Me and Dave

I have an announcement to make. I intended to go to the grave with this information known only to me and to one other. Not my own grave, mind you, but the grave of Fatty Arbuckle, until I remembered that he was cremated, and his ashes were spread over the Pacific Ocean. I suppose I could have gone to the Pacific Ocean with the information, but it just wouldn't be the same without a headstone upon which to unleash my mourning and reflection. I wonder if they make floating headstones for burials at sea. If they don't I have dibs on inventing them. Don't even think about stealing my idea. Blogs are legally binding in patent court. You can look it up. I don't expect to have a grave of my own, choosing instead to fall from a cliff to be left in anonymity and natural disgrace as the wild boars of Dover feast on my corpse.

I can no longer keep my secret to take to anybody's grave, even convenient ones like that of Wally Dandrel, who put his grave on the Internet (www.wallylieshere.com). The circumstances surrounding my secret have become too volatile to hold dear, thanks to that blabbermouth, David Letterman. Since, as you may have heard in the news lately, the ex-weatherman late night funny man seems determined to scrub his dirty laundry on national television using the ancient art of monologue, not unlike the Sophoclean King Creon as he set forth a course for the demise of his own insouciant little world, I thought I had better fess up before I ended up in another Top Ten list (the other time was March 6th, 1989: Top Ten Microbial Disinfectants Used by the Supreme Court).


I had an affair with David Letterman.


There. I said it. I'm not proud of it, but I'm also not ashamed of it. He was good to me. Although our affair never made it to the orifice compromising stages many people associate with affairs, the emotions were the same, because there was magic in that hand shake on that bus that day. And like Oprah, he was gentle and tender with me and held me afterward as I wept.

I admit this now in the hopes of saving my family from further embarrassment and to keep the tabloids and paparazzi at bay. That, and I want to ensure they get my part of the story correct when the very special made for TV movie about the David Letterman Affairs is released in time for the February sweeps this television season (starring the caustic Danny Bonaduce as the ambrosial Moist Rub). I'm sure they will offer a generous royalty package for those of us who have become victims of Letterman's lechery as we are splattered across television sets worldwide. Also, look for a cameo by Richard Simmons as an anonymous shopper at Rupert Jee's Hello Deli. He's fabulous!

An Easter Discussion

Jesus did not go get a burrito first thing after coming back from the dead. They didn't have burritos then. He probably had a matza ball and some gebrattens.

He was JESUS. He could turn a pile of camel shit into a burrito if he wanted to.

I don't know. It's not like he could have whipped out a miracle to do anything he wanted to do. They should have cut off his head instead of crucifying him. Apparently, he could rise from the dead, but he couldn't heal his wounds, since he still had the holes in his hands and feet from the nails and the gash in his side when he came back. They could have taken his head and thrown it into the ocean, leaving the rest of him in the tomb.

When he showed up in heaven, god wouldn't have known who he was - "This can't be right, my son had a head the last time I saw him. Are you sure you aren't Holofernes? How did you get out of hell, you bastard?!"

Unless he compared Jesus' footprints to the footprints the manger medical staff took and put on his birth certificate.

Plus, the beheading would have delayed his return to life because he would have had to take some time to find his head. If he didn’t, the disciples would have had the same doubt god would have had - "You're not Jesus! Where's your head? You’re that bastard Holofernes straight from the crags of hell, aren’t you?! If you really are Jesus, turn my wife's foot into a gefilte fish. Go ahead. I dare you."

Instead of three days, maybe we would have a full week of holiday, which means a full week of boozing if you are anything like the Christians I know.

"Drinkin' thy blood" all week long!

It definitely would have thrown a wrench into the entire religion. And the iconography would have been totally different. Instead of a cross, it could have been a decapitation axe, maybe with drips of blood coming off of it. Do you know how cool that would look hanging on a necklace?

Holy heavy metal religiosity, Batman!

Or maybe an octopus beak.

No, that wouldn’t work unless they killed him with an octopus beak.

But, it would look cool on a necklace.

Yeah, it would.

Jesus would have come back and said something like, "Uh, fellas, yo apostles, I would've been back sooner, but I had to wrestle my head from the beak of an octopus. It took me a while to figure out how to get under the water because I kept walking on the surface out of habit. The trick is in weight distribution. And I can't seem to get my head to stay balanced on top of my neck. Anybody got a staple gun? I'm not setting a very good example as a savior here, am I? I thought they were going to hang me on a cross. Who knew Pontius Pilate was so adept at wielding a battle axe. And jeez, was he ever pissed off. As god as my witness, I never saw it coming. Of course, if god was witnessing me, maybe he could have warned me. You know, 'Look out Jesus, axe at 2 o'clock!' or something like that. My father never loved me. I can't believe he put me through this. I think it's because I throw like a girl. I'm the worst messiah, EVER!"

