Buckle up for Vatican III, jerkwads, Dread Night is here!

There's a new holiday in town, friends and enemies, and you already missed it.

First off, I don't want to hear any "Dandy come lately"s out of anyone. I didn't let you know about the holiday before because I was testing it out still. If everyone starts celebrating a new holiday before all the kinks are worked out, you end up with crappy holidays. How do you think we ended up with Valentine's Day and Pap Smear Weekend? Right, someone jumped the gun, and now we're stuck with gifts in February and two days of mandatory, gender-irrelevant pap smears. I'm not looking forward to that again.

No worries about this new one, though, because it proved to be a real doozy. I think people will be moaning and whimpering for generations to come, every time Dread Night rolls around.

What is Dread Night, exactly? Well, I'm glad you asked. You're familiar with "Christmas Eve," correct? It's technically not even a holiday, and yet there it sits every year, wasting a whole day before Christmas. Dread Night will replace Christmas Eve, replace it so fully and ruthlessly that not only will you be unable to remember Christmas Eve, but to attempt to do so will cause you great pain.

Dread Night, one of the longest nights of the year, I'll remind you, will be an annual period of hope, prayer, and, above all else, fear. What could one possibly fear? What would you pray for, with wonderful Christmas morning right around the corner? Survival. Survival, salvation, preservation from bodily harm - the works. You see, on Dread Night there is no certainty that Christmas morning will come. In fact, just the opposite - in the depths of Dread Night, we will suspect that the chances of the sun ever rising again are much slimmer than the possibility of the alternative. And so, on Dread Night, we sit. We sit in the dark, and we rub our cold hands together, and we rock back and forth, wondering what is to become of us and the world, hoping that the Baby Jesus will see fit to return the next day to save our miserable selves. But he may not. He probably won't. If only the some random trick of the cosmos might convince him to pity us, if some grace of soulless Fate might allow us one more year...

But Dread Night is five full chambers in a revolver.

And should the sun finally rise in our black and dilated eyes... imagine the relief! Christmas is pretty great as it is, but, after Dread Night, Jesus Morning will be water in the desert, junk in the syringe.

I introduced Dread Night to a test audience on Monday. It was a little difficult at first to get the point across, but once the idea got into their heads, I could see it start to take hold almost immediately. They started to get nervous, and no one wanted to make eye contact. These are good signs.

It's going to take some effort to get people to shake the habit of enjoying themselves on the night before Christmas, but Dread Night can do it. You just need some fear and stomach curdling angst. That's what Dread Night is, after all.


Oooookay, queers, fess up.

Well, I won't say that I blame you, but there are clearly some things that some people need to get out in the open.

Oh, you you don't know what I'm talking about? Sure you don't. Fine. Fine. I'll "explain."

When I signed on to the Myspace today, I noticed a notice on my space saying that 9 people on my friends list have crushes on me, and that I should click to find out who.

I wasn't sure exactly what was meant by "click," so I did some sleuthing of my own. Just call me Gumshoe. Some simple computer hacking revealed that I have 13 friends. I then had my guy do some background checks, and it turns out that 8 of my friends are men or boys, 4 are "girls," and 1 person isn't a person at all (I'm still not sure how it got on there).

Now, some of you may need computers to help process this next piece (I was able to do it with just a calculator, but then again I'm the detective), but if you look at all the numbers here (9, 13, 8, 4, and 1) it quickly becomes apparent that at least 5 of my boy friends have crushes on me, assuming that the non-person can't have a crush. Check the numbers, run them through your computers, have your guy take a look at them - however you stack it, things aren't adding up here.

So what gives? If you're, like, gay, that's fine, but yous should probably make that more clear. And we won't be standing next to each other if we ever hang out again, because I don't want to act like I'm leading you on. And if you're straight (not gay), do your girlfriends know about this? It's weird if they don't, but if they do... Do you make them wear Dandy masks to bed, or what? This is all so strange. Is it possible that the girls each have multiple crushes on me? I've heard of "multiple crushes" (they come up in Cosmo occastionally) but I never thought people actually had them.

Ugh. I just don't know. From here on out, all crushes are officially off. I don't care if you're gay, or a girl, or whatever. The only person allowed to have a crush on Dandy Chesterton is Dandy Chesterton (I mean "me," not any other Dandy Chestertons there might be out there). And if your girlfriends have any Dandy masks, please force them (the girls) to destroy them (the masks).

Actually, no. Give the masks to me.


Oh, I take it back.

I was just trying to post a picture of a tiny man dancing with a cat. But the internet wouldn't let me. Goes to show. The cat probably killed him anyway.


Turns out that heaven exists...


So that's nice to know. Really, I can hardly wait.

*I think there was more to this originally? Perhaps I found a licensed picture of heaven, which the owner eventually reclaimed? Hard to say


The Life and Times of Nicky Cage

I don't know if a lot of people saw this movie or not. It was kind of an indie/underground sensation, but maybe you've heard of it: "The Wicker Man: Featuring Nicholas Cage"

Ring any bells? I didn't think so.
Anyhow, I saw it in the theaters and really enjoyed it. It's very metaphor-rich, I'd say. There were several scenes in particular that I liked, and, praise the internet, they were actually quite easy to find in compilation form on "youtube."

Anyway, let's see if I can't get this to work...

You likey?

I think it really benefits from repeat viewing. You have to keep in mind, too, that Nick Cage was often beaten by women as a child.


Spoiler Alert!! Dumbledore is gay.

Well, I never!

I'll just say this: I won't be buying the next DVD!



Never go to the Science Museum of Minnesota again.

Why? Because it's a dank little hole of lies and sexual deviants.
When liars and traitors die, do you know where they go? They go to the Science Museum of Minnesota, where they lie and betray humanity for all of eternity. They sit in caves, fearing the light of truth and honesty, and wallow in the lies that have spilled like dairrhea from their most unclean and unholy of orifices.

Should you pity these liars, these eternally damned sneakthieves and cutthroats? No. Do not waste your tears on them, for they are dog-fuckers, melon-molesters, and bird-strokers. They are hole-dwellers, bed-shitters, and shit-eaters. Can there be mercy for these lamb-punchers, finger-sniffers, and skunk-humpers? No, not for bottle-breakers, ass-pickers, and nut-crunchers.

They are banned from petting zoos and public swimming pools, and it will forever remain in your interest to avoid their company, so, for God's sake, do not go to the Science Museum of Minnesota. For that matter, do not allow your friends or relatives to go, unless you enjoy the idea of your mother trapped in an elevator with a sweating, trembling pederast. I know that you do not, so don't let your mother be groped in the dark by these albino, charlatan, mother-fondlers.

Why is it that I only now spread the truth? I am, after all, still employed, regrettably and ashamedly, at this nest of snake-charmers and rat-rapers. I now spread the word of truth because it was only this evening that I discovered that a betrayal most vile has been committed upon me. Committed upon me, and, more importantly, upon all of you, and upon an innocent raptorling, a falcon-child who must now go through its miserable and pathetic life with a name not good enough for a tapeworm.

That's right. The peregrine falcon that should have been Pussywillow has been given up to the mouth breathing hordes, and named was named "Nimbus."

Do you remember? This spring, the Science Museum of Minnesota claimed that the people of the world could democratically select a name for the newly hatched falcon chicks near the St. Paul highbridge. The process seemed clear enough - nominations were accepted, and votes were taken. I myself voted several times. And, lo and behold, the best name won! My name! The falcon was to be named "Pussywillow," thanks, in large part, to your efforts. Look, here, look:

And now, look at this, if you have the time (page 19)

The names of the falcons are Sky, Nimbus, Gyrnn, and Century.

A liar has intervened. A liar, a traitor, a horse thief, a chronic masturbator. A Nimbus, a Gyrnn, a Century.

This was not the work of the DNR, this was the doings of the worst institution in the world (worse than slavery), the Science Museum of Minnesota. Sky was the name selected by a local grade school - they can be forgiven, for they are only half-grown, and no smarter than worms and dirt. But the boldfaced, bare-assed betrayal of the SMM is too much. They had three chances to give a falcon the name Pussywillow, and they threw them all away. They gave them to doughy, boring, garbage-eaters, who could think of no names more memorable than Nimbus, Century, or Gyrnn. The falcons should be euthanised, and saved them from a life of humiliation.




Pussywillow is dead. Long live Pussywillow.

*2009 Addendum—Please disregard some of the more virulent language in this post. It was written in high spirits.


By Jove!

Possible Career Paths:
-Candlestick Maker
-Kitchen Manager
-Dog Catcher
-Brain Surgeon
-King of Olympus

Oh, speaking of the King of Olympus... He's the actual reason for writing this entry

Who wouldn't want this for themselves or their children?


I got 99 problems, but being sick ain't one.

Jeremy Crisp!! My stomach has gone foul!
TGIF has finally caught up with me. I get off of work on Fridays, and I just have to party. Party party party. So, of course, I head over to TGI Friday's, where everybody knows my name (but not my real name). I got the onion garden, and the sweet n' sassy Cajun chicken lickers. Oh, man, do I regret it now.

I'm very seriously considering staying home from work today. A nice, warm bath, a hot beer, and type "Fat kid" into youtube - the old rememdies work the best, I think.

On a side note, am I the only person who's tired of hearing Sean "Puppy" Combs rap about himself? C'mon Sean, let's branch out a little! How about a verse or two on Jesus, or Mexican food?


A new look, for an old man.

