Haven't seen much of Mom lately. Not since she was eaten by lizards. Still waiting for them to poop her out so we can have a proper burial. Contemplating a garden ceremony so we can save on fertilizer. (And a tedious amount of carrying.)
Mom told me I'd never amount to anything, just like Dad. When she composted him there wasn't enough left to even fart at, so maybe she has a point.
Mom wants her blood back. Says now that I'm grown I should be able to fend for myself and make my own, and repay the loan. She's also going to be charging me rent.
Mom said I'd never amount to anything, and in a way she was right, but at least I'll have a cheering audience at my execution, and how about that, Mom?
Chigger bites feel better than I do today. Maybe it's time to start bathing again. Will have to ask Mom about this. She knows stuff.
I asked my therapist, Rudolph, if I'm ready yet to marry. He said it's important, before making a commitment, to be sure that I have a good reliable supply of fresh garbage, and a safe place to sleep, preferably in or near a sewer (which also provides a great escape route). Given this, I can say only that I am once again grateful that Mom recommended a rat as my confidante. (And he's reasonably-priced too.)
See tabs at the top for definitions and books.
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Me? Recently knuckled under. (In my sleep.)
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, are in town this week for the Nothing Special Convention, held somewhere, whenever the time feels right. I won't be there either.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, are my roll models. They model shoelaces, and while they're distracted with that, sometimes they start to roll downhill. Pretty neat.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, superheroes at large, whenever they have time to get around to it. Most likely some evening after bowling practice, if the weather is good.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, are still at it. They want me to come by and watch them watch TV together, then write about it in my diary. For posterity. Then when they've approved the final edit, they'll burn the diary and have cookies and milk with their pet pig. "What's in it for me?" I asked, which was when they said I could skip the milk and go straight to cookies and beer, if I didn't tell anyone about it. So maybe.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, want me to paint my toenails, to see if it's as creepy as they've heard tell. If I go along with this, I get to pet the dog, but I hate dogs, so maybe they'll let me have sex with both of them instead. (The sisters, not the dogs.) We could be watching reruns of "Lassie" while this is going on to keep it interesting I guess, at least for them.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, wanted to take me bowling, or at least that's what I thought. What they actually wanted to do was to shop for knicknacks for their friend Brenda, who doesn't have any yet — acquiring "The Knacks" is sort of a rite-of-passage, coming-of-age situation among their social group. Well, what could I say? Now after sixteen hours of relentless shopping I'm properly knackered, but without having to roll any balls around, which is how I prefer it in case I have a choice.
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Me? Recently photographed not picking my nose in public.
I lost interest in religion when Barbie went pagan and ate Ken. Never liked Ken, but still...
Well, topping that, an alligator walked by a few minutes ago, farting gently. I guess the walking part is good for digestion after you eat a dog. Not sure. Would not try that myself, but it sounds about right. Anyway, the barking has stopped.
An apple bit me yesterday — just now got out of surgery. Not great but at least they let me keep the apple for dessert. Revenge dessert. Dessert is the best revenge or something like that, right?
Attended my high school reunion in a dream. Bad dream. Bad, bad dream. Anyway, as a followup exorcism, I tore up my high school diploma, added a bit of bacon grease, and fed it to the neighbor's endlessly-barking dog, which died. And to think I've waited all these years not knowing I had the solution to both problems right here all along.
I've decided to turn my life around. Bought a crowbar this morning. Already have a winch. Should be done by noon, and you'll never recognize me.
I managed yet once again to put my foot into my mouth, though I do have to admit that it's much easier since the accident. Tastes better too, now that I'm keeping it in a jar full of vodka.
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Me? Recently run over by something loud. No idea. Loud and fuzzy.
Re: Congratulation, You've Won Money
Mr Patrick
To: Undisclosed Recipients
Hello, Dear Undisclosed Recipients I am hoping you are in the well today, Greetings!
In remembrance of the German Countess Karlotta Leibenstein who died in 1992 and on behalf of Gunther IV, the richest dog in the world who often licked her, the Gunther Corporation Bahamas is awarding £30,000,000.00 pounds to some lucky people round the world to supports families during the second wave of COVID-19 which is a new variant of SARS-CoV-2. How fine for you once, because.
To uphold the animal rights during pandemic period whilst dogs are some of the best companions in our lives, which is why Gunther IV encourages people to be committed to animal welfare in the present period of new variant COVID-19, as animals have the right to own their own existence and that of their most basic interests, and he have college degree in business so is smart too.
All collected "email addresses" have been selected through a computer voting system drawn round the world and your EMAIL ADDRESS is one of the lucky winners to receive £2,000,000.00 pounds from Gunther IV, as fresh meat.
To claim payment, you have to contact our Trustee Manager at Rf Limited, UK for further details through his contact email address below to get your meat hoping it still fresh you must do the own cooking though.
I tried a plate of that new gluten-free gluten. It didn't squeal when I cut into it. Limited diarrhea afterward too. Promising.
So, lunch today will be served on a plate, at the table, with silverware. When the cat's gone I can get away with this.
There is a piece of meat on my plate but I don't know where it came from, and it's not answering my questions. Suspicious.
What good is a chicken burger without a plate of beaks to go with it?
What's the first thing you think of? Me neither. How about we share a plate of noodles?
Whenever the collection plate would come around I'd drop a couple of rats into it. Live rats if I was feeling generous or otherwise whatever I happened to have with me. I say "would" because I quit going to church the day the rodent ban went into effect.
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Me? Recently exposed to criticism. Have since pulled up my pants.
Companions say Shy had solicitude and favorable ownership, but which could saw them? Perhaps Guest Man. So? Now how he be seen with single eyeball? No. No can say that one, plenty-sure.
Well, since First Cousin Slime perfectly molded juvenile offices to enjoy forbidden miles while the company denied sweetness, how come all the secretly sudden hopes of prosperous exertion remembered more of the forty talking? So typical.
Always talking. But wait! Listen more!
First the hunted cease trifling, right? Therefore unfeeling like husbands attempting carriage retention, partially enjoyable if delight therefore grazes pastures. Next, style it delicate, Joe — delicate.
