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June 29, 2007

The Parable of The Fork, The Floating Robot Ribbon Worm & Where The Fuck Was Larry David?

Give a man a fish, he eats for a sec, teach a man to fish and he will stink bad and non get laid. Give a man a fork!, is what I say. I don't know why I say it, but I really thought it was clever last night down at the community center when I made it up. I kept saying it like I was Jesus, like I had some special little nugget of wisdom, it made complete sense to me at the time and I don't even think I was drunk. In my mind I kept trying to phrase it to sound biblical "Give ye therefore un fork" ... etc... Right now, I can't for the life of me remember what it was that seemed so poetic, whatever it was, my conviction was tested only seconds later at the buffet. Two old women were sitting behind me fussing with their paper plates and eating steak with their fingers.

"You need a fork." one said to the other loud enough that I knew that they were reading my brain.

"Lemme get you that fork." I said mostly to prove to myself that my own inner conversations actually mean something.

I folded up my seat and went on the hunt. The kitchen was out of forks, the dining room had none, every fork was spoken for.

"Know where I can get a fork around here?" I asked a scrawny kid who looked rather forkish himself, I think he was Kramer's kid.

"What? at a steak convention? Good luck, this place is packed, they ran out of forks hours ago. You should go up the hill and check the shed."

The hill to the shed was muddy and slippery, I was tempted to slide around and have fun, but I forced myself to stay focused on finding the old woman a nice fork.

I think the "shed" was really an old self contained kitchen unit that they used to install in small one room apartments back in New York City at the turn of the century when every apartment was divided into three. It was very dirty. The drawers were filled with cob webs and greasy tools, little knobs and dials, old soap and matches and all other junk drawer type stuff. I took a good minute of sifting through the rubble to find a fork.

The fork I found had two problems;
1. It was too big for an old woman's mouth.
2. !t was covered in spider webs and dried brown fly pupae.

I used my fingernails to scrape off the debris, the pupae popped like, well, like pupae. I bent the two outer most prongs on the fork back and forth until the metal became weak enough to remove them completely so it would fit into the old woman's mouth. I rubbed the fork between the fabric of my jacket until it was sufficiently shiny and presentable as an eating utensil and I ground down the two prong nubs by scraping them on the cement wall as I walked. The result looked like a hand doing the Boy Scout three finger salute, I made up a lie about it being a BSA commemorative fork in case anyone said shit.

When I returned, the place had cleared out, there were steak bones everywhere. I really don't think I was gone that long. There was a commotion in a room down the hall. The old woman for whom I retrieved the fork had a heart attack, or she fainted, or fuck, maybe she passed out from hunger waiting for me to bring her a fork. She had an oxygen mask strapped to her face and the onlookers wagged their heads back and forth contemplating the shame, pity and dread.

I left the fork on the side table and quietly backed out of the room.

I cooked 5 steaks and ate them with my hands. Fucking YumTown.

Later, at the dance contest, a really fat 9 foot tall black guy with very noisy moonwalky golden sneakers decided to make me part of his pop-locking routine. He picked me by one arm and one leg and swung me around like I was 3. He had no idea of my pop-locking prowess, I was the best volunteer he could have picked. I warbled around in the air like I was a robot ribbon worm and when he released me, instead of sliding down on the ground gravity steeze I remained in the air, floating around the room busting my moves for the unsuspecting audience. I totally stole the show. Most people can't actually float like me. My moves were wicked. I amazed even myself.

"There is no spoon." someone said.

"Maaaatrix quoooootes aaaare foooor dooooorks." I whispered back as I did some super slo-mo moves.

On the ride home the woman who plays Larry David's wife on TV sat on my lap, I slid my hand up her shirt, and she didn't object. Her skin was cold and soft, she kept turning in a manner to force my hand onto her breast as we discussed Larry David with Kramer who was sitting in the back seat.

"I need to hang out with you guys more often. Old ladies die too much." I said.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot, my old friends The Pussycat Dolls were there at the community center steak fry too. They were mostly all fat and dumpy. They looked better when they weren't famous. Too much catering. I should've done them a favor and taken away THEIR forks.

Now Robyn;
That's all for now.
Don't get caught eating only the really meaty parts.
Your Most Overrated Condiment
Plain Ketchup

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June 28, 2007

DIY Disaster, Drugs/Religion Like There is a Difference & So Cute I Could/Did Smash Them

A former tenant of mine, who I never really liked, kidnapped me a few days ago to show me his new house that he'd been "remodeling" for the last couple of years. The "remodeling" he was doing would have given Bob Villa 5000 heart attacks, a bloody nose and an imploded ball sack. The vaulted ceilings were scabbed in with terribly aligned sheet rock caked with cracked mud, the basketball court had slivers big enough to stab through the fattest, most calloused of feet and the foaming insulation he sprayed in the attic was still actively foaming like super yeasty pancake batter.

"How long ago did you spray that stuff?"

"'Bout a year ago."

"When is it supposed to stop bubbling?"

"Probably never."

"Are you gonna get your money back?"

"Am I supposed to sue myself?"


Turns out his place was part of a bigger compound of DIYers, DIYing themselves into a full blown religion, literally. The compound, as was so rudely explained to me, was a temple of sorts. On the whole I'd describe the architecture as Superman's Ice Castle meets Concrete monolith meets all public libraries built in the 70s meets your local high school production of "2001 a Space Odyssey". Everywhere I walked I found myself stuck in the middle of some pseudo ancient ritual usually involving blue makeup and/or stilts. It was all very Alice in Wonderland - Burning Man edition.