I thought it was about time to shape things up on my myspace page. Everyone here has got naked pictures, and loud music, and crazy bullshit like that, and I hate to be left behind. I won't be left behind.
My simple knowledge of computers and programing turns out to be an ideal match with my taste for simple, bold design, which you can see. I opted, as I expect many of you guessed I would, for a pleasant "summer forest" motif. The theme could also accurately be termed "Elven Ranger," "Fairy Grove," or "Gay Woodsman."

In other news, it turns out that I don't need to get an artifial heart after all. Whew! What a relief. They were all out of ape hearts, so I was put on the short waiting list for a pig heart. Noble animals, I'm sure, but I doubt I'd get any sort of super powers from a damn pig heart. And it's nothing that would impress the ladies - I was all set to tell people that it was a lion heart, or a small lion heart. Plus, I hear that, once you have a pig heart, you have to give up eating pork, or the heart will force your body to reject it - out your mouth! Now, I know pork is what got me into this situation in the first place, but I was not about to give it up. Who starts their day without a bacon ham hamwich (the "Hogzilla")? Right. I didn't see any hands go up.
Anyhow, it's a moot point; turns out the whole thing was the result of a botched self-diagnosis. What I thought was heartburn was actually a burst battery in a LED Harry Potter pin I've been wearing. Also, if you can believe it, it turns out that "heartburn" has nothing to do with your heart being on fire, and is rarely fatal (as one would naturally expect, should your heart actualy catch fire).
Western Medicine, you and I have finally reached a fork in the road. Be sure to write.

Hot butter, and the changing internet environment.

Well, the thumping pumping heart of Myspace is gone. That's right, Boytalk is dead.

Not so much dead as in another country, really. Although, considering that I can't remember which country, we'll say as good as dead. It's one of those countries with significantly shorter people, and significantly different technology. I think, maybe, it was Mongolia.

I don't recall, either, exactly what the intention was in going to this other country. To spread the word and genetic material of Boytalk, obviously, but beyond that... To teach, I expect. Boytalk is good at horseriding and building yurts, but so are the Mongolians, so I don't think it's either of those. I've seen Boytalk fit a whole fist into his mouth, but that isn't something you can teach.
I'm just not sure.

Anyhow, what about this weather?!!?

I thought we lived in Minnesota, not Mongolia, am I right? I swear I saw a pony die of thirst on my street today! My neighbors are the hungry type, though, (remember my gay neighbor?) so even if that wasn't a hallucination, I can't imagine that they'd leave a dead horse lying on the street for more than a few minutes.

Oh my God! Something wet just came out of my nose! I think it was water!


Revenge, dogvenge

The last time I biker ran me over, I ran him over with my fist. I expect this doggy will do the same.
Please examine the evidence: evidence.

You know, it's a sad world where an effete kind of biker guy can do that to a dog. Or to me. That's why there needs to be fewer hospitals that take in bikers.


Making the world a better place.

Good attitudes all around, considering.


A sign from the gods!! Which god? Which do you think?

I hesitate to make claims like, "God favors me," but I will say this: God favors me.

How do I know? Because just yesterday I was sent a message from the gods, a message falling from the sky like an eagle screwing another eagle, or a flying rock that has suddenly fallen asleep mid-flight.
This message took the form of a mighty bird of prey, possible a sharp-shinned hawk, or, more possibly, a peregrine falcon! See? Can you feel the touch of the divine here?

Anyhow, I was out for a walk with my brother's dog, Laser, when from high above there came such a screeching and a cawing. Suddenly there was a mass of beak and feather on the sidewalk in front of me - a mighty falcon surrounded by lesser birds. The falcon and I shared a look of such intensity that, though it lasted only for a moment, volumes of wisdom were communicated. Which volumes? The Egyptian Book of The Dead, and the weirdo children's classic "The Neverending Story."
The short version of this was, basically: "Dandy, name the Childlike Empress, and save Fantasia from the Nothingness!"

Sometimes we call St. Paul "Fantasia."

And then the falcon took to wing once again, pursued by the garbage-birds (among them was a blue jay, the enemy of divine messages).

Can you help me? Can you save Fantasia before it's too late? June 27th is too late. Name the Childlike Empress. Name her (or, possibly, him) Pussywillow!

Oh, also, I looked into it, and I'm pretty sure the god in question is Horus.


Um, Pussywillow, Jagoffs.

Something occured to me this afternoon: the idea that every man (and some women, but mostly not) must leave something on this earth after they are gone - a mark, if you will, a legacy, a permanent scar, a song to be sung by the bards and folk singers of the future.

Actually, hopefully not folk singers, in my case. Folk singers are hippies, and I would sooner burn my fingernails off than have my name pass through the lips of a hippie.

Anyhow, the first step in creating my legacy to be the naming of a baby falcon. The falcon will be my helper and spiritual companion (after, of course, clever Fox). If you haven't read the bulletin post I recently made, go do that. If you have, well, just think of this as an excamation point.
Help me name this child falcon, this raptorling. Go to this link: http://www.smm.org/buzz/poll
and pick the name you know to be the falcon's true title (Pussywillow).

Now, I will almost certainly outlive this falcon (and if it isn't named Pussywillow, I will definitely outlive it, because, well, I know where the nest is),  but falcon magic is an enduring magic, and I want some of it for my own.
And, should this dream come to pass, you will al be able to look into the Minnesota sky at the noble "Skree skree skree!" of a falcon, and think "Pussywillow!"

Oh, also, get your moms to vote too, if you can. I think I play well with the "mom" demographic.


Sorry about, you know...

I know that a lot of you live, breath, and set your clocks to The Chesterton review, and I have to apologize for my tardiness of late.

The whole OFD thing makes focusing on the computer screen difficult, if not impossible, and, what's more, I have had two additional projects monopolizing my time lately:
1)The Frisky Science Monitor - I recently hired myself - that is to say, my alter ego, Frisky Chesterton - to write quasi-science related online diaries. So far I have debunked some myths about evolution (I don't know about you, but I'm not literally realted to any monkeys, at least that I know of), and put to rest the age old "nature versus nurture" debate. The answer: "narture."
2) Abusing myself in the shower - I don't want to get into it, but the whole thing takes time. What whole thing? Well, I'll say this: it's not fun.


Your Prize, Dear Reader

Well, I am, if nothing else, a man of my word.
Mice have been clicked exactly 1001 times on the Chesterton Review, and, as promised, I have a prize for the 1000th clicker. You know who you are.
Everyone else, please do not view the rest of this entry. It's not for you.


But, you, my 1000th friend, you receive the great pleasure and privilege of a sneak peak at my upcoming photo exhibition, "The New Gods."
Sure, it's only a few pictures, but I think it gives a general impression of things to come. The subject of these photos, is, of course, Frisky Chesterton, the New God himself.

"Ride of The New God"

"Soup of The New God"

and, finally, "The Gods at War" (Frisky not pictured)


A momentous occasion!

I forgot to mention - The Chesterton Review has now had 943 total views. Granted, some of those are probably government snoops, and some were probably just accidents, but I think a celebration will be called for all the same upon the arrival of the 1000th click. I have decided that the 1000th viewer, or "Mr. 3000," will receive a prize. A valuable prize.

If you think you are number 1000, let me know.

What Dreams May Come

Nobody ever thinks they will get payed to do what they really love (except prostitutes). But, now, against all experience and reason, it looks like that dream will soon be coming true for me (but I'm not becoming a prostitute)!
The application process isn't finished yet, but I am well on my way to becoming a regular, payed OFD!!!

An explanation probably isn't necessary for most of you, but I suppose there might be a few people out there who haven't ever put the term "OFD" together with the actual profession, so...
I first heard about this opportunity in Ocular Fluid Donation from a rad MySpace friend of mine (I've never met her in "real life," but her name is Jezzica, she's from Poland, or Russia, or something, and she is SO hot). She told me that you can actually get PAID to donate your ocular fluid (or "eyeball juice"). I know, it sounds too good to be true, but I've been checking it out, and it seems legit.
Last week I went into one of the local OF banks and did a trial donation. They said they still had to run some tests on my eyeball juices, but my technician pulled me aside and said that he thought I was just about the perfect candidate for regular donation. So I am psyched! I mean, it's so easy - you just go in, check out a pair of needle-goggles, and sit down for the quick (if moderately painful) procedure, and you get like, almost twenty bucks! And you can do it once a week!
The temporarily blurry vision and squishy eyeballs will take some getting used to, but I think I can manage to get used to the $18.00 pretty quick : )

What a career! I'll get paid for doing something I'm naturally good at, and I'll be helping people! And I'll be joining the already impressive ranks of OFD's:


Ann Coulter!

This Girl!

And This Guy!

And remember, it's all to help people. People like this guy.


The moment you've all been waiting for...

With the fall of 2008 rapidly approaching, the question on everyone's mind is becoming increasingly obvious: Who will Dandy Chesterton back for the presidential election?

Well, wonder no longer, because the verdict is in. This man WILL be the next president of the United States of America:

That's right, all, Perot is back! He's got spirit, he's got ideas, and, most of all, he's got hunger! Hunger for the blood of Washington fatcats, and hunger for food (I imagine -- I'm sure financing two failed campaigns puts quite a strain on the old pocketbook).
Now, I'm sure most of you are wondering, "But, Dandy, why little Perot? Isn't he crazy?"
To this I say, "Yes, he is." But foxes are crazy too, or so I hear, and wouldn't we all like to have a fox for president? Of course we would! The world would be our henhouse. Also, to the best of my knowledge, Ross Perot is a Texan, and being a Texan is the next best thing to being from Heaven (That is to say, being an angel. Or Jesus). If I could have the men of the Alamo make up the cabinet, well... you know I would.

