Look what I found!

I've been having some anxiety issues lately. My therapist keeps saying that they're the result of a biochemical imbalance in my brain, combined with relationship stress and lingering shock from a traumatic experience.

I say that it's because I recently realized that I will never be able to bear and give birth to a child. And who would know better? Me? Or her?

The culmination of this anxiety, I'd say, is the hole I punched in my refrigerator door. My fingers were very buttery and slippery, and the kept sliding off the door handle. This frustration, on top of the "Junior syndrome" (my term), prompted me to find a new way to retrieve my iced tea. Boom! Right through the door

It wasn't as rewarding as I had hoped. Aside from the tremendous pain in my hand, wrist, and radius bone, the hole was too small to pull the iced tea through (and believe me, I tried for some time), and the new crimps running through the door made it impossible to open in the normal way, buttery fingers or no. It was probably the low point of the day.

It was the sort of experience that makes you want to slump against a broken refrigerator, your hand still stuck inside, clasping a bottle of tea. But as my head dangled near the floor, I hear the strangest squeaking...

At maximum curiosity, I released the tea, and found the nearest head-sized hole in the floor. And look what I found:


I had to lure him out with a piece of cheese (which—the gods must be crazy—fit through the hole in the fridge door), but once he got out in the open and set his crossed eyes on the comforts of above-ground living... there was no going back for him.

I have decided to name him "Lancelot." (For now, at least.) He goes through cheese like you wouldn't believe, but I think things are finally looking up for me. For me and for Lancelot.

PS—explain this

I just stole this from "My Space." Is this a "transsexual"? Is that what that means? Holy Cats! remind me never to be a single dad, because I don't think I could deal with all the transsexuals.

25 things about me

Hey there, gworls and boils.

I know all y’all are into facebook, and feelings, and showing your feelings on facebook. And, really, that’s fine. I don’t respect that—at all—but it’s fine if you want to talk about yourself on facebook to strangers.

It makes a lot of sense, in some ways. I mean, it’s important that everybody knows about how much you like 80s music and about how sad sad sad you were when your stupid old grandma died (because she was old, probably not because she was stupid… but it’s sad either way, I’m sure), because these are the things that make you so interesting. But how are you supposed to let everyone know about this interesting crap? Because if you were to just walk up to some passing acquaintance and start telling them about this stuff—telling them with your mouth and noises, I mean—they’d probably punch you, assuming they didn’t fall asleep first. So… how? Facebook! This way, you can expose passing acquaintances to the facts regarding your rotten genitals and your dog’s clever name, and you don’t have to worry about them punching you in your talking mouth.

It’s not for me, though. I do have feelings (so many feelings), and I do have facebook (so many friends), but I’m not comfortable expressing one through the other. The C.R. seems like a much more logical forum .

So, in the loose tradition of facebook, I will now post 25 interesting little things about interesting me. I can’t tag 25 friends to do it too, however, because a) this isn’t facebook; b) I don’t know what that even means; and c) I don’t have 25 friends. Also, so far, I’m the only person in the world that knows the address of this blog. So I guess, just for appearances, I’d like to “tag” Angelina Jolie (before she had all those kids), Eartha Kitt (before she died), and also Jesus (whenever). The more I can learn about those interesting characters, the better.

And so, without further ado…

Why does it have to be 25 things? I’m not sure I can think of 25 things to say about myself, without resorting to describing body parts (and I can only think of about 15 body parts, so that’s not even going to do it). And I’m at work right now. We’ll just see how far I get.

1) I just don’t get “Rocky Raccoon.” Is he supposed to be some kind of animal? Whatev. I’ve poisoned dozens of raccoons (accidentally, and for a little pin money), and you know what? The poisoned raccoon’s mate doesn’t get all sad. No, it just goes and eats its fallen partner. And then it often dies too, if the initial poison dose was high enough. It’s very Romeo and Juliet, but it ain’t no pop song.
2) I am professional-comedian-funny.
3) My favorite country is America.
4) I would rather hug than argue.
5) I don’t vote.
6) Sometimes I’d rather argue than hug.
7) My least favorite race is Spanish.
8) When I was a little boy, I once punched through my garage wall. I was that strong.
9) I have never, ever killed anything that I thought deserved to live.
10) Arson and arsonists are two of my greatest fears. The thought of dying in fire is scary!! If anybody ever tries to burn me down… I’m going out like the Terminator (with a big damn fight).
11) I’m not sure what the Seven Wonders of the World are, exactly, but I bet they aren’t that great. Sorry to be controversial, everyone, but I’m no sheep.
12) Least favorite number.
13) Like Gandhi and the Beatles, I truly believe that love is the only real solution to those problems in the world that can’t be solved with violence. Take hunger, for instance—you aren’t going to end hunger with a war. It just takes love, which is awesome, because I don’t even have to do anything… except feel love for the hungry ones. Call me an idealist, but there it is.
14) Who the heck is Norman Mailer? I assume he’s an artist, and/or not heterosexual. But I don’t know! He could be a soldier, and/or some variation of heterosexual.
15) Favorite flavor: salty.
16) I actually don’t have a least favorite number. But sometimes I lie about that to fit in.
17) In tech school, I dabbled in Pentecostalism. But, you know what? I don’t regret it at all; college-like environments are where we’re supposed to have learning experience-like experiences. A side note (and, again, this isn’t an apology): I admit that I faked the speaking in tongues thing. I would just recite the plots to Ducktales episodes as fast as I could. It did feel a little like what I imagine the Holy Spirit feels like, though.
18) I am not a racist.
19) Sometimes I just look at the sun, and I think, “Holy shit! Really?”
20) I sympathize with Dr. Frankenstein. He just wanted a baby of his own, you know? I don’t want a baby, but I get what it’s like to want to make something that’s supposed to be impossible for you to make. (But at least my meatloaf never strangled any little girls.)
21) I’m a compulsive gambler. Like, everything I do, I have to say to myself, “I bet everything I own that I can make it across the street before the red hand starts flashing” (or whatever). It’s actually kind of scary, but so far I haven’t lost much.
22) Was it St. Francis who preached to the birds? I think that’s nice. Somebody has to do it, because those little suckers could die at any moment.
23) I figure that I can run about 25 miles an hour, because coyotes can run about 24 miles an hour, and I haven’t been caught by a coyote yet. Do the math.
24) If Lady Di had lived, we would have been married and divorced by now, and AIDS wouldn’t be real any more. Fact. Learn to live with it.
25) If I could have a super power, it would be invisibility*. This is so I wouldn’t have to look at myself naked in the shower. I’m just trying to get clean! I don’t need that distraction!
26) *25 subject to change.