I did my best to avoid the "sacred spaces" but the place was so haphazard in the layout that it wasn't at all obvious how to get the fuck out. Eventually I landed myself in the food court way down in the basement. even the food was trying way too hard to be religious. there were xanax cupcakes, viagra hot dogs and a bunch of other pharmaceutical pastries. I'm afraid of drugs so I went for the basic peanut butter and honey corn dog which as you might guess was nothing more than a corn dog dipped in peanut butter and honey. REVOLUTIONARY. It was a bad choice considering the crumb duster/keystone cop mustache I grew that morning as a joke.

The food court was over run with little chipmunks type animals with oversized heads stuffing their already filled chipmunk cheeks with any and all pills that hit the floor. They were obnoxiously cute, like cartoons come to life, little spots on their cheeks, cute whiskers etc... I tried not to step on any, but they were dead set on placing themselves directly under my feet. I think they were trying to lick off the pancake batter insulation from earlier. Their little heads popped like bubble wrap as I made my way outside where a carload of people dressed in zany pink outfits was just pulling up to go church.

I don't care how wacky the outfits and music, church eats balls always.

Oh yeah, I ate a bunch of yogurt.

Now Jenny Young;
That's all for now.
Don't get caught crop dusting sacred ceremonies.
Your Local Talent Scout
Fag Pointer Outer 2000

Anonymous roma is a gaywad.

I enjoy your writing more than your pictures. I'd add an insistent qualifier, like much more, but some of them really hit the spot, so.


you're not really an asshole, are you.


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June 26, 2007

Mormon Sopranos, Prince Is Just Gonna Hafta Wait & Fizzy Ink

Most people assume that The Sopranos was based on a fictitious Jersey based mob family. I wasn't. It was actually inspired by a family in Utah who owned a furniture business. At first it would seem like those two worlds would have very little to do with each other, but I'm here to tell you, as a person very familiar with the Utah furniture family, having been a tenant of theirs in their gigantic warehouse that has been divided haphazardly into small apartments mostly rented to artists and Utah's apostate community, them fuckers know the art of intimidation. The walls were all crooked, the floors were slanted and trash and thrift store style valuables were piled all over the place. People drove their cars up and down the hallways all willy nilly like it was a driveway. Anyway, I can tell you that they rule with the same kind of fear tactics and brazen violence as your TV pals.

For instance, recently I returned to Utah to remove the rest of my stuff out of the slum warehouse I mentioned. As I was moving out I noticed a rug was missing. I't was one of those really cool rugs from the 70s that were made to look like old italian tapestries only instead they had a deer or Elvis printed on them. Mine had a couple of ladies in swimming suits on it. I knew not to investigate. Fucking organized crime. So glad I moved out of Utah.

Plus my other blue rug was had totally been eaten by moths. Exactly. Total mob scare tactic.

In different news, I went out into the back yard to write a song I had in my head all week, but once I got out there all situated at the desk by the plum tree I got distracted by the hose. I placed the nozzle on the desk and let the water pool out over my notebook, I tried to write on the paper with the water pouring all over it but it wasn't working very well, the paper had too much sponginess and the tip of my pen was getting stuck on the upstrokes. Besides, my nosey neighbors were laser beaming the back of my head with their nosey neighbor stares so I couldn't concentrate on the song, which sucks because when I talked to Prince on the phone I told him I'd have it ready by the end of the day.

"Don't act like that.
Don't act at all.
You're an awful actor."

Not much of a poem but that was all was able to rub into the wet paper. The only reason I could even read it was because I wrote it. I squeezed out the paper and the bluish ink water into my mouth because I didn't want anyone else to see what crap I had written and I thought maybe it might be cool to drink my own lame poem. It was fizzy.

Kinda defeats the purpose by re-writing it here. What the fuck do I care.

Now Jenny Young twice because I couldn't decide which one;

That's all for now.
Don't get caught packing a few little extra things that aren't yours on moving day.
Your Annoying Texture,
Dusty Hair

Anonymous Glockenspiel is a gaywad.

I once drank drank the entire collection 'Crow' by Ted Hughes. It tasted like mutton chops, cabbage(savoy)and bollock. I washed it down with a poem of my own called 'Grunt'. The poem has no words save one. I cannot spell the word. It tasted like age old excrement. Yumalicious.


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June 24, 2007

The Pescalator, 400 Grounded Gummingbirds & Other Things From The House of Bill Gates

&tFor being such a straight forward fella, Bill Gates sure has a goofy house. Some of the tech totally makes sense, lights come on when you raise your right leg, music turns up loud in the bathroom when you're taking a crap, curtains close if you squint and show your teeth, the refrigerator locks up when it hears wheezing, these are all completely practical ideas.

What didn't seem completely necessary was the waterfall stairway, I mean, walking up the stairs against the current was hard enough, but coming back down with all the salmon slapping me in the face was pretty much impossible, especially cuz my reaction was to clench my teeth and squint which of course closed the curtains and made it hard to see forcing me to lift my leg to take another step to get the lights to come on. By the time I got down to the kitchen I was breathing so heavily that the fridge wouldn't let me at the gatorade. Granted, Bill did tell me it was under construction so I can't give my full review, but I don't really see the "Pescalator" making it's way into your local mall.

Another idea I thought was not quite on point was the Gummy Varnish he was testing on the floors. As far as I could tell it was nothing more than a way to trap humming birds, which is fine and dandy until you have 400 humming birds stuck to the floor. That's roughly 20 billion decibels of hum and if those little wings touch your bare ankles it's rash city. Hummingbirds are filthy animals, what people don't realize is that, while humming birds eat primarily nectar, they live in nests made out of tuna fish cans and mite infested mouse fur. Also about the gummy floors, if you drop your earring or jeweled tooth pick don't even bother trying to dig it out because the hummingbirds will peck your hand like piranhas.

