Ham, Etc.

First rain, then snow, then sleet, then warm, fuzzy hamsters. Winter ain't so predictable no more. Care for some nibbles?

Fresh jam on stale ham, my fate this Thursday, and also lunch, I guess. Better than turds on toast though, especially how they fix them here. No one can make turds on toast the way my grandmother could. Not even Mom, may she rest in hell, or Miami, or wherever she is lately.

Frog's balls, tequila, ham jam, and picked persnicketies. #Today'sLunchSpecial #YeahRight

Got hammered last night. Tried to drink straight from the keg and dropped it on my foot. Scared the cat, and now I have hammered toes.

Got hammered Monday afternoon. Made a dumb remark about a woman's tool belt and, well, you already know the punchline.

Ham and sheet music. Noticeable grease stains. Tasty though. Food of note.

Ham for the holidays.

Hammered bananas.

Hammurabi necrosis.

Hamster wrestling

I bought a cow kit named "Chuck Roast". It was only $2.49 but still too hard for me, so I made hamburgers with it.

I saw God today. Same old same old. Always complaining about others, blaming them, getting angry over the strangest things, can't hold a couple of beers without going off the deep end. I'm glad I went into the used hamster business.

I am into hamster sniffing and kitty tickling, yes indeed.

I've got this worm following me around. Keeps humming the same tune all day. The Hammer & Cheese song. You know the one.

Investment advice from a hamster: Seeds & nuts, with a small position in seasonal vegetables. And stay in your burrow during daylight hours. Always.

It was time to take my pill today (And who doesn't like taking pills?) but I couldn't find it. (Sometimes they run away.) Luckily (for me), I thought I saw a pill bug tunneling through some of the leaf mold on my kitchen floor, so I swallowed that. I'll swallow anything that looks interesting (and sometimes it is), and this little guy had a whole bunch of neat little legs waving around like crazy, so I gulped it right down. I can't say I feel any different, outside of a mild scratching sensation in my throat, but who doesn't have that? It's pretty much part of life, right? I wish I could report more conclusive results but I didn't have a headache or anything, though I suppose I could have taken a hammer to my head first, in the interests of science, though after doing due diligence on the cogitation front, I guess I'd rather have a beer than a headache most days.

Issues? Yeah, I got issues. Number one right now is that hamster that crawled up my pants and got lost somewhere in there last week.

Math is a useful subject to study. This is true. But I preferred hamsters. No matter how much I learned, they refused to give me credit for it — until I won the Nobel Prize for small Squeaky Rodents Or Other Pocket pets. Now they're all over me, but I'm keeping my nuts close to my pocket.

My hamster disappeared again. His name is Ed. Usually I find him out back by the crevasse, but today I don't know — the pickup is missing, so maybe he went into town again to have a few beers down by the Black Hat Tap Room. It's his favorite. As long as he fills the tank before bringing the truck back, I guess I'm OK with it. (WTF can I do anyway?)

No hamster has ever been elected to high office in these parts. None you'd recognize if you met them on the street. They prefer to run things from their secret underground burrows.

Once again, it's time for "Ask A Hamster", with Dr Floyd Lloyd. So, Dr Lloyd, what advice do you have for us today? "Squeak!" again? Will that be all?

Plantagenet hammerhandles.

Statistical hamster pants.

To cement our relationship I took a sand bath alongside my hamster Ed, but it was so relaxing that it was hell to get back out of his cage again.

 

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Me? Currently frying up a bunch of crunchy dust bunnies.

A Simile Is Like

A simile is like a mother who can't just grab you by the neck an slap you around but has to get all snotty and keep talking about whatever it was until you finally start screaming and just leave for a while and then step in a pile of dog shit.

A simile is like a noisy silence.

A simile is like a row of pristine, empty glasses that the waiter comes and fills with snot, so there you are until you finally realize that it will at least make good fertilizer if you can get it home without spilling, or maybe something else. Who can say?

A simile is like a whipped cream on a hamburger, or worse, unless you like it for some reason and then, OK, whatever.

A simile is like an alligator without teeth, but who still has bad breath, and then you find out it's using your toothbrush. For something you are sorry you heard about.

A simile is like being rescued by helicopter, but only briefly.