Together we'll leave some promise addled, if we've behaved well, but sometimes balls provoke comparison. Anyone home after all that? Maybe. On even odd feet time they have and no at, once.
Eleven: Keep in mind, Friends. Is out there waiting for you with patience.
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Me? Checking out First Cousin Slime.
Well folks, today I bit the dust. Not fun, at all. Dry and gritty. Even the good stuff from "Bite Dust & Beyond".
Then Nicola stole my Tesla. Fancy that.
Do cookies ever growl at you? I've got some real ornery ones trapped in a jar that I don't even want to go near any more. The cat is kind of spooked too. Maybe if I try humming a happy tune?
Never had a donut talk back to me before, either.
If I had a boat I could be sinking by now.
If I had a nickel for every time I said that, I'd probably have an undetermined sum of money at this point. Or a bag of nickels, depending on how you like to look at it.
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Me? Giving up competing with hamsters. Right now, today, and forever, mostly.
Whenever I become optimistic, I attract more flies.
Saw a guy being chased down the street by a very angry rutabaga. Nude. Nude rutabaga. At least the guy in question was wearing a bra.
Cooked a turkey last night. Big one. Had a hard time getting it into the oven but it settled down after a few minutes.
Always wanted to be Superman when I grew up. Am now a stock clerk at Walmart. But determined to move up.
If caramel apples are a good thing, then how about caramel potatoes?
I once knew a guy named Butch who lived in a little hutch. He went everywhere displaying quite some flair, but then we lost track of each other. I think he's selling insurance or something.
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Me? Counting my nuts. Again.
The world I grew up in — my family, my neighbors, the churches, the schools — all said that sex was evil. Not only was world full of sex crimes, but of crime sex, and everyone was secretly a criminal.
Things have not changed. Sex is actually still a crime, despite what the TV shows, the movies show, what people think about and talk about, and what they apparently do. Hard to imagine those people doing things. Any of those things. Really hard.
How can they stand to think about it? All of them are only bags of watery meat, all of them, and none of that meat is pretty, yet they keep up with it, and keep denying it, and hate everyone who does it, or who admits to doing it. You know, "It". The bad thing. Whatever "It" is supposed to be. I don't know — no one ever educated me about it, and now I'm still afraid of the dark.
Crime sex can apparently happen to anyone, anywhere, at any time, and infect them with terminal nastiness. Vigilance is called for. Prayer is needed. Watchfulness is called for. Public shaming is needed. Then maybe things will get better but not before. Or maybe not. Who can say?
I'd rather not be part of it, and except for one accidental relationship, I haven't been. No one has ever liked me enough to want to turn me nasty and evil too. It's all really messy, completely frowned on by all the authorities and still a perennial dirty joke. But it's lonely out here all alone, too. But that's life, isn't it? Isn't it? You aren't supposed to be happy, or to do any of those things, and fundamentally anyway, if we didn't have these nasty illegal urges would any of us truly want to do any of that nasty stuff?
I would settle for having a few friends. I would. Maybe that's just me. How it is now — just me. I'm my only friend, and no lovers. Maybe it's for the best. At least I'm legal. Mostly clean. No one suspects my one "love", as it's called. Because you have to take only one look at me to permanently never suspect. I pass.
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Me? Re-evaluating my relationship with bacon.
Mother's chickens came home to roost. They've been out West — Silicon Valley and such like. Got tired of the grind. Sold their company. Will be using petty cash to build a temp coop. They'll run their operations from there while they decide what to do next. And they don't settle for chicken feed any more. Not these gals.
Anyone who has spent time around chickens knows the true meaning of 'pecker', and it's not funny. Not any more.
If I were a chicken, I'd be tall for my age, and would have trouble finding pants that fit.
'Beak Over Troubled Waters' — my new fav song by Simon and Peckerhead.
While it's true that chocolate pudding is not my favorite construction material, I have finally learned how to nail it to a wall. The chickens taught me. They know a lot of weird shit.
Confession here — I've actually never seen a chicken except in my dreams. With their dream feathers off. And they seem different that way. Except at lunch too — I've seen them at lunch too. No feathers there either, not that I could taste.
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Me? Just found out that my assessed value is somewhere between zero and nothing. To a chicken.
Mom caught me smoking tuna again. But I need the mercury.
Saturday is when I chase the cat around the yard. Then we wrestle to see who pays for lunch. When he's short on exercise he tends to get grumpy, break loose, and eat a few of the neighborhood kids. Tigers are like that. Good thing we're solid pals.
I don't know what I would do without sauerkraut. Life would be too boring. I'd have no vegetables to laugh at.
The lady across the hall is good at crafts. She made a swimsuit out of sauerkraut. Although she did ask if I'd like to join her for lunch, today is my day to stay home and masturbate. Her loss.
No Thanksgiving Day parade floats have ever been made solely of sauerkraut, because squishy wheels. More's the pity. (Squishy.)
Mother made me a banana pudding using nothing other than sauerkraut and beer. I will forever value this moment. She's keeping the bananas for herself, to knit into a scarf. But I have beer.
If I could make a list of the one thing I've ever done wrong in my life, I'd say I didn't eat enough sauerkraut. No idea why.
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Me? Still haven't earned my scales.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I used to have one friend but I had to shoot him. Talked too much.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, drifting silently across the prairies like a stinky fart that no one claims.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, sober each morning, sober each night, pretty quiet in between, whispering only short observations to my pet sock puppet, Regina, also my main squeeze, who never complains neither.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, someone who used to have a name, now known only by my silences, and perhaps an occasional sneeze, or wheeze. (Recently tested allergic to wide open spaces.)
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, alone under the starry sky, solitary by day, ever wandering, ever wondering, counting and recounting my meager pocket change, never finding the price of admission to human society.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. You may have seen me, but maybe you didn't. I seem to most only to be an indistinct blur, a missed movement, a pale shadow sliding sideways, perhaps carrying a sock puppet, my only remaining friend.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, and if you don't like that, well, I guess I'll need to keep drifting on quietly through the evening gloom.
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Me? Just spent a bit of time howling. Feels good to get back in the saddle.
Mom said if I went to my high school reunion I'd be disappointed, but I am already. I'm the Disappointed Cowboy, riding alone by moonlight. Not even Mom talks to me any more.
