Nail it to a goll-darn cross. Or use salad forks. So that's two ways, I guess.
1/30/07
1/29/07
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?
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?
1/25/07
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.
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.
1/23/07
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!
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!
1/21/07
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?
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?
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