"There's Nothing Quite Like It, You Know..."

I assure you; this is the best crew money can buy. We run a very safe operation here.

Insurance!? And I thought you were cool. Courageous, even! But, I mean, if you're gonna act like this I might as well ju-

Oh, well. Glad to hear you've come around. Ha-ha! Get it!? Come around?

...

But seriously. I'm going to need for you to sign these waivers. "Liability" is just a fancy word for your ability to lie about doing this. You want to waive that. Besides, when we're through here you'll be clawing for attention from friends, family, local news, you name it!

It's a saying, friend. You don't have to keep naming things.

Okay, now initial this form for the laboratory-grade safety goggles. Very necessary, trust me. I'm not saying there's any risk of retinal damage or blindness, but you don't want that stuff swimming around up there. I'm sure you've heard the urban legends-

You haven't!? Christ, you are new. No, you don't sign there. That's where the coroner signs if-

Just a special kind of doctor. Again, safety precaution. Now, now; no nervous Nancy's allowed on our crew! Okay, almost finished! You've made a wise decision. This is a top notch internship opportunity. You're going to be at the foreskin, uh, front of our profession. I can see it now: You and I, rulers of a carpet-stained kingdom!

See you Monday!

Monday:

OH GOD, WHERE ARE YOUR GOGGLES!

Pussy Face

I lopped the beard off. Not a mistake insofar as there have been definitive benefits:

1. Gave my face it's first good scrubbing in a few months.

2. Finally look ten years younger and 500% less manly.

3. The pleasure of destroying something beautiful.

...but it will be (is) missed. Things are significantly more tactile now.

Lots of things.

I was wholly unprepared.

Fret not! A few more days of clean-shaving and pretty soon she'll be prepped for a winter coat. What can I say? There's just something about beards that really...

...grows on me.

threegirlslaughing.jpg

What's Ours Will Always be Ours.

Listen blog. I... I think, I don't think this is working out. It's been a long time. I....I just think we could...

It was great while it lasted. But we've grown apart! Yes, yes we have. Just admit it.

ADMIT IT!

Now come on, you don't have to cry. We both know you'll find someone new. Yes, you'll find someone-- I'm a no one. You'll do better. I'll do better. Think about it, we have plenty of things going for both of us. You have your....your.

Stop. Your. Damn. Crying.

See, this is exactly what I'm talking about. You sit there in your pajamas like you own this thing, with your hankie and your plastic pee-wee whatever trophies. I can't get through to you anymore. It's meaningless! All of it! Meaningless I tell you!!

We can't go on like this. We. Can. Not.

Your move, Pussyface.

A Dolt Swim

"Attention Whofleck's Swim Club:

It is now time for a dolt swim. All pink and blue cardholders,

please clear the pool...

and the deck.

That is all."

Foreigners

They're essential to any unsustainable super-empire. They give a lot and take very little. Landscaping, lunch parlors, bicycle-related activities, all have flourished under their hard, stout labor. Their children, ashamed of their heritage, will be eager to dispose of their past and assimilate (which, according to Merriam, the WEB, is Latin for "engorge"...which is Latin for Thanksgiving).

The MLS has some foreigners. But not enough. I just don't understand it. We have a temperate climate, an excess of running water, affordable man-servitude. You'd think we

By the way: Yes, I am talking about the MLS, also known as the Major League Soccer.

Now, I'm not "familiar" with statistics relating to this subject. It seems my internet save isn't what it used to be. However, during tonight's New York Red Bulls vs Toronto FC game, I managed to corner a local "futballer", Estoban, who, while only being 14 years old, has already lived quite a life. He regaled me with some tales from home, his tiny car, his muddy feet, his flock of chickens he's tended since hatching. It was adorable. We talked. Bonded. He had comments. Constructive criticisms. His appreciation for the hot-dog was astounding. The Dixie Cup, immeasurable. Affection for JGL, carefully concealed (I know one when I see one). As for the level of play: "There's so much grass on these fields. I love America!"

