Captain Obvious flew over the garden party, dropping handfuls of cornflakes on everyone. Some described it as a cute gesture. Others fired back indiscriminately. Another reason that I avoid the obvious whenever possible.
If price was no object, then Captain Price-Conscious would be out of a gig, but really — how many of us does that apply to?
I am Captain Anonymous, explorer, searcher of lost horizons, single bookend, timekeeper, muffin rancher, and all-around guy, or would be if anyone knew me. Hah!
Captain Trud frequently got into unfortunate altercations over either the spelling or the pronunciation of his name, which actually means "poopyhead".
Captain Tenuous Attachment to Reality just got fired from his shoe-salesman job. Again. He'll be back though. When you need a men's size 7 1/2 EEE, who you gonna call? A little disjointed on-the-job raving is to be expected from genuinely unique staff, so OK.
Captain Painful Rectal Itch was unhappy yet again. All day. Go figure.
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Me? This might be why I never joined.
"If you really loved me, would you go so far as to set yourself on fire?" asked my love, Echinoia Eeeps, as she gently pushed a box of matches across the table toward me. It so happened that just about then she had also gifted me a set of fireproof underwear, for my birthday. There must be meaning buried somewhere in here. Makes a person wonder though, doesn't it?
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, has been unusually quiet for an unusually long time now. We're expecting the inevitable eruption at any moment, which is how it goes. I've already got my helmet on. Been wearing it for weeks, in fact.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, told me to get lost. (She likes to hunt me.) I now have six minutes to hide in the forest.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, said I'm a dick, or should get one, or something else that maybe I'm not quite clear on. Maybe she meant "duck". Or "deck", but if she meant "dock", then I'd probably need a boat to round out my outfit, though she didn't offer to raise my allowance to pay for it, so maybe she did say "deck", but that in turn raises whole bunches of other issues, which leaves us at "dack", which I can understand, sort of, because it makes no sense at all, which is normal around here. I'm betting on "dack" then. Wish me luck.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, rented a mouse from the mouse-rental people, "Skweeks-R-Us". She's going to try it out as a cat trainer. She has cats, don't you know, and some need training and some need refresher courses, and if you want a good trainer, go get one whose life depends on knowing their shit, because they need to get it right the first time. The only time — do or die, right or rot, launch or lunch. And if you rent-a-mouse it's not your problem, is it? Only thing is no one trains the mice for this, so that's where I come in. My mouse outfit arrives in a day or two, and I have to wear it to convince our rental mouse that I'm its big brother and know all about this. The cats are already laughing, especially Clem, the Bengal tiger. He's nobody's fool, is Clem. Me? Not sure yet. I guess it depends on if my mouse outfit is the right size this time.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, said she's giving up small arms and tactical training, and going back to knitting. Will give it a try and see how it goes, she said. I myself am not so sure. I do have to admit though that she's the only person I know who can knit an entire wire mesh fence in one afternoon. Pretty good at arm wrestling too. And she bites. (That was one lesson that I had to learn the hard way.)
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Me? Just trying to stay up to date on my squeaks.
Dear Diary: This morning I farted right after breakfast. Not much else of note today. Time for lunch soon.
Dear Diary: I had the TV on this morning to catch the latest news. Somebody said something that sounded important but I didn't hear it. Maybe next week. I'll let you know. For sure.
Dear Diary: Am I the right shade of green? I can't always tell, and when I stop someone on the street to ask about this I sometimes get confusing responses. Please help me. I know you can.
Dear Diary: Today I noticed that I have no hair between my toes. Overall, I'm happy about this but have been unsure if it means that I'm not really a hobbit, or is something even more strange going on?
Dear Diary: The guy down the street seems to be watering his lawn an awful lot. Makes me wonder if he has nothing better to do. I'm going to keep watching in case something happens.
Dear Diary: Mom said that if I ate all my vegetables I'd grow up to be big and strong like her, but I didn't eat them, and now I'm all grown up and don't know what comes next, and Mom won't talk to me any more. So. Something, OK?
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Me? Recently rediscovered how much fun flatulence can be.
You want advice, just ask. But not me — I'm closed today for therapy.
Yeah, I never dated much. Never dated at all, in fact. I just got old.
Who invented dents?
Why are chickens so funny? I went to a party last night with a bunch of them, had a whole lot of beer, and ended up wetting myself after hearing the best joke ever. (And I thought I'd already heard all possible variations of the old "crossing-the-road" story.) Even had some stuff come out my nose, which, of course, one of them immediately began pecking at, which wasn't all that funny in itself, at least not at the time, but thinking back on it — well, you know, maybe.
What if I tried selling myself as dessert? Would anyone bite? (I do however prefer gentle nibbles, if you're OK with that.)
We had some rain recently. The survivors were the ones not eaten by crocodiles. I didn't think that we even had crocodiles here. I guess the rain brings them out of their burrows to feed. Will have to remember that.
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Me? I bet you never wondered.
Dear Diary: I made an entry in my diary today. So, that's about it, I guess, unless you have something to say.
Dear Diary: Today I was crowned king of Sweden. Ha Ha! No, just kidding — it was only a threatening email about impersonating Swedish royalty. More on this later maybe. Gotta go poop right now.