Not Daniel Boone, though -- I heard that he was a sodomist. Not that there's anything wrong with that, I just don't think there's a place for sodomy in Perot's White House.

So what about Vice President? I think the answer is obvious:

Most people don't know this, but Larry Bird is a supreme court judge in New Mexico, and he invented crime-fighting. Plus, the man can play some good ball.
I know that Perot tried having a former athlete as a running mate last time, and it didn't work out, but that man was a football player, and he had downs syndrome.

One item that still requires scrutiny: Is Ross Perot still alive?
I haven't heard much from him in the last decade or so, and my sources can't confirm or disprove his vitality. I think it would be important that he's alive for his presidency.

So, if Perot is dead (or not alive), I'll need a replacement. Here are a few possible candidates:

A wizard, Stephen Hawking

A warrior, Russell Crowe

Or, a Lost Prince, Terry Perot

However it turns out, things are looking good for our country in 08!!!


My last blog entry was very important and vital.

Today I went to see papal wizards do their thing in a Godcastle.

I'm something of a papist myself, but the wonder and mysticism of our rituals never fails to entertain and terrify me.

I mean, I've seen the Chronicles of Narnia, and everything, and there's no wizard out there that can hold a candle to a crowd of chanting Catho-sorcerers. I left the ritual feeling as strong as I have ever since I was first plunged into that steaming bowl of holy water (which I happen to have on video).

*This photograph is not, in fact, one of the many taken at my baptism. It is a public domain image of a native Hawaiian hunting for tidal babies. The hungry look on his face was nowhere to be seen at the removal of my original sin, although the rest of the picture captures the general feeling pretty accurately.


Sometimes I look in the mirror, and I think "Which one of us is the real Dandy?"

Well, it seems the secret is out.
My "alter-ego" has been discovered, and there is a fracas the likes of which the midewest has never seen.

That's right, the world now knows that Dandy Chesterton is one and the same person as "Frisky Chesterton."

Frisky was initially just a silly name I made up to go along with some silly things I did (I don't want to incriminate myself, but think "Punk'd"), but he has become so much more than that now. Now I sometimes wonder who is more silly, Frisky or Dandy? Who is more fun?
Who is more real?

Maybe Frisky and Dandy aren't as different as we used to think.

Oh, also, I did end up bringing home a little orphan from Vietnam. He was horrible and irritating, and he is called diarrhea.
I killed him with antibiotics.


Mordor, where the shadows lie

Well everybody, here I am, Master and Commander, on the far side of the world.


The Vietnamese are just the most delightful people in the world - they're like wonderful little bird-people. They're so little, and cute, and they just flap around cheerfully everywhere, living off Coca-cola and rice (and some off only Coca-cola - like hummingbirds!). And communist Coca-cola is nothing like what we have in America. It's much sweeter, and much more brown, and I don't like it one bit.

Vietnam itself is truly a magical place as well. Apes scream in the trees, tropical snakes slither through the streets, and misty green mountains are everywhere, full of apes and snakes. It's no wonder why Tolkien chose to set his fantasy series here. One doesn't have to stretch his imagination far to turn a screaming ape into a shrieking goblin, a slithering snake into a hungry dragon, or a darling little Vietnamese into a lovable little hobbit (or some kind of magical bird).

You know, I think Tolkien was stationed here during one of the wars. Not the Vietnam War that we know, but the one before it - Vietnam War I, I think. He was a tank-oiler, or a bomb-polisher, I'm pretty sure, so he had lots of time to hallucinate and stuff.

My quest for a child to adopt is going just as planned - not at all. I originally thought that I might tour an orphanage, but as soon as I got a look at the orphanages around here, I changed my mind. Those places are gross! Gross gross Gross! If little kids actually want to live there, I say let them. You know? I mean, it's their funeral, and I don't want to have anything more to do with those icky places than is absolutely necessary (not at all). Besides, I've picked up some great souvenirs already: a hand crafted sword, a baby alligator head (sword-severed, I imagine), and this weird little doll. I think the doll might be some kind of Power Ranger knock off, except that it has long, bright green hair, like a troll doll. Anyway, I figure that thing is at least as good as getting a kid. Plus, if I ever get tired of the doll, I can just chop it up and burn it.

I think I should be signing out soon - I'm at an internet café, and the owners only accept payment via agricultural product bartering. I don't exactly carry around bags of vegetables (and if I did, I wouldn't want to share them), so it looks like I'm going to have to run for it. I'm not concerned - the tallest person in this country comes up to about my belly-button, and all their weapons double as farm tools. They do have handguns, though, which they use for shooting fruit out of trees. But I think my doll is thick enough to stop bullets, which is more than I could say for any orphan.

From the dark side of the Prime Meridian,

Dandy Chesterton


A modern day Lando Calrissian

I shaved my beard this evening.
Oh, you didn't know I had a beard? Well, look at my profile picture, and mentally draw a beard on it. Or literally draw a beard on it, if you have computer monitors to spare -- I have, so I often do that sort of thing.
Now, erase the beard, mentally. Or throw away your drawn-on monitor and hook up a new one...
Amazing change, huh?

It's very refreshing, you know. I'd recommend it to anyone, as a nice change of pace. If you haven't got a beard, shave something else covered in hair (it has to be attached to your body though -- shaving a cat, or something, would be refreshing as well, but in a different way). Or if you're one of those bizarre hairless people, albinos, try just taking off your shirt. It's nice, isn't it.

The reason for this change of face is that I am preparing for a trip -- I'm going to Vietnam. I know what you're all thinking: "Oh, he's going to pick up a mail-order Vietnamese bride."
Not true. First of all, that would just be weird. Also, I could never be with a communist. I wasn't around for much of the Cold War, but my friend Tard is a bonified Cold Warrior, and he still gets night terrors about the whole thing. It's true -- I've been woken up by him screaming "Castro! Kennedy! Castro!" in the middle of the night, and he lives two houses away.
No, the reason for my trip is much more noble that all of that. I plan on pretending to adopt a child. A little Vietnamese child.
There's been so much great press lately over adopting tiny foreigners, and I want a part of it! When I come back, I'll have tons of pictures of me touring orphanages, and shaking the hands of hopeful little kids, and my admirers will be in hog heaven. I'm hoping, too, that the children will make me little gifts, in the hope of winning me over.
As far as actually bringing home an orphan goes, well the chances of that are pretty much zero. It wouldn't be good for the kid -- I used to have a cactus, and I paid so little attention to it, the damn thing just wasted away. I'd hate to see that happen to a child. Plus, I don't want to be tied down to some little weirdo for the next twelve years.
I'm very much looking forward to the whole experience.

Also, did I ever mention my recent trip to the lemur farm? No, I didn't, did I. Well, it was remarkable, but it will have to wait. I have a plane to catch!


Bondage, Gay Bondage.

Well, I saw the new James Bond film. Or, as my subject line suggests, perhaps I saw the new Gay Bondage film. Because I have never watched a movie with more (homo) sexual violence -- outside of an actual gay bondage film.
I tell ya, this is exactly the sort of nonsense our senators and lady senators should be getting rid of. Who wants to drop their kids off at some supposedly family-friendly action flick, only to have them subjected to two hours of a naked, muscular British man, tied to a chair, having his "dundees" beaten with a length of rope?
I see a Michael Jackson joke coming up here, so don't even try it -- it's not funny. Michael may cover his children's faces and airways in scarves, but I'm sure that even he has his limits (gay bondage).

Oh, also, I think my hands are getting bigger. This keyboard used to be just the right size for me, and now I feel like I'm about to sink my fingers right through the darn thing. I typed this whole blog with one hand, because that's all that would fit over the keys.


I take it back - science is no good.

Tard Henderson, who reads my blog religiously (I require that he does, or he's out of the band), has pointed out that the "scientific study" I mentioned earlier today is, in fact, a joke about beating women.
I asked him how anyone but a woman-beater would know that, and told him he's out of the band.
Also, this doesn't explain why I punched to death Grover Cleveland (the guinea pig).

Statistics can prove ANYTHING!

The other day I was having a conversation with some of my uncles. Two of them, who are twins, as it happens. Seamus just got out of minimum security prison (apparently that's where they send you if absolutely refuse to stop shoplifting), so he likes to talk quite a bit. Sean is partially retarded, the result of a drinking accident, so he actually likes to talk quite a bit too.
It was Seamus, however, who got us started on the evening's main talking point. We had been telling jokes, and something made him think of a statistic he had heard, which I will pass on to you:
Apparently, scientists recently performed a very large survey on a group of women who had been the victims of domestic abuse -- something like fifty thousand of them.  They did lots of studying, and asked all sorts of questions, in the attempt to find a single common element among these women. And, although Seamus didn't mention the exact period of study, or the final budget, he said that eventually they found the answer: the single common characteristic of these abused women was that "they just wouldn't listen."
Amazing. I don't pretend to fully understand the ramifications of this discovery, or how it might apply to lowering the incidence of abuse, but the very fact that it was found restores hope for me in science and social services. What an undertaking! And think how much more difficult the whole thing must have been made by having fifty thousand subjects that just wouldn't listen!
My uncles were similarily impressed. Seamus started laughing, he was so excited about the research. Sean laughed too, probably because he saw Seamus doing it.
It makes me wonder, also, if the same conclusion could be drawn about children and animals that are abused. I mean, I'd hate to make any generalizations before a sufficient period of research, but it would seem to make sense. I used to have a guinea pig, and I only ever punched him when he wouldn't listen. In my defense, however, it only happened once.

