THIS IS A TEST - THIS IS ONLY A TEST - I REPEAT

Exhausted Bowie is exhausted.
Four exams down, one to go.
At least it's not the harde-
4 FILMS, FIFTY PAGES OF NOTES, HALF OF TEXTBOOK, THREE POUNDS OF BLOOD, NO BREATHING, FINAL DESTINATION.

"QUACK, QUACK, QUACK, QUACK, QUACK
MISTER DUCKSWORTH!"

You Thought I Was Kidding?

I've got a joke for ya:
What's green, malevolent, and has a miasma
of horrible noxious delights at hand to torture you with
until time ends?
Give up?
It's me; Gof' ulthun,
Frog God of the Fetid Fog,

New Master to your unworthy fate.
...get it?

Grammy Awards 2012

DON'T LOOK AT ME

Do you have any idea how I feel when I look in the mirror?

You don't. You fucking don't. You idle penguin-fucking cocktease. You don't have a goddamn clue what it feels like to be me. MY FACE LOOKS LIKE THE INSIDE OF JACKIE CHAN'S ASSHOLE. What? I don't know what that means either. FUCK YOU. Someone get me a goddamn spice worm ASAP. You! Yeah, you, get over here.

Holy fuck you look fabulous. Do you know what it's like having to stare at your perfectly sculpted body every day? Every day I look at your tantric, sexy form and then I see my herpetic face in the mirror and I want to throw up. Why do I even keep you here? You with your rippling ab muscles, your toned, taut flesh, your tiny sci-fi briefs...

I'll be back in a minute.

How Chemical Castration Saved My Marriage

IT REALLY WASN'T ALL THAT BAD WHEN I LOOK BACK ON IT, YEAH, I KNOW, IT SOUNDS ROUGH BUT ACKCHULLY I GOTTA BE STRAIGHT WITH YA, PAL, AFTER THE THE FIRST FEW TREATMENTS THE SEARING PAIN IN YOUR SCROTUM DOESN'T LESSEN SO MUCH AS YOU GET USED TO IT, ONE THING I CAN SAY FOR SURE THOUGH IS THAT YOU DON'T GET HORNY ANYMORE SO WIFEY LOVED THAT, JUST A LOT OF DARK CHOCOLATE AND MATLOCK RERUNS AND ME SWEATING THROUGH THE NIGHT WITH AN OLD LEATHER BELT BETWEEN MY TEETH TO BITE THROUGH THE SLEEPLESS UNCEASING PAIN, ANYWAY THE GUYS DOWN AT THE CLUB HAVE REALLY NOTICED HOW I DON'T COMPLAIN ABOUT MY WIFE ANYMORE, BECAUSE I AM JUST SCREAMING CONSTANTLY AND YESTERDAY I BROKE A TUMBLER IN MY FIST AND TRIED TO FEED IT TO MY THROAT BUT CARL STOPPED ME AND SAID I SHOULD JUST WATCH THE GAME AND HE WAS RIGHT, I SAID TO THE DOCTOR THIS MORNING "DOC" I SAID THIS MORNING "DOC I REALLY GOTTA HAND IT TO YOU, I THINK THIS WHOLE THING IS ACKCHULLY WORKING" I SAID THIS MORNING TO DOC, AND HE JUST LAUGHED AND SIGNED THE PAD AND TOLD ME TO KEEP GETTIN 'EM FILLED, RIGHT ON YA DOC, ACES I SAID, TONIGHT I THINK I'M FINALLY GOING TO GO THROUGH THAT BOX OF OLD THERMOSTATS FROM THE SEVENTIES IN THE BASEMENT AND SMASH THEM ALL ON THE FLOOR, THEN I'LL JUST ROLL AROUND IN THE PAINTED GLASS AND LOOSE MERCURY THAT SPILLS OUT OF THEM, JUST TO PASS THE TIME TO MAKE THE NIGHT MORE FUN, I THINK I'VE ALREADY SEEN TONIGHT'S EPISODE OF MATLOCK AND IF I HAVEN'T NO BIG DEAL THE BOYS DOWN AT THE CLUB WILL JUST FILL ME IN TOMORROW AFTER WE'RE DONE WITH THE LOTTO TICKETS

Unhinged -or- The Frog Of War

I drew this a few days back out of boredom and worry while studying for that miserable, virginal exam:

It was cute and renewed my spirits.

