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Where the Hell Was I?

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Proud Moments

  Punchline Fever!

Standup Standup

  11/16/03: Comedy Studio
  12/03/03: Emerald Isle
  12/17/03: Emerald Isle
  01/07/04: Emerald Isle
  01/08/04: The Times
  01/18/04: All Asia Cafe
  01/22/04: The Times
  01/25/04: All Asia Cafe
  01/28/04: On the Hill
  01/31/04: Chops Lounge
  02/04/04: Emerald Isle
  02/08/04: The Vault
  02/15/04: All Asia Cafe
  02/18/04: Emerald Isle
  02/22/04: The Vault
  03/10/04: Emerald Isle
  03/24/04: Emerald Isle
  04/01/04: Comedy Studio
  05/17/04: Comedy Connection

'Me' Things

  101 Things About For Me

  101 Things Posts About Me

  #6: Six Stitches
  #7: What's in a Name?
  #11: The Speling Bea
  #19: A Capital Weekend
  #35: Road Trippin'
  #36: Geronimo! Ditto!
  #40: Three for the Ages
  #43: Mishaps on the River
  #47: Puzzled Over Puzzling
  #53: Justifying My Tuition
  #55: My Yearbook Quote
  #56: Whatever It Takes
  #65: Pissing in the Middle
  #78: Losing My Faith
  #85: Goodbye, Teeth
  #88: A Painful Separation
  #91: An Only Child
  #98: Nothing But Putrid
  #99: Bovine Dreaming
  #100: 'Dudden Hurt'

  My LinkFilter Posts
  My LinkFilter Journal

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  Current Term: pudsnugglers

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  06/15/2003 - 06/22/2003
  06/22/2003 - 06/29/2003
  06/29/2003 - 07/06/2003
  07/06/2003 - 07/13/2003
  07/13/2003 - 07/20/2003
  07/20/2003 - 07/27/2003
  07/27/2003 - 08/03/2003
  08/03/2003 - 08/10/2003
  08/10/2003 - 08/17/2003
  08/17/2003 - 08/24/2003
  08/24/2003 - 08/31/2003
  08/31/2003 - 09/07/2003
  09/07/2003 - 09/14/2003
  09/14/2003 - 09/21/2003
  09/21/2003 - 09/28/2003
  09/28/2003 - 10/05/2003
  10/05/2003 - 10/12/2003
  10/12/2003 - 10/19/2003
  10/19/2003 - 10/26/2003
  10/26/2003 - 11/02/2003
  11/02/2003 - 11/09/2003
  11/09/2003 - 11/16/2003
  11/16/2003 - 11/23/2003
  11/23/2003 - 11/30/2003
  11/30/2003 - 12/07/2003
  12/07/2003 - 12/14/2003
  12/14/2003 - 12/21/2003
  12/21/2003 - 12/28/2003
  12/28/2003 - 01/04/2004
  01/04/2004 - 01/11/2004
  01/11/2004 - 01/18/2004
  01/18/2004 - 01/25/2004
  01/25/2004 - 02/01/2004
  02/01/2004 - 02/08/2004
  02/08/2004 - 02/15/2004
  02/15/2004 - 02/22/2004
  02/22/2004 - 02/29/2004
  02/29/2004 - 03/07/2004


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World Star Gazette

Charlie/Male/31-35. Lives in United States/Massachusetts/Watertown, speaks English. Eye color is hazel.
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United States, Massachusetts, Watertown, English, Charlie, Male, 31-35.

Where the Hell Was I? has moved!

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Saturday, January 10, 2004
Stadium, Shmadium -- Somebody Get Me Another Beer

I feel I should apologize in advance. Today's entry may not make a lot of sense.

(Yeah, yeah, I know -- how could it possibly make less sense than usual, without being written in Sanskrit or Esperanto or something, right? Smartass.)

Anyway, I usually try to minimize the noise and distractions while I'm writing -- and I'm sure you appreciate the full commitment I make to crafting this drivel, really -- but today, it's just not possible. You see, we've got friends coming over for dinner, and to watch the Patriots game, so after six o'clock or so, I'll be out of blogging range for the rest of the night. And before six, I'll be getting ready for the visitors, cleaning up the house and putting on pants and vacuuming the dog, that sort of thing.

So, I'm blogging now, while I have some time before the flurry of activity tonight. However, right now, there's also a Syracuse basketball game on, and I simply can't miss that. I've been a rabid Orangemen fan for many years now (for reasons that aren't fully clear to anyone, but that I once tried to explain within these pages). So I'm blogging -- slowly -- but in the meantime, I'm clapping, and cursing, and 'Woo-hoo'-ing while Syracuse takes on Boston College.

(Speaking of BC, I do want to say that I've fully supported the home team since I've been here in Boston -- except when they're playing the 'cuse, of course. I rooted for Pitt for the seven years i was living in 'the 'burgh', and egged on Boston College once I moved to New England. But now that cheering is over for good. As a friend of mine would say, 'Boston College is DTM -- dead to me.'

See, since I've been an Orangemen fan for all of my adult life, plus a little, I've also become a big Big East fan. So when Georgetown, or UConn, or Villanova, or Seton Hall, goes out there and plays a non-Big East team, I cheer them on, too. Naturally, I want my team to do well -- but it's also important for the conference to have success, as well. At least, in my world, it's important. My world's funny that way -- your mileage may most certainly vary.

Anyway, last year Boston College decided, along with a couple of other traitorous bitch-ass schools, to leave the Big East for the ACC. (I forget what 'ACC' stands for -- I'm pretty sure it's 'Asshatted Conference-raiding Cocksuckers'... but I could be wrong. Seems like that would be tough to fit on a T-shirt, for one thing.) As far as I can tell, the decision is fully money-driven, and has more to do with football and that cluetarded BCS thingy than it has to do with academics, or geography, or any sense of tradition.

So Boston College can go suck a basketball. I don't fully wish them ill will yet -- they're still contributing to Big East rankings for a few more months -- but when they make the move to the ACC next year, I hope they don't win a fucking game for the next ten years. Stick that in your money-grubbin' pipes and smoke it, BC. Hopefully, Syracuse will still schedule them as an out-of-conference game and wipe the damned floor with them a few times. That would make me extremely happy.

Speaking of happy, the 'cuse just went on a 21-0 run in the first half, to pretty much demoralize the BC squad. Serves you right, assbags! Damn, do I love college basketball!)

All right -- that's probably enough of that. Most of you don't really care about such things, and those that do probably don't hold quite the same opinions as I do, anyway. So no more about the state of college basketball today. Just realize that I'm not really paying a whole helluva lot of attention to what I'm writing, so cut me some extra slack, 'kay? 'Kay.

