Where My Heart Lies

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.

Wuffling

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.

Smells Mostly Familiar

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.

Blocks Of Choice

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".)

GD WNT KWIT

"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?

A small sheep-shaped cloud went by. Stamped on its bottom: "© MMXVI God. All rights reserved. Fuck you."

 

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Me? Never liked the idea of wings. How do you sleep with those things?

Thoughts Over Meatballs

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.)

 

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Me? Poo. Not thinking about poo today, at all.