skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Hello! How are you? I am feeling grateful for all of your good advice regarding this Damien situation. (If you're just joining us, I'm mad at my "friend" Damien for tricking me into giving up second base on my softball team, and so I asked everybody to help me decide how to re-trick him back.) Based on your comments, many of you think I should either hit him hard with plagues of locusts (Which is an impossibility… what am I? The Aquaman of locusts?) or "turn the other cheek." That probably would be the "Christian" thing to do. Luckily for me, I'm not a Christian. As far as I'm concerned, Christianity is just some weird religion people made up about a bunch of fibs that other Christians said I did. I don't even know what "turn the other cheek" means. That's why I'm voting for… TRICKERY! (Thanks for your ideas, though, and I really do like you.)
So here's how the trickery is going to work, okay? All I have to do is find something that Damien wants more than second base, right? And that's a pizza date with Trudy, the bank teller (she works at the bank)! As previously mentioned in this blog, he really digs "Trudy's booty" (his French, not mine), and so I called him up and asked him flat out: "Damien, if I convince Trudy to go out on a pizza date with you, can I have second base back?"
And he was all like, "Ummmmmmmmmmmmm… okay."
"YAY!!!"
"On one condition…"
"Oh-oh…."
"Not only do I get a pizza date with Trudy," Damien said, "She also has to kiss me on the mouth."
"NO PROBLEM," I said. This is gonna be easy!
Although as it turned out, it wasn't so easy, because a) The softball game is this Sunday, and the pizza date would have to be tomorrow night, and b) Trudy thinks Damien is gross. In fact, when I brought up the idea at the mall food court today, she gave me this funny look like I had hurt her feelings or something. Why? I HAVE NO IDEA. All we're doing is tricking Damien into thinking she likes him. Besides, she had no problem sticking her finger in my mouth (see my earlier blog post) so why is it such a big deal to eat a slice with Damien and peck him on the lips? After all, second base is at stake.
Anyway, she said she'd do it, and then left suddenly saying she had to get back to work.
What a gal, am I right? That is the true meaning of friendship, people, and if you'd do well to remember the kindness Trudy extended to me, and imitate her in your daily life. (In fact, they should make up a new religion called "Trudyism.") Anyway, I definitely owe Trudy a big favor for this one, so the next time we meet for lunch, I'll buy her a Hot Dog on a Stick.
Big date's tomorrow! Stay tuned to see how it all works out! Oh, second base, I can already feel you underneath my cleated feet!
Hey. What's up. I'M MAD. And I'm mad at Damien! He's what you call a "feelings hurter," and I'm the one whose feelings he hurt. I've mentioned him before. He's the guy who works at Trudy's (she's a bank teller) bank, and plays on my softball team. Now as you know, I used to play second base, and I was good at it too! But Damien told the coach I would be a better shortstop, so I switched positions, and Damien took second. But as it turned out, I stunk at shortstop, so Coach demoted me to catcher—and Damien stayed on second! At the time Trudy told me Damien had planned the whole thing in order to get second, and he does tricky things like that all the time. I didn't believe her, but after what happened today? I'm thinking he's a real… a real… CREEP! (Pardon my French.)
Today at practice, I was catching and the batter hit a foul tip which cracked me right in the nose. (It didn't hurt as bad as two spikes through the wrists, but still….) Anyway, I decided I'd had enough. I went to Damien and was all like, "Damien. I like you. And I've been thinking a lot about it, and I like playing second base better."
And Damien was all like, "I see why you feel that way. Second base is awesome!"
And I was all like, "Right… but I really want to play second base. Can you please give it back to me?"
And he was all like, "Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm… no."
"No?"
"Uh, yeah. I'm thinking… no."
And I was like, "But I want it."
And he was like, "Well, you can suck me." (PARDON HIS FRENCH!!)
Frankly I was speechless. Nobody ever speaks to me that way! But then it got worse.
"Look, Jesus. You're a nice kid," he said. "So why don't you turn around and walk your sweet little butt (Pardon him again!) back to homeplate. And remember… you catch the ball with your glove, not your nose. Dork."
I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO ANGRY IN MY LIFE! (Not even after the spikes through the wrists thingy.) I just ran off the field, hopped on my bike and rode home as fast as possible. I don't like hating people, but you know what? I think I may hate Damien. In fact I think I might hate him so much that I want to GET HIM. Like, really get him!
That's where YOU come in.
I need a really tricky trick that will get me my second base back. But I'm not so good at trickery, so can you help me trick Damien into giving me second base back? It's got to be super clever, because he's good at spotting tricks. Please write your trick ideas in the comments section below. I know I don't ask you for help very much, and it feels weird. But Damien is a feelings hurter and he hurt my feelings. Please help me hurt Damien back.
How are you doing? As for me, I've decided to get "jiggy with it." I was very surprised to learn over this past weekend that I'm a big fan of Will Smith's music. Especially his rap music! Have you ever heard his rap? Quite impressive. However, apparently everyone doesn't think so. I played softball yesterday with Damien (he's the guy who Trudy accused of stealing my second base position), and he pooh-poohed Will Smith. "Oh, that guy hasn't done crap (Pardon his French) since he stabbed Jazzy Jeff in the back," said Damien.
"He killed Jazzy Jeff?" I asked.
"NO! Will Smith became a big TV and movie star, and kicked Jazzy Jeff to the curb!"
"He kicked Jazzy Jeff?"
For some reason Damien gets exasperated by our conversations, and once again he walked away. Regardless, I "wikied" Will Smith, and there's no mention of him killing or kicking Jazzy Jeff, therefore I still like him. Here are my favorite "Big Willie" rap numbers in descending order from the songs I like the most to the songs I like the least, which I guess is what "descending order" means.