A minute ago I finished another little piece. I used it to distract myself from studying for a while, and centered it on a beanbag frog that I keep on my desktop. Goldfleck made it for me when she was little(r). Anyway, view and risk your sanity:

/crashing waves
//seashell-crowned beanbag menace

"I AM THE GOD OF FOG, WHY HAST THOU SUMMONED ME!?"
"I am bored. I do not wish to study any longer."
"THE LIVING DARE DISTURB THE SLEEPING DEAD FOR SUCH A TRIFLE!? I BANISH YOU TO AN ETERNITY OF STUDY! GWAH WAH WAH WAH!!!"

I am currently insane.

Live and in Three Dee

A Song:

NEKRON!

I Knew It Was Crazy

I had no idea just how crazy.

Tested

This is what awaits me
on the path to my first exam.
I am concerned.

History. American History. I have mastered you, I believe, and am prepared to be examined. I enter the classroom to find a handful of other students seated and studying in their final moments. I follow suit. A gaggle of asshole wanders in shortly after, making laughter and ruckus.
Fuck the police...keep studying, Whofleck!
Our professor enters and hands out the work. After a cursory scan of the outline I begin to fill in the appropriate bubbles associated with intelligence. After a few minutes, Dr. Best Lecturer Ever speaks up:
"It's hot in here, right? Too stuffy. Would someone mind opening a couple windows and letting some fresh a-"

FIRE ALARM FIRE ALARM FIRE ALARM
EVERYBODY GO STAND OUTSIDE NOTHING IS BURNING JUST DO IT
FIRE ALARM FIRE ALARM-

We march outside, most of us laughing out of surprised and soon-to-be defeated spirits. We stood there and got cold, scribbling like maniacs against the crawling loss of potential review. When we do eventually reenter the building, we have lost about half of our allotted time.
Our professor explains that ten minutes will be given at the beginning of Monday's class to finish the exam. For now, she says, keep going.
I keep going. I molest the multiple choice. I eradicate the true/false.
I rape two of five short-answer essays.
Time. Is. Up.

Excuse me, Dr. B.L.E., but would you be opposed to me bringing in my finished three short-answers and just tacking them onto my exam?
"YES."
I just don't feel like I could physically write the remaining answers in ten minutes, and we lost more than that outside.
"YOU CAN DO IT."
Okay.

/shakes fist at sky
FUCKING ISLAM!

BATHOS (Grk, "depth"): Not to be confused with pathos, bathos is a descent in literature in which a poet or writer--striving too hard to be passionate or elevated--falls into trivial or stupid imagery, phrasing, or ideas.

"Honey! Where Are The Servants!?"

Since there's no help, come let us twist and fart,
Nay I have done, you get no more of me;
And I am mad, yea, mad with all my heart,
That thus so poorly I myself can flee;
Shake fists for ever, cancel all our rants,
And when we meet in any hell again,
Be it not seen in either of our pants
That we one Lot of former love retain.
Now at the last gas of love's morning breath,
When his pulse flailing, passion shameless lies,
When faith is screaming by his bed of death,
And innocence is closing up his [something funnier than eyes],
-Now if thou would'st, when all have buried him under,
From love to hate thou might'st him tear asunder!

Sonnet LxXxI, Michael Gayton

/personally beloved poem
//mocked into meaningless gore
///open the door
////get on the floor
/////everybody walk the dinosaur

A Wasteland

This is the way the world ends:

Not with a bang but a whimper.

And a finger in the tush.

Poetry is fun.

