Wednesday, December 25, 2013
One day, I decided to do something that nobody in the history of the world had ever, ever done before.
But I couldn't think of anything, so I just watched TV for about twelve hours straight and ate fifteen or twenty Mexican and double Salisbury Steak TV dinners washed down with about a gallon of prune juice. Ha ha, just kidding about the prune juice.
The next day, I thought it would be a cute idea to strike out into the neigborhood and surrounding environs in search of the true meaning of Christmas. So I put on my cutest "searching for the true meaning of Christmas" Santa Claus outfit and skipped merrily out the front door.
WHAM!!! I ran smack dab into the mailman! With a gutteral groan, the old man flew backward over my porch railing into a mass of prickly thorn bushes and landed with a hefty thud.
"WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR MAJOR MALFUNCTION, YOU BRAIN-DEAD OLD MORON!!!" I screamed at the prostrate figure as he struggled to his feet amidst a shower of letters and Christmas cards. "How dare you obstruct me when I'm on a mission to discover the true meaning of Chris--"
I caught myself just as my tirade was about launch into high gear. Realizing how sadly ironic this whole situation was, I controlled my anger and quickly turned it into sympathy and compassion for the poor mailman who, after all, wasn't entirely at fault. Helping him to his feet, I offered him a cheery "Merry Christmas, assh***!" and then kicked him squarely in the balls, plucking my mail from his hand as I shoved him down the sidewalk.
He staggered to his little jeep and presently weaved his way down the street whereupon he then crashed through a wooden fence and into someone's backyard swimming pool.
Restraining an impulse to chuckle at his screams for help, I demonstrated my empathy for others by wincing at the thought of how freezing cold that pool water must be before setting off down the sidewalk in the other direction. "True meaning of Christmas, here I come!" I sang at the top of my lungs as I skipped, swinging my lunch basket to and fro.
Presently I passed a church and happened upon some children who were setting up a display in the front yard. It was composed of some mannequins of people from the really old days, with robes and turbans and stuff, and a few farm animals like donkeys and things. They were set up under a small shed and huddled around a baby doll in a trough lined with hay.
"What the hell's all this crap?" I greeted them brightly, flashing my nicest smile.
They must've been an ill-tempered bunch, because they met my friendly greeting with undisguised hostility. "It's a Nativity scene, stupid!" one of them sneered. "Don't you know anything?"
With an admirable display of self-control, I replied nicely, "Yes, I know lots of things. For example, I know...THIS!"
With that, I dashed away and rounded the corner of the church, disappearing from their view. The children looked at each other and shrugged. When I came back into view, I was holding a super-soaker filled with finely-aged wolf urine.
The children's screams were like beautiful music to my ears as I drenched them thoroughly, making sure to give the slower ones a double dose as they struggled to escape. Then I danced around with each mannequin one at a time like a celebrity contestant on "Dancing With the Stars" before hurling it after the retreating figures, who were soaked to the skin with the wonderfully rancid wolf urine.
The baby mannequin I passed like a football, and boy oh boy was it ever a beaut of a pass! One of the kids made an awesome leaping catch which ended with him flying headfirst into a dumpster full of hog entrails behind a butcher shop. Six points for the home team!
When all the excitement had started to die down and my senses slowly returned to my fevered brain, I stopped and thought for a moment. Was this it? Had I discovered the true meaning of Christmas?
I lay down in the trough with my feet hanging over the sides and twiddled my thumbs, ruminating happily upon what an enlightening day it had been. People began to file past, observing me with a strange sort of fascination or repulsion or whatever--I can't really tell the difference sometimes.
"What the hell are you supposed to be?" one of them asked.
"I'm the true meaning of Christmas!" I answered brightly in a cute, elfin voice. "Now SHUT UP!!!"
Monday, December 2, 2013
(This is a sequel to "Porfle Vs. Irritating Sayings", which can be found HERE.)
Here are some more of the widely-used internet sayings that I find extremely irritating. If you use them around me, I will personally ask Reverend Ike to never pray for you to get a brand new Cadillac.
"Meh." This is used to denote world-weary indifference or snooty disapproval. Has anyone ever said "meh" to you in real life? No, because it's merely a literal approximation of the sound people make when they're world-wearily indifferent or snootily disapproving of something. Actually, it sounds more like "mmnnyahh", and when people say it they usually have a cranky-baby expression on their faces. The "mmnnyahh" sound is so whiny and infantile that when people type it on message boards, they shorten and tweak it to "meh", which they think looks better although they're wrong. It looks stupid. And it should be punched, kicked, or drenched with wolf urine.
The only person in history who could ever pull off the actual "mmnnyahh" sound without looking stupid was Edward G. Robinson. "All right, you mugs--from now on, we're gonna do things MY way, see? MMNNYAHH!" And the last time I saw Edward G. Robinson, he wasn't screwing around on some stupid message board. He was slapping people around, blowing cigar smoke in their faces, and shooting them for saying stuff like "meh" to him.
"M'kay." This is a word for idiots who want to express not just snooty disapproval, but sarcastically snooty disapproval. Mere wolf urine isn't enough to quell my burning hatred of this word--"m'kay" calls for more drastic measures, like being forced to watch every episode of "The Simple Life" on a big-screen TV with a theater-quality sound system turned up full blast, CLOCKWORK ORANGE-style.
If you type a comment on a message board and someone responds with "m'kay", you should consider them your mortal enemy for the rest of your life. Because even more than "meh", "m'kay" denotes a verbal wrist being limply flopped right in your face along with the full "mmnnyahh" expression, complete with eyeroll. Especially if it is followed by ellipses, like so: "M'kay..." (the ellipses are the literal equivalent of the eyeroll) or if the "m" is multiplied by a factor of three or four, as in: "Mmmm'kay..."
The final outrage-inducing coup de grace, of course, would be the addition of an actual "eyeroll" emoticon. Anyone who pulls the full "Mmmm'kay..." with eyeroll emoticon on you deserves a complete wolf-urine body wash, the total "Simple Life" forced-viewing ordeal, and to be interviewed by naked Larry King.
"Kthxbye." Okay, if this wasn't invented by some bubble-brained teenybopper somewhere, I'll eat my entire collection of Bruce Willis DVDs. "Kthxbye" is the internet equivalent not of the limp-wrist flop, but of the dismissive "talk to the hand"-style wave-off with a huge, pink bubble-gum bubble popped in your face.
If you regularly find yourself involved in message board debates in which your adversary subjects you to the infuriating step-by-step process of "meh", "mmmm'kay...", and "kthxbye", then you should hurl your computer monitor through the nearest window and become a lumberjack. Either that, or you should become a dreaded masked outlaw who rides into towns with six-guns blazing and robs banks and armored trucks while riding a buffalo.
"True dat." Now this sounds like a guy one. It's not as horrible as the preceeding ones, but it still fills me with rage. If something's true, just say "that's true." Saying "true dat" doesn't make what you say any cooler or any more valid. It just makes you look like a dope. Do you say "true dat" to people in real life? As in, "What's that you say, Brian? Oscar Wilde was brilliantly insightful? True dat." No, you don't. Why? Because you would look like a dope. If you said it to a girl you were trying to pick up, she would pop a huge, pink bubble-gum bubble in your face and say "kthxbye." Eventually, people would see you coming and say, "Meh, here comes the 'true dat' guy. If he says it again, let's kill him."
"FTW." Another guy one, definitely. Message board clowns who are arguing about what's totally the best example of whatever bullshit they're blabbing about will invariably resort to naming their own number one choice and then following it with a decisive "FTW", as though this somehow actually signified that their choice was the indisputable winner, which it most definitely doesn't you big fat twerp.
Best videogame? "Super Mario Ultimate Sloppy Whack-off FTW." Best new pop group? "Dippity Doofussy Douchebags FTW." Best TV show? "Family Guy FTW." That's right--they all love "Family Guy", even though it is the 100 percent biggest pile of steaming dog doo-doo ever. I'd like to gather everyone responsible for "Family Guy" in one place and do something horrendously punitive to them. I'm not sure what, but I am pretty sure it would involve copious amounts of wolf urine.
"Orly?" I'm adding this one at the last minute because I just thought of it. It can be inserted at any time during the above-mentioned process, as in:
"Wolf urine FTW."
I don't want to talk about those words anymore, because I'm down to my last Xanax and I don't want to lay awake all night fantasizing about orbital death-ray satellites.
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
(NOTE: This is one of the first blog posts I ever wrote several years ago, and I would rarely get this negative about a specific person again. So just in case Billy Crystal happens to see this for some strange, highly unlikely reason, I hope he realizes that it's all in fun even though I mean all of it.)
Someone once asked me who my least favorite comedian was. That is, they were about to ask me, but before they even opened their mouth, I said: "Billy Crystal."
My answer to that question is so emphatic and so definite that I answer it before it's even asked, which often amazes people, especially if what they were really going to ask me is why I wasn't wearing any pants.
Billy Crystal is the horrifying mutant hybrid of the old-style Catskills lounge comic and the hip young "funny dude." He's like what would happen if Shecky Greene got into telepod A and Mario Cantone got into telepod B and they were fused together in telepod C.
Billy Crystal should answer his home phone by saying, "Hello, telepod C. Genetically-fused A-B combination of Shecky Greene and Mario Cantone speaking." But then it would just become another one of his catchphrases, and he would say it all the time.
