stand, because they might have come from Rodney.

Monday, November 12, 2007

Mini-Story #1: The Chipmunk

Once upon a time there was a tiny chipmunk who wanted to drive a car, so he went to Driver's Training to get a license. Sadly, he failed the test and was mocked by all his classmates. The chipmunk was furious and, stalking from the room, stuck chewing gum in the lock so no one could get out. The chipmunk then made a fake license and stole a Lexus. Today the chipmunk lives in Hollywood and makes movies for a living. The moral of this story is that chipmunks are evil creatures and should be locked away before they manage to accomplish their ultimate goal of destroying modern civilization.

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Your Characters Hate You


The Writer was eating his typewriter. Lest you think this disturbing, let me hasten to assure you that all was being done to ensure decorum. He was using a knife and fork, as well as a bib, which was tied neatly about his pale, fragile neck. His spectacles rode low on his long nose and his eyes, watering with the strain of many hours’ labor, flitted about, as if expecting some attack and not wishing to be caught unawares. Sweat beaded on his forehead, rolled down the length of his nose, and dripped onto the mangled remains of the typewriter. The writer took no notice of the defiling sweat, only continued eating.

He was, of course, quite insane.

Six hours before you and I began conversing, The Writer had been as rational as we and, as small a consolation as that might be, presented nary a threat. He had come to his established place of creativity brimming with ideas and eager to begin the day’s work. The opening paragraph went well, as did the entireties of pages one and two. Then everything came to a screeching halt. It wasn’t writer’s block, no...something far more sinister was afoot. His characters had come alive.

The story had been a mystery and The Writer had just reached the point where the ridiculously studly and cunning detective had finished compiling his list of suspects.

“I have finished compiling my list of suspects,” The Writer wrote (although it was actually the detective speaking!). “I shall now gather them in the drawing room and, through a process of brilliant deduction, force the murderer to confess before the assembly! Then I shall handcuff him to the water pipes and wait for this dreadful, but very mood-setting storm to blow over. Then I shall haul him before the magistrate, who will reward me with riches and gumdrops.”

The Writer looked back over the paragraph. He shook his head violently and looked again. That wasn’t what he had intended to write at all! It was far too early in the story to assemble the suspects. There were no clues, no hint of the murderer’s identity. There was no way the detective, Smoot by name, would be able to point out the guilty party.

“Don’t be so sure of that,” said a rough and nasally voice. The voice was surly and undeniably British.

The Writer looked down and saw a tiny figure relaxing against the side of the typewriter. “What?” The Writer’s voice sounded very dry and wavered humorously.

“You thought ill of me,” the little man said.

“Smoot?”

“In the ink. Ha!” The detective withdrew a pipe from his pocket and was on the verge of smoking it when he remembered that The Writer had written him out of the habit several stories ago. “A pity,” he said. “I rather enjoyed the stuff.”

“It was bad for your health,” said The Writer, who was beginning to recover from the initial shock. “What are you doing here?”

“I was bored living in the paper. Nothing to do, except remain as flat as possible and try to dodge those vicious hammers. Tricky business, that, especially when you’ve got a brilliant idea and start typing away like mad. Fortunately, you don’t get them often.”

“Well, I thought of you,” The Writer countered.

“Right, right. I’ll give you that. But then you made me forget my pistol in the last story. Otherwise, I’d have had the criminal long before the end.”

“That was the point,” The Writer said. “The story would have been a hundred words long.”

“Well, it would have saved me a lot of legwork, wouldn’t it? Always thinking of yourself, that’s what your problem is. Here I am, running down various indulgers in crimey things, getting all dirty and sweaty, while you sit smugly at a desk and tap away with your wretched fingertips. It’s not fair, I tell you!”

(to be continued, if Smoot allows it.)