Tyger, tyger burning bright,

In the forest of the night,

Someone get a fire extinguisher.

I am Ozymandias, king of kings,

Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair!

For all we are is dust in the wind.

What have we learned? Anal makes everything more fun.

Best Interview Evar

"So do you have any questions for me?"

/asks question

"There is no answer to that question the way that you have posed it to me."



Other than all the terrible and awkward parts, it went just fine.

Listen To This!

Did you know that, in the future, the black holes at the center of all galaxies will consume every star that orbits them? Eventually, our universe will be composed of nothing but ever-expanding black holes separated by an ever-expanding void of empty space. The red-light remains of this barren universe and near total lack of matter will theoretically slow down time, so that the already infinite stretch of this period in our universe's history will retard and seem to take infinitely longer.
They don't even have names for the numbers of years we're talking about.
But, as with all things, that time will pass.
The black holes will converge.
All things will be absorbed.
Our universe will be an endless expanse of blackness, any and all light being drawn toward an insatiable super-massive center. Everywhere will be the event horizon, and time will stop.
Whoops!
Gotta run, can't be late for class...

As if it even matters.

Stomach Problems of The Third Kind

I had Rubio's fish tacos for dinner.

Which led to diarrhea. Rubio's plus coffee equals bowel disaster.

Then I ate nothing but gummis and chocolate for a while. Which led to uncomfortable constipation.

Then I went for a run, which led to something... else.

AN ENTIRELY NEW FORM OF GI TRACT DISCOMFORT.

I am breaking new ground. Onward. Towards flamus anus and freedom!

Shorks, No!

My Face When the Shorks had their annual fail-streak a whole three months early and might actually have a legitimate chance of getting to the Conference Finals where they will inevitably shork it all to the Canucks:

It's a masterpiece!

MFW those same Canucks are having a once in a century season and still aren't good enough to do anything interesting post-season:

DERP---MY HEAD HURTS!

MFW both teams along with the Blackhawks and the Avalanche and even the Red Wings are all slinging shit as if they didn't know who was coming to dinner to serve everyone a big hot heaping plate of liquid cheesesteak diarrhea:

"I'm going to use your asshole like a mouth."
"Gee, really? You mean it?"

Mandatory Interview Day

"BUT WHY DO YOU WANT TO BE A CLINICAL PSYCHOLOGIST?! BUT WHY, BUT WHY?!"

Grad School, Part 307

She was a tall drink of water, that's for sure. Hell, a broad built that well doesn't just walk into your office every day of the week. I mean, this dame was quality. Those stems went all the way up. At least I assumed they did. I didn't exactly ask to ensure for myself, if you know what I mean.

- I hear you're a man who knows how to find people. That you're a real people finder, Mr. Pickle.

- That depends, sweetheart. And that's Detective Pickle to most people. Pick to my friends.

- Well... Pick... What exactly does it depend on?

She had that deep, breathy voice. You know the kind of mean. She must have been around the block a few times. She smelled like a carton of Lucky Strikes and her voice sounded like she'd smoked more than a few in her time. But dammit if that isn't just how I like 'em. She was some kind of tall, smoky drink of water, I tell ya.

- Depends on lots of things, Mrs...?

- Miss. Hotcans.

Obviously a fake name, but with a tuchus like that, who's going to argue?

- Alright, Miss Hotcans. Depends on who you need found. Depends on what you need 'em found for. And mostly, it depends on how much you're willing to pay for the privilege of the finding.

- Okay, Pick. How about this? I want you to find my sister. Layla. Layla Hotcans. Aren't you going to write this down.

She must be kidding. Hotcans was her real name? Or the sister used the same alias?

- Oh, I got a mind like a steel trap sister. You just keeping yappin'. Ol' Pick'll keep it all up here.

- Very well... Mr. Pickle.

So that was how she was going to play it. Well alright toots. Two can tango. Three can mambo. Four can salsa. Five can do the can-can. After that we just got ourselves a real crowded dance floor, if you take my meaning.

