Does kitty want a fruity helmet?

So the blog is about to hit the 200 viewings milestone and to celebrate I went online and looked for funny pictures. I wanted to ask the question "Can anything be funny?" and after a few stretches and a deep tissue massage with warm stones and avacado defoliate mask, I was ready to do some serious askin'. So, I sidled up to the Google Image Search and typed in really serious things, like "muffins". Here's what happened:

Okay, let's start with something easy, like "faire." No, it's not funny, but it is how people spell the "fair" in rennaisance faire, so I knew this one had promise. I was right on the money, or pence, or whatever, dork.


"It's okay, everyone! Lord Douchebag is here, the party can begin!


"And he's brought Sir Baby!"

Sitting ducks right? Yeah I know. But really, don't mention Lord Douchebag's bald spot. He's really sensitive, and he will "put you on the fucking RACK!" His words, not mine. Next word was a little harder: muffins. There were quite a few pictures of muffins and people eating muffins, i.e

but then, there was this. . . .


Turns out that muffins are pretty funny, and the muffin on the back left might turn out to be an alien.

Then it was time for the gloves to come off, time to play some hardball, time to take the gloves off the hardballs, and then put those gloves in a bucket of tar and a bucket of nails, in that order, and then punch whoever looks at my hardballs. In other words, it was time for the worst word ever: "fiduciary" No way I thought "fiduciary" would produce anything more than a giggle. Well, I was wrong.

Fiduciary

You can't prove it's not funny.

Allright, I said, that's enough. Let's do. . . . . . math. I mean, my fingers just fell asleep from typing it, there's no way. Just. No. Way. . . . . . and yet, in a universe of infinite possibilities, someone did this:




"Does kitty want a fruity helmet? Hey kitty, come here, kitty. Does kitty want a fruity helmet? Hold still. Hold still. Kitty does want a fruity helmet. Kitty does."

Yes, that's right, I just posted a funny cat picture on my blog. And I feel fine.

the morning laughter

Steph just asked me if I felt her throwing things at me on the couch last night. She says I was snoring, what Steph describes as the "traditional, long, loud snore." Hey, I said, at least I stick with the classics. At least I'm not some post-modern snorer who recites Victorian shopping lists or Thomas Pynchon novels or something. Nope, give me a good, long pig-getting-sawed-in-half snore any day of the week. If it ain't broke don't fix it. Snore what you know. At least you know where I am at night. And, don't forget, guys that snore aren't allowed to work on submarines, so. . .

The post bellow is a good reason I try not to drink near wifi hot-spots. Although, Trash Baby was based on a real life, actual, not-even-drunk conversation at The Shed in Palmer, Mass. last night. Something else someone said last night really got me to thinking. Whatever happened to hoverboards? Did we just forget to invent those? If I had to pick, as I'm sure I one day will, between a cloned sheep and a hoverboard, I'd pick the hoverboard every time. Unless the sheep is full of cloned human organs that will allow me to live forever. Then I would pick the sheep.

Quick, Trash Baby!

So what if you had a baby and you held it while you took out the garbage and you accidentally leave your baby in the trash can and take your garbage bag back inside and start nursing it. And then you say, "What am I doing in Jail?", because that's where you are, you're in jail. But don't be sad, there's a small chance of hope for you, yet. Tell your trash baby to stand in the middle of the cell and pretend to be sick. "Ooooohhh, my stomach," your trash baby might say. You hide behind the door and when the guard comes in, you klang him on the head with the toilet seat you tore off the john earlier and say, "We're home free now, Trash Baby, we're home free now." and then cry some and then run away, you know, just crying and running and crying again and then some more running. . . or crying even. "Oh Trash Baby, you saved us that time, hahahahahahahahahaha!" But secretly you know that the danger has yet to pass.

Tiger Princess: Activate!

So this might be my last post for quite a few days. My roommate, Steph, is taking me down to sunny Massachussesseschussetts, or whatever, for her birthday. Steph talks about her friends and family back home alot. . . a whole lot. And now I finally get to introduce myself and make small talk with them. Spring is the season for the reason!. . . What?
I'll try to take pictures of the hot-town no-frown hoedown in Boston this weekend if my new digital camera works. I bought it on ebay for quite a steal and dropped it the second day I had it. Turns out that "greasin up the old digital camera" is not an old Sioux custom, only a recipe for a well-lubricated disaster. Although, I can think of worse things to be well-lubricated. Like Emmanuel Lewis. Am I right? Huh? Am I right or what? You know what I'm talking about.

Steph's dad is in a Jimmy Buffet cover band called Changes in Latitudes. And who gets to see them? Me, that's who. When I was in fourth grade I listened to Jimmy Buffet almost exclusively, specifically cassette tapes of his live concert recordings. From what people tell me this is pretty unusual. Not many fourth grades listen to Jimmy buffet. I don't listen to him anymore. But I have to listen to nine piece Jimmy Buffet cover bands. It's in my contract.

On the trip down, I get to work on the script for the next big project. I'm co-writing and co-directing a movie with Lily, a nine year old who lives here at the camp where I care-take. She likes tigers and princesses. I enjoy activating things. The movie? Tiger Princess: Activate!. It's about a princess who is also a tiger and apparently a known activator. I recently scored some sweet editing and effects software for my laptop and was eager to try them out on something. This was until I tried to use them. Imagine solving a Rubik's cube with your nipples. . underwater. . .and your in nipple-cuffs. . . and also you're dead. That's hard. (this is also a beautiful image if you've ever seen actaul Nepalese nipple-cuffs. I've got a pair of the 900 series if you want to call me.) Damn you, Adobe. I don't need your rules! I'll "perform an illegal operation" , on your face! Oh great, now I'm crying with my terrible, terrible rage. Stay back, especially if you are allergic to terrible, terrible rage.

Also, everybody should go rent Primer and watch it as soon as you can.