Sunday, November 04, 2007

Dad's Prose or Where It Comes From


Well, time wasters, it's been awhile since your old FooDaddy done posted on The Blog. I have to come clear with you and admit something that may, at first, seem shocking. I know most of you look to me as your moral leader; someone whose shining platinum example can be used as a yardstick to measure the yard of your own life, but try to keep in mind that I am only human. An exceptionally strange human, but one nonetheless.

There was once a time when I thought this would never happen to me. *takes microphone from stand and wanders meaningfully through the crowd* I was all like "pfft! That'll nebber happen to me! I's immortal, like the Easta Bunneh!". And folks? I said it just like that too. *grabs random person about the biceps and, vibrating with emotion, directs laser of pure mental anguish into their nostrils* Just. Like. That.

*scampers lightly back to podium, replaces microphone* But I'm proud of it now! No longer must I shuffle through the darkest and backest of alleys, with my head between my knees and my feet in my pockets! No more will I shy away from conversation at parties I've somehow sneaked into!

I speak of joining an elite social group, time-wasters! I am one of Them! Of They! I'm a member of The Washed, of The Bathed! Of the No Longer A Stinky Man with a Personal Cloud of Flies!

It's exhilarating, although I miss my flies. Especially Edward.

So that's why the posts have been few and far between. I promise I'll crank it up as soon as I learn how to do this whole "showering" thing quicker (it's always hard to condense a brand-new routine).

Who planted this heretical idea in my head, you might ask? Why, my father! He leaned across the table, into his curry chicken, and swatting flies and apologizing to the other diners, said:

"Boy. There is a way..."

And he said it all mysteriously, too, which got my attention. He told of the wonders of "soap" and how the almost magical "surfactant" properties of this wonder goo turn water from something that one squirts at one's cats to keep them from destroying things into something that greatly curbs one's odor emission. I listened raptly and stinkily, and when he was done, I was a changed blogger...

Dad's a beardy man. Always has been. As a child, I can remember it being full of candy. That probably says more about my current state of mind than it does about my upbringing...we'll come back to that later, maybe.

Candy-bearded or not, my father was always telling me things.

"Don't sneeze or cough on your hands--do it in the elbow of your shirt. You wouldn't believe how many people think that spewing evil microbes all over the hands they use to touch other people and their possessions is somehow polite. If I catch you doing it, I'mma grumble at you."

And...

"Always make sure there's a nightlight on in the bathroom. You cannot achieve lock-on in the dark, so you'll wee all over the floor. If you turn on the big light, you'll get blinded, and then you'll wee all over the floor. Here's a replacement bulb and some paper towels."

Then there's the writing advice I've had occasion to satirize. This was not his first piece of writing advice, though.

He found this email he'd sent back in 2004 for some reason, and I doubt I gave it the attention it deserved. I post it here because it is (a.) interesting, and (b.) informative. Anyone who knows me well enough will be nodding and making some form of "mm hmm!" noise when they've finished reading.


As I was peeing, getting ready to go home, my body, ever up for humiliating comedy, did one of those "dying duck" farts-- you know, the kind that musically does a descending third, from E down to middle C, or maybe farther (heh). You never can tell with farts; it would be difficult to notate them. Anyway, this fart sounded so sad, so resigned to its fate, that a phrase popped into my head, which could be the ending of a short story:

As she said this, he realized it was the end of the world, and he'd have to start facing it immediately. No one spoke. All the happy yellowness that had been part of the day suddenly drained from it. Again there was a crushing suffocating pause where neither of them could think of anything
encouraging to say.

Then, he farted.


It was a dying duck, it was Shakespeare's "dying fall", it was the ultimate Oh Darn, it was the horn call from a Requiem Mass; it sounded like nothing so much as the Fart of Utter Despair, or perhaps the angel
Gabriel, astride the planets, blowing the Fart For The End of Time.

It stank like it, too.

She ran away, and was never seen again. A stunned owl fell out of the sky.

'Why am I still standing here like a stunned owl?', he thought. And he took off his glasses."


That's it. Based on a true fart.