1) "Wild, Wild West"—I really like this song the best, because he tells the entire story of the movie in the song, thereby saving me the $1.99 rental fee. Plus it also has that guy Sisco who sang the "Thong, thong, thong, thong, thong" song.
2) "Gettin' Jiggy With It"—It's important in this day and age to remember to get jiggy with things. Anything one does can be improved upon by adding jigginess, and the absence of jiggiosity is a sad thing indeed.
3) "Summertime"—This one has Jazzy Jeff in it (pre-kicked)! Plus it has great lines like, "Riding around in your jeep or your benzos/ Or in your nissan stting on lorenzos." Do you have any idea what that means? I don't. And yet? I love it!
4) "Miami"—This is a very fun song to sing, because it has Mexican language in it! There's this one part where he sings, "Welcome to Miami," and then this pretty-sounding girl sings, "BENVENIDOSAMIYAMI!" I say this phrase a lot, and I've never even been to "Mi Yami!"
5) "Parents Just Don't Understand"— Big Willy? You really speak the truth on this one. My dad is especially frustrating. One day I was at the mall with Trudy (she's a bank teller), and my dad spotted us going into Hot Topic. And he actually yelled down the concourse, "JESUS!! JESUS H. CHRIST!! You don't need anything from that store!" I mean, how would he know what I need, or what I don't need? I totally wanted a Green Day t-shirt from Hot Topic. What? IS THAT SOME KIND OF STUPID SIN OR SOMETHING? Anyway, whatever. So to all you kids all across the land? Ain't no need to argue, parents just don't understand.
That's all I have to say about that, except for two things in descending order from least important to most important: 1) Jazzy Jeff was not killed or kicked by Will Smith, and 2) Life is better when you got "Big Willy style all in it." GET JIGGY WITH IT!
Hello, how are you? I'm wicked busy. I've got a huge Memorial day weekend planned, and that means a lot of preparation! I'm glad Monday's a holiday or I'd be in trouble. Actually, since I don't work, it doesn't really matter if Monday's a holiday or not. Anyway, I can still be busy though, right? RIGHT! Here's what I'm doing this weekend:
1) Karen (that's my lamb) stinks. So I'm taking her to the salon for a wash/cut and a mani/pedi.
2) Read a Captain America comic.
3) Work on my non-fiction novel wherein I debunk a bunch of bible stories.
4) Skateboard!
5) Take Grandma Christ to her bingo game. BOOOOORING!
6) Learn all the words to that song, "I like the cars—the cars that go BOOM!"
7) Spend an entire day speaking like Fat Albert.
8) Remove all the energy-efficient light bulbs from my house. They suck. (Pardon my French.)
9) Stage a fight between my rubber dinosaur and my Jar Jar Binks figurine.
10) You know those joke cans of peanuts where snakes pop out? I want to make a joke can of snakes where peanuts pop out.
11) Eat three boxes of Popeye's chicken.
12) Challenging Trudy to an Indian leg wrestling match, and then defending myself against the name's inherent racism.
13) Rent Patrick Swayze's Roadhouse, and laugh, and laugh, and laugh!
14) Rock out to the Spice Girls.
15) Chase a car while barking like a dog. Have you ever done this? It's wicked fun!16) Stilt walking!
17) Call everyone on the Mo-Mu page of the phone book, and tell them I like them.
18) Look at my collection of postcards that depict monkeys eating meatballs.
19) Floss.
20) Remember that every day can be really fun — especially those that start at the mall.
Have a great weekend, everybody!
Hello. And you are fine, I trust? Excellent. Yesterday we talked about the intrinsic power of "the high five." Today, we talk about how life is better when you wear a cape. (By the way, I'm practicing to be a "motivational speaker." Remember when I said I needed to make a little extra money to buy Captain Janeway figurines from the Star Trek: Voyager show? This is how I intend to do it. I'm gonna dream up a bunch of different ways for people to feel better, then I'm going to travel around from Holiday Inn conference room to Holiday Inn conference room, charging people for my awesome ideas. I won't charge you, though, because I like you, and I don't believe in charging my friends to make them happy.)
Where was I? Oh, yes! Life is better when you wear a cape. Example: Today I said to myself, "I'm going to wear a cape." So I did. And not a big dumb go-t0-the-opera cape, but a cute red "Look at me, I'm Superman" cape. And since I had some extra fabric, I also made a tiny cape for Karen (that's my lamb). Then we went down to the mall, and and ran up and down the concourse with our capes flowing behind us! It felt great!
That is, until Jasper (he's the mall security guy) came along.
"Jesus," he said with more than a note of exasperation in his voice. "What are you doing?"
"Karen and I are FLYING!" I yelled. "See ya!!"
"Hold on there, Jesus," he said. "You can't fly in the mall."
"We aren't really flying, Jasper. You can see that, can't you?"
"Well, you also can't run around acting like a crazy person, either," he said.
"Umm… why not?"
"Because this is the MALL. Crazy isn't allowed here."
As we later learned, "crazy" also isn't allowed in the grocery store, car dealerships, and funeral homes. But you know what? That didn't stop Karen and myself. We went to the park jogging track and hid in the bushes. Then when someone would jog by, we'd sneak out… and then RUN PAST THEM REALLY FAST, YELLING, "WE CAN FLY!!!"
Turns out that kind of crazy isn't allowed either, and Karen and I got a warning ticket from the park patrol for "unnecessarily scaring people." (Is giving a lamb a warning ticket even legal?)
