I had a dream, a long time ago, where I was a passenger in this girl's car, and she was driving me all around the country, stopping at all these little house-shops where old gramma ladies made their own special little brands of tea.
And we were just going around like that, laughing and joking in the car, taking turns driving, talking with all these old gramma ladies who were more than happy to have some pleasant company, smelling all these spices and herbs and whatever in their shops, walking in their gardens sometimes, sampling all these different kinds of tea, and it was wonderful.
That's definitely the sweetest and most gentle present my brain every bothered to give me.
Usually I get fun stuff like that fight in the pouring rain with the giant white centipede in the woodshed, or that one where the sun decides to go out like a bad lightbulb one day and I have to listen to everybody crying until we all freeze.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
Bad Fashions
Remember that thing chicks used to do with their hair, that sheer cliff-of-hairspray tidal wave thing, straight up from their fore-head?
Goddam that was so horrible and hilarious.
And guys used to roll their pants up at the bottom into these weird ankle-grabbing bicycle-guy twist-thingies that we thought were sexy to women or something, I guess, like some kinda queer twist on the turn-of-the-century days when seeing a woman's ankle was s'posed to drive men crazy and shit.
Hey baby don't let my fine masculine ankle-cuffs drive you too wild, now! Whoohoo!
And whoah man, you had to make sure you did it right, your pants-cuff-rolling had to be tight, and small, and if you did yer pants-twisting wrong, then you looked like some kinda idiot and you might as well kill yourself.
Yah, you had to do that pants twisting thing even if you wore shorts, sometimes, which was an ultra-poomfy experience, let me tell ya, every time you sat down there'd be this whoosh noise as the trapped air escaped.
And for a while, in the midwest, at least, all the guys my age were wearing these short-sleeved Ocean Pacific button-up beach-boy surfing shirts, for some reason, I dunno, I think its just 'cause they were expensive or something, but it definitely wasn't popular because we all loved surfing, that's fer sure.
Yah, we all went around looking like the first guy to die in every monster movie, y'know, that cocky preppy dude.
Meanwhile, the guys from the 70s, with their flare-bottom pants and flat parted-hair, that we tight little pants-twisters and hairspray ledge chicks used to totally laugh at, are cool again.
But I've noticed that the Comedically Large Big Plastic Comb in yer back pocket that you could use as a make-shift lever to tighten the crotch of yer tight jeans even further has yet to make a return haha.
Goddam that was so horrible and hilarious.
And guys used to roll their pants up at the bottom into these weird ankle-grabbing bicycle-guy twist-thingies that we thought were sexy to women or something, I guess, like some kinda queer twist on the turn-of-the-century days when seeing a woman's ankle was s'posed to drive men crazy and shit.
Hey baby don't let my fine masculine ankle-cuffs drive you too wild, now! Whoohoo!
And whoah man, you had to make sure you did it right, your pants-cuff-rolling had to be tight, and small, and if you did yer pants-twisting wrong, then you looked like some kinda idiot and you might as well kill yourself.
Yah, you had to do that pants twisting thing even if you wore shorts, sometimes, which was an ultra-poomfy experience, let me tell ya, every time you sat down there'd be this whoosh noise as the trapped air escaped.
And for a while, in the midwest, at least, all the guys my age were wearing these short-sleeved Ocean Pacific button-up beach-boy surfing shirts, for some reason, I dunno, I think its just 'cause they were expensive or something, but it definitely wasn't popular because we all loved surfing, that's fer sure.
Yah, we all went around looking like the first guy to die in every monster movie, y'know, that cocky preppy dude.
Meanwhile, the guys from the 70s, with their flare-bottom pants and flat parted-hair, that we tight little pants-twisters and hairspray ledge chicks used to totally laugh at, are cool again.
But I've noticed that the Comedically Large Big Plastic Comb in yer back pocket that you could use as a make-shift lever to tighten the crotch of yer tight jeans even further has yet to make a return haha.