Anyway, science is making the world a better place.


What Break a Razor?

Golly, nothing makes a man like a nice goatee.

A goatee is like... like...
It's like you took a drink from the hairy Pool of Man, but instead of sipping its water from the Cup of Girl you just lay down in the mud and stuck your face in it.
Or like all your anger squeezed out from the pores around your mouth, and then hardened into hair.
Or like your chin was so covered in the juice of the apple of original sin that dust and crap just started sticking to it.

I'm afraid that I don't have a goatee myself, but, then again, I've always thought of myself as more of a "boy."


An Enemy of God

Now, as some of you no doubt already know, Sundays are my "Thinking Days." Today was (is) Sunday, so, naturally, when 11:45 came along, I got out of the tub and put on my Thinking Cap. I used to wear the Thinking Cap in the tub, but I found that the color tended to bleed a little when it got wet, and the small benefits putting the cap on early provided just weren't worth it.

I began today's session, as I often do, by thinking about my enemies. They are many, and they are ruthless. Like fire ants, or killer bees. Also like fire ants and killer bees, they are easily managed with poison.

When I run into my enemies, or when they run into me (which of us is the hunter, and which the hunted can be difficult to distinguish), I usually react in one of three ways: A) I embrace them warmly, so as to put them off their guard
 (this frequently allows me the opportunity to sprinkle or inject them with any number of potions as well); B) I threaten them with fire and personal injury; or 3) I say this: "You make an enemy of God, you make an enemy of me..." I have always been very satisfied with this line. I think it leaves my enemies wondering what they did to offend God, thereby removing focus from me. Also, a large part of some of our more successful foriegn policies have been based on this idea, and I have always considered myself a patriot.

Today, however, under the Thinking Cap, I began to question the whole idea of option 3. The more I considered it, the more likely it seemed that I was as wrong as can be -- that the more accurate and frightening line is perhaps, "You make an enemy of me, you make an enemy of God..."

First of all, this statement is more than likely true, and while it doesn't distract from the original conflict between me and the enemy, the offending party will be left, well, paralyzed with dread at the thought of an angry God. Having God back you up is like having Andre the Giant, or Zeus, as a big brother. Plus, if anything really bad ever did happen to one of my enemies, like getting food poisoning, or struck by lightening, the rest of them would always be wondering if it was God that did it, and what he might have up his sleeve for the next one. Probably a flood.


Cookies make me stronger. Call me a liar, I dare you!

Y'all have heard of "poop creek," right?
Well, not actually "poop" creek. It's a different word, I just don't like to use it unless there's a really good reason.
Anyway, I just found out that "Poop" Creek is a real place! For really real! It's in Indiana, and it's called Poop Creek for a reason: the obvious one. Also, it turns out that almost all those "poop creek" expressions you hear people use have basis in real fact. Really real fact! For instance, "up 'poop' creek without a paddle" originally came from a story about a Poop Creek ferry operator (back in the olden days) who dropped his paddle in the water (I guess it was his first day) and had to paddle after it using just his hands. His hands got pretty gross from doing that. And the paddle wasn't great either, I guess.
Or what about "Take a long drink from poop creek?" That one is in reference to the poorer people in the village of Poop Creek, who were forced to get their drinking water from the creek instead of the town well. I read that there actually was more than enough water for everyone in town in the well, but the wealthier people didn't want to share the water with people who smelled so bad. Kind of a catch 22, when you think about it. Still, I can't blame them - I don't let poor people drink from my well either. It's kind of a status thing.
"Dead in poop creek" is another one. They used to toss dead animals into Poop Creek. And sometimes people would just pass out from the smell while they were taking a drink -- those people would usually die too.
Isn't history amazing? I mean, none of this speaks very highly for Indiana, but it's not as if Indiana was exactly in the running for "Best State." So let the research continue!

Oh, also, Cripple Creek is a real place too. But it's not called that for the reason you probably think.


The King is Dead. Long Live the King.

Well, Oscar season is upon us, and I think it's high time we pay our due respects to the dearly departed.
"The dearly departed" is, in this case, a singular. I can't imagine caring less if that old harpy from Driving Miss Daisy died again. No, I'm referring, of course, to Jack Palance.
I'll bet a lot of you didn't know that he was dead. I can't blame you, really -- who thought he even could die? We all thought he would just keep going on and on, growling and squinting, until he just faded away, hopefully on horseback, and in the arms of a very leathery woman.
Alas, fate is too cruel a mistress to allow King Jack this final, dignified departure from mortality. No, Jack Palance, on November 10, 2006, was killed by his own chimpanzees, bleeding to death after having his genitals torn from his body.

Jack Palance's "Jungle-mania" chimp sanctuary is more or less common knowledge, I think. The name can be misleading, however: "Jungle-mania" was, more than anything else, simply a large cage containing three chimps, located near the back of Jack Palance's compound, or "Rancho Jacko," as he called it.
Anyway, he loved those three chimps, and made sure to visit and feed them several times a week.
But November was a bad month. Rancho Jacko is in Montana, and a cold chimp is a grumpy chimp, and Jack himself had been battling the blues for some time, after the less than spectacular DVD sales of Prancer 2 and The Incredible Adventures of Marco Polo. My personal theory is that Jack was afraid that he might have to sell the chimps, his friends, and he was displacing anger on them.
Reports from the neighbors have him throwing himself against the outside of the chimp cage, late on the 10th, and screaming insults at them. Unfortunately, Jack Palance's insults and obscenities eventually became so slurred that the neighbors were unable to discern exactly when they must have changed from shrieks of rage to howls of agony. The police were not called until the next morning, and by then it was far too late.

The chimps, it seems, must have siezed Jack by the nightgown and battered him against the bars of the cage. Jack Palance was significantly tougher than the average man, but chimpanzees are many times stronger than any human, and he was very badly roughed up. It was Jack's exceptionally leathery skin that kept his 6' 4", 86 year old body from being wholey dismembered, but the chimps must have exerted special force against the genital region, for they were ripped off, right out from under the nightgown.

Jack Palance's remains, in accordance with his wishes, were disolved in acid during a small service of family and friends. His genitals, however, were never found, and are presumed to have been eaten by the chimps. Many have found this little detail to be somewhat ironic, as Jack Palance's autobiography, "Strength in Anger," states that "Eat my balls" was perhaps his favorite shouted challenge.

It should be noted, as well, that Jack Palance's twin brother, Duke, the star of City Slickers 2, died the very next day, November 11. It seems that he was hit by several stray tranquilizer darts as he attempted to pull Jack's body away from Jungle-mania. The animal handler who fired the darts claims they were meant for the chimpanzees. A criminal investigation is pending. Duke Palance's remains, in accordance with Jack's wishes, have been sent to the Pennsylvania mining country of their birth, and sunk in an abandoned coal mine.

Jack Palance was born Volodymir Ivanovich Palahniuk, and once fell asleep in his square during a taping of Hollywood Squares.


Media Filth

Tonight I saw a sports mascot who appeared to be a condom.
No, not appeared to be, it was a condom. A condom with leaves coming out of its head. If it were born that way, it would be excusable (I knew a kid who was born with a gross hole in his chest, and I didn't judge him), but I know that it was just a person who had chosen to wear a horrible, offensive costume.
Unbelievable. What if a kid had seen that? That kid would be even more screwed up than all kids already are.


The Land of Broken Dreams

Man, when it rains, it pours. First the dirt on Ron Howard, and now, well, you'll see...

Today was Valentine's Day, so of course I went to the Science Museum again. I made the usual rounds -- I shouted at the dinosaurs, I saw "Gentle Ben" the dead bear, I inquired in the gift shop about buying a real human skeleton, etc. It hadn't been a bad trip, but it was really nothing special, until I saw the man himself, John Stamos.
Now, any celebrity sighting at the museum is a sure sign of a red-letter day, but Stamos was something special. I thought it was great seeing Cecil Fielder there a couple years ago, but John Stamos had always been something of an idol to me. I know the last few years have probably been kind of rough for him, what with Rebecca Romaine-Stamos and him splitting up, but to me that's all small-potatos. He will always be Jesse Consapolis to me, the coolest uncle in the world to cute little Michelle, beautiful DJ, and skanky Stephanie Tanner. He was by himself, too, so I followed him around the museum.
It was really great at first -- I pretended that Uncle Jesse was giving me a personal tour of the museum. It was neat just watching him, even if I didn't really understand some of the things he was doing. When we were down in the Weather Gallery, though, the day just went down hill. He was "standing" by the big Tornado Machine, and a museum security guard came up to him, and sort of pulled him away from the display. Naturally, I ran over to help him out.
"Sir," the security guard said, "I'm afraid I have to ask you to leave the museum."
I told the guard that "sir" was entirely inappropriate. "Sir Stamos" would be better. John and the guard just looked at me, but they didn't do anything. I took that as acknowledgement that my input was appreciated.
Anyway, John Stamos just sort of stammered in a very suave way, and asked why he had to leave the museum. The guard said that he's rather not say why out loud, but I insisted that he did, for the honor of John Stamos. I just got looked at again, but the guard said that he had seen Mr. Stamos rubbing up against several of the exhibits in what he had deemed an "inappropriate" manner, and when Mr. Stamos rubbed against the Tornado Machine it was the last straw.
John Stamos said that he never had done that, and I said that it didn't matter if he did, because it is a free country, and the guard said that there were aproximately forty-five minutes of security camera footage of John Stamos rubbing against exhibits. I asked, then, what was so inappropriate about rubbing up against a Tornado Machine, and what was it for if not that. So I started rubbing up against the machine in the same way I had seen John Stamos do.

