Captain Hemorrhoid Cream Sales isn't doing too well, financially. So we hear. Can't spend all that much time sitting around the office either, considering his unique situation. (He's never been known to smile, which may go some way toward explaining his dearth of customers, and yet is so very relatable.)
Captain Incredible Oat Flakes can't find anyone who believes in him, and it's not the first time either.
Captain Mismatched Socks On Thursdays gets quite disagreeable if you ask, so maybe stick with managing your hedge fund holdings and just live with the mystery. Mystery can be fun!
Captain Mumbles still refuses to confess intelligibly, so we're letting him go, as soon as he agrees never to talk to us again.
Captain Pennzoil Princess wants to take this moment to remind you that great lubricants can improve your life immensely, and are also fun at parties.
Captain Telltale Armpit Odor has been banned from the church choir (again) for making too many fart noises during practice (again). He's still going to church, still making fart noises, but only during the sermons, and getting more laughs than when he was in the choir, for sure. They can't ban him because he owns the building and is a close personal friend "of God, the main dude, and my prime drinking buddy", he says. No word from God so far, and no sky-farts, so these issues remain unresolved for now.
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Me? Keeping quiet on this one.
Captain Forklift has been busy this Xmas season, shoveling around packaging waste from all the eco-friendly proto-gift deliveries, using the scoop attachment on his favorite piece of equipment, which is also handy for moving sleepy drunks and dealing with any unexpected dogshit overburden.
Captain Forkless Dining always has fun during the holiday season. He has recently also discarded use of the spoon and the table-knife, to put more focus into training his natural-born digits in how to handle common dishes such as baked beans, spaghetti, and gooey dumplings. More advanced topics, such as soups and stews are yet to be explored.
Captain Moderately Powerful Leaf Blower is available at 50% off this week, if you need (or just want) to get your leaves blown around. Not a priority at this end of the block, but hey.
Captain Ever So Ordinary just passed by. According to sources. We didn't notice.
Captain Faster-Than-Light gained a few pounds and can no longer get off the ground without a booster. Which provides for more of a spectacle, but with more opportunities for disaster, which can be amusing to some. And he farts more these days too.
Captain Harvard-Educated Cat Lady wants you to know that she's still smarter than you, and still has a better ass, in case you haven't seen any recent publicity photos of her appearing with former cast members of once-popular sitcoms. Pro tip here: If you want to keep your ass in shape for book-signing appearances well into the next few decades, don't spend so much time sitting on it. Maybe. Anyhow, it seemed to work for her, and you're nobody anyway.
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Me? Saluting rapidly and incessantly until it's all over.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, has been tossing out a few hints that she might be supplying me with a custom-made, hand-made, very special, personally-tailored Xmas gift this year. It seems to be the start of a new tradition for her, and for me. Last year she presented me with a bag of home-made fertilizer, crafted from curated dung discovered in the Eeeps Family Zoological Garden and Livestock Pen, with, as she noted somewhat cryptically, "a little something extra from me to you." And of course words could not fully capture my feelings at the moment, but she's hoping that this year will be as big a treat for me and for all the hand-crafted-dung lovers out there. She said.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, says that with the holiday season approaching, and the imminent need for truffles, I'll have to up my game, slip into my swine suit, get my snout to the ground, and make myself useful. Or else.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, wants me to "do the honors" this year and grease the Xmas hog. It's a thing with her family, a tradition, an annual event, an escape from the usual holiday humdrum. I, of course, am honored. The hog may be as well, but I'm not so likely to know about that, considering the cross-species language hurdles. First the hog is greased (my part), then released. Following that comes "The Grabation". Anyone who can catch said hog and immobilize it for a full 60 seconds gets dibs on having it for lunch, as said meal's main culinary feature. Failing capture and detention, the hog is set free, but pursued as an alien invader during the Eeeps Family ShootemUp Daze in mid February, when everyone is even more bored and seeking ever more fervently for an excuse to have a hog roast, which is the usual outcome. (Except for the "Cousin Homer von Dooter Eeeps" event back in '37, which we'll just not think about right now.)
So, my love, Echinoia Eeeps, is practically panting with heaving anticipation over what sort of Xmas gift, if any, I might be blessing her with this year. This is typically a situation which provokes a good deal of bullet-sweating because a person has only one chance, once a year, to get this right, and dear (and powerful) Echinoia can be ever so quick to anger if she should feel slighted, misunderstood, or undervalued in the least little way, a lesson that I have survived learning and do not now or ever wish to experience a refresher course in, so I'm thinking it over quite carefully while there is still time to do so, well before the day when I might need professional medical attention following a poorly thought-through decision.
Traditionally Xmas in Eeepsland is a time best spent with family, when cursing, loud farting, and gunfire are typically frowned on, especially indoors, and when everyone gathers 'round the table on the big day for beer, followed by the annual food fight. Last one standing gets to take home the cake, if there is any.
Xmas is growing near, and the sounds you hear are from the Eeeps Family target range where they are sharpening their shooting for the annual reindeer slaughter. Fun for all, usually. Except the reindeer, I expect.
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Me? Still deliriously in love. Or something that feels just as sticky.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, and, in fact, her whole family, has invited me to be the celebrity dessert at their winterfest, held just outside the swine shed, under the barren oak tree. I kinda think not, this year. Some of them are convinced that I'm mostly composed of sugar and spice and raspberry shortcake, which is interesting though I prefer not to be dismembered and eaten if avoidable, having both a definite allergy to toothbites as well, and a few plans for the future, but we'll see how it goes. Maybe.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, has been begging me to take flying lessons. If I take to the air, she says, she'll be able to sharpen her anti-aircraft skills — maybe snag a medal at the Domestic Partner Shoot-Em-Up Olympics. Maybe.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, has taken a softer turn lately. Instead of machine-gunning roses that don't measure up, she is feeding them to her pet rhinoceros, and making the remaining blooms watch. So they know. What the score is.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, is now asleep. She's been at it for 43 hours running. Wants to become expert at hibernation so's she can just sleep past the inevitable collapse of civilization and become the founder of a whole new line of super-humans. So far she hasn't mentioned my role in any of this, though I am hoping to inherit her industrial-size freezer of ice cream so to die happy while sitting around waiting for resurrection day. Or whatever.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, thinks it would be nice if I shut up for a while, like a month or two,she says. And possibly quit breathing to leave more air "for the rest of us who are trying to get things done." Using her pet hamster Fred as an example. Fred who died sometime in 1996 and is now mounted on a plaque. Whose reputation seems to keep rising, almost by the day. I'll have to think about it, is what I'm going to say when the time comes.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, won't let me near her machine gun. Says I'm likely to kill someone, and she prefers to handle that end of things herself.
