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?
