Wet Dreaming

My sister wanted to become a rain god. Said she wouldn't be in it for the adoration, devotional abasement, grovelling, or human sacrifice, just the money. Which might explain why I've been hit by lightning so many times this week. (Late again with my payment I guess.)

Mom said I'd never amount to much. Now that I'm only a pile of wet ashes, I think I may have to agree with her.

For the second time this year I've been flooded out of my 14th floor apartment. Something is definitely up with that. Screws up my walking schedule something fierce, and I'm tired of paddling to work. Good thing I no longer have a job then.

I remember seeing the sun, but that was a while back, just before the big hissing sound, when everything got real hot and steamy.

Well, I am saving lots on sunscreen. Now I just sit at home and drink. Have a nice mold collection getting started, and it's turning out to be better than anything on TV these days.

Damn these clouds. I know that the juicy fat full moon is up there somewhere, and I really need to get in some howling, but if you can't see it, you can't do it. The neighbors have started to give me some grief as well — it's really hard to keep my face shaved and my claws clipped, especially with no handy excuses for my looks. "Werewolf, you? You seriously want us to believe that? Hah — just go get a trim already." See? All the side glances too.

 

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Me? Just sitting here counting my tentacles.

Make Your Own Wind

I used to be happy. That was before I became a ghost. Now I don't care so much any more. Not really. Not about most things. I guess the worst part is that I can't play with the cat these days. Whenever I go over there and try to tickle it or whatever, all I get is a big hissy fit, and a cat who's up near the ceiling after climbing the drapes. This never impresses my landlady, in a good way at all.

Well, I can still smile, or try to, though no one can tell what I'm doing. I used to be told that I had a nice smile. Until that one day when somebody stole it while I was in a store buying cream cheese. Things have been different since then. My taste for cheese has declined significantly, and I never bother smiling, or trying to. I did find my smile for sale on eBay but didn't bother bidding on it. Why pay for something that already belongs to me? So I cut one out of a magazine. Remember those? Got a home transplant kit and went with that. The results look kind of funny, but then again, since I'm a ghost, no one can see me anyway, except in the dark, faintly. I'm only a faint glow at the top of the stairs at midnight, and that's when I'm feeling perky. Usually I don't show up at all.

Cattle don't mind.

Went out for a walk and caught a gust of wind. Truly amazing experience. I've been trying to do this my whole life. It made a sort of mild squeaking sound, like it was afraid, but quit after a while. I think we're friends now. Yes, it did pee in my shirt pocket, but I'm past that. Now wherever I go, I have someone to squeak to, and more fresh air than I can possibly ever use.

Yes, I still put on fresh underwear every day, though since I'm invisible and technically do not exist, at least in your limited four dimensions of space and time, you'd never know by just looking, or sniffing either. I am no longer sniffable, though no one ever requested the favor, or tried it on the sly when I was. Never, which gives me one more thing to wonder about. Sure, I, as well as most, I think, would have had a problem with some unknown person coming up behind me unannounced to sniff my butt, but you know it's all relative. Friends might have been OK, especially if they asked first, and I never had anything to hide since I've always been clean, so what's the big deal then?

A ghost without a smile is like a fish without a woman, which is similar to something or other that I can't quite remember right now, though it still makes me chuckle at times. Isn't that great?

 

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Me? What about me? Who's asking?

Geometry On Parade

Next Thursday is National Dig Up A Grave day, at least somewhere. Participation tends to be spotty, as do some of the co-conspirators. Bring your own hand sanitizer. Have a plausible alibi.

If a woodchuck even wanted to chuck wood, would it, really? Isn't there more money in stacking it neatly?

I'll give you seven cents if you can part your hair without using your fingers. More if you can do it using only your tongue.

Sunshine again struck earth today. No one noticed but the bugs and a few mumbling codgers who remember how it was back in the before times somewhere near Ever-When, in Indiana. So they say.

What is an idiom? Maybe start with that guy over in the corner. The one trying to measure eyeball spacing. Something fishy about that one, and it isn't necessarily his breath. Keep him under surveillance while I go on vacation. I'll be back in the fall.