The Greatest Game of All Times
There's been a lot of fun games, but the greatest game of all times has to be that first Nintendo Wrestling game, where you could be that spanish guy with the pink pajamas and the star on his chest who did cartwheels, or that creature-from-the-black-lagoon-guy whose special move was the Cha-Cha-Cha Face Chew.
I'm sure you could play it single-player, but I never did, and I'd feel really sorry fer you if you missed out on the sheer awesomeness of that game 'cause you didn't have any friends or a little brother to play it properly with.
See, the thing that made it great was that once you beat the shit out of your opponent, you could drag his exhausted body around the ring (and outside the ring) and torture his pitiful defenseless corpse for hours while yer buddy (or yer little brother) had to sit there screaming helplessly and begging you to finish them off and pin them so they could pick a new guy or something.
And of course you'd be yelling all that awesome macho-man wrestling shit at them the whole time, like "oooh yeeeeaah!" and "oh that's gotta hurt!" until they got fed up and tried to steal your controller away from you, and the game would suddenly erupt from the screen and become Real Life Living Room Wrestling with controllers flying everywhere and people getting rug burns.
And there was always a small chance that your opponent would get his wind back if, fer whatever reason, you weren't able to keep beating on his body with a chair or smashing his head into a turnbuckle or something, and then he'd basically come back from the dead, and he'd be able to turn the tables on you Hulk Hogan Hulkamania-Style and drag your wrestler's pitiful defenseless corpse around the screen forever and ever, smashing it on everything and howling out his own macho-man stuff in a rapture of revenge.
I just don't see how anybody could make a game better that without running the risk of somebody losing an eye.
I'm sure you could play it single-player, but I never did, and I'd feel really sorry fer you if you missed out on the sheer awesomeness of that game 'cause you didn't have any friends or a little brother to play it properly with.
See, the thing that made it great was that once you beat the shit out of your opponent, you could drag his exhausted body around the ring (and outside the ring) and torture his pitiful defenseless corpse for hours while yer buddy (or yer little brother) had to sit there screaming helplessly and begging you to finish them off and pin them so they could pick a new guy or something.
And of course you'd be yelling all that awesome macho-man wrestling shit at them the whole time, like "oooh yeeeeaah!" and "oh that's gotta hurt!" until they got fed up and tried to steal your controller away from you, and the game would suddenly erupt from the screen and become Real Life Living Room Wrestling with controllers flying everywhere and people getting rug burns.
And there was always a small chance that your opponent would get his wind back if, fer whatever reason, you weren't able to keep beating on his body with a chair or smashing his head into a turnbuckle or something, and then he'd basically come back from the dead, and he'd be able to turn the tables on you Hulk Hogan Hulkamania-Style and drag your wrestler's pitiful defenseless corpse around the screen forever and ever, smashing it on everything and howling out his own macho-man stuff in a rapture of revenge.
I just don't see how anybody could make a game better that without running the risk of somebody losing an eye.
Silent But Violent
I dunno about you, but I think the fact that there's no such thing as super-deadly poisonous farts is proof that the universe is actually ruled-out by some kinda benevolent force who set limits on shit like that.
I mean, sure there's farts that smell all nasty and almost make you wanna barf if yer caught in the fart-dispersal-cone, like sausage and peanut farts, and there's even those hot and wicked squealers that can make yer eyes and nose burn and water and stuff, y'know, like vegetarian farts, but there's no kinda fart that'll actually kill you or your loved ones, even if you let it loose under a blanket or something so you get blasted in the face with a concentrated puff of fartage.
And there just doesn't seem to be any good scientific reason why there aren't ever any deadly ones like that, when you take shit like the chemical changes required for spontaneous human combustion into consideration.
Hmm, mebbe there are deadly farts like that, and there's some kinda cover-up, some kinda fart conspiracy put into effect in the 1950s to prevent public deadly-fart-inspired panic or something.
Well, I dunno, but trust no one.
