(Thu, Jul 01, 2010)
And it just bothers me that this last remnant of extrasolar humanity, this loud-mouthed, self-obsessed crowd of whining idiots, who basically just spent the *entire* series squabbling over the most minute political issues, find *this* decision uncontroversial, *this*, the most radical decision ever made by anyone about anything, the most absurd plan ever devised by ape or robot, *this* they all go along with. Sure, Apollo, no problem, let's just FLY ALL OUR SHIT INTO THE SUN! NO PROBLEM, APOLLO! WHATEVER YOU SAY!
It's making me crazy.
It's making me crazy.
(Thu, Jul 01, 2010)
Speaking of crazy, Beefy Lou has lost some more of his mind recently. He's been obsessing over his hands and feet, exclaiming how proud of them he is, how amazed by how well they work together. "If one of my feet has an itch," says Beefy Lou to anyone willing to pretend to listen, "one of my hands will immediately scratch it. No negotiation, no fee, nothing. Pure altruism!" And to anyone still within earshot: "This one time my left hand had shit on it, and my right hand cleaned it off! Actual shit!" And when calling on the phone, instead of a greeting you might hear: "You should see my hands clap. Such precise synchronization..." And so on like that. Nobody will choose to go near him now, so he is left with those loyal little friends of his, the ones attached to his body.
Meanwhile, my war with household insects has erupted once more this year. I've stocked the compound with Raid cannisters, citronella bombs, swatters, and those blue zapping lights that people in the eighties used to attach to their porches and patios. I have especially little tolerance for creepy insects like earwigs and roaches, alien little creatures imbued with preternatural menace. I've been seeing a lot of these lately, and they fill me with primal fear every time, so I've issued my hands and feet kill-on-sight orders for them, even if the hands are already engaged in cleaning shit off of one another. Certain creatures cannot be tolerated!
Wait there's Beefy Lou right now -- he's just run by outside shouting something about Jello. I think it was, "Jello must be yellow. Jello must be yellow." Ah well, even crazier today.
Meanwhile, Dr. Jones has been obsessed with World Cup soccer, and like all Americans who watch this game, he's certain he can improve it with certain modifications. These are not the typical improvements you often hear people espouse like instant replays, better timekeeping methods, forechecking, and so on. His improvements are a bit stranger. For instance, he recommends that the field become round and slowly rotate on a turntable while the goals remain stationary, sort of like a lazy susan or a revolving restaurant. That way the direction of the offense must always arc against the motion of the field, causing a light but persistent dizziness for players and spectators alike. How this is an "improvement", Dr. Jones won't say, but he claims to have gotten the idea after watching a documentary on mass hypnotism. For similarly enigmatic reasons, he wants every player to wear an astronaut's helmet, flip-flop sandals, a brightly colored inner-tube around their waist, and keep a live cricket in their mouth. And as a final insult to the audience he would have loud-speaks play an irritating buzzing horn sound during the entire game. Madness! He plans to petition FIFA for these changes soon after the end of this year's tournament.
Wait a moment! Now Beefy Lou has arrived outside my door. He's whispering something through the keyhole, wait... he's saying... "Old people... Old people... Old people are tragic... and.... and smelly.... Old people are tragic and smelly...."
Sigh.
Meanwhile, my war with household insects has erupted once more this year. I've stocked the compound with Raid cannisters, citronella bombs, swatters, and those blue zapping lights that people in the eighties used to attach to their porches and patios. I have especially little tolerance for creepy insects like earwigs and roaches, alien little creatures imbued with preternatural menace. I've been seeing a lot of these lately, and they fill me with primal fear every time, so I've issued my hands and feet kill-on-sight orders for them, even if the hands are already engaged in cleaning shit off of one another. Certain creatures cannot be tolerated!
Wait there's Beefy Lou right now -- he's just run by outside shouting something about Jello. I think it was, "Jello must be yellow. Jello must be yellow." Ah well, even crazier today.
Meanwhile, Dr. Jones has been obsessed with World Cup soccer, and like all Americans who watch this game, he's certain he can improve it with certain modifications. These are not the typical improvements you often hear people espouse like instant replays, better timekeeping methods, forechecking, and so on. His improvements are a bit stranger. For instance, he recommends that the field become round and slowly rotate on a turntable while the goals remain stationary, sort of like a lazy susan or a revolving restaurant. That way the direction of the offense must always arc against the motion of the field, causing a light but persistent dizziness for players and spectators alike. How this is an "improvement", Dr. Jones won't say, but he claims to have gotten the idea after watching a documentary on mass hypnotism. For similarly enigmatic reasons, he wants every player to wear an astronaut's helmet, flip-flop sandals, a brightly colored inner-tube around their waist, and keep a live cricket in their mouth. And as a final insult to the audience he would have loud-speaks play an irritating buzzing horn sound during the entire game. Madness! He plans to petition FIFA for these changes soon after the end of this year's tournament.
Wait a moment! Now Beefy Lou has arrived outside my door. He's whispering something through the keyhole, wait... he's saying... "Old people... Old people... Old people are tragic... and.... and smelly.... Old people are tragic and smelly...."
Sigh.
(Sun, Jul 11, 2010)
Most Saturdays I drive over to the Furry Lodge, dress up in a big bear suit, and rub up against anything in pink fur for about an hour. After that I'll pick up a 6-pack of Pabst, sit on the roof of the dry cleaners, and throw rocks at the Latino skate-boarders. They call me "El Chupacabra". Probably because of the bear suit. Finally, to cap the night off, I usually swing over to my ex-girlfriend's house and root through her garbage, searching for some shred of evidence that she desperately hates her life with her fancy husband and shiny new children, wishing like Cinderella she still had me in her life (and not in her trashcans). Then Animal Control usually shows up and knocks me out with a tranquilizer dart. Probably because of the bear suit.
(Tue, Jul 27, 2010)
Contract a health ailment you are convinced is something terrible and fatal, finally visit a doctor, ponder your mortality in silent dread while the tests are analyzed, then learn it was something much less serious than you feared. This should give you at least two days worth of a good mood.
(Thu, Jul 29, 2010)
It's time I got a cleaning lady. It has to be a lady; I don't want a dude cleaning up my place, some dude walking around. And it should be a non-English-speaking lady, like a Mexican cleaning lady. The less English my cleaning lady knows the better. I feel like a Mexican cleaning lady is less likely to tell anyone I know about the weird and disgusting shit she'll be cleaning up, about my various embarrassing stains and odors and leavings. Same goes the dry-cleaner, laundry... anyone involved in cleaning up after me. The less English a person knows, the less concerned I am about what they think of me. How much does a Mexican cleaning lady cost? It has to be like minimum wage, right? Or can I pay her less if she's Mexican? Is there a Mexican Cleaning Lady Agency I can contact?