Welcome to America, amigo.

An Obsession: /Explain'd!

Fast-forward twenty years:

"YOU CALL THIS A COMIC!? MORE VEINSSSSSSSSSS!!!"

/great comic

//no veins

///MORE VEINSSSSSSSSSS!!!

Earth Mother

Not sure why I don't trust anyone but her when I read things like this.

Barbershop Blues

Got my hair cut this afternoon. Was concerned when I walked past my usual barber on the street. She assured me that I would be swiftly taken care of by equally talented employees.

/anxiety

//anxiety

///trust

"Hey, I'm Katie! Sit down."

This seems harmless. Carefully explain desired look. She starts talking.

"So what do you do?"

Blah blah writing blah blah Science Fiction blah movies blah blah blah.

"I LOVE Science Fiction; horror, too! What do you write about? Any books yet?

Promising. Blah blah anthropologist explorers blah tribal communities blah ancient traditions blah blah blah dying inside.

"Oh man, have you ever seen The Dark Crystal?"

/heart skips a beat

Touch, barber. You have taste and are successfully holding conversation that does not bore me, as is typical. I fucking love that movie. Those puppets!

"And those backdrops! You just don't see oil-paintings screened like that anymore. It's been difficult to search through the books lately for quality, what do you recommend?"

The ball is in my court, eh? The annual anthologies are a good start, but I just finished George R. R. Martin's Dreamsongs Volume II if you are interested; I think you would be stunned by his collections.

"Awesome! You'll have to write it down so I don't forget. I've just gotten into Twilight myself."

/sinking feeling

Okay, Whofleck...time for damage control. Yea, my little sister prefers the True Blood books and they seem a bit more interesting to me.

"Oh, I totally agree. The TV series is phenomenal. I just remembered! Heart-Shaped Box. You should read it."

Okay, okay. Not bad at all. Blah blah vacation this summer blah blah.

"Sea Isle!? Awesome. I love that place. Ever been to Shenanigans?"

You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.

/silence

//dead stare

"...Would you like your eyebrows trimmed."

No thanks.

everythingwentbetterthanexpected.jpg

Livin' The Dream

8:31am
Just ripped open a 10lb bag of jerky, No work today. No one rocks it like PS rocks it!

~~~

8:49am
Could really use a scotch. I'm a business man now!

~~~

9:02am
Had to leave house. Left freezer open last night. Out of ice. Tough maintaining eye contact.

~~~

9:44am
Left house again after failing to find underwear. Lung's is open. Hmmm....

~~~

10:30am
Phone call reminds me jerky can't, won't pay rent/makes me forget day of week. Boss had difficulty hearing me through beefy mouth and slurring. Decide to rest up in case he calls back.


~~~

1:45pm

Woke up, stepped in puddle. Damn it's hot. Dewars, that lonely butler, reminds me not to go to work. We take a walk, but only make it to the hallway.

~~~

4:09pm
"Brown nosin' yellow bee ass!" That's really what I said. They didn't hear me, but I said it loud enough so others did. Heading back out there in a few to see if there's a crowd

~~~

8:10pm
No crowd as of yet

~~~

8:47pm
The tension is insurmountable. Going to be a long one. Soak it up, liver!

/gobbles handfuls of beef
Gnam-num-num

Mom?

This is the post where I derail and potentially inflame a friendship with a lovely young female. She offered this article, written by activist Angela Davis in the 80's, as the foundation for a future discussion on the role of women in the home.

Boy, oh boy! Let's begin.

"Just as a woman’s maternal duties are always taken for granted, her never-ending toil as a housewife rarely occasions expressions of appreciation within her family."

Fuck you, Mom! More bologna sandwiches...like, fucking NOW.

"In the final analysis, neither women nor men should waste precious hours of their lives on work that is neither stimulating nor productive."