I thought this was supposed to be a socialist paradise!

After decades of struggle, we’ve finally elected our first red president, and here I am, eating a scone (made in America), sitting on a chair (made for Americans), in a Barnes and Noble store (where very nearly everything is printed in American).

And yet… and yet I can’t get free internet! I was opposed to a communist president from the start, but I figure the Lord gives you a Red, you make red kool-aid. It’s been four days, however, and that red hasn’t given up a drop of the juice of the fruits of socialism. It makes me suspect that a) there are no fruits of socialism, or b) our president isn’t a true red.

If I have to put on a grey uniform and go to jumping jack classes every day, I want free internet! Is that so hard to understand, comrade?!?!

Yeah, don’t let the immediate tone of this diary fool you: this is not live. I’m writing it on a typewriter program, on the afternoon of the 24th of January, and I have been forced to save it and “post” it later. I sat down with my scone and clicked the “internet” button on my computer, but all that came up was effete ass-grabber in rectangle glasses from AT and T, saying that my ass needed to be grabbed before I got any internet. WTF. That’s not socialism, that’s the worst kind of capitalism, the kind where someone else takes advantage of ME.

And here’s the thing: I had important business to attend to on the internet. Let alone my internet diary (I had a great entry on the different terms for “vagina” I feel entitled to use), I needed to get some files downloaded from a file-stealing site.

Please, hold your criticisms for ineffective communist presidents. While technically I would be stealing these files, any ethicist worth his weight in salt would tell you that, in the most important sense, the files belong to me. Who else would own naked pictures of me?

Remember that whole cell phone camera/naked pictures debacle? Of course you do—it was a big deal. Well, I don’t know if my phone was “hacked,” or if I just accidentally called the internet one day, but somehow those pictures are on the web now. All two hundred of them.

I took it upon myself, then, to get these pictures back. It won’t be easy, but I figure if I can track down every where my pictures ended up, I can just download them all at once, and then break my computer. Problem solved, right?

Nope. When I started to download the first batch of nudie-me pics, I immediately received a notice from my “ISP” (don’t ask me what it stands for) saying that Warner Brothers was aware that I was attempting to illegally obtain these pictures, and that they would pursue legal recourse if further attempts at downloading were made on my part.

How the flock did the Warner brothers get legal ownership of naked pictures of me? I never saw any money for them! Once again, this is the worst form of capitalism.

Some days I think that there’s nothing good about the world.

PS—What are you going to call a vagina next time you see one? Beats me. Blame Barnes an Noble. And communism.

Don't get ahead of yourself D-bag

Wowsers!

Whoever wrote that last post must have been on smart pills or something!

Seriously, it was me who wrote it, but that's a Frisky Chesterton post if I've ever read one. Some times I feel like I'm David Jeckyll and Frisky is like Walter Hyde. That's if Hyde were really smart, I mean, not a creepy little midget.

So get a load of this:

"It was the strangest sensation. Two violent heaves, and there it was: I had vomited a human finger. 'Now, where,' I thought to myself, 'did that come from?'"

That's from the guy who wrote Winnie the Pooh! A.A. Milne, New Years' morning, 1932! I hope his resolution wasn't to stop eating fingers. (Although that could be a tricky one, depending on your situation. I guess I shouldn't judge.)

For some reason I have butter, or something buttery, all over my fingers right now. I can't for the life of me think where it could have come from. It's like I slapped a man made of butter, or something. I don't think I would ever eat my own fingers, even buttered up like this. Unless I was starving, and the only way to ensure that some of my fingers lived was to eat the rest of them—I might do it then. But that same sentiment goes for children, assuming I had children (multiple children, anyway). It's just common sense.

Oh, I don't think I ever mentioned it, but I've been going to therapy lately. I started going because I kept waking up with huge wedgies, and I wondered if I might be doing that to myself on purpose in my sleep. The real problem turned out to be related to the material of my pajamas, but I don't regret the therapy. You don't want to play around with something like that. Getting things stuck in your butt crack can be a serious problem (I've seen x-rays), and I feel pretty certain that it usually starts with wedgies. Anyway, it's nice to have that resolved, but I've continued with the therapy. I've always thought of therapy as sort of a status symbol, and now that I'm in it, I have to admit that it feels good. It's like driving a used Lexus. Very nice.