- Please, Miss Hotcans. Continue.

- My sister disappeared two weeks ago. She lives in Mission Bay and I... I...

She started to cry a little. What a cute little act. I could tell this tight little shotgun piece wouldn't cry from an onion up her pantyhose. You could smell that a mile away. The scent of a hardcase was all over her. Between that, the lightly toasted smell of her Luckies and the intoxicating flatulence she was laying liberally into the air, I was hooked. Damn, she could have bottled that scent and I would have poured it in my coffee in the morning. That's right, baby. I'm a real fart-sniffer and I ain't afraid to say it. These mean streets call for a man to sniff a fart occasionally. And I'll be an orangutan's bare-assed monkey's cousin once removed if you think I'm not going to do my very damned best to enjoy the smell. Of the farts. That I'm sniffing.

I handed her a tissue.

- Here. Miss Hotcans, please don't cry. Dry those eyes mama. Pick'll figure this all out.

- Thank... Thank you Detective... Pick. Yes, I don't know how I'll ever thank you.

- Oh we'll think of something, I'm sure.

With that, she let out a deep wet trumpet blast. I leaned my face in and breathed deep. My nostrils flared with the sheer elation of the moment. We locked eyes for a moment and a devilish grin crept across her face. I knew it then, like I know it now. We were destined to do the horizontal mambo. To make the beast with one back and one face buried in one smelly anus.

My favorite dance...

To be continued... maybe...

Hiss Piss

My cat has not defecated or urinated in some time.
This is exactly the scenario that claimed the life of our last cat.
Because the cat is perversely bonded with me, and probably homosexual, I was ordered to arrest the cat and place him in a kennel for transportation to the family veterinarian.
Somehow, he knew what was coming...

/discover cat hiding behind sofa
//coax him out with friendship
///be a fucking pack leader and snatch that shit up
"Dadfleck, get the crate and close it when I force the cat inside."
/tighten grip on slippery kitty
//lift and shove
///look down at shirt
////covered in urine
"You feline mother fucker."














Get off of that chopping board, cat.
You are not a chef.
You don't even have a toque.

Pamphlet

The Year of No Magical Drinking

Today marks one year since I had a drink.

A whole year, 365 uncomfortably sober days, without a drop of booze.

I'm going to try to keep this within the tone of The Sleepover and less within the realm of Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret. Except that I think that's about a pubescent girl getting her first period. Which is decidedly different from abstaining from alcohol consumption for a year.

Being a non-drinker for a year has given me a lot of insight into myself and the world around me. And it's made me a much douchier person. I'm sure I was an irritating drunk. I don't doubt that on more than one occasion you had to repeat stories, memories or even your name to me because I was blacked out. On the other hand, I was a lot of fun to be around. I went out. I socialized. I had fun with other human beings. I was relatively uninhibited. I even danced sometimes.

Nowadays, I fall more into the realm of judgmental cockrag. Are you the guy who's just having a good time doing shots and maybe stumbling around? I'm probably judging you for moral laxity. Are you the girl in the bar who's a little too loud and little too drunk for 8:30 PM? I'm almost certainly hating on you in my mind.

Well no more. I'm resolved to not be that asshole anymore. And the first step is to start drinking again.

/Falls of wagon

//Hard

I'm kidding. And sober as the soberest proverbial judge.

I miss drinking, but how much? I don't miss being hungover. I don't miss not remembering my evenings. I do miss the taste of real beer. And real wine. And real... booze. Cocaine just isn't the same when you're not drunk. I miss the camaraderie and the opportunities for obscene behavior. People seem more weirded out when I talk about/take out my genitals while sober. As if I need beer to take the bearded triplets for a walk.

Anyway, happy one year sober for me. To celebrate, have an extra drink or 3 for me.