Honey!? This little infant wants to eat; AGAIN! ... I know! It's like the third time today!

---

Sure, I'm being predatory. The essay is well-written and mostly supported. I just can't jump the hurdle of one half-claim she makes throughout the work:

Mothers should earn wages for being mothers.

Wait, what? Mom wants a twenty for that bologna sandwich? Forget it. The snack bar offers chicken tender combos for less than six bucks, and there's probably more TLC in a prepackaged Tastykake than in those abominations you call "Brown-Eaze." I guess I'm just a little lost. So having children is a choice?

Yup.

But you should be compensated financially through the government for not being chemically barren like a good little twenty-something from the suburbs? I remembered to brush my teeth this morning; where's my check? What about that nice lady who wore clothes in public this afternoon? How many government stipends can she redeem for not subjecting us to floppy-flesh?

Is the quality of the mothering in any way graded? Thanks, Mom! I suffered through your brutally absent and often demeaning parenting with almost no molestation and little psychological blow-back from that time you made me eat five pounds of Spotted Dick! Your check should be in the mail any day now! I mean, I bought my mother a bright blue Hydrangea for Mother's Day this year. Do you have any idea how difficult those are to find during that season?

Fully blossomed!?

I'm put off by the notion that being a mother requires monetary returns when you consider all of the indescribable wonders that mothering in the home lends a dedicated woman. Her hardworking man will never get to experience baby's first lie or that time I caught Adam wearing my underwear in the basement.

Okay, all jokes aside? I don't think mothers should earn wages because most of them do shitty work.

Dear, this sure is a lot of work.

I should be paid for it!

It was funny, but I am so fucked.

Baats and bals

Ear tug, nose pinch, shoulder shield, belt brace, crotch cradle: these are the ways major league managers communicate to their players on the field.

I didn't believe it either. But it's true. I went to a game yesterday and watched. As soon as one play is over, the hitting team's manager begins a face-tugging mating ritual. The third base coach interprets and resignals to, well, nobody. Every pitch. Each time, neither the batter nor the runner(s) were watching.

It's no surprise that Mr. Burn's essentially won the game with his hilarious signaling. It's probably the least consequential part of baseball, a game so repetitive that the most exciting aspect, besides gossiping about who's juicing, and seeing who can projectile vomit furthest at the sound of Michael Kay's voice, is the anticipation of a statistical anomaly. Don't get me wrong -- I'm in love with baseball. IN LOVE. Joseph Gordon-Levitt in love. But in a game where almost every possible scenario (personal favorite: most HBPs by a Samoan with 2 outs against a pitcher 30 years or older with hepatitis) has been exhaustively overplayed, how could any manager not be 90% certain of their opponent's strategy?

Who is actually watching those managers, waiting for them to slip up? It can't be worth it to an organization to spend the necessary time and energy to "crack" the intentions of a manager, whose best strategy is always known to both sides. If no one's paying attention anyway, what's the difference if they do steal it?

The answer of course is no one cares about the signals. So why do they do it? Superstition? To keep the 3rd base coach conscious? Authority complex? Honestly, I think it goes back to the old adage about the circle of eccentric Cuban billionaires that secretly control all of baseball and who have miraculously kept Lou Piniella on the payroll long after he should have been thrown in jail . How's that one go again? stupid brain.

Ineption

Yeah, I'm going to do it tonight. I expect to be wowed by Ken Watanabe, fucking shit up as usual. I expect Joseph Gordon-Levitt to look handsome and hopefully do better than he did in Rise Of The Cobra. Cillian Murphy? I don't think I need to explain. I expect Ellen Page to look cute and goofy and remind me, with repeated and striking distraction, of an ex-girlfriend. I expect the score to be absolutely fantasBRRRRRRRRRRMMMMMM!

Leonardo Diwho? Whussat?

That idiot from Gilbert Grape!?

Ha-ha! That's the whole joke!