The first time many people saw Billy Crystal was in the sitcom "Soap." I had already seen his stand-up act on TV, so I already didn't like him, but "Soap" sealed the deal. You see, Norman Lear's "Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman" was the first series to spoof soap operas, and it did so by actually being a soap opera--five episodes per week, no laugh track, and everyone more or less playing it straight. It was a brilliant show. But it was in syndication, and hardly anyone watched it.
Then "Soap" came along, landed a network time slot, and became a big hit. "Soap" was nothing more than a standard stupid sitcom with a laugh track and goofy characters mugging it up all over the place, but with just enough superficial soap opera trappings tacked on so that they could advertise it as a "comedy soap opera."
Instead of imitation soap-opera music, it had a jaunty little "aren't we cute" theme that made me sick. Instead of a title that cleverly spoofed soap opera titles, it was called "Soap." I began to hear the words "Soap" and "funny!" so many times in my everyday life that I wanted to start attacking people. Waves of pure, burning hatred eminated from the very pores of my skin. And one of the major elements that made the show so horrible was Billy Crystal. He played a character named "Jodie." GRRRRRRRR!!!
Later, of course, there was the phase in which Billy Crystal became "Mr. Catchphrase." It all started when, for some ungodly reason, he was hired to be a regular on "Saturday Night Live", and he came up with his "Fernando Lamas" character. "Fernando" hosted a schmoozy celebrity talk show, and would repeatedly tell all of his guests, in that heavy Latin-lothario accent: "You look mahvelous." Billy discovered that people laughed whenever he said "You look mahvelous", so he started saying "You look mahvelous" all the time.
Some talk show host would say "Welcome to the show, Billy," and Billy would say "Thanks, and may I just say...you look mahvelous", pausing dramatically right before the "you look mahvelous" to build up audience anticipation for his hilarious catchphrase. And the audience, damn them, would laugh.
When the next guest came out, Billy would say to them, "You look mahvelous." If somebody had told him his whole family just got wiped out in a gas explosion, he probably would've said, "OH, MY GOD! You look mahvelous."
Another one of his catchphrases was "Can you dig it? I knew that you could." Billy was imitating an old, black blues musician or something when he did that one. It wasn't a funny character, and he never said anything funny, but every once in awhile after he'd said enough unfunny stuff to justify saying the catchphrase again, he'd say "Can you dig it? I knew that you could." And that alone was supposed to be funny. And sure enough, people laughed, DAMMIT!
Billy Crystal thinks that he is a master impressionist because he does a good Muhammad Ali, even though almost everyone in the world has one good impression of somebody in them. I do a pretty good Casey Kasem. My brother can imitate the Werewolf of London.
But Billy Crystal has fashioned entire segments of his stand-up act around his Muhammad Ali impression, turning them into "performance pieces." I hate it when he does those. People like Whoopi Goldberg, John Leguizamo, Danny Hoch, and Lily Tomlin do that kind of stuff too, which is why I can't stand to watch them, either.
Performance pieces are supposed to impress the audience more than regular "jokes", because they're longer and they have a "story", and when they're over, you're supposed to applaud instead of laugh. I hate it when people applaud comedians instead of laughing. It kills the joke and messes up the comedian's rhythm and timing. But since Billy Crystal doesn't have any rhythm or timing, he simply basks in the applause.
When Billy Crystal poses for publicity photos, his telepod A Borscht-belt side takes over. He does the "serious" pose with his arms crossed and a fake smile, and then he does the "funny" one with his hands splayed out and his eyes wide open in mock surprise, like something funny just happened. Or he does the Jack Benny thing with a pained expression and one hand lightly brushing his cheek.
I'm sure Billy thinks he's the new Jack Benny. He probably has thought to himself on more than one occasion while eating breakfast cereal or pulling on clean underwear: "I am the new Jack Benny." I'm surprised he never created a character called "The New Jack Benny" just so he could use "I am the new Jack Benny" as his catchphrase and be able to go around in public saying "I am the new Jack Benny" as many times as he wanted to.
Billy Crystal was in THIS IS SPINAL TAP, but his part got cut out. HA-HAAAAAA!!! He was in the sequence where the record company executives were having a party to celebrate the release of Spinal Tap's new album, and the waiters were all mimes. Billy played the head mime, and in one deleted scene he's dressing down the other mimes. One of his lines in this scene is something like, "Okay, let's go...mime is money."
Think about it: Billy Crystal thinks "mime is money" is funny. In a movie that features some of the most hilarious improvised dialogue in film history, Billy Crystal uses his big moment to say "mime is money." He probably lay awake in bed all night before they shot that scene, thinking, "Mime is money. Mime is money. Can they dig it? I know that they can. I'll...look...mahvelous."
Actually, I was intending to write today about "pet peeves", in a general sort of way, and Billy Crystal was just going to be one of them. But I should've written about my other pet peeves first and saved Billy Crystal for last.
Anyway, some of my other pet peeves are people standing over me while I'm eating and dipping their tortilla chips into my hot sauce, and being able to hear some idiot's car stereo blasting away down the street when I'm sitting in my house with the TV on. Oh yeah, and Billy Crystal movies.
Monday, November 18, 2013
(NOTE: I wrote this way, way back in those quaint old days when people actually used to go to MySpace.)
If you belong to MySpace, you know who Tom is. He's the guy who created MySpace, and whenever you make a new account there, he's always your very first "friend."
Right there in your "My Friend Space", there will be a single picture of Tom grinning at you over his shoulder like he's really happy to see you, or like you just caught him whacking off or something. As you accumulate more friends, it's always a good idea to remove this picture from your "My Friend Space" because it looks uncool if you have to beef up your apparent amount of friends with the default "Tom" picture.
Don't worry, it won't hurt Tom's feelings or anything. He's never going to see your profile page and think, "Gee...I wonder why he doesn't consider me to be one of his 'top friends'...(sniff)."
Tom's way too busy running around spending all the money he makes off of MySpace and grinning over his shoulder at his actual real-life friends to give a rat's ass about you and your dumb profile page. Just try dropping him a PM sometime and see if you get a response. You might as well put in a job application for Pope while you're at it.
Anyway, Tom occasionally makes announcements that show up on my home page, and recently, he told me how to eliminate friend requests from people I don't know. Why the hell would I want to do that? I thought MySpace was supposed to be a place to meet new people, not to participate in a circle jerk of people you already know.
I don't know that many people in real life I'd be interested in being MySpace friends with anyway. If that's the only people I had in my "My Friend Space", Tom's picture would still be in it.
So, I just added my 100th friend to my My Friend Space. This milestone pales in comparison to other MySpacers who have thousands of people on their friends list. A lot of them are gorgeous babes whose profile pages feature pictures that guys can "whack off" to. Or, they are famous people that everyone wants to add as friends so they can put their pictures in their My Friend Space to show off to everyone who looks at their profile. I have a few of those in my profile, so this is an acceptable practice.
But since I am neither a famous person nor a gorgeous babe, and I doubt if I get "whacked off" to very often, I can't afford to be all that choosy about whose friend requests I accept. Which means that my friends list is filled with wannabe musicians who want me to listen to their mp3s and go to their shows, or other people who just want as many people as possible to read their bulletins and stuff.
I've tried emailing some of them but I usually never get an answer, and if I get one, it's often something like "Yeah, ha ha, whatever. You're who, now?" Some of them aren't even people--they're movie titles or events. So, for some reason, I seem to be friends with Texas Frightmare Weekend. I really don't think Texas Frightmare Weekend is ever going to drop by my house whenever it's in town so we can go out for a beer or anything.
But yeah, in addition to people who only accept friend requests from people they already know, there are also the people who won't accept my friend requests because they're MySpace Snobs. Somehow, MySpace Snobs are able to tell that I'm not cool or important enough to be their MySpace friend, so I never hear from them after sending a friend request.
So, instead of being a new and fun way to interact with people, MySpace is sometimes just high school all over again. If you were popular in high school, you might read that and think "Cool!" If you weren't, you know what I mean.
Some of the people who won't accept my friend requests already have, like, 6,000 friends, and some of these are characters with names like "Fuggle, The Wonder Octopus" or "The Decrepit Corpse Tickler." The fact that I don't rate inclusion on such a list can be somewhat disheartening.
Perhaps someday, if I'm lucky, I'll be in a position to turn away friends--even fake ones--but in the meantime, just about the only friend requests I deny are the ones from cute young girls who have the word "webcam" anywhere on their profile pages. I don't do webcams. If I'm going to pay for sex, I want to be touching something besides my own wing-ding.
I just got one of those last night, as a matter of fact. It was from "Tina." That is, her profile name was "Tina", but in her "About Me" space she calls herself "Linda." Oops! Somebody franked up on her own name!
Anyway, Tina/Linda tells us how she doesn't have many friends in the "real" world (awwwwww...) but she LOVES to meet new people online. (Yaaay!) Then she goes on to describe how she often absent-mindedly leaves her webcam on, even when she's just gotten out of the shower! Woo-hoo!
As she puts it, "I'm quiet the exhibitionist! CLICK HERE to get a link for my webcam and chat room. I'm so bored..." Wow, Tina/Linda--that sounds quiet exciting! My wallet is practically flying out of my pants right now, along with other things. Bet that'll help relieve your boredom, huh?
So far, I have only three subscribers to my blog, and two of them are the same person. Which is a shame, because I have a very nice blog with lots of funny and interesting stuff like this on it. Drop by my profile page and read my blog sometime, and if you like it, subscribe to it. It will make me feel less like a total loser, and anything that can do that is well worth the effort, because I'm so nice.
