Crazy Talk

2011-09-13T13:11:00.002-04:00

*tap, tap, tap*

Is this thing on?

Holy crap, when was the last time I was here? 2008? Cheeses!

I'll see if I can't fix that.

The Ten Most Regrettable Starbucks® Beverages

2008-05-07T23:36:00.004-04:00

1. Strawberries, Glass Shards and Used Hypodermic Needle Creme.

2. I Can't Believe It's Not Roadkill™ Frappacino Lite.

3. Budweiser Macchiato.

4. Frap On. Apply directly to forehead.

5. Conjugal Visit Americano. With whipped cream. And sprinkles.

6. Nine Lives® Tunacino. I can has Starbux?

7. Cafe Bacon Mocha. Wait. Chocolate and bacon actually taste good together. Seriously.

8. Let Us Never Speak Of This Latte Again with sugar-free Mocha syrup. It just doesn't meet customer expectations.

9. Short Cougar Cappucino with Pool-Boy Drizzle Sauce.

10. Peer Pressure Espresso. Everyone's shooting a solo. Why not you? Don't you want to be one of the cool kids? Huh?

SPECIAL BONUS FLAVORS:
Buttermilk Ranch Frappacino
Torgo Chai Tea Latte: The master will be pleased

The Original Pet Shop Boy

2008-02-29T09:53:00.004-05:00

This is a rare moment. I want to talk about something personal, and I beg you to indulge me for just a bit.

Yesterday, I lost perhaps one of the dearest friends I've ever had. That's a picture of him. Caen Boneoch (pronounced Ken Bunyick). It's Gaelic. For shit head.

We were together for 15 years. He was the coolest dude ever. I found him in a now-defunct pet shop, and cheerfully paid $33.52 for him. Best investment I ever made.

He stuck by me while I insisted on living with The Ozark Hillbilly Boyfriend and his Smelly Dog. He politely tolerated the Oaf of a Hillbilly, for my sake, I guess. However, he kicked the dog's butt on more than one occasion, though, just to make up for it.

He got along famously with my Dad, who normally doesn't think much of cats. He said Boneoch wasn't "pushy," which meant that Boneoch knew how to politely beg for food. He'd also watch the Braves games with Dad. He'd also take a nap at about the fifth inning, like Dad.

Boneoch did point out to me that my husband, Brett, was a good choice of companion, and he'd often prefer Brett's lap to mine. Can't say I blame him.

My little dude enjoyed black olives, those fur-covered mice toys, getting his ears rubbed and laying in patches of sunlight. For years, he had a pot belly (okay, I liked having him as a sous chef!) that got so prominent, my friend Chrissie thought he was a pregnant female when she first saw him.

I'm going to miss him real bad. I know the next few days and weeks are going to be peppered with tears and nostalgia. I accept this. Thankfully, I have six other feline friends (and countless human friends) to help me through. I know it takes time, but I know that things will be okay in the long run.

Thank you for indulging me. Soon, I'll get back to stupid stories of proofreading noir and Jesus and Coyote. But, for now, I'm going to miss my friend.

Now, quit reading this, and go hug someone you love.

Strange Tales of the Strange, Chapter XXVI

2008-02-13T11:08:00.002-05:00

Okay, so, there's this guy I know, and once upon a time he had a dog.

He went on vacation, but didn't have anyone to take care of the dog while he was away. So, he decided to just leave the dog on his back deck. He put the dog on a ten-foot leash so it wouldn't run away.

The deck itself was about eight feet long and had no rails surrounding it. It just had an empty edge. It was also pretty high up off the ground.

When he came home about a week later, he found that the little dog had jumped off the edge of the deck and hung itself. Poor little guy. Uh, the dog, not him.

So, after awhile, he got another dog. He also decided to go on vacation again. And, once again, he had no one to look after this dog. He did opt out of leashing the dog. However, he did decide to leave a 30-pound bag of dog food out so that the dog could just eat whenever it was hungry.

When he came back home a week later, he found that the dog had attempted to eat the food all at once, and died from overeating.

We've decided that he doesn't need to get more dogs. And, he needs to quit going on vacation.

A Candidate Who Gets Behind YOU!

2008-02-07T09:02:00.000-05:00

What's that smell? Burnt hair? Raw sewage? A dead coyote? Vidalia onions gone bad? Litter box need emptying? That guy at the comic book store? Why, no! It's election time! Again! Exclamation point!

And, of course, anyone with more than two working brain cells knows how useless any and all candidates are. No, seriously. Do you really think these people are going to do what they promise? Have they EVER done what they promised? Uh, NO. Holy Juno on a Jukebox, people, these are POLITICIANS we are discussing here. When you go to the polls to vote for them, they laugh so hard, they wet themselves (I'm pretty sure they change afterward, though). They are interested in themselves, not you or your petty little concerns about "the economy" or "the war" or "health care".

But, this can change.

Kids, this year at the polls, bring a pencil for the write-in candidate who kicks so much ass, Chuck Norris calls him for pointers.

Oh, yeah. You know who I'm talking about. Vermin Love Supreme.

Feel something poking at your tookis? Yup, that's Vermin, a candidate who gets behind you. A candidate who is behind you because you are a really good human shield for him. A candidate who is behind you so that he can smell your hair and tuck in that tag on your shirt. He'll do all these things, and MOAR!

Read his platform here. Go ahead. I'll wait.

Done? Good. Isn't this amazing? Isn't he amazing?

But, enough of that crap. Let's talk about Vermin. Better still, why don't we talk about Vermin's lack of a running mate? When we have President Supreme in office, who's going to be there to get all the juicy war contracts for his cronies? Who's going to shoot some poor slob while duck hunting? Who's going to tell Patrick Leahy to "go fuck yourself"?

That's right, folks. That person is me.

Using my awesome Shamanic Telepathic Superelastic Bubbleplastic abilities, I have contacted Vermin to let him know that I am available for the position. Of Vice President. It's no trouble, really. I think I have some free time next week. I'm certain he'll call.

I support everything that Vermin stands for. Except for the things that I don't support. I can't stand those things. They're awful. But, the other stuff is great. And so are kitties. And large, sharp pointed objects. And you giving me all your money. After all, I am a politician.

So, remember kids: Vermin and Coyote in '08. A vote for us is an act that you know is futile and meaningless. Like any other vote for an American president.

O Rly? Two words for ya, kids: Electoral College.

Persistence Of Mammaries

2008-01-30T08:39:00.000-05:00

May I present The People's Republic of Things You Are Least Likely to Find in a Strip Club:

1. A signed copy of the Magna Carta.

2. A drive-thru. Although, it would be very funny.

3. That hideously numb feeling that occurs in both your brain and your ass as you sit staring at a computer monitor in your putrescent gray corporate cubicle.

4. A tube of anchovy paste.

5. A fair-handed debate of the pertinent issues between all Democratic and Republican presidential candidates. Oh, wait: you won't find that anywhere.

6. That guy who hates strip clubs. He never goes.

7. The deeply poignant and relevant melodies of Celine Dion. Yes, I typed that with a straight face. It was not easy.

8. A nude impersonation of Mr. Gumby. But, that's only because I quit dancing back in '92.

9. Filed quarterly returns for estimated income.

10. Regret of not pursuing that life-long dream of a career in the Administrative Assistant arts.

Good Intentions Pave the Way

2008-01-22T10:34:00.000-05:00

"I had no idea it would get this way," Joshua bar Joseph said, disappointed. He lay on his back, staring up at the sky while his friend, Coyote lay next to him.

Coyote spit out the blade of grass he was chewing on. "Dude, don't beat yourself up over this. Again. It's just the nature of the two-leggeds. They do this kind of stuff. We all know this was not what you intended."

He continued to stare upward. "Yeah..." he trailed. "But..." and he turned to face Coyote. "But, I thought I made it clear. 'Be nice to each other.' It's simple, really. How tough can it be?"

Coyote chuckled. "Ahh, if only it were that simple. Unfortunately, the two-leggeds love to complicate things by bringing their own bad habits and insecurities into it."

"Yeah, that's the problem!" Josh was up on his elbows at this point. "Sure, there's going to be some asshattery among the flock. But, do they have to use me to justify it?" He fell back down onto the grass. "They use self-righteousness to cover up for past guilt they can't get over. They force the faith on others because they have no faith themselves. They judge. They covet. They bear false witness. They do all the stuff I said explicitly not to do, then spin things to say that I endorse it!" He let go with an angry huff.

"Simmer down, son o' god," sighed Coyote. "You're taking this too personally. Besides, you left them the Bible to go by."

"Oh, no!" Josh jumped up to his feet and wildly pointed at his friend. "You are not pinning the Bible on me! No, sir!! I didn't even say half the stuff that's been put in it! That was just the blogs that my old buddies wrote. Then, everyone else that did their little translation had to put in their own politics into it!"

Coyote, still staring up at the sky, replied airily, "Yeah, there's a reason why King James was called the wisest fool in Christendom. I always though that if he had had just one blowjob, he would've relaxed a little. Dude had serious issues."

Josh halted, and wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Dude! Please!" He continued pacing and ranting. "What really gets me is that they will actually use the Bible as a... a step-by-step technical manual instead of the nice book of parables that it actually is." He threw his hands up in disgust. "There are no easy answers! Why can't they just think for themselves?"

Coyote laughed uproariously and rolled in the grass. "Dude, 'cause they don't want to bother their pretty little heads! They want you to do th' thinnin' around here, Babalouie!"