Tactile Waldron Spliffy Eeeps, Echinoia's cousin stand-in stunt double, says that he wants to be my friend. Aside from his affection for decaying alligators (he has a collection, and even his own rot museum) he doesn't seem that bad, as her ersatz relatives go (most of whom I appreciate more than her certified ones), so I'm giving it some thought, but not a whole lot right now, at least during this century.
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Me? Currently hiding in my safe place.
I found feathers in my soup again. And I spent all day yesterday preparing it too. What kind of deity hangs out in the shadows and then sneaks a handful of feathers into someone's freshly-prepared onion soup? I mean, doesn't this clown have a job or something, or even a decent hobby?
If I were "Supreme Being", I'd just give everyone a billion dollars and then retire to my private island and the hell with them all.
What kind of parasite would God be? Well, don't we already know?
When I was small, God was big, and dangerous. Now that I'm big, God has vanished. Coward.
When was the last time you saw God just all laid back and relaxed, enjoying life, maybe eating a hot dog with chips and a beer? Like never? Suspicious yet?
If you think you have it bad now, how about trying to be one of God's relatives, especially a son. "Trying" is the key word. It's a very trying way to live. Just ask that one guy. I bet he has words for you.
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Me? Suddenly also have feathers in my shoes.
And then I woke up to that distinctive but terrible smell again. Despite the restraining order, God must have jimmied one of the windows and sneaked in. Terrifies the cat and inspires horrific bouts of pungent diarrhea all up and down the carpet. And guess who gets to clean it up then?
God — someone who invented the whole concept of "doofus" (along with everything else, they say), and now appears to be hell-bent on playing the part.
God got pissed over some damn little thing (again) and then threatened to zap me (again), so I had to fire him. About time. And it's always a "him", isn't it? Maybe I'll see if Aphrodite is accepting new clients now. I hear that she can be fun at times. Would be a nice change.
If God is so great, and omnipotent and all, then why doesn't everyone automatically love cats? And why are there still Republicans (and Democrats)?
If you ask me, God wouldn't even make a reliable doorstop. Who needs an egotistical, argumentative doorstop?
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Me? Probably need a spankin'.
If God is so great, then why can't this universe have better internet?
If God were a cuttlefish, things would be different. Donctha think? Higher rents around rocky reefs for one thing. Snootier, holier-than-thou cod too, probably.
If I was God, I'd sell off the place to the current residents and go do something worthwhile. You?
Speaking of God — meh.
The Son of God was actually named "Bruce", and wore a kilt, but they don't want you to know that. (Or ask about it.)
Was talking to God yesterday. Asked if there's a retirement plan for supreme beings. Yes, but God is only a contractor, so when the gig is up, there's no tomorrow. Sounds familiar, though we were all hoping for a better ending on our side of the fence, weren't we?
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Me? Gonna be running this universe some day. Betcha.
God farted, and the earth shook, etc. OK fine. Get lost.
Did you ever wonder why God needs to be worshiped? I mean, omnipotent, omniscient, existing before space and beyond time, creator of all that exists, and also vain and insecure enough to require worship too? Doesn't that sound like your typical spoiled brat rich kid who has nothing going on, who is all bluster and puffery and tantrums, and is basically a blundering major league fuckwit asshole? Is what I wonder.
God said that you're a dick. I would consider that a compliment, considering the source.
God told me a joke and then farted while laughing at it. Up to that point I didn't think that the joke was particularly funny, and not afterward either.
God woke up in the gutter with a hangover and pants full of diarrhea and no one said a thing. You can do that when one word and a quick point of your finger will send anyone to hell forever. (And you also made hell. Can't leave out that part.)
I tried talking to God again, but still go straight to voicemail. Something is definitely fishy here, and I don't like fish at all.
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Me? That there is what I think.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, planted a garden this year. Only one seed. Me. But when I didn't sprout properly she dug me up again and gave me a solid spankin'. That naughty, naughty lady. I guess we're now back on course.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, said I'd look pretty good on top of the Xmas tree this year. (It's a thing that they do around here, where her family is.) And wouldn't you know, I immediately began to pucker up, remembering Cousin Ephraim Elbert Eeeps. Poor bugger was wiggling around up there for six weeks, without even a potty break.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, says that tomorrow is the big day. That was all. No details yet. I'm hoping that she'll be untying me before the main event. That would be plenty for me, considering. Maybe I'll get fed too, but I hope it's not to the swine. Hope — I still have some left from last time.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, slept late last week. She didn't go to bed until 76:51:27.3 GMT, according to her, and then she snored a whole lot. She does that. Nevertheless, she retained enough residual consciousness to periodically pop upright and plug a random rat with her Colt M1911 .45 caliber pistol, before settling back into a peaceful beauty sleep. Beauty, eh? That's her.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, told me that I need to help her make a batch of nitroglycerine. Considering what happened the last time, I'm thinking maybe I'll go hide for a few days.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, wants to plant me out in the family vegetable garden again, so I can listen to what the bugs are saying about her. Bugging the bugs, so to speak. She promised that she would come by and water me at least once a week, but so far I'm a bit skittish about the whole enterprise, especially since the family's monthly compost-shoveling contest and beer-pee fest is coming around all too soon. (Lots of wet times during those days. Lots.)