And shoot me a friend request too, if you'd like. Chances are, I will accept it, unless you have a webcam or are simply just too incredibly yucky for even me to handle. But the way things look at this point, it will still be quiet some time before I turn into a MySpace Snob.
And to everyone who has already put me on their friends list: "Thanks for the add!" Woo-hoo!
Friday, November 15, 2013
(NOTE: I wrote this back in 2008 before the passing of the late Senator Kennedy. So now it's both a tribute as well as a fond spoof.)
"Mnyah, myehh--well, ehh, kids--ehh, mnyehh..."
Senator Ted Kennedy stood in front of the Peanut Gallery, attempting to introduce a "Tom and Jerry" cartoon. The children shifted uncomfortably in their bleacher seats.
"This, ehh, impending cah-toon, ehh, mnyehh..." Ted Kennedy struggled to find the words to explain to the kids what they were about to see. "It, ehh...is about a cat, who, err, ehh..."
A little girl in a frilly dress daintily raised her hand.
"You, little gull," said Ted Kennedy. "What, err, uhh, have you to say at this, ahh, juncture?"
"Well, Tom is a cat who is always trying to catch a mouse named Jerry," said the little girl. "But Jerry always outwits Tom, and...well, ha-ha, sometimes it's pretty funny."
"Oh, err, is that so?" said Ted Kennedy. "Myehh, ehh...well then, let's, ehh, proceed with this err, uhh, cah-toon, then." He looked offstage at the producer, who was shaking his head.
"Well, err, it appears, then, that due to some, err, technical difficulty...err, mnyah, the, uh, cah-toon will not be, actually, err, presented here today, mnyehh, and so says old Ted Kennedy." He shrugged stiffly and grinned at the kids, which scared some of them. One of them actually thought Ted Kennedy's head was Saturn's largest moon, Titan, which he had seen a picture of in an astronomy book once.
Ted Kennedy had a sudden inspiration. He pointed offstage and said, "Look ovah there, ehh, kids." With their attention thus diverted, he turned and wobbled on his tiptoes behind a large piece of set dressing which resembled a circus wagon. When the children looked back, they wondered where he had gone. A few moments later he stepped into view again, his arms outstretched. "Ha-ha, look, it's, ehh, me," he said. "Ehh, surprise."
The children weren't quite sure how they were expected to respond. They knew they were on TV, and they were aware of shows like "Howdy Doody" and "Romper Room", but none of these had prepared them for the experience of being in such close proximity to Senator Ted Kennedy for an extended period of time without proper emotional support. Some of them were slightly nauseated by the physical sensation of his gravitational pull; others felt somehow certain that before the show was over, he was going to eat them.
Ted Kennedy looked around until his eyes lit upon a baseball bat that was intended to be used later on in something called "The Happy Piñata Game." He picked it up and said, "Ehh, watch this, kids." With that, he swung the baseball bat directly into Camera Three with both hands and began to smash it to pieces. In the control room, the director winced as one of the monitors sputtered and went blank. "What is he doing?" he said into his headphone. The man on the other end answered, "Beats the hell out of me."
Ted Kennedy kept swinging the bat until he was satisfied that Camera Three was totally destroyed. "Heh-hehhh, ehh, look at that, kids," he said. "You see, ehh, with a nice, big bat like this, err, you can wreck things but good." He hefted it in his hands with a satisfied grin and then waddled over to Cap'n Ted's Treasure Chest, which was filled with prizes intended to be handed out to the kids during the show. "And now, mnyehh, if you'll observe this, ehh, what I'm about to do, err, I'll smash the hell out of this crap, myaahh, and so says old Ted Kennedy."
Awkwardly, with a furious physical exertion that his sedentary body was unaccustomed to, he began to shatter the toys, games, and other colorful items into a million pieces that went flying all over the soundstage, while muttering things like "ohh, look at that" and "mnyehh, that's a good one" during the process. A grinning Bozo the Clown head landed in a little girl's lap at one point, and she started to cry. The little boy sitting next to her patted her shoulder consolingly, his lips quivering. All of the children had begun to form a bond--the kind of lasting, deep-seated bond that only those who have suffered through a traumatic experience together, such as prisoners of war or political hostages, will ever know.
"Senator! SENATOR!" the producer whispered hoarsely from offstage. "The cartoon! We've got it ready to go!"
Ted Kennedy angrily hurled the baseball bat aside and went over to stand on his mark in front of the Peanut Gallery. "Fine, then!" he wheezed. "Show the stupid, ehh, cah-toon!" The jolly strains of the "Tom and Jerry" theme piped into the studio as a monitor flickered with images of the cartoon characters going about their lighthearted antics. By now, most of the children were openly weeping.
"Grrrr, mnyahh, I wasn't done smashing those, ehh, things!" Ted Kennedy wheezed petulantly. "I'm firing that stupid, ehh, producer person. And what's this ridiculous, ehh, display?" he added, pointing at the monitor. "Is this what they call, mnyehh, a 'cah-toon'? It's rubbish! Ehh, RUBBISH!" At that point, he noticed at last that the entire Peanut Gallery had broken down into violent, wracking sobs. Every last child cried uncontrollably, totally unaffected by the breezy fun of the cartoon.
"You're all, ehh, fired, too!" he exclaimed. "And so says old Ted Kennedy!" And on the next episode of "The Ted Kennedy Show", there were no children in the Peanut Gallery. And there were no cartoons. The bleachers were filled with senators, and they all had baseball bats. And Cap'n Ted's Treasure Chest was filled to overflowing with toys, games, and other colorful items, but they weren't to be handed out to children--they were to be smashed. And there were extra cameras to smash, too. And prostitutes. And everybody was drinking a whole lot and they were all drunk, and Ted Kennedy wasn't wearing any pants.
And the people watching at home thought to themselves, "This is all some kind of thinly-disguised political commentary, isn't it?" But it wasn't. It was just a silly, pointless series of events.
(Originally posted at Andersonvision.com)
Friday, November 1, 2013
Okay, I'll admit it--I have sexual organs. And sex gets my attention. I get the message already!
So please stop trying to sell me stuff by shoving sex in my face 24 hours a day. It's okay when I choose to watch or buy something specifically because of sex, but I'm tired of being forced to get a boner every time I turn on the TV or open a magazine just so some clowns can try to sell me a bunch of worthless crap. Give me a friggin' break--it's no fun being "on deck" all the time.
Sometimes I wanna just kick back in my La-Z-Boy and relax with a mindless TV show like "The Capitol Gang", and just when me Dennis Morgans (that's British rhyming slang for "sexual organs") are enjoying a well-deserved break, BLAM! Big, bouncing hooters come flying out of my TV trying to sell me tacos. Or some really hot chick's round, quivering buttocks are reminding me to upgrade my computer software.
My naughty bits go on full alert status--they don't know it's just a drill. "Abort! Abort! Mission status negative!" I scream, but to no avail. They're locked and loaded. I give the order to stand down, but it goes unheeded. Such blatant insubordination is common within the ranks of sexual organs these days. And, unfortunately, the only solution for this is a dishonorable discharge.
Things that no one in their right mind could ever possibly be interested in buying instantly become more appealing if they have hot, dripping globules of sex slathered over them. I bought some crappy comic book once just because it had a cover painting of this incredibly sexy babe. I think she was supposed to be some kind of superhero--you know, the kind that runs around dressed like one of the Pussycat Dolls. If getting the bad guys horny is a superpower, then she must've been a really effective crimefighter. But somehow I doubt if getting a throbbing boner all of a sudden is going to stop the Joker from trying to take over Gotham City.
Anyway, I bought it, took it home, did what I was compelled to do with it, and then was stuck with this, like, five-dollar piece of crap that I had absolutely no interest in reading because not only did the inner artwork suck compared to the cover, but the story was about as interesting as watching little kids pet a goat for six hours.
Pop music is even worse. Do Madonna, Britney, and/or their current clones come up with great songs and present them for our listening entertainment? No, they cough up whatever generic dog poop with a beat that they can pile some new flab-flouncing choreography onto and then see how nearly-nekkid and naughty they can get away with being while spazzing out onstage at some MTV award show. "OOOH, MILEY TWERKED ROBIN! SPLOOGE!!!"
And speaking of Madonna--if she had to get by on her voice and music alone, she'd still be blowing winos for coke money behind a bowling alley in Michigan. Most people never bought a Madonna album simply because it just sounded so darn good. They bought it because Madonna used to prance around the stage wearing fake pointy boobs and stuff. I hate to say it, but if fake pointy boobs are the reason people are buying your album, you need to shut up.
And now that the rapidly-aging Madonna's fake pointy boobs have begun to migrate south, she'd better start sounding a hell of a lot better. Or else think of a way to make horny teenagers get turned on by someone who's starting to look like Granny from "The Beverly Hillbillies."
I like to listen to homely people because I can enjoy their music without the discomfort of constant sexual stimulation. The butt-ugly dudes in Pink Floyd don't turn me on. Devo doesn't suddenly turn me into Casey at the bat. I still listen to the Spice Girls sometimes, but they look like a bunch of googly-eyed fruitcakes to me, so no problem there. Now, one of my all-time favorite albums is "Zasu" by Rosie Vela, and she used to be a Ford model. But she had actual talent, and her album cover doesn't have giant rooty-toots catapulting out at me or anything.
