So nice to meet you, Mr. Minister!

I just had an idea for a new thing! You know how there are "ministries of X" in England? Like, The Ministry of Magic? There should be a Ministry of Delight! They could handle birthdays and things.

I'm not saying that I would be the Minister of Delight, because I have to assume it's an appointed position. But I'm also not saying that I'd be anything but an awesome Minster of Delight.

PS—I'd rather be queefing.

PPS—We're getting there!

PPPS—Before you even suggest it, there's no such thing as the Minister of Queefs. And even if there where, I would want no part of it. Yuck! I just want my new catchphrase to make it onto mugs, and the sides of public buses and stuff, so I can get rich.


I'd rather be crying.

It's kind of a drag, but I'm still not the top hit for a Google search of "I'd rather be queefing." And if you remove the quotation marks, I don't know that I even make the top hundred.

Just picture this on a T-shirt, and then tell me it shouldn't be at the top of the Internet.


It's academic, so I'm pretty sure it can't be used as evidence.

Ok, don't take this the wrong way, but I've definitely thought about murdering people.

Who hasn't, though, right? You see someone who just rubs you the wrong way for some reason, and maybe you think about what would be the best way for you, or someone else, or you, to, you know, end them. Their life, I mean. Just as an exercise in preparedness, really.

So check this out: I figured out the perfect scheme.

It's sort of a variation on a couple of schemes I'd read about. One is the old "bludgeon your husband to death with a ham, and then cook the ham, and then serve it to the investigating officer." There's a lot to like there, but, what, just because you can eat the murder weapon you're off scot-free? Nope. You can eat a knife, but that doesn't make it some sort of foolproof weapon.

The other is the similar, "skewer your wealthy uncle with a falling icicle." The icicle melts, the weapon is gone, and you get your uncle's millions, assuming your cousins didn't make the will. Clever on the surface, but ultimately pretty dumb. Imagine it: the detective shows up and finds an icicle-shaped hole in your uncle, and a pool of water just big enough to make a nice icicle. Obviously he's going to think, "Oh, a falling icicle did it. Case closed." Where's the excitement in that? A falling anything could kill anyone. Hardly any point in getting involved.

No, my scheme is much better. Here's how it works:
1. You find some cat that you hate.
2. You put the cat in a freezer, for however long it takes to freeze a cat pretty good. 5 hours?
3. Remove the frozen cat, and use it as a club on your worst enemy.
4. Place frozen cat on or next to victim.
5. Stand back and watch.

Can you see it? The police show up a few hours later, they find a cold, confused cat next to a dead body covered in cat shaped bruises. If they ask you what happened, you can just say the cat did it, but I don't think any cop worth his badge would need to ask. Clearly the cat did it.

6. The cat goes to jail.

Man oh man. It practically makes me wish I was a murderer, because, while there's no one I actually want dead, I can think of half a dozen cats I wouldn't mind seeing go to jail. And it would have to work better than my current scheme of putting stolen jewelry on their tails, which, as of yet, hasn't landed a single cat in prison.

Oh well.


I smell an Edison.

"This 'fart candle' is just a poop with some string pulled through it! I want my money back!"

I don't know if that's a real quote, but words to exact effect were said many, many times in the second half of the 19th century. Many times. See, it seems that after Thomas Edison dropped out of school, he made his living selling "novelty candles." He started in Kentucky but was essentially run out of the state after he sold a fart candle to the Chief of Police of Bowling Green (and impregnated both his daughter and wife).

Newark, New Jersey, however, was apparently hungry for fart candles, and the young Edison set up shop there for several years, until enough customers disregarded the important "Do not light, novelty purposes only" warning labels, and also ignored what had to be pretty blatant body language from Edison that he was about to impregnate as many of their female family members as possible. Both things should have been pretty easy to figure out, but New Jersians just aren't into making things easy, and Tom was on the road again. (All of this is also why, depending on what part of the country you're in, we call illegitimate children and fishy business transactions "Edisons.")

Isn't history something else?


It's official!

I’ll get this out of the way first:

Yes, once again it’s been some time (some long time) since I’ve written here. As usual, however, I have good excuses. (That last min-post doesn't count.)

The main thing was, I struggled for several months with feline leukemia. At the time it was a very big deal, but I’ve since been given to understand that this isn’t a real thing … Tell that to the cats, I say!

