World, meet Rex Dollman

Ha ha ha! I'm sorry! I'm laughing so hard, when I try to type, I just keep writing ha ha ha! Ha ha ha! See? It ha ha ha happened again!

Don't worry—you'll get it in a second.

Is Gary Coleman still alive? I thought I heard that he died of the Webster disease, but I've also heard that little people live a long time. I mean, just look at Bilbo. Or Doctor Ruth!

I only ask, because I'm looking for someone like Mr. Gary Coleman to involve in a new project I've been brewing upstairs: Rex Dollman! I bet some of you were worried that Rex Dollman was some sort of Andy Kaufman/Juaquin Phoenix alter ego. I guess he is a little bit, but not for me (please, I have enough on my hands balancing Dandy and Frisky Chesterton.)

No, Rex Dollman is an exciting new character, about to burst onto the literary/Hollywood scene. Is he a little person? With a name like "Dollman," I'd certainly think so. But not necessarily! (Sorry, Gary—nothing was finalized, and plans can change just like that.) Is he a detective? Um, well his name is "Rex," isn't it? So, yes, he's a detective.

Or is his name Rex? At this point, his name could be, say, Jiminy. (Gary! You're back in!) Or it could be Gary, for that matter.

So, yeah, it's not done yet. Rex Dollman is still being birthed, as it were, and I just want to get things slippery by talking it out a little. But I wanted you to know that I haven't just been sitting on my butt for the last three months. I've been busy conceiving Rex.


Hobo Signs: Classics and Innovations

My hobo-related search engine traffic is still off the charts, everyone. I have yet to receive confirmation on this, but I'm operating under the assumption that these visits are largely the product of frantic hobo searches from young Teutons desperate for more masturbation material. (My readership is huge in Germany, where, as we all know, the American hobo is fetishized to the point of ridiculousness.)

The Dirty Bindle, I'm afraid, isn't quite ready for launch. But that doesn't mean I can't throw out a Bindle feature here and there to test the waters a little.

This column will be called something like, "The Writing on the Fence," or "Sign Time," or ... "The Scratch." That's it. "The Scratch." It will be a showcase for hobo signs, both old standbys and exciting new symbols. Sure, "Sandwiches for yardwork" will never go out of style, but how are you supposed to tell your fellow hobos about the ermine farm in the backyard, or the laptop computers frequently left on windowsills? The Scratch, that's how.

Anyway, here are a few preview signs. Enjoy!

"Arrows here"

"Easy arson target"

"Excellent butt"
Not to be confused with the similar:

"Boobs here"

"Beware gremlin"

"Cholera here"

"Many rabbits"

"Mass hobo grave"

"Lonely man here"

"Family already dead. Try elsewhere."

"Templar here"


A new thing?

Birds with hats. I won't be starting a tumblr for it, but when someone does you can be sure that I'll be there with a lawsuit.

I wonder: does it seem like I threaten the hypothetical deeds of anonymous strangers with legal action too often? I don't know. I doubt it. I mean, I'm not one to support frivolous lawsuits (especially after that time* my neighbor tried to sue for throwing hot coffee in her face), but we're talking about something special here: birds with hats!

It's special because you almost never see real birds wearing real hats. It makes me wonder if wearing a hat during flight is aerodynamically impossible, or something. Someone should test that out by putting a hat on a plane. (I understand that a passenger jet isn't a perfect analog for, say, a chickadee, but I'd hate to see a bird crash just because I wanted to see if it could wear while flying.)

*That is to say, "those times."


The Dirty Bindle, still dragging on the ground

I cannot believe I haven't been more on top of my old Dirty Bindle idea.

(For new readers, the Dirty Bindle refers to a website/magazine concept, and not to a scrotum. However, if you see "dirty bindle" in all lowercase letters, then I am referring to a scrotum. But I rarely do that, because they're gross, and I'm not some sort of scrotum doctor that needs to talk about them all the time.)

See, I've been taking a look at my traffic stats, and I've found that the majority of my search engine redirects is coming from hobo- and bindle-related queries. Say what? Not only that, but most of my non-American readers are German. Or some other nationality, but living in Germany.

What gives, you ask? I expect it's the attraction of the raw American sexuality that the depression-era hobo embodies. Perpetual 5 o'clock shadow, fingerless gloves, tattered top hats, lean, ropey muscles from occasional yard work ... how could you not get at least a twinge in your dirty bindle from that? I say this as from an unassailable fortress of heterosexuality, of course, but you can't deny the appeal. The Germans clearly can't.

And yet I've done very little with the Dirty Bindle franchise so far! As they say in Argentina, ¡Estoy muy embarazada! (Literally translates, "I am currently very pregnant!" but I think it means something more like "I am full of shame, ay carumba.")