Have you ever done this? I thought I was being both noble and logical, like that Down's Syndrome alien on Star Trek, but when I started rubbing against that Tornado Machine, it wasn't like that at all. While it wasn't entirely unpleasant, it sure as hell wasn't entirely pleasant either. And it was still warm from John Stamos, which was very upsetting to me. I never thought someone could fall so far so fast from my good graces. But John Stamos did.

"He's all yours," I told the security guard. The guard tried to grab John Stamos again then, but ol' Uncle Jesse pulled away from him and ran to the other side of the Tornado Machine, where he started rubbing again. And then he kind of started crying, and he kept saying, "But it's Valentine Day! Valentine Day! Rebecca! Rebecca! It's Valentine Day!" And then another guard showed up, and they pulled him away. He was still rubbing away at thin air when they got him to the elevator.

I'll bet that's the last time I'll see John Stamos outside of a rerun. If I wasn't so upset by the Tornado Machine experience, I sure would feel bad for the guy. I mean "Rebecca! Rebecca!"? That's pretty rough. I just wonder if he was talking about Rebecca Romaine-Stamos, or Rebecca, his wife from Full House. Because he and TV Rebecca always had such chemistry together.

Well, goodbye John Stamos, until we meet again at the big Beach Boys concert in the the sky (and, Brian Wilson, keep him away from the amplifiers!)

And to the rest of you, Happy Valentine Day!


The Den of The Red Lobster

Doesn't that sound scary? It does! "The Den of the Red Lobster!" But you don't know the half of it. It's not just the lobsters there that are scary (lobsters are scary, alive and dead), but the people at Red Lobster -- they're skinheads!

I'd always thought that the skinheads were all dead -- all that anger is bad for your heart, so your average skinhead has a life expectancy of about thirty days -- but was I ever wrong. They're all at Red Lobster. I don't know if it's a breeding population or what, but they're there, and they all wear those lobster-print shirts, and they're mad as ever (which probably has a lot to do with the shirts).

I was at the Red Den this weekend, using a gift card I recieved from my great aunt. I was wondering just what the menu meant by "surf and turf," so I started yelling for a waiter. Along comes this shining-headed young man, with a lobster-red face. He had a lot of pins on his shirt, most of them swastikas, or at least alluding to naziism. I mean, how many ways can you interpret "Nobody's Perfect, But I Keep Trying!"?
Anyway, I asked the little facist my question, and right away he says, "It's steak and lobster, bitch." And that was a weird thing to say, because I'm not any kind of bitch. I tried to tell him that I knew it was steak and lobster, but I wanted to know exactly what it was, when he interupted me to say "We don't serve your kind here."
Now, I assumed that by my "kind," he meant "aristocrat." That's obviously an oxymoron, because we are served everywhere. I tried to explain this, but his face just got even redder, and he practically shouted (it was hard to tell, because everybody shouts in Red Lobster) "No! I meant... Koreans!"
I don't know exactly where "Korea" is, but I'm pretty sure that's not where I'm from (unless it's in England -- Chesterton is an old and respected English family). Nevertheless, I was very indignant, and I took my giftcard and left. I left that little goosestepper sweating and spitting all over the table. I think he might have been having some kind of seizure, but after everything that had happened I felt no obligation to help him out. Plus, I realized that the giftcard was homemade, and it was for a batch of my great aunt's "famous" sugar cookies, so I figured I should get out of there.

Let this be a warning to everyone, though. The skinheads are alive and well, and they are canoodling with lobsters in every major city. Bring your crucifixes, bitches.


Frankly, I'm not surprised - they killed Galileo for less.

Well, this might have to be quick because I have to pee like crazy, but do y'all remember my mailman?
Remember? My mailman? Prancing little guy who verbally assaulted me and who I punched and tried to capture in self-defense? I knew you'd remember. I believe he was last mentioned in an entry titled something like "The worst day ever." Check it out if you want to know just what sort of snake we're dealing with here.

Anyway, he's up to his old tricks again, his tricks being assault, rat-like treachery, and trickery.
Our relationship became a bit strained after the last incident. He still brings me mail, and I still wait by the mailbox, but there's suspicion there. Suspicion and ill-will. Mostly on his part, I would say.

Now, before you hear otherwise from some nancy public servant, I want to clear something up for you. I know for a fact that it is illegal to damage or destroy someone's mail. Don't ask me how I know, it's just something I used to do. So, obviously, it would be the very opposite of illegal (legal, or super-legal) to try to protect the mail. And that's just what I've been trying to do (this is the point of contention between the nancies and I). Since "the incident," I have been putting mousetraps, and sometimes rattraps*, in my mailbox. This is to protect from mice, and sometimes rats, because mice, and rats, love paper and glue. They love to eat it, and they love to make nests out of it, and both of these actions count as damaging or destroying the mail. So I am acting under the authority of the super-legal. My mailman, apparently, has misinterpreted these actions as attempts to damage or destoy him (which, as far as I know, isn't even against the law). The snake reported me, and before I know it, there are some gentlemen with badges and sportcoats hanging around my mailbox, fiddling with my defense against mice, and sometimes rats (which, as far as I know, is protected by the second amendment).
As soon as they saw me, they came barging into my porch, full of questions. After many "What do you know about this"s and a few "Your mail carrier is very concerned"s it was eventually brought up that my traps were found to be covered in poison. Well, DUH!! I made it myself, after all.
I explained all of that to them, and they suddenly got these "Oh, I'm super important and scary" faces, and started telling me what a serious situation it was.
I told then that I knew it was a serious situation, because I take my art (poison making) very seriously myself.
They said that the mailbox was not the appropriate place for me to be practicing my "hobby."
I said that it wasn't just a hobby, it was art, and therefore they were oppressing both beauty and free speech by not letting me display it.
That's when the whole "poison isn't art" debate started up. You've all heard it before, I'm sure, so I won't go over it entirely, but let it suffice to say that the old "If you ate the damn Mona Lisa you'd probably die, not to mention Michaelangelo's David, but they're still considered art" argument was used by me, and it was entirely over their heads. And when I offered them each a drink, all they did was call a squad car and basically run away crying. That's what's wrong with law enforcement these days.

I was able to barter my way out of the situation with the uniformed officer (he accepted the drinks, along with some home made mace), but the whole experience left me feeling mighty sore, and even less inclined to forgive me mailman. I swear, when the ground thaws enough for me to dig some tiger-pits in my yard, that man is in trouble.
I don't mean tiger-pits literally, of course. I don't even know where I could get my hands on a real tiger.

Man, I don't think I have to pee anymore.

*Did you know "rattrap" spelled backwards is "rattrap?"


The death a dream...

A wise man (Ghandi) once asked, "What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a Raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore -- and then run?"

I used to not be able to read this all the way through, because the thought of a runny, festering, raisin was just too gross for me (I still taste a little throw-up in the back of my mouth when I see it), but now I think I truly understand what that anorexic old Indian was getting at...

For as long as I can remember, I've been hoping that, someday, an eccentric millionare would randomly decide to adopt me, and give me all the money I wanted. Money and things.
I don't think it's too much to ask. I mean, there are lots of millionares.

But it's not happening.
No matter what I do, no matter how many banks I stand outside of, looking sad, the millionares aren't interested. Except, once, I got propositioned, and that was horrible.
No, my friends, this is a "dream deferred." An ice cream dream. A burst-at-the-seams dream. A laser-beamed-dream. A raisin... in the sun.

Also, on a side note, who has festering sores!? Oh my God. Ick. I would rather die than go to India.


God be with you... and maybe also with you

Do you know what I hate about the South?
Of course you do. I hate the same things about the South as you do, and the list is too long, and too full of "y'alls" to repeat here. End of story.

Or is it?

See, that all is the sort of thing I'd have said up until, well, about last week. But now I have this new found love of the Great South.
Do you know what I love about the South?
No, of course you don't, and that's why we probably aren't friends. What I love about the South is their tremendous sense of Respect. They are full of it.
Sure, they don't respect minorities, or hygiene, but they do respect something more important that those things: me.
That's right. There's a southern woman at the DMV (a little hangout of mine) who has taken to calling me "Mr. Dandy." Isn't that precious? Mr. Dandy!! Not even Mr. Chesterton -- Mr. Dandy.
This is clearly a term of endearment, and of utmost respect (or "respeto," as some of you might prefer). She, like all Southerners, knows how to treat a gentleman like a gentleman. The Chesterton name is treated properly here: Southerners think of it the same way you or I might think of a piping hot piece of a pot pie. It's something you desire oh-so-much, but you know that if you were to put it in your mouth it would burn you like lava. So you Respect it. Southerners know that to let "Chesterton" pass their lips at any old time would be to sully it, and to risk second or third degree burns to the mouth.

Man, who would have thought that a land originally populated by penalized Dutch Sodomists would eventually hold such a special place in my heart.
Mr. Dandy.

dutch criminals


One Way To Crucify A Duck

Nail it to a goll-darn cross. Or use salad forks. So that's two ways, I guess.