Packer The Barbarian

I want to make the following things with Clay Matthews:

- An epic sci-fi fantasy movie

- An epic sci-fi fantasy porn movie

- A prog-rock-nu-metal album entitled "Pack Me Like An Animal"

- A lounge singing album entitled "Long Locks of Love"

- A mold of his 5 penises

- A home steroid kit, featuring his face on the front

- A sizable sandwich, with roast beef, pickles, lettuce, tomato, avocado, tapatio sauce, mayo and horseradish. We'll call it the Wisconsin Wangdoodler

Tax Dollars Well Spent

Please, enjoy with me the sights of my ferry trip between Staten Island and Manhattan Island today.

The Ferry terminal! The looming monoliths America's financial capital!

Behold the man-made marvels!

Lady liberty! The finest French gift since tongue kissing! But...was there any other highlight to this free ride aboard determined orange ferry? Any extra evidence of America's excellence?

Fuck and yes.

"You're Gonna Need A Bigger Bowl."

Re-imagined through the eyes of Centaur Sleepover.
...now try and guess which poster is which puppy!

The Force Whisperer

Life: complete.

And Now, A Message From Your Royal Highness: Canadian Tuxedo

I...................................uh uh ey................
..............................................wi..................
WILL..........................................................
...............nuh......nuh NOW.......................
nuh..............................................................
/gulp

Welcome To Communion

It is a strange scene:
A dozen or so bodies, some human but many more of alien species. The Spint beings of the inner-galaxy, formless floating shadows, and the double-boned, quadrupedal Mistiff stand out most oddly. But their council is met in peace. However strange their collective may appear, the true weirdness is the discovery that they are governed by a single mind; calm, wise, and and seemingly unbroken.

"We are concerned." says a small man.
"Yes. The Earth forces keep Us down in these caves. We feel threatened."
"The Under-Roads are protection. The Nim'roh have been great allies."
"Allies commune, they cannot." many of them speak in unison.
The pause that follows is not tense, but patient. The group waits while more bodies wander into the growing choir. More systems, they think together, more strength. Welcome.

"We can go deeper. We can wait out the Earth forces." two fat things say.
"We do not have enough resources for Our systems, and We can no longer survive the loss of more systems. Resurrection is still many systems away, and more Minds are lost across this galaxy with every passing cycle."
"The last Mind before to void to fall was opposite the dark center. There will be no more resources from beyond the void. We must reach Resurrection here on Our own, for the sake of this galaxy."
"Practice communion with Us." whispers a child to a Hrathi lord towering beside her.

For several minutes they hum arias.
Newly focused, another piece of the whole says, "The Nim'roh are kind, even without communion."
"Yes." they all agree.
"It is their prophecy that keeps them so. They think We play a part."
"Do We?" some whisper.
"Yes." they all agree. "We have seen much prophecy, many fates made true by passing time."
"Then We wait for the death of this sun, Finnis."
"Yes." they all agree.
More silence follows. The hiveminders are in deep melding, concentrating their great combined knowledge and seeking answers.
"The Nim'roh have followed Us into rebellion, but they do not understand Our goal of Resurrection. It is their weak minds. They were mind-slaves once and may ever be. If We cannot share communion with them, perhaps We can persuade them."
The council, now measuring over a hundred, immediately grumble away this shared plot. Their noise resonates throughout the high and cavernous meeting ground, worming through the tunnels that end in this singular place. At the mouth of one of these tunnels, a hiveminder notices a pair of red eyes dividing the blackness. Soon, they all notice.
All together, "We respect your ways, native. Respect Our communion."
The devil emerges, armed with a pilfered human weapon.
Then there are more eyes.
More weapons.
Damn, one hiveminder thinks, I was a fool to trust Them.

OH HONEY YOU MIST IT

TRUE TWIT

Fatel Attraction

Why why why?
Always the same, they're always the same! Was it programmed into me through years of systematic subliminal messages by parent's anxious to delight in my future pursuit of these oddest of deities? Do they find my madness amusing!?
Step one: break the machine.

Okay, let's look at them.