I've got to get on top of this! The only real issue, as I see it, is doing the work. The Dirty Bindle will require both time and effort, and I hesitate to expend either. Maybe I could get some sort of intern?

Hmm. I need to give this some thought. More later. Maybe.


D. Chesterton's Best Friends Series, Episode 40: Charles/Erik

D. Chesterton's Best Friends Series, Episode 40: Charles/Erik

The massive receiver dish moved—almost imperceptibly at first, but for each millimeter the mountain of steel pivoted, it was as if the entire earth tilted, lurched, moved. The moment was ecstatic, life changing, and then over.

Nearly a mile away, on the manicured lawns of the Xavier mansion, Erik Lensherr slowly lowered his arms, tears streaming down his handsome face. The effort had been at once excruciatingly painful and exhilarating.

"You did it, Erik!" thrilled Charles. "I knew you could!"

"No, Charles," his friend replied. "We did it."

Charles laughed, and patted Erik's lower back fondly before pulling his hand away in mock disgust.

"Erik! You're drenched!"

Erik looked distastefully at the thin gray fabric of his training romper. It was indeed soaked through with sweat. "My apologies, Charles, but I did just move a thousand tons of metal with my mind. I doubt anyone in 500 miles will be watching satellite TV tonight, which we have here in the 60s."

Charles laughed again, and gripped Erik's shoulder. "Of course, I'm only teasing. I think that's enough for today. Come, you must simply be dying for a steam!"

Erik grinned back at Charles. "You have no idea!"

Reclining in the wet heat of the sauna, Charles and Erik could hardly make out the shape of each other through the steam, though they sat scarcely an arms length apart. The modesty imposed by the room’s atmosphere was hardly necessary—the young men were as close as sailors, bonded by battle and bunks. And, in any case, each wore a towel wrapped about his waste, with the separating folds exposing nothing less decent than a sliver of Charles’ muscular thigh.

“I’m so …” Charles began, and then trailed off into a sheepish mutter.

“Proud of me?” Finished Erik. “I don’t need telepathy to know what you’re thinking, Charles. I never have. The sentiment is appreciated, but hardly deserved.”

“Erik!” admonished Charles. “Did you not see what you accomplished today? You were marvelous!”

“Me? ‘Marvelous’? Charles, I was but an instrument, and a broken instrument at that. You did the work. You … you reached inside of me, and grasped the instrument. You made it work. I did nothing at all. I felt like I was dreaming.”

Charles’ deep blush, thankfully, was hidden by the steam. “It was a pleasure. I would do it a thousand times for you, Erik.”

Smiling, Erik reached out to squeeze his friend’s bare shoulder. In the thick haze of the steam, however, he clumsily missed Charles’ arm altogether, his hand ending up in the shorter man’s face, two fingers pushing inadvertently into a mouth in the midst of shaping another sentence.

Erik gasped in surprise, and then chuckled as he withdrew the fingers from Charles’ lips with a pop.

“Apologies. I can shift mountains, but I can’t seem to control my own hands. It’s been a long day.”

“It has,” agreed Charles. “And I’ve pushed you too hard. You must be exhausted.”

“Oh, I’m fine. But … well, I am exhausted as well.” Erik leaned forward with a groan.

“Here,” offered Charles, and slid down the damp bench next to his friend. Reaching across Erik’s broad back with one hand, he gripped the older man’s shoulders, squeezing the knotted muscles gently.

“Aaah,” sighed Erik, perceptibly relaxing under the kneading fingers. “Aaaaaah.”

The steam seemed to fill the room more completely, its warmth penetrating the two warrior poets totally. It became a chamber of utter relaxation and privacy.

And yet the cedar door of the sauna creaked as it was pushed tentatively open, startling Erik from his place of relaxation. “Wha? Hello?” He stammered.

Charles continued to press and squeeze the shoulders, his mind already having instinctively reached out and identified the newcomer. “It’s only a student, Erik. Come in, come in. There’s always room for one more, Mr. Potter.”

His anxiety at sharing the sauna with his professors already dissipating, Harry tucked his wand into the knotted waistband of his towel, and pushed his damp hair away from his scarred forehead. It had been a long and difficult day of training, and the steam room promised relaxation and stimulating conversation with his teachers.

“’Allo, professors!” he called, and stepped into the warm air.

The end?


Oh, horsefingers!

Ha ha! Lol!

I haven't really got anything to say at the moment, except "horsefingers"!

What an idea! Like normal fingers, but on a horse! I bet they'd constantly be breaking, because horses are so big, and fingers are so fragile. I guess evolution really worked out there!

Also, I'm working on another short, sexy piece of fiction. Will Harry Potter be in it? I don't want to spoil any surprises, but ... maybe!


Mother I'd Like to Date (M.I.L.D.)