I used to go to nudie bars and stuff, until I realized that I wasn't enjoying myself in them at all. It's like getting really hungry and then going to a restaurant where you're only allowed to look at the food but you have to pay for it anyway. Imagine being famished and walking into a cafeteria where you move down the buffet line going "Oh man, that Salisbury steak looks awesome" or "Mmm, just smell those scrumptious buffalo wings", and then you get to the end of the line and have to pay for everything you just looked at and walk out hungrier than ever. That's what going to a nudie bar is like. Unless, of course, you can afford to go back into the "special" room, which might as well be on Mars as far as I'm concerned.
In the old days, if average slobs wanted to see T & A they'd buy a "particular kind" of magazine. They'd keep it under the bed or safely tucked away in a drawer under their socks and underwear, where it remained dormant until called into service during a crisis. Nowadays, everything is one big masturpalooza. TV shows, commercials, comic books, music, food--anything that is produced in order to be sold to gullible peckerheads like us hangs heavy with the pungent, inescapable aura of whack-off. We live in a whack-off culture.
And continuously being forced to deal with this is a tiresome burden. I actually think that constant overuse has caused my right hand to age ten to twenty years faster than my left hand. Sure, it's got kung-fu grip, and it can open the hell out of pickle jars, but I'm afraid one of these days I'm gonna wake up and there'll be a claw on the end of my arm. And if that ever happens, I'll have to either become ambidexterous real quick, or climb into a sensory-deprivation tank filled with morphine and never come out.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
I rose from bed that morning giddy with a new sense of purpose, but I didn't let myself get too giddy because that wouldn't be normal. I felt so good about the potential for a newfound normality that the new day promised, I began to skip merrily on my way to the bathroom to urinate. But I held back and walked "normally" instead. I was starting to feel more mature already!
Skipping merrily into the kitchen, I tripped over a toaster that I'd carelessly left on the floor the day before and crashed headlong through a bay window, plummeting two stories into a duck pond that my landlady Mrs. Festermeyer had installed in a vain effort to get noticed by the local garden club. The huge splash splattered her own kitchen window with enough force to apparently cause her to drop something big and crashy-sounding, and I could hear ear-splitting screams coming from somewhere inside her house. Shaking my head to clear away the cobwebs, I sprang from the duck pond and darted inside quickly enough to avoid being "identified" as they say in police parliance.
As I sat down to a large bowl of Post Toasties, I chided myself over having performed in a somewhat less than normal capacity since arising from bed. Not only had I forgotten my new "no skipping" policy, but I had also clearly neglected to be on the lookout for errant toasters which could be tripped over. This last mental observation struck me as amusing, and I began to chuckle. The chuckle increased into a guffaw until, before I knew it, I was laughing my head off.
Suddenly I missed my mouth completely and jammed a spoonful of Post Toasties into my left eye, causing me to scream "GAAAAAAA!!!" and fly backwards in my chair and knock my TV set right through a fish tank full of Sea Monkeys. Lying there on the floor afterwards afforded me a chance to reflect upon the utter lack of normality in what I had just allowed to happen, and I vowed to be totally more normal for the rest of the day. I also realized that I hated Post Toasties and would no longer eat them simply because Andy Griffith had told me to way back in 1964.
As I dressed myself, I found it difficult to restrain my excitement over how different my day would be today compared to the chaos and clutter of my former existence. I was so excited, in fact, that I didn't notice I'd already dressed myself earlier and was donning another entirely new set of clothes. Then I discovered that I had actually gotten dressed four times in a row without realizing it. I started to get mad at myself until a thought occurred to me: "Wait a minute...it's NORMAL to make mistakes!"
With a cheery smile, I jauntily clicked my heels first one way and then the other, catching my foot in the mini-blinds cord and getting yanked off my feet upside-down as the cord suddenly reeled all the way in. I hit the wall with a substantial thud, knocking down all my framed pictures in unison and shattering the glass. Hanging there by my foot afforded me yet another moment of reflection, strengthening my resolve to pass the rest of the day in as normal a fashion as humanly possible, until finally the entire window frame gave way and collapsed in a heap of splintery wooden shards and twisted mini-blind slats. Fortunately, my multiple sets of clothing cushioned the fall.
The phone rang as I walked normally toward the front door, and I picked it up. "Hello?" I said, trying to sound like the most normal person I could think of at the moment, which was Raymond Burr. "How can may I to help you?" I winced at my error, which was due, in fact, to my trying TOO hard. I would have to tone it down, I told myself. "How can...help...me you? How--" I sounded like Raymond Burr if he were playing Tonto on drugs. Finally, I just simplified it. "How help?"
It was Mom. "What's the matter with you?" she asked with her usual guarded concern.
"I'm being normal today, Mom," I replied, struggling to maintain a completely placid and mature demeanor. My Raymond Burr voice, fortunately, had transformed into a more functional combination of Merv Griffin and Julia Child. "Normal as hell. I'm going to be the King of Normal today if it kills me. If it kills EVERYBODY!!!" I held the receiver in front of my mouth and screamed into it. "KILL!!! KILL!!! KILL!!!" Then, in a dazzling display of my newfound maturity, I instantly reeled in this somewhat over-the-top outburst and regained my former composure. "Was there something you required of me, Mumsie?"
Mom hesitated, then decided to plunge forward as if nothing had happened. "I just wanted to remind you about Gramps' headstone. You were going to get it redone, remember?"
"Who?" I started to bark, then suddenly remembered. I had been in charge of ordering Gramps' headstone, and had somehow gotten the inscription mixed up. Or rather, had mixed up the slip of paper with the inscription Mom had written on it with my membership card in the "Beavis and Butthead" fan club. Thus--and entirely inadvertently, I still maintain in my own defense--Gramps' headstone had been inscribed, Mom and I discovered upon visiting his final resting place, with the words "Beavis and Butthead Fan Supreme-O!!! Cornholio Rules!!! Woo-Hoo!!!" With some rather nicely-rendered (I thought) portraits of Beavis and Butthead picking their noses on either side.
"Yes, yes," I snapped impatiently, rubbing my throbbing temples. "I'll take care of it. I'LL TAKE CARE OF IT!!!" I had already wound myself up for a nerve-shattering scream of rage before catching myself just in time. "Heh-heh. Anything else?"
"No, no, that's it," she said. "Just try not to end up--you know--on the news or anything." With that, she hung up before any further developments could ensue. I looked at the phone and laughed. It was suddenly the funniest thing I had ever seen. I held it up, grinning like a loon, leering like Death-come-to-dinner, and laughed mightily at the trembling heavens, my chest heaving like the bounding main itself as the Earth and its billowing bowels churned into a phantasmagorical frenzy of doomed hellspawn catastrophes colliding to shatter Eternity.
Suddenly a canary chirped. It occurred to me that I hadn't fed Waldo his birdseed, and in an instant, everything was all right again. Merrily, I skipped--no, WALKED, ha ha--to the birdcage with a box of birdseed in hand, and then, and THEN, I suddenly remembered that I didn't HAVE a canary, and even if I did I wouldn't name it WALDO, and I wasn't really holding a box of birdseed but a BOMB...a TICKING TIME-BOMB!!! And it was set to EXPLODE in FIVE SECONDS!!!
"BOOM!!!" I bellowed heartily, pretending that the explosion had blown me backwards against the wall. Standing there, I giggled at how much fun it was to pretend. But then, straightening up, I forced myself to be serious again and resume my wonderful newfound normalcy. In an extremely dignified manner that I was certain even Mom would be glowingly proud of, I put on my brand-new Bozo the Clown outfit, picked up my "Trick or Treat" bag and my super-soaker filled with finely-aged wolf urine, and strode gracefully toward the front door.
It would be the most normal Halloween ever. Even if I had to KILL!!! KILL!!! KILL!!!
Sunday, October 20, 2013
"Here, kid...the first one's free."
Boy, I wish I had a nickel for every time I've heard that. It's the classic "come-on" of the neighborhood "pusher" (dope dealer), heard on playgrounds across America every minute of every day. Yeah kid, the first one's free, all right, but you pay a price just the same--your soul.
I know, because it happened to me. I was that kid on the playground, getting my first "taste" for free and getting "hooked" (addicted). That's when I started hanging around different playgrounds. Pretty soon, I was showing up at playgrounds all over town until the free samples ran out. I became a master of disguise, passing myself off as different kids so I could keep getting that first "free one."
It wasn't long before I was reduced to wearing wigs and dresses. Ever run into a cute little blonde-haired girl named Sally Finkleman while you were out playing on the swings or the see-saw? That was me. It worked, too, until I was in my mid-thirties and the story about my "glandular condition" began to wear thin. You can't fool anyone forever--not even "hop heads" (chronic drug users).
Pretty soon, the "high" simply wasn't good enough anymore, and I was just itching to make the leap from marijuana to harder drugs. But then, it happened...the thing that changed my life. Saved it, in fact. While channel surfing one afternoon in search of something to "get off on" (enjoy) during my drug-induced "high", I saw my first episode of "Dragnet."
Thanks to Joe Friday, I learned that LSD makes you want to paint your face yellow and blue and bury your head under a vacant lot. Or that people who are "high" often slur their speech so badly that they begin to talk exactly like Merv Griffin's former bandleader, Jack Sheldon. Or that frequent drug users usually become addicted to other things, such as lava lamps and sitar music. And they dress funny, too.
