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.

Via El Tumore

My roommate, Steph, is housesitting for a friend of ours who lives down the road. I went over there last night to see how Steph was recovering from the stomach flu I gave her and to play with the three golden retrievers who live there. I really love dogs, and since I left mine back in Alabama, I take every chance I get to party with other people's. I was petting them down on the floor and asked Steph,

"What's this one's name?"

"Daisy." she said.

So I went scratch Daisy on her belly and, lo and behold, ran right into Daisy's enormous dog wang.

"Whoa," I said, "looks like Daisy's got some gender identity issues."

Then Steph said, "No, that's a tumor." And it was. It looked like someone had been keeping their cucumber inside a dog, and now it was desperately trying to escape. Then I noticed my hand was wet.

"Ewwwww. Tumor juice."

"No," Steph said "that's from the other dogs licking it all the time."

Now, I don't normally mind a little dog slobber, but somehow, for some reason, I was overcome with intense and unspeakable disgust. This was the grossest thing I had seen since that leper caught fire in that beauty parlor (and also there were snakes). I think it's because it came off a tumor. Just a guess, but being transfered via tumor makes anything, especially anything already marginally gross, about ten thousand times grosser. Imagine this dialogue:

"Here's some mayonnaise for your sandwhich."

"Thanks. Is there a knife I could use to spread it on my sandwhich."

"No. No knives. But here, here's a tumor."

"Jesus Christ! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"What, you're too good for mayonnaise now?"

"No. I'm not too good for mayonnaise. I would still enjoy mayonnaise on my sandwhich, but I'm not going to apply it with a tumor, you twisted jackass."

"I cleaned it. It's clean. It's a clean tumor."

"No, dammit!"

"Well shit. Cry me tumor why don't you."

So what did we learn? We learned not to read my blog before you eat. And in summary, always wear gloves, no matter where you are or what you're doing. If people ask questions, just hold your palms towards them and say "Gloves." like that's all the explanation you've got, and they should leave you alone.

I think I know you if you are a karate senci

I was interviewed again last night on the Mr. Reeves Show at Musicisthegatewaydrug.com (link to the right). This time it went out over the internet airwaves without a hitch, unless by hitch you mean a rambilng, cursing drunk idiot, in which case, yes, there was one of those.
The Death Flu is gone, and so is winter, which means if I can get a fire permit, we'll have a big 'ol bonfire on Thursday night. No, that isn't a brilliant song lyric I just made up. It's a real live fact, baby. And boy, will there ever be pictures.
So, I was googling an old friend of mine and e-stumbled over this baby-naming page where anyone could suggest names for a young couple's new baby. Sweet God in paradise, I love the internet. Here are some actual quotes, and how they make me feel.

"Janessa" is a good name, but I can warn you that she would accidentally be called "Vanessa" most of her life.

Can you imagine a worse fate than being called Vanessa? Yes. Being called Janessa.

For girl names, I like the name Irissa Sylvana

"Wesly Diane" if it's a girl because it combines both an unusual name "Wesly" and a more usual name "Diane" which flows very well together and seems to represent past, present and future.

Hell, just name her Unlucky Time Machine, and stop screwing around.

2 cool girl names: Naquel (like Raquel but with a N) Storey (a woman I know just named her kid this-- kind of weird but it grows on you!

No, it doesn't.

A boy - Brayden a girl - Braelyn (Both really unique!!!)

For a good reason!!!

Adia (from the Sarah mclachlan song)

Alexxus Kristin

The extra 'X' is for extra Alexxus!

Ricky because it means "powerful god."

Wait. . . Ricky?

and now, my favorite. . .

Alicia because I think I know you if you are a karate senci



The page is enormous. Please, enjoy it as much as I did. Namesplosion!

Martian Death Flu. . .

or food poisoning, or wrath of vengeful Greek deity. Nobody knows. One facet of life without health insurance is the necessity of self-diagnosis. Yes, you lose the accuracy of an actual doctor, but gain the freedom of an energetic layman, with no oversight board or prohibitive laws or ethics. Why limit yourself to known ailmemts? "I don't have the flu. I have Entitilitis. . of the Cockerel. Ohhh, my cockerels." But, whatever it was, it's almost over. Just a lingering feeling of general unease now. My roommate, Steph, thinks it was food poisoning from eating popcorn off the floor of the movie theater when we went o see Sin City, Saturday night. I told Steph that, "It was only one or two pieces, and the Five Second Rule is first-day-of-medical-school material, everybody knows that; now close the door so I can vomit in peace. HOOOORRRKK."
But, regardless of how or why, I've been sicker than Karen Carpenter after Thanksgiving dinner. And on the nicest day of the year so far, too. It was one of those days where you wake up and you know, "I am going to be sick all day." Then you remember all those fatal diseases like meningitis and SARS that start out with "flu-like symptoms", because there's no way to tell if you have the flu or flu-like symptoms. So you start making funeral plans and, well, it's all brown water and loud groaning from there.

Some things I've learned:

1. Pepto-Bismol tastes just as good coming back up.
2. Don't chug the Gatorade no matter how thirsty you are.
3. If you do chug the Gatorade, go ahead and do it in the bathroom, cause that's where your heading anyway.
4. No matter how much better you feel after a nap, stay away from the tater-tots.
5. Sometimes, the nicer toilet paper is worth the extra fifty cents.

Please enjoy these vomiting links. Careful, some are not for the queasy.

Physiology of Vomiting

Sass, the Incredible Vomiting Cat

Your Vomiting Baby

The Puke Club

The Vomitorium