True story? I'd bet my cats on it. There's owls in that library, I have no doubts.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Domesticated and Dangerous

Ever since I’ve started working part-time at my real job and full-time at home, I’ve been doing some of the more domestic chores myself, since my wife now works more hours away from home, thereby having less time to wait on me hand and foot. Not only is this lack of service annoying, but it’s turned out to be scary, since I have little experience in truly “domestic” ventures. Read and see...

From the moment I walked through the doors, I could feel the atmosphere change. The regulars of this establishment had a unique ability to smell fear and, although I tried hard to disguise my nervousness, it was plain to anyone that I was out of my element. No one spoke to me as I took a few steps farther inside and then stopped, glancing around in an attempt to regain my composure and plan my next move.

I looked forward again just in time to see a large, metal beast bearing down upon me, its latticed maw eager to dine upon my flesh. Exhibiting the agility of a gazelle, I leaped to one side, narrowly escaping a thorough trampling, and watched the monster trundle past. The beast’s master, who apparently guided his charge using a primitive, rear-attached steering mechanism, turned and fixed me with a disgusted stare.

“Outta the way, ya big bum!”

I whimpered and scooted back into a darkened recess of the wall, intending to gather my wits and possibly flee for my life. My eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness and I realized, panic welling in my throat, that I was surrounded by the metal beasts! Hundreds of them, all lined up neatly, no doubt awaiting a command to charge and eat me.

After a second or two, however, it became clear that the monsters, as hideous as they appeared, were harmless without someone at the helm and none of these were so occupied. Perhaps this little recess was the monsters’ sleeping cave or maybe they were in for repair. Either way, it was obvious they posed no threat to me, so I turned my attention back to the bustling world outside my haven.

There were many more beasts out there, most of which being guided along by their masters. I would have thought that being given the ownership of a dangerous creature would require membership in an elite club, but the owners I saw fit no set description. Some were young, old, large, small, male, and female. I even saw a child pushing one, probably a trainee, as she kept running into things and incurring the wrath of her instructor.

I couldn’t much blame the child’s poor driving skills. This would, after all, be an extremely difficult area in which to train in the use of monster-guiding. Obstacles of varying sizes dotted the area, while the more experienced users pushed their monsters to the limit, darting in and out of obstacles, tearing around blind corners...it was a miracle I hadn’t yet witnessed a fatality.

By now, I had gathered most of my mental faculties and was dismayed at the tiny pile they made. But no matter! I was here on a mission and I would mission my mission or my name isn’t...I’ll get back to you on that.

Reaching into my pocket, I withdrew the secret papers that outlined the objectives for the mission. It was a long list, full of things I recognized, although I had never known they came from a place as dangerous and scary as this. I read part of the list: corn, lunch meat, cheese, eggs, bread, Sasquatch tenderloin... The list went on for pages. There was no way I’d be able to carry all these items out to my car. I’d need a basket or, better yet, a dump truck.

Another beast rumbled past and for the first time I noticed it had a transparent stomach. As unbelievable and disgusting as this may seem, it was true. There, in the innards of the monster, I could make out various objects. A whole head of lettuce, a bag of apples, doughnuts...many of the items I was here to pick up myself! It was then that my pile of mental faculty shavings, stirred by a small breeze of inspiration, suggested an idea to me. Perhaps the monsters weren’t so terrible after all. What if they were provided, hopefully free of charge, as a method of transporting one’s objectives?

With this thought in mind, I tugged one of the metal beasts out of the darkened recess where I’d been hiding and was pleased when it didn’t bite or snap at me. It was, in fact, a rather quiet and pleasant monster, except for the insistent squeak made by one of its oval, rotating legs as I propelled it along and the fact that it had a tendency to pull suddenly to one side, throwing me into the path of an oncoming threat. Obviously, I had chosen a young monster, one still languishing in the immaturity of youth.