Chalk up another victory for the Vertical Boys, a three-person duet led by Al Cappella, with Tommy Toot and his magical nose flute bringing up the rear, all held together by Simon (Elmer) Whitechappel and his mucilage organ (best not to ask). Admission: three cents. Abmission: $1375.29. Bring exact change, or a bucket.

 

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Me? Looking for someone to pull my own weight. Where are the volunteers these days?

Leafs Uncaged

Bugs up my nose, and I didn't put them there this time. Haven't put any there since at least last week. Weird. But then, if you've noticed, bugs won't stay in the box. Even if you leave explicit instructions.

Captain Antagonism here. Please don't annoy me by complaining how I'm standing on your foot. If I don't do that I have very little to almost no reason for being. Now pardon me while I sneeze on your shirt.

Cookies and cream don't make good roofing. The cream takes too long to dry, and you eat all the cookies while you wait for something to happen. Takes like forever. And cookies are no good without beer, so where does that leave you?

I decided to try this "bank holiday" idea — get a few bags of money and head for the beach. Leave the old cares behind. That's how it's supposed to work, right? Well, I'll have to wait. Like I'm not due out for another 10 to 15 years, and I'll definitely have to pick a more cooperative bank next time.

Speaking of oddness, I woke up this morning, but beyond that, had no memory of falling asleep. I never do. At times I wonder if I'm really who I think I am. Maybe, but then where did the tattoo come from? One day, it was just here. Now it won't leave. I tried ignoring it. That's what you're supposed to do but it didn't help at all. Not a bit, and no matter where I go, it follows me, and scares the cat too. My cat's name is Spud, and there isn't much that can set him off, but this tattoo can. One afternoon while Spud was just hanging out, the tattoo sneaks over and starts trying to mess with Spud's tail section, and OMG I can't find words to tell you the rest. (Lost them at poker.)

The food has arrived, some of it still coming in the door actually. Now, where did I leave my mouth?

 

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Me? Just woke up, or died, or something. Will get back to you on this in a bit, as soon as I figure it out. Maybe after lunch.

My Life As A Fence Post

You know how they say "I don't want to get old and spend my last days full of regret?" Hey — I thought I'd try it, just to be different. Old age, disease, and death. And regret. How bad can that be?

Spent a lot of time last week thinking about becoming a god. Ultimately decided that it would be too much work so I bought a hamster. (I already had the cage.)

Have always wondered if I had the balls to impersonate Arfu Snarfu, the used lollipop salesman. He had balls, that guy.

Walked into a wall yesterday. Not my fault either. I clearly had the right-of-way. Stupid walls these days.

Painted myself red with yellow stripes to see if it would make me stupid. Sort of did. Now at least I understand walls a little better. Who says you can't learn as an adult? I want to be one some day, so this is probably a good start.

Harvey came by for a visit. I have no idea who "Harvey" is. Says I owe him money. Says if I don't pay up by tomorrow he'll break my "peecaps" or something — didn't quite catch that part. Before I could shoot a couple relevant questions at him he hopped up on the windowsill and flew away. I think I can take him if he's so sadly mistaken as to come back. Plus, I have friends. I'm totally sure my entire Barbie doll collection will back me up on this, to great effect.

 

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Me? Just now realized that there's been a pencil in my ear since last Thursday. Life — go figure.

Spume From The Thought Locker

A bad workman always blames his chicken. Because he's a guy. Wouldn't you? Unless the chicken is a biter. The little bastards can be nasty.

A bird in hand is worth washing up after, real well. Under the fingernails too.

Absence makes the heart grow sheep fodder. For amusement, presumably, or out of boredom.

A cat may have nine lives, but a good set of snow tires will usually get you home.

A brain is only as strong as its weakest think.

Actions speak louder than turds, which mostly stink.

A drowning man will clutch at a straw? So no wonder he's in trouble. Another guy thing.

A journey of thousand miles ends with a single step. And then a beer.