The short, flat, dark hair.
The masculine jawline.
The soft, fair skin.

They are trying to hide those deliciously high foreheads,
BUT I KNOW YOUR SECRETS TEGAN.
I KNOW YOUR LIES, SARA.

Oh fuck me.
Look upon perfection mortals and quiver...
QUAKE with affection!
She looks sort of like a young boy; wait.
WHAT AM I BECOME?

More secrets, Juno!? More LIES. You mock me by refusing to reveal that big, toothy smile! By daring to lay on your back! By testing me with doe eyes and snappy, hipster fashion!
I can't win! THEY'RE EVERYWHERE.
On every local train, every subway stop, every bookstore, every bar I've been going to for years. They are an infectious disease! What was once my fetish AND MINE ALONE has invaded every cubby-hole of modern living! Oh, why?
Why must I love these tiny women!?
Step two: clean the machine.

Yes, of course. That's it! I just need to get them out of my system. Attract new mates, maybe! Remind myself that most of these women are young boys in disguise! I have biological design to undo, here, dear reader. My ancients must have chosen these women over others (perhaps because of their high fertility or resistance to disease...yes, it all makes sense now), and it has become my prime directive.
Yes, that's it. Just need to clean the machine.
Reverse the machinations of Natural Selection.
I can do it! I can-

Meh.
You don't do it for me ever since Tuxedo pointed out you look like a bloodhound.

Pheasantville

Dude pheasant: Man. I'm bored. Our lives have been rendered hollow and passionless by the modern world.

Chick pheasant: I know. I'm such a slut. I like being a slut. But sometimes I feel like I wish people didn't think I was a slut. And then I wasn't so trapped by my own image of sluttiness.

Dude pheasant: Yeah. Well, I don't think you're a slut.

Chick pheasant: Thanks.

Dude pheasant: Your morality just doesn't match the social norms of our current milieu.

Chick pheasant: Wait! What's happening??

Dude pheasant: I don't know. I feel... weird.

Chick pheasant: I feel different.

Dude pheasant: Me too.

Chick pheasant: Wait! We're in that TV show that you like to watch.

...

God dammit. This isn't funny at all. I bored myself to tears just trying to write it. I somehow thought a mediocre pun would turn into a funny post. Surprise, surprise, it didn't. I'm rusty. Not in my old form. The crowning achievement here was making a color picture that I found into black and white. Trust me, it's not hard. Next to Whofleck's MS Paint... woof. He's like Michaelangelo and I'm like... like... like the homeless guy who paints the playground with his own semen and then calls it The Sistine Chapel. I think his name is Jasper. He's a weird dude.

RABBITS!

-A conversation in text messages with Momfleck-

Momfleck: Do you know what today is?

Whofleck: Shit, is it someone's birthday?

Momfleck: Nope! Want a hint?

Whofleck: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD YES.

Momfleck: Lanterns, firecrackers, and dragons are your hints.

Whofleck: YES YES CHINESE NEW YEAR!

Momfleck: Year of the rabbit! What should we have for dinner?

Whofleck: RABBITS!

Momfleck: Ew...how about Chinese?

Whofleck: Fine. I guess.

Momfleck: Well, if you'd rather I can send our dog out to hunt some rabbits in the yard?

Whofleck: NOW WE'RE TALKIN!

-We were in the same house the whole time-

CAGE MATCH : CAGE vs. MATCH

BURNABILITY: The cage is a hulking behemoth of cold steel arranged only in 90 degree angles. The match is designed to bring the FIYAH. EDGE: MATCH

METALNESS: We will turn the scoring over to special guest judge Zakk Wylde, of Black Label Society and Ozzy Osbourne fame. Zakk? "Well, this is pretty fucking dumb, first of all. Only one of these fucking things is made out of fucking metal at all. But I guess fire is Pretty Fucking Metal. Just ask James Hetfield on the Black Album tour. That guy knows how fucking metal fire can be. If the match is on fire, it wins. But fuck it, nothing is more metal than metal. How much more metal can metal be? The answer is none. None more fucking metal." EDGE: CAGE