The tour of his house really wasn't the highlight of the visit anyway, the best part was just sitting around with Bill talking about the future. Bill is a very casual man and not at all afraid of wild tangents. Ten minutes with Mr. Gates and he seemed like the really cool uncle I never had. Judging by his excellent relationship with his ten year old kid, he is also a man with whom I'd feel completely happy about leaving my kids if I had them. I don't think his joy of playing "What If" has changed one speck since he was 10. Me neither.

After a few hours brainstorming and making up scenarios with Bill there was a little lull in the conversation. I never liked lulls much.

"I wish your company would come up with a computer that was really adapted to all the art programs I use, I'd really enjoy bailing on Steve Jobs, he seems like such a pretentious self important and paranoid art snob." I said.

"Aw be nice to Steve, he's far too good looking to have a good self esteem. It has kept him from seeing the big picture and being secure enough about his own ideas to allow anyone else to help. If he was born with no eyebrows he'd be in my place and I'd be in his market share wise, with which I'd be totally happy, but I'm afraid a guy like Steve in my position would have every ounce of variety stripped out of the market place." Bill said as he looked at some imaginary source of inspiration up in the corner of the room and one of the robotic emu hopped over and refilled the potato chip bowl.

Now Two Backstagey Deals:

That's all for now.
Don't get caught trying to fake out the auto-flush
Your Favorite All You Can Eat Billionaire Best Friend
Warren Buffet

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June 20, 2007

The Mud Bowl Rodeo, The Bait Donkey & How PETA Fucks Up The Whole Deal as Usual

Mud bowl rodeos are barbaric, not that I'm against them or anything, I think it's best to keep barbarians properly supervised so they don't sneak into our homes to saddle up grampa or hog tie the kids. But still I think there oughtta be a few more reasonable regulations. For instance, I'm not so sure the whole bait donkey concept is such a good idea anymore.

If you have never been to a mud bowl rodeo, a bait donkey isn't always a donkey, sometimes it's a very old german shepherd, sometimes a wild hog, a baby moose or a seal deer, sometimes its all of those things at once. No matter what form it takes, the job is the same. A bait donkey is tied on a short chain on a slippery slope right next to the mud bowl/bull ring just barely out of/within reach of the shark bulls. If you have never seen a shark bull, It's just what it sounds like, half shark, half bull, body of a raging bull, teeth and appetite of a great white shark, pretty ruthless to say the least. The bait donkey acts as a distraction to the starving shark bulls who, as cowboys are stabbing, lighting them on fire and otherwise infuriating them, in turn gnash their teeth at the legs and otherwise try to eat the bait donkeys in what appears to be a demonstration of the natural phenomenon of shit rolling down hill. The bait donkeys struggle to keep a good footing on the muddy slope and not slide into the bloody mouths of the shark bulls, but often their back legs are snagged and bitten off. When this happens, as much as one might feel for the poor bait donkey and hope for it's survival, sentient creatures like myself often end up hoping for a quick death and speedy end to their misery.

Trouble is, this doesn't happen, the bait donkeys are just left there, slightly out of reach, to suffer and bleed as the shark bulls rip little morsels of flesh from their hind limbs as the audience screams in delight.

But it gets worse. What many people don't know is that in recent years, PETA and other animal rights organizations have come down so hard on mud bowl rodeos and the specifically the use of bait donkeys that now, instead of using actual donkeys, dogs or hogs, they now use under privileged and at risk youth dressed up as bait donkeys instead. Apparently it's all legal and PETA endorsed. One would never know any of this by watching the show because the costumes are very very realistic, It's only when one gets access to back stage and the dressing rooms that the horror actually unfolds.

Last night I met an actual bait donkey. She was a young girl from a crappy town in nevada with messed up dirty blonde hair and a meth toothed grin. She just finished putting on her post show ball gown when I made my introduction.

"So you were the bait donkey tonight?"

"Yup, that's me." she said as she covered her smile with her bandaged hand.

"I really thought you were a goner a couple of times when that shark bull had your back leg in his mouth."

"Ha ha, yeah, people love that part of the show." she said as she reached down and popped off her crudely fashioned artificial leg revealing an infected stump. "I lost that leg months ago, now before every show we attach a pigs leg to to my nub to make the show more exciting for the fans. Under the costume nobody can tell. Plus the shark bulls gotta eat, right?"

I could see in her pinkish, glassy eyes that her momentary feeling of victory and ingenuity was overshadowed by the glaring fact that within weeks, perhaps days, she would meet the same bloody fate as every bait donkey before her. I knew she wouldn't listen to me if I tried to preach to her about life and possibilities and If I tried to openly stage an intervention I'd surely feel the wrath of a herd of angry cowboys and the sanctimonius PETA activists who brokered the poor kids for donkeys deal. Instead I scribbled my name and number on a napkin and handed it to her.

"I'm having a party at my house on saturday night, lots of cool girls are gonna be there, you should come." I said.

"Ooh cool. Let's hope I'm not ate up by then!" she said with the smiling eyes of a comedian on death row.

Even if she ain't ate up by then, meth heads are pretty flakey, so I'm not counting on it, but I hope she comes, she obviously needs new friends.
Now Parker;
That's all for now.
Don't get caught assuming it's meth when she might just be uglyish.
Your Dream Job
Rodeo Clown

Anonymous nola is a gaywad.

I think the bait donkeys are brave.

Only amateur cowboys use them, though. Real cowboys bait and wrangle the sharkbulls all by themselves.


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June 19, 2007

I'm Not a Photographer

Photographers carry around big cameras, big lights, big flash contraptions and little meters, they talk about film stock, ISO's, F stops and capturing the perfect light right before dusk.

Photographers creep through neighborhoods of poor people looking for interesting poverty related things to "capture" in black and white or muted color.

Photographers spend lots of time in cramped dark rooms with red lights and chemicals that smell like egg farts.

Photographers get in heated exchanges about the direction Leica is headed or that one camera maker that sounds all german, hasselhoff?