The moon came up over Miami last night. I wasn't there. Got better stuff to do these days.
I had a chance to spend some time howling at the moon recently, but still haven't heard anything back from it. Will have to check my email again after lunch.
Captain Automatic came by with a wedge of cheese. It's apparently the new spicy pork flavor. Imported. From somewhere exotic. I'll let you know. For now though, I'm only poking it with a stick. If it ever stops oinking I may bite it. You'll be the first to know.
Speaking of food, I tried some of the cat's beefy stew mix ("Just add water — makes its own gravy"). Not that great cold.
Now the cat's pissed at me too.
If I had a better car I'd try driving to the moon just to make sure that it isn't really green cheese. But anyway — green cheese? Sounds like a case of improper storage to me, especially when you get to the hairy parts.
Captain Automatic has feathers now. Can't be diet-related, can it? Might clear up with the next new moon. I'm hoping. He leaves a terrible mess behind whenever he comes to visit. And scares the shit out of the parakeets.
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Me? Mooning you.
For "Tough Through Dough" Week, Captain Anonymous is refusing to sleep, and eating only dougnuts, assuming he can find any. Doug's hard to deal with.
Meanwhile, Priscilla Punchbowl and Fernanda Firemonkey, partners in crime, are decorating their parade float, Mikey. They'll be throwing spoonfuls of sugar to the crowd and singing their theme song, "Turds For You", while challenging all comers to rounds of toe wrestling (best 10 out of 17).
Captain Automatic, not to be outdone, will perform nearly unbelievable feats on his set of miniature kazoos while balancing a pair of parakeets on his head. While kazooting. Impressive to some.
Lest we forget, there is also a afoot a singular rumor about Lester Forget, master of memoronies and soon to be forgot, including a showing of his 16-hour documentary "Through Tough Dough", about the now-forgotten Batter War of 1926 on the Pancake Peninsula. Now forgotten. Don't forget that part.
Priscilla Punchbowl, mentioned earlier, is a well-known professed wrestler, recurring perennialist, martial artisan, and smothering mother, while her current permanent partner, Fruni Fishbohner (nee Finkweezel), has a cat, and is the reigning world champion competitive finger-paintist (6 years running now). Sure to be some hot action there.
"Dough! Tough Through!" is the slogan of this year's events, which will be canceled in case of goo, but only if there's really a lot, or it smells bad, or in case of weevil infestation. (Can't stand weevils, none of us can.)
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Me? Either cleaning my mixer or mixing my cleaner. Depends.
"If I said you had a beautiful body, would you embalm it for me?" I'm thinking it over myself. My love, Echinoia Eeeps, said that her family needs a corpse for their Halloween party (coming soon), and I was the obvious first choice — gaunt, emaciated, jug-eared, slow-moving, dull-witted — everything she values in a man, and just right as a party centerpiece. Plus, Uncle Verben Eeeps is an amateur undertaker, so it wouldn't cost them anything either. They need to know soon. Am already getting "that look" from a few of them.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, decided to start a chess foundation to support the family medical waste incinerator. So far she can't quite find enough chess sets to mix with the cement, and you can't make solid, decent concrete with Barbie doll heads, even though she has enough of them to replace Hoover Dam, if they only worked.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, set a mouse trap, but when she went to check, she found a tiger in it. She always did want a cat, but unfortunately the mice got to it first, and it was only claws and fuzzy tufts by then. She's pondering artillery to at least keep the mice out of her sock drawer.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, told me that I'm now in her will. I get her string collection, and, if I want it, her tapeworm, but that would be hard to swallow, at 32 feet. (And what would I feed it?)
I sent a little note last evening to my love, Echinoia Eeeps. By semaphore. She has never come to trust the written word or any electronic devices, so, when the time comes, I stop by the family compound to check out my flags and schedule a waving session, and then station myself on a nearby hilltop (interesting indeed in lightning season), and wait for my turn to arrive. This all too often works.
I do miss what one could describe as human contact with my love, Echinoia Eeeps, since the entire family is now in its seclusion burrow for mourning season. Not only that, but at such times they also release their wart hogs to roam the grounds freely and cleanse the area of vermin. Prudent heads advise against visiting during these periods, and/or tempting fate, usually referring me to the story about Great Aunt Distemper Eeeps, whose days are now definitely over, and most of whose parts have never been found.
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Me? Recently nominated for something by someone, somewhere.
It's nearly time for another Eeeps family reunion. My love, Echinoia Eeeps, recently informed me by telegraph that the family started these semi-annual events as a way to smooth over any lingering feelings of animosity following the Relative Truce of 1898. And they're also a great time to do a bit of discreet vermin transfer into the clothing of those who still deserve a little extra attention.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, has reminded me that it's time to renew my contract. Upon my death she gets control of all my internal organs. In case anyone in the family is short of food that week. If not, there's always another All-Family reunion dinner coming along within a few weeks, so no part of me will go to waste, ever. I appreciate her diligence.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, showed me around her family's dried penis collection yesterday. I had no clue. They must have hundreds down in the community dungeon, all said to be either donations from wandering strangers come to visit, or found abandoned along various roadways.
Speaking of dried penises, I'll need to remember to ask my love, Echinoia Eeeps what happened to mine. It's gone missing again, somehow. She usually knows something and is often helpful at times such as these.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, has been getting a bit excitable recently. She hasn't exhibited symptoms like these for quite a while — not since that time she was urging me to join the circus so she could invite her friends to come and watch me be shot from a cannon.
Well, it's spring in the southern hemisphere. Nearly all the Eeeps family, including both near and distant relatives, have been getting a bit twitchy about the whole Migration Issue again. Some have required chaining to posts to keep them within reach of their assigned tasks until the Proper Moment of Release. Personally speaking, I do not much care, save for the effects of the prolonged nighttime howling.
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Me? My heart's all in it, man.
So the problem with the car is that it came without a wuffle muffler, or else it was a muffle wuffler. One or the other — I can't remember, only that I was charged heavily to have one put in, and everyone at the dealership was pointing at me and doubled over, laughing. Probably the last car I buy from Bozo's Used.
Too early to go to bed, too late to set myself on fire. According to the cat. He's usually right, too.