So. On to other matters. I can finally feel my toes again, which is nice. And unexpected, frankly -- after walking six blocks in three degree weather after work last night to get to the car, I honestly wasn't sure I'd ever have tingles in my piggies again.

(Hey, does that work as a vague sexual euphemism? 'Tingles in my piggies'? Hmmm. Yeah, maybe not. Might work to describe accidentally peeing on your foot, but probably no good as an alternative to 'bumping uglies'.

What? Oh, right, like you people never get careless and piddle on your loafers. Come on, 'fess up -- you've been there. Don't give me that look.)

But my feet finally thawed out, and I'm even something approaching 'warm' today. Mind you, I haven't left the damned house, nor do I plan to. It's brutal out there -- it's supposed to be, like, four out there tonight. Not forty, mind you, or even fourteen, but four. I can count up to the temperature today in four languages -- now that's when you know it's fricking cold. That's crotch-freezing weather, people. Noses and ears and shit fall off when it's four piddly degrees -- to say nothing of the negative-number wind chills we've got around here this week. We're talking 'Frosty Nipples of Hardened Steel' here. And not in a good way, either.

I'll tell you what really amazes me about the weather, though -- I know of several tens of thousands of people who are going to be outside in this shit for hours today, watching the Patriots and Titans in their playoff game down in Foxboro.

A buddy of mine is going to the game -- right now, at around four in the afternoon, he'll just be getting there and setting up the tailgating grill. He'll stand outside, in the four degree elements -- did I mention it's fricking four degrees out there? -- for the next four hours, munching on chilly chicken wings and wolfing down wienersicles.

(Okay, now there's one -- 'wolfing down wienersicles'. Yeah, I am so writing that one down.

Oh. Wait. I just did. Twice. Yeah, look, never mind. Hey, I said I was distracted today. Deal.)

Anyway, then my buddy and thirty thousand of his closest frostbitten friends will shuffle their frozen asses into the stadium, and sit there for three more hours, watching the game. And then, if their buttflesh hasn't permanently been flash-frozen to their chairs, they'll begin the long trek through the tundra back to their cars. Poor bastards.

Well, I say, more power to them. I mean, I love football and all, but I'm also pretty fond of my fingers and toes -- not to mention Mr. Winkiepoo -- and I'm not about to put them at risk for eight hours or more in a damned deep freeze, just for an NFL game. (Syracuse... maybe. If I could find a crotch-sized space heater and a team of technicians to keep it on target the whole time. I'm not taking any chances, you understand.)

Okay, that's about enough for today. The Orangemen just closed out an easy win over the Benedict Arnold Academy... er, I mean, Boston College, and the football's about to start. I'm gonna wrap this up, change the channel, and settle in for eight hours or so of NFL action. From my couch, where football was meant to be watched. Of course, I might still try and find that crotch-warmer. Cold or not, that sounds like fun. Go Pats!

Friday, January 09, 2004
If You Didn't Know Me Then... You'll Certainly Know Me Now

First of all, I want to thank you -- all seventeen of you -- for taking my little quiz. If you'd like to make your own, head on over to FriendTest and take the plunge. In the meantime, I've officially closed my quiz, tallied up the results, and will let you in on all of my dirty little secrets below. Read on, brave souls.

Results of the Where the Hell Have You Been? Quiz:

1. Charlie once interviewed with:

Mongo (1 answer)
Lordan (1 answer)
Goltar (7 answers)
Zorro (0 answers)
Michael Bolton (8 answers)

Notes: Interesting split here -- apparently, all the guessers decided to go with the only 'real' person in the group (though I'm personally not convinced Michael Bolton's not some sort of evil alien robot, if you must know the truth). But I actually only included him because his last name reminded me of the others. Bolton. Bol-ton. Sounds like somebody who'd kick Mothra's ass, doesn't it? Sadly, he wouldn't, but it sounds like he might. False advertising, if you ask me.

Anyway, for anyone who guessed Bol-Ton, or who just wants to relive my hellish interview with Goltar, Master of the Universe, feel free to read the whole sordid mess.

2. Before he got bored, Charlie created taglines for how many posts?

Three (1 answer)
A couple of dozen (3 answers)
Fifty-plus (4 answers)
Over a hundred (8 answers)
Six billion (1 answer)

Notes: People, people, people... have many of you learned nothing from this site? 'Three'? 'A couple of dozen'? C'mon, folks -- isn't it clear by now that when I set out to do something, I turn it into a ridiculous, unhealthy obsession? You 'fifty-plus' people, I can forgive -- you were on the right track, at least. And big props to Joy, who answered 'six billion'. Honey, I'm good... but I'm not that good.

If you're interested in reading -- and even borrowing -- the full set of taglines (one hundred and twenty-four, to be exact), then check out the gallery. I recently relented and added one of my favorites to the header here on the main site; maybe one day I'll get my shit together and write a script to rotate through all the ones I like or something. Yeah, I'll get on that right after I cure cancer and straighten out those little Middle East spats. Sure.

3. The only stitches Charlie ever got were in his:

Ass (3 answers)
Thigh (2 answers)
Chest (0 answers)
Chin (9 answers)
Foot (3 answers)

Notes: Okay, it disturbs me just a tad that there are some of you walking around, going through your day, thinking I have a stitch scar on my ass. In retrospect (and I use that word because this seems like a really bad time to use the term 'hindsight'), I probably should've excluded my ass from the answer list -- I really never needed to know that three of you have come up with some kooky backstory and dreamed up a scenario that ends with me having a doctor stitch my asscheek back together. Or worse. Really, I just need a shower now. Ick.

In the meantime, though, please, just do us all a favor and read about how I got the stitches in my chin. Please, just read it, and stop with the imaginary ass carnage, okay? I would so appreciate it. Thanks in advance. Really.

4. Charlie's dog is a:

drooling moron (4 answers)
vicious pit bull (0 answers)
skunk-chasing loon (1 answer)
damned dirty poop-stepper (1 answer)
all of the above (11 answers)

Notes: It was points all 'round on this question -- the 'right' answer was 'all of the above', so I gave partial credit for all the others. I suppose 'vicious pit bull' really wasn't fair, since she's really a 'sweetie-pie pit bull', but that kind of shit embarrasses her, so I try to play up her 'vicious', 'man-killing' side. It gets her more props out at the dog park. You understand.