"Dragnet" gave me a lot to think about, but I wasn't ready to give up drugs just yet. Not until the night I dreamed that Joe Friday and Bill Gannon showed up in my livingroom. It seemed as real as anything. There was Joe, in his suit and tie, glaring down at me like I'd just officially announced my membership in the Communist party or something. I knew why they were there, and began my feeble protest. "Look, Pops...I like drugs, and nothing you say is gonna--"
"Listen up, punk," Friday interrupted in his no-nonsense monotone, "because this just might do your sorry ass some good. You think you're unique, special, one-of-a-kind, 'hot stuff'... a young kid, up and coming, fairly good-looking, moderately talented, could probably find his way out of a paper bag, if it were a small bag and he had a map...he gets a break, hits the big time, gets himself invited to the parties, the coffee joints, the opium dens, the rave-ups, the 'love-ins', the turn-ons, the bashes, the crashes, the bath houses...the 'pleasure pits' where the love is free and the only price you pay is your eligibility to become a mailman..."
"...and then one day you get 'turned on' to your first taste of pot, grass, reefer, dope, gage, loco weed, Mary Jane, Lincoln's Birthday...you try a few puffs of 'joint' and then suddenly you go from being an up-and-comer to a down-and-outer...hopped up on happy weed and headed for a one-way trip to Nowheresville on the next cheap bus outta town..."
"...and pretty soon you're a familiar face in every back alley in town because you spend all your time turning tricks with winos for nickels so you can afford your next 'fix'...doing things that would make a dog throw up his guts for just a few more uppers, downers, bennies, dexies, hexies, Richard Nixies, Pixie Stix...boopies, floopies, fuckles, chuckles, schmuckles, feckles, grackles, pickles, poppers, boppers, floppers, door-stoppers...scooters, pooters, freakies, squeakies..."
"Stop it! You're scaring me!" I screamed.
"Yeah, I've seen your kind, kid, I've been a cop long enough to see 'em all...the jerks, the punks, the creeps, the gang-bangers, the pill-poppers, the pud-knockers...not to mention the certified public accountants...and they all had one thing in common."
"What...what's that?" I stammered.
"They all got the first one free." With that, Joe looked over at Bill. Bill nodded, and Joe nodded back, and they both looked at me. I woke up screaming.
And that's why I'll never take another drug. Because I've been there, done that, and suffered the consequences. Oh, I didn't quite hit rock bottom...thanks to a guy named Jack Webb. But I came close enough to feel the fetid breath of doom in my face. And that's why, as I write this, I am totally drunk on my ass on Old Crow Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey. Man, that is some good stuff. And better than any "high" you can get from drugs, let me tell you.
Friday, October 4, 2013
(NOTE: This is an old one so most of these shows aren't even on anymore. So just think of it as a nostalgic trip down memory lane blah blah blah.)
I haven't had cable-TV for two years, and I can't pick up local stations either, so I have no idea what the hell is on TV these days. I haven't even seen a single episode of most of the newer shows. So I've decided to tell you why I hate them anyway.
"American Idol": I hate this show. I actually watched a couple of episodes when it first came on, and it made me want to go on a tri-state killing spree. It's embarrassing to see people get up and try to sing in front of everybody, with the naive idea that they'll sound just like they think they sound when they're singing in front of the mirror at home, which they don't.
Watching them glance around nervously as this realization begins to sink in and the flop sweat starts gushing out of their armpits is just painful, especially when Simon Cowell starts giving them that look that says "I hate you and you should die horribly for wasting this valuable minute of my precious life with your wretched presence, you worthless piece of human garbage."
Even the people who are pretty good are just average. I mean, Kelly Clarkson? Clay Aiken? I could throw flour tortillas at my turntable and it would sound just as good. William Hung? Ha, ha, that was funny for about as long as it took me to start projectile vomiting all over my livingroom. Listening to this crap instead of my very own record collection full of great music would be like saying "T-bone steak? No, thanks--I'm going to fill up on this delicious Halloween candy corn instead."
Simon Cowell is a colossal horse's ass. In fact, I'd love to see his entire head forcibly shoved up an elephant's asshole during halftime at the Super Bowl. Randy Jackson--is he like, the guy from the Jackson Five? I swear I never even made the connection until about two hours ago. He looks like what would happen if Gary Coleman turned into the Hulk. And Paula, I kinda liked that song you did that time. Now go pose for a bunch of naked pictures while you still look good so we'll have them to enjoy after you old out.
"Lost": I hate this show. I've never seen it, but I hate it. "Lost" is the show everybody mentions whenever the conversation turns to television. "Have you seen 'Lost'?" No, I haven't. "Well, you should watch it." Well, you should go have sex with your dog.
I think "Lost" is about some people whose plane crashed on a remote island or something. Gosh, that's original. Except for that show back in the friggin' 60s called "The New People" about some people whose plane crashed on a remote island. Or that show called "Gilligan's Island" about some people whose boat set ground on the shore of a remote island. Or that other movie or TV series about some people who got stranded on a remote island.
Maybe somebody should start "The Remote Island Channel"--they would never run out of programming. "But this show is different", I can hear you saying. Oh my god...I'm hearing voices. I knew this would happen eventually. What was the sales pitch for this thing anyway? "It's CASTAWAY meets AIRPORT meets TWIN PEAKS!!!" Well, how about "me" meets "you" meets "shut up."
"CSI": I hate this show. Or rather, these shows, since this is one of those concepts, like "Law and Order", which was just so great that a single series couldn't contain it. I hate "Law and Order." Somebody should've dropped Shelley Winters on Jerry Orbach while they still had the chance. "Law and Order" is produced by a guy named Dick Wolf. I'd love to see him filling out one of those forms where you have to put your last name first: "Wolf, Dick." He sounds like a gay monster in a porno horror flick. "Oh my god, it's DICK WOLF! RUN!"
Anyway, I watched "CSI" once, so I know that the big draw is that it's about dead people and stuff. Oh boy, can't get enough dead people. Hey, look--dead people! Let's examine them! The star of the show is one of my favorite actors, William Petersen, from two of my favorite movies, TO LIVE AND DIE IN L.A. and MANHUNTER, which most idiots have never even heard of. Now, instead of being known for these great movies, he will be forever known as "the CSI guy."
If I try to mention one of these movies to someone and say that William Petersen is in it, they will invariably say "Oh yeah...he's the guy from 'CSI'" and I will say "SHUT UP!!!" and try to kill them. Until it occurs to me that if I kill them, then a CSI team will be sent out to investigate, which would be genuine irony and not just Alannis Morissette irony like "rain on your wedding day" or something. And I hate irony. It's fun in the movies, but if something ironic happens in real life, it usually sucks.
"Desperate Housewives": No. Just no.
"Dancing With The Stars": I hate this show. This is another one I've never seen, and it makes me glad that I don't have TV and can watch only DVDs and videotapes, because I have a whole bunch of DVDs and videotapes that don't have stars trying to dance, and I can watch hours and hours of fabulous entertainment without even once seeing a star trying to dance.
And if a DVD actually does contain footage of a star trying to dance, there's usually some indication of this on the cover so that I'm forewarned and can run outside real quick and toss it like a Frisbee as hard as I possibly can and try to hit my neighbor's front door across the street so they'll think someone's knocking on their door and go answer it, and if the DVD somehow survives the impact they go "hey, free DVD" and take it inside, and then they have to decide whether to watch the DVD or "Dancing With The Stars" that night, right before I burn their house down. And then a CSI team is sent out to investigate the next day, and I scream "IRONY! YAAAAAAA!!!" and it's just like being in a story O. Henry might have written right after somebody dropped Shelley Winters on him.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
(This is an old one, so when I talk about "this new spam" it's really the old spam.)
I don't understand why this new spam is filled with such ridiculous-sounding names and absurd nonsense phrases. I just got one on Yahoo! mail from a sender named Buford Hendrix, containing a lame sex site link and the message:
What the hell is that supposed to mean? I engage in nonpopery every day, and so does everyone else I know since I don't happen to know any popes. What possible extreme of wanton nonpopery could one possibly engage in for it to be described as "disgustful"? As for the other thing, it's nice to tell someone to do things melodiously, but "forgering" doesn't really lend itself to melodiousness. It isn't even a friggin' verb, for Pete's sake. It's like saying "rhinoceros discreetly" to someone and expecting them to do it.
Oh, and while I was on the dictionary website looking up "forger" to see if there was any possible way to use it as a verb, I also decided to look up "nonpopery" to see if it really meant what I thought it did. Well, it isn't a word, either. "Popery" refers to "the doctrines, practices, and rituals of the Roman Catholic Church" and is described as an "offensive" term. But there's no reference to nonpopery, probably for the same reason there aren't words like nonclownery, nonbrainsurgeonery, or noncrackwhorery. If you aren't acting like a clown, a brain surgeon, or a crackwhore, there simply isn't any need for there to be a word for it. People just don't point at other people and exclaim, "Wow! Get a load of that amazing display of nonpopery! Take a picture, Harry."
I'm going through my current backlog of Outlook Express spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, fan letters, marriage proposals, spam, spam, spam, and spam right now, and the first thing I see is a message from someone named Iorgo Gamaliel with the topic line, "Muscovy diffractometer see flageolet consume sowbelly advisee." Okay, no human being could have invented that line. It must've been churned out by some computer that has been set on "silly." And I don't know why this is supposed to get me all excited to open this particular message, read it, and click on or purchase whatever it's promoting. I don't think I really need a Muscovy diffractometer right now, and I'm not sure I'm interested in anything a sowbelly advisee would have to say while being consumed by a flageolet. Personally, I think Iorgo Gamaliel must be some kind of a nut.