Josh stood, heartbroken and nearly in tears. "I'm serious, here, man." His head dropped, and he stared at the ground. "Did I do something wrong? Where did I screw up?"

Coyote stood up, and gently put a comforting arm around his friend's shoulders. "You did not screw up anything. You are letting a bunch of loud, annoying, obnoxious jerks get you down. You know that not all of them are this way." He wiped a small tear off Josh's face. "Many of those two-leggeds who follow you really are decent. Besides," he said while giving Joshua's shoulders a squeeze, "you know what the coolest thing about you is?"

Josh snuffled a little. "What?"

"There are a number of 'em down there that don't follow you, but still think you're a good person. They like you and what you say, despite the loudmothed louts."

"Seriously?"

"Totally!"

Josh's mood lightened considerably. He gave Coyote a grateful hug. "Hey, what do say we cruise out of here and go see a movie. I'll buy!"

"Okay, I'm in!" Now, it was Coyote's turn to wrinkle his nose. "Just, let's avoid that awful 'Cloverfield' movie. I hear it's a bucket of suck, and the monster is completely retarded."

"Yeah, I heard that too," Josh laughed, as heaven's wind carried away the last little bits of his sadness.

Dilbert Redux

2008-01-18T13:35:00.000-05:00

The stupidest person in your office will attempt to flush paper towels down the commode.

The bravest person in your office will remove said paper product from the commode with his or her bare hands.

The person in your office who will experience schadenfreude will be the one who got chewed out for not having a cover sheet on his or her TPS report, but will feel much better knowing that he or she didn't stick their bare hand in the toilet.

However, the last two people will have the loudest, most gut-busting laugh when the bravest person shakes hands with the stupidest person.

So, how's your day going?

Don Gerund, P.I. (Proofreading Investigator)-Tonight's Episode: Dead Men Don't Wear White After Labor Day

2008-01-04T08:52:00.000-05:00

Churchy was the smartest dame I ever knew. I just hoped her brains were as big as the roscoe she had pointed at my head.

"You shouldn't have fired me like you did, Gerund."

I gave her a look like she had voted for Jack Grimes for president. "Fired you? What the hell are you talking about? You never showed up for work that day!"

Her eyes burned with Hell's fury. "You changed the locks on me!"

"Changed? Are you out of your conk? I never..."

Suddenly, she started jumping around like a coked-up chihuahua on a mini-tramp. A familiar-looking mug stepped from the all-concealing shadows: Skunk Mayflower, industrial chemist and able-bodied fist man, accompanied by his pet guinea pig, Ibid. He fiddled with a hand-held device that seemed to be directly related to Churchy's bizarre jerkiness. "Hey, boss, the Carbon SonoOscillator works great!"

His boss, Rock Ravage, also stepped out of the all-concealing shadows, but with a lot more bronze-skinned, muscle-bound panache. "It's a good thing she's wearing diamond earrings. I guess they're not always a girl's best friend!"

Herr Colonel Wilhelm Sheissemeister, not seeing Ravage's cheesed-up humor, screamed like a little girl. "Schweinhund! Men, get him!"

Too bad Sheissemeister never learned how heroic rescue missions work. From out of the woodwork leaped all the rest of Ravage's cohorts: Baconator Creek, Lenny Lenwick, Brainy Littlebrain and Long Haired Hippy Roberts. An all-out donnybrook ensued, and I was reminded of the time I invited the National Organization of Womyn Wrestlers and the Misogynist League of Pencil-Necked Geeks to my Fourth of July cookout last year. I'm still removing bits of hotdog from the drapes.

Just when I though I'd be stuck to my chair for the rest of the story, I heard the Kid's voice behind me. "Hang on, Don! Let me see if I can't get this... oh, for the love of baby Jeebus, who tied these knots?" He indignantly stood up and addressed the free-for-all. "Okay, do any of you bitches have a knife I could borrow?"

The crowd stopped in mid-punch, except for Baconator, who gave his Nazi an absent-minded paste in the puss. Everyone searched their pockets, and Lenny wordlessly tossed him a Swiss Army knife. The Kid caught it in mid-air, and thanked Lenny by blowing him a kiss. He cut the ropes while the boys went back to their tiff.

I stood up and rubbed my wrists, wondering how my life had become a Warner Brother's cartoon, when Churchy appeared in my face. "Look, Gerund, you may have won this round. But," and she pulled out her compact, "I'll get you next time! Just you wait!" She flung powder everywhere and disappeared in the cloud.

I yelled after her, "Damn you, La Femme! You know I hate cliches!"

As the cloud settled, Ravage and his associates rounded up the badly beaten Grammar Nazis. Ravage dusted off his hands and noted, "Well, so much for these idiomatic fascists! I guess it's up to the International Criminal Proofreading Organization to take care of them."

I snuffed. "Yeah, InterProof. I'm familiar with those mugs." I looked at the steaming pile of Scheissemiester in front of me. "Ravage, you do good work. Thanks."

He put his hands to his waist and puffed out his chest as if he were at a photoshoot for the JC Penney's underwear catalog. "Don't thank me. Thank the moon's gravitational pull!"

I shrugged, too tired to be confused. As they dragged the steaming pile away, I walked over to the copy of Atlanta Nights that lay on the floor and picked it up. The Kid took the black book from me and gave it a heft. "Heavy. What is it, really?"

I removed the dust cover jacket to reveal The Maltese Dictionary. I smiled at him and replied, "The, uh, stuff dreams are defined by."

The Kid gave me a heavy sigh. "Dear God, Don, don't you realize that the island of Malta quit speaking Maltese over thirty years ago? They speak English now."

I put my face in my palm and slowly shook my pounding head. "Just as well, Kid. This gig would've ended up in a bust, anyway. Brick Brylane always pays with a bum check." I tossed the black book into a waste bin as we walked out of the warehouse.

On our way back to the office, The Kid put his arm around my shoulders. "Don, I have a confession to make."

I looked up at him in surprise. "Whoa, Kid, you know I lack that type of directional oscillating function!"

He rolled his eyes. "Jeez, Don, I know you don't swing that way. No. I mean, I wanted to tell you that... I was the one who changed the locks so that Churchy would never come back."

I raised an eyebrow. "You?"

"Yeah. I wanted the job that bad." He looked me in the eye. "Besides, Don, you know that skirts are nothing but trouble."

I nodded. The Kid was twisted and needy, exactly what I wanted in a secretary. "You're a good man, sister."

Don Gerund, P.I.-Tonight's Episode: Aye, The Fury

2007-12-20T10:09:00.000-05:00

When I came to from the smack I took, I found myself in an old abandoned warehouse that was as dank and mildewy as Estelle Getty's lingerie drawer.

I had been pounded like a scaloppine and trussed like a turkey to a folding chair. Not that turkeys get trussed to folding chairs. They just get trussed. And roasted.

And, if this was a roast to me, it just wasn't funny. No Don Rickles or Foster Brooks. Just a bunch of Grammar Nazi goons. But, these were no ordinary Grammar Nazi goons. These were the elite, the SS, The SuperScript. These guys always thought of themselves as a little above everyone else, including other Grammar Nazis. And Spelling Nazis. No one likes Spelling Nazis. Even Aaron Spelling hates Spelling Nazis. However, I do know that his daughter, Tori, happens to...

"Mein Gott!! Vill you please schut up! Ve can all hear you! Gerund, you haff no internal dialogue! Not zince you had zat accident mit der crazy host oft de $1.98 Beauty Show!"

I nodded knowingly. I'll always have Barris. But, not this guy. "Herr Colonel Wilhelm Sheissemeister. We meet again."

"Ya, Gerund. Ze last time I zaw you, it vas at ze International House uff Pancakes, no?"

"Yeah, and you had the Rooty Tooty Fresh 'n Fruity."

"IT VAS...REFRESHINK! Und, FILLINK!" He gathered his composure. "You never did call me aaftavards." He gave a tiny sniff.

"Stupid kraut. You never could take a hint."

I gotta admit, for a fluffer of a kraut, he had a pretty stiff backhand. My left cheek burned like the ass of a man on the losing end of a habanero enema. Not that I'd know anything about those.

I gave him a hard look. "Look, I know you ain't got me here to check your legal. What gives, Scheissmeister? What'd ya want?"

He gave a thin smile, and said, "Ve haff many things in common, you und I, Mister Gerund. Eet zo happens zat ve both vant ze same thing."

"An inexpensive but tasty substitute for trans-fats that has no embarrassing side-effects?"

"Oooh, zat vood be nice," he mused. "But, no." He moved in a little closer to me, and I could smell the cheap Gewurztraminer on his breath. "Ve alzo vant Ze Maltese Dictionary."

I laughed out loud, like a kukaburra at a screening of Airplane. "Ha! Look, Scheissemeister, you are conjugating the wrong verb, here. I ain't got it!"

He gave me a smug look. "Oh, ve know zat. But, ve know who does have eet."

Out of the shadows stepped a dark-skinned bim with dreads to die for, and a pair of eyes to match. Oh, I knew this bird, alright. "Churchy La Femme."

She smiled at me. "Look for the dame, and you'll find the trouble."

"Huh?"

"Good grief, Gerund. Cherchez la femme. It's French. Literally, look for the woman."

"Oh. I thought you were named after that skunk in Pogo."

She stomped her foot, and held her face in her hand. "No, Don. The skunk was Madomoiselle Hepzibah. Churchy was the turtle."

"Huh. Wasn't the turtle a guy?"

"Yes, Don. The turtle was a guy."