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Me? Happily licking things that can't get away. Selected people too, on occasion.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, has gotten all engrossed in toodle making lately, and she has become pretty good at it too, especially with the part that requires toodle ooze. Toodles and toodle ooze everywhere — what more could a guy stand to experience?
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, has recently lapsed into an unusually quiescent phase, and in fact is nowhere to be seen. All of which leaves me a lot more twitchy than usual. I've left a dummy cozily planted in my bed just in case. I never know exactly when she might attack, or from what angle, or why, but that's life, innit?
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, is now breeding thrips. Not personally, mind you, but putting them together to do whatever comes to mind. "Thrips for Trips" will be her business name, the point being that if you have a bunch of them in your luggage, then they will scare away hotel bedbugs. I'm not so sure myself if I want to lug around buckets of bugs in order to avoid other bugs, but I know enough to keep a low profile where her projects are concerned.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, is off today,though her rocket is still rumbling and grunting, so I probably need to be careful about how I handle my public service announcements.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, is really good to me. She hasn't set me on fire for this entire month, and I'm hoping to extend my winning streak as far as I can. Hiding the matches was probably a good move. Next? Maybe her flamethrower.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, just started a sausage ranch. I'm not quite sure what this means, though I'm never going anywhere without buttered toast and a dish of scrambled eggs until the matter is resolved.
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Me? I keep trying, I do.
Captain There He Goes Again has finally left the building, which we applaud, and whatever may happen next will be declared none of our concern.
Captain Tiny Nut Cups still can't locate a hint of proper traction in the marketplace of significant ideas. Maybe time to turn in the old nutcracker for something with batteries then, eh?
Captain Syrupy Goo always seems to have sticky fingers, at least in my experience, though I've never touched her except via 10-foot pole, with a referee present to certify that I'm following regulation procedures. Anyway, it has never been as much fun as I could have hoped.
Captain Talcum Powder Sprinkles is best left to the professionals to handle. They know how to deal with these situations and the rest of us don't. Really. No. We don't.
Captain Slightly Left Of Center can't help it. His offside leg is a bit short, but he can still kick butt like nobody's business and he'll tell you it's none of your particular business either, and if you don't take the hint, he will show you how, by kicking your butt from one side to the other until you didn't know what-all, so that's the story about all that.
Captain Snugglebunny is for advanced users only, and may even require a note from your mom.
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Me? Going to try whooshing later this week, see if that helps.
Don't shake hands with Captain Mucilage. You have been warned.
Captain Wiggly Butt Cheeks proves to be annoying after a while, when the novelty wears thin and after just a bit too much farting.
Captain Untrimmed Nose Hairs once again came in first at the international Glistening Twine Competition, primarily due, it is reported, to his unmatched braiding technique, and also his refusal to "just go away".
Captain Tuna Salad Sandwich has once again been out in the sun too long. Probably a good idea to steer clear for a while, at least until the room is aired out.
Captain Tremulous Twitching is getting on my nerves again. (Thought you might like to know.)
Captain Third-Tier Used Car Lot is...well...you can probably guess if you don't try too hard.
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Me? Wondering what else is new.
Captain Fred The Almighty has been secretly video recorded putting his pants on one leg at a time, which has disappointed very few of us. Next up, we investigate Captain Tootle and his Magic Nose Flute, and not a moment too soon for most of us here.
Captain Hairy Armpits went to the beach to enjoy the summer weather and kick sand in various faces. Pretty typical for him. (No real hobbies under his roof, it seems.)
Captain Frosty Underpants is shivering again today. Or is it shimmying? Hard to tell with this guy. I'm sitting over in the corner, eating peanuts and hoping to remain at least partly invisible. Wish me luck, or send money — whatever works for you.
Captain Really Unpleasant Body Odor is your ace in the hole — if he lives next door and you need to have reluctant guests heading for the door so you can finally go to bed and sleep it all off.
Captain Rhinoceros-Shaped Apricot Pit is retiring this year at the age of only 43, to, as he says, "Raise a few beans and spend more time playing with my hamster." We do wish him well, in perpetuity.
Captain Supersonic Snot Globules is out on a sneezing retreat this week. Please try again later, after we've had enough time to disinfect the premises, 'K?
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Me? I'm really like that, at least on Thursdays.
Captain Amazing woke up this morning to the sound of bugles being severely tootled by a marching band of wubble monkeys, widely known for their proclivity for tootle-mania. Other than that, nothing else of significance seemed to be happening, and eventually the monkeys all got bored and went home. Just another ordinary Captain Amazing day.
Captain Anonymous can't remember how to get home, and no one sees a recognizable problem.
Captain Indelible Ink just will not fade away gracefully.
Captain Petty Cash is getting all prissy and hissy, refusing to even talk to anyone until all the pennies are buffed to a brilliant shine, and we all submit to a severe scrubbing with an industrial-strength dog wash.
Captain Toodle-OO will no longer be toodling in the loo, which is now reserved for the exclusive use of paid-up members, if, and only if, they behave themselves in there. (No kazoos, please. We're trying to maintain a minimum level of sanity.)
Captain Two-By-Four was out measuring things again, making sure that it all was on the up-and-up, shipshape, trig, square and proper. Then, luckily, he went away and left us the hell alone again.
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Me? I'm not really serious this week. Check back in maybe a decade.
Cream cheese — Creamy but not so cheesy. Does it matter? Someone must know. I don't.
Cousin Claudia died. I wish I'd known her better. I think they composted her. Now it's definitely too late.
Credit where credit is due, as they say, and don't you owe me a few million?
Darnell Todefreek, at your service. Capable at many small tasks, and ready at a moment's nottle.
Dear Sweet Nothings: Please come back and blow in my ear again. I miss you. And your sister, Kinky-Jean, too. But maybe her more. I think I do lean in her direction. She's quite bendy, is she. Bendy is good. I like bendy Jean to some degree of excess.