I began wandering around the premises, searching for the objectives on my list. Oh, the joy I felt when at last I would successfully seek out an item and feed it to the monster. I soon learned, by rudely listening in on the conversations of others, that the monsters were actually called “shopping carts” and they were, in fact, generally harmless.

The beasts’ masters, however, were less genial and turned out to be the worst part of the venture. They were loud, impatient, stinky, and stupid. Parking their monsters in the middle of an area I soon learned to call an “aisle,” they would wander to and fro, apparently unaware I was attempting to get through. Even when I would politely say, “Move it, swine,” they would ignore me and continue wandering.

...to be continued at my leisure.

Thursday, October 04, 2007

I Too Am Also Mad!


The things that smurf me off are many and numerous. They are plentiful enough, were they flecks of dandruff, to shingle a barn. In short, I am a very annoyed individual.

And I'll get to them as soon as I can think of some good ones.

Ahh, here we go...

Being given too few ketchups at fast food places, being given too many ketchups at fast food places, that weird way one of my fingernails seems to grow faster than the rest, chunky kids who won't share their Skittles, old men who are cultured and patient, gassy cats, people who get mad at you for laughing during funerals, people who DO continue to tell themselves that after you tell them to keep telling themselves that.


Man, this is harder than I thought. Could it be that I'm really not as bitter and crotchety as I thought? I'm losing my edge? This cannot be. Just have to prime myself.

Disney.

That did it! On with the list.

Mary Poppins, singing dwarves, singing pirates, singing furniture, singing animals, singing children. (Whew!) Desks with one drawer built to look like two, showers with weak spraying heads, soap that smells like candy, soap that doesn't TASTE like candy, forgetfulness, chunky kids who won't share their Skittles. People who don't understand sarcasm, people who proudly announce things that would get them slapped if there were any justice in the world, anyone who touches me and enjoys it too much. Anyone who merges onto the highway at a blistering 30 MPH, anyone who doesn't bother to look for a gap before merging and has to pull off onto the shoulder and signal for upwards of four minutes. Any person who refers to themselves as "mommy" or "daddy" when talking to or about their cat. Children who smell like socks.

(Pause to allow adrenaline glands to rest up a bit.)

Video games based off of movies, "Barney and Friends" and all it stands for, iPhones, houses in the middle of cities decorated with wagon wheels and fake tumbleweeds. CPU fanboys, car fanboys, videogame console fanboys, fan fanboys. People who are too politically correct (correctness fanpersons), people who take pride in being extremely politically UNcorrect (read: morons). Leaves with slugs on them. Signs in public places with misplaced or unnecessary apostrophes. The word "unnecessary" because I always put too many Cs in. Cologne, people who wear too much cologne, people who ask why you don't wear cologne. Grown men who smell like socks and try to cover it with cologne.

And last but certainly not least, and because I am a smug bastard: anyone older than 9 who considers their, they're and there interchangeable.

Monday, September 24, 2007

I'm Mad, Too!

In the previous post, Pickle Weasel shared a few things that really tick him off. Although I know there are many more he could (and should) share, I was happy to see the list, because it gave me an excuse to list a few of the things that make me angry. I don't usually get a chance to do this and it makes me mad. Anyway, I am becoming more and more irritable with every passing year. I’ve always had a difficult time suffering fools gladly, but I find the chore increasingly taxing. To show you exactly what I mean, here’s a sample of things that annoy me:

Whining children, slow people in check-out lanes, people who stop at green turn arrows (green means go, you friggin’ idiot), people who are loud for no apparent reason, stubborn toilet paper, fumbling with my keys, nuclear explosions, itchy deodorant, crickets with insomnia, people who think they’re smarter than I am and aren’t, condescension, Kool-Aid, fanatics, shaving, dry skin, and the day after holidays...(deep breath)

Telemarketers who can’t take no for an answer, repeat stories, grocery shopping, know-it-alls, people who feel a need to top everyone else’s story, car alarms, most of the rest of my generation, car bigots (is that a useless bias or what?), Boyd Bears, being blamed for global warming, people who put clanky things in the dryer, Jane Austen, people who like Jane Austen, the children and ancestors of people who like Jane Austen, poorly-tuned instruments, people all too willing to correct others and yet blind to their own errors, and exotic ring tones…(gasp)