Regardless, we had a FANTASTIC FUN DAY. And I would like to congratulate "the cape" for making it happen. So… okay… I guess the moral is: Wear a cape today!
[Be sure to join me for my next motivational speech at the Ramada Inn near the airport. It only costs $100 and 37 cents.]
Hey there, people who like to read! How are you? I'm feeling so great, I want to give you a… HIGH FIVE!
That was a test. When I said I wanted to give you a "high five," did it make you feel weird? Many of you are saying, "Yes." And if I were to ask you why, you would say, "Because high fives are not only old-timey, they are often indicaters of the kind of meathead behavior often attributed to frat boys and douchebags." (Pardon your French.)
"NOT SO," I SAY!
Handing out "high fives"—and especially "jumping high fives"—is one of the most enthusiastic life-affirming gestures you can do for someone. Giving someone a high five says, "I don't think you're doing a good job… I think you're doing a GREAT job!"
Take today for example. I was passing by a hemorroid clinic and decided to go inside. (I currently do not have hemorroids, I was just curious what a hemorroid clinic would be like.) But when I went inside? Holy cats, what a BUMMER. Everybody in there was super depressed—but I guess I can imagine why. So I said, "Who's in charge here?" And a doctor came out and said, "Me, Dr. Dunderserenson." (Or something like that.) "Well, Dr. Dunderserenson," I said. "HIGH FIVE!!"
Perhaps unsurprisingly, he left me hanging.
"Why do you want a high five, sir?" he asked dejectedly. "I don't want a high five," I said. "I'm giving a high five! Because anyone who works on people's hemorroids really deserves a… HIGH FIVE!"
"You know… you're right!" he said, and gave me a super-high jumping high five! And by the time I left, everybody was giving high fives. (Except that one guy who was getting a hemorroid snipped. He said he would catch me later.)
So what are you waiting for, America? There are a lot of people out there who are doing their best just to get through the day. Make the world a better place, and help them out with a… HIGH FIVE!
(Hint: You might want to bring some sanitizer along. Some people's hands are disgusting.)
Buenos dias, amigos. Que hora es? Wait... that's not right. Cómo es usted? Look at me! I'm speaking SPANISH! And… now I'm done. Because that's all I know. Here's something I learned today: If you eat a corndog while walking down the street, people look at you funny. I was taking Karen (that's my lamb) for her noon walk, when suddenly I was STARVING! It was a real tricky situation, because when I get low blood sugar, I get super testy, and the closest Arbys was like, ten blocks away. So I stopped into 7-11 to get a corndog, just to tide me over until I could eat five beef 'n' cheddars. (For only five bucks? Such a deal!)
So anyway, I'm walking down the street with Karen on her leash, eating my corndog, and people start staring at me and laughing. At first I thought I had some toilet paper on my sandal, but I didn't. Yet people were laughing anyway! So when this postman starts laughing, I stop him and say, "Hey. You're a postman, right?" And he's like, "Yeah?" And I'm like, "Well, then in a sense, you're my employee, right? So answer this question: Why are you laughing at me?"
And he was all like, "Ummm… because you're Jesus, and you're walking a lamb, and you're eating a corndog."
I don't get that.
See, I hate to complain, but this is just the kind of pooh-pooh (Pardon my French) that really makes me angry. Anybody else in the world can walk their lamb and eat their corndog in peace, but when I do it? Everybody gets all laffy-taffy!
And it's because of all this dumb Christianity stuff! I read a report today that said Christianity (in all its many forms) tops the list as the world's most popular religion. Like, BY A MILE. Christianity has roughly 2.1 billion followers, compared to Islam (coming in at #2) which has 1.3 billion. The list continues like that all the way down to Scientology (which at #22, only has 500 thousand followers). I know it's not a competition, but I was pretty psyched to see that. I really despise those Scientology freaks.
But here's my point! The only reason Christianity beats out those other religions is because it has more sub-religions than all the rest. Everybody jumps on the Christianity bandwagon including Catholics, Protestants, Methodists, Pentecostal, Anglicans, Latter Day Saints, Evangelicals, Baptists, Southern Baptists, Jehovah's Witnesses, Quakers, etc., etc., etc., so it's no wonder they are the top religion in the world, and it's no wonder everybody laughs at me when I walk down the street walking my lamb and eating a corndog!
BECAUSE THERE ARE 2.1 BILLION PEOPLE WHO THINK THEY KNOW WHO I AM, AND WHAT I WANT, YET NO ONE EVER THINKS TO ASK ME HOW I FEEL ABOUT ANYTHING!!!
Sorry. I get upset sometimes.
Life is good. I just need to remember that. Corndogs are good, too! In fact, after talking to the postman, I went back to 7-11 for three more.
Hello, how are ya? I'm feeling on the verge of thrilled, because a famous person knows me. One of my favorite columnists in the world, Dan Savage, who writes a sexual advice column wrote ME an email today alerting me to a news story about a Jesus statue who got his arm blown off by lightning.
More on that in a minute.
But first: How cool is that? Dan Savage wrote ME! I know they occasionally run my blog in their Seattle newspaper (where he lives and works), but I kinda thought he might hate my guts. Why? Two reasons: 1) He's a gay. 2) He's a Catholic gay. Gay people sometimes hate me, because they think I hate the gays. I really like the gays. One of my good friends Derek is one of the gays (and a cop). He's not Catholic, though. Catholics sometimes don't like me either. Especially ex-Catholics. I get blamed for a lot of dumb junk that happened to them when they were in Catholic school, like all that useless memorization, the crazy rules, mean nuns, and the non-consensual buggery. (Oh… pardon my French.) Anyway, I'm really psyched that Dan Savage doesn't hate me, because I'm a big fan of his column even though it's sexual.