I mean, sure there's farts that smell all nasty and almost make you wanna barf if yer caught in the fart-dispersal-cone, like sausage and peanut farts, and there's even those hot and wicked squealers that can make yer eyes and nose burn and water and stuff, y'know, like vegetarian farts, but there's no kinda fart that'll actually kill you or your loved ones, even if you let it loose under a blanket or something so you get blasted in the face with a concentrated puff of fartage.
And there just doesn't seem to be any good scientific reason why there aren't ever any deadly ones like that, when you take shit like the chemical changes required for spontaneous human combustion into consideration.
Hmm, mebbe there are deadly farts like that, and there's some kinda cover-up, some kinda fart conspiracy put into effect in the 1950s to prevent public deadly-fart-inspired panic or something.
Well, I dunno, but trust no one.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
The Funnest Table
Somewhere, out there, among all the other millions of tables one may happen to be sitting at, there's a funnest table to sit at.
Oh, its not always the same table, or the same people, its just whatever table is currently the funnest table to sit at, as we all move around from table to table.
I'm not sure who is sitting there, right now, but there must be at least one really entertaining guy there, probably more, heck, there's probably even a really funny girl or two there, unless the table happens to be in one of those countries where the men have a lot of money because they don't let women sit at tables, and even then, it may be a table filled with women that's the funnest table to sit at in one of those countries, considering all the funny men-are-assholes shit they'd be saying.
I'm not sure exactly what they're doing at the funnest table, either, heck, if I knew that, I'd be making my own table the funnest table, but they're probably laughing so hard at the comedy of it all that they see stars and pee themselves a little, and they're probably mawing down on some drooly awersomes food, and drinking something sinfully delicious that makes fer tasty burps, and smoking pipes filled with something so magical it hardens their nipples, and they're prolly thinking of all this bright and glowing brain candy stuff that we can't even imagine, no matter how hard we try, 'cause our environment is way to gloomy and nasty and crappy and dismal and survivalistic and wretched to support such fantastic thoughts, man, it must be awesome to be there, they're so lucky.
Now all we need is a funnest table detector, something lightweight and portable.
Oh, its not always the same table, or the same people, its just whatever table is currently the funnest table to sit at, as we all move around from table to table.
I'm not sure who is sitting there, right now, but there must be at least one really entertaining guy there, probably more, heck, there's probably even a really funny girl or two there, unless the table happens to be in one of those countries where the men have a lot of money because they don't let women sit at tables, and even then, it may be a table filled with women that's the funnest table to sit at in one of those countries, considering all the funny men-are-assholes shit they'd be saying.
I'm not sure exactly what they're doing at the funnest table, either, heck, if I knew that, I'd be making my own table the funnest table, but they're probably laughing so hard at the comedy of it all that they see stars and pee themselves a little, and they're probably mawing down on some drooly awersomes food, and drinking something sinfully delicious that makes fer tasty burps, and smoking pipes filled with something so magical it hardens their nipples, and they're prolly thinking of all this bright and glowing brain candy stuff that we can't even imagine, no matter how hard we try, 'cause our environment is way to gloomy and nasty and crappy and dismal and survivalistic and wretched to support such fantastic thoughts, man, it must be awesome to be there, they're so lucky.
Now all we need is a funnest table detector, something lightweight and portable.
The Wilderness Survival Kit
Alrighty, now that we're out here, let's start with the basics.
There are three things that every man needs to keep in his wilderness survival kit.
The first one is a bottle of cheap scotch.
I can't 'member what the other two are and godammit I already lost my stupid fucking wilderness survival kit so you'll just have to figure out the rest of it on yer own.
Well, alright, I know you'll need a rubber blanket if you want to climb over an electrical fence, but I don't think that's one of the two things that were s'posed to be in the kit, fer some reason.
Yah, I dunno who makes this shit up, seems like a rubber blanket would be a good thing to have, y'know?
'Specially if there's any 'lectrifried fences around.