So, let's see if I can find posts to back up all of those answers... here's one where I mention that she's a pit bull. And somewhere in this little ditty, I mention her proclivity to 'tiptoe through the turdies'. Then there's the Dances With Skunks episode, and one of the many posts about my dog's little drooling problem. And they all point to her being a moron. So I think 'all of the above' pretty much speaks for itself at this point. Goofy little beast, anyway.

5. The word Charlie invented to mean 'unfunny' is:

pooply (1 answer)
boobered (14 answers)
grunchy (1 answer)
spungo (1 answer)
blecht (0 answers)

Notes: Hey, nice going on this one! It looks like the word on 'boobered' is really getting out there. Yay for all of us!

On the other hand, if you're one of those 'pooply', 'grunchy', 'spungo' people (and I can't imagine any of those things are good), then you'd better read the post that started the movement, and get your ass on the bandwagon, already. You're holding up progress, there, Skippy -- get with the program. Blecht!

6. Charlie's second (or third, if you count blogging) 'job' is:

taxidermist (1 answer)
race car driver (0 answers)
standup comedian (16 answers)
cartoonist (0 answers)
runway model (0 answers)

Notes: Oh, Ms. Terry... Ms. Terry, Ms. Terry, Ms. Terry... oh my word. 'Taxidermist', Ms. Terry? Please! Now, don't get me wrong -- I do appreciate you taking the quiz... but taxidermist? Look, I've got a lot of sick, twisted hobbies... but shoving sawdust up dead animal rumps is just so not on that list. Really. Even I have my limits.

So please -- go check out a few of my standup sets, and catch up to the rest of the class. And look closely -- you won't once see me with my hand up a dead animal's ass. Sure, a live one occasionally... but that's not 'taxidermy'. That's just fun on a Friday night. See? Different.

7. The 'Big Wall' is Charlie's way of deflecting people's:

skulls (1 answer)
'Big Balls' (0 answers)
stupid questions (7 answers)
body odors (0 answers)
icky personal sharing (9 answers)

Notes: Aw man, nobody went for 'Big Balls'? Damn... I was hoping to get you with that one. But you know, come to think of it, I could really use something to deflect people's skulls. Maybe I should start carrying a 4-iron to work or something. I'll have to work on that.

Until then, I suppose I'll have to make do with the Big Wall. And you can, too -- the operating instructions are laid out in my second post ever. Take a trip waaaay back to last June and read all about it.

8. Charlie discovered he was old while:

looking in the mirror (4 answers)
reading a calendar (1 answer)
perusing a Playboy (5 answers)
talking to a teenager (6 answers)
blowing out his birthday candles (1 answer)

Notes: This was a tough one -- apparently, I actually came up with five plausible answers. And, just as apparently, not many of you actually followed the 'The Day I Got Old' link in my 'Proud Moments' section. Lazy, no-good, stinkin'... okay, sorry. I don't mean that. I'm just a little bitter right now. I'd have thought most of you would know that I do my very best to avoid looking in the mirror, or talking to goddamned teenagers. Sheesh.

Anyway, if you're interested in the real story, it's all right here in black and white. But the magazine was in color. Oh, baby, was it ever.

9. Charlie has a small chunk of what embedded in his leg?

grenade shrapnel (0 answers)
splintered wood (3 answers)
surgically-inserted metal (1 answer)
Dom Deluise (1 answer)
pencil lead (12 answers)

Notes: Okay, I didn't actually look to see who thought I have a little piece of Dom Deluise stuck in my leg, but bravo, whoever you are. Nice goin'. And I'm a little miffed that no one thought I took a grenade out there in the shit. Okay, I take that back -- I was never voted 'Most Likely to See Combat', I suppose. Still, I've had a surprising number of people threaten me with grenades over the years -- I'm actually a little surprised myself that none of them ever followed up. Wusses.

But the little bitch in the pencil lead saga sure as hell did. She pushed, and pushed, and broke that damned thing off inside me. *long pause* You know... that's really not a sentence I ever saw myself typing. I think it's best if I just leave it at that, before it gets any worse. Odd what blogging will do to you, isn't it?

10. Many people have found Charlie's blog by searching for which animated cutie?

Stripperella (11 answers)
Judy Jetson (1 answer)
Veronica from Archie (0 answers)
Bubbles the Powerpuff Girl (2 answers)
Josie of the Pussycats (3 answers)

Notes: Well, if nothing else, I'm glad to see that I'm not the only one who'd do a Google search looking for lewd snaps of Bubbles. Or, um... oh. Wait. You two were just saying that other people might get here by searching for Bubbles, weren't you? And I never said anything about naked pics or sexy thongs in the question, did I? Shit. I fear I've shared too much again. How come that 'Big Wall' of mine doesn't work in reverse? Bitches!

In any case, feel free to check out one of the many chapters in the Stripperella search saga. The noise from that has pretty much died down by now -- as has the show, since it was canned several months ago -- but I still get a few hits a week from horny anime fans looking for perky Pammy's bare boobies. Frankly, I don't get it. Veronica in a G-string, sure. Josie and Judy in a naked Jell-o wrestling match? In an animated heartbeat. I am so there. But Pam Anderson's animated character, when the real Pam strips down and lubes up at the drop of a hat? I just don't see the point. Or, you know, points. So to speak. Ahem.

So, that's it. Congrats and mad rabid props to VEEZER and Andy, who scored the highest, but thanks to all of you who took the test, or even managed to get all the way through this train wreck of an answer key. Man, the tests in school were never this hard, huh? Next time, I'll assign reading material first, instead of popping it on you by surprise. Maybe then I won't have to grade on the curve. Tsk.

Standup for the New Year

Hey, folks -- just a quick note to let you know that the clip from my standup set on Wednesday is now available. Come one, come all -- see Charlie make an ass of himself onstage. Some things will never change, I'm afraid.

Also, if you're interested in previous shows, you can find those clips and descriptions on the sidebar to the left, under the 'Standup Standup' section. Have a look -- no lines, no waiting! (Well, okay, there's actually a fair amount of waiting, since you'll be sucking those clips down via my DSL feed. But trust me -- it's unlikely that there'll be any line to deal with. I can pretty well guarantee you that you'll have the place to yourself.)

While I'm at it, and by popular demand (which is to say, two people mentioned it once apiece... hey, for me, that's frickin' popular!), I'm also going to use that section to announce upcoming shows as I get them booked. So if you're in the Boston area, and you're in the mood to throw rotten fruit at someone, come on by and see a show. Hey, if you don't like my stuff, you're bound to enjoy some of the other comedians. And if not, you can sit there and get hammered until you do find something amusing. Look, it's all good, and you'll have some laughs one way or another, so give it a shot. I might even buy you a beer, if you're really nice to me.

