Rubber Ducky, I think we've gone too far.

Any Sesame Street fans in the house? Allow me to taint your wholesome memories.


Rubber Ducky (Bath Time Fun Time)

Rubber Ducky, you're the one.
You make bath time lots of fun.
Rubber Ducky, I'm awfully fond of you.

Rubber Ducky, this is new.
When I squeezed you, something grew.
Rubber Ducky, I like doing things to you.

Everyday when I make my way to the tubby,
I find a little fella who can give me a chubby.
(Rub-a-dub-a-dubby)

Rubber Ducky, this is bad.
What am I gonna tell my dad?
Rubber Ducky, I think I'm too fond of you.

Everyday when I make my way to the tubby,
I find a little fella who can give me a chubby.
(Rub-a-dub-a-dubby)

Rubber Ducky, this needs to stop.
Oh not yet, I'm going to pop.
Rubber Ducky, I got stuff all over ...
Rubber Ducky, I'd like to see more of ...
Rubber Ducky, I think I'm too fond of you.

An ode to furry men.

Yep. I dig the man fur. Sorry if it's too much info. That's what you get for reading my blog.


A Sonnet for Furry Men

When I met you, you were wearing a shirt
And I wondered what the cloth was hiding.
My curiosity caused me to flirt.
Did you have a happy trail worth riding?


After a few dinners and some dating
Curiosity took it's famous toll.
After spending all of that time waiting
Getting a hand up that shirt was my goal.


Oh my god! Hello, glorious man pelt.
How did you manage to hide under there?
You're the greatest thing I have ever felt
And furrier than a big polar bear!


Come here and hold me, sexy mountain guy.
This isn't the time for you to be shy!

Last year, Santa got Microsoft Office for X-Mas. Part 6

Juror Number 10's ass was asleep. She had been sitting in her chair for three hours watching this literal circus of a court case. There were reindeer in the room for Pete's sake!

She readjusted her body and continued to listen to the defense's pointless arguments.

They rattled on about the vulnerability of a Window's OS. About how spyware was inevitable and how Mr. Claus had no way to completely protect his hard drive from unwarranted downloads (he shouldn't have been on the WWW in the first place!). They presented character witnesses (most of them horrible little midgets with pointed shoes and one sloshy snowmen with a pipe!) who raved about Claus and his flawless life (any man who would welcome such close genital proximity with children could not be a good man!). And they waxed poetic about how Claus gave toys to good children all over the globe.

HMMPH! Old Man Claus had NEVER EVER brought Juror Number 10 a toy while she was a child. He only left her a single, solitary lump of coal. Every year, she asked for a doll. Every year, she got coal.

And she was a good child! Just because she poured glue in Samantha Davis' backpack that one time in first grade didn't mean she was a brat. Samantha had a nicer back pack! Juror Number 10 was just evening the score. And just because she pushed little Davie Smith down the slide in second grade didn't mean she was mean. He had cut in line. How dare he get there first! And that time she threw the dozen eggs out of the shopping basket and onto the floor when she was seven, well, her mom should've gotten her the candy she wanted.

Santa Claus had obviously not taken all of the facts into consideration while making his lists. And for that, he'd spend the rest of his life in jail.

Juror Number 10 hadn't realized she was clenching her fists so hard she had damaged a nail. She relaxed her hands and watched as the jolly old elf took the stand.

He swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth, so help him god.

The prosecution asked him how he knew when children were sleeping and how he knew when they were awake (because he's a perv!).

Santa responded, "It's because I'm magical. I just know."

The prosecution asked if Claus had kissed Mommy.

"I don't believe Ms. Claus would approve of that," he joked.

The prosecution asked if Claus was aware that entering a home during the night via chimney was legally breaking and entering.

Santa gleefully said, "But I am invited. Families even leave snacks for me. You, sir," Santa said to the judge, "used to leave me ginger cake. It was one of my favorite houses to go to."

Juror Number 10 grunted. When Santa's cross examination ended, the jurors were sent to deliberate. On the way out, Juror Number 10 took one last look at Santa. He winked at her. She quickly averted her eyes and left the room.


***

"You old battle axe!" Juror Number 5 shouted across the room. "He's clearly innocent. He's SANTA!"

"Are you mad?" Juror Number 3 asked. "Or just mean?"

"You're the only person here who thinks he's guilty," Juror number 8 said as he looked at the ground. "What did your parents do to you?"

Every other jury member was ready to vote Santa as not-guilty from the get go.

Juror Number 10 just stared at her lukewarm coffee. It looked like liquid coal. "He gives toys to children who he's never met. He's a dirty old man and he should be punished."

The debate went on for three hours with no clear end in sight. Juror Number 10 was unwavering in her decision.

"You're a loony bitch, you know that?" one of the jury members told her. She wasn't sure which one. They had all started to look and sound the same to her.

She reached into her purse for a breath mint. As she dug, she felt something unfamiliar.

"What's this?" she thought as she pulled out a little, wooden nutcracker. Juror Number 10 rotated and twisted the tiny figure in her fingers. Engraved on the bottom of it's feet was a message. "To Sandra from Santa. Have a Merry Christmas."

Juror Number 10, Sandra, felt tears well up in her eyes. A doll. Santa had magically put a little doll in her bag. Even after she had planned on voting him guilty.

"I was wrong," she whimpered to the room. Heads rose off of the table. "He's innocent."