A couple entries ago I threw out the term "Mother I'd Like to Date" like it was something you should all know.

You should all know what that is, because it's so self-explanatory. Also, because I think all of you have encountered this situation before:

You ever see a reasonably attractive middle-aged woman, and ... like, maybe you'd never tell your friends about it, but you would totally pick her up in your Toyota, buy her a twelve-dollar steak, and see Spiderman 3 with her? And then drop her off back at her house?

Aw yeah. Bitch is M.I.L.D.


A little update about what I've been working on in my head

You know what would make crocodiles so much scarier?

If they could walk on ceilings and walls! Like bugs do!

The same thing probably also applies to alligators of course, although I'm not certain if they would be as good at walking on vertical or inverted surfaces. The scare factor would decrease considerably if you saw an alligator lose its grip and drop off the ceiling.


Get ready to see a tiny bit more of me!

A huge new opportunity has arisen for me!

No, wait, two new opportunities have arisen for me! The second one just came to me, and it's this: next time someone says "A huge new opportunity has arisen for me," I'll make some hilarious comment implying that they were talking about a boner! I. Cannot. Await. This. Huge. New. Opportunity! It's going to be awesome!

Ok, but the original huge new opportunity was something totally different. I've been having some preliminary talks with Paperdarts magazine about writing some guest entries in their diary!

I think I've mentioned Paperdarts before, but in case a) I haven't, or; b) you can't muster up enough respect for me to remember simple words and phrases, here's the short version: Paperdarts is sort of a showcase for writers (people who need to cry before going to sleep each night), artists (people who need to be seen crying before going to sleep each night), musicians (chronic masturbators), and filmmakers (whose talent and dedication I have tremendous respect for). I did some Paperdarts work a year or so back, but I contracted out the nightly crying.

Paperdarts also runs an online diary much like my own, except that other people are encouraged to read it. Also, they tend to write exclusively on literature and art, while I write about those things along with many other meaningful topics. But this is my huge opportunity.

I am, however, more than a little concerned about how long I'll be able to writing for the diary. The problem isn't coming up with new material. That's never been a challenge for me. (Watch. Diary topics: cats, dogs, shirts, computers ... and so on.) The problem is that I'm not sure how long it will take before the editors discover my ulterior motivation: selling my poisons!

I know I've mentioned my poison making before. It's always been a passion of mine, and I think it's time that it turned into a revenue stream. I think Paperdarts can help me do that, with little more than some suggestive copy and a few hidden links to my online store.

First and foremost, of course, I'd like to be selling my poison to kids.

Genius, right? People are always trying to sell poison to adults—assassins, rat-killers, evil cooks, etc—but no one has ever tapped the child market, as far as I can tell. And kids want poison! Why do you think parents have to lock it up? Because kids want it so bad.

With any luck, this Paperdarts thing, even if it's just a one-shot deal, could be my ticket into that Poisons-R-Us goldmine! Surely, some readers will have children, who will eagerly decipher my words over their parents' shoulders, picking up on enticing words and phrases that mean little to adults. (e.g. "rad," "that's so poison!" and so forth). And, if nothing else, artists are well known to be utterly childlike themselves, so there may be something there.

At any rate, it looks to be exciting! I'll keep you posted!

PS—“First do no harm” only applies if you’re the sort of doctor who doesn’t make poison. And if you aren’t a doctor, it may not even apply at all! So I think we're in the clear!

PPS—If you're rereading this post, you may remember an out of place, largely redundant paragraph in it before. The error is now fixed, and the person responsible has been severely punished.


Welcome to American Internet, People of Iran!

Yesterday I had as many site-views from Iran as I did from the United States of America! I won't say exactly how many views (that would be telling), but I will give you this: it wasn't zero!

For those in need of a little background information, Iran is a country not too far from Africa. Why, if you were to place your right hand on a globe, with your thumb touching the top right corner of Africa, you might also be touching Iran! (Although I can't say for certain, without knowing the size and condition of your globe, as well as the size and condition of your right hand.)

According to my sources, Iran is sometimes very hot, and at some point in the past it was ruled by a sultan! A sultan is like a king, but he wears a crown made out of cloth instead of metal. Also, sometimes a Jafar tells him what to do and ruins his life. A Jafar is sort of like their version of Puss in Boots, but not good.

The same source assured me that Iran also is rich in magical artifacts like lamps and carpets, but I'm fairly certain this was the result of a translation problem. As nice as they are, lamps and carpets are not magical.

Now, if you're really on the bunny hill of geography, here's some additional background information: The United States of America is also a country. I live in it, and many people consider it to be the best country. This is because of our quality television programming and our cars, of which we have many.

Now that that's all out of the way, I would like to extend a formal welcome to the people of Iran:

Welcome, people of Iran! I look forward to a great friendship between us!