So to Dan Savage I say, "Holla!" (Maybe he could give me some advice about Trudy [she's a bank teller who recently stuck her finger in my mouth, which made feel weird down there… pardon my French]?)
Now, about that Jesus statue getting his arm blown off. Apparently there's a big 33-foot statue of me in Golden, Colorado, which was struck by a lightning bolt on Sunday. It knocked off one of my arms, a hand, and damaged one of my feet, "sending marble plummeting to the ground." One of the nuns there said, "There were pilgrims up there on the hill. The biggest miracle is no one got hit with the falling debris."
First of all: PILGRIMS ARE FUNNY! Ever see those funny hats they wear? Hilarious! I'm glad they didn't get hurt, but boy! I sure would've liked to have seen all those pilgrims running everywhere!
Secondly, neither I or my dad had anything to do with this. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: WE DON'T CONTROL THE WEATHER. If I did, believe me, I wouldn't even own a pair of galoshes. We also don't control if people get hit—or don't get hit—by debris. If any of those pilgrims had gotten hit by a big 11 foot version of my arm, I'm sorry to say it would've been their own dumb fault for hanging around a 33 foot me in a thunderstorm… while wearing funny hats.
Anyway! Thanks Dan Savage, for the tip! Be sure to read his funny and smart column here. Warning: it's kind of sexual sometimes!
Oh, and I ate at Red Robin this weekend. It was gross. They gave me a balloon, though. Nice.
Hi. How are you? I'm pretty drooly. I went to the dentist today, and… oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you. Since I certainly can't return to Dr. Jessica Hovey's office (see some of my earlier posts), I had to get my check up and cleaning from "the evil Dr. Siew" (see some of my earlier posts). Anyway, he said he wanted to do some kind of weird heavy-duty "deep gum cleaning" or something like that, wherein they numb the poop out of your mouth (Pardon my French) and really scrape all the gunk off.
I think he gave me too much novacaine, because it's been six hours and I still can't feel half of my mouth. It's totally embarrassing! After my appointment, I stopped by a store to check out some sunglasses, and I totally sounded developmentally delayed. "I'm loobing fo' thub thunglathes," I said, to which the sales clerk replied, "I don't know what you're saying, and you're drooling on my counter."
But there are some upsides to being completely numb. For example, you can eat horrible foods and not be bothered too much by it. I ate some celery (which I ordinarily despise) and thought it was "okay." Plus my friend Trudy the bank teller (she works at the bank) came up with a great game over lunch called, "Let me put something in your mouth and you guess what it is."
Here's how it works: I close my eyes, she puts something in my mouth, and then I guess what it is.
I wasn't too good at the game, but it was fun. She put some spagetti in my mouth, and I guessed "orange juice." Then she put an ice cube in my mouth, and I guessed "steak." Then she really threw me for a loop when she put her finger in my mouth. I guessed "Chik-o-stik" and bit her kinda hard. She yelled, "OWWWW!" and I apologized… but you know what? I was kinda weirded out it.
"Why did you put your finger in my mouth?" I asked.
"I don't know… I thought it was funny. You know… sexy funny," she said.
"I'm used to you being funny," I said, "but not sexy funny."
"Are you mad?" she asked.
"No. But I am disappointed. I really wanted a Chik-o-stik."
We kind of laughed it off, but when I got home I really started to wonder about that whole finger in the mouth thing. Does that seem weird to you? Do friends stick their fingers into each other's mouths all the time, and I'm just not aware of it?
Anyway, I went home and changed my shirt. I had drooled spaghetti all over it.
Hello, how are you? I'M SCARED! I was surfing the internet today when I saw the above picture on Britain's Daily Mail website. It's a panda lamb! Or a lamb panda. Frankly, I don't know what it is, but one thing's for certain—it's an aberration of nature. How do I know this? Because when I showed this picture to Karen (she's my lamb… my normal lamb), she let out this really piercing, guttural scream and ran underneath the bed, where she's been hiding all afternoon.
See? This is what happens when science starts dinking around. (Pardon my French.) One minute you see a calm, peaceful glen teeming with sweet gamboling lambs, and the next? Big fat panda lambs sitting on their bottoms stuffing their sickening faces with bamboo! Okay, maybe that doesn't sound as scary as I would've liked. But here's the thing! If they start genetically engineering lambs to look like pandas, THEN WHAT'S NEXT?
They (and when I say "they" I mean the military scientific governmental genetical engineering industrial complex) are obviously starting with the "cute" cross-overs to woo the pre-teen demographic: Panda lambs, bunny kittens, and baby polar bear ducklings. Then, when the public has been mentally sedated, they'll move on to their REAL objective: Rhino Lions, Monkey Fed Ex Delivery Persons, and eventually? A race of super-powered soldiers that are a combo platter of angry weiner dogs, pedophiles, Charlton Heston, and rocket-powered ostriches. (Not only do these ostriches fly, they'll kick your head in!)
Write your congressperson! Mail a scathing letter to your local daily newspaper! Create an online petition! Do whatever it takes to stop these maniacs before they genetically alter us all into oblivion! Today it's Panda Lambs. Tomorrow? Hyper intelligent Koala Pugs. (Sure, it's cute—until they're carrying rifles and hunting you for food!)