Photographers have lots of lenses that they will tell you about whether you ask them or not, like the one that can see an ass hair on a mosquito or the remarkably "bright" one that can photograph the pope's underwear tag from a tower in hell.

Photographers say "glass" a lot, "Thats a nice piece of glass you got there Danny." which would be funny if it was a joke. No it wouldn't.

Photographers show you shoes hanging on wires, pink boxes in the green weeds, little black girls with blue eyes and nuns sitting under billboards of naked men.

Photographers have all kinds of cameras, most of them are rare and vintage but they love to remind you that their absolute favorite cameras are crappy plastic cameras they found at the thrift store for 25 cents.

Photographers LOVE Polaroid because you can take a picture of absolutely ANYTHING with a Polaroid and it will look like you got your BFA.

Photographers know the names of every other photographer who ever lived and they can tell you exactly who took the first picture of an old barn door or a naked girl on a sofa.

Photographers talk about how little they use photoshop IF AT ALL, and even then it's only to "adjust some curves" or "make the blacks a little more black."

Photographers make use of make up artists, hairdressers, location scouts and stylists which is way way WAY different than photoshopping out zits and wrinkles.

Photographers freeze moments to show the REALITY. They love that word, "reality" also they like to say "RAW" a lot.

Photographers have websites with big black or red sans serif fonts on white backgrounds.

Photographers put their client list at the bottom of the side bar where it looks like they don't really care about it but just in case you didn't like their photographs you can see who did.

Photographers list their accomplishments in a timeline so just in case you didn't like their photographs you can see who did. Wait, did I just say that?

Photographers have strong opinions about Terry Richardson.

Photographers get upset about cropping.

Photographers like the anticipation, surprise, expense, delay, grain, smell, challenge, discipline, texture, and overall unpredictable "magic" of analog, soo opposite of effing digital.

Photographers use the word amateur to describe most other photographers.

Photographers miss the good old days when photography was expensive and out of reach to amateurs.

Photographers blame the lab a lot.

Photographers go to school to study photography because you can't tell if a photo is good just by looking at it.

Photographers whisper cutting edge poetic gems like "digital has no soul."

Photographers only really like 2 or 3 other photographers, the one's whose photographs most resemble their own and they like to keep those books right out on the coffee table where everyone can see them.

Photographers think all commentary about photography and photographers is likely directed at them.

So yeah, I don't give a stumbling poop about any of that stuff.

I'm not a photographer.

Now Parker:
That's all for now.
Don't get caught YouMightBeARedneck-ing everything in sight.
Your Local Heretic,
Snacking On Your Guts McGillicutty

Blogger Ryan Tomorrow is a gaywad.

perfect. wunderbar. do you believe all of it?

when people say to me: are you a photographer? I smile. I say, nah, I just take pictures of my friends.

I'm a regular shutterbug, I am.


Blogger merkley??? is a gaywad.

what do you mean do i believe it? i wrote it precisely because i don't care about any of it, nor do i find any of it necessary to accomplish my ends.

but yeah, i prefer to say i make pictures.


Anonymous Markus Puustinen is a gaywad.

Good writing!

I think you should add to your list: ”Really cool photographers don’t like to be considered as a photographer, instead they make lists of things that differentiates themselves from other photographers”. ;)


Anonymous shotbart is a gaywad.

When I grow up, I want to be a picture maker like you, Merk ;)


Anonymous ShaolinTiger is a gaywad.

I want to be a not-photographer too when I grow up.

You missed something about blurry black and white photos that no-one else really understands and the constant mumbling about hyperfocal and grab-shots.


Blogger Lord Chimmy is a gaywad.

I like your I don't give-a-fuck attitude. I fucking invented it, and your a total dick for ripping me off, but whatever.

You're o.k.

P.S., You hit the nail on the head for every point on this post. Photographer? They suck the life out of me with their antics.


Blogger merkley??? is a gaywad.

ha ha -- yeah i'm probably asleep or have already blown my brains out by the time the conversation gets that far.


Blogger DrM2B is a gaywad.

fuck yeah! Rock on.....


Anonymous Rich is a gaywad.

Mmmm, sandwiches!


Anonymous Glockenspiel is a gaywad.

Jug makers blather on about how form must follow function and twitter about smooth lines.

Jug makers bleat about the rawness and purity of earthenware and how too much gloss equals kitsch.

Jug makers believe that if you use glass it should be formed in the Scnadanavian style, with delicate sheets.

Jug makers hate Clarice Cliff and dismiss anyone who strives for artistry as a 'potter'.

Jug makers hate the word 'taste' but everything they make plays by this word's narrow rules.

Jug makers have their own kiln, made to order by someone else which 'just works like nothing else I've ever experienced' and is responsible for the ineffable alchemy of their work.

I don't make jugs.

I make pitchers.


Blogger merkley??? is a gaywad.

i believe a similar list could be made for any profession on earth.


Anonymous Glockenspiel is a gaywad.

But not using as hilarious a pun, or with such a piercing (pissing?)insight into the nature of man.

Also, I am a bender.


Anonymous Szugye is a gaywad.

I agree with EVERYTHING that you have EVER written, said and sang. Why? Because it makes me look cool.

I like to agree with people. That's just the way I roll.

OH! The bit about photographers. I COMPLETELY agree.

Your 'Gay' ole' Pal, (in the good sense of the word),



Anonymous seliko is a gaywad.

Loved that post.

1. I didn't understand if that bit on Terry Richardson was pro or anti Terry. Personally I think he's da bomb.

2. How d'ya get to make all those hoochie mamas lose their bra and panties? Respect.


Blogger Sime™ is a gaywad.

bloody hell. made me laugh, made me nod my head a lot...


word verification: ixtkhq - is not a bloody word!


Blogger Rev.Vanessa is a gaywad.

This post has been removed by the author.


