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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