Hi! Question! Can lambs eat gum? I hope they can, because Karen (that's my lamb) has been eating gum all day. Not bubble gum… just sticks of chewing gum. And I only give her a half stick at a time. So I'm not being dangerous. She loves it and I want to make her happy. She's especially fond of Fruit Stripe gum (that's the kind with the Zebra on the package) and so am I! I love it so much! Especially the orange flavored Fruit Stripe. In fact, I love orange flavored Fruit Stripe so much, I eat all the orange Fruit Stripe out of the package and give the rest to Karen. She's not so picky, but she seems to prefer cherry. I know this because she poops cherry poop. (Pardon my French-French.)
Some people claim that gum stays in your stomach for seven years, but I think that's a fallacy. How do I know this? Because it goes right through Karen in about 45 minutes, and comes out in a fairly similar fashion to the way it went in. One day she ate so much Fruit Stripe that I had to pull it out of her bottom hole in long strings. I know… GROSS!
Anyway, here is my top ten favorite gums:
1) FRUIT STRIPE! (Yay!)
2) Bubble Gum Cigars. (I think they make me look sophisticated.)
3) Peppermint Chiclets. (A classic.)
4) Altoids Gum (Particulary "Hot Cinnamon Death" flavor.)
5) Bazooka (The comics are funny!)
6) Orbit (The girl on the commercial is pretty.)
7) Icebreakers Ice Cubes (If Marshmallow Peeps were gum, these would be peeps.)
8) Trident Splash Strawberry (Tres exotique.)
9) Juicy Fruit (I don't let people see me chew this, because it looks old-timey.)
10) Hubba Bubba bubble gum (It kind of stinks, but I love the name!)
I LOVE GUM! Do you love gum? Tell me if you love gum.
Hi everyone. How are you feeling? Well, Jerry Falwell's feeling dead. Frankly I wouldn't have even known, except that at least 30 people came up to me today to say, "Didja hear? Jerry Falwell's DEAD." Then they all gave me this look as if I was supposed to have some big freakout—and were surprised when I didn't. Why should I have a freakout? I didn't even know the guy! This must be the way black people feel when white people assume they all know each other. That's racist, man. RACIST!
But to tell the truth, I did meet Jerry Falwell at a party last year. But I didn't know it was him, okay? And while I'm sorry he's dead and all, I was not super impressed. First of all, he was really sweaty. And he kept following me around all night, butting into my conversations… laughing too loud at my jokes, and quoting random bible verses that didn't have anything to do with what we were talking about. Hello? Annoying!
Anyway, after the party, a few of us went to Denny's for a Moon Over My Hammy. (So… good!) And I was all like, "Who was that annoying sweaty guy, anyway?" And my friend Derek (He's a gay. And a cop.) was all like, "Honey. That was Jerry Falwell!" And I was like, "He's a preacher, right?" And everybody started laughing! "HONEY," Derek said. "The minute you get home, Wiki 'Jerry Falwell.'"
It took a few minutes to explain what "wiki-ing" someone is all about, but when I did wiki him, frankly I was shocked. He really sounded like a d-word! (Pardon my French.) Not only did he say mean things about the gay people (like my friend Derek… he's a cop), he hurt black people's feelings, and spent more time dissing labor unions, public schools and the Teletubbies than talking about ME. Now correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't talking about ME supposed to be his JOB?
Anyway, that's all I know about Jerry Falwell. From what I can wiki, he was a mean, self-centered person, and now he's dead. Now if anyone else asks about him, I'll just have this to say: "Too bad there's not a hell—otherwise, he'd be up poop creek. (Pardon my French.)"
How are you today? Me? I need a job. Well, I don't need a job. But I would like some extra money to fix up my bicycle, and add to my collection of Star Trek:Voyager action figures. There's this one 12" Captain Janeway action figure (MIB) that I really want. But on eBay, it's like $100. Fudge that! (Pardon my French.) Anyway. I need temporary employment. And Quiznos is out, because I'm still mad about those counter guys hurting my feelings, and knowing me, I'd eat myself out of a job.
So here's my idea: I want to be… a whisperer!
From what I've read, "whispering" is the hottest new employment trend. You've got your "horse whisperers," your "dog whisperers," and even your "ghost whisperers." I mean, what's the big whoop about whispering? I can whisper the crap out of these guys. (Pardon my French.) The question is, what kind of whisperer shall I be? I'm really good at picking songs for other people to sing in karaoke, so maybe I could be a "karaoke whisperer." I'm also marginally talented at suggesting delicious, non-crowded breakfast spots (AKA "breakfast whispering"). I could definitely be a "lamb whisperer." For example, just today Karen (that's my pet lamb) was really acting out. She wanted to go to the park, but I needed to drop some books off at the library. She pitched a huge hissy fit. So I told Karen, "If you'll go to the library with me, I'll buy you a jumbo Slurpee from the 7-11." I didn't whisper it though. That's where I messed up, I think, because Karen ran into my bedroom and defecated on my slippers. (Is "defecation" a French word? Pardon me if it is.)
Or maybe I could be a "co-worker whisperer." You could hire me to come into your office, and tell your co-worker something you're too scared to say. Such as "you're wearing too much perfume." (Except I would whisper it.) Or, "no one really cares about what happened last night on Dancing with the Stars. Could you be quiet, please?" (Except I would whisper it.)
You are welcome to suggest "whispering" jobs for me. Oooh! Maybe I could be a "blog whisperer" and write a bunch of critical suggestions in the blogger's comments section. How much do you think someone would pay me for that?
