PRANKS 'N' BEANS 2: Short Shots, Almost Shot!

Gather round, Kids, it's time once again for more Tales Of Idiocy And Gross Negligence. You can find the First Part here. These are just some short bits the neighborhood boys and I used to pull before we discovered girls smelled real pretty. And, a longer story of the time we came close to being murdered.

MOCK FIGHTS
Mock fights were easy, and free to stage. We'd just stand on the corner beside the road and pretend to beat each other to death until someone stopped, then we'd laugh and haul ass, disappearing into the woods (if you haven't noticed, there is a pranking pattern here within which every prank tends to end with us 'disappearing into the woods). We became quite adept at fight choreography, and I think if we'd kept it up we could've all been the stars of a teenage Saturday Morning version of The Fall Guy. It wasn't all fake, though. You can't fake a flip. I came close to breaking my assbone a few times when David Marshall would toss me over his shoulder and I'd land the wrong way. I would then limp into the woods to disappear.

TRASHCAN DEMOLITION DERBY
You take two empty trashcans, and tie them together with fishing line. Place one on each side of the highway, using enough fishing line so that they are far enough apart but the line is taut. What you're ideally trying to achieve is the line catching across someone's radiator grill, which pulls the two trashcans. You want enough line so that the trashcans don't hit the car, instead slamming together behind it and bouncing down the road. It was rare that this actually worked, but when it did the noise was very comedic.

FISHING FOR SUCKERS
Find an old purse of a light color. Take some fake (but realistic appearing from a distance) money and put it inside the purse, leaving some of it hanging out. Tie a piece of fishing line (fishing line, by the way, is one of the Prankster's best friends) to the purse handle and reel it out into the woods. Even better, leave it on the fishing pole if at all possible. As cars pass they will stir the money, some of which may even fly up in the air, giving a good effect. Eventually a car will stop. When the driver (or passenger) reaches the purse, snatch the line or reel it in as fast as you can. This will almost always catch the person off guard at first, and they will take a few steps towards the purse in pursuit. The object is to see how far you can make the person stagger after the purse before they catch on. We managed to get one dimwit within a few feet of us before he realized he'd been had, and stared right into the woods at our laughing faces.

AROUND THE WORLD WITH EIGHTY DUMBASSES
This was a Spur-Of-The-Moment Prank which quickly got out of hand, and resulted in our fleeing the scene like a pack of hunted fugitives. All of us were perched on our bicycles at the corner of Masonboro Loop Road and Patalanda Road, trying to think of some group activity which might kill one or more of us (well, not really, but someone always ended up crying). Bubba was staring into the ditch at some shiny object, and when an enquiry was made, got off his bike and produced a discarded cassette tape. As it didn't take much to capture our fascination in those days, the cassette was passed around, inspections were made, and it was determined that the contents of said musical cassette tape were unsalvageable. There would be no REO Speedwagon or whatever the hell it was.

At some point we began debating the various other uses for the tape housed with the plastic shell: Should we affix the tape to the community stray dog's tail and observe as it comically chased the cassette around? No - he was a good dog, followed us everywhere, and never hurt anyone. He'd never forgive us. Should we wrap each other's head with the tape until it ran out, and pretend to be Ninja Mummies? No, that would be stupid. There are only Ninjas, and Mummies. There are no Ninja Mummies. Should we make tassels for our bike handlebars with the tape, and laugh as they flapped and fluttered in the breeze? No, we weren't GIRLS, and whoever suggested that ought to be frogged in the leg until he can't walk. Should stretch it out, light it on fire, and see how long it takes to burn from end to end? Hmmm...that had possibilities, but none of us had fire-making equipment handy.

Someone (and I don't recall who) noted that the Stop Sign at the end of Patalanda Road and the Street Sign across Masonboro Road were perfectly perpendicular to each other...if one were to, say, unspool the tape from the shell and wrap it back and forth around the two signs, why...it would probably look just like one of those tapes at the end of a race! And the first car to break through it would be the winner!

Keep in mind Wilmington, NC was still a small place in those days, and we lived in the No-Man's Land between Wilmington City and Carolina Beach - sometimes you could play in the road for an hour before a car passed and forced you to move. I don't remember how long it took us to unspool the tape and wrap it between both signs, but I do remember the result - a nearly three foot wide band of highly reflective audio tape.

Well, that's settled. What to do now?

Say, I've got it! Why don't we all sit here on our bikes at THE SCENE OF THE CRIME like a bunch of Numbskulls?

I think it was some form of Mass Imbecility which came over us at that moment, because that's exactly what we did: sit (or stand, as a few of us including myself had parked our bikes) right beside the sign waiting for the next car. Which came around the bend not two minutes later.

We all jumped in unison, waving our hands as if we were cheering on the last runner in a marathon, whooping and laughing as the tape broke directly across the windshield of the white Buick -

and the driver slammed on brakes, spinning around in the middle of the road. You could smell the burnt rubber in the air.

Time froze. We all stared at the car, which began moving towards us. You couldn't see the driver for all the tint over the front windshield. The driver revved his engine and we broke, almost all of us in different directions. Another wave of stupidity passed over the group, Rusty being the only one retaining his senses enough to pick his bike up for mobile escape . David Dixon and I ran together, through Mrs. Field's front yard and around back, out into the field past the Pear Trees. David kept saying "ohshitohshitohshit" over and over; I glanced behind us only to see that the guy had pulled his car off the side of the road and was running after the two of US. He was a blur to me, but I could estimate he was no more than fifty yards behind and gaining. I stepped on the gas and shot past David for a few feet until his long legs caught up. We vaulted over a fence and broke into the woods leading down to Masonboro Sound. I was scared to look back until we'd ran for a couple of minutes, and when I finally screwed up the courage I STILL SAW THE GUY. He was further behind than before, but he was still back there, like the Sheriff leader of the posse in The Defiant Ones.

David grabbed my arm and pulled me down a side path (I was so out of breath by this point I couldn't see straight), which eventually led us past some abandoned Horse Stables into another darkly wooded area. We crouched behind some clustered bushes and tried to catch our breath. David was still muttering "ohshitohshit" under his. I looked around and saw that we were almost at the edge of the Sound.

"We can't run anymore, we're out of woods," I told him.

"Let's just wait here for a while," he replied, and we remained crouched behind the bushes for thirty years. Wait, did I say years? I meant minutes; we only aged thirty years during that time. Nothing. I started to stir, and I noticed David taking off his shirt.

"David, what are you doing?!?!"

"We can't stay here forever. Switch shirts with me."

"What for?!?!"

"If we're wearing different clothes, we'll look like different people. If he sees us when we're walking back, maybe we'll look like two different kids."

YES, I AM FULLY AWARE THAT THIS WAS STUPID, STUPID, STUPID BUT AT THE TIME IT SOUNDED LIKE MY FRIEND WAS A GENIUS

I switched shirts with him and started breaking off clumps of limbs from the bushes.

"Take these," I said, handing them to David, "And keep them with you. We'll walk along the woods edge of the Sound back home. If we see him duck down really quick and hold them in front of you. Camouflage."

YOU DON'T HAVE TO TELL ME, I ALREADY KNOW

We began our trek back home, and decided to exit the woods at a random location in case he was waiting for us. Ninja skills came into play, and we side-stepped our way through the forest as silently as two young dopes stomping through leaves and dry-rotted tree branches could hope to. When we came to a suitable spot, we decided to cross the road and take the rest of our trip through the woods on the other side for maximum invisibility. Making sure there were no cars passing, we scuttled across the street wearing our Stealth T-Shirts, holding our Branch Camouflage before us and -

Walked right into the fucker's back yard.

That's right. Directly at odds with the very Laws Of Intelligence, we had ignorantly blundered our way right to the guy's driveway. There was the Buick, strips of audio tape still clinging to the Radio Antenna. We blinked at each other like the Brain Absent Morons we were for a few seconds, then moved quicker than the human eye Hong Kong Fuey-Style back into the woods we'd just exited.

We finally dragged home after backtracking for another half hour, meeting up with the rest of the gang at Rusty's house, where he held our bikes and relayed the full story to us.

What we'd missed:

Bubba, running from the Stop Sign right into the middle of the living room of the lady who lived across the street from the site of our prank, where he began talking to her like he'd just popped over for a visit.. Bubba pretty much didn't give a shit about anything. She even gave him Sweet Tea and Little Debbie snack cakes.