Anonymous Victor Estrada is a gaywad.

Photographers hate this.
I love it.


Anonymous michel v is a gaywad.

When I see this site's design, I as a webdeveloper miss the good old days when webdesign was scary and out of reach to amateurs. :)


Blogger merkley??? is a gaywad.

and i knew EXACTLY what your website was going to look like as soon as i read that.


Blogger UBERPHOTO is a gaywad.

you guys are all a wonderful mass of non-conformity....wait...that would make you all some sort of conformist. Awwww poot....theres no such thing as a non-conformist. Give up.


Blogger merkley??? is a gaywad.

do you say the same thing to people who aren't plumbers or dentists?

everyone must be everything on planet uberphoto.

btw, it was VERY hard for me to type "uberphoto"

ew, i just did it again, someone spray me with lysol.


Anonymous Anonymous is a gaywad.

You're the 40 year old male equivalent of the cartoon character Daria. Thank you.


Blogger merkley??? is a gaywad.



Anonymous MadMolecule is a gaywad.

Most of the pompous habits you've listed here drive me insane too, and I'd swallow a live toad before I'd say something as fatuous as "digital has no soul."

But even though I agree with you, you kind of come across as a self-righteous jerk.


Blogger merkley??? is a gaywad.

haha -- YA DON'T SAY! :)


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June 17, 2007

Dog Tales With Tom Cruise, The Crash of The Gliding Silver Asians & Picnics Are So Uncivilized

I built a monolithic cement deck in the back yard and Tom Cruise came over to check it out. He wasn't nearly as annoying as I expected him to be but his hair is still totally stupid. I thought he was gonna start yammering on about his dumb cult but luckily all he wanted to talk about were dogs which was a huge relief. I like talking about dogs, although he kept making sad attempts to one up my stories and everyone could tell. It was a little pathetic. He's no story teller.

I did my best to pay attention and seem interested but out of the corner of my eye I kept seeing something popping up over the trees. It was getting dark so I didn't know if it was a crazy branch or a UFO.

"...and so his little paws were all covered in paint and....."

"Excuse me Tom, did you see that?"

"See what?"

"Something keeps popping up over the top of that tree right there."

"It's these old victorians with the telescopic turrets." said Tom.

"Really? It didn't look like a telescopic turret."

Just then in the in the dark blue sky a brightly lit hang glider came flying up from behind the tree. It bolted straight into the air and paused where we could clearly see the asian hang glider, dressed in a sparkled silver jump suit get a nervous look on his face as he stalled and then began plummeting right before our eyes. He came down with a crash in the next door neighbor's yard smashing the fence. I ran over a quick as I could to see if he was hurt.

"You ok buddy? Anything broken?"

"AAAaaahhhh ooooooooooohh ooowww oh eeeh oooooooch"

"Don't move, stay still."

"My bars, my bars, my bars all clushed."

"Oooh yeah, your balls ARE crushed don't tug on them like that."

Why do asians invert their L's and R's? Dummies.

Tom Cruise was nowhere to be found, fair weather friend. All the neighbors came out into their back yards and we all watched as the asian man held his broken balls while swearing in whatever language he spoke and refusing any kind of assistance. It wasn't long before the rest of the silver asian hang gliders all swooped in to retrieve and mock him. Poor dood got his balls busted twice.

Tom Cruise left his shoes on the deck. They were super tiny car salesman loafers with stupid looking tassles, figgers.

I tried to get the neighbors to help me get rid of some of the picnic tables in the back yard but nobody helped. I don't need 50 picnic tables. What was I thinking? And all the desks? Seemed like a good idea the time. Even though a friend of mine stripped nude and was doing her best to show me all the sexy poses available on an old school desk, I still felt like the whole thing was a little forced and unnecessary. School girl porn is so cliché. May as well dress up like a nurse. WOW INNOVATIVE!

Now Parker:
That's all for now.
Don't get caught wondering if The Gliding Silver Asians are a Ska band. They obviously are.
Your Completely Bare Cupboards
L. Ron Hubbard

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June 14, 2007

I'm No Barbara Walters, Ya Know Who Loves Group Parcipitation? Lemmings! & I'll Slap Those Tigers Right Off Your Diaper Mister

I had a talk show but I quit it because every guest ended up crying no matter what I said and that only served to really frustrate and annoy me to the point where I wanted to MAKE them cry. Even Metallica cried when I had them on. All I did was ask them about why they cataloged all their photos according to mood and off they went to criesville and lemme tell ya, those guys are already pretty ugly but get them crying and they actually make Paris Hilton look like a cute crier. Ugly criers, so sad.

Another thing about the show is that whenever we filmed a group participation segment everyone would gang up on me mutiny style and I really really really hate group participation in the first place with all the pressure to listen to boring stories and pretend to be interested etc... I was always super condescending and passive aggressive and then they'd all turn on me and point out all my faults and shortcomings which of course is not good to do with me because I point out faults better than anyone and lord knows I was born with a chip on my shoulder. Bring it losers.

Here's the deal though, I don't think it's cool when a four year old is allowed to confront me for talking shit about him to his friends. Kids should never confront adults no matter how much shit is talked. Long haired little smart ass, I shouldda kicked his ass.

Now Erika:
That's all for now.
Don't get caught laying low on your birthday then getting mad that it worked.
Your Grampas Medicine
That Stuff in The Curved Metal Bottle in His Pocket

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June 11, 2007

The Longest Hug, Opinionated Fake Brazilians & The Old Fashioned Boarding School Upstairs

I finally met a woman I have known for two years, we hugged three miles past awkward one block east of family, around the corner from romance and down the hill from sadness. It's not marked on the map so don't bother looking for it, you've probably been there anyway. I'd like to go more often but I haven't a clue where it is or where I was. I certainly wasn't checking my watch. The kitchen window was an airplane window, when I looked outside I think I could see Chicago. Sunny day.