The Benefits of Green Tea!

Thinking about starting a blog on the benefits of green tea I'd probably call it "The Benefits of Green Tea," or something similar. (This was originally a book idea, but ... well, you know what the publishing industry is like.)

I know what you're thinking: "Green tea cures cancer. What else is there to say? (Or think?)"

But, see, there's so much more to green tea than cancer curing. The thing is, there's just a wealth of material here. Enough for a blog. Or at least a Tumblr. (Can I write "Tumblr" here? Also, when my grandchildren read this, as they most certainly will, will they understand what a Tumbr is? I'm not sure I even do...)

Did you know that drinking green tea will make your hair silky and thick, like a golden retriever's? Did you know that it improves your ability to remember stories and interesting faces by 300%? Did you even know that it has natural lubricating elements that promote a richer, deeper singing voice?

Do you think I'm throwing away potential blog entries? I am, but I don't even care. I can afford to toss out as many facts as I please. How about this: fish love green tea. Green tea is good for drawing. It increases the frequency of nocturnal emissions, or decreases them, depending on the dose and your preference. Did you know that you actually can't burn yourself with green tea? The damaged tissue simply regenerates too fast for the burn to set in. Green tea carries magnetically encoded information. It's good for your DNA. It has caffeine, but it's different caffeine.

The list goes on.

Look for thebenefitsofgreentea.grumble among the hot trending websites this summer, and forever afterward!


Minor legal trouble re: The Dirty Bindle

You may have noticed that updates to The Chesterton Review have been infrequent of late. You may also have noticed that update to The Chesterton Review have always been relatively infrequent.

To the latter observation, I say only this: infrequent relative to what? The deaths of your pets? I'm sorry for your losses, but that's your problem, not mine.

As to the former observation, well, yes, you were right. But while my posting delays are usually due to performance anxiety and vitamin C hangovers, this time it's all that plus a growing legal headache.

Do you remember my million dollar hobo* blog idea, The Dirty Bindle? Well, it turns out that I'm not the only one gently cupping a Dirty Bindle in my sweaty, excited palm. See, apparently there's a media conglomerate specializing in adult entertainment that already has plans for The Dirty Bindle (.com, .net, .bindle—you name it, they have plans for it. A glossy quarterly is already in the design phase, I hear.) I probably shouldn't use the name of the company just yet, but if you've seen any honey bee-themed erotica (literally, any at all), you know exactly to whom I'm referring.

According to their plans, "The Dirty Bindle" would become a suite of pornographic magazines and websites catering to men and women who intensely interested in scrota.

Uuugh. This is certainly not what I had in mind. I should say, perhaps, that this company would take umbrage at the term "pornographic," but I don't see any way around it. You show me a few dozen close-up photographs of ball sacks, and I'm not sure what to call it but pornography. Certainly not "scrotal art."

At any rate, this has eaten up quite a bit of my time. (I'm not yet pulling in enough ad revenue to pay for council, so I'm currently representing myself in my meetings with their legal team.) I'm reasonably confident that there's some sort of precedent out there favoring my position, or that, at the very least, I'll get one of the many judges who aren't obsessed with balls (or would like it to appear that they aren't). Still, it's discouraging. I would have liked The Dirty Bindle to be off the ground by now, but the people who want it on the ground (or any number of bizarre places, assuming it's also on film) are really frustrating my efforts.

Oh well. I'm nothing if not patient.

*"Million-dollar-hobo"! There's a great idea for a regular column right there! Are we talking about a regular hobo who has everything he needs right in his alley, along with a great outlook on life? Or is the Million Dollar Hobo an actual Scrooge McDuck type who is lost in a big city and suffering from severe dementia? Why not both?!


Just some demon names

Ah, I remember when I was a Goth.

Not in the sense that that actually was a real thing that happened, me being goth, but in more of a "I picture myself being young and wearing black clothes and makeup" way. In real life, I was far too busy with my magazines to play dress up, but I like to imagine it. And in my imagination I look good.

At any rate, I was remembering "being" goth, and my brain smoothly and naturally transitioned to the subject of demons, just as the blog post will smoothly and naturally transition to the subject of demons.

And here we are: demons (and their ilk)
Azaezel, The Impure
Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies
Ba'al, Prince of Hell
Behemoth, Devourer
Asmodeus, The Lustful
Adramelech, Chancellor of Hell
Furfur, The Softest
Wall, Divider of Things
Mammon, Tits Galore
Gail, Mother I'd Like to Date
Master Leonard, Orgy Coordinator
Zaebos, Crocodile Dundee
Belphegor, The Helpful
Buer, Lord of the Dance
Haborym, So Lonely
Tyra, The Eye-smiler
Abraxas, Cleaner of Many Surfaces
Xaphan, Baby Body Boy
Yan-gant-y-tan, The Masturbator's Fury
Ukobach, Spoon Stealer
Orobas, Bone Thug
Naberius, Bachelor of Arts
Peckols, The Corpse Taunter

Anyway, that's all I can think of right now. Pretty cool, huh?