The wombat got loose again. Probably my fault again. I keep forgetting to put the cap back on the bottle. One of my annoying character flaws. The other is arson, but at least that's fun.
Banks don't let you take out money unless you give it to them first. How profitable can that ever be? I mean, for the average guy. Just another damn scam, right?
So. I live at elevation, since I got up off the floor. Much better views up here.
Finally broke down and went to a rock concert. Not worth it. At all. I mean, nobody even cleaned the dirt off them. And they were all out of tune. Seriously boring. Time passed geologically.
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Me? Pretty good if you warm me up for a couple of hours first.
I am Vigilus, the magic eyeball, eating bird soup laced with airline nutrient. Not bad, compared to what I usually get.
Faraway Utterland, possibly my next vacation target, is a place where a woman without a fish is like a man without a bicycle, but smells better, though she has to walk everywhere. Unless she can steal a bicycle, but they're rare there.
First, garbled marfingberries for dessert, then perhaps cookies and lint for the main course. Though cookies and lint make a lousy supper if you forget the beer. Where is my beer again?
On the other hand, cookies never attack if you stand tall. If you stand tall, and look them right in the eye, if they have eyes, but then I generally don't eat them anyway. Because eyes.
May the Fork bestick you, in a pleasant way if possible.
Ballerina buttstorm reported to be coming this way, soon. Another one. Yeah — like I've never experienced that before.
Beautiful, unfurnished horse for rent, only slightly used once, by the Marquess of Furm.
On a related note, I've been proposed as the next Marquess of Furm (True!), but may decline the honor as I understand that I'd have to wear a kilt, and I don't want to wear a kilt over my nice flowery dress (it would only mock my manhood) (unless I have this all backward).
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Me? Still trying.
Did you know that God had a daughter? Quiet girl but smart. Didn't get herself nailed anywhere, by anyone, or to anything. Been discreetly running the show for a long time now. Doesn't talk to her headline-grabbing brother that often any more.
"I am the Lord thy God — thou shalt have no other gods before me," said Maximum G, overcompensating yet again, fearful of the competition down the street, where the other gods hung out and generally offered better deals, and weren't such complete dicks about everything.
Given a choice, I'd rather play with the cat than try out for God's team. I mean, cats. Do a little tickling, drag a string around, throw a little food into the bowl from time to time, and you're all set. God? typical high-maintenance narcissist. Alcoholic personality. Endless grief and angst. Classic sturm and drang. Never fun. Does not purr, ever. No good to nap with. Lacking in fuzzy parts.
I am not responsible for cleaning up your cookie crumbs. Once I eat your cookies, my business is done. I may fart on the way out, but only if I'm in the mood.
Glenda lenda me a hamma. A real one, not a hamma mock. I hamma nail, sometime two, then senda Glenda hamma back. Thank you Glenda-lenda.
I am so sweet that my teeth hurt when I bite myself. But it's fun. Still fun. Still so much fun. Wow.
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Me? Yet again I triumph. (Emphasis on "umph".)
"God's one and only voice is silence." -- Melville (A guy reported to have farted a lot.)
Got a telegram from God: "WTF HOW UZ THES SMRTFON ANWY". Sounds like a certain Being is halfway there.
If God had invented fungus, I could understand why things turned out like this, but I'm pretty sure it was the other way around, which explains how things turned out like this.
On my way to lunch I saw God lying in the street, amid a random collection of empty beer bottles, still in denial. "Nope, nope — not mine. Somebody else did that." But I know better. We all do.
Saw God drive by in a go-kart. I guess you need to do something to kill an infinite amount of time.
Don't think of the ministry. God said it's a lousy job. Says I'm much better as a drinking buddy. Plus he has this sister. And can turn anything into more beer.
Helped God move into his new house. He got evicted when those special unemployment checks ran out. So far he's worked six days in his whole life and has spent the remainder resting up for the grand finale. Like for sure. Why do we even bother?
God don't like IPA — told me so to my face — so that leaves more for me, I guess. On my end, I never did have much taste for roasted sinner on a stick.
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 so glad that I went into the used hamster business.
God is having a one-deity show over at the community art gallery. Watercolors, flowers and kittens, stuff like my sister's dog can do. But still, there is excitement in the air, and a few lightning bolts are rumored. To me? Smells of grand self-promotion. Grandiose over-promotion, dontcha think?
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Me? Never liked the idea of wings. How do you sleep with those things?
Today I'm a meatball guy. It feels good to be back in the ball game, even if it is only for lunch.
Mom always told me I should be a baller, since Dad wasn't, and my sister had an overwhelming early predilection for guinea pigs. Only guinea pigs. Anyway, baller. What is that?
Yeah, Dad the role model. He liked to hang out in his underwear all day and pretend to be rich. So that's what I was expecting life to be like, but discovered too late that he had filled the only available niche. Too bad then, for me.
Well anyway, Dad died and Mom went to heaven, where I understand she has a hot dog cart. Not a high-status way to make a living, but it does do the job, and Dad? They stuffed him and put him on display over to the Unnatural History Museum, where he's weighting down an also-stuffed chair and being slowly consumed by cockroaches. Both of them.
OK, well, family — everyone has one and they all stink, as the saying in another context goes, some more than others. Which leaves me wondering what my own role will be, descended as I am from a long line of pointless bachelors.
Bachelorhood isn't all that glamorous, or impressive on one's resume, especially if, like me, that's about all you have to list as your accomplishments. Not as though I'm a serial killer or anything. I mean, there we're talking full-on professional league status. And me? No, no — not even close. I'm not like that at all. For me it's only a hobby. A guy's gotta have something, right? (Guinea pigs? Yuck.)
See tabs at the top for definitions and books.
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Me? Poo. Not thinking about poo today, at all.
Sin Hugo, my alter ego, is not a nice guy, but then what would you expect with that name? Marcella Wonderful is something else again, a real nice guy.
And wouldn't you know — Marcella Wonderful didn't turn out to be that great either, not according to me. I mean, am I supposed to trust someone who steals my lint collection? I think not. Please quote me every now and then.
If I had been born an artichoke, I wouldn't be sitting her now, and neither would my friend Spud Applejuice.