Dear Diary: I don't know which is worse — one thing or the other. Will have to wait and see. Nothing else happening today. Tuesdays are always slow — more so when I can't find my pants anywhere. Hello?
Dear Diary: If I came out publicly as an acorn, would any of the other nuts be jealous? (Asking because I have nothing else to think about at the moment, and this seemed almost like something.)
Dear Diary: Today I turn 42, and with a bit of luck they'll let me leave high school pretty soon now.
Dear Diary: I'd like to take up competitive arm wrestling but I'm still afraid of fingers. Any thoughts? I know you don't have any. Do you? Please say no. Pleeease please.
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Me? Poop on it and see what happens.
Achtung, people — it's that time of year again. Warm up your adults-only napkins.
Am I real? If so, then I'm probably not imaginary. But there is still the option of being a hallucination, and I'm all for that, as long as I can afford it on my salary. (I train analytic squirrels.)
Been there, haven't done that. (Napped through it.) Beezer goo, if you want to know. It was beezer goo.
Carrots come in all sizes but only one smell. Why?
Dirt does not make a good pet. (Won't stay in the cage.) Cheap though. (And never needs shampooing.) May be misinterpreted when given as a wedding gift.
Doorknobs at the zoo have all received warnings about a doofus on the loose. (Doorknobs were not made for love, or actually any long-term relationships. Their heads are far too easily turned, is what I hear.)
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Me? I can't remember. Come back next week and we'll see.
Ms Opel Wintry is resigning from the board of Weighty Watching because Americans prefer injecting magic obesity-defeating potions over living.
The gummint is incompetent. The gummint is the people. Therefore Americans can't govern themselves. Too late for the Brits to take us back? At least some of us?
Try doing the wrong thing, and if it doesn't work, then keep trying. It's the American Way.
Tweedle, recently bought by an idiot, who could instead have given every American $8k in cash. I know what I'd like to do with my share.
Yes. I did escape from America. Just in time. Don't tell nobody, especially that Waldo Dumpfcker. (A delusional ignoramus can still be dangerous, even if only through incompetence.)
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Me? I'm not, are you?
My goal in life is to outgrow ugly, or begin to smell good, whichever becomes possible within a reasonable amount of time.
Oddly enough, rowboats do not fit in church pews, which reinforces my decision not to row to church, or even get anywhere near such a place ever again.
OK, folks, "Variations on a Theme" is today's exercise, and today's theme is "Shoelaces". Warm up your kazoos.
Old guys are generally pretty nice. They've "been there, done that", unlike guys from 12 to 32, who are long on urges and short on experience. Other than impending death, and the increasing failure rate of various bodily functions, being of advanced age can be somewhat pleasant at times.
Sometimes I notice that the cookies are watching me too closely. It gets creepy after a while — doesn't seem to matter which disguise I wear either. Maybe I should ask Aunt Bess. She used to handle security for a bakery. That's something.
Stream of Consciousness Ed here, for Ed's Stream of Consciousness Emporium and Live Bait Shop. Stop by and stream with us. We have worms.
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Me? Honestly, what did you expect?
Once again we find ourselves approaching the middle of the week. No telling what might happen next.
Once in a while the wheels fall off of everything. It happens. That's why you see so many loose wheels out there in the street. That's what they tell me anyhow.
Once the smoke cleared, I found that I was alone again. Or maybe I was on loan again. Sometimes I have to ask to be sure.
Once upon a time there was a magic ant but somebody stepped on it. #ShortPointlessStories #AbruptStoryCollective
Once upon a time there was this big giant giant thing that went stomping around and trumpeting and making all sorts of menacing moves but no one paid attention so it eventually went somewhere else and they all lived happily ever after. The end.
Once upon a time something happened, and that's how things got to be this way.
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Me? I'm just like that.
"Are you a believer?" she asked. Not wanting to belabor the palaver, I waved her offshore. Been pretty quiet here since. (Found a bit of lint in my navel though.)
Had a mouse eat the socks right off my legs. I believe it was the same mouse that ate the car yesterday. Small car, but I'm still glad I was prudent enough to lock my feet in the closet overnight.
I haven't ever heard of a high school reunion that resulted in so many deserved deaths as my last one. Which I also, as with all the others, avoided like the plague. Which, if I am to believe the news reports, was what did the job. Bacilli — so small yet so satisfyingly deadly.
I won't talk to Alice. I not only don't know her but have never seen her and have no idea who she might be, so I believe that I've made the right decision this time.
If I were ever to start working again, I believe I'd want to be a tooth fairy. Not a macho job, for sure, generally having low expectations, and I could pretty well set my own hours, so maybe.
It's been a long time since they turned out the lights. The rats are becoming agitated. My bag of corn puffs is, I believe, at risk.
This is bring-your-pet-to-work week, and the same thing happens every year. No one believes I have a tapeworm until I pull it out and show it them. And then they get all weird on me.
When is Clam Independence Day? I just noticed that it's not on my calendar any more. It is a thing, right? I believe so. I do.
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Me? Still waiting to be worshiped more widely.
