Muke Mucilage

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?

Winning Friends And Building Walls

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.)

Big Bottoms, Small Tips

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?

Still Missing

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.

Do You Account?

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.

Without Content Witless Wooden

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.

Good Natured Unless You Tease Him

"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?

The Molecular Cloudiness Of Existence

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.)

Pounds And Pounds Of Color

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.)