A leopard can’t change its spots — can't even learn to eat with a spork. That's why the teeth.

All good springs come to an end — no bounce is forever.

A rolling stone gathers no moss, unless it's out gathering moss, and then it's fast — really damn fast.

Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, unless you're that leopard — they can get away with it because teeth.

Aphorisms come from aphids, right? The sticky goo stuff? Isn't that why they taste bad?

There are two tragedies in life. One is not getting what one wants, and the other is being a monkey.

 

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Me? Lost. I must be somewhere around here. Can't get far in these leg irons.

Dang

God seems a little abstract for a friend, don't ya think? Knows a whole lot of other people (exactly every one else), so how sincere is all that then?

God works in mysterious ways, because, if you're God why would you want a regular job?

Had a talk with God yesterday. Business is slow. Most people have given up their souls for a cut in their rent or a decent parking spot. Too many to burn like in the old days.

I quit being a Christian when their god didn't bring Janice Joplin her BMW #CheapFuckingShit

Had a beer with God. A plate got passed around to pay for God's. Nothing's changed there, the fucking old freeloader.

Saw God walking around again waving a stick and annoying everyone. The bad news is God has a trademark on all that, and trademarks never expire. The good news is that earplugs work wonders, and when they don't, pepper spray does.

Has a pretty decent girlfriend though. A little kinky but hey.

 

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Me? Gonna go in on that timeshare in hell before someone else grabs it.

Face Time

"Pssst — hey, buddy, you got arms?" It was a voice I hadn't heard before, and coming from outside my head this time. A building was talking to me. A building. There are lots of them around here, so I looked. This one. Here.

On a pillar on a facade, there, here, a face. It was looking at me. Like it knew me or something. Almost familiar.

Because it should be familiar, if I had seen it before, because I had walked along this street many times but never noticed. But maybe I had.

So maybe I had seen it and not noticed. Maybe we even knew each other.

Possible. I forget a lot. It's one of my specialties, forgetting. Not everything though, mostly important things. I forget significant, important things and all too often retain the junk, the residue, the unimportant impressions, the mistakes, the embarrassing things. But that's beside the point, isn't it?

Because today this building was talking to me. A part of the building. A part at eye level, right next to me. It was looking at me and asking me a question, this question: "Hey, buddy, you got arms?"

Of course I do — can't you see? Of course it could, this pile of masonry — it has eyes. So it can see. As well as talk, I guess.

Yes, I have arms. What you need?

"I dropped my cigarette. Fell out of my mouth. Can you pick it up for me? Put it back in my mouth?"

Sure, why not? I'm not a dick, at least not here, not now, not this morning, not always. Sometimes though, but not at this moment.

So I pick up the smoldering cigarette and carefully place it back into the mouth of the face on the wall of the building right here, right now, this morning. And then I go.

That's about it.

I don't talk about it. Not often. Not with everyone.

 

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Me? Been wondering what the shoe box has to say.

What's With That Wall?

Captain Automatic can see through trees, which is why, if you see him at all, you might see him standing behind a tree. (And he knows what you're up to.)

Captain Automatic works for Major Ed Drivel, when he works at all. (He's often in the repair shop, noodling around. He likes noodles. Inspire him to remain flexible, he says. Major Ed doesn't care.)

Captain Automatic, sir, we may ask — What's your foam number? (No reply yet.)

Captain Automatic was airlifted to lunch last week. Said he had an important meeting with Mumble Bunny. All top secret and hush-hush. At its conclusion they were seen shaking paws, the two of them, so we may conclude that all is well, if we conclude anything at all. One never knows about Mumble Bunny, or about his chief advisor, Rufus Rutabaga, who is an even deeper mystery.

Captain Automatic, once seen near a wall, but only briefly, accompanied by a soft clicking sound.

Captain Automatic says not to worry. Worry only creates more worry, which soon fills one's pockets, and then what? Better to have another beer, and more cookies, he says. Beer and cookies always works. He should know. So should you. Now you do.

 

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Me? Trying never to give up. (Though it would feel so marvelously good.)