The carrot people didn't attack today. They never do any more.
Don't you think it's loud in here? I can't even hear the carrot people not attacking again.
Seriously though — when did this all start? I mean the voices in your head. I can even hear them across the table. Some of them are calling you a dick.
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Me? No. Just no.
I picked up a pet weasel. I figure that if I really wanted to learn weasing I should learn from a master. And how to bite people too.
Anybody know where I can get some tapeworm tape remover? (Size 7.)
If you want to put some bounce back into your life, become a beachball. You get to eat as much as you want and you can wear ugly clothes, but be cautious about who handles your valve. (And how.)
I was asked to be the furbearer at my aunt's wedding. Sounds like fun. Too bad I caught fire and burned it all off last week. My fur. All of it. Now my tattoos show through, and my aunt won't talk to me. Just me and my pet rat these days, so alone, watching TV together every night.
If I had a nickel for every time I caught fire, I'd have a nickel, and you can't buy much with that any more. Sorry, Mom — I tried. At least I tried.
I don't really have a pet rat. I just work for one.
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Me? Not really — not any more.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, is going into the business of manufacturing charcoal briquettes. So she figures that with everyone cutting back on carbon, there will be more for her. She wants me to be her taster.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, is quite the gal. I love her. Really. Really, really love her. If I don't say that at least once a day, she punches my lights out, so I do. Say it. Love that gal.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, sent me a registered letter informing me about the family annual animal-free reunion. Since I'm not certified as being entirely without personal parasites, they normally would not admit me, but I will still get in, as a specimen of what sort of person should be avoided, so I'm happy.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, made an appointment to have me inspected for parasites, next Thursday. Most of the sample examples escaped from the family zoo, and they need some new ones for a starter kit — said they're hoping I'll come through for them this time.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, has been quiet lately, but like Old Faithful, she erupts on a more or less regular schedule, and then I get scalded pretty good. Whatever would I do without her? I get a free steam cleaning at least once a month. Maybe that's what keeps my parasite load under control. Could be.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, says she's taking up skeet shooting, so I have to change my name to Skeeter if I know what's good for me. What an interesting set of choices I have now.
See tabs at the top for definitions and books.
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Me? Where do I start? Take yesterday. No — please take it — I can't handle it any more.
My reputation as a tough guy will be more widely recognized if I can climb walls as easily as a fly, so I've got a fly costume on order, and then I really have to get serious about learning to eat shit. Maybe next week sometime. Working into it gradually.
Speaking of shit, I wonder if it's possible to stop being one. Maybe I should ask Mom — she knows stuff.
Speaking of Mom, I wonder whatever happened to her. I mean, I know she died and all, but isn't there supposed to be a place where all the dead people go to hang out or something? It could be that I've just been checking the wrong Walmart.
Haven't seen Dad either since he died, at least for a while. He's the one who keeps getting loose and terrorizing the kids down at the grade school, but I got smart and moved, so there. No more knocking at my window around midnight. I also got a fake beard to wear, and a flowery dress too, so he'll never recognize me now, even if he does come around again.
Well, time for my bath! The ants don't come by to nibble on me so much while I'm wet, though the fruit flies do. Sometimes you can never win, especially if you smell sweet like I do. I'm a good boy, a good boy.
Speaking of baths, the birds get all twitchy when I come out into the yard to share theirs. Still don't understand this one, even though I'm the guy who brings the water, and the worms.
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Me? Did it again.
Clouds don't have legs, or wings, or anything, not even beaks. How do they get around, or peck stuff? WTF?
The word "manhole" has a lot of problems. We won't go into them right now. Thank you and get lost.
If a used car is "preowned", then what is a used sandwich? Don't tell me. Let me guess. I'll get back to you one day soon, if you wish upon a star.
Found more weevils in my soup, all hard at work doing evil. I could tell by the signs they were carrying. Tiny, tiny signs. All evil.
Snuffle bunnies have gone extinct again. You can't find one anywhere. I'm a living vacancy in what was once a richly snuffling land. Boo.
The last time I was in a church, they were roasting and eating sinners, though it's possible that I may have entered the wrong building. Have to double check the address, next time I care.
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Me? Cooking, really cooking today.
Hello! My name is During Lockdown, and I'm a survivor. You may have met me, During Lockdown.
Spent the night at the Black Anger Bar, steakhouse, and fight club. Still wondering why, but I did come home with a trophy. Resembles an ashtray full of butts. My analysis continues as I try to figure out which kind of butts. Will let you know pretty soon.
Speedsleeping, the new short-term hobby. Usually results in death or a case of the extreme grumpies. Bad breath too, in most cases.
Speedwriting. Like speedsleeping but done with paper. Every bit as illegible, and as pointless, but that's life innit?
Alpaca bath roses for sale. Never used. No idea what they're good for, if anything, but I'm not the smartest rock in the box. Let's see if you are: $12 for the lot ($17 if you turn out to be an annoying person).
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Me? Recently nominated for last year's Doofus Awards. (The year before too. Maybe all time.)
Bought a silk purse. Now in need of a sow's ear to make it from.
Am experiencing vertigogo. (Makes me dance and fall down giggling.)
Have a slightly used hamster for sale. Name of Ed. Also a good eater, moderate drinker but heavy smoker. Could be worse.
Rented a parakeet so I don't have to do my own tweeting cuz I'm a farter not a tweeter. All I need now is a Tweetle account (coming soon).
Saw a snake in the grass. Said it was Donald Trump and had a great real estate deal for me but it wasn't orange so I let it go. (My sister mulched it with the lawnmower — no sense of humor, she.)
Certainty is the only certainty in certain circles. (None of which are found around here.)
All I want for Xmas is a lesbian. (I already have the batteries.)
Tooth decay occurs only if you have a mouth so I'm getting mine remove Tuesday. (Half price every Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday.)
This strange shovel has been following me. Every time I turn around, it pretends that it's just digging a hole. I really wish this wasn't happening in my kitchen.
If I were a walrus and you were a bagel, would I eat you? Hint — I don't like soggy bagels. Also, I'm not a walrus. And you're ugly.
Wanderlust is the best kind because if they catch you masturbating in the dining room again, you'll be in a whole new country tomorrow, maybe even one with more agreeable laws.