Stupid, incompetent Romans. They ruined everything. No wonder their empire fell apart.

Yeah, I know.

Halloween Fitness Program

(((Ding Dong!)))

Get up, pick up giant bowl of candy, walk to the door, open it, hand out candy, close door, eat a piece of candy, put the bowl down, sit back down.

(((Ding Dong!)))

Get up, pick up giant bowl of candy, walk to the door, open it, hand out candy, close door, eat a piece of candy, put the bowl down, sit back down.

(((Ding Dong!)))

Get up, pick up giant bowl of candy, walk to the door, open it, hand out candy, close door, eat a piece of candy, put the bowl down, sit back down.

(((Ding Dong!)))

Get up, pick up giant bowl of candy, walk to the door, open it, hand out candy, close door, eat a piece of candy, put the bowl down, sit back down.

(((Ding Dong!)))

Get up, pick up giant bowl of candy, OH MY BACK!, hobble to the door, open it, hand out candy, close door, eat a piece of candy, put the bowl down, sit back down.

(((Ding Dong!)))

Get up, pick up giant bowl of candy, OH MY BACK!, hobble to the door, open it, hand out candy, close door, eat a piece of candy, put the bowl down, sit back down.

(((Ding Dong!)))

Get up, pick up giant bowl of candy, OH MY BACK!, hobble to the door, open it, hand out candy, close door, eat a piece of candy, put the bowl down, sit back down.

(((Ding Dong!)))

Get up, pick up giant bowl of candy, OH MY BACK!, hobble to the door, open it, hand out candy, close door, eat a piece of candy, put the bowl down, sit back down.

This is the most exercise I’ve gotten since I got the runs last month. It feels good to be active. I’ve never felt so alive. I think I should incorporate more exercise into my life. I could feel this good EVERYDAY! These trick or treat children just may have saved my life. Ahhhhhhhh….

z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z...

(((DING DONG!)))

AWW, WHAT THE HELL!?

Parent Orientation

I attended my son's high school parent orientation tonight. I was required to follow his schedule in fifteen minute intervals and listen to all of his teachers tell me about their classes. It was very informative. Although I went to the same high school, he has none of the teachers I had. All of the teachers I had are dead. Their bodies are still in the lockers I stuffed them into.

Mars Day 2008

Well, I've been sitting out here for a few hours in Death Valley licking rocks, trying to raise awareness of the frailty of the environment on Mars. As I've previously stated, we humans have already begun littering that planet with robots. We need a Mars Day and today is the day. I'm here all by myself. Nobody else has shown up. A couple of chuckwallas stopped by and licked some rocks with me, but I have a feeling they were going to do that anyway. Power to the CHUCKWALLAS!

Am I the only one who cares? Where are we supposed to live after we destroy this planet? Certainly not Venus. That planet is a stinky ass pit. Mars is our only hope. But it won't be around if we continue to destroy its environment. The madness must be stopped!!!

Thanks a lot everybody. THANKS A FRICKEN' LOT!

This is the last time I try to throw a planet saving movement. Every human for xeself from now on. That's what I say. Screw all y'all. Good riddance when this planet starts pissing on itself. I'm gonna start building a rocket and collecting canned meat.

And I'm not going to Earth Day anymore, either!

Mini Mall Is M

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Terminal Toothache

Dear Del Pharmaceuticals Inc,

RE: Orajel

My throat is numb. My cheeks are numb. My tongue is numb. My lips are numb. My face is numb. My hair is numb. Even the nape of my creamy, milky-white neck is numb. Do you know what is not numb? My toothache, that's what.

Luckily, my dentist gave me some vicodin. If she didn't, I would have been tempted to drink the other half of the bottle of Orajel I bought. You owe me five bucks. Consider this blog a legally binding agreement.

Benzocaine, my ass.

I will be dead soon,

Moist Rub

Note to you college kids out there: Sometimes it's fun to have a few beers and then douse your entire mouth with Orajel before you head out to a party or the bars. Talk about being a blathering idiot! Also, try using Orajel when you make out (do kids still make out these days, or do they go straight to the oral and anal sex?). It makes it feel like you're smashin' face with a dead person. Rad.

Three to Five Years

He wanted to push him off the balcony. It didn't matter to me whether or not he did, but I encouraged him to do so. He could have made it look like an accident. Even if he got caught for irreputable manslaughter, obstruction of injustice or, at the most, the murder of an obnoxious individual, we figured, with good behavior, he'd be out of jail in three to five years. Would it be worth it? Was the sentence worth the relief?


He never did push him off that balcony.


Time and life's tortuous caress has tamed his torment. Twenty years later they never see each other. Yet they live minutes apart. Had he known that would be their fate, he may have never considered the act. But the fantasy was worth it. Similar to buying a lottery ticket knowing there is little chance of winning, but using the possiblity of winning as an excuse to mentally experience the riches.

