We need to have a serious talk....

Welcome, friends, to another installment of this fantastic voyage through my thoughts. When I started this thing, it was the with intent to keep everyone informed/entertained with the happenings of my life and keep flexing my creative mind and writing muscle. Most times, I tend to straddle a fine line between the sacred, the profound and the profane. And some of these entries aren't for everyone, containing themes with adult language, adult content and sometimes, just good, old fashioned bestiality. I understand that and can completely appreciate it. No problem.

But today, I feel the need to address a very serious issue. Something the mainstream media is not addressing. The world at large seems to be more concerned with the conflict in the Middle East, Iraq, the crisis in Darfur and the worldwide economic slump. But this is bigger than all of those. What is this moral emergency that threatens to engulf with us with anarchy? "Pregnant gals and a mime". What's that you say? You haven't heard of this? I'm not surprised. This is something that is being under reported. Why? Well, I could say it was because of bias in the media, but I think the more likely answer is this: people don't care. And that's just sad.

How did this come to my attention, you ask? (No, I'm not putting words in your mouth. If I was, you would have said "I enjoy rubbing grape jelly all over my body, while furiously masturbating to pornographic German animation from the 1920's. Also, Kyle rocks my world and I wish I was him." That's what you would have said. Oh yeah...) Anyway, it came to my attention through that maverick icon with intestinal fortitude to tell it like it is: Jerry Springer. Yeah, the Springer. Now to be fair, I'm not entirely sure what the hell was going on for a couple of reasons: 1)I was at work and I had a lot of things to keep track of. 2)I kept flipping past it because I don't watch "Springer". Now, as a result of this, I have no idea what the show was about. I don't know if it was a mime, running around getting chicks pregnant or the dual problem of unwanted pregnancies and unwanted mimes or if it was pregnant girls who wanted a mime to help them tell their respective others the news. No clue. I just know that this is our new national emergency and it needs our attention.

Now, the real question: What can we do? A couple of things: 1)Beat the crap out of all mimes because they are all inherently bastards. 2)Warn all pregnant "gals" to stay away from mimes because they are trouble with a capital "T" (and that rhymes with "P" and that stands for Pool...oh, we got trouble). 3)Teach all pregnant "gals" the joys and wonder of interpretive dance so they can express themselves without the need for a mime translator. 4)Donate money to charities. And I sense most of you will favor this last option. Therefore, I will be setting up a charity for you to feel better about yourselves. It's called "The Robot Monkey Universal Army Against Mimes Who Knock Up Gals" (or T.R.M.U.A.M.W.K.U.G). I'll set up a link for folks to donate money. For every 10 dollars donated, I will personally say something very mean about a mime. Also, for every 20 dollars donated, I will draw a picture of the mime in a VERY compromising position.

Please, let us all do what we can to combat this horrible epidemic. Besides, mimes suck.


And now, to take our minds off this horrible tragedy, one of my favorite bands: The Decemberists with their hit, "16 Military Wives".

Coughing is not as much fun as it looks like...

Well, I am still battling this crap infesting my lungs. It's hard to get too enthused about much of anything while this is the case. I promise, my next blog will be one of substance. Or whatever passes for that round here. Until next time...

I'm sick, Ferris. I'm dying...

I am sick. I feel like dog poopie. And I mean that in the meanest, grossest terms possible. I just wanna go home and hide in my bed. Well, first go to the doctor, get some good drugs and THEN hide in my bed.

So, nothing really worth reading here this week. No funny-funny, all sicky-sick.

The lack of a coherent theme is a a sure sign of being tired...

Another day, another dollar. Friday is here. Yay. My body is sore from working out with my torture lord (I call him Marcus, affectionately of course.). So what's on my mind as I work a double yet again?

One word: Tired. And brain dead. Okay, so that's more like four words. And that's not counting the previous sentence or this one.

I'm not feeling very witty. Deal with it.

But apparently some people are reading this thing. And it has been suggested I update this thing a little more regularly. So I promise that I will try to update this thing at least once a week from here on out. We'll see....

P.S.- The coworker in question who assisted me with the tire in the previous blog ("The smell of burning rubber haunts me...")is also my friend, David Gleason. It was pointed out to me I marginalized him as a generalization by calling him "generic coworker person". That was not my intent. He is a very special person with a caring heart, a resolute and honest character and a enormous penis. If I was a girl, I would totally let him "do me". But alas ladies, he is taken. And no, he didn't totally harangue me and pester all through the last couple of days to write this since I didn't mention him and he definitely didn't feel left out. It was all me...

P.S.- This David should not be confused with the David with the video phone at the dinner, he of the "Two Girls, One Cup" (Trifecta!) video infamy.

This is the new year...

And yes, the title to this entry is a Death Cab For Cutie reference. And if you aren't familiar with their body of work, shame on you. Fix this immediately.

I have the sincerest of hopes that everyone had a great holiday season and a hopeful outlook for a new year. As for myself, I'd just as soon forget about 2007. I'll frame my feelings on 2007 in the form of this analogy: Imagine 2007 like this cute chick you hook up with. She's cool, likes a lot of the same things you do, enjoys making fun of the same things you do, enjoys going out but likes hanging at home as well. Every thing's cool and you start thinking about making this a permanent thing. Maybe introducing her to family, going to functions together, thinking about a life together. And man, is she wild in bed. 2007 will fuck your socks off. She's practically insatiable. And she's into anything. ANYTHING. And this is her downfall. Because in the course of raising your freak flag, you find out hers goes higher. Much higher. Like she's one of the chicks in the aforementioned "Two Girls, One Cup" video. And she also made another "questionable" video with a horse called "The Black Stallion Rides Again". Also, she started mentioning that Hitler "wasn't all bad" or that he had "some good ideas" or "we need some strong leadership like that today". So, like any rational person, you get the fuck outta Dodge, change phone numbers, locks, email addresses anything else this crazy bitch might have as a way of contacting you. I mean, Christ, she was talking about matching tattoos, for fuck's sake. And she keeps following you. And you're scared to answer the phone or the door. But she won't stop. She's getting more and more persistent and you're freaked out because you know this crazy bitch is gonna serve you some rabbit stew or kidnap you, lock you in a basement, break your ankles with a sledgehammer and make you write a novella in which you're both together and happy with a house and fifteen kids while at the same time forcing you to watch the best of her "movies" and old Disney cartoons, thereby killing any pleasant memories you might have of childhood and Mickey. So you get a restraining order and she's complying but pushing the boundaries so that every time you make a fuss or complain, YOU'RE the one who looks crazy. You don't know where to turn, everything seems hopeless and then she assaults you with 2008, your new girlfriend, one night, threatening her with a butcher knife and then goes down in a hail of gunfire because one detective believed your crazy story and showed up just in time. And you think every thing's okay but it turns out she isn't dead yet and it turns into a life or death struggle which culminates on a rooftop with her losing her balance and falling to her death on the nearby train tracks, where she is immediately run over by a train. But when the cops go to retrieve the body, it is nowhere to be seen, causing you to keep looking over your shoulder for a very long time.

That's kinda what my 2007 was like.