Anyway, that's all for now. I'll be back later with the final answers to the Where the Hell Have You Been? quiz from earlier in the week. If you haven't taken it yet, and you want to know how much you've really learned from this drivel, then give it a whirl. You might just be surprised at how much time you've wasted reading this shit.

And if not, then you can sit there and get hammered until you are surprised. (Yeah, that's pretty much my answer for everything. 'Liquid therapy', I call it.) So check out the clips, and the quiz, and I'll be back with more soon. Cheers!

Thursday, January 08, 2004
A Future of Pants-Pooping Poverty

So, as I threatened, I called one of those psychic hotlines yesterday.

To be honest, it was completely accidental; I was really looking for, um, something else. But, since I had her on the line, I let her give me a 'reading'. And the results were rather shocking, frankly. But don't take my word for it -- read the transcript for yourself.

Her: Hello! Thank you for calling the hotline! How may I help you today?
Me: Um... hi. Is this the phone number for 'Mistress Exotica'?
Her: Yes, that's right. I'm Mistress Exotica. What can I do for you?
Me: Well... uh, I don't normally call this sort of number.
Her: Don't be frightened, child. Ask your questions, and I will answer --
Me: Are you naked?
Her: What?
Me: Um, I mean... what are you wearing, oh Mistress Exotica?
Her: Oh. Well, I have on, um... I don't know -- let's say a magestic, flowing robe, and a jeweled gypsy turban. But I don't see what --
Me: How about your nipples? Tell me about your nipples!
Her: Bu -- what?! What the hell does that have to do with anything? I'm here to tell your fortune, dammit!
Me: Fortune? Wait a minute... I thought you said this was 'Mistress Exotica'?
Her: Right. Mistress Exotica, fortune teller and psychic, blessed with divine insight into the mysteries of --
Me Wait, hold on. You're a psychic?
Her: Yes.
Me: Not a... erm, a... booby-talker?
Her: No. Decidedly not.
Me: But... your phone number. I dialed 1-900-COOTERS to get to you.
Her: Sorry, dear, but on my ads, it's listed as 1-900-CONVERSE. As in 'talk'. Same numbers on the keypad. That's what you get for randomly dialing dirty words, you know.
Me: Nice. Your psychic powers tell you that?
Her: No. You're just a boob. Now, do you want your fortune told, or not?
Me: Well, shit, I dunno. What are your rates, anyway?
Her: Ninety-nine cents for the first minute, and four dollars a minute after that.
Me: I see. And how long have we been talking so far?
Her: Oh, well, gee... it can't have been more than three or four seconds. You've got plenty of time.
Me: Well... okay, I'll give it a shot. But could you take off your robe while you tell me? You know, slowly?
Her: Sure, hon. I'll take it off, if you don't mind the varicose veins and liposuction scars.
Me: Oh, nice. I just finished a sandwich, you know. There's no need to get graphic on me. Just... just unwrap your turban or something as you go.
Her: Sure thing, hon. Now, what do you want to know?
Me: Hmmm. Well, I don't know. I really don't call this kind of number. Why don't you tell me a little about myself?
Her: All right. Mistress Exotica will now gaze into her crystal ball, to find out what sort of man you are...
Me: Hey, wait a minute. How do you even know I'm a man? I could just be a woman with a really deep voice.
Her: I'm psychic, okay? I know.
Me: No, really.
Her: Look, it's pretty freakin' simple. You called 1-900-COOTERS. You're a dude. Now let me do my damned job.
Me: Fine. Meanie.
Her: Okay, I'm looking into the crystal ball... I see that you're a sick, twisted man. Nobody likes you much, and you have no sense of fashion. I see you being dropped on your head as a young child. Repeatedly.
Me: That's it? That's what you see about me?
Her: Yep, that's what the old ball tells me.
Me: Fine. Lucky guesses. I'm still not convinced you're psychic, though. Hell, complete strangers tell me that stuff all the time.
Her: All right, hot shot -- how about a Tarot reading, then?
Me: Sure, why the hell not? How's that turban coming along, by the way.
Her: What? Oh... it's, um, it's halfway unwrapped. Very sexy, lemme tell you.
Me: Right. Hit me with the cards, then.
Her: Okay. For an accurate reading, I'm going to need some information from you.
Me: Wait, I thought you were psychic. Just pull it outta my brain, for chrissakes.
Her: Well, I would, but a lot of it gets lost over the phone lines. Just play along here, would you?
Me: Fine.
Her: All right. First, I'll need your name.
Me: Charlie.
Her: Ooh, Charlie. That's an ancient Anglo name meaning 'He of the Tiny Weenie'.
Me: No the hell it isn't!
Her: Hey, don't worry about it, kid. It's not size that matters, anyway.
Me: Really?
Her: Hey, I'm a phone psychic. Would I lie to you?
Me: Touche. What else you wanna know?
Her: On what day were you born?
Me: July twenty-seventh.
Her: Okay, now we're getting somewhere. Now I'll just need your credit card number, and the answer to the 'security question' for when you lose your password.
Me: Um... okay. Well, the answer is 'Hootertown', and number is five six two three -- hey, wait a minute!
Her: Sorry. Gullibility check. Standard procedure for psychics -- you'd be surprised how many Visa cards we get that way.
Me: Yeah, I'm sure. Now get on with this train wreck, would you?
Her: Okay. Here we go -- I'm dealing out the cards... dealing... dealing... dealing...
Me: How much is this costing me again?
Her: About a buck twenty per card. And now you've broken my concentration. I've got to start over. I'm dealing... dealing... dealing... and... done.
Me: Sheesh. Finally. There goes that Valentine's Day gift I was gonna buy for my wife.
Her: You're married?
Me: Well, yeah.
Her: Really? This isn't some kind of gullibility test of your own?
Me: No! I've been married for years.
Her: Years? To a woman?
Me: Of course to a woman!
Her: A live woman?
Me: Well, duh. A corpse in the closet wouldn't do me much good, now, would it?
Her: According to these cards... that's debatable. I didn't even know there was a Necrophiliac card in the deck. Weird. But let's move on.
Me: I think that would be best.
Her: So, let's look at your financial future. The cards show that you're involved in some sort of new venture.
Me: Okay... go on...
Her: It seems to be laughably unlucrative, leading you towards a life of miserable poverty... an undertaking that gets you little respect, no money, and yet takes up enormous amounts of time...
Me: Oh, for the love of --
Her: Wait! I can almost see it... it's... museum curator? No, too respectable. Struggling cartoonist? Nope, you might actually get paid for that one day... it's...
Me: Freelance humor writer and standup comedian?
Her: Bingo! Wow. You are a tool, aren't you, dear? Anyway, let's move on to your love life.
Me: That's better.
Her: And you say you're really married?
Me: Yes, dammit! What do the cards say?
Her: Well... according to this reading, you should be living alone and bitter in some sort of dilapidated crapshack right now. And, well, forever, actually. The cards are really quite clear on that point. Crapshack city, no question.
Me: I see. And these cards are usually right, then, are they?
Her: Yes, almost always. Of course, they tell me about your destiny; a person's actual situation can be altered by unforseeable events... a horrible trauma, or tragic accident, or --
Me: Scandalously incriminating photographs of the woman I got to marry me?
Her: Or... yes, that. Yeah, that'd do it. Man, did you pull off a coup.
Me: Yeah, I always knew that camera would come in handy. Thank you, Nikon!
Her: Right... okay, well, the only thing left is to look at your faraway future. Let's see... it says here you'll live a long, long life...
Me: That sounds good.
Her: ...most of it as a chin-drooling, pants-pooping Alzheimers patient. Looks like you're due to lose your mind around... wait, how old are you?
Me: I'm thirty-three.
Her: Oh. Ouch. Written that will yet?
Me: No, as a matter of fact, I haven't.
Her: I'd, um... I'd get on that, if I were you. There's not a lot of 'quality time' left, I'm afraid.
Me: Check. Soon to be drooling. Okay, what else?
Her: Well, it looks like your wife's going to win the lottery.
Me: Hey, that's fantastic!
Her: Or... dump your addled ass and marry a movie star. The details are fuzzy... but something good is gonna happen for her.
Me: Oh. I see. Well, that's... something, I suppose.
Her: And another thing -- you know how you've been peeing on the carpet and blaming the dog?
Me: What?! I don't... I wouldn't... um, yeah, okay. What about it?
Her: When you lose it completely, the dog's gonna do the same to you. Get ready to have your nose rubbed in some really unpleasant places.
Me: That little bitch. Well, that's it -- I'm glad I had her spayed. Ungrateful mutt.
Her: Oh, and you're going to develop unhealthy addictions to... lessee, panty snorting, sandwich spreads as sexual stimulants, and extra-hoppy beer. Looks like it'll happen around age... nineteen or so. How old did you say you were again?
Me: Uh, thirty-three. Ahem.
Her: Oh. Right. Sicko.
Me: Hey, I dig pale ales and nice, sexy brown mustards, all right? Cut me some slack.
Her: Okay, well. That's about all I can tell you, I'm afraid. I hope you've learned something from your time with Miss Exotica.
Me: Well, yeah. I've learned that I'm apparently willing to pay thirty-eight fifty to have some old turbaned bitch ridicule me over the phone. I'm really not sure that's a lesson I needed to learn, frankly.
Her: Yes, fate works in mysterious ways, doesn't it? Well, it looks like your credit card has maxed out, and my turban is off -- and hey, my wig along with it, dammit -- so Mistress Exotica is off to help someone else. Call back soon, and I'll tell you how you really got that rash you've been wondering about.