Hey, did you have a great day? I had a GREAT day. Here's what happened to me: So I was digging around in the attic looking for my dad's golf clubs, when I found my old Casiotone MT-100! Back in the 80s, that keyboard was the real poop! (Pardon my French.) I was in a new wave band back then… and I'll pause while you laugh. My friend Trudy (she's a bank teller) loves laughing at the fact I was in a new wave band, but we were actually pretty good! Our band was called "Rad Town Awesome" and we played in all the hot spots around town. I had a funny haircut—as was the fashion of the time—a blue sharkskin suit, checkered Van sneakers, and a skinny tie that looked like a piano keyboard. And asymmetrical sunglasses! However, they eventually kicked me out because I wouldn't shave off my beard—which was definitely not the fashion of the time.
So no big deal, right? Just join another band. However, as it turns out, its tough to get into already established bands—even when you're a musician of my high caliber. I even took my Casiotone and a mixtape of my jams down to L.A. to audition for a few bands… and got pooh-poohed by every one! For example, there was one band I thought I'd be a shoe-in for: Jesus and the Mary Chain. I mean… c'mon, right? I'm Jesus right here! They said the name was a metaphor. A metaphor for what? I'M JESUS! I'M RIGHT HERE!
And the same thing happened when I auditioned for Animotion, A-Ha, and Kajagoogoo. Weirdly enough, Kajagoogoo was super mean. They were all like, "EWW! Like, it's… Jesus!" As if I had cooties or something. "How is anybody supposed to take Jesus seriously?" That hurt my feelings. And I was like, "Well, I didn't think credibility was a big deal for a band named after baby talk." Anyway, I came back home and eventually just dropped the music thing. No big deal, I just got interested in other stuff.
But today, when I found my Casiotone? Baby, I rocked OUT with my cross out! (And NO, I didn't play Christian music. I hate that stuff.) Here's what I played:
1) 99 Luftballoons — Nena
2) I Ran — A Flock of Seagulls
3) Bette Davis Eyes — Kim Carnes
4) Karma Chameleon — Culture Club
5) What I Like About You – The Romantics
6) Pump Up the Jam — Technotronic
7) Der Kommissar — Falco
8) Electric Avenue – Eddy Grant
9) Hungry Like the Wolf — Duran Duran
10) The Safety Dance — Men Without Hats
Karen (that's my lamb) went nuts when I played "Super Freak" by Rick James. She started cavorting and gamboling, and when I started dancing like Molly Ringwald in The Breakfast Club? Karen and I blew the roof off that mother! (Pardon my French… wait. Is that French?)
Anyway, what a fun day. I should play my Casiotone more often. Maybe I'll try to get into another band. I hear INXS is looking for a singer.
Hey, yall. What's up? I'm confused today because one of my nice commenters (Lelo in Nopo) asked me to do a "meme." I had no idea what she was talking about, and then when she told me what she was talking about, I wondered why they found it necessary to call it a "meme." It's just answering a question and posing it to five other people. Where I come from (Ethiopia) that's called a "chain letter." That's why I'm going to do it. Because everyone knows if you don't forward a chain letter, someone close to you dies in a very horrible manner. So… thanks, Lelo!
Okay. The question is "Why Do I Blog?" Hmmm… it's kind of a long story. Okay, so the bible, right? It tells this story about me in the book of John, about an old buddy of mine named Lazarus. As the story goes, he had two sisters named Mary and Martha, and they all lived in the town of Bethany, a two-day walk from where I was staying at the time. Allegedly, one day Mary comes running up and says Lazarus is deathly ill, and could I come heal him. I say yes, but for reasons only known to John (who wrote the story) I sit on my patoot (Pardon my French) for two days until I leave. By the time I get there, Lazarus is not only dead, he's been buried in his tomb for four days. Everybody freaks out, but I say, "I'll handle it." I get the locals to roll away the rock in front of the tomb, and tell Lazarus to come out. He does, everyone celebrates, and because I'm so awesome, I get two spikes hammered through my wrists. THE END.
I hate this story. It's stupid on a number of levels, but if you really care, here's what really happened. Lazarus was an old fishing buddy of mine, and what we call an "obliteration drunk." I mean, he could really get blotto. One day he had one snoot-full too many, and passes out in the middle of the marketplace (kind of like an old-timey 7-11). His sister Mary asks me to help her pick him up since I owned a donkey and cart at the time. Unfortunately, I was in the middle of getting my hair cut, and said I'd drop by in 20 minutes. By the time I got there, Pilate's soldiers had gotten there first and threw him in the drunk tank. It costs 30 pieces of silver to bail him out (which I was forced to borrow from my friend Judas), and when Lazarus stepped into the street, he's still completely stinko, and starts screaming, "Lishen, everbody! Jeshus here shaved me, I wash a dead man, shee? But Jeshus raished me from the dead!" Then he vomited on my sandals.
A few desperate people believed Lazarus, one thing led to another, and the next thing I know, I'm hanging from a cross with two spikes through my wrists. So… thanks, Lazarus. And thanks, John. THE END.
And that… is why I blog. Because that's the last time I let John write anything about me.
THE END.
Hey, everybody! "How YOU doin'?" I saw Joey on Friends say that once. My friend Trudy (she's a bank teller) who works at the bank says, "that is the dumbest pickup line EVER." But since she really likes Friends, I think the real reason she doesn't like that line is because my other friend Damien says it a lot. Have I told you about Damien? He plays on my softball team. Did I tell you I play on a softball team? Well, I do. I play for First Federal Savings and Loan—that's Trudy's bank. We've never won a game, but we have fun. Anyway I play second base… well, I used to play second base, until Damien told the coach I'd make a great shortstop. However, when I didn't make a great shortstop, the coach demoted me to catcher, and Damien took second base.
Trudy tried to make me think that Damien planned the whole thing out in advance because he really wanted to play second base. But I call that "phony-baloney." (Pardon my French.) Damien knows I had two spikes hammered through my wrists, and therefore would never do anything that conniving.