Deep fried toad — disgusting. Whatever happened to good old snotburgers?
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Me? Not generally a toad nibbler.
Do any dead people have fun on the Day of the Dead, or are they just faking it? (I do.)
Do any squirrels come shrink-wrapped? Or even gift wrapped?
Do they have cubicles in Iceland, or is it always the full-size ones?
Does Rolf play golf? If not, it seems inevitable, don't you think? (Cue the sound of vegetables screaming.)
Don't think twice — it's all right. (Unless you think twice and actually catch on.)
Every now and then I used to set fire to myself, just to see if I'd notice, and I always did. So there's that. (It's nice when things work as expected.)
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Me? I'm secretly organic.
No, Captain Tiddlywinks isn't flirting. He's just like that. Can't help it. Just step back a few feet. (You never know when he'll go off.)
Captain Serious Nasal Dripping has something to say, but won't say what it is, except that it may involve an oil change and also a small amount of vanilla ice cream. Right now we're waiting for his next note to be dropped from the castle tower.
Captain Anonymous started a business. Called it "Random Blankware". No one showed up for the grand opening. Only some flies. He declared victory, closed up shop the next day, and retired. We think. No one could identify him. Not even a lingering smell.
Captain Let Bygones Be Bygones eventually became so mellow that he just turned into butter on warm day, and melted right away. Unfortunately, that was only one short day before the popcorn festival, so we truly and really felt the loss.
Captain Mucilage ended up in a sticky mess, the kind that only gets worse the more you struggle. And he did, and it did. Everyone who knew the score finally just turned around and went back home.
Captain Painful Rectal Itch retired from entertainment after SNL scratched him (circa 1979, I think).
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Me? Haven't quite earned my stripes yet. Not even the cat salutes. At dinnertime. Go figure.
Toothpicks don't grow on trees, and in fact they are not even on speaking terms.
Even if I was a squirrel, I still wouldn't wish to nibble any nuts of yours, probably.
But if I were an orange tree, would I have to bear fruit? Or bear anything even? It seems like just being a tree would be enough to bear, or am I being prissy about all of this? Not that I care, as long as I can snag a quiet bubble bath every now and then.
If money grew on trees, I bet I'd still be too short to get rich.
Is it already that time of year? The scabs have barely fallen from the elm trees, and now we have to do this stuff all over again?
And tubers? Hey. They don't grow on trees, you know. Not around here they don't. We have laws.
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Me? Stuck to the wall again.
Would people like me any better if I painted myself red? Is that the best color?
Wombats never apologize.
Why did "physical education" in all my school years never amount to more than a bunch of kids running around and bumping into things? Me, I learned how to do that on my own, at home, and Mom never made me shower after.
While I was out hiking I spotted a rock trying to sneak up on me. I contemplated trying to outwait it, but finally decided to outwit it by making a run for it. Luckily I'm still fast enough for that, and got away with only a few minor bite marks.
What if buttheads needed to be licensed? Maybe I'd have to find another hobby.
Saw my ex last night, looking like she got the bald end of the weasel. Can't say I envy her any more.
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Me? I am a hobby.
Yesterday was a holiday. Somewhere. Somewhere, I bet. Holidays are all over these days. Sometimes they sneak up on you. Sometimes you can hear them coming. Sometimes not. Two and three abreast lately. And loud. All hollering and hooting. Barfing in the gutter. And so on. Though I like mine plain. Just some melted butter, mostly. No barf. Nothing fancy. And then a nap. I like naps. Naps and cheese.
Yeah, I been in the pet biz from day one. Before the pet rocks even. Back when bubbling slime was a big deal and all. Didn't sell too well but at least it was my idea.
Wow it's cold in here. I wonder if all glaciers are like this, all icy. Sort of damp all over too. And wet at the bottom. I like the color though.
Was awake half the night listening to my bed sheets shifting and whiffling around. So this morning I burned them. Then the fire department sent out a couple of trucks, but I said no thanks, I know how to burn things. So I had a beer and then a nap in the back yard and now we're right on track again.
Two giants munched lunch. I wasn't invited. Or lunch. Some days turn out OK.
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Me? I'm now back to living in today.
Crunchy Bits, Secretary General of the Secretary General's Secretariat for Prim Propriety Day, is however soggy and wet in the bowl after nightfall. Still a person of interest? Think about it. Carefully.
Did you ever notice how the more things change the more they stay the same? Not with ice cream. The flies always get it. Always.
Everybody gets a share. I have a disease and I see no need to keep it all to myself. Next!
Flatulence has actually nothing to do with tires, I guess. At least I think that's how it works. They don't teach you this in school.
Forgot my pants today. Again. No one noticed until I accidentally set myself on fire, but it wasn't really until it happened the second time that they paid me any attention, so not a bad day overall, but all the seats on the bus were sticky again. Good thing I couldn't dirty up my pants even if I tried, though I did leave a little skin behind when I stood up.
Friends don't let friends who have friends do unfriendly things with friends or to friends, or so I hear. Since I have no friends who are even friends of someone, I probably read this somewhere, or it came to me in a dream, like the one I had last week, even though that one was about the world's richest hamster, name of Fred. In addition to everything else, Fred treated me to dinner and then we talked about nuts and burrows.
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Me? Always tasty sweet.
"Snail away, come snail away, come snail away with me." Is a line I never fell for. I'm too fast forem, me.
'Tis the season for roast newt. So, I'll be out of the office for a while then.
Ben, my pet Bengal tiger, housemate, and road manager, just ate one of the neighbors. I'm pretending that I didn't notice. Will keep you posted on events, if any, as they unfold. (Also hiding the litter box for a while.)
Cranberry-flavored neckties are no longer available in shades of either yellow or orange where I shop, though they are probably my least favorite anyway.