I wanted to make French fries last night but there's a shortage of French tourists here lately. Plus, my pot is too small. And they all have those really big noses.
I don't like big noses. Because boogers. Never liked fried boogers, but especially the really big ones. Gotta find something else to do.
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Me? Who's asking?
So, today is Monday. I wonder where Lefty is. Last I saw of him, the gator had him half eaten. However, Lefty never does things half way, so I'll probably have to sit and listen to the whole story, as soon as he gets out.
Speaking of mushrooms, I've never had a decent conversation with one while awake.
If today is Monday then I must still be in hell.
Yeth, the cat got my tongue, the little bathterd.
If today is Monday, then tomorrow is Tuesday, and it just goes on from there.
Well, really, I can't complain, not since they taped my mouth shut.
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Me? Probably.
My neighbor, Mucilage, left a sticky note on my door — said, in effect "I heart you pretty good and would enjoy sucking on some of your fingers whenever you aren't using them." So I sent my sister over to pound him, which she enjoys. Maybe he does too, unfortunately.
Well, Mucilage the guy who leaves pink sticky notes? I haven't seen him for a while. Not since his bandages came off. I suspect that he and my sister may have a thing. If so, she's keeping him at one of her carefully-selected undisclosed locations — probably a nearly rusted-out shipping container over behind the freight marshaling yard. (She has several there.) What this means for me is no more sticky notes covering the house, and no more slime on my doorknob Sunday mornings. Maybe some other things too, but as long as the two of them are happy and I don't have to even acknowledge that he exists, well good luck Mucilage and Ed. (That's my sister. She's also a champion sumo wrestler — heavyweight division.)
So then, it looks like Ed and Mucilage have tied the knot. She likes to do things full bore, especially if it involves ropes and tying and big knots, so she mail-ordered a 10" nautical hawser (prime grade virgin hemp) — cost a fortune — weighs 12 pounds per foot, and they bought 30 feet of it because they both enjoy leftovers so thoroughly. For after the ceremony they'll have a rented airplane waiting. Once in the air they'll blindfold themselves and the pilot, spin around three times, click their heels, recite the "No place like home" mantra from the Wizard of Oz, and fly until they run out of fuel, then jump. Wherever they land will be their happy forever home, assuming that they survive the fall, but on the other hand, they can feed off the corpse of the pilot until they get jobs, so it might work out after all, if they manage to catch the pilot before he runs away. Anyhow, it's likely to again be pleasantly quiet around here, and that's all I really care about these days.
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Me? Why not?
My brother Ed has decided to build a wall. He used to be my sister Ed but something happened. I've been told not to ask too many questions. Anyway, Ed is not even rumored to be in the wall business. Hasn't been.
I woke up this morning to find a wall across my bed. For some reason I suspect Ed, even though I've got padlocks everywhere, even padlocks on the padlocks. Could have been the cat though — smart little bastard, and yesterday I did find a trowel hidden behind the litter box.
If you might be wondering how my sister Ed became my brother Ed, well so am I. About all I've been authorized to reveal is that things often turn out this way where my family is concerned. I better stop now. Someone is coming, and not in a fun way.
The wall? You're asking about the wall? I haven't seen much of it yet, aside from the section that runs through my bedroom and across the bed, but I do have to admit that it seems to be built well — solid as a brick wall, it is.
So Ed — I wonder what he's up to. Haven't seen him doing anything with the wall for a few days. At first he sounded desperate to set a world record, then he started taking long naps, and now things are beginning to rust. So very typical, and I still have all those bricks on my bed.
If you're going to build a wall, you should build it, right? How else can you succeed properly? Seed your ideas, then succeed with success. Isn't that what that Dan Carnagle guy said about winning friends and succeeding successfully and becoming an influencer? I think I better check in again with the cat, in case he's really behind all of this. Gotta get those bricks off my bed too. Gotta.
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Me? Recently nominated for this year's Doofus Awards. (Next year's too.)
Several pharaohs spotted at the gym today. Recruiting slaves. It's about a new pyramid scheme. All the gruel you can swallow, plus a guaranteed place in the after life if you're good at your job. (No benefits or health insurance. One holiday per century. On call 24/7, etc.)
Never actually met a pharaoh myself, believing that they'd gone extinct. Funny smell in here though.
Woke up in a tomb today, or so I thought. Somehow I'd managed to crawl behind the toilet and wedge in tight. Found myself lying on a discreet pile of cat shit, so that mystery is solved. I guess I have to say overall that the afterlife may not be as glamorous as often advertised.
You know, maybe the old days were the best for anyone wanting to be a pharaoh. Have you tried getting a building permit for a pyramid lately? Did you even suspect that you might need one? The era of cracking the whip and watching everyone scurry in a hurry is long past, my friend. Gotta have that permit.
Mom never wanted me to be a pharaoh. "Go to school," she said, "learn to install solar, become a plumber, even an accountant. Forget this royalty obsession. Be responsible for once, like your sister Ed. Go talk — she can tell you. Maybe get you a shot as an embalmer's apprentice at the mormonary."
Also, very few people realize that there is a pharaoh's union. You have to join or you don't get anywhere. And the initiation — they poke you with sticks and crap, and you need to do some serious asp-kissing while hoping you don't get bit, not even once. Plus it's real dusty there. Time to do more thinking.
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Me? Anybody care lately?
Today it's chicken. Tomorrow it could be wombats. You never know.
But then again, maybe not.
I once had a chicken but it outsmarted me. Vanished one day. We never did find the car.
Speaking of chickens, I wonder how many speak French. Fluently.
Mom never liked chickens. She even burned my chicken suit. At the crossroads. At midnight. Beneath a full moon. She was a little funny that way.
And then there was Dad. To the best of my knowledge he was in my chicken suit when Mom burned it. Anyhow, we never saw him after that, so I can't complain.
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Me? Told you.
Arnold the Ardent Accountant was very committed to his work, even to the point of growing extra fingers so he could account higher faster. #AKAWeird
Arnold the Ardent Accountant never had a girlfriend because that would have been a change, and he never liked giving change a chance.
Arnold the Ardent Accountant once met Lonesome Cowboy but didn't recognize him as a valid 401C3 entity.