Rusty, casually riding down the dirt trails beside his house where he knew the guy couldn't get to him, and circling back when the coast was clear.

Sonny, running and hiding behind someone's bedsheets drying on the line in their yard, where he stood motionless for a few minutes until the guy chased David Dixon and I out of sight. He then made his way to Rusty's where they played Atari games while waiting for us to get back.

David Marshall, (who lived right down Patalanda Road) just ran the back way home, where he laid on the couch having a nice snack and watching TV.

The biggest news was this: When Rusty pedaled off, he looked over his shoulder and saw the guy getting out of his car with a pistol in his hand.

I never saw any pistol, but I was steady running at breakneck speed. I couldn't have confirmed what the guy looked like if you'd handed me a clear picture of him chasing us. Rusty wasn't one prone to exaggeration for no reason, so I took him at his word. The bottom line is this: We were the only ones chased by this pistol-packin' maniac until we finally ended up right in his back yard, while everyone else went home and had snacks; and not one of them told their folks or called the cops, because they were afraid they were going to get in trouble if they did.

All David and I got is an array of bruises from all the tree limbs we ran into, bug bites, and sore legs.

We never did get around to returning our T-shirts back to each other.

Misery Loves Comic Books

NERD ALERT: If you don't like Comics, you may want to just skip this one altogether.

Prefaced Notation: Lest the reader surmises the 'review' below indicates distaste and revulsion towards the 'subject' of the 'review', the author wishes to assure you it means nothing of the sort. In fact, the author found certain pointed aspects of the work in question to be of the highest caliber in regards to entertainment value, and whiled away the remainder of the evening pondering the implications of emotions raised within him upon completion. <---------This means I liked it, but I'm still going to rag on it. I was mimicking Chris Ware Speak.

I read most of The Acme Novelty Library #15 last night. From what I gather, this is the second collection of 'loose' strips Chris Ware has done over the years, as well as a compendium for new shorter features. There are four main strips compiled within the oversize book: Rusty Brown, Quimby The Mouse, Tales Of Tomorrow, and Rocket Sam. The centerspread of the book is one of Ware's famous highly-detailed paper 'cut-out' toys, along with a new (I guess?) Jimmy Corrigan tale and a Rusty Brown 1973/2001 calendar.

The bulk of the issue is devoted to Rusty Brown. Rusty is your typical 'Lives With His Mom And Obsesses Over Collecting' type. Over the course of the issue Ware presents several vignettes sliced from Rusty's life - from troubled child to middle-aged waste, and pays special attention to his relationship with his 'friend' Chalky White. You know the person Rusty Brown refers to, you've seen them at the Comic Shop or The Book Store or The Video Store - unconcerned over personal appearance, goes into gales of embarrassing hysteria over some dirty broken knick-knack from yesteryear, ogles any stray woman who happens to wander unknowingly into the store as if she's a stripper about to give them the Lap Dance of their lives. I managed a Comic Shop for almost three years (from 1991 to 1993), and I saw a lot of these guys shuffle through the doors wearing their backpacks (both straps on) and carrying their spiral bound notebooks. Nearly thirty yet their Mothers drive them everywhere, spend every dime they make on Collectibles, possessive of no interactive skills. When I ran the Comic Shop for those three years, there was one guy who reminded me the most of a Rusty Brown. Thursdays were New Shipment Day at the time, and I would meet the UPS truck at the K-mart down the street at 7 am to pay for the shipment. I did this because otherwise I would have to wait until 11 or 12 to get the books, and then have to pull the subscription copies and place new books on the stands while 30 people were hovering over me. I ran the entire store by myself (the owner travelled around doing those 'Mall Antique Shows' I'm sure you've seen before, sometimes he'd be gone up to three weeks), so I decided to save myself the hassle and get it all finished before we opened the store at 10. These were the days when 30 people milling about on shipment day was normal - nowadays Comic Shop Owners are lucky to get 30 customers all day long on any given day. Anyway, one of the customers caught wind of my early dealings and began appearing by the front door, waiting on me, as I'd arrive. This was 7:30 in the morning I'm talking about, folks, and he'd be standing there, his mother in the car with the engine running. When I unlocked the door she'd pull out of the parking lot (she NEVER came inside), leaving me babysitting her twenty-something maladjusted baby boy. I didn't say anything at first, I'd just let him in and explain that he was going to have to wait while I unboxed the shipment. This guy would get right up on me as I opened each box, eyes wide and expectant, fairly drooling as he waited for the forty or fifty titles he bought each week to be unpacked. I mean, he was right in my face, I could smell the pancakes and sausage links on his breath, and he'd do a happy little hop whenever I handed him something he'd been waiting on. And I realized that he was always waiting for something. From Friday (because you know he read everything the same day he got it - what the hell else did he have to do?) until Wednesday his days and nights were numb in anticipation of the next shipment. A circular obsession, round and round forever, or until New Warriors was cancelled. Once he got his books he'd go sit in a corner of the store and pour over them until his mother returned and honked his exit cue, and the cycle would begin anew. I felt a combination of pity and slight disgust for him, but I eventually learned to be gentle yet firm with these types. They know no social graces, so they'll stampede and knock over anyone to get at the latest issue of their favorite comic or magazine, and you can't let them do that, but you have to be patient because they are your life blood. Fanatics keep your store running. So I tolerated this fellow, until one shipment day I pulled into the parking lot to find ten Rusty Browns standing there out of breath with excitement waiting for me. The Nerd Word had spread, and it was all over for me. These guys scrambled into the store when I unlocked the door even though I told them to wait for me to cut on the lights and prep the register, some of them grabbing boxes out of my car and toting them in under the pretense of helping, only to try and tear open the boxes themselves when they sat them on the table behind the counter, crowding around each box as I cut it open, getting in my way and knocking shit over. It was a long day, because most of them had been dropped off by a family member and I had to deal with their never-ending discussions of Comic Book minutiae and mind-boggling stupid questions for half the day. Three weeks of this shit and I was over it. I got out of my car on that fourth week, told them all my boss had said no one else was to be allowed into the store until I'd unpacked the shipment (a lie, but so what), and made them all wait in the parking lot until I was finished. Took my time, too. I have a lot of Comic Shop stories, some of which I'll get around to here some day. It was the best job I've ever had as far as being able to observe different character quirks and types - but I ended up hating Comic Books before it was all over. For the last few months I was there, I didn't read anything unless I could do it in the store during down-time, and didn't buy a single Comic for around two years after I left.

So, I've known a lot of Rusty Browns. As has anyone who's worked in a Comic store, or shopped there. I still know one or two. The ground Rusty Brown covers has already been walked several times in the past by other creators, so it's not exactly an original, groundbreaking subject. And I don't necessarily want to read about them anymore. It's just a personal bias. Chris Ware seems to be taking the standard AlternaNerd position of assuming superiority over such types, when I can tell you from experience that I saw almost as many slobbering fanatical dinks waiting for word of a new Love And Rockets. They were just wearing Jello Biafra T-shirts instead of Wolverine ones, but both sets of shirts were equally pit-stained. A dork is a dork is a dork, and Evan Dorkin hit this nail on the fucking head in his comic DORK! when issue #6 featured a flip book with "The Northwest Comix Collective", the Mini-Comic scribbling AlternaNerd equivalent of The Eltingville Club. I understand Rusty Brown is Ware's next big project, following the Jimmy Corrigan mold. I may pass on this one; it's interesting, but I already lived it, you know?

Next up is Quimby The Mouse. This is the closest thing approaching funny in the comic. I chuckled a couple of times. It's about a lonely mouse living out his existence in exile (I guess after having retired from cartoons? It's not really explained). There are a couple of keen observations here about the way we tend to waste our time and regret it later, and all the missed chances we dwell upon. It's illustrated in a Krazy Kat 1930s style, which contrasts with the story in a neat way. I enjoyed the Quimby strips most of all.

Then we have Rocket Sam. There are only a few Sam strips in this issue, and it is kind of a one-note strip. Sam has crash-landed on a desolate planet, with only a Robot Servant (whom he constructed out of scrap) for company. I suppose Ware is making some sort of statement about how we're all really alone on our own planets of isolation with the objects of our infatuation constructed within our own minds - or something. It's dreary.