Fish farts are an acquired taste, if you're into that. Personally, I'm of a mind to regard them as a replacement for friends. And a sort of underarm reodorant. Dip a rag into the tank, wipe your pits, and no one will notice if you haven't gotten around to bathing yet this year, and then they take a few steps back and stay there — no more awkward attempts at small talk, no more invites to join the crew after work, or invites to mass parties. Sweet. So sweet.
Generally you don't fuck with the vermin around here. Remember to salute and always say "please". Do it, but. Sometimes they eat you anyway.
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Me? About the same, eh?
"Cook that egg", she said. "Cook it now! Boil it before it hatches into something with lots of teeth that's gonna come and bite us." But I forgot, which is how I got these tooth marks on my butt, and a really cool pet that's a lot of fun at parties.
Buzz Feature used to be a friend of mine. But he had too many legs. Maybe he was really a bug. Could be. Was never featured in anything. Anywhere. Anyhow, I lost track of him when he crawled under the refrigerator. Long ago. The end.
Buy half a hamburger, get the other half free, unless I get to it first.
Catch the Pig Luncheon Special. Catch the pig and win a free lunch no strings attached. (Cash value, $1.00, Thursdays only, weather permitting.)
Caught a crab yesterday. Trying to steal my car. Pretty sure it was a crab. Pretty tall though, for a crab. Had a beard too. Not sure if crabs have beards. Ever, but. And a beret. One of those beatnik crab hermits maybe, looking for some fun. I was going to eat it but naw. Got punched in the nose too. What did I expect? I don't like crab anyway. Especially not this one. Didn't smell right. So I guess we're good over here.
Caught a rat trying to steal my pickup truck. Not too bright — he should have realized that his feet would never reach the pedals. Anyway, I had a backup strategy. My secret weapon. I don't own a pickup truck. Nurk.
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Me? Can't stop scratching butts, some of them mine.
Chasing a furball down the street is not working as a way of making a living, unless I'm doing it wrong.
Day of the Dead, eh? And here I thought I could get by just holding my breath and keeping real still. The flies know better, little bastards.
Death is 100% lethal. Only a single, even weak dose is enough to kill a person.
Did you know that cookies and milk cause brain cancer? That's why I stick to cookies and beer, or just beer and beer. Cookies make my butt itch, if I sit on them too long.
Elementary school was a lot of fun, but only for the first decade or so. Awkward after that, to put it mildly, until they quietly escorted me out one day with a minimum of either fuss or embarrassment, accompanied by a couple of shotguns.
For a while today I had fun watching two brown wombats fight. I didn't know that they got so big — must have been a thousand pounds each. After a while I just decided to steal the salmon they left on the bank and go have lunch. Alaska is such a fun place! I hope to see a grizzly bear soon too.
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Me? Don't have a dosage. I just chug it.
Terrible Tina Twight and her principal hench, Tyrannosaurus Tim, fight all comers tonight at the All-Alight All Right All Night Arena of Fright.
Ted was out chasing elephants again. I never could quite see the point of that. Maybe it's something his mother taught him. (Home-schooled, he.)
Tammy came by, asking to borrow one of the wheedling weevils for a science experiment, but she has to return the flamethrower first. We're quite firm on that.
Tammy came by again, asking to borrow the flamethrower again. We have no idea what she gets up to with that, though she was out of luck today, since the kids took it to Sunday School for show and tell. (It's Damnation Week.)
Sue falls, then sues Sioux Falls and fails. Foo. Foo on Sue.
The plural of octopus is trouble, especially when they get new running shoes that fit correctly.
The day is gray. Dry and cool. Life has been put into a box. All is quiet again. Oh — did I mention that I died recently?
The best way to check the ambient temperature is to take a bus to Ambia and ask around. Someone there is sure to help you. They're nice that way, temperature be damned.
That small puff of smoke on the horizon is my high school English teacher being incinerated by the natives, most of whom are not my friends and neighbors, though I do applaud their methods. And not a moment too soon. It's never too soon for this sort of event.
Taken in small bites, I'm tolerable, though I do trend toward heavy bleeding.
Suction seemingly stole my shoelaces, silently somehow.
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Me? Told you.
Went to the doctor the other day. The doctor said "There ain't no cure for the summertime blues. That'll be $2476.92 please."
What color is repulsive? It's about time to repaint everyone I work with.
Went to Paris to see that famous Moaning Lisa painting but she was all quiet and just sat there chewing her cud or something, or waiting to fart, or whatnot, so I went out and had a pizza, which saved the day, let me tell you. From now on it's pizza and wine and maybe some ice cream if I'm feeling frisky, and I can do all that at home just as well any day of the week.
Went for a walk before lunch. Didn't see any rats. So I guess they didn't see me either. We're tied now.
What do you get if you cross a paperclip with a caramel apple? (Asking so I know something.)
Well, they just uncovered the food trough, so we're getting close. Soon's the swill starts flowing I'm gettin my snout right down in there. Nothin like home-sloppin to make a guy feel like he's in the right place.
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Me? Recently experienced an involuntary regurgitation episode.
When I came to work today, my desk was gone. They said it had an accident overnight, so I'll have to work in a toilet stall until further notice. Sounds fishy to me. If you want me though, I'm now located down at the bus station in #6.
When I was younger I was much shorter, but I'm only shorter on the one side, like my parents. And the dog.
When was the last time that a dill pickle was elected pope, or are they all that way?
When I first got here, I wasn't here until I arrived, and then it was suddenly all me again, here, and I had arrived. Curiouser and curioser.
When you wait all you get is older, and sometimes more cranky. Though that's as good an excuse for a nap as I can think of.
Whenever I tell someone that I'd love being invisible, they always ask what I would do, not realizing that having to be someone and do something are the opposite of being invisible.
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Me? Anytime. I'm good.
Dear Diary: Someone walked by the house today when I wasn't looking, but I detected no strange smells in the vicinity, so things will probably be OK.
Dear Diary: Found a bit of hair in the bathroom sink. Have been wondering where that had gotten to.