Arnold the Ardent Accountant went to night school during the day because the light was better then, and the classrooms were empty then, and because he had nothing better to anyway, then.
Arnold the Ardent Accountant didn't think it was strange to try taking his pants off over his head. In fact, he saw it as a challenge worthy of a true athlete, and vowed to keep trying, once monthly, until he mastered the technique. He hasn't been heard from lately. Could be at a pants retreat.
Arnold the Ardent Accountant makes good money, mostly over Xmas — handy for buying impressive goods. He learned how to do it from his uncle Nurb, who's doing a bit of time now. Got careless. Put Ronald Reagan on a $350 bill, then went to buy ice cream for his shooting and drinking club. That worked but they wouldn't give him a refund when the stuff melted, and he shot up the place and got all hissy as well. Really pretty novice mistakes, so you have to wonder.
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Me? Still checking.
Mr Inane checked himself out on the UgloMeter. The needle ratcheted down to -3 and then fell off. So — inconclusive results. Might as well create a new identity and get back on Tindl. Try again or something.
Mr Inane bought a box of Cheery-O-Doodles and was surprised to learn that they came with, well, each one had a hole. He would have asked for a refund but got sucked into the void the next time he opened the door to let the cat out.
"If ever there was a better day for rain, I don't know about it," thought Mr Inane, standing in the rain, gazing into the rainy sky, waiting for more rain to come. Although he stood there until his slippers got soaked, no rainstorm arrived to rain in the middle of the already-rain, so he went back inside and stared at the floor.
Nobody knows nothin like Mr Inane, the Nothin Champ (six years running now).
Mr Inane once had a job but it got bored and ran off with a used trash bag.
Even Mrs Inane Arus, Mr Inane's mother, played dead. After a while he quit trying to revive her. And then nothing else happened. She now happily lives elsewhere.
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Me? Content, wittled, all plastic.
"Fancy Nancy" is not my name. I don't remember what the hell my name is. "Bruno" or something. "Nuckles". Could be "Nuckles". Nuckles the Enforcer. Not "Fancy Nancy" though. Probably not even once.
Speaking of Fancy Nancy, she pounded me good last week. Refreshing. She's getting back to normal.
Got a new herbert named "Hamster". Will need a bigger cage. And somewhere to park his car while he's here.
Speaking of herberts, what kind of kibble do they like? I'm OK on the beer end. Got plenty of beer and whiskey. Not too sure about the crunchy-munchy stuff however.
Wore a dress to work yesterday and picked up a lot of grief. Also got a bouquet of posies and a chance to show how good I still am at arm wrestling. Still got the arms. Hey.
Speaking of dresses, the cat likes them too. Bengal tiger named "Bob". Pretty fine pal. Good eater. Good-natured unless you tease him about the dress. Best to stand way back if so. Good boy.
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Me? What about me?
Captain Automatic has hit the wall. (He said "Owie!") I've been waiting for this to happen. Now I guess we can fly back from France. (Soon, I hope — I've still got something in the oven.) But then again, friends don't let friends fly stupid.
Captain Automatic has been out bow roating. That's how he always says it. Goes at night to an undisclosed location that his cat found. Had to steal the boat (or "roate", as he calls it), but had all the necessaries otherwise. While he's out, the cat and I make pizza and play poker. Lost my shorts to the cat last time. (He doesn't wear any, so I'm seriously handicapped, but plan to whup his furry little fanny real soon now. As soon as I understand poker.)
"Captain Automatic", I mean, what kind of name is that? He needs a jumpstart just to get out of bed. Good thing his megaphone broke. Now if he needs help he has to use email or send me a postcard. Is usually up by the time I get there, and there's less shouting then.
If I were Captain Automatic, what would I be like? I wonder. Well, for starters, I'd have to be a dick. (Got that one covered already, so no effort required over there.) And then I'd have to wear a costume. What is it about costumes and stupidheroes? And what's heroic about being an obnoxious loudmouth charging around and punching people? But then again, it would be nice simply to switch on that sweet "auto" mode and likewise turn off my brain. But really, I'm doing that now as well. So maybe the only benefits would be the retirement plan and the tax exemptions.
Will Captain Automatic ever give up smoking? Only if someone cares enough to use the fire extinguisher.
Yesterday, today, and tomorrow — that's all that Captain Automatic cares about, except for the last two. Always has his head stuck way up the under-side of trying to fix what can't be fixed because fixing time has expired. Like so many of us. At least I have my poker nights with the cat. I look forward to them. Forward. I look forward. One of these days I'm going to beat that little devil. The hope of revenge is my all-consuming lust. All I have to live for any more. In addition to the pizza and beer. And some of the howling we do together.
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Me? Recently nominated for this year's Doofus Awards. (Next year's too.)
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, gifted me a beard stretcher. Wants me to try it first on my face, and then, after I've become competent in driving it, to use it in places where it counts. Also says she's got a woolly surprise for me tomorrow night, one with an appetite and mouth, but no legs. So far I'm clueless, busily engaged in plotting how to grow hair where it might be useful.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, the strong one in our relationship, recently built a bridge out of toothpicks, near Washburn, ND, the city that will be holding a special election on Monday, September 20. I think they're voting on whether blue is really a color. Maybe not. Sometimes they surprise you there. Anyway, the bridge is 1524.76 feet long, and spans the Missouri River. I'm supposed to be the test pilot, since I'm the expendable one in this relationship, and have been told to have on clean underwear. Can't wait to find out what that's about. But maybe I shouldn't ask. No, maybe not.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, is the tri-state granola-grinding champ. She never told me about this. I would never have known if I hadn't found that scrap of paper stuck to the sole of my shoe. Had her picture on it too. I think it was her. Seems to be. All except for the mustache, which she must have grown later.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, always takes first place in my heart. Or else she pounds me. (Not again, please.)
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, the Spider Woman of my dreams — likes to wrap me in string and suck on my neck. Gets to be a bit creepy the third or fourth time it happens in the same evening, but if I play nice she changes my diaper. I do enjoy that part, I do.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, said if I buy something, then pay her back, she'll loan me the money for it. I think I get it. Somewhat tricky, but I think I do get it now, because she's sort of like that. (I also have to wear a blindfold for a week, and not commit arson. Pretty strict rules there, so we'll see how that goes.)