Even drearier is Tales Of Tomorrow. This flip-flops back and forth though time, actually. The same pudding-faced shlub appears to be the focal point of each strip. Alone, awkward, desperate to fit in and pursue happiness, the unnamed shmuck watches television (in the future, they have TV's everywhere!) constantly, meanders through his job, purchases the latest hip merchandise in an attempt to lift his spirits, and every single strip ends with him crying on the edge of his bed or staring forlornly into space. To tell the truth, I skimmed through most of these because I don't think reading a comic should make you want to slit your wrists lengthwise.

In conclusion, I was left pondering several questions at the end of The Acme Novelty Library #15: Is there some sort of unwritten rule at Fantagraphics that every title published must be filled with fucked-up miserable characters? Is everyone in real life that fucked-up and miserable, and I'm just not noticing? I mean, I don't know about you, but I'm not that fucked-up and miserable. Sure, I get to feeling miserable at times, but it usually goes away in a little while after I have some liquor. Then I am fucked-up, but not miserable. And, if you are a fucked-up and miserable person, do you really want to spend your time reading about other fucked-up and miserable people? Don't you think the money you spend on fucked-up miserable comics might be better spent on some intensive therapy to make yourself less fucked-up and miserable?

The paper toy was neat, though.

ADDENDUM: The author wishes to convey with the utmost sincerity and conviction that, should he survive to see the wizened old age of 100, he could have travelled through the the obstacled course of those rocky years quite blissfully without ever having focused his vision upon the following illustration from The Acme Novelty Library #15:

Blog Walk Part Two: Ninja Resurrection!

That Ninja comment has nothing to do with the blog walk. I just remembered as a child going with my buddies to see every single Sho Kosugi Ninja movie playing in town at the budget cinema. At one such screening (I think it was Ninja II: Revenge Of The Ninja), we all rose simultaneously to get snacks, ending up the bathroom together 'Ninja-ing' the hell out of it in imitation of Our Hero. I personally nearly kicked the paper towel holder off the wall, and my old chum David Dixon took out the soap dispenser with one well-placed shot. I was a Ninja Freak between the ages of twelve and fifteen. Bought all the magazines, collected all the Stephen Hayes Ninja Method Books, practiced sneaking around like a jackass, lost many crappy aluminum Ninja Stars deep within the woods by my house. One summer I saved almost every dime I earned to order an Authentic Ninja Uniform (complete with headwrap, but no Tabi boots, and I never did manage to save enough for those). I say a small prayer of thanks every day of my life for the absence of cameras while I was wearing that thing.

I'm going to stop at ten more blogs tonight for you, as we briskly stroll through the Cyberpark at midnight trying to avoid pixelated muggers and drug dealers. Don't worry, if we run into any criminal types I know all kinds of Ninja Death Nerve Pinches.

1. Misha over at The Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiler fisks everyone's favorite provider of Kegger Background Music here.

2. MtPolitics informs us of another STUPID LAW in the making here.

3. Solonor had a good rant over the Patriot Act yesterday.

4. Zany discusses some female problems I can't relate to but find interesting nonetheless at ZanyBlog.

5. How To Torture Teenagers, from Patty at PDawwg.

6. I don't understand this female crap either, Annastazia.

7. Chip Tijuana attempts to get his Weirdo Buddy Greg humiliated in front of millions.

8. Jennifer from Simplicity and Chaos shares the joy of working to help people who don't give a damn in her February 6th entry.

9. Peat from DiversionZ tells us how to get, how to get, how to get to Sesame Street.

10. Marc from Quit That! gives an excellent, in-depth report of a recent trip he took, complete with photos, Airport Security Overreaction, and Drinking With Acidman.

Enjoy all the links.

TOMORROW:

Back to my regular pathetic stabs at conjuring humor out of thin air with A Review Of Acme Novelty Library #15, and PRANKS 'N' BEANS PART TWO: Short Shots, and Almost Shot!

Walkin' The Blog Over You

Tonight I'm going to enjoy some Chinese Food (man, you spend ten dollars at one of those places and you get three meal's worth of chow, plus some hilarious moments repeating yourself into the phone 500 times for the Recent Arrival taking your order), begin reading the Jimmy Corrigan Hardcover I just bought (I know it's going to take me a month to read, as intricate as Chris Ware seems - I purchased this and the latest issue of The ACME Novelty Library out of curiosity, having been drenched with much foam from the frothing mouths of AlternaNerds raving over it - but if I end up liking it I'm shit outta luck, since most of the issues are out of print), watch a couple more episodes of Sanford And Son, and then I am done with Saturday.

First, however, I will present you with two NEW POLLS (which can be found, as always, down and to your left), and take you on a short Blog Walk so you'll have some good reading to pass the time.

1. BeerMary has some cool pics of her puppy here, and confronts a snarling possum all for love here.

2. Stennie, asks a different Trivia Question every day, and they're all interesting. She also lists some very funny Family Slang here.

3. Vince Ferrari over at Insignificant Thoughts provides some Introspective Thoughts on 'breaking into the blogger clique' here.

4. Andrea Harris from Spleenville uses her Knerd Knowledge to backfire some attempts at Photoshop Slammery here.

5. Terry at It could just be me has a nice reminiscence about a friend from her younger years here. She just got a comments feature, so give her some comment love and ignore that big white box she won't fix (kidding).

6. Out of all the Space Shuttle stories I've read over the past week, Razor at Unfinished Metropolis has the most personal and touching account dealing with the aftereffects of such a tragedy here.

7. My buddy Chuck from work has his own blog at24mercerave, and he ranks all of the fellas street-level style here.

8. Go see Trace's new Valentine's Slay Design at Snarkalicious (it's a hoot), vote in the poll, and then read Cameron's Erotic Weapons Inspection Story.

9. The adorable Kelly at Kellybelly.net has a nicely-designed blog (love the fade on the links), and recently took some really wicked Sun Dog pictures which she shares here.

10. Kerry just started a blog called Two Braincells, and tells of a modern Hollywood celebrity doing the unthinkable here. Go give the gift of comments and encouragement. Not even a whole week in, and it's already a good blog.

Well, that's enough for tonight. Please don't feel left out if I didn't get to you - I will be finishing the blog walk through the blogroll tomorrow, and then I'll try to do a new one every couple of weeks.

POLL RESULTS - 'Describe Yerself'

Once again, my comments in Italics

I'm Best Described As:

Cheerfully Depressed (3) 10% - Well, buck up, kiddos - life's not that bad. It's even worse. Let a smile be your toilet!

Psychotically Level-headed (7) 23% - That's good to know. Remain calm, and remain the hell away from me. Or not. Don't want to upset you or anything, because I wouldn't be able to tell.

So Wrong, yet So Right (1) 3% - This was my favorite, and I'm glad someone picked it.

Erotically Chaste (3) 10% - I am intrigued. To say the least. If the people who checked this are still around, you have a new assignment: Write me an erotically chaste story or poem. I want to be aroused, but not enough to touch myself.

Hopefully Fatalistic (3) 10% - The best is yet to come, and when it comes it's going to kill you.

Violently Pacifistic (0) 0% - No one wants to beat the shit out of anyone else in the name of Peace and Harmony? Not even your Boss?

Spontaneously Reserved (1) 3% - I would ask who this was, but there's no telling when I'd get an answer.

Happily Joyless (0) 0% - This would be my Father.

Drunk (7) 23% - I knew it. You Lushes are the reason the world is in this sorry state of affairs, and I'm right in there with ya, so Bottoms Up! Let's drink ourselves stupid and complain about everything! We've earned it, damnit!

Repulsively Attractive (1) 3% - You're so pretty I can't stand to look at you.

Other (4) 13% listed below:

religiously non religious
- I want to start a church for people who don't believe in anything. It would just be a big, empty room, and people could just come there to stand around with their hands in their pockets, leaving whenever they felt like it. Talking is not allowed, but whistling is encouraged.

Other
- I can see this at a job interview: "So, what special qualities do you think could you bring to our company?" "Other." "Other what?" "Other Qualities." "Which are?" "Other." "Other what?" etc.

Stoically Tender
- Good One. I am Brutally Gentle, myself.