Heard about "apps"? I have.

Only recently, though, so I won't pretend to be an expert. As I understand it, an "app" (short for "apple") is like a videogame for your computer, except usually instead of playing games they do something less interesting and more useful.

Who comes up with this stuff, right?

At any rate, the real point here is that "apps" make you rich if you invent them. So here goes nothing:

Colorboss: Take a picture of something with your telephone and Colorboss will tell you what color it is. The blanket is ... yellow! The dog is ... black! The dog is ... blue! You found a blue dog! What?!

Holder: What are you holding? Leave questions like that up to Holder! It will tell you what you're holding! You are holding a can! Holder automatically updates your MySpace to let your friends know what you're holding. And who knows? Maybe you'll make a new friend with someone who is holding the same thing as you!

RaceBeast: Take a picture of someone, and type their race into RaceBeast. Assign the most races, and you will be The RaceBeast! But keep at it—thousands of other app users will be gunning for the title!

Under.the.hat: Whisper your secrets into Under.the.hat. No worries—it will never tell!

Greasegun: Greasegun makes all the sounds of a real grease-gun, but without all the greasy mess!

Who's Your Grammy: Relationship troubles? When you and your partner are in the throws of passion, Who's Your Grammy shouts out "Who's your grammy" in your voice! Relationship troubles over!

Encyclopedio: Need a fact? Encyclopedio contains many facts! Maybe yours is one of them.

All in all, you should feel free to take one of these ideas and develop it. We'll split the profits 80-20, until you make the standard developer's fee of $100. At that point, I will receive full royalties.

Exciting new team-ups

Whoopi Goldberg and Henry Rollins team up to promote the US Census. Finally, the census is cool again!

Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman team up to go skydiving! Why? Ever heard of a bucket list?

Tom Hanks’ hand and Stephen Tyler’s hand team up to form an awesome handshake! They know they can trust each other!

Copper and tin team up to form bronze! Stronger than ever!

Ladies’ Night and Men’s Night team up to form a brand new night! Now everyone can come!

Al Gore and Dan Quale team up to form an unprecedented Vice President team! #2 + #2 = #1!

Genetics and poor choices team up to form alcoholism! Beat that!

Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse team up to conceive a half duck, half mouse baby! They call it, “Arthur”!

Jackie Chan and Jackie Chan team up to form an action comedy! They are Twin Dragons!

A rock and a hard place team up to form a dangerous situation! Don’t move and you’ll be fine!

Two birds team up and are killed with a single stone! Their deaths are nonetheless years apart!

Leaves and wood team up to form a tree! Thanks, but I only need the wood!

Eagle and cat team up to form owl! It's what we call evolution!


Just a quick fantasy

If I were a video game character, I'd have to be Mario's tall brother! Everyone always thought he was gay too!

But ... Was he, though? Those Nintendo graphics were so primitive, you could barely tell if the characters were gay or not. Either way, the comparison holds. Especially if we're talking about Mario 2. Remember how Mario's brother would kick his legs back and forth when he jumped? I do that too! I do it when I jump, in the bath tub, and whenever I sit in a chair that's just a little to tall.

Or ... if I weren't Mario's brother, I'd probably be Kid Icarus. Not because of the wings, obviously, but because of all that trouble with the bow and arrows a couple years ago. Can you spell "bullshit"? 'Cause I can. It's spelled like this: since when is it a felony to sink some arrows into the trees of an assisted living campus if you don't actually hit any seniors? Robin Hood did the same damn thing, but he's called a hero, while me and Kid Ic are considered hazards to society.

I'm not complaining, I guess, I just think it's funny.


This is how art happens: fast, dangerous, and in bullet points

It has been two or three months now since I've written a genius play, and I think I'm getting a little bit ... the opposite of dry. I am wet with drama, if you know what I mean.

Unfortunately, inspiration hasn't really struck. Some writers will tell you that you can't just wait for inspiration; you have to work for it, and if it doesn't happen, it's your own fault. I will tell you now that this is a lie. "Grapes in the Snow," for instance, wasn't the product of weeks or months of hard work and revision. Obviously not. No, Grapes in the Snow was pounded, fully formed, into my head when I crashed my bicycle on the street nearly a year ago today. (To be exact, it was a year plus four days.)