"Well, toots, don't you think it's a little disturbing that he gave some frou-frou Frenchy name to an obviously male character?"

"No, Don. I don't care. That's something you'll have to take up with Walt Kelly. I'm just disturbed that you think I'm a skunk!"

"Well, somethin' around here stinks!" Again, a hand met my face, and I felt the burn.

"Enough of ziss!" cried Herr Colonel, as he stamped his little Nazi foot. He turned to Churchy. "You haff Gerund. Do you haff ze book?"

She reached inside her flogger, and handed him a copy of "Atlanta Nights" by Travis Tea. He looked at the cover, and screeched like a little girl given the wrong Barbie doll for her birthday. He threw the book on the floor, and screamed, "You treacherous little klafte! Vot made you sink dat you could fool me mit such a piece of literary drivel!" He wildly waved his arms in the air like a broken windmill in a dust storm. "Guards, get her!"

Quicker than Amy Winehouse downing a fifth of hooch, Churchy pulled a heater from her flogger, and pointed it at Sheissemeister. "Not so fast there, Herr Colonel. Call off your loogans, and you'll avoid yourself a lead bath, darling."

I was impressed. "Nice hardboiled slang there, missy. Now, untie me, and we'll blow this popstand."

Faster than you can get a Spears girl pregnant, she pulled a gat with her other hand and slung the barrel up against my temple. "I don't think so, Don. You can just enjoy that seat you got."

I was dumbfounded. "Why, baby? Why?"

She pulled back the hammer. "You shouldn't 'a fired me, Gerund. You shouldn't 'a fired me like you did."

What kind of double-cross is this? Who is Churchy La Femme? Really? And why would she have a copy of "Atlanta Nights?" Will Don escape this crazy triangle? And, what's wrong with Spelling Nazis, anyway? Tune in next week for another episode of Don Gerund, P.I.!

Don Gerund, P.I.–Tonight's Episode: Little Caesar Salad

2007-12-12T10:16:00.000-05:00

I walked across the street to the Uruguayan's place, The Blue Carrot. It was a wretched hive of scum and villainy, but their cherry blintzes were to die for.

I stepped through the door, and saw him smacking a tabletop with a flyswatter. I barked out his name like Robert Stack playing Elliot Ness with a bad case of hiccups. "Ernesto!"

He looked up from his swat-fest, and gave me the eye. When he recognized my mug, he instantly went into his boot-licking mode. "Ah, yes, Mister Gerund! Do come in!" He waved me over to a table and pulled out a chair just as I was sitting down on it. "Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee? A refreshing cordial, perhaps?"

I picked myself up and dusted myself off. "Can the lip-flap, Ernesto. I ain't here for your monthly ladies' tea social. I'm calling in a favor for that train-wreck of a newsletter you had me give the once-over last week." Yeah, I proofed a newsletter. A bad one. A newsletter so bad that it read like a text-message from Edward Bulwar-Lytton. But I took it. I ain't proud.

"A favor? But, of course! I am, how you say, always happy to help out a man in need. What would you like? I know a beautiful Persian woman, who, for a price, can diagram your sentences. Or, perhaps you seek a little boy from Siam who knows the delicacies of, how you say, noun and verb agreement? Hmm?"

"Cut the hard sell, Ernesto, before I breeze this gin mill and leave you with empty berries. Look," and I gave him the up-and-down, "I need a book."

For a moment, Ernest got all hinky, looked in the air furtively, then smacked his flyswatter on the table. It landed on my hand, leaving a strange mark that reminded me to pick up some Eggo's for breakfast on the way home. Ernesto gave me a guilty look, then finally answered me. "A book? My dear Mr. Gerund, why don't you try the library? Books do not, how you say, interest me."

"This one will interest you. I need...The Maltese Dictionary."

He dropped his flyswatter and gasped like an asthmatic teakettle. He tried to play coy, but his eyes glittered like a mylar balloon shorting out a transformer. "Ah, The Maltese Dictionary. It is legendary. It is, also, how you say, non-existent. You might as well search for Bigfoot, or an intelligent corporate executive. I'm afraid, Mr. Gerund," and he smacked the table again, "I cannot help you."

"You leave me no choice, Ernesto. Sorry." I knew he had the connections, and I was gonna have to get him to sing. It was then I whipped out my big guns: my collection of nude character actor trading cards.

Lucky for me, Ernesto was one weak sister, and he caved on the third card: a holographic number that showed Jack Elam in a silky green thong. "Stop it! Stop, you cruel bastard! All right! I will tell you! Just, keep the Walter Brennan card hidden! I can only take so much!"

He mopped his forehead with a dirty cocktail napkin and caught his breath. "You will need to see the one they call Morphemus. A master of tautological study, and the head of the Pleonastic Members' Society. I will arrange a meeting for you, yes?"

"That would be just jake, Ernesto." I threw him a card with Andy Devine in a see-through getup. "Consider the favor paid in full. I'll be waiting for your call." With that, I stalked out the front door.

Outside, I decided I need a smoke, and lit my pipe. Too bad I didn't have any tobacco. But, the wood of my pipe burned just fine. Unfortunately, the smoke got in my eyes, and I never saw the goon with the sap sucker punch me in the back of the neck.

As the lights went out I heard Ernesto sell me off. "Here is your, how you say, sucker, gentlemen. I have kept to our bargain, no?"

One last voice drifted past my ears. "Ya, das is dere goot. You veel haf your money in zee next sheepmint."

Dammit. Grammar Nazis. I hate those anti-semantic bastards.

Is this the end for our hardboiled hero? Or was this just a set-up for a really bad pun? Find out next week on Don Gerund, Proofreading Investigator!

Don Gerund, P.I. (Proofreading Investigator)–Tonight's Episode: The Toastman Always Brings Mice

2007-12-05T09:28:00.000-05:00

They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day. These are the same jokers who haven't tried mixing rotgut scotch and cream of wheat.

I threw back my glass of breakfast and put my stogie out in my bowl of oatmeal when The Kid pranced into my office.

"Haay, Don, some beefy bruno just stepped in. Wants to see you. Says he's got a job for you."

Yeah, The Kid was a little light in the loafers. But he kept my files tidy. And, he had great taste in throw pillows. I took another drink, and a bite of oatmeal. "S'matter, Kid? You sound down."

He sighed. "Yeah, me and my boyfriend, Rock Ravage, had a fight last night..."

"Whoa, wait a sec. Rock Ravage? The bronze-skinned ubermentsh who was trained from birth to fight evil? The physician, surgeon, scientist, adventurer, inventor, explorer, researcher, and musician? That Rock Ravage?"

"Yeah, yeah. Everybody thinks he so dreamy. Lemme tell ya, Don; I think those gold-flecked eyes have been straying. Y'know? Like he spends so much time with those five friends of his..."

Then, The Kid let loose with the waterworks. I gave him a manhug and a chuck on the shoulder. "C'mon, Kid, buck up. Send the guy in the waiting room in, so's maybe we can get a paying gig here, and your paycheck can pass through the bank."

The Kid dried up and laughed. "Don, none of my paychecks have cleared the bank. If it weren't for the fact that my rich dead uncle left me a huge trust fund, I would totally be on the nut." He flitted out the room like a bad episode of Will and Grace, and brought in the sap, I mean, potential client.

The Kid was right. This guy was a side of beef. A bad side of beef. Beef so bad, it always came back, like those over-scrambled eggs at that hash house around the corner, Sam 'n Ella's. You know the place. Got a waitress, Della, whose hair is as big as her heart, and a body as hot as the coffee.

But, I digress. Every chance I get.

This palooka, he's big, and he's hot. Hot under the collar. He throws a job jacket on my desk with all the panache of a sumo wrestler escaping a mud pit. "Gerund," he barks. "Gerund, word on the street is, you know a lot about words."

I lit the filter end of a cigarette, took a slow drag and gagged like a bulimic at a vomitorium. "It is conceivably feasible that the derivation of your hearsay has voluminous tenability. What's it to you?"

He stared at me like Britnay Spears looking at a copy of War and Peace. "Gerund, quit chewin' yer chin. I got a proofing job for ya. A catalog."

I took one look at the name on the job jacket, and I instantly knew who this mug was. Brick Brylane, the hardest advertising bindle punk in the business. He finally settled down at Truculent Advertising, an ad joint on the outskirts of the city. This place was ruthless; a lot of good design eggs saw their careers get the Broderick treatment at Truculent. It was an ugly place.

I picked up the jacket, and got a nasty paper cut on that webby part of your hand right between your thumb and index finger. Lucky for me, I had some lemon juice and salt nearby to stanch the bleeding and kill the pain. "Alright, Brylane, I'll play this little game. But, it'll cost you some jack."

Again, he looked at me like a computer jockey confronted by a tomato with a hot set of pins."Whadda ya mean...jack?"

"Jack! You know, spinach. Spondulix. Sugar. Kale. Elephant ears."

"Still not following you," replied Brylane.

The Kid stuck his head in my office. "Haay, sweetie, can I have my Hardboiled Noir Glossary back now? And, BTW, hon, elephant ears actually refers to the cops."

I handed him the book. "Here ya go, nance. Now, where were we?"

Brylane huffed, "Geez, I dunno, you were giving me some sort of bizarre grocery list. Will ya take it, Gerund? Look, my job depends on this going out right. If we lose this account, heads will roll, and my career goes down the crapper. I got a wife and seven cats depending on me. Whaddaya say?"