A sinkhole opened up under one of my old high school teachers while she was blowing her nose in preparation for wheezing out a useless speech in gratitude for the plaque they gave her for half a century of dedication to destroying young minds. But before she could fall into the the abyss, hordes of flies roared in and carried her into darkness where they could devour her at leisure. Or so I imagine. #IfWeLivedInAJustWorld

A slow half moon rises. Birds drowse in dimming dusk. I bark for no particular reason, or because it's Thursday. Don't know no more. Feels good both ways.

A squirrel ran up my pants leg. Now its biting my nuts. I guess I should have expected this.

A stitch in time saves Nina, and her naughty, duo-syllabic schema.

A suspicious chicken has been following me around lately. Suspicious because none of the others drives a Maserati.

A turnip just bit me, little vegetable bastard.

 

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Me? Currently looking for clues about yesterday. (I can't let it go.)

Face

A simile is like a bag of fireworks that goes off in your face, or if you are at least a little bit lucky, in someone else's face, or if it is not your best day ever, in your pants because then you have to explain how they got into your pants, besides the cleanup issues, and the bruises.

Boldfaced Nates. (I don't know either.)

Got only one hour of sleep last night. The rest of the time I was in a coma — it's sort of like an uncomfortable sock for your whole body while your body is actually turned off — and the cat was sleeping on my face, which isn't all that bad unless he is having that recurring nightmare about mice.

Harvey ain't here today. He went and got a face transplant. Nobody knows who he is any more. I still got my cat though. I still have one friend. And he's still watching me.

I tried catnip last night. I do remember getting into it pretty heavy with the cat, for awhile, but I sort of blacked out — have no idea what happened later. Curiously, I woke up wearing long johns I didn't know I had, with a face tattoo, and socks on my ears. And the cat got shaved somehow. He's looking at me funny now.

Shocked to find Captain Automatic lying face down in the gutter. So small — only about six inches long, also plastic. Another great mythical figure brought low. (But recyclable. That's always a plus.)

As Mom once said "Get the fuck out of my face." And some other stuff. It's all in the sheriff's report. He's pretty funny sometimes.

 

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Me? Currently feeding from a bucket.

Nunculus News

Extended Ed, my tall uncle, is my tall uncle. Haven't seen his smile since it got cloudy.

I had an uncle who raced alligators. Things finally caught up with him. He's now in the compost business.

My uncle Will, a dirt farmer, married a dust bunny. Their twins, Mud and Muck, were born in the dry season. They'll be happy until it rains, I bet. After that, things could get sticky. I wish them luck.

Today I decided to become a rodent. They tell me that I'll have to grow some front teeth and let my whiskers lengthen. Maybe develop some cheek pouches too. Then I'll need to give up my driver's license (can't reach the pedals any more) and quit wearing pants, but I don't do that anyway, since I converted to kilts and tutus under the tutelage of my Scottish-Russian ballerina uncle Floyd Lloyd Cherenkov Pussycat Jones Huff-Huff. So if you'll excuse me now, I need to go off and practice my gnawing in private.

True, one of my uncles was an ape, but it doesn't necessarily mean that it runs in the family, does it?

Uncle Buds' fluidic massage and footlong red-hots and poetic incarceration nuts. (They come in an insulated bag.)

Uncle Dan has a School of Soft Knocks. It's quiet there.

Which reminds me — my uncle Walt was a pickle tuner. One of the best in the business, according to experts. He never made any money at it though, having chosen to reside in a pickle-hating part of the country, along with his wife, Aunt Ella. She was a goat trimmer by trade, but played left tackle for amusement, mostly on weekends in months ending in "Y". "Y me", she often said, "And if you try I'll flatten you", and had one or two trophies to at least partially corroborate her assertions.

Uncle Fred's mucus bags. Never popular outside the circus circuit despite being totally odor-proof.

I never had an Uncle Fred, so I don't know how it feels. I did have an Aunt Fred (U.S. Marine sharpshooter and later ran her own parasite museum) but Mom never let me go there after that time I came home with a bag of used tapeworms). So, mostly when I wanted amusement Mom would kick me out and tell me to go play in the sewage lagoon with all the other kids.

Never did like my uncle Rex, not much. Neither did anyone else, so we duck-taped him to the top of a Walmart truck and sent him to Kentucky dressed as a chicken. Haven't heard back on any of this. Still hoping not to.

 

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Me? Got something in my shoe. Has teeth. Doesn't seem quite normal. Am open to diagnoses.