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Me? Trying to scratch my neighbor's grass. (Need better fingernails.) (Probably should wear gloves too.)
Traffic-Control Bob is on duty today, and will sanitize your wheels upon request.
Traffic-Control Bob knows all the moves, having been trained in signal obedience school since childhood, and possibly even before.
Traffic-Control Bob wants to be your pal, provided that you obey the rules. (See previous item.) If you are not reasonable, he may cry, and none of us want to see that. Really.
Traffic-Control Bob occasionally does whistle while he works, but not if you are watching. Covert listening is allowed — say from behind a bush, or while lying under a covering of discarded newspapers (can be hard to find these days).
Traffic-Control Bob says "Be safe — never leave home without your underpants!", and a few other things, though often less memorable.
Traffic-Control Bob, formerly Air-Traffic-Control Bob, but he's trying to forget what happened after just that one small lapse in judgment, and is also attempting to find meaning in standing on the street corner waving his arms, hoping, ever hoping to find gainful employment (again) at a future date, somewhere. Anywhere.
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Me? Can't complain but will try again after they pull out the gag.
Captain Anonymous orders a plate of oysters, gets hamsters, goes home tickled but still hungry. (They bite back, you know.)
Captain Anonymous, a friend to all and to all a friend, etc., has half a mind to take charge today, and put himself firmly in control, and set things to rights, but the other half of his mind is still on vacation, so he reads comic books quietly in the corner.
Captain Anonymous, the great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson of Anonymous Bosch, the world's most famous, and also weirdest, unknown artist, is now on his lunch break. Try again in about a week.
Not to be outdone, Captain Anonymous is doing everything inside these days. In private. In the dark. With the cat blindfolded. No news is good news they say, but are they sure?
Long gone are those days when Captain Anonymous was famous, if ever. If anyone erects a plaque for him it will likely be he himself, working quietly, on the sly, and it may not even be clear what it is about, if ever.
Contacted by aliens, Captain Anonymous declined an opportunity for an interview, letting go of his one and likely only chance to speak for humanity, since he was busy trying to smooth the bumps from his memorial plaque and could not be lathered into a bother over it all.
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Me? Mom always liked me best (after cigarettes and beer).
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, wandering the High Plains solo, ever vigilant for wild polka-dots. (Collecting them is my main lonesome hobby.) (Also headless Barbie dolls.) (Don't know why.)
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. Some call me "Lonesome Bob". Others call me "Lonesome Evelyn". Most don't call me, even Mom, which has something to do with why I'm lonesome, I guess, though life could be worse, somehow. Please tell me that tomorrow will be better. Or at least the day after that. Please.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I have a nose for beasts. Strange, untamed, undomesticated, untrained, unregistered beasts. Beasts with teeth. Nippy beasts. Hungry beasts I know. I have personal knowledge of said wilders, having been nipped severally, often on the nose. From, I suppose, becoming too close and sniffy among various parts. (Can't help it.)
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. It's on my business cards. Write me if you want one. (Address currently unknown.) Have to go now. Moaning time.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. No one else can say that, and mean it. Not alone in the dark by the dark of a dark new moon in a dark hole under a dark tree. And no one wishes to either, I suppose, since I have been for years unable to unload my LC franchise license. Contact me if interested. Even if you aren't. I need distraction. (Please bathe first.)
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, listening, alone in the dark, as the howls grow nearer. Ever nearer. Ever nearer to me some ravenous drooler comes. In the dark. Unless that's the TV in the next room. Could be, but I'm still lonesome and afraid, and haven't washed my socks yet. Maybe I'll try that. Couldn't hurt. But first I shall switch on the light. All the better to see my polka-dots with. More howling. (Is that me?)
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Me? Trying to remember if I have pants. What are pants?
Help! I'm being held prisoner in a small shoebox. It's the one on the corner of Infinity and Forever (next to where the old phone booth was before it was removed and replaced by a small mound of virtual turds, just before the big wind storm we had about two or three years ago, if memory serves). Anyway, I'd appreciate some help, if you've got the time, or at least maybe you could drop off some reading material? (Print only please — the battery for my Kindrel went dead some time back, so I can read only print-on-paper, and by match-light too, at night anyways, so if you have extra matches, hey, drop them off too.) Thank you very much and have a great day/morning/afternoon/evening/night/life.
Howdy, Podna — my name is Glib Gibberish and I don't know either, thank you very kindly for asking.
Whatever happens, follow the monkey. You'll never go wrong for very long.
When I was free to roam, and did roam, which I did from time to time, I once or twice had breakfast at the NonBinary Cafe. Most places like this, you either avoid, or eat at and die young, but at the NBC it was different. Exactly how different I never quite learned, since I did not fill out an application, let alone go through the initiation process. You had to achieve the status of Adept, Level 16.5(c) before you could even have syrup to put on your pancakes, and it seemed like a lot of bother just to get my lips sticky, so I didn't follow through on that. Anyway, I'm not really into the binary/non-binary stuff. I personally lean more toward the non-decimal, myself. (Gives me more options to avoid, more degrees of refusal. Like that, and so on. No tattoos either, so I guess I'm really pretty normal for my kind, especially if you ignore the frequent homicidal outbursts.)
I noticed that my old high school English teacher, Hormonia Honkweezl, got married to a 2x4 (fir, SD, grade 2-and-better) at the age of 86. And then she died, which was the part that amused me the most. Not to say that I wasn't expecting this because she just was not the sort who was up to handling a 2x6 (of any grade, or plywood even), although I did have 10¢ bet that she would die a spinster, even if one full of splinters. My loss I suppose. At least she's finally where she belongs.
As soon as they take the clamps off my nipples, I'm free to go, I guess. Kind of quiet out there. Not sure if anyone is even around any more. It would all be different if someone had popped the lid off this shoebox I'm in, or even had lifted one corner a bit, but I can't see a thing out there, at all. So maybe it's only a matter of waiting a little longer. Patience is a virtue, right? Hello? Bob, you still out there?
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Me? Now thinking that monkeys are not at all funny. Especially the one that's been following me lately.