His lower lip quivered, and his eyes teared up. I was such a sucker for tears that I couldn't watch a Visine commercial without falling apart. "Okay, I'll do it."

He smiled big, and walked to the door. "I don't care what the rest say about you, Gerund. You're all right."

I looked at the laser prints in the job jacket, and stopped dead. "Wait just one minute there, Brick. This ain't in English. I can't proof this. It's like...there's a different word for everything! What am I supposed to do with this malarkey?"

Brylane dashed out the door and yelled over his shoulder, "Not my problem!"

Jackass.

The Kid sashayed through the door and handed me a hot cuppa joe. "What's her problem?"

"Not...her problem. Mine. Look at this." I handed him the laser.

He gave it a look, then said, "Honey, this isn't even in English. It's...Maltese!"

"The hell you say!"

"No, sweetie, I said Maltese."

I chewed on end of my pencil, and got splinters in my tongue. I spit them out, and put a tourniquet around my neck to stop the flow of blood. "This only means one thing," I said before passing out. "I'll need...The Maltese Dictionary!"

After I passed out, The Kid slapped me back to life. I got up, grabbed my coat and hat, and made for the door. "Don, where are you going?" cried The Kid.

I snapped my head back over my shoulder, and stifled a cry of pain. "I gotta go talk to the Uraguaian. He'll know how to coordinate this." I moved my head back around, and rubbed out the charley horse. "Don't wait up."

As I marched down the hall, I heard The Kid yell out, "Drama Queen!!"

What happens now? Will Don always have a pain in his neck? Will The Kid get pissed off that Don didn't finish his coffee? And who the hell ever actually claims to be from Uraguay? Tune in next week for Don Gerund, Proofreading Investigator!

Ask A Comic Book Character

2007-11-07T08:58:00.000-05:00

Dear Pam Isley,

I have a crazy friend who says that eating meat is wrong. She says that animals are our friends, and that killing them is cruel and immoral. She says we should eat plants because it is much healthier. I'm not sure what to think. What should I do?

R. Wiggim, Springfield

My Dear Mr. Wiggim,

Let me assure you, you have come to the right person to help you in your dilemma.

First of all, in my professional opinion as a field botanist and ecologist, your friend is technically termed as a "nutjob." She has been horribly misguided by the propaganda of Anti-Floran Extremists. These Carne-Terrorists are concerned less with the preservation of life, and more with controlling the thoughts and lives of others to justify their own agenda. While this is an admirable goal, they simply "have it all wrong."

Animals your friends? Tell them to repeat that mantra while a domestic dog chews off their arm, or while receiving numerous shots from the rabid Bat that bit them. Friend, indeed! Plants are also living beings, and, by that line of logic, it is just as cruel and immoral to kill them. I won't quote the pseudoscience of "The Secret Life of Plants" by Tompkins and Bird. After all, I am a scientist. I would rather direct you toward the work of Jagdish Chandra Bose. Through the use of electromagnetic waves, he has shown that plants do respond to painful stimuli, very much in the same way we do. They just don't have a need for a primitive central nervous system to do so.

Now, she postulates that eating plants is "healthier." Healthier than what, chewing on lead paint? Perhaps. My dear boy, as much as it pains me to say, we, as humans, are omnivores. We brutally consume plants as well as meat. Our bodies are designed to digest both equally well. However, you will notice the slender weakness of the Self-Rightious Plant Eaters. This makes them easier prey for the rest of the omnivores to hunt and eliminate. Another fine example of the observations of Charles Darwin!

So, in conclusion, feel free to have another steak with your side of lamb chops and chicken kiev. I hope I have cleared your conscience.

As for your friend, I hope her hell is a green one.

Sincerely,

Dr. Pamela Isley

Hail Satan!

2007-10-31T15:47:00.001-04:00

I am so excited!

This lovely piece of art is from the Chick Tract, "Dark Dungeon."

It is the usual hilarious drivel from Jack himself regarding the eeeeevils of playing Dungeons and Dragons.

But the best part: I am the GM! Isn't that just awesome?!

"But, I don't want to be Elfstar! I want to be Debbie!"

At the moment of this writing, the site www.chick.com is down. Try it later. Laugh like hell.

Hail, Satan!

Persephone Forward

2007-10-22T10:23:00.000-04:00

It was a lovely day on Mt. Olympus, and Persephone enjoyed every ray of sunshine as she sashayed to the Colosseum ticket office to purchase front row seats for the Monsters of New Age concert.

As Persephone walked across the parking lot to the stadium's ticket office, she saw what she thought was a pickup truck on fire. She ran toward the smoke, her finger on 911 on her cellphone.

As she approached, she saw that the smoke wasn't from the truck. It came from a barbecue grill set up next to the truck. A number of demons dressed in professional football jerseys and ballcaps surrounded the back of the truck, drinking beer and whooping boisterously. In the midst of the group, dressed in an apron and a Packers football helmet, stood Hades. He was laughing just as loud as the demons and turning food on a smoking grill with a huge set of tongs.

"No, man, you're wrong; that delay-of-game call was totally bogus, and the ref should've," Hades' game evaluation trailed off as he saw Persephone standing there, cellphone in hand. The demons fell silent, and Hades regained his composure. "Uh, hi, Persephone. Are you here to see the game today?"

She stood, baffled by the gathering before her. "Uh, hi, Hades. Okay, there's obviously no exploding-truck emergency here. That's good. But, don't you think you could come up with a better place for a cookout?"

Hades stood regally, scepter-tongs in hand, as the demons laughed. "My dear, this is no ordinary cookout! This is a tail-gaiting party!" The demons laughed louder, and tinked their beer-bottles together in toast.

Persephone shook her head, and sighed, "I should have guessed." She glanced at the food sizzling on the grill, and took in its delightful scent. In her rush to get to the stadium, she had forgotten to eat before she left home. "Wow, what are you cooking? It smells great!"

Hades absent-mindedly scratched his helmeted head as he took inventory of the grill. "Well, we got hamburgers, buffalo burgers, Italian sausage, I think this one's some sort of southwest chicken sausage, but these here," and he pointed to some other sausages, "are my famous brats!"

Persephone looked hungrily at the cache of cooking meat. "Brats, huh?"

Hades gave a sly smile. "My own secret recipe! You just par-boil the little guys in beer and onions for about fifteen minutes, then slap 'em on the grill. Keeps 'em good and juicy." He leaned a little closer to her. "Why don't I fix you one? They're my own special recipe!"

She sheepishly looked up. "Well, maybe one..."

Quickly, before she changed her mind, Hades threw together a bratwurst, complete with spicy mustard and sauteed onions, and with a flourish, presented it to Persephone. As her mouth moved toward the brat, Hades and his demons watched with great anticipation.

She took a huge, healthy bite, and savored the heavenly flavors. "Oh, my jove, Hades! This is awesome! Am I tasting cracked black pepper?" She took another happy bite.

Hades and the demons laughed. "Why, no, dear Persephone! You are tasting... An Enchanted Brat!!"

With a partial mouthful, she stared at him with dead-pan suspicion. "A what?"

The demons laughed again on cue. Hades cut them off, and again announced, "An Enchanted Brat!"

"Are you serious?"

"I never kid about... An Enchanted Brat!"

She swallowed, still dead-pan. "Now would be a good time to start..."

Ignoring her, Hades grabbed her, tossing the tongs aside. "Now that you have eaten the Enchanted Brat, you shall be my wife... Forever!!" With his sausaged bride in hand, he jumped into the pickup truck, pulling her in, and sped away to the Underworld.

Poor Persephone, half a brat in hand, could only say in annoyed disbelief, "Great. Just great."

----------------------------------------------

A loud, strong bang rattled the front door of the Underworld.

Hades open the door a little, and stuck his head through the crack. A smallish man in a brown uniform and a winged helmet stood on the doorstoop. Hades, recognizing the courier to the Gods, opened the door and greeted him. "Hey, Hermes, wassup?"

"Not much, dude. Say, I'm here on some pretty serious business. Can I come in?"

"Yeah, sure, man. You know you're always welcome here." Hades motioned him in, and shut the door behind them. "So, what can I do ya for?"

The two of them were surrounded by an infinite number of high-definition, flat-screen television sets. Each set showed a separate football game. In the midst of all the cacophonous sets were two comfy recliners, one of which held poor Persephone. She sat, stock still, pointed toward the televisions with a glaze-over look in her vacant eyes. A huge foam finger with "#1 FAN" on it sat atop her own hand, and a bowl of popcorn rested in her lap. She appeared to not notice the new house guest.

Hermes looked at all the televisions, and asked, "Hey, are the Chargers playing?

Hades shook his head. "Nah, they have a bye week. They play Houston next week, though."

Hermes snickered. "Man, Houston is gonna get their asses handed to them..." He shook himself out of his thoughts. "But, never mind that. Dude, I'm here to take Persephone home."

At the sound of Hermes' statement, Persephone came out of her trance. "Thank the gods!" She jumped out of the chair, saluted Hades, and started toward the door. "This has got to be the worst of all possible Hells! I am so outta here!"

"WAIT!" Hades threw his arm across her shoulder, and pointed to a food fragment displayed under a glass bell sitting on a pedestal. A light shone onto it. "You know you can't leave! You have eaten of the Enchanted Brat!"

Hermes stared at the Ruler of the Underworld. "A what?"

Persephone shook her head. "Don't! I've already been down this road with him a million times already."

Hades ignored her, and continued with his grandiose explanation. "She has eaten the Food of the Underworld, and that binds her to me as... My Bride!"