One day I asked Trudy, "Why do you dislike Damien so much?" And she was all like, "Three reasons: 1) Every morning at the bank (he works in the collections department) he greets me with, "How YOU doin'?" 2) He always narcs on co-workers so he can move up the corporate ladder, and 3) he stole your bike."
And I was all, "Damien didn't steal my bike… he borrowed my bike."
"For seventeen months?"
"I didn't know there was a statute of limitations on borrowing bikes," I said.
Anyway, I did get kinda mad at Damien one time when he asked Trudy out on a date. Not that I care if she dates anybody. Because I don't. However, it was the way he asked her. After one of our softball games, Trudy was congratulating me for a particularly skillful play I made at the plate, and Damien walked up, and was all, "Actually, Jesus missed that tag, but I'm happy the umpire saw it differently. Hey Trudy. You got a sweet booty."
And Trudy was all, "Gross!"
And Damien was all, "Maybe, but you're going out on a pizza date with me." And Trudy was like all, "No way." And he was all, "Way!" Then he added, "It might not be now, but you WILL go on that pizza date with me, Trudy. Because Damien ALWAYS gets what he wants. Mind if I borrow your bicycle, Jesus?" And I was like, "Sure."
Trudy got real mad at me about that, but what was I supposed to do? He said he needed it to visit his uncle who had infantigo.
I'm not a gay person or anything, but if I were Trudy I may have said "yes" to the pizza date. The way he looks at you sometimes, his eyes make you want to say "yes."
Oops, gotta run. Damien just called and said he needs me to do him a favor and deliver a bag to the rough side of town. Apparently it's full of Snickers! Boy, whoever's getting that bag is lucky. I love Snickers!
Hello! I would ask how you're feeling, but I know you're feeling confused, so let's not waste each other's time. Last week I wrote about staying over at my Grandma's house, and everybody flipped out! I got a couple comments about it, and all my friends—even the gay ones—were curious as to how I could have a grandma. Well, first of all, everybody has a grandma, so why should I be any different? I'm not mad at you or anything, but it really hurts my feelings when people treat me like I'm one of the X-Men or something. Actually, that's not true. I would be psyched if people treated me like Wolverine and I had those blades that popped out of my knuckles. Scha-SCHWING!
Anyway, let's clear up all this confusion: I only have one Grandma left, and that's Grammy Christ. She's my dad's mom, and those two don't get along very well. She lives in assisted housing just outside of town, and since dad never comes by to visit her (or me, for that matter), I pop in now and then. Usually… I regret it. She's kind of a nag, and a real square when it comes to those of us in the "now" generation. Plus she can't hear and has shingles. And she's a racist.
For example, I was forced to stay over at her place the other night because she was afraid there was a black person in her closet. So I said, "Umm… Grammy, that's racist." And she said, "I'm not scared because he's black, I'm scared because he's going to kill me."
But even after I offered proof positive that there weren't any black people in her closet, she made me stay the night anyway. For dinner we had chipped beef on toast (which was from one of those frozen Boil 'n' Bags), even though I offered to go to Arbys. (Yes, I'm still mad at Quiznos.) Then she forced us to watch syndicated repeats of Everybody Loves Raymond, which is annoying, because I DON'T LOVE RAYMOND AT ALL. In fact, I think it's kind of ostentatious to name your show Everybody Loves Raymond when there's at least one person (me) who thinks he's kind of dumb. (No offense, maybe he's nice.)
Then when Grammy's not slipping into a nap, she's nagging me about my hair, my love life, and my taste in music. (Sometimes just to annoy her, I'll say, "I like Jay-Z, Grammy… the BLACK Jay-Z!") On the other hand, I know she just wants someone to talk to (especially 'cause dad can be such a jerk sometimes), so I always make sure we look through the old photo albums together, which always makes her happy. And even though she calls me by my brother's name half the time, she can still remember the name and birthdate of every person in our family! And she always gets happy/sad talking about grandpa, who I never met, but she was really in love with.
Maybe I'll get a girlfriend soon, and we'll get married, and have kids, so they can visit me when I move into assisted living. That would be nice.
Does everybody automatically get racist on their 83rd birthday?
How's it going everybody? I hope you're… outtasight! See, nobody says "outtasight" anymore, and I wish they did. It requires enthusiasm, and nobody I know is very enthusiastic. Except for Karen (that's my lamb), who is super enthusiastic. She likes to gambol—and before you say anything, that's "gambol" not "gamble." "Gambol" is something lambs do. They run, jump and play— which is gamboling. And yet everytime I point out that Karen is gamboling, people look at me like I'm Tony Soprano or something. I'm tired of people being so judgmental all the time.
For example, I bought Karen a "Dora the Explorer" sweatshirt from Target. I buy all of Karen's clothes from the Target toddler section, because… well, duh! They don't make clothes for lambs. Sometimes I buy my T-shirts from the boys department at Target because they have nice bright colors. But I have get the "morbidly obese" size.
Anyway, I took Karen to the park, and dressed her in her Dora the Explorer sweatshirt. And she's running around and playing, and I'm watching, when this kind of hippie guy walks up and says, "Nice Dora the Explorer shirt." And I said, "Thanks!" And he said, "I was being sarcastic." So I said, "Why were you being sarcastic?" And he said, "Because I don't like it." And I said, "Well, why don't you like it?" And he said, "Because you're turning your lamb into a billboard for corporate America."
And I said, "Okay… well, first of all, I wasn't under the impression that corporate America needed advertising. It seems to be doing fine without it. Second of all, Karen needs a sweatshirt or she'll get cold. Thirdly, you kind of strike me as a dumb, judgmental hippie—so can you please walk away?"