101 Ways (that I know of)

I'll have you know, Mr. Smarty-Pants, that I was actually writing a book until recently. It was an extremely carefully thought out project, and it only stopped (temporarily, I'd say) due to a hitch in the testing phase.
Here's how it goes: for years now I've been working on, well, we'll call it my opus -- 101 Ways to Skin a Cat. I mean, we've all heard the expression, right? "There's more than one way to..." blah blah blah. I've always thought, "let's hear some, huh?" So it seemed only logical to do a little research and a lot of brainstorming, and come up with a comprehensive response and guide to that tired old cliche.

I did, in fact, come up with 101 ways, but problems arose when I attempted to test them. I kept getting my hands scratched, and I'm not even sure I had the right tools for the job. The main obstacle, of course, was the philistine nature of my cat, who was entirely unwilling to make sacrifices for the good of humanity. For the good of all life, even (with the possible exception of cats).

At any rate, I have been forced to reshape my vision. As frustrating as this process has been, I think I have finally arrived at a new concept nearly as elegant as the last, and very much related in its aims:

101 Ways to Get a Bunny Out of a Wetsuit.

Now, little bunny-sized wetsuits may prove to be scarce, but bunnies themselves are, by all accounts, numerous. I may need only a handful of them, depending. I won't, however, hazard a guess as to how many wetsuits I'll need -- the process of removal might be prohibitive to re-use.

This brings me to my current challenge: the 101 ways. I have plenty, but I need more. If anyone has any suggestions, I would be happy to accept them (you will not be creditted in the book, nor will you receive royalties of any kind). Here are a few possible methods, just to get noggin' sloggin', as they say (actually, I just made that up. Good though, huh?)

-Boiling water
-A sexy lady-bunny (like Lola Bunny)
-A cheese-grater
-The compelling power of Christ
-A pile of carrots, and a slightly-too-small hole
-Seductive music
-Bunny-solvent (hydrochloric acid)

Any inspiration?


Oh, Mars, we just weren't meant to be

Well, readers, I have some sad news. Sad for the nation, and, more importantly, sad for me.
No, the "King of Queens" didn't die (thank God) -- I was rejected from a very important career opportunity.
I had been keeping it on the DL, as they say, not wanting to jinx it, or make anyone jealous, but last fall I sent in an application to NASA.
It has always been a dream of mine to see the other planets -- up close, of course; telescopes are pathetic, and for patheric people. When the Captian of our Great Nation started talking about sending men to Mars last year, I thought "Hey, I'm a man, and I've always wanted to touch Mars," so I jumped on the opportunity. I spent the next six months doing sit-ups (30 a day, every day!) and prepared the perfect letter of application to NASA. I even sprayed it with my favorite perfume before I sent it off.
Since then I have been essentially banking on the fact that I would be spending 2008 on the Red Planet. I went so far as to spend all my savings on groceries (I figured $1200 dollars of bread would keep me going until the launch date, but most of it has gone bad already).
You can imagine, then, how crushed I was to receive a letter of rejection yesterday. It wasn't even a letter of rejection so much as a letter of confusion -- they acted as if my original letter were entirely misguided, which I found to be insulting.
After reading the letter, I drove straight to my parents' house, as I always do in these situations. I attempted to explain to them what had happened, to cries of "Not Mars!" and "What's NASA?", before passing out on the floor from stress, and, of course, sadness.

I was awoken this morning by my mother, singing a song that, as far as I could tell, contained only the lyrics "Oh happy day! Oh haaaappy Day-ay-aaaay!" She then started vacuuming the floor, which posed something of a problem for me, because that's where I was.
The new day, unfortunately, did not immediately bring relief from my disappointment. I just couldn't understand it. I thought I was the ideal asstronaut candidate. The only thing I can figure is that they didn't want to gamble on a statement I made in my application regarding the fact that I might have Rabies. I stress "might" here, although I can imagine the trouble a mad (read: Rabid) man might cause locked up in a space shuttle with several other asstronauts. It doesn't make me feel much better about it, though.

Still, I have to try and keep up a positive frame of mind. I have always been a follower of the philosophy "When one door closes, another opens." This, of course, makes no literal sense, but I expect that has to do with its source: our greatest down's syndrome-suffering First Lady, "Lady Bird" Johnson.
So the NASA door shuts. BANG!
Another door opens. BANG!

That's right -- I'm buying a gun.


If I were a cup, would you drink me up?

Well, the bump just turned out to be part of my ear. I had it biopsied [sp?], and the test results confirmed the presense of ear tissue, but were negative as far as tumors and things go.
That should all be a relief, but now I've got a hole in my ear where the bump was. I'm not very happy about that, seeing as how it makes me vulnerable to all sorts of very specific ridicule ("hey there, holey-ear," or "hey, there's the guy with the ear-hole," or "nice ear-hole," etc.) but, you know me, I always try to see the glass as half full -- even when it's half empty -- so I'm thinking of filling that hole with an earing. Probably a hoop, like a pirate or a tough gypsy, but not like a girl or a gay guy.
This whole episode has also made me reconsider my stance on health insurance. Except for my weekly biopsies [sp?], I realized that I never go to the hospital. Combining this fact with the common knowledge of "There's a sucker born every minute," and filtering it through the truth of "I'm no sucker," and I had no choice but to drop my health insurance. I want everyone to consider this option for themselves (suckers excluded, of course, although I expect most of the suckers out there are having this read to them by caretakers, and I'd like to think that the caretakers are clever enough to do a little on-the-spot editting. I warn you caretakers, however, that if you ever try to censor my work in any other context, I will find out where you live, and eat and digest your cars entirely.)

The subject line of this blog, by the way, is in reference to a little poem I'm writing about my poison-making hobby. The answer, of course, is "no," because that cup would almost certainly be poisoned.

A final note: Tard asked me not to tell anyone until he's finished, but he is currently working on what he plans on being our second big single (not going to happen, by the way). It's a dance number called "Booty: Shake Before Use." So far, I like what I hear (and see -- there's a dance that goes with it), although I don't think it's Tard's decision as to what we do with the song.
Keep up the good work, Big Tard!


Houston, we have a party.

Okay, first things first: It's official, The Dave Mathews Experience's first single will be "Zero-G Asstronaut."
Now, unlike some of the other first-single candidates, Zero-G Asstronaut has not, as of yet, been written. But I want to assure all the DME fans out there that  Zero-G Asstronaut will be everything they have hoped for, and nothing like what they were expecting. That good. That gooooood.

Now that that fiesty little kitty-cat is out of the bag, we can get on with the blog. Have y'all heard of a band called Creedence Clearwater Revival? Yeah, they're new to me too. I picked up their album accidentally at the Goodwill (and I don't mean that I shoplifted it. I would never steal from the Goodwill -- poor people need that shit) and I have not turned it off yet.
I don't know what it is about these revival guys, but I like it. They remind me of growing up in the South - I mean, they captured my whole childhood: playing in a traveling band, doing all sorts of stuff on the river, lyrically assaulting hippies, Vietnam, and, of course, Proud Mary.
A little observation though: John Fogerty sounds a little like one of Donald Duck's nephews (Hugh, Lewis, and Deward). Not all the time, just when he gets riled up. I like it though - it also reminds me of my childhood.

Oh my god. I think I have a bump on my ear. Can you get ear-cancer?


Cool your jets, Shakespear, I ain't made of time.

I have just noticed, while reading through my other posts, that there are a fair amount of typos and dropped words in my blog.
Get used to these, because I will not be re-editting anything. I feel that this would take away from the spontaneity that makes my posts such vital pieces of literature.

I'm not ready for the freakshow... yet!

Have you ever seen that guy on Ripley's Guiness Book of World Records who eats metal? He just chews it up, eats it, and doesn't die!
I think his official record is for eating a whole car. I don't know if that includes the tires and windows, but he ate the metal, at least. I think he might be Russian, too, not because I heard him speak, or anything, but because I can't imagine a person of any other nationality doing something like that. I suppose he was drinking out of the oil pan, or huffing from the gas tank, and suddenly found himself gnawing on a door panel. It makes sense.

Anyway, I was up all night, drinking chocolate milkshakes with Tard, and at about 3:30 I came up with the idea that I would beat this nasty old Russian at his own game. Even with all that milkshake in me, though,  I wasn't about to start off with a car (it would have had to have been Tard's car too), so I figured I'd start out with a cardboard box, and work my way up from there.
Well, that was a big mistake. I ate about a square foot of cardboard, and then blacked out. When I came too, I was under my own bed - I think I crawled there for protection - sweating like crazy.
My stomach still hurts, but don't consider me defeated just yet. I'll bet the Russian passed out millions of times on his way to the top. So keep your eyes open, America, and watch for me in Ripley's World Records, eating... a WWII submarine!


For Cukpake's Sake! The Dave Mathews' Experience saga

By now, I'm guessing that more than a few have heard some of the buzz surrounding my new band, The Dave Mathews' Experience.
Well, I'm afraid you'll have to await a little longer for our much awaited debut album - we're a little mired down with regards to our conceptual direction right now.  In the meantime, though, I thought I'd fill y'all in on what The DME is all about - where we're coming from, and where we're (trying to) go.