"Yeah, uh, look Big H. That's not my problem. I'm down here because her mother is so upset over her missing daughter that she's quit fertilizing the world, and everything has grown dark and cold. So, she's coming with me."

"Hey, I don't give a undead rat's ass what goes on upstairs. She ate my brat. She stays. Them's the rules." Hades crossed his arms, unwilling to return his new bride. "Besides," he whined petulantly, "who's gonna watch the games with me?"

Shuddering at an eternity of football, Persephone pulled on the doorknob, desperately trying to make a break for it.

Hermes rubbed his temples in frustration. "Okay, look, Zeus is going to be on my ass if I don't find a way to get her back to her mom." He took a look at the accursed brat and sighed. He pulled out his Divine Dayplanner. "I have an idea. Look. She only ate half the brat. So," he said, stretching out the Dayplanner, "why don't you have her just stay for the season? Say, from the start of the season in September to the end of the playoffs at the beginning of February?"

Hades looked at the Dayplanner, pouting. "But, the pre-season starts in August."

Hermes glared at him. "Dude, you know exhibition games never count!!"

"Okay," sighed Hades. He took a second look at the Dayplanner, then back at Persephone, who was desperately trying to destroy the Door to the Underworld with an axe. He looked back at Hermes, and extended his hand. "Deal!"

Hermes accepted his hand and shook it to seal the contract. "Okay! I'll let the Big Guy know. Pleasure doin' business with you, man. See ya next week for the Chargers game?"

Hades clicked back at him. "Hey, you always got a standin' invite here, bro!"

Hermes walked out the door effortlessly past Persephone. "See you after the 'Big Game,' toots!"

Defeated, Persephone dragged herself to her chair, and proceeded to stare blankly at the closest tv. "Great. Just frickin' great."

Hades flopped into his chair and asked, "Hey, baby, could you pass me the chips 'n salsa?"

Quantum Humor

2007-10-17T11:53:00.000-04:00

We're re-decorating the bedroom, he and I.

Which got me to thinking about Verner Heisenberg.

Work with me here.

You see, bedrooms need drapes. In order to insure properly fitted drapes, one must

MEASURE.

So, here we have poor Mrs. Heisenberg, tape measure in hand, saying Leibshen, would you please hold this end of the tape so that I may measure the window to know what size drapes to order, and ol' Vern comes back with Well, honey, if you start with this crazy "measuring" of yours, there's no telling how bad this could affect the drapes.

She then stabs him with a finial.

Next week, I'll explore the possibilities that Danny Antonucci may have been inspired by Max Planck for the character of Jonny on Ed, Edd and Eddie.

Okay, kids, if I start having to explain the jokes, it loses all teh funny.

The Palace of Wisdom Is Overgrown With Ragweed

2007-10-02T09:52:00.000-04:00

A list of things I'm thoroughly convinced of. Enjoy.

1. The Welsh are still waiting to buy a vowel.

2. Your god is not angry with you. He/she is probably just too busy catching up on what he/she tivo'd last week.

3. We speak when we cease to be at peace with our thoughts.

4. Computers are imbued with the spirits of dinosaurs. Really, anything with plastic carries the spirits of dinosaurs. Especially plastic dinosaurs.

5. A new cheerleader had to be regenerated from that toe.

6. Dear gods and little fishes, people, no one cares about that spammy email you just sent everyone.

7. It really doesn't matter who you vote for in the next presidential election. All politicians are pretty much the same. Just pick someone you like, and put it on a write-in ballot. I, personally, am writing in the name Don Rosenzweig. He's pretty cool.

8. Nudity is overrated, unless you're hot.

9. There is no truth, only perception.

10. Invisible gnomes have been filming my life.

11. Brett Brooks is a far greater man than anyone gives him credit for.

12. I don't care that I ended the previous sentence with a preposition.

13. The answers can be found from within.

14. It's just your jive talkin' that gets in the way.

15. A religion is no more than a club. Faith comes from you, and extends no further than the end of your own nose.

16. Rick Astley will never:
• give you up
• let you down
• run around
• hurt you
• desert you

17. Belief will give it power.

18. Eat less and exercise more.

19. I still don't care about ending that sentence in a preposition.

20. A respiratory allergy to ragweed pollen will cause the average blogger to write lame entries, such as lists of random crap.

It Be A Celebration, Matey!

2007-09-19T09:08:00.000-04:00

Avast, ye!

Tis a day like no other, ya lubbers! It be International Talk Like A Pirate Day! Bring out a keg o' ale, whip out the concertina, and belt out yer favorite sea shanty. Or, by the grace of the Sea herself, we'll keel-haul the lot o' ya!!

As for a lusty wench as m'self, today I'll be navigatin' me cubicle, The Fusty Downwind, through a rough sea o' nasty marketing collateral and ruthless project coordinators. They're cutthroat and brutal enough to make Blackbeard hisself cry fer his mommy and his blankie. Armed wit' me mighty Mac and me keen eye fer typography (plus a cup o' tea good enough fer Neptune hisself), I be slaughterin' jobs like Davy Jones' cutlass through a kraken. I mean, if'n Jones had a cutlass. I don't know. Never knew the man personally. Don't ye be judgin' me, ye scurvy dog!!

Then, tonight, I be a-meetin' wit' me mates at the Spanish tavern, El Rodeo, to swill me a draught (o' sweet tea) and brag about me conquests. Afterward, I'll grab me favorite boy (he be me husband, y'know) and I'll be makin' him me favorite port in a storm.

And, you, ye wormy buggerer! How be you celebratin'?

Pining For the Fjords

2007-09-12T19:27:00.000-04:00

You know, it seems to me that an establishment such as this:

Would have this gal headline for them:

Me? I'd be dying to just peer gynt side of it.

But, you know how the public is quick to brand such places. Even the government will try to close it down because it'll be considered an enemy of the state.

You know, this sounded much better in my head.

Things Worthy of Notice

2007-09-06T13:25:00.000-04:00

1. If you drive from Marietta to Austell, Georgia, you will notice at least two discarded wigs in the roadway.

2. Migraines suck. Profusely.

3. Marcia Carpenter once told me that ice cream can mend a broken heart.

4. If I put my jacket on in the office, I get hot. If I take it off, I get cold. Corporate thermodynamics are just plain tricky.

5. Since we are going through a time dilation, the days are actually ten minutes longer. The time difference will recalibrate on leap year days, according to standards set up by the government based on a 1963 NOAA research finding.

6. Cats will not adhere to any rules regarding diabetes.

7. Quit that. Right now.

8. A good and cheap way to polish your teeth: mix one part salt with two parts baking soda, then use hydrogen peroxide to moisten the mixture into a paste. Brush with this stuff, but only do it once a week. Otherwise, you'll hear my mom yell about ruining the enamel on your teeth.

9. An advertising agency in Florida uses a purple horse as its logo/mascot. It's not very good.

10. Okay, so I really don't have anything of importance to write about. I just felt obligated to write.

Thank you for your support.

One Ring to Ruin Them All

2007-08-27T10:19:00.000-04:00

She sat on the ledge, feet dangling over the molten forges of Mount Doom. She held the ring between her index finger and thumb, thoughtfully moving it back and forth.

C'mon, said the ring. Wear me. You like it. You know you do. I'm the best ring you'll ever have, so, I'll even let you wear me. You lucky kid, you.

Yeah, about that, she replied. I don't really think 'lucky' describes how I feel. Battered and broken, sure. Lucky, not so much.

Immediately, the ring became indignant. What!? Are you out of your mind? Do you know how hard I've worked for you?

You quit work six months after I first wore you. You talked me into working at that nasty orc strip club, and you had me sleeping with the Nazgul.

And look at all the money we made, bragged the ring.

And look at all I have to show for it, she tiredly countered. The money that I worked for ended up going to those goblin drug dealers, not to mention the gambling debt you owe to Saruman's bookies. The Elders only know where the rest of it went. Amazing how you can go through 3,000 gold in 24 hours.

Oh, but baby, you know how proud I am of you for working so hard, the ring weasled.

Proud. Yeah. And you showed that by telling me how ugly and fat I was. How stupid I was. I was so stupid that I could only use my body (and not my brains) to earn a living.

I...I never said those things. You lie all the time!

She sighed, and stood up. She looked at the ring, her eyes weary and vacant. I lie, she said. Yeah. You know, they call that device 'projection.' And, that, among many things, has made me so tired of you.

The ring became a little nervous as she hovered near the edge of the cliff. What are you doing?

She ignored him. I have dragged myself over the Lands of Shadow for you, and never complained. I gave you love, only to receive hate in return. And, don't even get me started on the telephone bill.

Sweetie, you're a little too close to the edge... be careful...

I'm over it now. The magic is gone. Sorry, boy. Time for you to take a swim.

With those words, she flicked the ring from between her finger and thumb, and let it fall into the underground river of molten lava. As the ring screamed and melted into the fires, she gave a cynical chuckle. Beside, she said, you turned my finger green.

As the mountain began to fall around her, she meandered out to meet the Great Eagle, who was ready to take her home. She patted his side and said, Let's go. The deed is done. Let's let Gandalf, and the rest of my friends and family know that they need not fight for me any longer.

Odd, she thought to herself on the ride home, that any woman would want such a ring in her life. They all seem to want the shiny, pretty, rich and powerful gold. Huh. They bitch about the 'mundane' rings they now have, and want to change them into The One Ring, thinking, oooh, this will make my life soooo perfect.