Spooky, eh, folks? It's like she really knows me or something. I mean, I didn't believe in that crap before I called, but that was amazing. I'm simply gonna have to call back, to find out more about my future, and that backstabbing dog of mine, and... well, you know, that rash. I'm sure it's poison ivy... I just can't for the life of me figure out how poison ivy got all the way down there. And in that. And all up in my other thing. Weird.

Anyway, that was my experience with Mistress Exotica, and I hope you enjoyed it. I guess now I'd better go make out that will, before it's too late. My wife's gonna be awfully miffed when she sees that she's not in it, but once I explain it to her -- she's either gonna win the PowerBall or marry some bigshot Hollywood bastard -- I'm sure she'll understand.

And if not, I'll have her call Mistress Exotica herself, and she can hear all about the pictures I've got of her, and how she'll been cleaning up after me, and who's really been piddling on the carpet. Yeah, on second thought, I think I'll just put her in the will. I've only got a little bit of lucid time left; no need to have her pissed at me during the twilight of my sanity. According to my new psychic friend, I've apparently got enough problems as it is.

Wednesday, January 07, 2004
Sorry, Folks, But I'm Up to My Armholes Over Here

Well, poopstain.

Folks, I'm about halfway into a really, really pointless opus of a piece for you, but I'm not sure I'm going to be able to get it out to you before the morn. (Or the aft, or even the eve, come to think of it.)

Now, I never want to be accused of crying, 'Work!', but essentially, that's what I'm going to do. See, there's a guy here in my office who's leaving, and it's falling upon me -- that's right, little old me -- to take over his project, and juggle his tasks, and find a way to keep the balls in the air.

(As opposed to taking over the tasks, keeping his project in the air, and juggling his balls. That's different. And ickier. Bleh.)

Anyway, most of the workday -- and the rest of it, from the looks of things -- has been spent spilling the contents of his head onto the table, and picking over what comes out. (Once we've washed off the blood and ear wax, of course. Oh, hush up. You've heard worse.) I've got a short reprieve right now, as he talks to his manager, but I'll be back on the clock very soon, and unable to finish the little ditty I started.

Meanwhile, I've got a show tonight -- eight-thirty at the Emerald Isle in Dorchester, if any of you are interested in coming out for some comedy -- so I'll likely be going home after work, grabbing a sandwich, and heading back out the door to the club, where I'll be stuck doing comedy, watching comedy, and drinking beer until close to midnight. Oh, the horror.

So, okay, don't exactly cry for me, Argentina. Still, I thought you should know that I haven't forgotten about you -- I'm just a tad swamped today, with all this brain-dumping and standup-planning stuff. (And, probably unfortunately for my career, not in that order. Is it wrong that I'm practicing tonight's jokes in my head while this guy's explaining the database to me? More importantly, is it downright illegal? 'Cause I can stand being 'wrong', but I'm really trying to avoid being 'arrested'. You know, New Years resolutions and all.)

In any case, I'll try, try, try to do better tomorrow. Though, truth be told (for once around here), things aren't looking so hot for Thursday, either. The guy's still leaving, he's just gonna have more info to dump on me, and -- jazz hands, everybody! -- I've got another show to do tomorrow night! Yeah, really. I emailed a guy last night to ask for stage time, and he gave me the big 'Come on down!' for tomorrow night. (And so I will, to 'The Times', at 112 Broad Street in Boston, to find out what yet another seedy New England comedy bar looks like. Nine o'clock tomorrow; come see!)