Part of me wishes he had pushed him off that balcony. His prison stories would have been more interesting to hear about than those five years he spent working at K-Mart instead.

The Three Little Merchants of Death

The three individuals above have been trying to kill me for years. They are killing me softly with their songs, where their songs are addictive fat and chemicals fiendishly disguised as lab-created, quasi-food constructions, dripping with irresistable flavor and shame. I am helpless against their collective will. Like the lab monkey who has been conditioned to push the lever continuously to obtain an unending supply of cocaine, hookers and fire trucks, I, too, declare myself a victim of prudential inadequacy. These three menacing characters have cleverly exploited my years and years of training as a lazy, fat American to coerce me into returning again and again to their everlasting fountains of blood pressure and cholesterol raising agents, which have been fiendishly disguised as lab-created, quasi-food constructions, dripping with irresistable flavor and shame. Even the post-consumption sensation of feeling like an overfilled bag of melted cheddar cheese, re-hardened and slightly warmed over by the friction of methane scraping across an overworked sphincter muscle does little to foil their murderous scheme.

I have accepted this affliction. It’s not so bad. And the milk shakes are delicious! But what torments my soul is "why?". Why are these three seemingly innocuous mascots trying to kill me?

Upon further examination of this triumvirate, the motivation behind two of the members is obvious. One of them is a king. A despot. A crown wearing freak. Don’t ever trust a person who would wear a crown, unless it’s xe’s birthday. Do you know who wears crowns? That’s right, royalty. And what do royal people do? That’s right, they kill the masses for their own personal gain. That is why we had to get rid of most of them in the world. In less than a year we’ll be getting rid of another one. Well, he thinks he’s one, and he only wears his crown, which is made out of Crunch Berries, by the way, when alone in the oval office when he thinks nobody is looking. Then he stands on his desk, holds a Swifter Duster as a scepter, tucks his pant legs into his socks, pulls his shirt tail out of his zipper, and decrees anti-cuteness edicts to his collection of Precious Moments figurines.

The other is a clown. As we all know, John Wayne Gacy set the standard for clowns. There is no way of getting into that union without showing a penchant for death. Enough said.

But the third is a sweet little girl with gravity defying pigtails. Why would a sweet little girl want to kill me? Usually, when a woman wants to inflict a man with a slow, excruciating death, she’ll just marry him (sing with me, "chestnuts roasting over an old stale joke..."). I guess this adorable she-devil determined it is impractical to marry everybody she wanted to kill. Instead, she created the Spicy Baconator™. That gives me a good idea for the next time I propose marriage to somebody: “Honey, would you make me the happiest man in the world and do me the honor of becoming my Spicy Baconator™?” “With this ring I take (insert name here) as my lawfully wedded Spicy Baconator™.” “Take my Spicy Baconator™, PLEASE!”

OK, this wasn’t supposed to be a marriage bashing commentary. Somehow, I ended up there. Just like with my own marriage, once I got there, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. So I’ll shut up now.

Before I go, one other thing about the three dastardly merchants of death: notice they all have red hair. As a member of the ruddy mane persuasion, I am offended and litigiously demand something I don’t deserve.

Orange On The Head

Like me, you were probably confused by the title of this post when you first saw it. It’s like one of those movies where, for the first few scenes, you have no idea what is going on, and it all gets tied together in the end.

I was tied together in the end once. It was unpleasant, but I’m happy to have experienced it. Something to tell the grandkids about, know what I mean? It’s nothing a few dozen White Castle hamburgers and a case of Stroh’s can’t cure. But, if you are tied in the end too much you may die of copraemia, which is a condition where you are poisoned by your own excrement due to constipation. Although, to be fair to excrement, I guess it’s not considered excrement until it is expelled from your body. So, we’ll call it crement. We all know how nasty it is when a sewer backs up and floods the basement. Well, it’s not so pretty when it happens inside your body. A couple of mops and a bucket of pine cleaner won’t do you much good.

What’s worse is you’ll carry this stigma with you forever. You’ll be the laughing stock of the afterlife. Imagine gathering around the afterlife drinking hole, reminiscing with other dead things:

“Jim here died while saving forty helpless infants in a hospital fire. Marge over there was killed when she jumped on a grenade aimed at the pope. Harriet succumbed to a brain hemorrhage she developed after a woman in a fur coat beat her over the head with a fire extinguisher when she threw goat’s blood on the woman’s coat. So, what’s your story, pal?”

“Er, I, um, I ate a bit too much cheese one night.”

“A bit too much cheese?! Hell, a little cheese never hurt no one!”

“It does if you eat enough to tie your colon into a permanent knot.”