Nit-picking, sweltering car interiors, the mispronunciation of “concerto” and “Mozart,” people who think I’m an arrogant bastard (the truth hurts), well-meaning people, ill-meaning people, people, those who complain and yet will not accept any solution, people in authority who have the intelligence of floor lamps, chess haters, empty zoo cages, static, wobbly chairs, unwarranted enthusiasm, crappy melodies, Burl Ives, burling ivy, shirts that feel crooked when I put them on, muscle twitches, tiny dogs that bark incessantly, the majority of poodles…

Okay, I guess that’s enough for now, although I’ve barely scratched the surface. As you can probably tell, I spend a good deal of my time being annoyed and feel I am well on my way to becoming an old curmudgeon. Hey, Foo…race ya!

Saturday, September 22, 2007

You know what makes me mad?


This is me working hard at being wrathful. Are you scared yet?

(I'm hoping that you'll join me by posting some of your key gripes):

1). People who sit in their ancient Toyota Tercel picking their noses after a Left Hand turn arrow has clearly turned green.



2). Flies.

3).

4). Opinions loudly stated and dogmatically held no matter what evidence exists to the contrary.

5). Aliens who abduct (why can't they probe other aliens who would probably like it a lot?)

6). FooDaddy's cat



hmm...the list is quite a bit shorter than I would have thought.



Maybe you can help me out.





Pickle Weasel

Thursday, September 20, 2007

The Spare

Scarfson started forward, but his nerve failed at the last moment, forcing him to withdraw in disgrace. The large, black, hulking object gazed at him with obtuse, unmoving speculation. It was not afraid, Scarfson knew, rather anticipating the inevitable, looking forward to the moment when Scarfson would have to face his deepest fears and approach the focus of his nightmares.

Just ten minutes earlier, Scarfson had hurried into work a few minutes late, swiped his card through the reader, and sprinted for his cubicle, hoping to be hard at work before The Boss noticed his tardiness. Charging around the corner of his cubicle, he had launched himself toward his office chair. It had disintegrated on impact, causing enough noise to attract the attention of all his immediate co-workers, not to mention The Boss.

“Late again, Barfson?” Two of The Boss’s chins had wobbled disapprovingly. They were never late and could afford to be smug.

Painfully aware of the many pairs of eyes watching the proceedings, Scarfson had ignored the intentional mispronunciation of his name and tried to crawl inside a wastebasket. The Boss had nudged the basket out of Scarfson’s reach, the exertion leaving the huge man breathless.

Too exhausted to speak, The Boss had pulled a notepad out of his pocket and scribbled a few words. He had handed the paper to Scarfson, who read it slowly, a look of horrified realization slowly spreading over his face.

“But, Boss! I don’t wanna use The Spare.”

“You must, Wormson. You have destroyed company property and we have no other office chairs. You shall use The Spare.” Then The Boss had turned and heaved himself down the corridor, the rough cloth of the cubicle walls causing rub-burns on his sides.

The audience of employees had watched in fascinated dismay as Scarfson trudged to the supplies closet, slowly opened the door, and was confronted with…The Spare! Now, he stood facing the office bane, dreading the moment when he would have to approach and, yea, even sit thereon.

The Spare was a large, ancient chair, having been used for many years by employees unfortunate or bulky enough to break their own, until the company got around to ordering a new piece of office furniture. This invariably took several eternities, making the fate of said employee that much worse.

It wouldn’t have been so bad to use The Spare, if it was simply a matter of discomfort and humiliation, but The Spare was not just any piece of office furniture. It was alive. And very, very evil. Possessed of a depraved nature equal only to that of Lucifer, The Spare lurked in the dark recesses of the supplies closet until once again released by the clumsiness of an anxious employee, rushing in late on a Monday morning. Sadly, that employee was Scarfson, who now stood gazing at The Spare in grief.