I've never been to the place, but it's just a couple of blocks from where my wife works. She's threatening to stay at the office until the show, and bring people from work to watch me. I've got to say, I have mixed feelings about this little plan. Sure, on the good side, she'll be there, and she'll giggle, and more people in the audience is always better. On the other hand, though, she works in a law firm, and I'm just not sure how much the stuffy attorneys are going to appreciate my bits about 'lesbian porn' and 'professional sperm donors'. Yeeks!

(And if you don't believe that's the kind of hash I'm slinging for the next two nights, just download the video clips of the shows when I put 'em up. Folks, I might delay a bit in getting a post to you, and I might stretch the truth somewhat from time to time... but I would never say I was gonna mention 'lesbian porn', and then not deliver.

There are some things that are just not done. I do have some code of ethics, you know.)

Tuesday, January 06, 2004
Tootin' Horns All Over the Blogosphere

Howdy, all. I just wanted to leave you a short note to alert you to an announcement recently made by The Weblog Review.

(Yes, those are the same people who recently reviewed this site, and -- in an unrelated transaction -- gave me a $20 Amazon gift certificate. And no, I'm not on their 'payroll' now, and I'm not just kissing their collective ass. No, really -- did you see the review? Trust me, I'm on the level here.)

Anyway, it's been a long time in coming, but TWR has (finally) decided to give their 'user rating' system a fresh start, and (attempt to) limit users to one vote apiece. The previous system allowed one vote per IP address, which led to all manner of abuse and snarkiness by... oh, just for instance, AOL users, who get a new address every time they log in.

(Okay, there were other asstards out there, too, I'm sure, but AOHell is an easy, and in this case appropriate, target. Buncha toothless morons, plus legions of old people, on there... and probably some toothless old morons, as well -- trust me, no good can come from that!

Well, except me voting myself high up the list by logging onto my parents' computer a couple of times a day over the break, of course. On the other hand, every time I'd do that, some boob(s) would immediately swoop in and slap a half-dozen '0' votes on me, and I'd be back where I was. It was quite an amusing little diversion over the holiday, I have to admit. Amusing, and very, very annoying.)

So, now TWR is asking people to log in before voting, and they've reset all those zeroes that people had accumulated back to... well, to zero, actually. But now it's just one zero across the board, for every blog. And maybe -- until those script weenies figure out how they're going to abuse this system -- we'll get a true representation of what people really think of blogs for a while.

And, of course, I want to know what you really think about this blog, so I'm going to provide you with a handy link to my review. If you've got a Weblog Review password, just log in and leave a vote, and you're all set. If not, you can easily create an account (and sign up for a review of your own, if you like) -- it's fast, easy, and best of all, 'it don't cost nothing'. Give it a whirl, if only for shits and giggles. (But actually only giggles, I hope. That's just nasty.)

While we're at it, I think I'll also take this opportunity to pimp for some friends of mine -- I've taken a stroll through the review archives, and found that there are several people on one of my blogrolls who also have reviews. So if you've got an extra minute or ten, check these sites out, and give them a rating, too. To me, they're all fives, but let 'em know what you think, too.

(Um, by the way, the rating system used by The Weblog Review only goes to five. So don't think that I was implying that the blogs that follow are merely mediocre, as in '5 out of 10'. Far from it. These are the superstars of the blogging world, folks. And if you don't believe me, then check 'em out for yourself. Hey, any hit's a good hit, right?)

I, Asshole
J's Notes
Life's Like This
Riri's Brain Dump
The Joy of Soup
The Mighty Geek
TJ Hanton (the 12th review ever!)
Where the Hell Was I? (me again, in case you forgot!)

Sweet. And what the hell -- while we're at it, I'll also remind all of you that the 2004 Bloggies are under way. Go vote for a bunch of people there, too. Just don't forget who sent ya.

(Unless somebody else sent you first, of course. In that case, do forget who sent you, and just remember that I told you, too. In this case, you want to remember the last person who told you, not the first.

Unless I'm not the last, either... though if someone else told you about the Bloggies in the time it's taken you to read these last four sentences, then you're leading a far, far too fast-paced life. Slow down, take it easy. Stop and smell the roses.

And, above all else, remember the next-to-last person who sent you, 'cause that would be me.

Unless it isn't. In which case, just remember me. That's probably simplest -- there's no easy way to screw that up. Remember me. Now, go check out the Bloggies, and vote for whoever you happen to be thinking of. I'm sure whoever it is would be most grateful.

At least, you know, I would be. If it were me, of course. And by now, it'd better be, buster!)

Okay, that's just about enough pimping for one day, I think. (Unless you're on my blogroll and have a review, and I missed you; in that case, just lemme know, and I'll be more than happy to add you to the pimpitatiousness. My bad.) I'll be back later with more crunchy goodness! Do try and keep yourselves busy until then, okay?

Let's Take a Stroll Through My Nightmare, Shall We?

There are two times in my day when I can slip into 'autopilot mode' and really be creative.

The first of these, as I've mentioned many times before, is in the shower. This is by far my most productive time for thinking up wild, ridiculous crap to unleash upon you and the people unfortunate enough to watch my standup comedy sets. There's something about having a not-quite-fully-awake brain, a naked body, and gallons of hot, steamy water that just gets my juices flowing, if you know what I mean.

(And, I'm afraid, you do. Or at least, I'm afraid that you think you do, you perverted little monkey. But I'm talking about creative juices, not... well, not any other kind of juices at all. Even pee. Which may or may not flow in the shower, but that's not important right now. And, if you're lucky, won't be important ever. I mean, do you really want to know?)

Anyway, I have a lot of ideas in the shower. Not necessarily good ones, and certainly not primarily clean ones, despite all the soap and shampoo lying around. Seriously, you'd be shocked at the shit that comes out of me when I'm in the shower.

(Hey, hey -- I thought I told you to keep your mind out of the gutter, there, pork chop. Let's focus here, all right?)

But I've told you about my showers before. (Much to your horror and dismay, I'm sure.) What I don't think I've ever mentioned is the other creatively fertile time of my day, which is the walk from my car to the office. This is a relatively new phenomenon for me -- at my last job, I had a spot in the parking lot next to the building, so I barely had a chance to take care of the essentials (hook my ID on my belt, straighten my hair, and make sure my fly is zipped) between the car and the front door. And, if I got a really good parking spot, I wouldn't get all of those things done, and I might walk in with mussed hair, no ID, or an open crotch cage. Or all three at once. No doubt this is part of the reason why that's my 'old job'. Feh.