Additionally, my computer caught fire again. I was attempting to remove all of its branding with a rag and some turpentine, but the cardboard shell of the computer soaked that turpentine right up, and the exposed wiring—typically a feature I like!—wrote the last chapter of that story. The upshot is that the branding (lots of undecipherable Thai slogans) has been charred off, and also that “typing” now has to be done via electronic probe, alligator clips, and an exposed circuit board. I’ve only just learned how to do it with any semblance of accuracy, and I still haven’t perfected the asterisk and that upside down Spanish exclamation point. (Useful because it lets readers know that you’re about to say something exciting. Without it, your aye-carambas will be anemic. At best.)

But Mexcalmation point or no, I’m back. For now.

I understand that I’ve lost a significant percentage of my readership; I’m down 2 readers, so the decrease is somewhere in the neighborhood of 100%. That being the case, I think we need to ease back into all of this. So there’ll be no inflammatory content about Candidate Mitchell Romney and President Obama, nothing about the current danger parties in Arabia, no discussion of polar bears, and, after this, no mention of herpes (oral, genital, or otherwise.)

Instead, I thought we could just skim a few light topics. Start off easy.

#1: Science!
Writing about science has always been one of my greatest writing-about interests. Unfortunately, this has been very much discouraged at Box Factory, where I’m currently doing some temp work. Damien Box, he says, “Dandy! Write up those invoices!” and Charles Factory, he says, “Dandy, write another letter to my wife!” And while there is some wiggle room in the letters to Mrs. Factory (Joan), nobody ever says, “Dandy, write about the sciencey things on your mind!” If anything, they say, “Science doesn’t sell industrial lubricant, Dandy.”

But Damien and Charles aren’t here right now, so this is what’s on my mind: faster than light travel!

Can you even imagine it?! There are enough planets out there that the basic rules of probability insist that there’s a planet for practically everybody. Dinosaur Planet! Pink Planet! Chocolate Mudslide Planet! Cookie Dough Planet! Munchkin Munchkin Planet! If you can imagine a combination of words in front of “Planet,” the universe has it. The problem, of course, is that these planets are so far away. Even if you were made of light, which is pretty much the fastest thing, it would take you years and years to get to any of the good planets. Maybe you have years and years to burn, but I don’t. I have hobbies.

How do you square it? If you want to get to Herpes Cure Planet, but you don’t really have the time? Guh.

Well, I just happened to read today that maybe traveling at the speed of light for years and years isn’t the only way to get to the permanent soothing relief that this planet doesn’t seem to offer. Apparently, the notion of a “warp drive,” which you may remember from Tron, isn’t so sci-fi after all. It’s basically a machine that could bend space, so you could just hop from point 1 to point 3 without spending so much time flying through point 2. It’s like … you know how when you’re trying to solve a maze in your puzzle book, but there just doesn’t seem to be any way to get to the exit? You always end up having to fold the page, so wherever you are in the maze matches up with the exit (or a little before the exit—you don’t want to seem lazy). This is like that, but with space! And the rewards would, frankly, be a lot better than beating most mazes. Can’t tell me that’s not exciting!

#2: Herpes.
I’m sorry. I said I wouldn’t bring it up, but, honestly, this is what’s been on my mind. This whole thing has pretty much been an excuse to get to this point. I figured I’d think of a good euphemism by now, so I wouldn’t have to break my own promise, but it’s not happening, and I can’t get it off my mind. How could I? For the last couple days, I have had a blister like you would not believe down there. I have no reason to think that it’s you know what, but I have no reason to think it’s anything else either! And no matter what search engine I use, the Internet keeps telling me that it’s FOREVER. Uuuuugh.

This is always going to be on my mind. I won’t be able to enjoy a movie now, because I’ll always be wondering when the next outbreak will be. I won’t be able to play a simple game of Frisbee, because I’ll always be dreading the next painful chafe. I’ll never be able to drift off to sleep with a cheerfully smoldering cigar balanced on my naked thigh, because I’ll forever be thinking about the healing potential of interstellar travel, always just out of reach.

Wait. Did you just read that? Did I just read that?!

Ha ha ha! It’s not herpes! It’s another penis cigar burn blister! It seems so obvious now. Duh. I almost feel like deleting this whole thing. You think you’d learn after the first few times you wake up with a burnt penis, but it’s hard to connect last night to today when you got blisters on your thingers.

What a relief. I can’t wait to tell Joan. ¡Aye caramba!

And there’s that!!! Where did that come from?!

This is great. This is a great day. It’s good to be back.


Million dollar idea!!!!

Ok, how about this for a t-shirt or mug (or 100,000 of them):

"I'd rather be queefing!"

I'm not totally sure what that means, but I know for certain that it means a million bucks.
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