Another message, from a Cletus Mungo, promises "babe gushing Santiago Souza." Okay, I don't want to see a babe gushing Santiago Souza. If I wanted to see a babe gushing something, it sure as hell wouldn't be Santiago Souza. It sounds like either a Mexican wrestler or some kind of spaghetti sauce. Anyway, it strikes me as something a gynecologist would have nightmares about.
Here's one: "Sexy chortlers Russian beauties." Hmm...come to think of it, chortling is kind of sexy. I'd pay to see some Russian beauties chortling, as long as it costs, like, a nickel. But I kinda doubt if whatever shitty website this is promoting has a nickel membership level. Along the same lines, another subject line reads "Sexy overcapitalized Russian beauties." Oh my god, I think I'd pay a whole dime to see that.
Ed Schneider--and who could refuse an offer from a stranger named Ed Schneider?--proclaims "implacable Frigidaire bernadine illusionary district childlike architect christy checkup." Ed, it's taking a monumental effort of willpower to keep me from throwing my life's savings at you just to find out what the hell that means.
Palmer Vanderbilt says, "I'd love to meet you, I am ANGELICA." Well, who are you--Palmer Vanderbilt or ANGELICA? I wouldn't mind meeting someone named Palmer Vanderbilt, just to kick him in the balls. But if I did, ANGELICA would probably beat the crap out of me.
Finally, Imelda Mokienko offers to show me "gorgeous European hoattie gets drilled hard." Well, thank you, Imelda. Nothing like a gorgeous hoattie getting drilled, especially if she's European. And hard, too. I just can't watch porn anymore unless someone gets drilled hard. The harder the better. I was watching some porn with the guys the other day, and I remember saying, "You know, this is pretty good porn, but I just don't think that hoattie is getting drilled hard enough. Don't you have anything with harder drilling in it?" and one guy said "How about 'Drill Hard' starring Bruce Weenis?" and I said "Oh, boy! Yay!" I didn't really--I'm just being sarcastic.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Well, with Halloween fast approaching again as it always does roughly this time of year, I was sitting around trying to think of some fun things to do to celebrate. I really had my "thinking cap" on as I sat watching INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS for the 739th time, when suddenly it occurred to me that a really fun Halloween thing to do would be to kill Hitler!
I quickly realized, of course, that it was too late to do that, and then I was proud of myself for realizing this so fast instead of wasting a lot of valuable time trying to act upon my impulsive idea like I did last Halloween when I tried to save the Titanic from sinking and got sued by James Cameron.
That was the day I discovered a valuable lesson in life: no matter how bad you really, really want something, you can't always get it because James Cameron is just waiting to crush your dreams because he's so mean. He'll probably sue me for libel just for saying that, too, so I'd better go ahead and retract it right now and say that James Cameron is nice. Really, really nice. (WINK!)
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Saturday, September 7, 2013
One day, Vin Diesel suddenly appeared in my mind unannounced and hijacked a rumination I was having about Harvey Lembeck. So, consequently, here are some of my thoughts about Vin Diesel.
I have noticed that Vin Diesel has a human body. He is anatomically similar to most, if not all, human beings, in that his body functions in the same way that most human bodies do.
Vin Diesel has a head. Like most humans, his head is on the end of his neck. Human evolution seems to favor this location for the head.
Vin Diesel does not use barking as a means of communication, as dogs and seals do. I have noticed that he uses a form of human language instead -- specifically, English. He could probably simulate barking, but it is unlikely that he would be able to communicate with dogs or seals in this way, or at least not in any substantive detail.
Vin Diesel portrays fictional characters in movies. Someday, perhaps, he will portray actual historical figures, such as Benjamin Franklin or Millard Fillmore. It would be interesting to see a movie about Millard Fillmore that was advertised with the line, "Vin Diesel IS Millard Fillmore."
Vin Diesel cannot swallow an adult rhinoceros. If you have a photograph of him doing so, it has probably been photoshopped.
Vin Diesel has never hosted "Masterpiece Theater" on PBS. If he ever did host this show, many television critics would probably have a knee-jerk reaction such as the following: "Vin Diesel as host of 'Masterpiece Theater'? What an inappropriate choice for PBS to have made."
If they ever make a movie about the life of Vin Diesel, I do not think that Vin Diesel would be a good choice for the title role. I think that it would be more interesting to cast someone like Paris Hilton or Ron Howard as Vin Diesel. Vin Diesel himself could portray his mother, Mrs. Diesel. This would be more likely to garner him a major acting award.
If you were one of Vin Diesel's scalp hairs, it would be a hollow and meaningless existence. Every time you tried to grow past his scalp-line, he would simply shave you off. Then you would just sit around waiting to try again, knowing that when you did, he would shave you off again. What if his scalp hairs gave up and stopped trying to emerge from his head? They would probably build up around his skull until his head began to expand. Then one day the pressure might cause an explosive blast of hair from both of his ears, causing him to sport dual ear-Afros.
Thank you for allowing me to lend voice to my thoughts about Vin Diesel.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
One day, the phone rang as I was eating a bowl of popcorn and watching a Roy Rogers movie. Being the basically decent person that I am, I answered it, and immediately some guy started in with a breathlessly smarmy sales pitch.
"HI! Don't hang up!" he barked. "I have a special offer just for you!"
"Oh, yeah?" I shot back. "Well, I have a special offer just for you--SHUT UP!"
Satisfied that I had put the idiot in his place, I started to hang up. But then I discovered that my scathing putdown hadn't even fazed him.
"For a brief time only, you are eligible to receive a grand prize! But don't delay! Respond today!"
"Listen, stupid," I retorted. "If you don't shut up right now, I won't delay--in KICKING YOUR BUTT!"
Well, it was as though this colossal turd couldn't even hear me. In fact, he didn't even pause to listen while I was talking. Boy, that made me so mad.
He just kept on blabbing away. "You can choose between two great offers--ten thousand dollars in cash, OR...an all-expenses-paid weekend vacation on beautiful Lake Schwartz, deep within the heart of the scenic Shmendrick Mountains!"
Ah-HA! So that's what it was--one of those scams where they offer you a vacation somewhere and you have to go to some kind of seminars or take a tour of a bunch of real estate they're trying to unload or something. "I'll bet there's no way I'm going to be able to choose that ten-thousand dollars instead," I cunningly deduced. And I was also firmly convinced that this "beautiful" Lake Schwartz was probably some mosquito-infested swamp with bloodthirsty hillbillies running around in the woods.
With all this mental ammunition locked and loaded, I geared up to let this guy have it with both barrels. "I'll bet that stupid lake is just some mosquito-infested--"
"You're probably wondering how we can make such an amazing offer to you at this time!" the guy interrupted.
"No, I'm not!" I countered. "I couldn't care--"
"Of course you are!" he affirmed. "Well, it's because we here at Feldman-Shapiro Industries Of America Incorporated (Limited) are in a position to offer you with no money down for a limited time only and totally without any hidden fees or obligations whatsoever this one-time-only deal of a lifetime of such incredibly astounding proportions--"
"SHUT UP!!!" I screamed. "SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUUUT UUUPPPP!!!"
"--that you will someday be telling your grandchildren about--"
"I'LL KILL YOU IF YOU DON'T SHUT UP!!!"
"--from the luxurious comfort of your very own three-story mansion on the shores of the beautiful Lake Schwartz--"
That did it. For an undetermined period of time, I lost my mind and went on a rampage. Only by observing the aftermath later on could I begin to piece together what I had done during that time. Apparently, I had grabbed a can opener, opened up several cans of whole-kernel corn, blackeyed peas, string beans, and spinach, found a bottle of Elmer's Glue, and created a huge mosaic of David Hasselhoff naked on horseback on my livingroom wall. I had also fried three dozen eggs "over easy" and sailed them like Frisbees at a crudely-drawn target with the words "Jolly Egg-Toss Game" scrawled over it in Cheese Whiz.
I still can't explain why I was wearing a rather shameless tube-top/miniskirt combo and some of those clear platform heels, or why my dog Buddy was also wearing the exact same outfit. And to this day, a drunken Alec Baldwin keeps calling me in the middle of the night, blubbering, "Why, Babs? Why won't you return my calls?"
Well, needless to say, the whole thing has forever tainted my enjoyment of watching "Night Rider", "Baywatch", or "The Roy Rogers Show." And I can't even look at Alec Baldwin anymore without thinking of fried eggs and, for some reason, Twizzlers. So whenever the phone rings these days and it's a telemarketer, I just politely--yet firmly--tell them that those hillbillies out at Lake Schwartz are going to have to find somebody else to squeal like a pig, and hang up.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
If there's one thing I hate more than anything else in the whole world, it's work. Okay, I don't hate it quite as much as terrorism or distributing free bestiality porn to every fifth customer at Disneyland. Or getting killed. But I hate it a lot, more than just about anything else, including pictures of Larry King in a Speedo. Just writing this paragraph was work, and I hated it.
When I was a kid, my dad always bugged me to mow the lawn and trim the hedge and all sorts of other tiring, strenuous chores. Why the hell would I want to do those things when I could be lying around the livingroom under the air-conditioner, watching TV? It was stupid and thoughtless to expect me to do anything else. Phrases like "earning my keep" and "pulling my weight" popped up now and then, but I blithely ignored them. This line of reasoning was, of course, ridiculous. I "earned my keep" simply by existing--by being me, wonderful me.