At last resigned to his fate, Scarfson wheeled The Spare out of the closet and into his cubicle. Making the sign of the cross, Scarfson lowered himself down onto The Spare, which sagged suddenly to one side, heaving him onto the floor with a fiendish chuckle.

Stunned, Scarfson lay there for a moment, staring at the fiendish chuckle, which was equally surprised, not to mentioned winded. At last, Scarfson summoned his strength and pushed off the floor. Once back on his feet, he surveyed The Spare with a determined set to his jaw.

He approached it and slowly sat back down, prepared for the abrupt sideways lurch. It never happened. After a minute, he relaxed a little and, deciding he had survived the worst the chair had to offer, grasped the edges of his desk and pulled back, propelling himself forward.

Just as he did so, however, The Spare somehow lost a wheel and one chair leg dug into the floor. The Spare came to a sudden halt, sending Scarfson (who had neglected to fasten his seatbelt) headfirst into his computer keyboard. Dazed, he looked up and brushed at his aching forehead. Several plastic keyboard pieces fell to the desk with a clatter.

Once he figured out what had happened, it was a simple matter to replace the errant wheel. Within minutes, Scarfson was back in The Spare and booting up his computer. While he waited, he inserted all the missing keys back into the keyboard and then spent the next twenty minutes blissfully reconciling invoices.

Gradually, however, Scarfson became aware of a tingling sensation in the back of his knee and realized he couldn’t feel anything below the area. He had forgotten about that particularly insidious strategy of The Spare. It lulled you into a false sense of security and then, whammo!, cut off circulation to the lower extremities.

Scarfson pushed himself out of The Spare and grasped the top of one cubicle wall for support. This was a bad one. Both legs completely numb. Movement, that was the ticket. He began moving slowly about the cubicle, holding onto various objects for support, trying to get the blood moving down into his legs. Unfortunately, the area was too small for much activity and his deadened limbs kept banging into things and knocking them over, such as the potted plant, wastebasket, and a disoriented, white-haired gnome.

Finally, in desperation, Scarfson wandered out into the hallway, hoping to loosen up on a straight stretch. He tried to ignore the curious, frightened glances of co-workers, as he half-stumbled, half-goose stepped his way down the hall.

“Swineson!” The Boss had heard the commotion and ventured out of his office to investigate. “Why have you left your cubicle?”

Scarfson indicated his wobbling limbs, which were now in tingly agony. “Legs…asleep,” he gasped.

“And I suppose you’re going to blame that on The Spare?” The Boss burped cynically. “I’ve had it with this juvenile fear of a harmless piece of office furniture,” he said, turning and lumbering toward Scarfson’s cubicle. “I shall demonstrate the inoffensive nature of this chair once and for all.”

Scarfson followed behind The Boss, almost bumping into him as the huge man came to a sudden halt just outside Scarfson’s cubicle.

“Wankson?”

“Boss, I want a new chair.”

“What have you done with The Spare?”

“Pardon?”

“It’s not here, Dweebson. What have you done with it?”

“Nothing, Boss, I…” Scarfson broke off in horrified realization. The Spare had escaped!

Over the next week, the entire staff of the office scoured the premises, looking for the renegade chair, but to no avail. Their search was fruitless and they were at last forced to return to their work. To this day, The Spare has not yet been found and may be lurking anywhere. In your building, in your office…perhaps you’re even sitting in The Spare. Don’t panic, no sudden moves…

Friday, September 14, 2007

The Hardass Punches A Man


It was a dark night. It was one of those nights where the sun just seems to disappear, and the only illumination comes from sodium-vapor lights spaced evenly along the glistening surface of downtown's asphalt labyrinth.

The Hardass fired his flinty glare into the sable heavens like twin mortar shells tipped with granite.

"Damn," he said.