Fun Theory

You called to reinvent
The flow, the incessant,
Our pleasantries without the closed screen.

While back before, the happy humours thinned,
(And could channel below our expressions)
A turn against gravity's pump,
A pulse past the pallor.

Here, take: we control our nightly mutation.
Be glad,
We turn to spiritual spit.
Make room, we're about to start the static
forgetful pressure as gods.

Cenobites

Watching Hellraiser Duex.
Shit is seeeeew money.
Remember how they established in the later films that Pinhead was not named Pinhead and was in fact a British officer during WWI? How gay was that!? Sure, hedonism is grape and all; I just don't see the connection between pure pleasure and pure pain.

/is a prude
//loves Hellraiser
///irony?

No no no no no.
Yes.

Nananananananananananananananana

Can I get an official ruling on this?

Seasonals.

A couple weeks ago I purchased a case of Samuel Adam's Summer Ale. It was a fun surprise for Canadian Tuxedo, who was coming to visit for a party. It was an even more fun surprise for me, when I took a sip at CT's urging.

Instead of bitter, flowery flavor I was treated to a scented, swollen sin of modern brewing.

It tasted like a diaper. It tasted like a diaper because it smelled like a diaper, and then it tasted like a diaper. Regardless, CT and I gulped through our bottles, he with new resentment and I with a fresh sense of guilt.

I returned to the distributor from which I purchased said shit-catching drinks and asked for a different, comparable case. There was no dicking around:

"What's the problem with the beer, bro?"

It tasted like a baby human's diaper.

Now I've searched and searched for an image to replicate the reaction I got from this poor peddler of pints when I revealed the secret ingredient of Samuel Adam's Summer Ale, but to no avail. It is without an ounce of irony I introduce the embedded photo below.

This is almost precisely the face I was offered.

Science Matters Not

Q: If you were being thrown a ticker-tape parade and got to substitute anything for the ticker-tape, what would you choose?

A: Ravioli.

4 Reasons

Soft, messy. Public safety is the highest priority when it comes to parades, especially when deciding on which objects to unload onto the spectator's heads and clothes. Color and texture are tied for second, and edibility last. It's fair to say then that adequately cooked (and well sauced) ravioli make for perfect fanfare. Plus, the sauce makes for some decent press longevity. Spectators can run away from the parade screaming freedom. It'll make for some interesting racial profiling, not to mention unreliable testimonies.

Animals. Once the crowds have dispersed, it's important to make cleanup as easy as possible. The glorious ecology of any city can lend a helping hand. Yes, this may result in overbreeding, but...there's ravioli everywhere!

Italians. If TV has taught me anything, it's that Italians are opportunists. Given that parades have become a notorious breeding ground for the poor and nefarious, a few well-fed Italians can provide all the security you need. But make sure there's plenty to go around--nothing turns on you faster than a hungry Gumba, so I'd make sure there's plenty of plastic cutlery and grated cheese lying around.

History. There's no telling how many photographers will be present at a ravioli-parade, but it's important to set them up with a few Pulitzers, shots juxtaposing the Caligulian nature of the event with the inevitable images of horror and carnage, what with all the red sauce, lest the parade be forgotten behind some obscure Latin American thing.

Keeps Me Up At Night

-Here we are...

-Huh...this place is a lot smaller than I remember. Just a first impression I guess. Or cause I'm not serving people in it.

/coughs, chokes, gets some water

-Well, as Americans we often feel we need more than we...um, need. Space, that is. I prefer a humble...abode. I mean, we're a lot like gas, heh heh...we expand the limits of our containers.

/everyone takes a sip

-Can I ask you something?
-Yes
-I remember a lot more pictures of your family on the mantle over there.

/lung collapses

-We redecorate for the summer. We're out of the apartment for the most part. In the Hamptons, you know.
-Ahh. "Vacationing"
-Yes.
-You know I worked in the Hamptons, not far from you.