I bought a great little motorcycle, *little* being the key word. It wasn't a wuss bike by any means, it had all the power of any bike I have ever ridden.

"Are you seriously gonna drive that around?" asked an old friend.

"Of course I am, it's a great bike, here, take it for a spin."

My friend hopped on and I instructed him from the side lines as he rode all over my old high school parking lot going through various obstacles, towing giant trailers, and doing donuts on the lawn.

"Told you it has lots of power." I said.

"Yeah but you still look like a fag riding it."

"Since when have I ever cared about that?"

On the other side of the school, up on the roof they installed a visual elevator, visual meaning one stayed still on the roof and looked through an electronic telescope gizmo at the ground which quickly zoomed out giving a sensation of lift so strong that it would actually cause one's feet to leave the roof sending one flying hundreds of feet in the air. Not to worry though, all one had to do to get down was to re-zoom the telescope back to the ground to land safe and sound.

On the way home I had an argument with some fake brazilians about the weather. Fake because I speak portuguese and I could tell they were probably germans faking the language. Anyway, it wasn't the first time I was attacked for liking the cold and fog. I don't know why every time I mention my dislike of the sun, some asshole has to challenge me on it like I'm lying. Worse yet is when I finally have them convinced I'm telling the truth, they insist there is something wrong with me. Hey fuck you and your stupid sun. Seriously, FUCK OFF.

I went upstairs to visit one of my tenants for the first time since she moved in years ago. I'm pretty hands off as far as landlording goes. From what I could tell she moved in 15-20 of her best girlfriends. The large square room was lined with beds in a manner that you might see in an old fashioned boarding school movie. Each bed from a different era, pretty much all classic bed designs were represented. Each bed was flanked with matching lamps. It was like a bedroom museum. She really did a nice job with the whole thing, almost good enough to be forgiven for her betty page haircut. O well, if you're gonna be obsessed with the past, you may as well go all out. One of the girls was giving me major stink eye because I slept with her a while back without realizing she lived in my building. I didn't remember her name either so I did my best to avoid eye contact.

I returned downstairs to my own apartment because I had a lot of cleaning to do, but just as I started, the power went out , so I took a long nap and had awkward sex dreams about platonic friends instead.

Now these dudes for the last time:
That's all for now.
Don't get caught confusing one asian girlfriend for another asian girlfriend on account of like I need to say on what account.
Your Principle of The Thing,

Blogger Wendy is a gaywad.

Happy Birthday to the guy who got me into blogging and probably doesn't even know! Your stories have made me laugh and laugh and laugh and thank you for that.

And now I want to buy all your art and I just come over here and dream a little dream that one day I will own all the girls on their backs and the chick with anchor tattoos and have them all over my house.

Happy "F" word man!


Blogger poopee shmoopee is a gaywad.

I love the smoking chickie!

I always wish the power would go out whenever I need to get cleaning done.


Blogger poopee shmoopee is a gaywad.

i'm sad no one comments here anymore.


Blogger merkley??? is a gaywad.

not me.

besides, what do you say when a person is posting dreams? its not like you can add any insight that isn't a complete guess and it's kinda hard to disagree with a dream.


Blogger Ashleigh is a gaywad.

i liked it.


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June 07, 2007

Umbrellas for Bombholes, Fraud and a Perfectly Good Excuse to Pretend to Hate Americans

The town was flat and resembled certain postcards I've seen of some old parts of New Orleans if it'd been more spanish than french. The skies were gray and dramatic. Every once in a while, little bursts of filtered sunshine would muscle their way through thin spots in the bellowing clouds overhead causing the wet roads and buildings to shine and sparkle in a clean, purple and orange light.

It was raining on and off, I wandered though the steets and alleys pondering the various styles of umbrellas and why so many were boring and black when a myriad of options could be made available. Of course s soon as I began contemplating the various possibilities, I began noticing many different styles all around me. Big ones designed to look like overgrown hats of different styles popped out of nowhere. There was a big one that looked like a big fuzzy cotton ball, one that looked like a gigantic stove pipe top hat, another was an over blown replica of a newspaper boy's hat, some girls had giant umbrellas that looked like big Easter bonnets.

"Duh" I thought, "Of course umbrellas should look like giant hats. Why the fuck didn't I think of that?"

It was surprising to me that all of these various examples of amusing design already existed when just minutes earlier it seemed the whole world was flooded with common black umbrellas. Interesting what happens if you just open your eyes and look.

My vacation home was a Mexican villa style mansion. My host was an impeccably groomed, upper class bleach blonde woman with a chisled powdered face who might remind one of a 50 year old Gwen Stefani with a cosmopolitan Italian accent and a spunk more reminiscent of Bette Davis or some other spitfire long-filter-cigarette-holding dame from the past. The tour of the house revealed room upon room remodeled in a fashion in which nearly every era of interior design could be spotted.

But then the town was suddenly bomarded by air and by the reactions of the locals, it must have been an all too common event. No one scurried or screamed. It was so ho hum that barely an attitude or comportment was shifted.

After the air raid was over people mulled about, curiously inspecting the damage. The attitude by all, including myself seemed more one of discovery and wonderment than dismay, regret or horror as one would think it would be after having been bombed by some unknown enemy in the sky. I was impressed by their positive outlook. It's was almost as if it were a holiday of sorts.

In the mansion hosting me, a small impromptu tour began as the holes pierced by the unexploded bombs drew light and attention to neglected rooms and layers of remodel long forgotten. One downstairs kitchen had a big crater that went right through the floor and into the ground where the unexploded bomb had buried it's pointy head in the dirt. My host mused:

"Well look at that, I haven't seen those alphabet tiles in years."