USE AS A SYNONYM: "Match" means "to make a paring of" or "to bring together". "Cagey" means "crafty, shrewd, wary of being deceived". Who the fuck would win in a fight? It's like bringing a bunny to a book-burning. Zakk Wylde agrees. EDGE: CAGE

WEAPONALITY: The cage can protect as well as it can contain, offering two measures of safety. However, unless you are dropping that cage, it's pretty worthless as a weapon. The only conceivable improvement on any weapon is to make it a flaming weapon.

UNFORTUNATE REMINDER OF A ONCE-GREAT BUT NOW-LAUGHABLE WIG-DONNING MALE ACTOR: EDGE: MATCH

WINNER : MATCH

Xin Nian Kuai Le

Happy Year of The Rabbit!

I assume that somewhere in our international audience we have some Chinese readers. Unless, of course, the government censors The Sleepover. We do have some subversive content.

I like the Year of The Rabbit. It's cute as shit. Look at that fucking bunny. Year of the Dragon is pretty cool, but I'll take the Bunny any day. I just want to cuddle the shit out of that little bastard. I bet he's so soft. And delicious. Not in like a rabbit stew kind of way. But in like the way that newborn babies smell like butter. I don't want to actually eat the rabbit. It's more of a nuzzling thing.

I think I'm having some powerful maternal instincts. Is that possible for male Pickles? I want to squeeze a Rabbit-bunny-child out of me and just love it forever.

That's some cute-ass bunny.

That's A Seriously Limited Gummi Gene Pool

These are Haribo Rattle-Snakes.

They are among my favorite gummi snacks.

And I am a man who enjoys his gummi snacks.

But these things are dangerously inbred.

Imagine the gummi ecosystem. The bears roam freely: clear, orange, yellow, red, green. They copulate in embarrassing positions. Embarrassingly SEXY positions. Their colors combine: a delectation of swirling, oozing, squirting, gushing, gummi coital fluids.

Off in the distance, The Rattle-Snakes. There are only two kinds. The green-and-clear and the red-and-yellow. The green-and-white are the far tastier. So much so that the red-and-yellow barely seem worth the effort in takes to chew and/or contemplate the hypothetical sexual existence of one of them. But they manage to procreate. BUT FOR HOW LONG? There isn't enough variety. Before long, they will universally be fucking their gummi cousins. Which inevitably leads... to this:

Look at them. Stout, unattractive, inbred mistakes of gummi nature. They're frogs that are green and taste like peach with marshmallow on the bottom. They are my favorite bastard spawn. I love them. WHAT HATH GUMMI GOD WROUGHT?? It's better to reign in gummi-hell than serve in gummi-heaven.

Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum

I was posed a question recently: What albums influenced you most, for better or worse?
Oh dear. My, my, my...look at the time!
Man Man is a local Philadelphia "experimental" musical group. I used quotes around experimental because that word is stupid. They are more akin to ancient honky tonk or, more specifically, what I imagine the residents of New York City's Bowery neighborhood were accustomed to a century ago. I picture a saloon thick with the haze of tobacco and weed and just the most terrible booze; lots of sailors, too. My kind of folk.
This is me pretending that those descriptions were less stupid than experimental.
Some years ago I saw them live in a basement downtown. Live, ha! These were risen monsters if never I saw them. Things were wet and it was hard to breathe and I was at peace with surviving as another disgusting tendril on the skin of some wet, overcrowded organism.
Everything was very wet.
And naturally, (neutrally/neuter me) since there are no accidents, I was enthralled. No surprise I was already quite taken with the recent discovery of certain quantities of whiskeys. No surprise I was bearded and drunk. Frequently.
All the time.
Essentially, the collective work of Man Man at the time enhanced everything I loved about myself while systematically extinguishing everything I loathed about everything else. A feat to be worshiped.
And oh, was I a true believer.
I was not changed by my exposure to these total freaking weirdos, but definitely influenced. Man Man was the gentle nudge toward every obscene decision I made over a twelve month period of absolute self-destruction. There were no voices, just soundtracks from which I, the stage-performer, felt secretly obligated to take queues. The pit would start up, "Faust this week, eh?"
This music illuminated the worst in me, and I loved it.
I still love it. But like most things worth having, it never feels as good as the first time. So now, occasionally, Man Man will pop up randomly in the computer. The disks will fall haphazard from the glove box. I will sigh deeply, play a few tracks, and wonder:
What happened to that guy?
---
He succeeded.