"What--you think the world OWES you a living?" I've often heard. Well, yes. This may not apply to others, and in fact I don't really think it does. Other people SHOULD work, because if they didn't, I would be deprived of most, if not all, of the essential goods and services that are required to amuse me and occupy my leisure time in fun and interesting ways. Somebody has to drive the truck that delivers the TV and other entertainment items which provide me with hours of viewing enjoyment. Someone has to labor in the fields and factories to produce the tasty food and beverages that I consume. And since the world owes me these and so many other things, which I so generously repay with my very presence, a considerable amount of work must be performed by others in order to provide them. This is a system that has operated successfully for decades, and I see no reason to risk changing it now.
Some have questioned my apparent lack of what they quaintly refer to as a "work ethic." I usually don't hear them, thank goodness, but occasionally I put the porn DVD on "pause" so I can go into the kitchen to get a delicious snack of some kind, and snippets of their dull bleating about work filter through. "Work ethic?" I repeat quizzically, considering the implications of such a concept with ill-disguised disgust as I deftly create a delicious baloney and cheese sandwich with mustard and pickles on toasted wheat bread. "Why in the tin-plated, coal-burning hell would I want to have one of those?"
They blather something about how doing a hard day's work makes one "feel good." Well, that's just poppycock. Work doesn't make me feel good--goofing off and being a total slacker makes me feel good. Great, in fact. Nothing gives me that glorious "top o' the world" feeling more than reaching the end of a long day, looking back, and realizing that I have done absolutely nothing productive whatsoever. Sure, maintaining this level of inactivity can be rather tiring at times. But it's a "good tired."
Well, I've written five whole paragraphs so far and I think I've earned a well-deserved rest. But I do want to say one additional thing before I head for the recliner, grab the remote, and do what I do so well, which is nothing. I often think about all the people who are even now working away to provide me with sustenance and entertainment, making it possible for me to indulge in a totally sedentary and non-productive lifestyle, and it behooves me to point out that a word of "thanks" is in order. But really, there's no need for you to thank me. My reward is simply knowing that my wonderful presence provides so many people with the inspiration to "keep up the good work!"
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Once there was a cow named Jeff.
Old Farmer Brown spent all of his worldly fortune on a giant cannon, and as soon as it was delivered, he shoved Jeff the cow into the front end of the cannon and then pointed it upward at a forty-five degree angle. It was already packed with an enormous amount of gunpowder and the fuse was all ready to go. So Farmer Brown struck a match on the bottom of his old work shoe and lit the fuse. Then he scampered behind a tree, turned on the video camera he had mounted on a tripod, and stuck his fingers in his ears.
BOOM! Was that cannon loud! With a flash of blinding light and a cloud of smoke, Jeff the cow rocketed out of the cannon and soared high in the air above the farm, end over end, as his terrified moos reverberated thoughout the countryside. Old Farmer Brown raised his gnarled fists into the air and croaked, "Whoopee! Now I can sell this tape on them thar Intranets and make me a million dollars! YEE-HAA!"
ENDING #1: But little did Farmer Brown suspect that "Jeff the cow" was actually an agent for the SPCA, working undercover at the farm after an anonymous tip-off had alerted the organization to Old Farmer Brown's nefarious plans. The undercover agent, whose real name was Floyd Baxter, jettisoned his cow costume and pulled the ripcord of his parachute.
On his way down he radioed his associates, who promptly swept down on the farm and arrested Farmer Brown, confiscating the tape. But Old Farmer Brown had one last trick up his sleeve. Right before they handcuffed him, he unzipped his old man suit and stepped out of it, and, to everyone's surprise, he was really Paris Hilton.
ENDING #2: As Old Farmer Brown celebrated his good fortune, Jeff the cow continued his gradual descending arc toward the nearby town. He flew through a flock of birds and startled them terribly. Then he spied a building below which was growing closer and closer. It was the Sunnyrest Old Folks' Home.
The old folks were all gathered in the day room watching the only channel they could pick up on TV, which currently featured a black-and-white Mexican soap opera from the early 70s entitled "Simplemente Maria." One of the old folks turned to another one of the old folks and lamented, "Boy, I sure wish something exciting would happen around here once in a while."
One second later Jeff the cow crashed through the wall, took out the TV, and plowed through the old folks like a bowling ball crashing through tenpins. Wheelchairs, folding chairs, and old people were scattered all over the room. The ones who were still conscious looked up at the cow, who was staggering to its feet.
"It's...it's a COW!" one of them cried in disbelief.
"Well, not exactly..." came a human voice. The front zipper was unzipped, the cow suit fell away, and a human being stepped out of it. "Surprise!" he beamed, spreading his hands with a grand flourish. It was David Hasselhoff.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
(NOTE: This is an old one, so when it says "last week" it really means a pretty long time ago, and it also refers to some titles that I haven't reposted here yet so you won't know what the heck I'm talking about when I mention them.)
Last week I wrote about "PORFLE VS. MORE IRRITATING SAYINGS" because I couldn't think of anything else to write about, so I just wrote some more about irritating sayings, which I had already done a couple of months ago. A while back I wrote about "PORFLE VS. SPAM", so this week I thought about doing "PORFLE VS. MORE SPAM." But damn it, I didn't have anything else to say about spam.
Let's see...I've already written about John Wilkes Booth, so I don't think "PORFLE VS. MORE JOHN WILKES BOOTH" would give me all that much to talk about. I don't really know a heck of a lot about John Wilkes Booth anyway. To tell you the truth, I made most of that other stuff up in the first place. I know it's hard to believe, but I don't always put 100% factual information in these things. I've found that researching facts is a lot harder than just making stuff up and pretending it's true.
I've already said pretty much all I wanted to say about babies, cows, Ensign Chekov, sexual organs, and the Bee Gees. I can't do "PORFLE VS. MORE BEE GEES" because there aren't any more Bee Gees. There's really no point in crabbing about Aunt Bee again, because I already blew her head off with a shotgun in the last one. And I can't do "PORFLE VS. OCCAM'S OTHER RAZOR" since, as far as I know, Occam only had one razor. I think he was one of those one-hit wonders who make it big and then disappear, like Chilliwack or the guys who sang "Brandy."
I guess I could talk about "PORFLE VS. ONE-HIT WONDERS", but I don't really have anything against them. In fact, I sort of like a lot of them. After all, each and every one of them has exactly one more big Top 40 hit than I have so far. I'm not too crazy about "Billy, Don't Be a Hero" by Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods, though. And "Don't Pull Your Love Out On Me, Baby" by Hamilton, Joe Frank, and Reynolds just makes me want to rip all my clothes off and run naked through a Family Dollar store screaming "GAH!!! PRUNES!!!"
But if I ever ran into Hamilton, Joe Frank, and Reynolds and made fun of them for coming out with such a crappy song, they'd probably just say "Well, let's hear your big million-selling hit song, smarty-pants" and I'd shuffle my feet and mumble "Uhhh...errr...I don't have one, heh, actually" and they'd all point and laugh at me. While they were laughing, their faces would start swirling around in my vision like when Carrie got the pig's blood dumped on her at the prom, and I'd hear Miss Collins' voice saying "Trust me, porfle...you can trust me" and the school principal saying "We're all very sorry about this...PORKLE" and Hamilton, Joe Frank, and Reynolds chanting "PLUG IT UP! PLUG IT UP!" And since I don't have any telekinetic powers, I wouldn't even be able to unleash some really cool, horrible revenge on them. Just about the only thing I would be able to do is shake my fists at them and scream, "SHUT UP!!!"
I still can't think of anything to write about, and now I've got "and the sailors say Brandy, you're a fine girl" stuck in my head. I kinda like it, though. It's not running-naked-through-Family-Dollar irritating, not like that awful Hamilton, Joe Frank, and Reynolds song. The last time I had that thing stuck in my head I got drunk for three days and woke up under the hair dryer at my local laundrymat, wearing a Supergirl costume. Actually, I didn't...I just made that up. See? I make a lot of this stuff up.
One bad thing about it is that the location of my computer where I write this stuff affords me a clear view into the kitchen, where there's a big bag of dog food leaning against the wall with the words "DOG FOOD" printed in big letters across the front. So every time I look around trying to think of something to write, I see the label on the bag and think, "DOG FOOD." Those two words loom prominently in the front of my mind, blocking off everything else that I'm trying to think about. DOG FOOD.
After awhile the words begin to lose all meaning, especially when I start to repeat them over and over in my mind. DOG FOOD. DOG FOOD. It starts to sound like some strange heathen chant, or maybe a mysterious form of Oriental martial arts. DOG FOOD. Then I begin to imagine Steven Seagal facing off against a gang of thugs, and he glares menacingly at them and mumbles, "Don't mess with me, punks. I know...DOG FOOD." And then he gives it to 'em, chunky-style.
So, I guess I've got enough written by now to qualify as a complete whatever-it-is that I write, so I'll just slap the title "PORFLE VS. WRITER'S BLOCK" on it and call it done. (Some folks call it "incompetence", I call it "writer's block", mmm-hmm.) I did the same thing the last time I couldn't think of anything to write about, only then I wrote about how I didn't care about anything enough to write about it and called it "PORFLE VS. ENNUI." You'll know I've really hit a brick wall when I come out with "PORFLE VS. MORE WRITER'S BLOCK." Or worse, "PORFLE VS. DOG FOOD."
Seriously, not having cable TV anymore has really cut down on the things I have to be openly hostile about. Lately I seem to be filled with a raging, all-consuming tolerance that has plunged my entire life into a churning maelstrom of complacency. And it's tearing me apart.