They all need to take a nice long stroll through Mordor. That's all it would take to remove their selfish pettiness and appreciate how true and precious that little cigar band is.

Welcome To The Neighborhood

2007-08-15T11:56:00.000-04:00

It was a beautiful morning. As a matter of fact, he couldn't really remember the last morning he had experienced that was this beautiful. The sun shined benevolently and the air was so clean and clear, it was almost non-existent. A certain joy overcame him, and he impetuously skipped a few steps forward and turned a cartwheel.

It was then that his cartwheel came crashing down on his new friend.

"Oh, my... I am so sorry! I just, I..." He fumbled for words, embarrassed, and tried to help the other man up.

"Hey, big man, don't worry," he laughed. "I did the same thing the moment I got here!" The other man brushed himself off, and extended a very friendly hand. "I'm Ralph. How do you do."

He looked at the young man and was thankful for his indulgence. He grabbed his hand and shook it. "How d'ya do, yourself! I'm Donald."

"Yeah, I knew that. We've been expecting you. Welcome to the neighborhood, Don!" Ralph swept his hand in a grand gesture, and a beautiful neighborhood appeared right before them.

It was both a new and a familiar place to Don. The houses were vastly different; some were modest cottages, others were sweeping mansions. The yards surrounding them reflected the personalities of the owners; some were filled with lush landscaping, some were filled with quirky lawn trinkets, some were rolling pastures, some were just simply left to do as they please. Don couldn't believe his eyes. Somehow, he knew that he'd always wanted to live here.

Don felt a jab to his ribcage as Ralph poked him with his elbow. "Hey, Wonderboy, why dontcha pick your jaw up off the ground so's I can show you around?"

Don laughed at himself, and followed Ralph down the sidewalk. It was just too pretty a day to not take a leisurely walk. Ralph pointed out the people in the neighborhood, and all of them came to greet Don. There was petite little SaraJo (who looked a bit like Sally Fields, in Don's mind), who gave him the cutest little embrace, and instantly offered to mix him a refreshing drink. A strapping young man by the name of Nick shook his hand and pat his back, and offered Don a place on the neighborhood softball team, if he was so inclined. Walt and CJ stopped their heated, yet good-natured political discussion to give Don a very warm welcome. Miss Rosalee, in her proud manner, told Don that, thank goodness, we now have another solid businessman around here. Even Bama, despite her normal aloofness, waved a friendly hello to Don, then went back to tending her many dogs and cats. Don loved the community, and instantly felt himself to be a part of everything.

"So, Ralph, do you have a spare place where I could stay?"

Ralph grinned, and looked up to Don. "Well, I think we might. How 'bout that little place down there?" Ralph pointed down the street, into the light of the sun.

Don squinted, trying his best to make out what Ralph was pointing to. The sunlight parted, and a beautiful, willowy figure appeared.

Dean!

Don ran. He couldn't believe it was her! He ran, and as he ran, a rush of familiar smells touched his nose: fresh mowed grass, Christmas evergreen, the leather of a football, Thanksgiving dinner, printing ink, sleeping children, the Korean countryside, wedding flowers. It all rushed past him as he sprinted toward the most wonderful woman he had ever known.

In his excitement, he didn't care if his momentum would knock her down (and, apparently, it didn't). He embraced her tightly, then spun her around, laughing with all his heart. She laughed, too, with just as much delight. Slowly, he stopped, gazing into her eyes and once again, saw the sparkle of tenderness and mischief they held, and fell in love with her all over again.

"Well," she said, breathlessly. "It's about time you got here. Been waiting for you."

Don held his gaze into her eyes. "I'm so sorry I kept you. Have you been waiting long?"

"Hmm," she thought aloud to him. "I don't really think so. I feel like I just got here yesterday. Ahh, time really isn't all that important, anyway." She held him tighter. "You're here now. That's the important part."

Overcome with love for her, he kissed her. With a breath and a sigh, he pulled away to look at her beautiful face again. "I am here. I'll always be here with you. Wherever, or whatever this 'here' is."

Don thought for a moment, then thought again. He turned a little bit from his love, and yelled to his friend. "Hey, Ralph!"

Ralph turned around. "Yeah, Don?"

"Ralph, is this heaven?"

Ralph scratched his head a little. "Gee, I don't know. I never really gave it much thought."

Don turned around to look at Dean again. "I don't know, either. All I know is that... I like it. I like it a lot."

Dean held him in her arms and her eyes. Quietly, she mouthed to her love, Me too.

How Feet Feel

2007-08-06T15:47:00.000-04:00

5:30am on a muggy August morning while walking around the neighborhood in the insane hope that this will certainly remove unsightly ass-and-thigh cellulite is a good time to contemplate the pros and cons of comfortable socks.

Unfortunately, comfortable socks contain no amazing magical abilities. They cannot help a potentially sick cat. They are unable to heal the sundered heart of a loved one after he sees how utterly and wretchedly broken his blood kin are. They just can't spring forth the wisdom needed to help a dear friend as he watches his father fade away and leave behind a foreign husk. No matter how hard they try, comfortable socks will not explain to insensate creditors that you just don't have the money. And, they certainly refuse to bring even a faint spark of hope to the dolor that is your chosen, corporate-tainted vocation.

However, comfortable socks can do one thing. They can make your feet feel good.

It is a small thing. But, few things feel as bad as your feet when they hurt.

Those Wacky Koreans!

2007-07-30T11:14:00.000-04:00

Ten Things Better Than The Movie "The Host"

1. Squirting vinegar in your eyes. But, The Host is still less painful than pounding knitting needles into your ears. One at a time.

2. Carrot Top's face. But, The Host is still not as frightening as all of Janice Dickinson.

3. Overcooked pasta. But, The Host is still more enjoyable than a mayonnaise and tomato pie.

4. Molly Hatchet. But, The Host still does not suck as bad as 38 Special.

5. A Vidalia onion gone bad. But, The Host does not stink as much as durian fruit.

6. Burping up a Baconator. But, The Host has better taste than burping up durian fruit.

7. Jodi Picoult's Wonder Woman. But, The Host does has more depth than Bondage Fairies.

8. Pam Anderson. But, The Host does have more character development than Paris Hilton.

9. Standing in line at the DOT. But, The Host is less of a waste of time than getting Lindsay Lohan sober.

10. Morrissey. But, The Host is a little less depressing than film footage of Dachau.

Okay, Fine! Here!

2007-07-13T15:49:00.000-04:00

Okay, since I always wanna be one of the cool kids, and I have always had difficulty refuting peer pressure all my life (cough!), here is my Simpson's Avatar. Of course, I did have to embellish it a bit with Photoshop, since, like Cliff, I was a little less than impressed with the choices. But, it was still fun to play with.

Black is the new black, if'n you're wondering...

Ask A Dead Celebrity!

2007-07-12T12:02:00.001-04:00

Dear Yul Brynner,

I hear a lot of anti-smoking propaganda these days. So many doctors and government people bombard us Americans with all this no-smoking-here and you-can't-smoke-there legislation. I just can't believe they want to take away my right to my pursuit of happiness!

It can't be all that bad! I mean, my grandaddy started smoking at the age of four, and he lived to be 93 years old! Yeah, I have asthma, but I'm positive that started when I moved out to the country. And, heck, doctors back in the day used to prescribe cigarettes to pregnant women to keep their weight down!

I just don't understand what all the fuss is about! After all, you're gonna die of something!

Sincerely,

Melissa Ann Fussenmacher
Musella, GA

Yul Speaks!

My beautiful Miss Fussenmacher,

You are an idiot.

You know smoking is bad for you. Yet, you speak of nothing but excuses and justifications. You lie to yourself, and that is not beautiful.

I died of lung cancer due to cigarette smoking. I deeply regret this, much like the picture above of myself. It is not the straw boater I regret (for it is jaunty, no?). It is the cigarette, the instrument of my death. Death is not jaunty.

You foolish girl. You talk of happiness. Did your first cigarette taste of joy and delight? No, I imagine it did not. Yet, you pursued it. Now, your lungs cry for air (and, how did you come down with asthma?), as you fall into the missteps of your fathers. Your grandfather; imagine how much longer he would have lived if he did not smoke. You would not miss his loving embrace so much, yes?

As for the doctors of yore, the field of medicine grows, much like the tumors that may now grace your lungs. Use your beautiful mind to think of today, and the future.

So please, don't smoke.

So it is written. So it shall be done.

Sincerely,

Yul Brynner's ghost

Camelotta Destruction, Baby!!

2007-07-07T11:33:00.001-04:00

You may not be aware of this, so here I am to point this out.

Richard Burton totally pwones Camelot.

Y'see, it's like Camelot (the musical) is this awesome, free-for-all cage match, and Richard Burton and Richard Harris are there for the title. Burton is, like, from the Original Broadway Cast, and totally goes old skool on Harris's wimpy, celluloid butt. He, like, flies down from the top of the cage, and does a Merlin's Atomic Elbow on Harris, and Harris flops around the ring cryin' for his mommy.

And then, 'cause Burton is so cool, he has Roddy McDowell (who plays an amazing Mordred) distract the ref with a complaint about Vanessa Redgrave being a distraction (who told her she could sing?). Burton then gets out the tables with the flaming thumbtacks and SLAM! He throws Harris right through it! Yeah! Harris is down for the three count! BURTON WINS! BURTON WINS!!

Then, he exits the ring with BOTH Julie Andrews and Vanessa Redgrave. Because, he is The Man.