"The Defendant"
- Dirty Danny, are you reading?

And, a comment:

Drunk runs a close second.
- Where in the bloody hell are your priorities? Drunk should NEVER be second to ANYTHING. Straighten up, you, and start concentrating on the important things in life, like determining exactly how much you can drizzle down your gullet without getting alcohol poisoning.

I'll do the touring of the blogs tomorrow, as I am about to fall asleep on my keyboard right now.

POLL RESULTS - 'My Best Feature Is'

Polls are now closed for the two questions I asked last week, and here are the results. My commentary is in Italics.

Legs (4) 10% - You know what I like? When a girl stretches out her leg and points her toes out, the way it makes the calf defined, like a combination of curves and sharp angles. That, and when they are free of scabs.

Eyes (8) 21% - Yeah, I get that, too. My eyes are that Blue/Green/Grey. They change depending on the weather, what I'm wearing, or how often I've been elbowed in the face.

Smile (5) 13% - I have dimples, and if one more relative pinches my cheeks when I smile at a family reunion, I am going to show them my other set of dimples, the ones on my ass cheeks.

Ass (2) 5% - I was born without a fully developed ass (maybe that explains the dimples) Won't you please Paypal something my way to help raise my ass? Just a dollar a day is all it takes to keep my Gluteus growing and strong. I'll even get my ass to write you a letter once a month, and send you pictures of my ass's progress.

Feet (0) 0% - Women generally tend to think their feet are ugly. Guys generally tend to not give a leaping fuck what their feet look like, and only grudgingly clip their toenails when they begin slicing through their socks, or under threat of divorce. My feet sprouted hair at an early age, and the fellas used to ruthlessly hound me about them, calling me 'Hobbit' before it was cool to be one. On second thought, it's never cool to be one. Hobbits should learn to wear some shoes, or at least those little sock booties. You can't just go traipsing all over hot sand and sharp rocks and snow in your bigass ugly bare feet.

Hair (5) 13% - Again, Women generally tend to take a lot of pride in their hair, while men will cut theirs with the sharpened edge of a spoon if they think it will mean more money left to buy liquor.

Neck (1) 3% - Weak point for me. I love the way a woman's neck curves when she looks over her shoulder at me, I love the way the soft skin of it feels against my lips, I love it when there's no five-o-clock shadow or jutting Adam's Apple.

Hands (0) 0% - No one has nice hands? I like a woman's hands, when the nails are long and she runs them lightly across my back, and when she doesn't chew them off and spit the scraps in my face. I don't even want to touch a guy's hands to shake, because I know where they've been digging, picking, and scratching. The same places I have.

Boobies (7) 18% - Prove It.

Jed Clampett-Style Wads Of Cash (0) 0% - Fellas, if we had that, none of the other shit would even matter. Ladies, guys don't really care whether you have two nickels to rub together or you squeeze pennies until Lincoln screams. I once hit on a chick holding a Stop/Slow sign for a road crew. Because she had a nice neck, of course.

Other (7) 18% - These are listed below:

big meaty throbbing brain
- I hope it's on the back of your hand, so when you punch someone you can scream 'I Bash You With My Brain!'

teeny little smile wrinkles around my navel
- If you are a girl, I wish to marry you immediately. If you are a guy, EEEEWWWWWW, QUIT MAKING SMILES WITH YOUR BELLY BUTTON YOU FREAK.

big shoulders
- You know what they say, "Big shoulders...Big Jackets."

foot long sausage
- I am sure you're an excellent cook.

none of the above
- Cagey. Dodgy. Mysterious. Or did you mean you HAVE none of the physical features listed above? Jeez, that's rough, I'm sor - Waitaminnit. How'd you get on the internet, Torso Person?

quick wit
- Yeah, and trust me: That, a quarter, a dime, and three pennies will get you a relaxing night at home alone with 38 cents.

Other
- Now I'm curious. What were you too shy to write here? "My forked tongue"? "Gills"? "Shark-like skin which will cut up your hands if you rub me the wrong way"? "The seventh finger on my left hand"? "The blinking symbiotic evil alien eye on my chest"?

And now, your comments:

Ass runs a close second, mind you.
- My ass runs sometimes, too. I just don't eat at that restaurant anymore.

I always get a lot of compliments from men and women about my eyes. They are big and bright and since they are the gates to the soul, they are inviting.
- If eyes are gates to the soul, my soul is bloodshot.

Okay, then. I'll be back later with the results of the second poll, and a tour through some blogs of note so you night owls can have some good readin'.

FISH. EYED. FOOL.

Well, everyone's probably watching Michael Jackson decompose before your very eyes on ABC, or watching Friends on NBC (truth be told, I'm watching a little of both as I type this AND WHAT THE HELL NBC, NO SCRUBS FOR TWO WEEKS? YOU SUCK), but I'd like to talk a little bit about my favorite television show of all time, the best sitcom ever made - SANFORD AND SON.

I've been buying the Sanford and Son DVD boxed sets as they are released, and Oh Man the memories. I remember sitting with my Dad watching the show during it's last couple of years on the air, laughing just because he was laughing as most of the jokes went over my head. Doing my impression of Fred Sanford's walk for my Aunts and Uncles on demand, repeating jokes to all my friends with my squeaky seven-year-old 'Fred G. Sanford' mimicry. I still watch it on TVLand today, whenever I get the chance. Grady, Bubba, Skillet, Aunt Esther, Woodrow, Hoppy, Smitty, and Ready Freddy are like old pals I can hang out and share a glass of Kripple (that's Kool-Aid mixed with Ripple) with whenever I travel down to Watts and browse through the merchandise at the Vast Empire of Sanford and Son Salvage.

Anyway, here are some fun facts and links regarding Sanford, and Redd Foxx, so fix yourself a big bowl of Menudo (don't let Julio's Goat eat it) and relax:

1. Norman Lear based Sanford and Son on the long-running British Sitcom Steptoe and Son, with some early episodes filmed as direct adaptations of British ones. A self-referential episode, Steinberg And Son, parodies this in Season Five.

2. Redd Foxx walked out towards the end of Season Three over a contract dispute, and six episodes were filmed without him. Grady came on board as a 'replacement' for those episodes; this was explained as Fred having gone away to visit relatives and placing Grady 'In Charge' to watch over Lamont. One of these 'Fredless' episodes achieved the highest ratings ever for Sanford and Son. The writers were working under extreme pressure, and produced some very clever and tightly plotted shows despite the time crunch.

3. Redd Fox was only 49 years old when he began playing the 65 year old Fred Sanford Character. Whitman Mayo was 43 when he first appeared as the sixtysomething retired Grady.

4. Redd Foxx was something of a drug connoisseur, doing cocaine openly on the set of Sanford, and he wore a gold coke spoon on a chain around his neck.

5. Demond Wilson loved chemical alteration of his senses as well, and in a coke-fueled rage once chased Norman Lear through the hallways of NBC with a pistol.

6. Lawanda Page, TV's Aunt Esther, was once a nightclub entertainer called 'The Bronze Goddess Of Fire'. She performed an act which consisted of lighting cigarettes with flame from her fingertips, swallowing fire from torches, and roll the flame over her body. She actually did this act in one of the episodes. HAW GLORY!

7. Whitman Mayo starred in his own spin-off called, appropriately enough, 'Grady'. It was cancelled, oh, midway through the pilot episode.

8. Redd Foxx quit Sanford in 1977 to star in his own ABC variety show, The Redd Foxx Comedy Hour. The 'Super-Dave' Osborn character made his first appearance on this show (that one was for Jim Treacher). Andy Kaufman also appeared on the show.

9. The Sanford character was resurrected in 1980 in the short-lived 'Sanford' series, pairing him with an obese Redneck named Cal. The shenanigans weren't as wacky as audiences expected, so it only lasted a season.

9. Foxx was an extremely eccentric man in real life, and there are many stories about his notorious lifestyle. Mark Evanier has a few funny ones to share HERE. He's not a fan, but I'll let him slide because he used to write some decent comics.

10. Foxx had a heart attack on the set of his last Sitcom, and everyone laughed because they thought he was launching into a 'I'm Comin' To Join Ya, Elizabeth!' routine. The full story is here.