Dear Diary: Woke up to find a few tufts of cotton stuck to the bedroom ceiling. Probably should keep an eye on the cat for a while. Something suspicious going on.
Dear Diary: Today isn't Tuesday any more. I'm still not sure how that works. This just doesn't seem like it could really be normal. I'm getting to be very suspicious of the calendar.
Dear Diary: How are you anyway? I keep writing to you but you never answer. Does this seem like a healthy relationship? Hello?
Dear Diary: I ate a cookie. Top that, if you can.
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Me? Thinking that it may all be as bad as it sounds.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, is out to reinvent the chicken. Her guiding principle is to start with something that works, and make it better. In this case it means making a trip to the supermarket to pick up a few packages of certified parts.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, likes Jeeps, unsurprisingly, but done up in her own style. First, she'll skewer one on a stick, then roast it over an open fire, and, finally, will advertise it on Craigslist, because who wants a crusty, burned-up vehicle? (But she always has fun doing it, and, likewise, meets interesting people, some of whom enjoy sniffing cindercars. So how's your life?)
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, wants to start turtle ranching, with me as foreman, because I'm just perfectly, deliciously slow enough, she says, eyeing me ever more closely.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, was on maneuvers again last week. It's a family thing. They like to stay in shape in case the waves of many termites ever return.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps: I guess if you'd ask me to list the good and bad of our relationship, I'd be best off reserving any comments until I'm released from the hospital, and preferably until after the latest set of bandages comes off, and so on — it's generally a good idea to tread lightly in these parts, as I'm too slowly learning.
The Eeeps family is holding a one-third century reunion rehearsal for cousins who have found themselves splattered around the world. It's held, as you might guess, every thirty-three and one third years, on the thirty-third day of the third month, under the light of a one-third moon, if the sky is at least two-thirds cloudless. Cousin Evanescent Bubbles Eeeps will be there, in whole or in part, and Female Cousin Fizzy Whiffles, who will be providing the majority of the entertainment by juggling cockroaches, tomatoes, and hand towels, something only she has mastered. I have been invited as well, as Witness Of Record In Training, and also as Pot Roast of Honor, but am still not quite sure about being basted with hot sauce, as they make it there. (Gets me sticky and leaves stains that remain even after I've been thoroughly licked.) Even if it is a cherished family tradition.
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Me? Still learning how to properly eeep.
"You can't do that", said the monkey while I was preparing to take a shit in the woods. Well, I ask you — if the Pope can do it, why can't I?
Antonius Toofer One, great ancient Roman deal maker. Ultimately went bust during the first century weevil panic. A lesson to us all somewhere in there, prolly.
Found a spider in my underwear this morning, then realized it was me.
Found a tooth under my pillow. The dime fairy stole my spare change again.
Found snakes in my salad again. They said it's because the bowl was too small for a tuna.
Have been seeing a lot of stars lately, in the sky, after dark, but only if I look up. I wonder if this means anything. Must write it down.
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Me? Never got used to the smell of monkeys. Don't want to either.
Captain Vaguely-Unpleasant Odor came by last week but this time, at least, chose not to linger.
Captain Underpants doesn't even have a decent raincoat.
Captain Unrelenting Dry Heaves does not often find himself invited to parties anymore. (Things were different when we were all so much younger.)
Captain Twerb is still looking for a reason to exist or a decent logo, whichever manifests itself first. He's pretty well given up on ever having even a reasonably-intimidating costume by now, so his options are quickly fading.
Captain Tutti-Frutti probably needs no introduction, right? You already know where this could go, so what's the point then? Right?
Captain Twelve-Inch Swagger Stick has been repatriated to his century of birth.
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Me? I actually wasn't going to.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. If you know my name you do not speak it. If you speak my name you do not know me. If you see me I am not there. If you miss me, you miss another. It is not me. I do not care.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, quite content to be no one, to be needed nowhere, and to be again completely free of any schedule.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, pulling cactus prickles from my shin, humming a dour tune, mouthing a sad refrain. Humble before the sky, wet and chill in each rain, I hobble along, always alone, ignoring all pain.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, sitting, breathing in the chill night air, waiting, for dawn. It must surely come some day.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. Call me Jed. Or Ned, or Ted, or Fred. No matter, I answer to all, to one as well as another, it seems, and am unsure, even to this date, what my true name may be, if even there was such a thing, and if so, I truly know it not, so then, Jed will do fine for now. Or Ed, or Ned.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I have wandered the borders of many a town but have rarely gone in to any. My friends are the stars, the wind, the dust, and tumbleweeds, also known as Russian thistles, an invasive species, not unlike me, perhaps.
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Me? Well, not saying more for now, until I identify that suspicious smell.
You know that cat lady down the street? That's me. Mom and I each have 10, and we wear matching cowboy outfits too.
You know what? Mom said I could come over and annoy you, so let's get started then. Try running away and see what happens.
Well, I tried the other thing and that wasn't any better. Maybe I should ask Mom, get advice from the dead. Hey Mom — you still dead over there or what? Sounds like it. Snoring. Snores of the dead. I wish I could sleep like that.
What do you do with a bucket of tentacles and wary eyeballs? Mom might know, but she's on vacation this year.
The trouble with being handsome is that I just keep getting better. That's what Mom says. She often lies in between rounds of poker though.
Thinking of going into agriculture, and growing hair. There's always a demand for hair. Mom told me that, and she's pretty hairy. Sounds about right.
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Me? Can't say I remember you that often.
The first thing that happened today was diarrhea. I can't wait to see what's next. Surprise me, Life, I dare you to try.
The food is here, but I'm not. This happens all too often these latter days. Now I have to check and see if I actually exist.
The haggis days of summer: coming soon, I bet.
"The highest purpose is to have no purpose at all. This puts one in accord with nature, in her manner of operation." -- John Cage This is also the motto of The Institute for the Growing Catastrophe, brought to you by The Home Shouting Channel.