She was talking about piles of shiny, multicolored glazed Mexican tiles that had been dislodged from a long covered layer of the ceiling and scattered face up all over the bombed out floor. Each one displayed a letter of the alphabet. In the rubble I spotted an accidental word: "SLIDE".

I was excited and interested to see all the layers revealed by the bombs. Room upon room I inspected. The holes in the ceilings brought light and trickling water into rooms that were once dry, static, dark and mundane. I spent a long time meandering through the myriad of hallways, nooks and corridors exploring the visual pathways created by the bombs when they ripped through ceilings and floors. I'd peer through one such tunnel of light to see a face of another curious tourist peering back at me from three floors below. We'd sometimes wave to each other and acknowledge what a wonderous spectacle we mutually enjoyed. As the rain intensified from a drizzle to down pour, the house became a fascinating gallery of beautiful waterfalls flowing over broken tables, tilted chairs, cracked toilets, overturned sofas, muddy beds and all sorts of things one finds in a bombed out spanish mansion. Everyone seemed to enjoy it. I know I did.

It occurred to me that the best viewpoint would probably be from the roof and as I arrived there it was apparent that I wasn't the only one with the bright idea. As I carefully made my way across the wet, slippery, moss covered, sparcely tiled and quite unstable bombed out roof it became clear to me that it wasn't such a good idea as the structure of the roof was quite wobbly and with all the other idiot people also prancing about, it was like trying to step from one slippery see-saw to the next, never quite knowing when someone else would step on the other end and sending you flying. I quickly made my way to flatter, more stable surfaces.

I heard a man scream from about a hundred feet away and I turned just in time to see one of my long lost childhood friends, grasping at the edge of another slanted slippery surface. He put up a good struggle for ten seconds or so but then he slid off the edge like an egg out of a teflon pan. He yelled as he fell what must have been a great distance since I was standing on a three story building and he was eye level with me.

I rushed to the bottom to see if I could find him but having descended through the curly maze of spiral stairways and hallways, it was difficult to gauge any sort of direction let alone the exact location of his fall. I came across a hunched over mustachioed man wearing a tan raincoat who I surmised must have been an inspector. I asked him if he was looking for the man who fell off the roof and I explained to him that the man was my friend Jarrod and I'd witnessed his fall and pointed to where I thought I had seen him holding on for dear life. The inspector turned to me and snidely informed me that my friend faked his fall for some fraudulent reason. I thought this news was ridiculous but upon inspection of the area where I had seen him, I could see that the distance was only a few measley feet and completely obscured from view. The inspector was right. I could even see the escape route, a long wooden, puddle laden tunnel leading to the other side of town. I chose not to follow it.

I had no interest in finding my friend, I knew that eventually he'd find me and explain what kind of scam he had going and maybe he'd even let me in on it if loot was involved. I excused myself because I didn't want to help the dickhead inspector pin fraud upon my uni-browed buddy.

I walked down the street and the conversation all over town was about the deception perpetrated by my pal. At one point I maneuvered into position alongside a group of sharply dressed black people who were loudly proclaiming a guilty verdict and talking shit about my friend. I interrupted them and said:

"My friend Jarrod is a good dude. I have loaned him money many times and he has always paid me back".

Of course that was a complete lie, I never loaned him shit.

Later I found myself sitting at a round outdoor table with an umbrella sticking out of the middle. My old friend Gayle was there in all her pseudo lesbian gothiness. She was with another girl. Gayle kept leaning over to the other girl whispering suggestive things, attempting to arouse and convince her into some sexual scenario. I knew that her prey was a fake dyke because she was stoking my leg beneath the table. We exchanged glances of secrecy about the whole thing, neither of us wanted to crush Gayle's hopes of getting laid. I sat and listened to Gayle attempting to convince, at times nearly pleading with the other woman to have sex with her while I enjoyed an over the pants hand job from the same woman. It's possible to feel pity while getting a hand job.

During the conversation between the two women, I occupied myself with the task of ripping apart some wooden framing debris I picked up on the street. I was working on getting the joints to come loose which were held together with staples. I twisted and bent each corner until they came loose and the original cuts and glue at the joints were revealed leaving two bent staple legs dangling out like the legs of insects. The sex conversation between the women continued, I wasn't paying much attention to what they were saying because it was more fun pretending to be preoccupied with my little demolition project while being jerked off under the table. To buy more time, I decided to see if I could take my demolition project in reverse. I lined up the bent staple legs with the holes which contained them previously and slowly tried to work them back into place. The woman giving me the rub down turned to me and said something but I didn't hear what it was due to the concentration needed to complete the task at hand.

"Huh? Sorry, what did you say? "

"You hate Americans right?" She asked.

I turned back to my project and focused on the two little staple legs which had magically transformed into tiny electrodes and I lined them up.

"Yeah, I hate Americans".

I slowly jabbed the two tiny electrodes into the bare flesh of my leg releasing one small droplet of dark blood each.

Now these guys again:

That's all for now.
Don't get caught accidentally toying with the lesbians.
Your Level Headed Lover,
Dyke Turner

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June 04, 2007

Put Your Feet Where I Can See'em, How I Said Flippers w/o Sayin Flippers & Freedom With Extra Pickle

Sometimes I think it's fun to get in my car upside down and operate the pedals with my hands and steer with my feet. I'll admit, there are haters.

"Can I ask why you pulled me over officer?"

"You's drivin' upsider downies." he baritoned.

"I'm from England."

"Lice-n-Reggie peas." He said.

I hadn't heard that obscure gay/baby, asian/cop dialect since kindergarten and it was strange to hear it with such bass and negrocity from a bitty white fella but still I knew he meant "license and registration".

"Is it against the lawr to be English?" I asked as I kicked open the glove box and grabbed a hoagie with my left foot.

"Neggie-atorasaurus." He said.