11. It is estimated that Redd Foxx has sold more Comedy Albums than any other Stand-Up Comedian in history. Exact numbers aren't possible due to the rampant bootlegging years ago.

Anyway, that's enough, I know you aren't as interested in this stuff as I am.

I'm buying the first season of Good Times, next. Got my fingers crossed for that What's Happening!! boxed set.

Roll Up, Roll Up For The Blistering Tour

Now that I know what 'Fisking' is, Laurence Simon provides the funniest example I've ever read.

I can think of only one thing which would improve upon that shining deconstruction: William Shatner wearing a beret and a black turtleneck, reading it aloud in a beat poetry club, snapping his fingers rhythmically at each pause.

Speaking of Laurence, I have to thank him for providing a link to one more for the pile:

THIS IAMBIC PENTAMETER IS MAKING A DIFFERENCE

Oh, yeah, and my archives are all dicked-up again.

IT NEVER GETS OLD

By Special Request, for TRACE.

Click The Pic.

This Is Spinal Crap

I've been getting really attached to the word 'crap' lately.

So, I jacked my back up about thirty different ways yesterday. I was repairing a bathroom ceiling (about a 2 1/2 foot by 4 foot hole), and instead of standing on a ladder like a normal intelligent human being, I stood on an empty five-gallon paint bucket. This means I had my arms over my head and my back arched at an awkward angle for a couple of hours as I completed the job, and this position combined with creative balancing and torso twisting must've done the trick. All day long yesterday I was fine, but when I woke up this morning at 6 a.m. and swung my feet out of my lonely bed - KAPOW! It sounded like I'd slept in a bed filled with crumbled rice cakes. Which I never do except on Holidays. You know those Gremlins from that 1940s Bugs Bunny Cartoon, where he's trying to keep them all from wrecking the airplane? Well, I think I have about twenty of them encircling my spine, armed with Icepicks and those old coil Car Cigarette Lighters.

"He's turning right! Give him the Icepicks!"

"He's turning left! Give him the Cigarette Lighters!"

"He's bending over! GIVE HIM DA WOIKS!"

"I'm only three-and-a-half years old."

I'm not used to Back Pain, or any kind of muscle pain. It's never been a problem with me. The past couple of years, though, I've been feeling it all over. Stiff knees after crouching to paint baseboards all day, or the day after playing paintball. Phantom aches in my sides. Joints popping and locking, and I don't even hear any hip-hop music playing. Exhausted at the end of the day, when I used to be rip-roarin' and ready to GO as soon as I hopped into the vehicle to go home.

I knew it then, as I dug my toes into the cold carpet and winced at the clap of thunder rolling across the pit in the small of my back. I've actually known it for a while, from the wrinkles multiplying at the corners of my eyes, several fresh ones each time I bother to examine what's going on facially in the mirror; from the grey hairs creeping into my chin goatee, the thick wire-brush type which make an audible snap when I use the scissors to trim it; from my hands, mostly, getting weathered and craggy with callouses. I knew it back on Thanksgiving when I went to Chad's Bachelor Party, but I didn't really know it, dig? I stared at the cool blue numbers on my clock radio for several minutes, just letting it sink in. Not sad, really, just resigned.

Getting older. I've moved into the area of life now where I'll start paying a little bit for the things I choose to do to myself. All-Night Drinkathon with the fellas? Welcome to the All-Day Pukeathon the next day. Want to rip it up and stand next to the speakers when you go downtown to hear a band play? Brush up on your sign language for when you turn fifty. Spectacular leaps, bounds, and rolls when you're playing Paintball? Spectacular bruises, soreness, and limping the following morning. Want to be cute and stand on your tip-toes for two hours patching a hole in the ceiling instead of climbing up a stepladder? Enjoy those rippling back spasms tomorrow, pal, I'm sure that 'Agony Face' and that little shuffle-walk will look pretty cute, too.

I guess I should start taking better care of myself. Well, maybe not so much that, as being more watchful in the way I do things. Try not to overcompensate as some guys do when they reach their thirties, and relax a little bit. Walk around instead of vaulting over that fallen, dead tree next time I play paintball. Three beers or mixed drinks instead of Ten. Learn to appreciate Naps. Bring the fucking ladder next time, genius (almost got through a whole post without cursing this time).

To top it all off, I've been sneezing uncontrollably for the past hour, my joints are achy, and I have a little chill. I usually get one cold a year, and this must be the day.

I'm gonna go get something to eat, and take a couple of shots. I'll be back in a couple of hours, because I like to write when I get sick. Takes my mind off it.

More Wacky Hippy Crap

JIM first linked THIS, and I got to thinking "Why just plain rice? This is WORLD PEACE we're talking about, Goddamnit! This DESERVES some flavorful variation!" So, I came up with a few suggestions of my own, to help make sure this whole 'Peace Through Rice' thing catches on:



and this last one - I figured I was going to offend someone by poking fun at this stupid shit anyway, so I might as well offend everyone else, too:

The Funk Of Forty Thousand Years

In response to countless requests (well, unless you can count to two) for a recent photo of myself, I searched through my many scrapbooks and found this Studio Portrait from a couple of years ago:



I dunno. The lighting is all wrong, I was out of Mousse that day, and the photographer kept yelling at me because I didn't look 'Pensive' enough. It's the most recent one I have, though.

Consumer Retorts

Sometimes it's hard to come up with a clever title. The Sunday Story has once again been bumped, because it was long. I'm such a slack doofus. These things have been sitting in a loose pile for years (and if YOU sit there long enough, you'll be forming some Loose Piles yourself), and I never took the time to enter them into the computer because I was lazy. And, now that I have a use for them, I always wait until the last possible minute to do so. You'd think I would have learned to plan ahead since I type like an epileptic, but no. I never learn.

Anyway, here are some mechanically mass-produced products which you should either keep an eye out for, or set yourself on fire to avoid purchasing:

1. COOKIES AND... This is a M&M Mars product, regurgitating some of their more popular candies/candy bars, and pouring the result into a pre-baked channel on a thick, snappy cookie bar. There are four varieties of these, and I purchased all four because they were promo-priced at 25 cents apiece:

a) Cookies And Snickers - A really thin Snickers Bar welded to to a cookie. It is indeed a Futuristic world we live in. No Jetsons spacecars or virtual robotic sex slaves just yet, but we got Snickers Bars on top of cookies. And NO, that doesn't mean I want to fuck Rosie, although I probably would if she had an apron full of these.

b) Cookies And Milky Way - This has a CHOCOLATE Cookie. At least, I'm guessing it's Chocolate. Could've just been burnt. It was delightful nonetheless, and I can't wait for another one of those 'Three Musketeers' Type commercials hawking this product, wherein no one seems to notice that the Three Musketeers Type characters are Horribly Deformed CGI Lumps made to look like Claymation. maybe they'll sing some sort of happy jingle, like "COOKIES! MILKY WAY! EAT IT AND CHOKE, YOU FAT BASTARDS!" to the tune of Aerosmith's Amazing.

c) Cookies And M&M's - They sprinkle those mini-M&M's on a stripe of chocolate. CHEAP. LAME.

d) Cookies And Twix - Wait a minute. Twix is ALREADY a friggin' cookie. I can see the meeting behind this one: "What if, instead of giving everyone TWO Twixes (is that right? Twixes?) for their money, we just gave them one smaller, FLATTENED one, with less of everything except cookie?" WEAK. RIP-OFF.

2. THE ATI-TV WONDER VE - This is a card which, when installed on your computer, allows you to watch and enjoy TV. Install a mini-refrigerator, wear a pair of Depends, and you need never stand up again. In theory. In actuality, if you are running the Windows XP Operating System, you will watch and enjoy the visual delights of a scrambled picture. So then, you re-install the software according to the manual. Again, scrambled picture, not nearly as enjoyable as scrambled eggs. Frustrated, you go to the ATI Website searching for a solution. AHA, the TV card software has issues with the Windows XP software, and they're not going on Dr. Phil to work them out. There are updated drivers, and a FAQ. You try uninstalling the old drivers, and installing the new ones you have downloaded. You are presented with a wonderful, updated interface, colorful graphics, useful features, and a scrambled display that is incompatible with Windows XP. Cursing, you travel back to the ATI Website, where, after searching through several maze-like FAQs, you find THIS. This is the solution to your scrambled TV problem the thoughtful folks at ATI have chosen to provide:

3. Some customers have also reported that they where able to work around this issue by changing the color depth from 16bpp to 32bpp (or from 32bpp to 16bpp) while the TV Player is running. After doing this the TV Player appears to provide a proper display.