Hey kid, I know you ain't a chick and shit, but you got any nachos or anything to eat?
I'm fucking starved.
There are three things that every man needs to keep in his wilderness survival kit.
The first one is a bottle of cheap scotch.
I can't 'member what the other two are and godammit I already lost my stupid fucking wilderness survival kit so you'll just have to figure out the rest of it on yer own.
Well, alright, I know you'll need a rubber blanket if you want to climb over an electrical fence, but I don't think that's one of the two things that were s'posed to be in the kit, fer some reason.
Yah, I dunno who makes this shit up, seems like a rubber blanket would be a good thing to have, y'know?
'Specially if there's any 'lectrifried fences around.
Hey kid, I know you ain't a chick and shit, but you got any nachos or anything to eat?
I'm fucking starved.
Grand Theft Equestrian: Vice Village
Aw, c'mon now, give us a rest and don't be like that, we aren't evil men, with the exception of Hogshead Sheepshanks over there, I'll grant ye.
Aye, he'd break his last tooth chewin' the face off a rubbery old washer-woman fer a shiny button before any of us could stop him, and no lie, the only reason his sort is still walking the good skin of this earth is that so far they've been unable to warm hell up to the temperature his crimes deserve.
But stay the honorable and well-intentioned hand of justice, for a moment, lad, and let's just think about it, for a second.
Sure, I'll admit I'm not much of a monk, yer wits are far too keen and penetrating for me to maintain my poorly worn and threadbare disguise under such a harsh and unforgiving light.
Oh, I am a monk, I'm just not a very good monk, y'see, though I have surrendered myself to the Good Work and I try my best, I was taught to remain humble, and so I fear I must profess that I have no great aptitude for the business of monkery, even if 'tis not so.
And 'tis to my great shame that I don't know as much 'bout the holy scrips and scribbles as I should, 'cause y'know, one never can know as much as they should, and stuff.
And the specifics of good and evil, layed down as they in dragon's blood on the soft silken sheets of the Good Books and locked away in the Great Golden Towers where only the most highly esteemed of the Red Robed Sorcerers may read them, are quite safe from scrutiny and well beyond the reach of all simple, hard-working folk such as ourselves.
But three miserably skinny horses fer three days of back-breaking effort, now, that sounds more to me like the bad pay of honest labor than the spoils of villainy, wouldn't you agree?
And do you think we'd be pounding the stones out of our boots and rubbing our aching backs and blisters night after blasted night, if we were truly evil men?
Y'see, 'tis not robbery when we provide a service in exchange for the horses.
Aye, as I believe any bright young man such as yourself would come to agree, we've paid a fair price for these horses, when all things have been considered.
Entertaining the village's fancies with our fantastic tales of horse-eating griffons, letting their men lead us around in the cold muck of their fallow woodlands for the last three days, following all manner of bird and animal tracks this way and that while the flies and thornbrush pecked at our hides, I plead guilty to all these charges.
Aye, well, see, that is the tricky thing about griffons, just about any track may be a griffon track, 'cause each of their feet is from a different sort of animal, as everyone well knows, which is why it takes an expert and experienced eye to make the final determination.
And after we finally discover the beast's cleverly hidden lair, after we burn the griffon's nest while performing the proper holy incantations and the assorted costly magickal ointment usage, without asking for any reparations, all so that the foul beast may never return to plague the village again, until perhaps next year, at the very earliest, do those villagers return to their homes empty-handed?
No, they return as Brave Young Men Who Destroyed the Monster's Lair, and their fathers glow with pride, and there is much revelry and celebration in their honor, and, if they're lucky, they'll win the tender attentions of whatever passes for bonny lasses in their village (if there's any left to be had in the barrel after a fine-looking young chap like youself drinks his fill), and they'll have their pretty babies, who'll grow up to be the Sons and Daughters of the Brave Heroes Who Defeated the Monster, instead of just more miserable little farmers.