What a weird thing to say, huh? I would've stayed mad about it, but Karen was really gamboling hard, and it's difficult to hate the world in the face of such unbridled enthusiasm. And that gave me an idea. After the park, we went back to Target and I found an XXXL Dora the Explorer shirt in the boys department. I bought it and when we got home, I took a big magic marker and wrote "TEAM ENTHUSIASM" on the back of our shirts. Then we went roller skating! Boy, that was fun.
Hey, how are you? Sorry I didn't post anything yesterday. I slept over at my grandma's house.
Anyway, I received some distressing news today: The guys over at Quiznos don't like me. As you know, I eat at Quiznos ("Mmmm… Toasty!") somewhere around 27 times per week. However, today when I went there for lunch, there was a problem. Every day I like to order the Honey Bourbon Chicken sandwich because it's slimming. And these people know that. And yet? They kept asking me dumb questions and mumbling. They would be all like, "Mumeemawmamaymimah?" And I was all like, "What?" And then they'd yell at me, "I SAID, 'DO YOU WANT MAYONNAISE WITH THAT?!"
Of course, I don't want mayonnaise with that, you dumb-butts! (Pardon my French.) The Honey Bourbon Chicken doesn't come with mayonnaise! I didn't say that, but I thought it.
Then they were all like, "Muhmoomimamoasyuhmonmoasy?" And I'm like, "What?" Then they yelled at me again! "I SAID, 'DO YOU WANT THAT TOASTED OR NOT TOASTED?"
It's freaking Quiznos! (Pardon my French.) Of course I want it toasted! Again, didn't say it. Thought it. So I said, "Toasted, but would you mind speaking up a bit?" And they were all like, "Oh. Sorry. Would you like a half? Or a-whole?"
For some reason they were snickering about that.
"I would like a-whole," I said. And then they busted out laughing.
I really don't get those guys at Quiznos. I don't know why they don't like me. They must be athiests.
Hey, I hope you're good, I'm ANNOYED. So get this: I like Chick-O-Sticks, so everyday I ride my bike down to the 7-11 to get one. Today when I was looking through the candy section for a Chick-O-Stick that wasn't broken, a big hail storm starts up outside. Suits me, gives me an excuse to read Details magazine for free. So I'm standing by the door, eating Chick-o-Stick and reading, when this guy I don't know walks up and says to me, "You're Jesus, right?" (I get recognized a lot for some reason.) And I'm like, "Yeah." And he's like, "That's great. How about stopping the hail so I can get to my car? Thanks."
Ummm… hello? I CAN'T CONTROL THE WEATHER. And even more importantly, I'm not this jerk's valet! (Pardon my French.) See, all those stupid stories in the Bible give people the impression that I'm some kind of long-haired David Blaine, walking around doing "street magic." (Actually, that one trick he does where the victim picks a card, and somehow it winds up in the middle of a chocolate cake really freaks me out!) I don't raise people from the dead, I don't turn loaves into fishes—I just ride my bike and eat Chick-O-Sticks! IS THAT OKAY WITH YOU??
Anyway, I was just about to tell the guy in the 7-11 off when the hail storm suddenly stopped all by itself. So the guy turns to me and says, "Now that's impressive. Thanks, Jesus! God bless!" Then he dashes off.
Well… what are you going to do? I just waved as he got into his car. It's hard when people expect a lot out of you—but it's even worse when you disappoint them. That's why I'm learning magic tricks! So the next time a lady says to me, "Can you cure my son's cancer?" I can say, "No, but I can guess the card that's hiding in his underpants!"
Hi. Whooaaaaaa… I feel funny. Oh. How are you? I feel funny. Like, I don't know… like the world is a bit spinny and colorful. Weird.
Anyway, today I decided to make crowns for all my friends. I went to the store and bought a bunch of yellow construction paper, but they were out of my normal glue, so I bought this really bizarre German kind like my dad had in his old wood shop. It's in a yellow can, and it has this syringey-squirty top, and it smells SUPER funny!
So I was like, "Hey Karen!" (That's my lamb.) "Hey Karen, come smell this funny smelling glue!" The great thing about Karen is that she'll smell ANYTHING. You could totally pick something out from between your toes, and she'd smell it. I kind of admire that in a lamb.
Anyway, Karen smelled the pot of glue, and she started acting really weird, like hopping around on her back legs, and running into the screen door. PRETTY FUNNY. But I was like, "Oh, come on, Karen. It can't smell that bad," and took a big whiff of it myself.
That's when I started feeling funny. Colors went all ka-blooey and I felt like I needed to sit down or something. Then a big orange walked into the room, and I said, "Hello," and the orange said, "What's up?" and I said, "Well, you're a big orange and you just walked into my room. That's kind of what's up." Then—and this is pretty hard to explain— the orange kind of started peeling itself from the inside, while singing Bryan Adams songs. Starting with "Summer of '69." At first I was frightened, but then I was psyched. I love "Summer of '69." So I started singing along, "AND WHEN I HELD HER HAAAAAND/ I KNEW IT WOULD LAST FOR-E-VER/ THOSE WERE THE BEST DAYS OF MY LIIIIIFE!/ WHOA! YEAAAAAHHH!/ BACK IN THE SUMMER OF '69!"
Then I fell and hit my head.
I feel a lot better now, and the singing orange is gone. However, I caught Karen in bed with an oven mitt. I should be really concerned, I guess, but since she seems so embarrassed, I'm just going to drop it.
Anyway! Back to making crowns! Now… where did I put that glue?