"Then why you need my Rice-n-Veggie?" I switched it up to see if he was listening.

"I askie the questchies bubby. Where's yo slippies?" he asked as he shined his light on his. Like I don't know what slippers are.

"Left 'em at Scuba Land with the snorkle 'n maskie. Rentals." I said as I "handed" him the sandwich with my foot. (see title.)

"This got's turkeys?" he asked as he flipped through the sandwich like a deck of cards creating a small burst of wind that fluttered his velvety nose hairs. "I got hyper allergenicks".


He slowly lifted his yellowish eyes, his chicken skin of a pink forehead turned into a W.

"You makin' funnies 'bout my allergenicks?" he asked as he pointed my hoagie at me.

"No Sir, allergenicks are serious business. I apologize for the ie. No, no turkeys in the hoagie."

"Apologistics acceptoid." He said as he took a bite of my hoagie. "This's one series hoagurm."

It was fast apparent why he replaced the silly "ie" in hoagie with the no-nonsense "urm". His face orgasmified into stage four hoagie buzz and as he ate I could see through his x-ray vest the ham and mayo lining his stomach like a baloney chrysalis. His heart looked like a hairless puppy humping a skinned plum juicing all over the undulating sausage links that were his intestines.

Not wanting to fink his rapture (or upset the puppy), I unceremoniously rolled up the glass, gripped the wheel with my feet, put my hand on the gas and slithered down the road.

Always keep hoagies in the glove box.

You're welcome.

Now These Guys:
That's all for now,
Don't get caught explodin' the spell check.
Your Master of Eclairemonies,
Bob Denver

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June 02, 2007

Everybody Hates The Rolling Stones, Dog Hitler Tied to Exxon & Weenie Roast With BoneBag 2007

I hiked up a big grassy hill by my house that overlooks a busy street. It was a nice day so there were lots of actors and douchebags hanging out enjoying the weather, reading their yoga books, cooking their eggplants and so on. I decided it would be fun to throw big rocks at the cars passing below. I was happy that my aim was as good as it was when I was a kid, in fact I think I have even improved a bit. I was nailing cars left and right, motherfuckers slamming on their brakes like it was the end of the world just cuz a softball sized boulder came crashing through their window. What a bunch of uptight wussies.

Fuck them and their Audis.

I even developed a nice boulder toss that would bounce down the side of the hill and hit a few sunbathing douchebags along the way. Some nearby college girls got all put out and indignant like I was doing something "totally uncool". Whatever, they're just jealous that I know how to party. Guess what else, one of them was a tattletale. So LAME.

Down at the bottom of the hill my mother was screaming at me like I was 10.

"You get down here RIGHT THIS INSTANT MISTER."

Was she serious? Were these people serious? I'm fucking turning 40 in a couple of weeks. They told my MOM?

I slid down the slippery grass crouched down on my feet and they left two nice dirt grooves in the earth like two little plows. I took only seconds to arrive at the bottom.

"WHAT. THE. FUCK. MOM? You're yelling at me for throwing rocks at cars? I'm FUCKING 40, get a fucking LIFE."

Moms. I only swear cuz she's still Mormon and thinks I'm Satan anyway. I'm reaffirming her testimony. It's like a favor.

On the way to the beach house I passed an abandoned gas station. Some asshole had locked a bunch of dogs inside with no food or water. They all appeared to be skinny dead fur bags of bones, dog holocaust for sure. I cracked the door open just to make sure. Way off in the corner, a really gray dog that looked like an old dried up boney mop raised his head.

"You're alive? Are you ok?"

He wagged his crooked tail without getting up, trying to bend his thin neck around to see me. BoneBag 2007.

"Come'ere buddy, you can't stay here. All your friends are dead. Let's go get you a hot dog. You wanna hot dog?"

I know the magic words.

He did his best impersonation of a newborn colt and wobbled a bit to get his feet underneath him as I encouraged him by listing all my favorite meats that I was gonna share with him. Before long we were cruising down the street like pepperoni and olives. He was barking at douchebags and gnashing his wobbly teeth which would normally bother me but I was pretty annoyed with humanity myself so it was cute, especially cuz he had a big open wound complete with worms, maggots and everything. Quite a sight he.

Here's the thing:

Most people get freaked out if you remove your penis but that's just because they have never tried it and they fear the unknown. I was like that the first time my dick came off. I totally freaked out and cried and everything. But I was an idiot, I had no idea that:

1. all you have to do is hold it back in position until it sticks, which it will.

2. even if you forget to do A, dicks grow back fairly quickly.

7. even if your dick doesn't grow back, it's not like they are rare, any dick from the store will work.

So yeah, I was sitting naked on the couch making a saladish lunch for myself and BoneBag 2007 when I realized that my wang had become disconnected. I immediately began reattachment procedures as usual, but then I thought, I bet BoneBag 2007 would probably eat this if I tossed it in a hot pan for a minute and sliced it up.

Of course I was right. He snatched each steamy slice out of the air as I snipped them off with the kitchen scissors. I even ate a few slices myself. Who could blame me? Like you can resist the smell of cooking hot dogs without wanting a bite? Don't judge.

And don't worry, I had a spare dick in the junk drawer, attached just fine, can't even tell, in fact I think it might even be a tiny bit bigger.

Anyway, cooking at home is where it's at, I forgot to tell you that earlier at the restaurant the waiter lost my debit card and I had to rage all the fuck out on him and make him cry until he found it in a big pot of boiling noodles.

Now This Band:

That's all for now.
Don't get caught denying the power of meat.
Your Favorite Pan,
Big Iron Skillet

Blogger poopee shmoopee is a gaywad.

that video is amazing. it's making my eyes bleed! it just keeps going on and on and on. WOW. self-taught and everything. thank goodness her mother was there to tell her what to do. who knows what she would have come up with on her own.


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