To change the colours depth:

Open the Windows DISPLAY PROPERTIES panel.
Change the colours depth from 16bpp to 32bpp (or from 32bpp to 16bpp).
Click APPLY.

This must be done each time TV is started.

This must be done each time TV is started. This must be done each time TV is started. This must be done each time TV is started. This must be done each time TV is started. This must be done each time TV is started. No matter how many times you say it (you can even use a funny accent each time), it still sounds STUPID.
Thing is, that workaround is okay for the TV part, but it doesn't work for the 'Virtual VCR' feature. Using that feature kicks it right back into 'High-Definition Scramble' mode. Every feature except the basic TV is useless, and even that is a pain in the ass to use.

Basically, you've just been told that ATI doesn't give a Rat's Crusty Taterhole about your problem, and here's all you're gettin'.

Now, nowhere on the box is it stated that Windows XP will ruin the ATI Wonder VE experience for you. NOWHERE. They didn't even slap a sticker on the box. They are selling a faulty product, and just can't work up enough gumption to fix it. I have made a vow to never purchase another ATI product again, and to badmouth them every single chance I get until I draw my last breath. If I can stop one person from lining the pockets of the mongoloids running ATI, it will be worth it.

3. BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER for XBOX - I bought this off the clearance rack at EBWorld video game emporium. The guy behind the counter (who plays WAY too many video games) swore up and down that it was one of the best games he'd ever played, and he wasn't a fan of the show. As I've stated before, I have seen Ten Minutes of the Buffy show total, and that was it. But, it was dirt cheap, and I was bored, so I bought it. I'm not a hard sell when the word 'cheap' is a factor.

Not bad at all. The graphics, while not on the level of a Halo or Splinter Cell, are quite good (Buffy's cleavage shimmers). Neat lighting effects when you perform a special move. The game is your basic 'Tomb Raider' styled adventure puzzle-solver, combined with a healthy dose of Monster ass-kicking. And when I say ass-kicking, I mean it. Buffy grabs punkass vampires and zombies and lays all kinds of Jackie Chan stompfighting upon them, plus you get a multitude of weird weapons (a mop?), and the monsters all talk shit to you while you're fighting - it's a hoot. The dialogue is clever, and it has voicework from most of the cast (except for Sarah Michele Prinze). A light, engaging storyline, which I guess is styled like an extra-long episode of the TV show.

It made me want to start watching the show, actually. A friend of mine is buying all the DVD sets as they come out, so I'll probably start mooching them off him.

A general rule is that video games based on other Media like TV shows, Movies, Comic Books, Rock Groups - BLOW. This one doesn't. I bought this for $15 on clearance, you can find it brand new for about $20 most places. It's worth your dough.

On the other hand -

4. TERMINATOR: DAWN OF FATE for XBOX - I bought this for $9.00 on clearance at EBWorld a few weeks ago (told you, I'm cheap). It's made by Atari, and that's really all you need to know. Atari hasn't made a good game since, well, 1983. Picture the Atari 2600 version of Pac-Man, only with the Terminator and Xbox graphics, and you'll get where I'm headed.

I love The Terminator films. I can watch them endlessly, and I'm even looking forward to watching Octogenarianator Three this summer. I thought it would be great to play an interactive movie, especially for nine bucks. In this game you actually play Kyle Reese in the dismal future world, although this guy looks nothing like Michael Biehn. He looks like some random idiot with messed-up hair. As far as I have played (only through the first level, then I tore it out of the Xbox disc tray before it had the chance to shitty up my whole system through osmosis), you're escorting John Connor, who displays his leadership skills in the MAN VS. ROBOT WAR by standing in your way and doing nothing as Terminators repeatedly kill you. I assume they show you the evolution of the Terminator series of Robots, as on this first level they all look like they stepped out of the old video game Berzerk. I suppose these are the T-100s or something. The controls are awkward; the camera floats around and blocks your vision half the time, allowing whatever unseen robot to splatter your ass everywhere unchallenged; the weapons are moronic (A stun stick? Where the hell did that come from, and how in the hell can it kill Titanium Robots?) and belong in some other game, the graphics are a great Xbox imitation of old Playstation One technology; the voicework has all the earmarks of being recorded at the Rehab center after the Lithium is passed out; and they don't even use the music from the film, only a Casio-rendered knock-off which sounds a lot like Ross from Friends played it. To sum it all up, someone stole my Nine Bucks.

Poll Results

Hey, where has everyone been? I stood down at the Tranny Bar waiting for you all evening. That's where we were supposed to meet, right? That's what you said! I tucked it in and everything...you guys suck.

Well, anyway, these polls have been up long enough. I myself did not vote this time, so as not to skew the totals.

Results for the first poll, "What do you look for in a mate?" out of a total of 23 votes:

Looks 0% = 0 votes - Hmm. Interesting. I have only one reaction to this: YOU LIAAAARRRSS. I was prepared to write a big screed called 'Looks ARE everything, and I can prove it', but I just don't have the energy right now. It can wait. It probably wouldn't be very funny, anyway.

Money 4% = 1 vote - Thank you for being honest. You wouldn't happen to be one of the spurned contestants on Joe Millionaire, wouldja? Or Zsa Zsa? Glad you're feeling better.

Personality 52% = 12 votes - YOU LIAAAARRRS.

Breathing 43% = 10 votes - As one who breathes on an almost-daily basis, I take issue with this result.

Results for the second poll, "Well?" from 30 votes total:

Right Wing 26% = 8 votes - You guys have your own radio show with that guy who used to be fat and deaf, but not at the same time. Which one is he now?

Left Wing 20% = 6 votes - You guys have your own TV show with Emilio Estevez's Dad, the one who thinks he really is the President until he gets arrested.

I'll just have the fish, thanks 53% = 16 votes - I'm making special Tartar Sauce just for you. I don't like fish, though, so for the life of me I can't figure out why that popped into my head when I created this poll. I like neckbones and gizzards, though. Human ones.


I know. That sucked, and wasn't worth any sort of wait. I'll be back later on this evening with new polls and something which sucks less audibly.

DECLASSIFIED IMPERSONALS

Well, now that Colon Crisis 2003 is over, I feel okay enough to tackle something easy and poke fun at personal ads.

Yeah, I've considered placing one. So have you, so shut the hell up. I skim around here and there every once in a while, just looking, thinking I might run across someone I know or have seen around town. I don't know, I really don't have a lot of options. I don't run into a lot of people at work while painting empty apartments - and those I do run into are giving me the stink eye because I have my Hobo Painter Clothes on. People assume you're a Moron when you have a manual labor job; it's true. I don't mind going out and actually participating in group activities, but I absolutely despise going out to nightclubs because they are: A) thick with noisy shitty dance tunes, B)expensive, and C) there's usually a fist or twenty being thrown before the night is over - or at least some High Drama is bound to happen. You know High Drama, don't you? That's when you or one of your buddies throws a tantrum at a particular point in the evening and storms out of wherever the hell it is you're currently boogying down. I have been known to slam a beer bottle or two on a bar counter and get my nuts all twirled up in a huff. Why? Who the hell knows? When you're all liquored-up, you don't need a reason to be a belligerent, unreasonable jerk. For me, all it takes is a bit of needling from my pals about some random girl who just blew me off, and around an hour of heavy consumption later it's FUCK THAT CHICK, FUCK THIS PLACE, AND FUCK ALL OF YOU, I'M GOING HOME. Followed by the ritual chugging and slamming of the last beer, the snatching up of the coat, and the Dramatic Stomp towards the door.

Good times, good times.

A couple of people have suggested that I might find a nice young lady at Church or in the library/bookstore. Well, as far as the Church suggestion goes, I wouldn't feel particularly comfortable Cruising For Snookie In The House Of The Lord. Cripes. As if there aren't enough hypocrites there already, lip-synching hymns and dropping Putt Putt tokens into the collection plate on Sunday mornings, without adding me to the mix. And when I'm browsing at the bookstore, there is only one thing on my mind: reading books and magazines I have no intention of actually purchasing. Plus, Hitting On Someone At The Bookstore = Being Escorted Outside By The Management.

