Yes, I did eat the cheese from your mousetrap, and it wasn't all that good.
Yeah — everybody said it was all right, but I still got arrested. Am now doing 10 to 20 with no chance of ice cream on my pie. No pie either, but I do get to keep my teddy bear, and have a pet cockroach if I'm a good boy.
Wombats on parade — seen any? Not around here, though I do catch some faint drumming noises late at night. #MakesYouWonderDon'tIt
Why didn't I bring my earplugs today? Now I'm stuck listening to you eat.
Why do chipmunks get to have all the fun? (Asking for a CEO.)
What's a ventriloquist without a vent? I bet you don't know either.
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Me? It's a thing I do. The squeak. I squeak sometimes.
I found God drunk and passed out in the gutter again. There was a church across the street — lots of people inside, howling up a storm, except for one guy shaking his finger and giving God a stern lecture on cleanliness, sobriety, and godliness. Didn't seem to have any obvious effect, but when God came to, I did some serious washing down with the garden hose for a good two minutes, and then we went and had pizza and dripped dry. Pretty decent day overall, with the entertainment and everything. Decent pizza too, and God actually paid this time.
Does God masturbate or what? God, the ultimate he-man, but no wife or even girlfriend, and no candidates in the known universe, except for that one human woman about 2000 years back who got knocked up and then abandoned to the care of her actual husband, and what the hell was his true role in all this, really?
God never wanted to be God, as I heard it, but was promoted as the last one remaining on the job after all the talent left for more rewarding options.
Got to check in with Satan one of these days. It's been a while. Have to do it in person though. Satan never answers emails, etc. You know how it is with the old-timers.
I hear that God is contemplating putting out a line of self-branded beer. Like, doesn't that sort of just happen? "Let there be house beer!" Etc? May be another clue that things are really seriously eftup around here. Seriously.
Me, I'd say never trust any god who has never bathed. (And demand proof of any statements to the contrary.)
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Me? Just waiting for the universe to end. Finally, right?
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.