I won't pretend that I woke up in the hospital thinking about orphans and Dickensian factories and shit. No, I woke up in the hospital wondering if I was about to get arrested. But the idea, even just the shadow of the idea, was already in my head, each detail filling with color as I regained consciousness, like a photo negative getting developed. By the time I was released, I wasn't even wondering anymore if the nurse had touched my penis when I went to the bathroom when I was still amnesic. I was wondering which aspect of Grapes in the Snow would reveal itself to me next.

That was awesome in the most literal sense of the word.

But that's not the case right now. I mean, I've got the words inside me, but it's all like Jello without a mold. Give me a mold, Dandy, give me a mold!

I'll try, Dandy, I'll try. Ok ... here. I'm just going to throw ideas onto the page. No editing, no second-guessing. Let's kill this shit and think about it all later.


-The extinction of the dinosaurs

-The inception of Facebook

-Two indian tribes go to war

-More than two indian tribes go to war

-The invention of electricity

-Heirs struggle over the control of their ancestral distillery

-Two cats learn to talk shortly before hearing about Jesus

-What's a blog?!

-A man has a pet snake. They rob banks.

-A baker accidentally blinds himself

-Life in a jug

-Pointy ears

-A woman and her husband live in a gully which is slowly filling up with trash

-Three schoolchildren eat bugs off the street, until one of them gets superpowers/poisoned

-My favorite blanket

-A dog finds a hat that takes away his powers of speech

-Santa Claus' funeral

-Santa Claus' funeral—nobody attends

-A man accidentally builds a house

-After inventing the perfect poison, a man cannot bake a cake that will not poison his dinner guests

-A king has sex with his mother, which practically kills his father

-A man bites through his mouth guard while asleep, awakes to discover a mouth full of plastic

Ooooh-kay! Let's have some drama!


Hobo-a-Gogo! Yet ANOTHER blog?!


Ha ha. Not really. Not yet, anyway.

But I've been getting some really good ideas lately (I think it's because I switched vitamins), and some of them are just begging for Internet sites of their own.

First and foremost of the ideas has to be...
The Dirty Bindle:
Tips and Tricks of the Hobo Trade!

It would be exactly what it sounds like: a website for homeless men on the go, sharing the things homeless people care about—recipes for stew, cozy hiding spots, popular new hobo signs, huffable glue, banjo tablature ... that sort of thing!

Obviously it doesn't have to be called The Dirty Bindle, I just think that's the best of the titles. Other potential titles include The Raggedy Cap, Windowsill Pie, The Shakes, The Rawbone Rag, or, of course, Dyin' Alone.

The title's important, of course, but it's the content that will count, and, as you all know, I've never had a problem producing quality content.

The CR and Typecats will remain top priorities, but ... keep your eyes peeled for a little bean stew, if you know what I mean.

PS—I mean The Dirty Bindle. Or, potentially, The Bean Stew Review. I haven't decided yet.

PPS—I swear to god, if anyone steals any of those blog names, I will kill them like a hobo kills a thief. (With an infected bite.)



Typecats is going nuts right now. Stats-tracking says the President reads it, I think.

Here's your new indie blockbuster, Hollywood!!!

Hey, sorry, folks, but things are about to get just a little meta. I try to avoid that sort of bullshit usually, but the problem here was that I apparently started writing an Internet diary entry for y'all the other night, and then passed out half way through. How did this happen? Hell if I know. I had gone through about three tins of chewing tobacco (I had never even chewed before!), so I was flying from that, and when I woke up I found two broken claw hammers on my bed. If you can figure that out, send me a letter with an illustration of the nights events. (I don't have time to read.)

In any case, I also found this partially completed diary entry. So what we have here is an entry in itself, as well as entry about an entry. Professors call it the "Arabian Nights Effect." (The Arabian Nights Effect is also what you call it when you don't know exactly who you got an std from, but I'm not talking about that here. Not here, and not anywhere.)

Without further ado:
I've been watching a lot of movies and television lately, and I've come to an important—and valuable—realization: you can squeeze a lot of entertainment out of people who are different from you. I've got to do more of this.

By "different from" I don't mean, like, racial people. Or even people who are retarded. I'm thinking more along the lines of a person who is just retarded in a specific way. Someone who doesn't get it when the dance they're doing is inappropriate (they just love to dance so much!), or someone who's good at math, but bad at talking to children and people.

These people, or "people," or whatever the politically correct term is, are walking goldmines! (Assuming they can walk.) Sometimes they're funny, sometimes they touch our hearts, but they're always engaging and entertaining. It's like their entertainment value is inversely proportional to their ability to understand social cues! Ha ha ha! I'm laughing already! Also, I'm touched! Also, cha-ching!

Brainstorm time!!!

Protagonist's name: Um... Dominic. No! something cuter! Mikey!

Mikey is a ... janitor! Duh! But he doesn't just mop and stuff like all the normal janitors. (That's why normal people don't get movies—too normal. This is a movie now, by the way.) No, he mops, but he also ballroom dances with his mop! And he takes it seriously! Ah ha ha ha!