So, what's left? Well, I could take up cooking classes, or joining arts and crafts groups, or maybe trying acting again, or working out at the gymhahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. No, seriously, what's left that involves no real physical effort on my part? Why, Personal Ads, of course! So I sift through them on occasion, rolling my eyes the whole time, and I have been tempted...but, no. I just can't. I'm already lame enough as it is. I have no need for further stigma.

Anyway, what's below can apply equally to men or women, but I'm only using women as examples since I don't go around perusing the personal ads of other Dudes.

TIPS 'N' TRICKS FOR PEDDLING YOUR LONELY ASS TO OTHERS

• LEAVE GOD THE HELL OUT OF IT. Actual Quote: "I'm looking for a good man to help serve the Lord with me." Help serve him what? Pickle-O's? Basically, what you're saying is that you're looking for a man to be the Carrie to your Mama White. You know, it's okay to be religious. There's absolutely nothing wrong with that. But For God's Sake, keep your obsessive devotions off the damned personal ad. Leave it at a cheery "Hey, Jesus is just all right with me!", and then just DROP IT. Christ.


• STOP SAYING "I'M TIRED OF PLAYING/ALL THE GAMES". Because I got some news for you: SINGLES ADS ARE NOTHING BUT ONE GIANT GAME DESIGNED TO WIN SOMEONE'S ATTENTION. Every individual line you type into your 480 allotted words (or however many) is just another move in the game. "I'm spontaneous and fun-loving, and I adore horses! King me!"


• PLEASE QUIT USING THE WORDS 'PRINCE', 'DREAMS', 'SINCERE', 'MR. RIGHT', 'ROMANTIC', 'NICE', 'FREE SPIRIT' 'FRIEND' 'PERFECT', 'SOULMATE'... I could go on and on here, but you get the gist: Place a cap on the number of clichés you use. OF COURSE you're looking for Romantically Sincere Prince Mr. Right Who's The Perfect Soulmate Of Your Dreams. Thing is, no such creature exists. We're all just normal Human Beings with many flaws - JUST LIKE YOU. And as for this 'Friends' Horseshit, just forget about that altogether. You're not looking for 'Friends', because you can find 'Friends' anywhere - and if you can't find 'Friends' without resorting to personal ads, then it's time for some serious reflection on your personality. No, you are looking for LUV, just like everyone else. Regarding the word 'Nice' as a description of yourself - shouldn't that be sort of a given? Although I suppose 'I'M A TOTAL CUNT' would be a refreshingly honest approach, if that's indeed what you are. And, by the way, 'Free Spirit' reads to guys as 'New Age Crystal-Rubbing Lunatic'. Always.


• ASK YOUR FRIENDS TO PROOFREAD YOUR AD BEFORE YOU PLACE IT. Actual quote: "Mysteries intrigue me." Do they really? I myself enjoy the glaringly obvious mysteries, where everyone knows whodunnit right off the bat and no one has to figure anything out. And if you write "IM A HIGLY INTELIGENT INDEPANDANT COLLAGE EDUCTED WOMAN", then everyone is going to laugh at you in a mean way. I know I did.

This next group of Tips deals with pictures:

• DO NOT LIE ABOUT YOUR PHYSICAL APPEARANCE. Especially if there's a picture right next to the description which contradicts everything you've written. Height: 5' 7". Build: Slim/Athletic. Hair: Blonde. Eyes: Blue. Children: none. Interests: Hiking, Swimming, Surfing, Jogging, Going To The Gym. And then there's a picture of a 385 lb. 'Little Person' with jet black hair standing next to five kids all wearing T-shirts reading 'I Love My Dwarven Mother'. We're all going to know.


• PLEASE SELECT AN APPROPRIATE PICTURE. Which would NOT be an Olan Mills Studio Portrait of you and your Ex-Husband, or a picture so blurry it appears as if the photographer had Parkinson's Disease. Just a nice, clear photo of YOU BY YOURSELF, and not standing in a Tour Group with a hand-drawn arrow pointing down at the top of your head, or puking into the middle of a crowd of Heroin Junkies at Mardi Gras.


• DO NOT STEAL THE PHOTOS OF OTHERS. I witnessed a girl get Cold-Busted for this a while back. She stole a picture from another singles ad on THE SAME SITE, FROM THE SAME AREA CODE (dumbass), and the real girl used up all her Personal Ad Message space ragging all over the thief, who evidently had no idea because she was still using the stolen picture when I checked back a few days later. Hysterical. Also, if there are white letters running down the side of the (grainy black and white) picture that read 'AP Wire', and you can see a Mattress ad ghosting through the other side, you're busted. If you're considering doing any of the above stuff, you may as well just not even bother to use a picture at all. It won't make a difference. You'll be fine without one, anyway. I now know there are enough freaks in the world for everyone to pair off with. Well, everyone except me, anyway.

And now, the single most important Tip of all:

• STOP LETTING YOUR EXPECTATIONS EXCEED REALITY. If you ARE that 385 lb. Dwarven Mother, it's a safe bet to guess that you're not going to pull in a Jude Law lookalike. I'm sorry, it isn't going to happen. If you are a Moron, you are not going to snare a College Professor. But, the Speed Bumps Of Truth don't seem to be stopping these women from doing donuts in the Parking Lot Of Fantasy. I dig around , thinking there'll be a halfway Normal Girl in there somewhere, and finally click on one. She's kind of cute, I guess. Nice smile, seems a little shy just from what I see in front of me. Likes a lot of the same stuff I like. Average, but hey, my middle name is 'Average'. Kevin Average Parrott. My Dad was drunk when he named me. So I look at the 'about her matches' part of her 'profile' (they need to change that, sounds like an FBI folder), and there it is: She wants a blond-haired blue-eyed guy between the ages of 20 and 21, stands at least 6'5", can lift cars over his head one-handed, makes $150,000 a week, stars in his own network television show, and is an astronaut in his spare time. Good luck to ya on that, lady. Hey, it's a good thing you can find free cats just about anywhere, huh? Years from now, when they break down the door to your single-wide trailer to confiscate all 75 of them, maybe one of the Animal Control Officers will fit your Exacting Specifications and it'll be 'True Love At Last'! Anyway, from what I read none of these very-very specific and demanding women have anything special going for them besides...well...besides being female. To boil it all down, STOP BEING SO GODDAMNED PICKY WHEN YOU'RE NO PRIZE YOURSELF.

A female friend of mine once scornfully told me "Every man thinks he deserves a Super-Model." Well, guess what: Every woman thinks she deserves the long-haired Steroid Chugger on the cover of a Gothic Romance Novel. And neither one of them is going to get that, although they both may end up getting what they really deserve: The cold palm of reality delivering a series of cheek-blistering slaps.

SONIC BOOM

So, everyone watched this State Of The Union Speech I guess, except me. I already had a pretty good idea what was going to be said, and I think it probably went a little something like this:

Brick-Ah Brack-Ah
Fiah-Crackah
Siss Boom Bah!
Bugs Bunny, Bugs Bunny,
Rah-Rah-Rah!

Only he'll say 'America' and 'USA' instead of 'Bugs Bunny'. Which is fine with me. I have no complaints about America, really, besides being taxed via Urethral Catheterization. I could do without that. Beyond the tax deal, I enjoy living here, and feel that constant whining, irrationality, and overemoting about the 'evils' of your home country while steadily reaping its benefits is best left to THE EXPERTS.

***

Blargph. Today we ate lunch at Sonic - America's Drive In; which I think should be renamed Sonic - America's Dribbling Shitbox to reflect truth in advertising. I've been feeling the after-effects all evening, and so has the plumbing. I'm not a big burger consumer, generally, and I think this has killed any future forays I might have considered into Patty Experimentation. What was I thinking? First of all, I picked the worst burger of all on the entire Sonic menu, The Bacon Cheddar Toaster.