The orogin story of DME is kind of a funny one. Now, everyone who's anyone knows that music is my life, just as much as water is a fish's life, or booze is an alky's life, so it should come as no surprise that I've been quietly searching for the perfect band for some time now. As of last summer, I had found exactly zero members.
However, my parents live next to a gentleman named Tard Henderson, and Tard has a son about my age, who just happens to be something of a musician. My parents have been trying to get me to play with Xander for years (His real name is Tard Alexander Henderson jr, but he goes by Xander), but I always assumed that he wouldn't be up to my standards, so I would just think up excuses whenever I was in the neighborhood. Diarrhea figured into a lot of those excuses.
Over Thanksgiving, though, a situation came up where diarrhea simply wasn't a believable option (I don't want to get into it), and, when push came to shove, I choked and couldn't think of an excuse. So I had to trudge over to Tards house, and lug all my instruments up to Xander's room. You think one sitar is heavy? Try three.
Well, it was a long and noisy evening, and I confirmed, to no one's surprise, that Xander was no where near up to par with me. Musically, and in all other respects. Maybe if you are into Yanni's earlier, girlier, stuff, you'd be into Xander.
The real surprise came when Tard sr., who had been watching the practice from a hiding place all evening, threw a beer bottle at Xander's head. Maybe it wasn't a beer bottle -- it could have been a flower vase. Whatever it was, it shattered over Xander's face, and the little guy left pretty much right away. Tard got to talking, then, about his musical background, and how he had had his own band back in the day. It was called King Tard and the Knights of Scandia. He played a little of their stuff on the keyboard, and I will say this: He was good. Very good.
By the end of the night, the DME had finally and truly been formed.

Now, as I said, we are fighting through the quagmire of conceptual direction. And it's not just me against Tard - it's me against me, and Tard against Tard, and, mostly, me against Tard. It's my band, though, so I expect things to go my way.
We've got several possible first albums on the table now. Any of them could be ready for release in a matter of weeks, but we just have to be sure about where we want this first hit to take us. These are a few of the options:

The Battle of Milkshake Lake - this is a very concept based collection of songs. It's all about resolving my (and, to a lesser extent, Tard's) reoccurring dreams of epic battles between the fictional characters of my childhood. If you can imagine Poo Bear with a Desert Eagle (and I doubt you really can), you have something of an idea of the mental anguish this has caused me over the years,

Welcome To Da Planet Urf; I Am King - This has a much more "urban" feel to it. I picture myself standing on a mountain, wearing a big crown. I may or may not be greeting a group of space aliens in this image.

The Kinghts of Scandia: Scandia Nights - This one is Tard's idea. I think he's hoping that we might change the name of the band to The Knights of Scandia. I don't see that happening, at least not in my life time, but it's difficult to say for sure.

So now you have a little better idea as to what The Dave Mathew's Experience is all about. The easy stuff is done (writing the songs), now it's just a matter of deciding which to chose. When that's finished... well, keep a hand on your wallet, and an eye on your local stadium, 'cause DME is coming for both!

A Surprise Review

That's right, everybody, I decided it was time for another of my famous reviews. But which little piece of popular culture falls under the magnifying glass and scalpel this time?


Yes, it's high time we all got to know a little bit more about these little critters. Do they deserve their spot as the next pet craze? Or is it true that they were the original inspiration for those things that burst out of people's chests in Alien. I think they were aleins.

Once again, I feel it should be made clear that I have never actually  encountered a ferret, nor interacted with one in any way (with the possible exception of a poisoning, but I just sells poisons, I doesn't use them myself).

Here's what I know, and how I feel about it:
1. Contrary to popular belief, ferrets are in no way related to weasels. So get all your weasel-prejudices away from them. It just so happens that ferrets fall more closely to sea-lions and seals. Pinipeds, I believe. Ferrets are pinipeds. Personally, I like weasels, especially when compared to pinipeds (known man-hunters), so this doesn't do a thing for me. A big -.
2. Ferrets have musk glands that must be a)tolerated, or b)dealt with, either through a)removal, or b)killing the ferret. Now, the idea of a skunky little sea-lion roaming around my house is certainly not appealing, but I have always felt that our society should be a little kinder to the smellier creatures amongst us. And a non-deskunked ferret would probably be lots of fun at parties. A solid +.
3. Ferrets fit easily into tubes. In fact, they like being in tubes. Therefore ferret transportation is relatively simple. +.
4. Not being hedgehogs (another member of the piniped family) ferrets are not subject to any of the hedgehog restricting laws in our southern states. And they very rarely come down with Wobbly Hedgehog Syndrome (WHS is a real condition - google it, jerks - and it's very sad. It's like MS for hedgehogs. And sometimes ferrets.) +.
5. Ferrets have been known to slip inside their owners' bodies, either immediately after surgery, or while the owner sleeps with their mouth open. It is suspected they simply do this for warmth, but, frankly, I find it disgusting. Call me a bigot. -.
6. A favorite pet of the astronauts. -.

So, the facts are now clear. My opinion remains elusive, however. 3 +s, 3 -s. What a horrible format for a review. In summation, I give the 6 point, plus or minus review style a definate -.


Ron Howard: A Filthy Little Podiphile

That's right, readers, you heard it here first (as usual): Ron Howard, beloved director, is a podiphile.
Apparently everyone in Hollywood has known about this perversion of his forever, but puts up with it because of his tremendous talent (e.g., Edtv). I guess he was so inappropriate on the set of Apollo 13 that even Tom Hanks (or "America's Pervert," as I like to call him) threatened to quit. Thank God that didn't happen -- our space program needed the boost -- and no thanks to Ron Howard, who spent thousands importing Thai callboys to the set. "Arrested Development" indeed!
But now the word is out, and it's up to God fearing Americans like us to let it be known that we will not support sexual deviants like this. So put your money where your mouths are, everyone, and let's have a total boycot of Backdraft 2 (if it ever gets made -- fingers crossed!).
Ugh. I just threw up a little bit. The thought of Richie Cunningham getting his twisted kicks from feet is so totally disgusting. Blech blech ick blech blah blech.

At least he's not as bad as his brother (Clint Howard of "The Ice Cream Man fame), who, as I understand it, fucks children.


Big ups to Boy Talk!

Well, I'm more than a few days late on this (Butt-bone-gate has been demanding most of my attention this week), but I see that I have a new subscriber! Or should I say "A subscriber?"
That's right, I have only one subscriber. And I know for a fact - a fact - that I have more than one cyber-reader. Two at least, possibly three.
So to all the freebooters out there: start paying for my words, or I will begin to publicly list the homosexuals among you. Communists will not be safe either.
Now, some might say that subscribers don't actually pay for anything. Some might go even further to point out that there's really no way of knowing who reads my blog, much less which of those people are homosexuals.
To you people I have this to say: maybe if you spent less time sitting on your thumbs, you'd be smarter. I can do lots of shit that you can only dream about. I could use this computer -- this computer right here -- to kill any one of you. You'd have to be in the room, and asleep, or something, but think about that.
Anyhoo, big ups to The BT. Boy Talk is a rad local band, and they're the reason why I treat Ecuadorians different from how I treat other Latin Americans.

No one in Boy Talk is Ecuadorian.


Get Well Soon, Mr. President!

I don't want to upset anyone, and some of you may have come across this in the news already, but something has happened to President Ford.
Just this last week, Gerald Ford, our second most handsome president (after Coolidge), suffered a broken butt bone. He broke his God damn butt bone.
It should be said, first of all, that President Ford is still very sore, but he is definitely recovering. Also, everyone should know that the butt bone was broken purely by accident, and not in any sort of embarassing and/or sexual way.
Even though I get my news through word of mouth (which I consider to be both the most accurate and expediant), some of these details may have been slightly altered. The overall story, I'm positive, is accurate. As I understand it, President Ford was using the slide by himself, and some of the sand at the bottom had been scraped away, revealing either a large stone, or a slab of cement (which, exactly, is unclear at this time). At any rate, when the former president landed on his butt below the end of the slide, his butt bone met directly with this hard surface. Mrs. Betty Ford found him shortly afterwards, wandering the garden and clutching his posterior. Being the healer that she is, Betty recognized immediately that something was not right and called the hospital. You know the story from there.
What we don't know is why President Ford didn't land on his feet at the end of the slide (was it an attempt at some sort of stunt, or had the slide simply been too fast for him to react to?), and, more significantly, whether the sand at the bottom of the slide had been scraped away by repeated use, or by a possible modern day John Wilkes Booth. The secret service is no doubt looking into these matters as I write this.
Until we know more, I think we can all agree on a statement of good will toward our former president:
Get well soon, Gerald Ford!


The Worst Day Ever

People are always talking about my robust health. And you know what? I don't tell them otherwise, because I am very healthy. Healthy as a horse in fact, and horses are notoriously hard to damage, through sickness or whatever. I should know -- the unfortunate duty of humanely euthenizing a neighbor's elderly horse fell on me a while back. I'll be damned if I didn't spend a whole week poisoning that horse before it finally croaked -- and I think that was only because I hadn't been feeding it. People talk about the effectiveness of my home-made poisons just as much as they do about my health, so that wasn't the problem -- horses are just tough.

Anyhow, horse-healthy as I am, yesterday I once again came down with some kind of illness. I don't want to get into the details of it, but my carpet will never be the same again. I've been recuperating today; I'm eating lots of soup and eggs, and I got an extension cord for my heated blanket, so I can wear it around the house.
Even though the gods have treated me so poorly today, however, I refused to lose my courtesy. So, when the mailman arrived this afternoon, I was there on the porch, ready to meet him. He gave me my mail (I'm looking into a correspondence course on private detection) and sympathized with my illness. Or so it seemed. As he was about to leave, he said this: "I wouldn't worry about it -- I bet it's just the bug that's been going around."
The nerve! To imply that I, Dandy Chesterton, pillar of the community, maker of fine poisons, horse whisperer, have been, "going around" and picking up "bugs." It was absolutely intolerable, so I punched him right in the mouth.
You'd think, after throwing words like that around, a mailman would be ready for a swing, but I seemed to catch him by surprise, to get the snake by the tail, if you will. So I attempted to take advantage of this upper hand of mine, and I threw my heat blanket over him. He tried to run away (the coward!) but I had netted him effectively, and I had a good grip on the extension cord. Just as I was about to pull him in, though, the plug gave out, and he escaped back to his truck, heated blanket and all.
I would have chased him down, but I'm sick.