And... he has names for all of his janitor tools: Sarah the mop, Jeff the bucket, Jeannie the knife! But he can't remember his real coworkers' names! Ha ha ha! (Also, why does he have a knife?! Ha ha!)

Ok, what happens to Mikey the dancing janitor? He falls in looOooOOoove! But does he even know what love is?! We're going to find out with the help of ... Sam! Sam is a girl, and she works at the building Mikey dance-cleans! She is a ... an account executive! I don't even know what that is, but it sounds boring and square! How is it that Sam is so young and so funky-hot? I don't care! But how is it that Sam is so stressed out with her account executive duties? Sam, who will teach you how to live? You, who have already accomplished so much in your short, hot life, and yet feel so little?!

We're starting to worry that no one can save you from yourself, as you sit in your office on yet another late-nighter, when ... someone who is just retarded enough to dance with a mop waltzes right by your open door! Literally waltzes! Well this is intriguing!

Except I think Mikey does something that rubs Sam the wrong way. It's probably just because she wishes she could fart around as much as he does, but she tells herself she doesn't like the way he forgot to dust the copier.
Here's where I left off. Both of the claw hammers had quite a bit of my hair and blood on them, so I'm assuming I stopped because of a concussion.

I was on to something though. Something good! I don't think I can finish it tonight, but where do we go from there?

Ok, Sam is angry/jealous at Mikey for his care-free life and thought-free brain. (He's not really thought-free, but we don't care about that. Not more than a dream sequence, anyway.) Sam is angry/jealous. They flirt a little bit (as much as a guy like Mikey can flirt ha ha), but Mikey does something to piss Sam off, like not have gone to college, or paint her car a color that's too fun while she's asleep. (That's it.)

This is probably the end for Weirdo and Juliet, huh? That's what I thought too, but NO! You know what Mikey does? He gets the shit kicked out of him by some toughs, because he was trying to defend Sam! Was he literally defending her, like from a mugging, or did he just stand up for her when some skeezy male coworkers were talking about her breasts? You know, that doesn't matter. Probably both.

What matters is that ol' Mikey just about dies! But not in a way that would make him physically ugly. And Sam realizes what an important thing they have, or could have, and she kisses him and lies down next to him in his hospital bed. It's sweet and sexy! And then she does something whimsical for him, like play him a song she wrote for/about him on the ukulele she is always too embarrassed to admit she owns and plays. And, oh my god, she's good at it! They're meant for each other!

They'll probably have a kid who is practically normal.

$24 million dollars, opening weekend. Good enough, because we spent only 11 million making it.


Oh, good god!

I just got an email from my mother! She asked if I thought "ham-fisted" meant something sexual! She said that "fisting" was when someone inserted a large object, like a fist, into one of the many human orifices! And they do it for fun, I guess! (Like a marshmallow eating contest?!)

(And before you get any ideas about my mother, it's just that she knows a lot of prostitutes, ok?)

I never thought it would mean something like that! I was guessing it had something to do with sandwiches, or, like, when a fat person's fist looks like a sleeping piglet!

Just to double-check...

"Ham-fisted" doesn't mean what I think it does, right?


Some quick thoughts to sizzle in your brain pans.

Open your minds, and let these hot idea pokers sear through.

Ok, number one: Dog food made with real bones. Dogs love bones, they eat dog food ... dog food made with real bones. The only real obstacle I can see is finding the right animal to harvest the bones from. Each bone should be small enough to be eaten in one bite, but they should also retain the classic bone shape. Horse bones: too big. Bird and turtle bones: too weird looking. What are my options? Small monkeys? Baby cows? Let's throw this one back to R&D.

Second, unplanned idea: R&D ... &D!! This is a Dungeons and Dragons joke! But what would R&D&D do? Probably research powerful new spells, and look at heterosexual pornography.

Third idea: the main motivation for me to ever have children would be to put them on the internet. Not, of course, in any illegal way, like footage of them gluing athletic shoes together in a hot, dimly lit factory. More like in a Kids Say The Darnd'st Things way. The point here is to get me rich. So they would act out the plots from early 90s action movies, or, like, fight each other. Sort of like Baby Fights (see below), except it'd be more along the lines of Baby Fights 2: Toddlers With Hammers. They probably wouldn't get hammers, though, now that I think of it. You don't arm the people you're exploiting. Rookie mistake. If I wanted a machete lodged somewhere in my body, I'd go ice skating in a frozen, flooded machete factory.

Idea four: Frozen, flooded machete factories probably aren't even a real thing.


Baby Fights: I can't be the first person to think of this

I'll be the first one to acknowledge that I get a lot of really good, really unique ideas. I'm not too humble for that. (Remember my polar bear cub-shaped land mines, for safely blowing up polar bears, or the soon to be famous Scott Stapp sports drink, HotGodSweat? Ideas like that.)