/everyone sips
//insects ride the wave

-I love a woman who toils.
-Is this the Fugees?
-Yes.
-Do you think it's true what she said about white people and killing her baby?
-Yes.

/leans in





//...closer








///...closer

Childhood: Deceased

I loved Winnie. I still have a poster of Pooh-bear in my office.

Canadian Tuxedo, my thanks. You've done what I once may have called "impossible à faire."

I bequeath unto you this piece of art.

I should have drawn the pot cracked.

Blustery Days

Christopher Robin: Oh how I do love a good stroll through the Hundred-Acre wood! Such a fine lot of adventures it has brought me in my young life!




Christopher Robin: Wait! What's that? Over yonder hill? Why, I do believe it's my good friend Winnie the Pooh!





Winnie: Christopher Robin! My best friend! Hello! Have you got any Honey in that picnic basket of yours?





Christopher Robin: Well Pooh-Bear, I just might! Let's have a look!



/opens picnic basket










.......

.......

.......





















.......




















/closes picnic basket








Christopher Robin: I knew I remembered to bring some, Pooh! But look, the honey is attracting bees! What should we do?

Winnie: Follow me, Christopher Robin, we'll run deeper into the woods where the bees can't get to us and our precious honey!




/run deeper into woods








Winnie: See Christopher Robin, I told you we would be safer here!





Christopher Robin: And right you were, Pooh-bear! A boy sure is lucky to have a friend like you, Winnie! Let's have a bit of this honey, shall we?




/phone rings






Winnie: Oh, Christopher Robin, what could that be? I think that tree over there is...ringing!





Christopher Robin: Well gee, Pooh...I guess you'd better answer it!


Winnie: Hello?






/labored breathing






.......









Winnie: Hello?








........












Mel Gibson: So I've been doing some thinking and I'm ready. I'm ready to talk about forgiving you. Forgiving you, you know. Because we have a child together.


Winnie: Umm...may I ask who is calling?








Mel Gibson: May I....MAY I...are you serious with that shit? Do you think anyone believes you actually talk like that? They're laughing at you. This is Winnie's phone isn't it? I know what women want.


Winnie: Well...this is Winnie...and I am on this phone...but I don-





Mel Gibson: Jesus Christ. Jesus shit-eating Christ. How did you get so stupid? Do you think I'm a fool? You're making me look like a fool. Everyone talks about what a dumb idiot whore you are. You cunt. You're nothing. You're nothing. Go hide in those woods. It could be The Thousand- Fucking- Acre- Wood and I'll still fucking find you, you honey-felching dicktrap. One thousand acres isn't enough, let alone one hundred. I'm not going to let you make fool out of me. Apocalypto was transcendent.










.......





















.......



























.......








Winnie: Umm-











Mel Gibson: I SWEAR ON THE SIX POINTS OF THE JEW SHURIKEN! I WILL FIND YOU! I WILL FIND YOU AND I WILL SWING AWAY MERRILL ON YOUR SMUG FUCKING CHILD-STEALING FACE. KEEP FISTING THAT HONEYPOT AND SEE WHERE IT GETS YOU! FIST THAT HONEYPOT ALL NIGHT YOU WORTHLESS SACK OF SEBUM! YOU ARE A PUSTULE! YOU DRESS LIKE A LITTLE PIGLET TRANNY DEPOT AND EVERYONE KNOWS YOU LIKE HOW YOU LOOK DRESSED LIKE THAT. IF YOU GET RAPED BY A PACK OF TIGGERS, IT WILL BE YOUR FAULT. I HOPE YOU GET RAPED BY A PACK OF TIGGERS YOU HONEYED COMBDUMPSTER! A WHOLE PACK OF TIGGERS!









/hangs up treephone
//hears crying from nearby bushes







Winnie: Christopher Robin, I think I hear someone crying from those nearby bushes!







/bushes rustle










Winnie: Is he....is he gone?







/bushes rustle












fin