There are no crevasses in Bananaland, unless they're in the fruitcake, but that is an elusive terrain.
There once was a time when a fur coat couldn't get elected to public office without someone inside it. True.
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Me? Diarrhea. I mean, hey. Weren't you listening?
I don't know why I write these things. Mom told me I'd never amount to anything, and she was always right. Also dead these days, and you know what they say about dead people? If you do, please contact me because I probably want to know.
I just wanted to congratulate you on that arthritis of yours. Not everyone can do that. Sorry about the pain and all. Would you like some roasted cockroaches? Mom made them just for me, for my birthday, but I've sort of grown out of that snack, especially since I turned 40, and I don't dare tell her.
If Mom hadn't told me to shave more often I'd still have hairy eyeballs. She knows her shit, Mom does.
I saw a flying saucer today. When Mom threw it at me. Good thing too. It's the ones you don't see coming that do the most damage.
I think Mom only wanted me for parts. Part of me feels that way. I'd better not say which one, for now, but it's definitely one.
I wonder what we would do if they took the streets away. Mom might know. She's old. Used to be old anyway. She might know.
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Me? Recently nominated but I don't know for what. Something.
All things considered, my love, Echinoia Eeeps has been pretty good to me this year, so I guess I'll be dressing up again in the Merry Prankster End of Year Sacrificial Muskrat suit for the big Eeeps Family party. So far I've managed to escape alive, but everyone's aim is constantly improving, so we'll have to see how it goes.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps has next week penciled in for artillery practice. Luckily for me the self-propelled tank target is out for repairs. Extensive repairs. (Her aim is improving.) So not only won't I be driving but I don't need a note from my psychiatrist explaining why I can't help out this time.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps heard that I was taking a bath, so she barged right in with her stepladder. She likes to sit on top, about eight feet up, and use a rubber band to shoot paper clips at me. I don't know why, but I'm not complaining, as long as she doesn't return to using rabbit pellets as ammo. Even then, it's iffy to start complaining, given what happened last time, and even if she did run out of moose turds, she could always just pound me again.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps insisted that I sleep over New Year's Eve. Quite an honor. We've been a hot item only about six years so far and this is my first invite. She's even put fresh hay in the dog house for me, so I'll be quite the comfy little fellow. And of course I'm all tingly just thinking about what we might get up to. Fetch, perhaps? A few rounds of fetch? Maybe? Anything can happen around her.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps is trying her hand at cheese making, and since this is all new to her, she's going to keep it simple, working on Swiss, and starting with only the holes.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps said I'm a keeper. I think she may be planning to have me stuffed. I only hope that I don't live long enough to find out how it feels.
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Me? Lying low. Very low.
Saint Lorenzo of the Rubber Duckies is retiring soon. Watch for lots of bath toys showing up on eBay, or at Saint Optimist's Recycling And Tyre Center.
Salmon P. Fishfart was the third US Secretary of the Treasury and Keeper of the National Aquarium. His nickname was "Bubbles", as you might have guessed, and he wore shoes to work, most days, but sometimes flippers.
Saturday afternoons are the best, because it's Saturday, and afternoon, and it's the one day of the week when nobody ever tries to set me on fire, all of which is good, from my perspective. Your thoughts may differ in some respects, but you can't say that I still don't love you.
Sister Jensen attacked another pyramid yesterday. Meanwhile I, sitting here in the dark, counting my toes, never seem to get the same answer twice.
So a chicken walks into a bar and they shoo it out again. Pretty cool trick, eh? This is no joke.
So I hear that there is a giant comet out there, newly discovered, at least 80 miles in diameter, doing nothing in particular. And what am I up to? No one ever asks, even though I am so much less dusty.
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Me? Give me a squeeze and find out.
Captain Outrage is pissed again. Happens every Monday in non-leap years. Also Tuesdays in leap years in all months of more than 17 days.
Captain Automatic says: "Never smoke cigarette butts you find in the gutter. It's much better to smoke something else, like fish."
Captain Automatic seldom does anything deliberately. Prefers to wing it on autopilot.
Captain Bruce Lee Lookalike wasn't, not really, according to those who consider themselves to be experts in the field, and there are some, though few of us care to validate these presumed facts.
Captain Projectile Vomiting took home the gold last weekend, scoring 98 out of a possible 98.6, including several bullseyes, and only one slight mishap that temporarily hospitalized one of the unofficial scorekeeper's pet rats.
Captain Rainbow Nose Hairs released a new press release releasing all of us from all responsibility for anything accidentally released into the air before, during, or after tonight's Thoughts On Spots And Sparkles press conference and potluck dinner. Free rainbow nose combs will be handed out, weather permitting, if we have any. So be there or be elsewhere, and please remember to comb your nose.
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Me? Have never barfed, not even once, except in public a few times.
Cat food should be legally available to all children on a need-to-know basis.
Cats don't drink much. At least when offered butt lube. That's what I heard anyway when I asked around. Got some funny looks too.
I dreamed that I was a meatball. Then I woke up and realized that I still am. And am still hiding from the cat.
I finally found out what the cat does all night. Sleeps.
I touched a pussy today, and then it bit me. #EverHappenToYou?
I was only 15 seconds late with my rent and the cat still got all hissy about it. If this happens too often I'll have to remind him who has the opposable thumbs around here, and the driver's license.
I've really fallen behind in posting to my blog. My dog ate it. Then my hamster ate the dog. (Good boy, Nibbles.) Then my cat and the hamster hit the road on my riding lawnmower. (I didn't have one, but this makes a better story.) One of them must have souped it up because I couldn't catch them, but at this point in the story, who was driving and who masterminded all this don't make much difference. So that's why I'm behind, and anyway I need a nap, and maybe a beer.
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Me? Strictly believing all of this, now and forever.
Captain Adult-Onset Ennui was not always soporific. Really. No, really, etc.