And thus the wheel of life is moved and improved and love and honor and hope will bloom and spread in our wake and the whole village will actually be a much richer place, minus a few scraggly-lookin' horses of questionable quality, after we've moved on.
And while everyone else in the village is able to throw themselves happily and whole-heartedly into this wild celebration of great deeds, our work isn't even done, I mean, we still have to keep these blasted horses fed until we can travel the cold and lonely backroads of the world to some distant, miserable place and unload them on some unscrupulous merchant who won't even give us one half of one half of one half of their value.
In the end, 'tis a pitiful handful of crumbs we will reap for all the effort we have put forth, nothing a beggar wouldn't brush from his pants, and here we are, marching along down the road, not having asked for any thanks or appreciation for our part, we're greeted with your hateful accusations of our impropriety.
But deep in our hearts, knowing the great service we performed for the village back there, all those bright fires of love and happiness and joy we kindled, well, see, that more than makes up fer whatever further cruelties you may see fit to put upon us.
Sure, if we were better looking and had more than a mouthful of teeth between us, if we had less scars and more eyeballs, if we were more charming, eloquent, and quick-witted, and if we could find someone to forge us some decent credentials, we could forsake this life of hard and thankless work and pursue the more traditional targets of yer so-called Gentlemen, the soft pink silken underbellies of the cruel and heavily armored world out there, creeping ever so quietly through the weakly guarded back doors of civilization, pouncing upon the perfumed beds of the bored and lonely daughters of powerful families that'd reward yer villainy with the mad fat bounty of a big inheritence.
And as evil as that may be, compared to good works such as ours, even that is not the work of truly evil men, for those are the drains through which the fortunes of evil empires are returned to the common people, as it passes through alehouses and brothels and gambling establishments and out into the streets.
Just as robbing graves and the tombs of long-dead royals returns their wealth to the living, aye, the living, the people who can actually use it to keep their poor and hungry babies from starving.
'Tis the people who hoard away their fortunes while children starve and go without the magic potions and tinctures and cure-alls and leeches that they so desperately require, y'see, those are the true villains.
And since we're the sort that do battle with them, that makes us heroes.
Well, okay, I'll ever-so-humbly concede yer point, lad, I'm not sure who these horses we rescued from the clutches of the giffon originally belonged to, and, considering their condition, it is apparent that it was certainly no great and wealthy villain, but I am sure the gods wouldn't have let us redistribute the sickly and near-useless horse of a good man unless there was some mysterious higher purpose involved.
Aye, he'd break his last tooth chewin' the face off a rubbery old washer-woman fer a shiny button before any of us could stop him, and no lie, the only reason his sort is still walking the good skin of this earth is that so far they've been unable to warm hell up to the temperature his crimes deserve.
But stay the honorable and well-intentioned hand of justice, for a moment, lad, and let's just think about it, for a second.
Sure, I'll admit I'm not much of a monk, yer wits are far too keen and penetrating for me to maintain my poorly worn and threadbare disguise under such a harsh and unforgiving light.
Oh, I am a monk, I'm just not a very good monk, y'see, though I have surrendered myself to the Good Work and I try my best, I was taught to remain humble, and so I fear I must profess that I have no great aptitude for the business of monkery, even if 'tis not so.
And 'tis to my great shame that I don't know as much 'bout the holy scrips and scribbles as I should, 'cause y'know, one never can know as much as they should, and stuff.
And the specifics of good and evil, layed down as they in dragon's blood on the soft silken sheets of the Good Books and locked away in the Great Golden Towers where only the most highly esteemed of the Red Robed Sorcerers may read them, are quite safe from scrutiny and well beyond the reach of all simple, hard-working folk such as ourselves.
But three miserably skinny horses fer three days of back-breaking effort, now, that sounds more to me like the bad pay of honest labor than the spoils of villainy, wouldn't you agree?
And do you think we'd be pounding the stones out of our boots and rubbing our aching backs and blisters night after blasted night, if we were truly evil men?