Next week's match: Robert Goulet and Franco Nero in battle of the Lancelots!!

Ahh, who am I kidding? Gene Merlino had to do the singing part in the movie because Franco can't sing. Goulet FTW.

Don Gerund, P.I. (Proofreading Investigator)

2007-06-19T17:04:00.001-04:00

It was a filthy, stinkin' raining afternoon, and my eyes were crossed from looking at twelve lines of five-point Futura Condensed. Legal copy was a bitch of a mistress, and those corporate lawyers were begging to kiss her litigious stilettos.

It was then the dame busted into my cubicle.

"Are you Don Gerund, Proofreading Investigator?"

I snorted. "That's what it says on the sign."

"I got a job for you," she snarled, and she threw the folder down onto my desk like a sack of wet socks. "Take it or leave it."

I looked at the folder with the same disgust I normally held for my ex-wife's over-salted Salisbury steak. "Why me? Why not my associate, Sassy?"

She looked around, as if she were about to tell a racist joke. She whispered, "I hear you're a man who knows when to use a discretionary hyphen."

"Maybe I am, but I'll be the one to tell you that." I pulled a staple out of the palm of my hand, and stanched the blood flow with correction tape. I suspiciously eyed the folder as if it were a Nigerian prince. "What's in it for me?"

"Don," she breathlessly blurted, "you gotta help me! Dullard's is breathin' down my back for some changes they made to the ad copy. This stuff is filled with random capitalization and incomplete sentences. If they don't get a pdf by five today," she looked away in shame, "they say they're gonna dangle my participles from a flagpole!"

I threw my glasses down on the desk, spilling rotgut whiskey out of them onto my mousepad. "Listen, sister, and listen good: if there's one thing you oughta know about Don Gerund, it's that Don Gerund don't stick his Strunk & White out for no one!"

And then the water works came. She turned those big baby blues to me, and the tears flowed like a broken New Orleans levee. She was playing me like an untuned ukulele, and I fell for it.

I picked up the job jacket, and looked at the printout. Basic retail copy; most mugs would develop a facial tic if they saw this written train wreck. But, I've seen it all; comma splices, mixed modifiers, split infinitives, indefinite use of pronouns. I've seen redundant phrases that would choke a gagging horse. But with this one, I decided to take the bullet point.

I put on my glasses, spilling hooch on my shirt. "Okay, Toots, listen up: take the EM down to your coordinator's cube, tell Gutman that I can't touch this thing without a job ticket or a job number." I closed the folder and handed it back to her with a wink. "That oughta buy you some time."

She gave me a look, one that said she was so grateful, she'd do anything for me. Or, maybe she had gas from her lunch at that Mexican joint across the street. I never could read that dame.

As she walked away, moving like a cat with wet feet, she looked over her shoulder. "Hey, Gerund," she said, "you're a good man. I don't care what the rest of 'em say."

She walked out of my cube and out of my department, just like that stray, toothless chihuahua my bitter and hateful grandmother left me in her will. It was just as well; skirts are nothing but trouble.

Any resemblance to any person, place or thing in this story, living, dead or otherwise, is completely coincidental. Sorry.

Feeling Much Better Now

2007-06-06T18:57:00.000-04:00

The Top Ten Greatest Things About Mono:

10. Anytime is a great time for a nap.

9. You get to watch people back away from you slowly when you tell them why you were absent from work the other day.

8. You'll get some prime hallucinations with that high fever. You know, the kind that involve the Willie Wonka boat ride with your naked next-door neighbor as you eat cream of pineapple soup. Or, is that one just me?

7. It was the forerunner to stereo.

6. The doctor who originally diagnosed your fatigue as depression and wanted to put you on anti-depressants before he even saw a blood test result and condescended to you when you refused his pharmaceutical-payola prescription should be feeling like a true assclown about now. In your face, Dr. Assclown. Neener, neener.

5. Finally! You can now receive that government grant to study the healing effects of... Donuts!

4. You now have a legitimate excuse to sit on your butt and surf teh intarwebs: heavy activity will make your spleen asplode!!!11!!

3. You get a HUGE box full of baklava! Wait... that's what happens when you help clean up after Scott Kneuchel's wedding reception. Sorry.

2. You can ponder whether or not the Epstein-Barr Virus was actually named after a Sweathog and a fat, obnoxious woman from an eighties sitcom.

And, the best thing about having mono:

1. It ain't lupus.

Shopping Mall of the Damned #2

2007-05-27T10:15:00.000-04:00

You've got yourself settled in front of the tv, beer in one hand, other hand resting on your gut under your belt. You've got that relaxed slouch in your La-Z-Boy. Yup, you're ready for some baseball.

But, wait, what is that you see? The players seem a little jittery, a little wild-eyed. Pitchers are throwing wild pitches. The outfielders are climbing the foul poles. Runners are stealing anything not nailed down. And, the game hasn't even started yet.

Relax, dear fan. This isn't the Charity Game for Tourette's, nor have they started mixing meth with the steriods. What you're seeing is the pitiful side effects of this product:

Yes, it's the product you've been waiting for all your life. Dakota Valley Products has brought you Sumseeds, the sunflower seeds with caffeine. Oh, sure, it has taurine, lysine and ginseng, too. Thank the gods.

I know I have that horrible dilemma of needing a boost, but not wanting the urinating inconvenience that energy drinks bring. Plus, I need an excellent source of protein, vitamin E, zinc and iron (and, who doesn't?).

But, y'know, I just can't go another day without a website that flames on a car. WAIT A FARKING MINUTE? DID YOU SAY FLAMES? ON A CAR?? Oh, yeah. And, there's flames on the seed, too. That's what you want in a source of fiber. Flames. That's what sells.

Also, the seeds are measured in RPMs (that's short for Raves Per Minute). Raves. Because PEOPLE ARE TALKING ABOUT THIS PRODUCT. Who, may you ask, would debate the merits of caffeinated sunflower seeds? Doctors? Botanists? Social Activists? Poet Laureates? Uh, no. Try a gamer, a trucker, a "media mogul" and a writer. Yeah.

Okay, this has tired me out. I'm taking a nap.

SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE:
Seen on ESPN.com:

Somtimes the articles just write themselves...

LOLBachelorz!

2007-05-23T19:18:00.000-04:00

My dear friend is getting married soon.

And, as it happens with many a young man, a beautifully pagan ritual will ensue. This ritual is ancient and time-honored, and I was deemed worthy to attend as a Priestess.

And so, I share with you, a visual aide.

Of course, I am powerless to stop you from turning my cheerful, yet hapless, friend into an intarwebs meme.

So, help me in congratulating (or consoling) my friend.

Ye Gods!

2007-05-12T10:15:00.000-04:00

Joshua Bar Joseph and his best friend, the Trickster Coyote, were lying on their backs in the grass, staring at another beautiful blue sky in Heaven.

"Gorgeous day," says Josh.

"No shit, Sherlock," snorts Coyote. "We're in Heaven."

"Well I know that," sighs Josh. "I'm just sayin'... and, watch the cussing. You know how that peeves my Dad."

"Yeah. Sorry." Coyote continues to stare upward, and starts grinning.

Josh scowls. "What are you thinking?"

Coyote turns his muzzle to his best friend. "Dude, your Mom is hot!"

Joshua snaps himself to a bolt-upright position. "DUDE! I am right here! You are talking about MY MOM!"

Coyote eases up on his elbows. "Yeah, I'm talking about your Mom. She's hot! She is the orginal MILF."

"That's it! No cheek-turning here! I am so kicking your ass from here to Purgatory and back!"

Coyote yawned and sat up. "I thought the pope got rid of Purgatory years ago."

Josh dropped his fists. Disgusted, he replied, "Nahh, Purgatory never went away. It's always been here. Where else are we going to put all those nuns? And, the pope? Him? You mean people still listen to him?"

"Oh, yeah! You'd be amazed at the sway a guy in a funny hat can hold!"

Confused, Josh scratched his head. "Really? Him? You'd think they'd know better by now...Wait a sec!! Stop it! Just stop it!" Josh resumed his fighting stance. "Quit trying to distract me! I am still going to beat the living snot out of you for what you said!"

Coyote shook his head. "For the love of Mother Buffalo," he said as he put his paws on Josh's shoulders. "Look, Dude, I really mean it as a compliment. You know me. And, there's not a thing wrong with having a hot Mom. If it weren't for your Mom's Total Hotness," and here, Coyote very warmly smiled, "we wouldn't have this conversation right now."

Josh relaxed. "Yeah, you're right." And he gave his best friend a big hug. "Dad's always the picky type. I guess it took someone really special to turn his head."

"You said it, J-man," said Coyote, as he hugged back his best friend. They let go, and resumed their places on the cool grass. Coyote let out a big yawn, and asked, "So, what did you get your Hot Mom for Mother's Day?"

Josh's eyes bugged out, and his jaw dropped. "Mother's Day? That's tomorrow? Holy Crap!!!" And, Josh ran for the nearest department store in Heaven, all the time forgetting his Father's distaste of foul language.

Meanwhile, Coyote kept himself in his comfortable place in the grass. "Crap, eh," he mused. "I don't think that's a real appropriate gift, Dude."

And he continued to watch the clouds, thinking of the Orginial MILF.

Strange Tales of the Strange #15

2007-05-06T20:44:00.000-04:00

So, we were sitting around one night, talking about our first experiences with electricity.

