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 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!

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.