But this one... it seems too good to be true. It's so perfect and so obvious that, despite the great powers of my imagination, I simply cannot imagine that no one has thought of it before. I hesitate to check the Internet, because last time I entered "baby" into Google I was treated to an image of a tiny, naked man exploding from a woman's torso, but I know for certain that there isn't a prime time TV show called Baby Fights (or Babyfight, or Fighting Babies, or any permutation of that). And if someone had plucked that sweet apple from the tree of ideas already, I feel sure that it would be on TV.

It came to me in a dream, you see. I was in a parking lot with two friends who recently became mothers, and I asked one of them, "So... why haven't you had your baby fight her baby yet?" The dream response was as lackluster and unimaginative as you'd expect from a real mother, but it got me thinking, why haven't I had your baby fight her baby yet? If I want to be rich (I do!), this is the way to do it.

Now, obviously, I don't want the babies to kill each other. Frankly, I don't think that's possible, because babies are so weak. And I don't want them permanently maiming each other, because for as much as someone might pay to see a one-eyed baby in a fight, I think truly exciting matches would require all fighters to be in top physical form. So none of that. But I do want those babies in rings and straw-floored pits, and I want their fists and shins to be wrapped up like little muay thai fighters, and I want them fighting! Hell, we could even dope them up a little to make it interesting (with the approval of the fathers, of course).

I can't accept contestants yet, because a whole sport league can't be set up over night. but if you're planning on doing it with a fertile member of the opposite sex anytime soon, I suggest that you attempt to sabotage your contraception somehow. No doubt there will be some discussion about that later on, but nothing wins an argument like the prospect of owning a champion baby fighter.

There's an empty space at the top, and I think we—you and I—could climb there on the doughy fists of your child. Let's get cracking!

Baby Fights!


Typecats: What gives?

Well, I wanted to wait until Typecats really took off before I discussed it. And now it has!

So... why "typecats"?

Frankly, it's not an easy question to answer. A big part of it was that I saw a niche, and I filled it. That's what you do when you see a niche. That's how cavemen invented sex, for God's sake, and how cavewomen invented stabbing cavemen in the ear cavity with an antler.

Living in cave-times must have been really rough. Sure, the notion of wearing fur everyday is appealing, but the whole sex-or-be-killed lifestyle would have been stressful. And in caves to boot!

Anyway, I saw the need for Typecats, and I did what I had to. But beyond that, the idea itself is very appealing to me. The notion that there's a whole species that loves to type... and not only that, but they all have mustaches! Even the girls! What if Jane Austin had a mustache and a fancy little tail? You'd want to put that on the internet!

So I did.


Prepare a spare ass, because your old one is about to get blown off!

Heeeey y'aaaaallllll!

So, I was walking past the Salvation Army yesterday, looking at the homeless people, thinking, "I wonder if any of those bums has ever thought about acting. There's good money in acting, and if they auditioned for the part of a bum, they'd already have the wardrobe and stuff."

But then I thought that starting out your acting career as a bum might not be a good idea, because then you could get typecast as a bum. And then I thought,"'Typecast!' Now there's a funny word. T - Y - P - E - C - A - T - S. Typeca... wait a second!"

I had, of course, accidentally spelled "typecats." I was about to throw the word away... before I realized that it was awesome! I started seeing it printed on children's backpacks and lunchboxes, I saw it optioned into R-rated movies and serialized novels, I saw it dragging me, like a sleeping cowboy hanging from one stirrup, to Hollywood!

(A cowboy was dragged like this to Hollywood only once, and it didn't do him any good because he was dead by the time he arrived. My metaphor doesn't include actual death. Or even a horse.)

At any rate, I needed to figure out how to get the idea off the ground. The obvious solution: a blog. After all, it's largely thanks to The Chesterton Review that I am where I am today (not in jail!)

And so... typecats was born!

You'll notice that it's a tumblr address. It's my understanding that tumblr is largely a forum for pornography and fashion, but I figured that what I had in mind was close enough to both of those that it was a reasonable fit. You'll see.

I have a feeling that before long everyone will be saying, "I want to get typecats!"


Try this one out real quick

Noah's Pirate Ark!! Or maybe Pirate Noah!!

See where I'm going here? It's like the same old Noah story, except he's a pirate! A pirate on a ship full of animals?! I know, right!

What does pirate Noah want with those animals? I don't know. It's not my job to know. Maybe he's going to try to eat them, or maybe he wants them for something sexual? Maybe he's going to sell some, and save some for sexual stuff. Those are the sorts of things a writer can figure out. I'm an ideas man. Just start sending me checks when it hits theaters.
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