My first friend told of the time when he was about six, he had a cool Star Trek Enterprise toy that lit up in a really neat way. He got curious, so he took it apart and pulled out a couple of wires from the toy. He wanted more light, and placed the two wires in an electrical socket in the wall. He was pleased with the result. However, his dad was not. Dad used lots of Killz to get rid of the smoke stains on the wall afterwards.

My other friend, at a similar age, found some brass brads and placed them, one at a time, into the wall socket. He was very impressed with how far they'd shoot across the room. However, his dad was confused as to why he had to keep replacing that particular fuse in the fuse box. I guess his dad just wasn't impressed.

But, my best friend won. At a similar age, he stuck his tongue in the wall socket. A little while later, he woke up on the other end of the room with a numb tongue. He says he doesn't do that anymore.

Me? I never got that curious about wall sockets. I was too busy trying to figure out how to hit the little red ball with that damn wooden paddle.

The moral of the story: In the jello mold of enlightenment floats the grapes of wrath.

Shopping Mall of the Damned #1

2007-05-02T22:17:00.000-04:00

How many times has this happened to you?

You return from the rigors of hunting the bloodthirsty quail in yon distant marsh, only to find that the fruit of your labors tastes about as flavorful as the pages of Gore Vidal's novel, "Lincoln."

What will you do? What WILL you do?!?

Fear not, brave provider of nourishment. Thanks to the uncanny efforts of Brett Holm and David Feig, Shopping Mall of the Damned presents:

Season Shot: Ammo With Flavor

This delightful product is an environmentally and dentally friendly buckshot, swimming in seasonings that are injected into the avian prey that you dutifully persue to fill that empty dinner plate.

No, I'm serious.

Now, how this product works, its arrival date in the marketplace, the range and accuracy of the shot are all enigmas, especially to Brett and Dave. As a matter of fact, only two of six questions have yet to be answered in the FAQ, but we are urged to return at a later date to receive this information. I guess Season Shot is a mystery, even to its inventors.

And, I feel I should warn you, the opening page has a flash animation. Beware!

But, more importantly, no longer shall we endure the Heatbreak of Bland Phesant. Cast aside the Sharper Image under-lighted pepper grinder and the bottle of Jane's Crazy Mixed-Up Salt.

Let the mastery of projectile tastiness do the flavor for you.

Strange Tales of the Strange #14

2007-04-22T11:25:00.000-04:00

Okay, so there's this guy I know who is really funny, but he doesn't mean to be but he just is. Just like that girl I know, too, but he's a guy.

And, one time, when he was a kid, his mom used to make his favorite breakfast, pancakes, in this special pan, okay? So, one morning, she was going to make him pancakes, and she put the pan on the stove with the burner on it to warm it up. He saw the pan on the stove, and thought, 'Woo-hoo! Pancakes!' So, he got so happy that he picked up the pan and kissed it. And burned his lips.

And, this one time, when he got all grown up, he went to Hawaii and saw a lava flow. He thought, 'Wow, I wonder if lava is really hot?' And, he put his hand out to touch the lava. But, this time, he was all older and smarter, so he didn't get his hand close enough to the lava to actually touch it and totally burn his fingers into carbonized nubs.

I think he has a hard time judging heat.

The moral of the story: Keep several microfiber cloths underneath the front seat of your vehicle. Use them to dust off the dashboard, radio and steering wheel.

For the uninformed: all Strange Tales of the Strange are true stories. No names are used. Previous Strange Tales can be found at Al's old Webglob.

Just Sayin'...

2007-04-18T11:59:00.000-04:00

e-piphany (i pif' uh nee) n., 1. an online revelation, 2. insightful spam

Gee, Your Hair Smells...Delicious

2007-04-16T18:30:00.000-04:00

Andy shuffled through the front door that morning, clutching a quint-shot latte and a ragged backpack. He squinted a "hello" to Sue, the front desk receptionist, as she cheerfully answered the phone, "Good Morning, Bath and Body Flirts; how may I direct your call?"

He tiredly stomped down the maze of aisles until he reached his numb grey cube in the Creative Department. He slung the backpack down on the floor, fired up his Mac, and took a huge gulp of his lukewarm latte. How the hell can anyone be expected to be "creative" at eight in the morning, especially after being here until 10:30 the night before, is beyond me, he grumped to himself. If I ever have kids, I'll beat the living hell out of them with a T-square if they ever say, Dad, I wanna be a graphic designer, I swear...

His mental rant stopped short. In his email, the beast that was Marketing reared its ugly, bloody head.

"Departmental Meeting To Introduce an Exciting New Line of Scents!"

Oh, for the love of Michelangelo, a meeting! Aww, crap! Wait...I could dodge this. I'm only the Senior Designer. I don't need to waste my time on this drivel. They have yet to figure out that nothing is ever accomplished in a meeting. Y'know, I could say that an errant, magically animated chainsaw removed my leg at the hip, and I can't walk down the hall to the conference room. Or, I could...

Before he could consciencely stop it, his right index finger hit "Accept."

Thus, Andy's fate for 9:30 that morning was sealed.

At 9:40, he was already catatonic and drooling with boredom as Cindy, the VP of Marketing, excitedly droned on regarding the success of their last two lines of scents, "Cloying Fruit Smoothie" and "Tropical Souse." Andy imagined coconuts flying from a cannon and pounding Cindy's head non-stop, when he heard the phrase, "...and that's why we call this new line, "Meat-Bound Fantasy."

Andy shook his head to remove the cobwebs. "Excuse me," he said, while raising a hand. "Did you say, Meat-Bound Fantasy?"

Cindy's eyes sparkled like QVC jewelry. "Yes! We'll have a number of appealing smells, like Pork Desire, Crazy Chicken Chic, Fried Steak Sizzle..."

Whether it was the lack of sleep, the overdose of Starbucks, or just simple burnout, Andy found himself unable to embrace the new and exciting line. His voice jumped two octave higher as he voiced his own opinion about the excitement. "What the fuck? What's with the food smells? What in hell makes you people think that any woman would want to smell like a friggin' Chinese menu?! Where do you get these insane ideas?!" His last question seemed to be aimed at the tenth floor above them, instead of the attending marketing associates in the conference room.

However, Andy's last lament seemed to be a cue for Dick, the head of Research and Developement. "Why, those are valid points that Andy has made. And, to answer all of your questions, Andy, I've developed a strong PowerPoint presentation to show you the latest market trends." Dick whipped out his tiny laser pointer, and used its little red beam to indicate the charts and graphs that floated onto the screen.

"You see, Andy," he said proudly, "we've discovered, through extensive study and research, that many American women are, well, shall we say, plus-sized. We decided many campaigns ago to tap into that demographic by focusing on the one thing that they truly love–food! If they love to eat (and, obviously, they do), then, why not smell like the object of your affection?"

Andy stood, speechless.

Cindy gleamed. "Isn't it genius?"

Andy continued to stand. Mechanically, he pointed his thumb to the door and replied, "I'll go get started on the look-and-feel." Stupified, he quietly left the room, while the rest of the meeting buzzed with passion.

Andy stood at his cube, staring at his latte sitting patiently next to his mouse. Resigned, he sat down and pulled out the fifth of tequila he hid in his desk. As he poured it into the last
bit of the latte, he wondered if his girlfriend would prefer Heavenly Ham or Touch of Tube Steak.

Pay Attention. I'll Only Do This Once.

2007-04-14T10:49:00.000-04:00

Hi, Kids. Welcome. This is my blog. There are many other like it, but this one is mine.
I've been quite hesistant to do a blog. I had a glob, once, but it was just too much work. Besides, I really don't feel the need to bore you with useless info about myself. I'm just not that terribly interesting.

But, other people. Now, that's interesting. Other people will do some mighty interesting things, if you give them half a chance. And, that is the intention here. To give people half a chance to be interesting.

If you'd like, however, I'll give you a handful of useless trivia about myself. And, I'll only do this once. I promise.

I am originally from Smyrna, Georgia, noted by National Geographic as the world's most redneck town. I am married to my best friend, who happens to be hot. I have had a variety of careers, but I currently arrange things nicely on a page. I rarely give direct answers, because that's not what folks want to hear. I love animals, and I feel it is my sworn duty to feed them. If I refuse a donut, something is definitely wrong. Cartoons are the salvation of mankind. I have designed a line of t-shirts, available now on Cafe Press! I am an animist, and I have a great deal of disdain for all organized religion. I just spilled some tea on my keyboard. I am neither Republican nor Democrat, and I laugh at both their antics. Parts of me are Native American, other parts of me are not. I accessorize with cat fur. I have a Sig Saur P230. I am certain that invisible gnomes are secretly filming my life. I cry a little during the sentimental parts of a movie, but this has only been happening to me for the past fifteen years. If you are not feeling well, I'll share my prescription medications with you. If you are hungry, I'll make you a really cool grilled cheese sandwich. I survived an abusive marriage. Morality cannot be legislated. The spirit of the Coyote has walked with me all my life. Did I mention that my husband is hot? I like the work of Frank Miller. You just want me to think I'm paranoid. I can be easily angered except when I'm driving. I still think Mr. Roger's Neighborhood should be required viewing for all children under the age of 112. I am fat, despite what everyone says. The words found on the Parthenon are the best words to live by - Nothing to Excess, and Know Thyself. I have a sinus headache. I quit a four-year meth habit on sheer will alone. A man dressed as a Klingon once convinced me to buy a small stuffed Targ. My favorite meal consists of raw fish and ice cream.

And, I live to amuse. I hope the funny words I write for you will do just that.

Take care!