His gravelly voice was filled with emotion. This emotion was anger. The sun would pay for deserting him yet again. No matter how often he threatened it, no matter how many times he emptied his .45 Magnum's magazine in its general direction, no matter how many times he informed it in that dangerously quiet way of his that it really didn't want to have him as an enemy, it persisted in its disagreeable habit of going away every 12 hours or so.

"I need a smoke," The Hardass muttered. He was not the type of man who smoked those pansy sticks that pass for "cigarettes," like a lot of those fairies on the Force. He reached into the inner pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a pine cone. This he dusted with rat poison, sprayed with Mace and lit with a blowtorch.

He puffed contentedly, and blew a smoke dagger into the damp night air.

The Hardass pummeled the air with his body as he moved through it. He forced it to split as he passed, and graciously allowed it to come together again behind him. This was something he only permitted when he was in a decent mood, and his purchase of a rocket launcher that very afternoon lifted his spirits considerably. He imagined the smug look on the sun's face as it sneaked above the horizon this morning. He imagined the look faltering, then crashing as he taught the bastard a concise lesson in respect with a high-caliber tactical guided explosive.

"Heh heh," he grunted in turgid satisfaction. He flicked the smoldering butt of his pinecone through the window of a black limousine. The crunch of breaking safety glass filled him with hairy glee as he passed on.

"You, my friend, have just made a terrible, terrible mistake."

The Hardass turned to find a peeved looking man stepping out of the limo, brushing little glass cubes from his pinstripe suitcoat and trousers.

"Fork you," ground out The Hardass.

"Oh! Fork me? ME? Do you have any idea who I am?"

"Some prick with a giant car with weak windows who just happened to be parked where I was throwing my done smoke. Is that about right?"

The man's face darkened to the point where the amber glare of the streetlamps just seemed to fall into it. "You're wrong in just about every way possible, bucko. Say hi to the Devil for me, willya?" With liquid speed, the man drew a chrome 9mm pistol and fired three rounds into The Hardass. One slug caught him in the shoulder, one in the chest, and the other pinged off his teeth with a whine and a brief shower of sparks.

"Not your smartest move," The Hardass growled, advancing.

"Mother of Bob," muttered the pinstriped man. His pistol clattered to the street as his hand relaxed. He backed slowly into the side of his car as The Hardass closed the distance.

"God, I'm so going to punch you now." The Hardass pulled the bullet out of his shoulder with his teeth and chewed it up. He left the one in his chest with the eight others for now.

"You'd be signing your own death warrant! I'm Joseph Biscotti, pal, the Joseph Biscotti! If you kill me, my boss replaces me with five other men, and they hunt down your family, your friends, your employers and your dry cleaners and send 'em all to hell before they even draw up plans to come after your sorry ass!"

"Biscotti, huh? Ain't that like that bread stuff you get at fancy restaurants?" The Hardass pulled his dented and toothmarked badge.

"Shut yer facehole," Biscotti hissed.

"If you're the guy I think you are, then you're wanted by sixteen states. And that ain't the worst of it. You know what the worst of it is, Biscotti?" The Hardass growled conversationally.

"Fork you."

"The worst of it," he continued, "Is that you was rude to me. I've already had the sun pull some crazy stunt on me today, and now you float over here and put a couple holes in this jacket of mine. I made it myself, you know, out of sharks and alligators I caught with my own teeth. That makes me angry."

"I said, fork--"

The Hardass punched Joseph Biscotti in the head. He sailed across the street and made a noisy landing against a parking meter. The Hardass stomped casually over.

"I heard you the first time," he said, taking a bite out of the meter. Nickels were his favorite, and he popped them like Skittles as he phoned HQ.

"Yep. Corner of Fulton and Monroe. Gave me some lip, so I punched him and ate his gun. That's right, Jack. I'm gonna go get me a glass of Diesel and Coke and relax now. Got a date with a star in the morning."

The Hardass allowed a smile to tenuously chisel his crags.