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
So many of the other animals and even insects have been represented by superheroes -- Batman, Catwoman, Spiderman, Wolverine, The Tick, etc. -- but to my knowledge, there has never been a Dog Man. Why not?
Do super-heroes have some unspoken understanding amongst themselves to never, as Oprah would say, "go there"? Was there a Dog Man at some time in the distant past who was such a great superhero that when he finally quit, they retired his name? Or is it just that, for some reason, the name "Dog Man" sounds sort of dumb?
If there truly were a Dog Man, he would have several positive traits that would make him an exemplary superhero. He would be able to "sniff out" criminals and track them down right to their secret lairs. He would be able to mark the entire city as his territory, as if to say: "Evildoers--stay out!" He would be loyal and faithful. And he would be your best friend.
Is Batman your best friend? No, he's Superman's best friend. Is Superman your best friend? No, he's Jimmy Olsen's best friend. Basically, we're all just nameless "citizens" to them. But Dog Man? He would love us all unconditionally and jump up and down in paroxysms of unrestrained joy every time he saw us. In fact, unlike most superheroes, Dog Man would actually lick us!
Dog Man would have lots of really cool weapons and other crimefighting devices, such as the Dog-a-rang and the Dogmobile. Batman has his crummy old Batcave; Dog Man's base of operations would be the fabulous Dog House. And he would replenish his amazing dog powers every day by eating a big bowl of radioactive Gravy Train.
A Milk-Bone flavor snack, also bathed in nourishing radiation, would serve as a quick pick-me-up for the Canine Crusader before going into battle against some super-criminal's henchmen. And everyday citizens would know that they were being protected by the incredible Dog Man whenever they looked up at the night sky and saw the awe-inspiring Dog Signal beckoning their hero to City Hall.
Since those who deal in crime are basically a cowardly lot, Dog Man's bark itself would be enough to strike fear into their black hearts. His growl alone would cause them to wet their pants. The mere sight of the mysterious dog shadow sweeping across a wall would send them fleeing in terror, as would the unmistakable aroma of Dog Man's distinctive, musky dog smell as he marked his territory in the name of justice.
Honest, law-abiding citizens, on the other hand, would react to such indications by proudly proclaiming: "I love the smell of Dog Man in the morning!"
Monday, August 19, 2013
"Hey, cows!" shouted Farmer Shapiro.
The cows in the pasture raised their heads sluggishly and looked in his general direction.
"Cows! Oh, cows!"
The cows squinted at the hazily familiar figure in the distance, vaguely attempting to fathom its curious utterances.
"Cows!" Farmer Shapiro repeated. "Din-din time!"
Most of the cows had absolutely no idea what was going on, and the rest of them had already forgotten that something was indeed going on. One cow toyed briefly with the idea of saying "moo" but quickly discarded the notion when his attention was diverted by a flock of vampire bats fluttering by overhead.
"Din-din time! Yip-yip!" shouted Farmer Shapiro.
There was still no response from the cows. Twilight descended rapidly over the countryside, casting a pall upon the proceedings.
"Din-din time! Yip-YIPPEE!"
"Yip-YIPPEE!" wafted listlessly on the breeze toward the cows. As they stood motionlessly in their stupor, hooves sinking gradually into the soft, marshy earth, "Yip-YIPPEE!" swirled into their aural passages and began to echo back and forth across their dense, bovine minds. Although there was something very familiar about the sound, the cows just couldn't seem to pin it down. Eventually, "Yip-YIPPEE!" faded off into the dark, silent recesses of their sodden brains and the cows were right back where they started. That is, all except for one, whose name was Lenny.
Farmer Shapiro shuffled restlessly as he waited for a response. Being a farmer, he had to deal with cows every day, and he often found himself wishing they were considerably smarter.
Meanwhile, Lenny the cow was mentally struggling to put two and two together. "Yip-YIPPEE!", he seemed to recall, almost always preceeded something good. Something like...DIN-DIN TIME!
"MOO!" bellowed Lenny as he hopped up and down in the mud, ecstatic over his mental triumph. "MOO!"
The other cows were taken aback by this startling display. They peered foggily at Lenny and tried to figure out what terrible thing could be happening to him to cause him to behave in such an atypical manner. Then, like a bolt of lightning, it hit them. Could this mean...?
Ethel the cow stepped forward tentatively. "Moo?" she asked.
"MOO!" Lenny affirmed frantically.
The other cows were catching on as a wave of excitement swept over the herd. "MOO!" they howled in unison, jumping up and down.
Farmer Shapiro sprang to attention and slapped his thigh joyfully. "DIN-DIN TIME!" he cried. "YIP-YIPPEE!"
"YIP-YIPPEE!" was now a clarion call which thundered across the pasture and pierced the dusky veil of the cows' collective intelligence. With an ever-increasing fervor they glanced amongst themselves to see who was going to make that first decisive move. It was Lenny. With one last leap high into the air he dug his hooves into the earth and propelled himself forward.
Farmer Shapiro was beside himself. "Come on, cows!" he screamed. "COME ON, COWS!"
Now the entire herd was on the move, with Lenny leading the way. The rumble of hooves filled the air as they stormed onward, mooing with an almost frightening intensity. Every last one of them was now fully aware of what was going on, and it seemed as though nothing could stop them from reaching their goal. DIN-DIN TIME, they thought resolutely as the shadowy figure of Farmer Shapiro grew closer with each forward bound. YIP-YIPPEE!
Farmer Shapiro was jumping up and down himself by this time. He threw his hat high into the air and shrieked, "COME ON, COWS!"
Suddenly Ethel the cow slipped on a banana peel that Farmer Shapiro had carelessly dropped the day before. Tumbling head over heels, her considerable forward momentum launched her with blinding speed toward the watering hole. She came down with a mighty splash, her bulky bovine mass settling deeply into the mud. Legs flailing desperately, Ethel struggled in vain against the powerful suctional force. She was stuck.
"Oh, no!" cried Farmer Shapiro in shock. "ETHEL!"
The other cows witnessed Ethel's fate but could not be stopped. Steadfastly, they barreled onward with even greater determination. Farmer Shapiro was proud of them. "Come on, cows!" he cried. "You can do it!"
At that moment three of the cows, Bossie, Flossie, and Howard, let out a piercing wail as the ground disappeared from beneath them and they flew headlong into a long-forgotten trap Farmer Shapiro had dug way back in World War II just in case his farm might be invaded by enemy spies on the prowl.
"Dadburn it! I should've filled those things in forty years ago!" he chided himself. "COME ON, COWS!"
There was a muffled rumbling in the distance. Bimbo the cow, travelling apart from the rest of the herd, was much too intent on her immediate concerns to notice it even as it grew closer with each passing millisecond. Then it was too late.
"WATCH OUT, BIMBO!" Farmer Shapiro warned breathlessly.
With terrifying abruptness, the recently-derailed 7:45 freight train from Wyoming rocketed across Bimbo's path and scooped her up in its cowcatcher. Secured firmly to the front of the train by centrifugal force, the extremely perplexed Bimbo found herself careening toward the distant horizon at tremendous velocity. The 7:45 from Wyoming thundered off into the twilight in a cloud of dust and smoke as Farmer Shapiro watched helplessly.
"COME ON, COWS!" he wailed, not noticing the formation of flying saucers which hovered silently over the pasture.
Mbxwjklf locked in the final computer coordinates and turned to his commanding officer. "We are now ready to commence abduction of the Earth creatures for observation," he announced.
"You may proceed," said flight captain Kbljdrrp.
The transport beam flickered to life and quickly zeroed in on a cow named Fred. He suddenly became weightless and began to drift rapidly upward toward one of the alien craft, disappearing through an aperture in its underside. Presently, several more cows began to follow suit.
"HEY! Come back with my cows!" Farmer Shapiro shouted angrily. The alien formation emitted a green glow and heedlessly zipped away at the speed of light.
Farmer Shapiro watched the flying saucers depart and then looked out across the pasture. There was only one cow left.
"COME ON, LENNY!" he screamed as if there were no tomorrow. "DIN-DIN TIME! YIP-YIPPEE!"
Lenny pressed onward with more resolve than ever before. DIN-DIN TIME echoed like an air-raid siren throughout his brain. YIP-YIPPEE seared the very fabric of his being. The ground flew by swiftly under his hooves, his destination mere seconds away.
It was then that Farmer Shapiro's fairy godmother appeared. She materialized by the feed trough, waving her magic wand. In a sweet little tinkling voice she said, "Hello, Farmer Shapiro! I'm your fairy godmother, and I'm here to grant you your one fondest wish in life!"
Lenny collided with her and they both flew over the feed trough and crashed into the side of the barn. When the dust settled, Lenny was sprawled out in a pile of manure with two little fairy feet sticking out from under him. He was groggy but that didn't keep him from spying the feed trough, filled to capacity with oats. "MOO!" he bellowed with unrestrained glee as he staggered to his feet.
Horrified, Farmer Shapiro rushed to the scene. "Fairy godmother!" he cried, shaking her vigorously. "Are you all right? Speak to me!"
When her vision finally cleared she glared at him indignantly. "Am I all right?" she retorted. "You just dropped a cow on me, you jerk! Forget this noise!" She disappeared in a puff of smoke.
Farmer Shapiro blinked his eyes and stood up. With a sigh, he ambled slowly over to a fencepost and leaned back, gazing out over the darkened countryside. Then he looked over at Lenny, who was munching contentedly on his oats.
"I wish I had a million dollars," he said.
"Dadburn you, Lenny!" said Farmer Shapiro.