So now I'm still ill, I've lost my heated blanket, and the mail-snake will no doubt be pressing groundless charges.
I truly am Fortune's plaything.


A little update

Well, it turns out that my neighbor's kid has a little bit of a problem with other kids spitting on him in school.
Nevertheless, I maintain that kids like me, and I like kids. It was this that allowed me to intuit the whole spitting issue, and how effective it would be.
I'm kind of like the Horse Whisperer, just with kids instead of horses.


I'm Good With Kids!

I was recently asked to baby-sit for my neighbor. (Not the gay one, of course - all his kids are grown up)
Now, this isn't the sort of thing I would normally be asked to do, nor the sort of thing I would normally accept, but I'd been drinking, and he'd been drinking, and it just seemed like a good idea at the time. (A little note here - I was drinking my wine coolers, but he was drinking something that smelled like insect repellent. Ick!)
Anyhow, I found myself with a seven-year-old kid and an afternoon full of errands. My first thought was to leave the tyke at my house with the remote control, some ice cream, and a phone for emergencies, but I had this weird little feeling, like a voice in my head saying, "No, you're good with kids, you can do this." I mean, that's what I was thinking.
So I took junior to the mall with me. It went all right at first - he was completely quiet and well behaved when I was buying my candles, and he didn't make a peep at the Nascar store (even though I know, for a fact, that all kids love nascar). The trouble started when I went to the Mac store (that's a computer place for you luddite troglodites). All I wanted was a new "A" button for my keyboard (the "A" is wearing off this one), but when I asked them to get me one, the "Mac Genius" started calling me a retard. Now, I wasn't happy to leave the store, "A" button-less, having been called a retard by a Genius, but if anyone can declare who's a retard, it has to be a genius. So I accepted that, for the time being. No, what bugged me was when junior started calling me a retard too, like it was suddenly okay for him to say. And he said it constantly.
I tried to explain that he didn't have the right to call me that, that only a genius had that power. But no, it was "Retard this," and "Retard that," and "You're a retard." So I told him that I knew he was no genius, because I'd seen him poop in his pants before, and geniuses don't do that. He didn't care.
This is when that "good with kids" instict kicked in, and I had a stroke of genius of my own. I said "Listen, junior, you have to behave, or people are going to spit on you." This got his attention.
"You're going to spit on me?" he asked (notice the lack of "retard" now)
"No," I said, "But everyone else will. They'll spit on you. They've wanted to spit on you since we got here, but they've had to wait for an excuse. They have one now: you're being bad."
Junior was looking really scared now, and I was feeling pretty proud.
He pointed to a guy on the upper level. Don't ask me why he picked that guy, he was just some guy. "He wants to spit on me?"
"Yes," I said. "Him, and him, and her, and him, and that guy. They will spit on you."
Now it looked like junior was about to start crying, or something.
"What about her?" He pointed to an old lady. I have to admit, it was a good call on his part, because she looked like a really nice old lady. But I just told him that she had already tried to spit on him when I was buying my candles. Then he really did start crying, and I acted like I was trying to protect him from flying spit. I would never really do that, but he seemed to appreciate it, and he stopped crying right away when I told him that people spit on cryers too.

He was quiet the rest of the day. He didn't even want to eat when I made sandwhiches. That is one good kid.
Also, my neighbor asked me if I ever wanted to babysit again, when he got back. I told him I didn't really want to, but I'd leave it up to junior. I expect to be watching the little rugrat pretty often now.


A little town I like to call... Earth!!

In my recent rollings and trollings of the www, the great intersphere, I came across this little insight:


If we could shrink the Earth's population to a village of precisely 100 people, with all existing ratios remaining the same, it would look like this:

1) 57 Asians, 21 Europeans, 14 from the Western
Hemisphere (North and South), and 8 Africans.
2) 52 would be female, 48 would be male
3) 70 would be non-white, 30 would be white
4) 70 would be non-Christian, 30 would be Christian
5) 89 would be heterosexual, 11 would be homosexual
6) 59% of the world's wealth would be in the hand's of only 6 people, all would be U.S. citizens.
7) 80 would live in substandard housing
8) 70 would be unable to read
9) 50 would suffer from malnutrition
10) 1 would have a computer
11) only 1 would have a college education"

One word - wow. It really makes you look at things in a whole new way.
I mean, who would want to live in a village in the first place, right? And this one sounds really weird.
Here's my take, point by point:
1)That seems like an awful lot of Asians. But, then again, there's an awful lot of Asia. Do Russians count as Asian? Also, I noticed a striking lack of Eskimos in this group. They are people too. I wonder if "from the Western Hemisphere" means Indian, or if I get to be from the Western Hemisphere too.
2)Just the way I like it - more ladies to each man!
3)At first I thought this little statistic was upsetting. I mean, it could be strange with all those "non-whites" around. What are we even supposed to talk about? But then I started to find the idea of everyone being "White" or "non-White" very comforting. That way, we all know who we really are.
4)70 non-Christians!! Well, if any of the people in this village are Jehovahs, that number will change pretty soon. I'm thinking of converting just to keep them off my porch. I'm scared to go to work!!
5)There have to more than eleven gay people in this village. I mean, I know for a fact my neighbor is gay, and most of the people he has over have to be gay too, so do the math...
6), 7), 8), and 9) Completely unnecessary! Unhealthy, poor, illiterates who live in junky houses - we have these people in the village already, and they're called "poor white trash." I'm not being racist - that's what they call themselves. And more power to them, as long as they stay away from my computer.
10), 11) Change the "1" in these statements to an "I," and this village starts to make sense.

Anyway, I see this as an opportunity to change what you don't like about this village, our village. I, for one, will be working to make the village a little more accepting of Eskimos.
It's not too late for a New Years Resolution.


T3: Rse of the Mchnes

Have you all heard of this thing, TXT messaging? You do it with phones, and it is amazing!
Like, normally I would never talk on the phone with someone if I was in the bathtub, or, you know, going to the bathroom, because I'd be concerned that they might be able to picture me naked. I often go to the bathroom naked.
Now, though, I can just construct a TXT message from where ever I am! No worries at all!

This brings up some important issues, though. Because if I have this problem, everyone else must too. Does this mean that, in the future, whenever we receive a TXT from someone, we'll just have to assume that they're sitting in the tub, or standing in front of the toilet, completely naked?
What a creepy thought! But that's the future for you. Frankly I'd rather deal with killer robots, but for now... wait for my TXT messages


BTW, Happy New Year!

Just one more little thing - if you haven't noticed, it's 2007!!
Not that I need to tell you - we were all together last night (in TV land!) Ryan Seacrest outdid himself again. It was sad to see Dick Clark get paralyzed like that, but Seacrest has the feet for those big shoes!
Anyway, I have a good feeling about 2007. Everybody says that, I know, but I've learned to trust these good feelings - they dont come often, but when they do, I know something special is right around the corner. In the last year I've had good feelings about 1)pull tabs 2)Valley Fair, and 3)a visit to the clinic. Each occasion came up roses (I won't get into it, but with regards to the clinic I'll say this: there is such a thing as "cat scratch fever," but I didn't have it).
So what's on the ol' laundry list for everyone? Here's mine (it's a first draft, so don't hold me to these):
1)Eat healthier
2)Pilates, every day or every other day
3)Take less crap from "Steve" (the pilates should help with this, if pilates are as effective as I've heard. I love the martial arts.)
4)Liberate Bazooka from the pound (this is one mission I can win, and I'll do it for the country!)
5)Finish my novel (maybe I'll write more about this later - it's sort of a Da Vinci Code thing, but based on the whole Arabian Nights mythology. It has a talking bear.)
6)Blog better, more often (this one is for you).

Also, I hate to brag, but it just so happens that I spent New Years eve at a celebrity's celebrity party. I'm not one to kiss and tell, but it was Robyn Robinson.
You know, I could sing that woman's praises night and day, but there's one thing I noticed - she hides a lot of booze around the house. Isn't that the sign of an alcoholic?

My Gay Neighbor!

I swear! Sometimes I think I must live in the gayest neghborhood in the world. And I'm including that one in San Francisco where you have be gay to buy stuff and walk around.
Every day I see my neighbor, who we'll just call "Steve" (his real name is Steven), prancing around like he owns the whole block - and he doesn't! He mowes his lawn with his shirt off, and I'm pretty sure that when it's time to shovel the sidewalk he'll do that without a shirt too. That's the kind of guy he is.
Also, get this, he sews and cooks! I can see pretty far into his house from my bedroom window, and I'm sure that's a sewing machine he's always sitting at. Or it might be a computer. If it is, I'm sure he's looking up gay things (sewing supplies, etc.) I can see directly into his kitchen, too, and he always, always, makes breakfast for his wife! Gay slave, anyone?
I'm all for "the gaying of America," as they say, but this guy drives me up the wall. If he invites me to one more BBQ, I'm going to call the cops on him.
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