Captain Anonymous, your pal in any emergency, but hard to identify. Not to worry unduly — he's around here somewhere.
Captain Excessive Bonus Points ended up being disqualified for bragging about the size of his bonus. The rest of us know when to keep quiet.
Captain Fernando did in fact change his name from Fernando Poo for that very reason. He is now a full professor of disposable navigational charts at First University of the Missing. He doesn't like that very much either, but he's gotten away from most poo jokes.
Captain Infinite Loving-Kindness was last seen at the firing range, blowing up everything in sight. No one goes there any more. (We have all suddenly become latte-drinking pacifists.)
Captain Mrrflburp got an updated tongue prosthesis which hasn't seemed to help much, but his pointing and grunting skills continue to improve, boosting him up to Level C (third to none, up from second to none last year or thereabouts). There is always hope, eh?
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Me? No longer saluting.
The judge was Nice Kitty Fuzzybutt, so I knew I was home free.
The lady who usually sits in this chair didn't show up today, but if she does I'll let her sit in my lap. Maybe she'd even like to come along home to play with my private little spider zoo. I have hundreds now. Made little uniforms for most of them, except the ones who have been naughty — they'll have to wait. Meanwhile, lunch has arrived.
The future is over there, under that bush.
The forecast for today is mostly sunny with scattered nuclear wars, turning cooler and slightly less noisy by early evening.
The floor in this place is so clean you could eat off it, but that's true everywhere, depending on your standards. As long as they sweep it every month or so, I'm good.
That sound? Did you hear it? like the universe giving out a long, frustrated sigh? Maybe it's had about enough of us — happens every now and then. Good thing I have a bunch of nuts in a bucket. You can never have too many nuts, which is why I invested heavily in buckets, so I'd have somewhere to keep my nuts. Works for me.
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Me? I'm like that too.
The peasants are back in town, as is their lord and savior, The Noodle Demon. Fun shall ensue, methinks.
The Peterborough Pansies — despite the name, you're better off not messing with them.
The rats are attacking again. And it's not even Thursday.
The sound system in here is turned up so high that my knickers are knotting. And I don't even know what that means, but it uses up some "k" words, which seem to be appropriate, given the circumstances.
The Leonard shortage continues — now into its fifth day and counting. Please don't wake me until it's over.
The music is playing, the night is young, and I feel like dancing. Too bad I'm an umbrella stand.
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Me? Sure...
Wistful reality — something like wide-awake dreaming, but tastier.
Why isn't there a Laundry Channel? I would do it.
Wordpecker - the word processor for those who are hunt-n-peckers
Worldwide Toe Webs. (Reduced membership this week only.)
Wretched Slimy Mess was my third grade teacher. (What is a grade anyway? What does it have to do with school?) To get out of that early prison cell, we had to make a collection of nuts and seeds, or one or the other. I was quite partial to slime molds at the time, inspired by our teacher, but instead decided to go with shoelaces because they were easier to steal. I was headed for a failing grade until I figured out a way to prove that shoelaces, if planted, grew into shoe trees. Everyone bought it, and I was subsequently hired as groundskeeper and paid in walnuts.
Wrin-Klee Forsken, my high school geography teacher, has a new book out. It's about how to obey and be subservient to authority, using himself as an example of authority, based on his 47 years of telling 16-year-olds what to think. The good news for him is that my home town abolished firing squads for anyone who spent at least 45 years in the local school bureaucracy without going objectively crazy, running amok, and slaughtering people at random with a machete. He never took that much initiative, and it's doubtful that he could tell which end of a machete was the effective one, and for what. But anyway, go Wrin-Klee Forsken.
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Me? Yes, wistful, and also hungry right now.
From: AISHA GADDAFI Monday, January 4, 2021 6:13 AM To: Undisclosed Recipients
Assalamu Alaikum!
Dear Friend,
I am sending to you my special greetings and Happy New Year from Oman at the city of Muscat.
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My name is Aisha Gaddafi from Libya the only daughter to Former President of Libya Late Col. Muammar Gaddafi. My beloved Husband (late Col. Ahmed al-Qahsi) was killed during the civil war along with my Father and I have three (3) Children with him.
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I am willing to negotiate an investment/business profit sharing ratio with you based on the future investment earning profits.
If you are willing to handle this project on my behalf, kindly reply urgently to enable me to provide you more information about the release of the investment funds.
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Best Regards Aisha Gaddafi Email: mrsaishagadafi314159etc@qmail.com
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Me? Could probably use the money.
I am the lord of the universe. My name is The High & Mighty Thwadmeister Buffletwink. If you displease me I will zap you with my zappy thing, assuming that it's working today. If not I can always step on your tail, That works too.
I am the lord of the universe. You might know me by my other name, Fred, from down the block, but don't let that disguise fool you. I am a mean puppy and must be obeyed, etc. So, if you will excuse me now, I have a can of beans waiting for me on the stove. (Yum!)
I am the lord of the universe. Yo — How's she hanging? Got any idea where I can get my shoes shined?
I am the lord of the universe, and I mean it. You don't think so, eh? Well gimme a minute to get organized and change into my costume and then stand back, cuz Ima gon show you a thing or two. Betcha.
I am the lord of the universe. My middle name is Bob. Yes, I have a middle name, and it's Bob. I tell ya — you don't want to mess with no Bob. Bobs are not all warm and cuddly like the usual Twadmeisters, at least where I come from, but if you behave yourself I might let you buy me a beer next Thursday afternoon, weather permitting.
I am the lord of the universe and I'm not that good at checkers. Does anyone play checkers any more? I haven't really kept up on the latest in the world of table games, but I'm still a mean S.O.B., except around my pussycat. After a busy day of throwing lightning bolts around and all such-like, I really enjoy coming home to my friendly pussycat. His name is Elmo. We eat pizza and have a few beers and watch cartoons on TV. Pineapple and ham pizza, and I dare you to make a face, smartypants, I just dare you.
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Me? Having fun. Never tried this before.