Then the laughter and the finger pointing begin. You look for a way to save face, but realize it is futile when you hear a voice in the ethereal crowd say, “We are going to ostracize you for eternity, Draino!” And they’ll do it, too. And why wouldn’t they?

Speaking of why, most of us have heard the urban legend where the philosophy professor whose final exam had a single question: Why? As legend has it, one clever student handed in the completed test with a simple, “Why not?” and xe received an A+. I have a few issues with that story.

First, who gives a crap about a philosophy class? People only take those classes to satisfy blow-off elective requirements. It’s not like philosophy is a real subject like kinesiology. Urban legends are too important to our society to be wasted on trivial subject matter. Second, that professor was either drunk and forgot to prepare a proper final or xe was being too profound for any of our own goods. It seems to me that a teacher should know the answer to the questions xe sticks on a test. I doubt that xe had a standard correct answer in mind when xe created the test. I demand more effort and competence from our purveyors of higher education. Third, “why not” is a stupid answer and incorrect. That student should have gotten an F and a demerit for contempt of education (which goes on xe’s permanent record, by the way). Ask any kid under the age of twelve and xe’ll tell you the answer is “because”, which is closer to the true answer, which is “Who gives a shit?”

If I was the teacher, and for some departmental reason I was forced to give that one word, one question test, the only person I would give an A to is the one who answered, “Who gives a shit? You suck for asking such a meaningless question and I want my damn tuition back if all you can teach me is to answer one damn question, you drunk, lazy, tenured whore of a professor.” Good answer. I like the way you think. Everybody else would get an F and a note saying, “Take a real class next time. You just wasted your time and get no damn credit for this course. The answer is ‘Who gives a shit?’ which is what you should have said to yourself when your saw this class in the schedule of courses.” My one regret in life is that I never became a philosophy professor.

By now the meaning of the title of this post should be clear to you. It has certainly cleared up for me. In fact, the whole world makes more sense to me now. I’m glad. And a little bound.

I Am Dead

I am dead. I died. Who knew it would happen this early? There was a report on the news recently about the West Nile Virus. Last year in the Chicago Metropolitan Area there were one hundred and fifty cases of West Nile Virus reported, of which only ten people died. I thought my chances of not being killed by it were pretty good. I went to bed feeling safe. The next day, I was trampled to death by an ostrich who was delivering day old newspapers.

So, I am writing to you from the afterlife, which is a misnomer. It is not really an afterlife. It is more of a continued existence, as if I had gone somewhere on a bus, never came back and never bothered to write. Except, that I am writing. I’m not sure how I have the ability to do this, but I do. I’m new here, so I’m not sure what is going on, yet. “Here” is another misnomer. Words like “here, there, that, vicinity, parallax, ramrod, etc.” don’t have any meaning here (for lack of a better word – remember, I’m new).

I would like to tell you everything about this “place”, but I don’t want to ruin it for you. It’s better that you don’t know. Trust me. But, I will tell you this – the longer you wait to get here, the better. I kind of screwed myself for letting that ostrich get the better of me. I’ll be alright – I have some catching up to do. That’s all I can say about that, Forrest Gump.

Nobody has told me the meaning of life or anything like that, but I do have a better perspective of life on Earth. Things that happen there make sense. A lot of those things suck, like war and disasters and boy band music, but they fit the vibe of planetary life. So do the good things. Planetary life. It seems like such an odd concept now. I don’t know how you people do it. I wouldn’t want to do it again, but I’m glad I went through it (not that I had a choice) – kind of like owning a pig and then selling it after a year to get new brakes for the truck. It is true that things do happen for a reason on Earth (and on other planets), and it’s all for the same reason, which has nothing to do with any of our lives. So quit thinking you are so gosh durned important.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to write a sermon. Speaking of which, none of the religions or philosophies or speculators or comet suiciders have it correct. Sure, being good to each other is a nice idea and will make your lives better if everybody did it, but it’s not necessary. As for worshiping, your time would be better spent licking paint to make it wet and then watching it dry. In fact, beings here watch worshipers as they would watch sit-coms on Earth. They are actually quite farcical.

Science hasn’t figured it out, yet, either. They (the smart people) may be able to figure it out once they start moving around the Universe. Listen to me, Mr. High and Mighty, like I know what the hell I’m talking about. I don’t, really. Remember, I’m new here. And, I get the feeling nobody likes me. It’s so hard to make friends when I don’t know how to communicate or move or eat or sleep or if I’m even supposed to be able to do any of those things. I’m not sure how sleeping or eating would help me make friends. They didn’t give me a manual when I emerged – not that I would read it, or whatever you would do to it to internalize its information. I hope they have bars here.

They’re telling me it’s time for srkimarl fosz cobobobunmnus cobobus il, so I gotta go. I don’t even know who “they” are or even how I know they are telling me this. It’s very confusing here, yet soothing. I don’t see any ostriches so I feel safe.