But now, I split time between two offices, and have parking at neither. Also, there's a very active and extremely sneaky bunch of meter bitches and parking Nazis patrolling both areas. (I've ranted long and hard about this at least once before.) So, to beat the system -- and keep my wallet at least a little fuller -- I park several blocks away from each office and walk the rest of the way. It's not the most efficient use of my time, or my vehicle, but it does minimize the number of tickets I have to eat, and it also gives me another chance to get some random thinking done. Whether I want to or not.

See, these goofy ideas and ridiculous premises just come to me, often without warning or any sort of effort. People sometimes ask how I think of some of the outlandish ideas I present here -- well, honestly, I don't know. All I can tell you is that they pop into my head from time to time, and I don't seem to be able to stop them, even with repeated blows to the head with heavy, blunt objects. Believe me, I've tried. I get bloody, certainly, and often confused... but the ideas keep coming. Apparently, my brain's just wired a little screwy.

And folks, you don't know the half of what worms its way into my little skull, believe me. I know it must seem like I just blat every little fricking thing that comes into my head onto the blog, but no. Oh, no -- not by a longshot. I actually filter out a lot of crap before writing; all sorts of boobered bullshit gets sifted out before I 'go to press'. Or at least sifted into the 'Fix This Or Kill It' file, where I decide it's just not quite good enough to beat you people over the head with.

Don't believe me? Okay, I'll give you an example, from today's trek from the car to the office. During that little stroll today, I thought of no less than three things. Now one of them might just be worth working into a post of its own (like later today, maybe -- hint, hint). Another, I would probably use in conversation a couple of times, and -- if it went over well -- I'd probably work it in here somewhere. The third... well, the third, I'd usually forget about as soon as possible, and probably even use copious amounts of alcohol to speed the process along. I don't know where the hell it came from, and I could have gone my whole life without having thought of it. I'm slightly more disturbed for having it pop into my head.

So, now that you're sufficiently intrigued, wanna hear what these things are? You can be on the cutting edge of this blog, see some of the things that only I see, hear what the little voices tell me directly. Interested? What? No? Well, tough noogies, baby -- you're getting it, anyway. If I have to put up with this shit, then I'm taking you down with me. I guess this just isn't your lucky day. Deal.

So, the first thing, which you might see again later today: As I began my walk, I started thinking -- for reasons I cannot fathom -- what it might be like if I called one of those phone psychic people. As phony as those bastards are, I think they'd have pretty good luck with me -- I'm predictable, I'm gullible, I'm a typical guy... hell, they should be able to peg me completely. The idea needs a bit of work, but I think there's something there. We'll see what I can make of it later on.

The second thing, which I'd normally 'play-test' a few times before using it here, is a new euphemism. Again, I don't know where the hell it came from, or why I thought of it while I was walking over the bridge to the medical area where I work. (But it is in keeping with my goal to invent as many sexual euphemisms as possible this year. Anyway, here's what came to me in a flash, as I crossed the bridge:

'getting my nutters fluffered'

Frankly, I think it's a winner. No idea what the hell it has to do with that bridge, or Tuesday morning traffic, or whatever else was in front of me at the time, but there it is. The mind works in mysterious, kinky, god-awful ways. At least, mine does. Eep.

Finally, and most embarrassingly, was the thing that struck me while I was still on the block where I parked my car. Fully formed, and with no stimulus that I could recognize, the following alternate lyric to Billy Joel's 'She's Always a Woman' -- which I haven't heard in years, by the way -- came slamming into my brain:

'She's got a way... of crusting
I don't know what that is --
But I'll bet it's dirty, and disgusting.

And that was it. No more than that -- just a snippet, really, for no discernable reason. This is the type of shit that happens all the time, too. I need some serious help, folks. I'm beginning to think I was dropped on my head as a child -- at the top of a pyramid, maybe, and I ba-ba-bumped all the way down, like Homer Simpson down a cliff face. That would be some explanation, at least, and a far better one than just being born this way. I don't think there was that much inbreeding in my family! I mean, sure -- a little... but I gotta believe it'd take a whole frigging limbload of 'kissing cousins' to create this kind of brain genetically. Surely there's got to be some blunt-force trauma in there somewhere, right?

Anyway, that was my walk to work this morning. Typical for me, really. Frightening for you, no doubt -- frightening and highly distasteful, but there it is, nonetheless. Just be glad that I usually shield you from such nonsense -- maybe now you'll be able to appreciate this blog a little more, if only for what's not contained within these pages. There's a whole lotta crap you don't see, and you should probably be thankful for it. Just -- you know -- not today. Today you're in my world. I just pray I haven't done you any permanent damage. Lord knows you wouldn't want to live your whole life like this. Ick!

Monday, January 05, 2004
Shit, I Only Got 40 Points... and I Wrote the Damned Test!!

Hey, all. Turns out I was able to find another way to waste some time -- I just made a quiz. And they say you have to 'write what you know', so the quiz is about -- me!

Actually, it's a 'FriendTest', which I first saw mentioned over at Kinder's Garden. (He's got a quiz of his own, too!)

Anyway, if anyone's interested in finding out just how much you've learned about me from reading this drivel, feel free to take the Where the Hell Have You Been? quiz. All the answers are contained within these very pages -- read the entire archives, plus all 101 Things Posts About Me, and you'll ace it for sure. You'll be blind, and insane, and no one will ever love you again, but you'll get a perfect score! And really, wouldn't it all be worth it?

I'll Have the 'Footlong Festering Foot Rash' Sub, Please, With Farts and Feathers... Ooh, and Light Mayo, Too!

I just discovered that Subway's latest tagline:

'Eat fresh.'

anagrams into:

'Farts. Hee.'

Now I'm trying to decide whether I should be proud of myself for finding a new anagram... or ashamed of myself, because the one I found is so damned silly.

Hold on. Let's see if I can find another one -- that'll be the tie-breaker. Seriously, I don't have one in mind yet. I'm blogging without a net here, folks. Give me a minute...

'Fester. Ha!'

Hmmm. Not terribly silly, but it doesn't really make any damned sense, either, does it, folks? That looks like a push -- lemme see if I can squeeze one more out...


Bleh. Again, not very instructive. Could mean something; could be a vague reference to kinky sexual toys. Third time's a charm, right?

'Feet rash.'

Well, there you have it, folks. Clearly, the product of a horribly twisted mind. Just one more reason to believe that, even when I finally beat this cold I've got, I'll still be sick, sick, sick.

Or it just means that I'm really bored. Eh. Eight of one, half dozen of the other, right? At least I had a bit of fun. Maybe next I'll see what I can do with:

'Have it your way'

I bet there's something really gross in there! Woo!