Mein Flampf

ACHTUNG! Vee ahh ready for Herr Mann's INSPEKTION. Vee haf groomt and polished zee leather of zee leashes and vee avait at full ACHTUNG. Herr Mann said double rations for zee Kanine Korps if vee found zee hidden schnitzel. OH VEE FOUND IT. But Klaus, like a DUMMKOPF vent and ate it. Oh, enough Klaus, vee know it vas you vee can smell das schnitzel on your tonguenkommen. Herr Mann vill bring us zee red ball and zen vee vill get to go to on PIKNIK. Maybe not Klaus, though, because of his schnitzel SCHADENFREUDE. Oh DA, here comes HERR MANN! Full ACHTUNG! GUTEN TAG HERR MANN! Ooh zee red ball is lookeeng so very round today, please let us do the PRAKTICE. Klaus! No! Vee must vait for Herr Mann to throw zee ball! Klaus! Vere ahh you going?! Vee ah going to go to on PIKNIK!

SCHEISSE! KLAUS! VAT A MESSERSCHMITT! Herr Mann vill haf to klean zat, and zen no double rations for all of zee Kanine Korps. VAT A KATOSTROPHE! KLAUS? KLAUS?!

¡feliz cumple!

don't worry guys....this is the REAL birthday song.

First Annual

One year old, eh?
Call back when you're eighteen and maybe we'll have something to talk about.
This was but a prelude.

Oh, and a special message to our dedicated readers overseas:
Try commenting once in a while, you communists!

...we just want to know that we are appreciated...

The Analul Rear-End Report

There it is. There it fucking is. The all-time stats of Centaur Sleepover. Don't ask me why it says May 2010. I don't know. Maybe we didn't count until then. That's probably right around the time Whofleck started shitting artistic gold on Sundays, but who knows. It has been, continues to be, and will be quite a ride. A lubeless buttride. Thanks to Pheewrap, Poop Snacks, and Whofleck for all their hard work. Thanks to Jaybro for her sporadic disinterest. Desperate Pickle is dead to me, and he's the drunk relative who shows up with a gas-station present to offer his estranged bastard niece. We'll be cordial until you soil yourself and try to wipe yourself with the cat. Again. I'm kidding. I love you. I miss your salty green crunch. I'm sorry. Shit like this is what the comment section is for. Not that you would know what the comments section is. OH YEAH I JUST GOT ALL PHEEWRAP ON YOU. But seriously, if you live in other countries, help me cream my pants by commenting. Even if it's just "Hi, I'm Sven and your blog sucks." Even if you're just fucking with me. I'm so lonely here. All I have is a green backpack full of Jack Napier VHS tapes. I'm a fucking child. So Happy First Birthday, Centaur Sleepover. I should have drowned you in the sink when I had the chance.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh yeah.

Happy Birthday, Centaur Sleepover

Dear Son,

It's your father. I just wanted to say Happy Birthday. Congratulations on turning 1. Your mother and I have had our differences but I'm back now. JUST BECAUSE I MOVED TO CALIFORNIA DOESN'T MEAN I DON'T LOVE YOU. Your aunts and uncles have done a great job taking care of you. But Daddy's back now and he's bringing legal California weed to the birthday party.

I love you.

Papa's back and he's got a brand new bag.

Of medical marijuana.

Love,

Desperate Pickle