Y'see, 'tis not robbery when we provide a service in exchange for the horses.
Aye, as I believe any bright young man such as yourself would come to agree, we've paid a fair price for these horses, when all things have been considered.
Entertaining the village's fancies with our fantastic tales of horse-eating griffons, letting their men lead us around in the cold muck of their fallow woodlands for the last three days, following all manner of bird and animal tracks this way and that while the flies and thornbrush pecked at our hides, I plead guilty to all these charges.
Aye, well, see, that is the tricky thing about griffons, just about any track may be a griffon track, 'cause each of their feet is from a different sort of animal, as everyone well knows, which is why it takes an expert and experienced eye to make the final determination.
And after we finally discover the beast's cleverly hidden lair, after we burn the griffon's nest while performing the proper holy incantations and the assorted costly magickal ointment usage, without asking for any reparations, all so that the foul beast may never return to plague the village again, until perhaps next year, at the very earliest, do those villagers return to their homes empty-handed?
No, they return as Brave Young Men Who Destroyed the Monster's Lair, and their fathers glow with pride, and there is much revelry and celebration in their honor, and, if they're lucky, they'll win the tender attentions of whatever passes for bonny lasses in their village (if there's any left to be had in the barrel after a fine-looking young chap like youself drinks his fill), and they'll have their pretty babies, who'll grow up to be the Sons and Daughters of the Brave Heroes Who Defeated the Monster, instead of just more miserable little farmers.
And thus the wheel of life is moved and improved and love and honor and hope will bloom and spread in our wake and the whole village will actually be a much richer place, minus a few scraggly-lookin' horses of questionable quality, after we've moved on.
And while everyone else in the village is able to throw themselves happily and whole-heartedly into this wild celebration of great deeds, our work isn't even done, I mean, we still have to keep these blasted horses fed until we can travel the cold and lonely backroads of the world to some distant, miserable place and unload them on some unscrupulous merchant who won't even give us one half of one half of one half of their value.
In the end, 'tis a pitiful handful of crumbs we will reap for all the effort we have put forth, nothing a beggar wouldn't brush from his pants, and here we are, marching along down the road, not having asked for any thanks or appreciation for our part, we're greeted with your hateful accusations of our impropriety.
But deep in our hearts, knowing the great service we performed for the village back there, all those bright fires of love and happiness and joy we kindled, well, see, that more than makes up fer whatever further cruelties you may see fit to put upon us.
Sure, if we were better looking and had more than a mouthful of teeth between us, if we had less scars and more eyeballs, if we were more charming, eloquent, and quick-witted, and if we could find someone to forge us some decent credentials, we could forsake this life of hard and thankless work and pursue the more traditional targets of yer so-called Gentlemen, the soft pink silken underbellies of the cruel and heavily armored world out there, creeping ever so quietly through the weakly guarded back doors of civilization, pouncing upon the perfumed beds of the bored and lonely daughters of powerful families that'd reward yer villainy with the mad fat bounty of a big inheritence.
And as evil as that may be, compared to good works such as ours, even that is not the work of truly evil men, for those are the drains through which the fortunes of evil empires are returned to the common people, as it passes through alehouses and brothels and gambling establishments and out into the streets.
Just as robbing graves and the tombs of long-dead royals returns their wealth to the living, aye, the living, the people who can actually use it to keep their poor and hungry babies from starving.
'Tis the people who hoard away their fortunes while children starve and go without the magic potions and tinctures and cure-alls and leeches that they so desperately require, y'see, those are the true villains.
And since we're the sort that do battle with them, that makes us heroes.
Well, okay, I'll ever-so-humbly concede yer point, lad, I'm not sure who these horses we rescued from the clutches of the giffon originally belonged to, and, considering their condition, it is apparent that it was certainly no great and wealthy villain, but I am sure the gods wouldn't have let us redistribute the sickly and near-useless horse of a good man unless there was some mysterious higher purpose involved.
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