Let me explain The Bacon Cheddar Toaster. They take two slices of perfectly innocent sourdough bread (I assume it was sourdough, otherwise it was just plain sour), spreading a creamy mixture of lard, butter, and sausage drippings on each side. Then the 'toast' is slapped onto a griddle which has not been cleaned since Christmas, presumably to keep the cheery Holiday Spirit alive by fusing leftover charred Santaburger bits to the sides of the bread. After charring, the bread is then slathered in what I can only guess is Jergen's Hand Lotion. Or mayonnaise. Could be both. Could be neither. A cracklin' hard meat disc is placed on the bread, followed by Chunky Onions, Festive Yellow 'n' Brown Lettuce, thick slice of Pre-Ripened Tomato, heaping dollop of BAR-B-Q Sauce, Yellow Cheddar-Flavored Cheese Substitute Square, Wrinkly Brittle Bacon-Sculpted Hog Rind, and a Semi-Spongy Onion Ring. It is then wrapped in a foil-enhanced piece of paper, which the grease immediately begins to eat holes through, giving you a startlingly clear picture of exactly what it will do to the lining of your stomach once consumed. MMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm - MMMMM!!!!

Then I made the single worst side-order decision of my life. PICKLE-O's. Pickle-O's are slices of Dill Pickle, battered with some kind of weird French-Toast concoction, deep-fried in Whale Oil, and served up Hot 'n' Moist with your choice of Bright Yellow Flavor Sauce or Ranch-Infused White Flavor Sauce. I don't know, either. I suppose at the time I was thinking, Hey, Elvis really liked Deep-Fried Pickle Chips, so they can't be that bad! I'd completely forgotten that Elvis died while in the midst of taking a shit; I can now say with all certainty that I know exactly what was dangling out of his hemorrhoid-encircled rectum when his heart folded up and blew out like a bald tire on a cheap Huffy: Pickle-O's.

The entire bottom of the bag was awash in rendered fat by the time we got back home; you could see the contents from the outside. Why'd I still eat it, knowing what sweaty, painfully cramped bowel fate awaited me? Because I paid for it, that's why. Like Homer and the bad shrimp (Hey, my first Simpsons reference! Collect em all!), I couldn't stop myself. That's why guys will eat just about anything placed in front of us, by the way. We paid for it, and throwing it away is like throwing away cash. So we shovel it in, digestion be damned. It certainly wasn't good, or even any description approaching the word. In fact, I think that if I'd time-travelled on my lunch break back to the days when cavemen and cavewomen split open animals and scooped the insides directly into their mouths raw, it would have tasted like an Ice Cream Sundae compared to that Toaster. Whoever decided Pickle-O's were a good idea needs their own hide split open and inside scooped out, to be battered and deep fried and served with a lovely Bright Yellow Flavor Sauce as 'Suspicious Minds' plays in the background. The entire meal turned my skin pallid, made my breathing shallow and labored, and my heart rate didn't speed back up to normal for hours. Plus, I think I deposited several very crucial interior parts into the Wilmington Sewer System. I don't think I've been this sick since I was Seven, when I layered the driveway of a neighbor's house with the remnants of a Fish Sticks With Tartar Sauce and Fruit Cocktail school lunch.

But damnit, I paid for it. And the Coca-Cola was good.

YOU CAN'T HAVE ANYTHING

I'm so fucking enraged right now I don't know what to do with myself. Some low-life piece of shit stole one of my shirts and my baseball hat out of the dryer over at the Complex Laundryroom. You just can't have anything nice anymore without watching over it every single second of your life.

Every time I wash my clothes from now on, I'm going to hide out around the corner of the laundry building with my aluminum baseball bat and wait. If I see some asshole walk out of there with any of my clothes, I'm just going to start swinging at the back of his head as hard as I can.

"Let's see you try to squeeze my hat onto your misshapen skull now, Motherfucker."

THIS SIGN IS MAKING NUMBER TWO

JIM TREACHER is BACK, BABY, and he made the call TODAY.

I am answering. Here are some signs for the next big 'unfocused-naked-people-vandalizing-newsstands' protest:







Feel free to print them up and wipe your ass with them, or something.

Frankendrunk, Or The Modern Otis Campbell

Participated in a little amateur Mixology last night, and I thought I'd share the resulting recipes with you:

THE BEST GODDAMN WHITE RUSSIAN EVER

1 Shot Kahlua
1 1/2 Shots Bailey's Irish Cream
1 Shot Vodka
1 Shot Half-and-Half or Light Cream
2 Shots Milk
1/2 Shot Vanilla Extract
1 tablespoon French Vanilla Ice Cream

Pour over ice in shaker and give it a couple of spins until the ice cream is blended.

Variation - The Best Goddamn Dark Russian Ever

Substitute two teaspoons chocolate syrup for vanilla extract, put in an extra shot of milk, and leave out the ice cream.

THE KIDS ARE ALL DRUNK

2 Scoops Vanilla Ice Cream
2 Shots Half-and-Half
2 Shots Bailey's Irish Cream
1 Shot Vodka
Teaspoon Vanilla Extract

Blend until Milkshake consistency, adding more ice cream as needed. Bonus points for pouring into an empty McDonald's Milkshake Cup.


The following are two shots created in honor of yesterday's de-linking of Rachel Lucas and Michele Catalano by some person I've never heard of.

A SMALL VICTORY

You will need:
Kahlua
Bailey's Irish Cream
Vanilla Extract
Powdered Sugar

Take a shot glass and roll the drinking edge in powdered sugar. Pour Kahlua into the shot glass until it is half full. SLOWLY pour Bailey's Irish Cream off the edge of the shot glass (or use the back of a spoon) until the glass has filled. The result should look like a Mini-Guinness, with the Bailey's forming the 'head'. Place ONE DROP of vanilla extract in the center of the shot glass. Kick it back, and lick the sugar off the rim of the shotglass.

THE SASSY IMPUDENCE

You will need
Kahlua
Vodka
Half-and-half or Light Cream
Chocolate Syrup
Spoonful of ice cream

Fill a shot glass 1/3 with Kahlua and 1/3 with vodka. You may layer if desired. Drizzle half-and-half or cream into the glass, forming a white cloud in the middle and filling it the rest of the way. Take the Chocolate Syrup and drop some directly onto your tongue, but don't swallow just yet. Kick the shot back, swish, and then swallow. Chase quickly with a spoonful of ice cream.

NO HANGOVERS.

HEPPED TO DEATH
(Surprise! It's the Amish Tech Support 2003 Blog A Day Tour!)

When Kevin volunteered "Are You Hep To The Jive" for the Blog A Day Tour, I couldn't say anything but "Yes." It's not that I didn't already want to include this fine site "Are You Help To The Jive" on my Tour, mind you, but I was hardly in a position to refuse. You see, I had been bound, gagged, and dragged off to some warehouse where Kevin's goons shone a spotlight in my face and pumped me full of drugs.

I don't remember what other positions I was put in, but I'm sure the forensics specialists will be able to figure them out from the bruises, scars, and mule hoofprints.

I've spent the last eight days being run through a crash Hepness course. While I sleep, and that's not often, I have been inundated with a fast-track course in Jive through headphones. When I make a mistake, I am struck with cattleprods. When I am Hep, I get a food pellet.

I am unrecognizable to myself in the folding chair back I use for a mirror. I am nothing more than a bruised and battered skeleton now. Well, a bruised and battered skeleton in a nice zoot suit, thank you very much. Got to dig the threads.

It is not enough to want to be Hep because I am avoiding the pain. I must become Hep because I want to be Help.

I thought I had managed to be Help, but I was just being Hep to the Chive. How did I managed to be Hep to the Chive? What is Help to the Chive? Who ever heard of such a thing?

That's how I lost this tooth. They're getting a gold replacement for it fixed up right now

I don't have long to learn to be Hep to the Jive. Today's the day I'm supposed to post here, and I'm just barely learning how to swing. How am I going to manage Hep, let alone Help to the Jive?

I hear footsteps... no, wait... I hear dancesteps.

They're coming for me.

HOLY CRAP

I just noticed something yesterday - when I checked my Sitemeter report, it stated that I had viewed my own blog for a total of 188 minutes. I was wondering what the hell was up, since I never spend that much time reading my own stuff (I usually try to avoid it altogether, AS SHOULD YOU). How was that possible, since I spent most of BLIZZARD 2003 yesterday screaming at Splinter Cell to QUIT KILLING ME GODDAMNIT. I thought Sitemeter was screwy, until I realized it's because I never close any windows, and I u