Sunday, January 04, 2004
Another Few Days of This, and I'll Look Like the Unabomber

My wife -- who didn't kill me earlier, as I'd feared she might -- just told me that I look like someone who hasn't left the house in a week. Which is, of course, very mean. Mean, and uncalled for, and personally very repugnant.

It's also one hundred percent true -- I do look like someone who hasn't been out of the house, or probably even off the damned couch, in six or seven days. Now, of course it's not literally true -- that would be ridiculous. We got home from our trip on Monday, and since then... well, I've been out of the house not once, but twice! I walked the dog yesterday -- all the way out to the front porch, to get the mail -- and on Friday night, I stepped out back to see what the dog was doing in the kennel. See? Twice! Where does my wife get off, saying I look like I haven't been out of the house at all? Sheesh.

On the other hand, I'm sitting here, leaning crookedly on the couch, in a T-shirt and the new warm-up pants that I got for Christmas. It's part of a suit, but wearing the top and bottom at once make me feel like an off-duty gangster, so I've been mixing 'em up. The top with a pair of sweats, the pants with a sweatshirt, or just a tee. So versatile, so stylish. Such a wonderful accessory for my unkempt hair and three-day beard. Mama, is this the 'high life'?

Anyway, I'm not really sure these are really best called 'warm-up pants', but I'm not sure what else to call them. They're not 'parachute pants', certainly. (And I'll tell you how I know, in just a minute.) Together, the ensemble might be a 'jogging suit', but the pants alone? 'Jogging pants'? Doesn't sound right. So I'm not certain what they should most accurately be called. And thus, I call them 'warm-up pants', because that's what they remind me of.

But really, that's not what they are, for one very important reason. See, when I think of 'warm-up pants', I envision those pants that basketball players wear during shootarounds -- you know, the kinds they can grab by the thighs and swoosh right off? They must have velcro or something on the sides, or a cutaway waistband or something. I'm not really sure.

What I am sure of is that these pants I have on are not those kinds of pants. See, I did the experiment today. Right after my shower, I got dressed, and put these pants on right over my boxers. And then, standing right outside the upstairs bathroom door, I grabbed 'em by the front, and tried to yank them off.

Now, folks, I don't know whether any of you have accidentally thrown yourself down a staircase by your crotch, but that's essentially how my little experiment ended. The pants didn't come off, the elastic held, and the two handfuls of fabric went careening toward the stairs, followed by the rest of the pants, and followed then by me, with my big ass bringing up the rear. Bumpity-bumpity-bumpity-thud. Perhaps not my best-planned experiment.

On the other hand, by the time I got to the bottom, one leg had actually come out of the pants. So I thought, 'what the hell', limped back up the steps, and threw myself down again. And this time, they came off completely! Woo hoo! Maybe they are 'tearaway' pants, after all, as long as you have a flight or two of stairs handy. I guess they can be 'warm-up pants' after all. Cool! As soon as I get my elbow back into joint after that second fall, I can finally write the 'thank you' note properly, using just the right term. Oh happy day!

Note: In anticipation of your concern, I should probably confess that the falls above didn't actually occur as described. No pants, elbows, or goofy writers were actually harmed in the making of this blog entry.

Actually, I put the pants on a blow-up doll, and threw it down the stairs. It just sort of 'bip-bopped' down the steps both times; nothing really interesting happened, and the pants stayed firmly on the doll the whole time. Until the dog bit the thing's nose, anyway. At that point, all bets were off, and there were bits of plastic everywhere. So, to be fair, there was a 'Naughty Nanette' inflatable figure harmed really badly in the making of this post. But that's about it.

Please Tell Me Those Are Chocolate Cupcakes Stuck to the Ceiling


My wife said she'd be back 'after noon' today. Well, it's five till, and the house is a stinkin' pile of wreckliness. The bed's not made, my clothes are everywhere... there are blankets strewn all over the house like dirty Kleenex, and dirty Kleenex littered around like... well, themselves, I guess. I've got magazines in the sink, dirty dishes in the desk drawers, and throw pillows in the dishwasher. There's still lipstick on the dog, for chrissakes!

(No, not for that, you Saluki-smoochin' pervert. I don't go around French-kissing French poodles. (And don't even ask me to call them 'Freedom poodles' -- what the hell does that mean, anyway? And aren't we over that yet?)

Amyway, I didn't gussy up the dog's lips for a makeout session -- I just got bored, and wrote stuff on her with it. You know, like 'This End Up' and 'My Other Dog Is a Cocker Spaniel', and a big red fake blood trail leading from her mouth, so we could play Cujo. It's all perfectly normal. Don't get your knickers in a twist over it, folks.)

Anyway, the point is that I've got to get the place cleaned up before my wife gets home, or she's gonna kill me. Great sweaty melons, there's a lot of crap to do!

(How was that? Did you like that one -- 'great sweaty melons'? That's one of the new exclamations I"m trying out. Kinda catchy, don't you think? See, you guys thought I was just saying that I was gonna come up with new shit like that, but oh, no -- I went and did it. Eh? Whaddaya think of my resolutions now?

Yeah, okay, don't answer that, really. Nobody needs to hear that. Ooh, but if this were Family Guy, this would be where the saying gets acted out somehow. Can't you just see Tony the Tiger opening the door to a Vegas strip club's dressing room, panning around inside, and then proclaiming, 'They're grrrreat!' Huh? Yeah?

Which begs the question, of course: 'Why the hell isn't this 'Family Guy'?!'

Ooh, ooh, and also, 'What the hell is wrong with me? Have I been smoking my dirty socks again?'

I've got no answer for the first question, I'm afraid. Though to the second, I can reply with a resounding, 'probably not'. There are an awful lot of socks tied like streamers on the staircase right now, and another pile of them stuffed in the downstairs toilet. I seriously doubt that I smoked any of them at all last night. None of the wet ones, for sure.)

Anyway, I'd better wrap this up, take a shower, and start to clean up. (Well, okay, wrap this up, get the frozen waffles out of the tub, then take a shower, and then clean the place up. There's nothing worse first thing in the... um, afternoon, than getting Eggos squished between your toes. You can't 'leggo' 'em, even if you wanted to, sticky little bastards.)

I'll be back later, assuming I get things to a point that doesn't warrant my immediate execution upon my wife's return. In the meantime, though, I've got a lot of work to do. Man, I am never letting my wife go on an overnight trip again. I obviously can't be trusted alone!

Stuff By Others


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  Married... With Children
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