***

Santa ran out of the court house to the sound of camera flashes and ten o'clock news reporters. The elves had the sleigh waiting for him. He hopped in and was off to the North Pole. There was just enough time to get home, load the sleigh, and do one final check (via pen and paper, NOT computer) for all of the toys before heading out for his famous flight.

I can't believe this just happened.

Readers, I'm so sorry.

I just wrote the conclusion to Santa's tale. And I lost my internet connection.

So I was trying to copy paste it into a Word doc so I could post it in the morning from work. And (since Blogspot doesn't like Macs or something) I couldn't copy it. Seriously.

So I'm screwing with my router trying to get a connection. And when I finally get it, my browser window closed. That was my fault. Cause I clicked the wrong button. 

I'm so mad at myself right now. I have to write the entire thing over again. And it was so long. I've been working on it for like 45 minutes.

UGH. Maybe I'll do it this weekend. Who knows. Geez. I'm really upset about this.

WRITING IS HARD DAMMIT!

Here are some random reasons why being an adult rocks my socks off.

I'll be darned, I'm really not wearing socks right now.

In no particular order, here are some random reasons why being an adult rocks.

* Alcohol. It's legal to drink. Sure it's fun drinking it as a teen and everything. But there's just something about bars that's way cooler than your best friend's dad's garage.

* Staying up late on weeknights. Hells to the yeah. It's 12:11 AM on a Thursday morning right now. And no one has told me to go to sleep.

* Drinking on school nights and staying up late. Double hells to the yeah. Hence why this blog is so stupid. I'm just trying to crank out something before I crash. Nothing but honesty here, folks.

* Your own refrigerator. It can be full o' goodies or it can be empty. Doesn't matter. Because it's my fridge. My dad isn't going to creep to my fridge in the middle of the night and drink my pomegranate juice. And that's awesome.

* Remote control ownership. This might be more of a I-live-alone thing. But when you're the seniority in a household, you own the TV screen. And you have the final say of what's on it. Boo-yah.

* Oodles and oodles of friends. After all, you've been collecting them your whole life. You've got dirt on them that Mr. Clean can't get rid of. The only problem - they've got even more on you.

* Alcohol. It's legal to drink ... Wait a minute!

I need a photographer.

(A blog from ten in the morning as opposed to ten at night! Loony!)

Buying presents for people is often a panic-inducing activity for me. Heck, I even wrote an ad about it a year ago.

Will he like it? Will she just return it? Will it live under a bed for years? Will it match that shirt from last year? Will it wrinkle? Will it break? Will it smell bad after a few weeks?

Buying presents just sucks. And I suck at it. So this year I had just decided to give up. Everyone gets a phone call. That's my present. Too bad I'm awkward on the phone.

But then I had an epiphany about ten minutes ago. An epiphany so strong that I felt compelled to write my blog twelve hours earlier than I normally do. Because I've discovered something that everyone can and will enjoy.

Posters. Everyone is getting a personalized poster from me.

Of me!

GENIUS!

I was perusing a you-make-it-we'll-print-it website (I'd give you the name, but then I'd want money from them and it's a bad time of year to negotiate stuff like that) when I discovered the custom, large print poster. And I thought about how awesome it would be to have a poster of me.

Seriously. I love myself.

And other people would love a poster of me, too. Think about it. It'd be like I'm there all of the time. I could live in someone's office or above a bed. On the back of a closet door or be framed over the mantle. I could be in the garage over the tool bench or hang in the bathroom.

Screw you, Extreme Tickle Me Elmo. This year's hot holiday commodity is a wall full o' me.

A four by six picture of me smiling in your wedding ain't good enough. Oh no. Twenty-three by thirty inches of Johnson goodness (snicker) is what it's all about.

But what picture to use?

Off the top of my head, nothing is seasonal enough. So I'm going to need a photographer. Perhaps a hair and makeup person, too. And someone to dress me. I do have a closet full of pretty, long dresses from other people's weddings, though, that'll look smashing. Ooh, like the black one! I could hold a red rose and be sitting on a park bench surrounded by snowmen. CUTE!

Oh, it's going to be a very merry Christmas indeed!

Be sure to send me your address so I can send you a poster. Happy holidays.

(You know I'm kidding, right?)

Let's do the alphabet!

A dog walks into a bar.

Bartender says, "Hey, you can't come in here."

Cindy, the local barfly, lifts her head at the sound of the bartender's voice.

Dog asks, "And why can't I come in here?"

"Everyone in here is wearing shoes and a shirt. You are not," the bartender tells the dog.

"Fine, I'll go get some clothes. Would that suit you?"

"Good luck finding clothes for a dog," Cindy the barfly slurred.

Heartbroken, the dog left the bar in search of a shirt and shoes.

"I'll never find something," the dog whimpered to his self.

Just as he gave up hope, he tripped over a bump in the sidewalk.

"Kibbles and bits*," the dog swore as he held onto his stumped toe.

Lying on the sidewalk was a genie lamp. It has been rubbed as the dog tripped over it.

"Mekka lekka high mekka hiny ho," the genie proclaimed as he smoked out of the lamp.

"Now," he continued, "what can I do for you?"

"OW!" The dog shouted at the genie. He could only think about his toe.

"Perhaps some clothing? I hear you can't get into a local bar." The genie smirked.

"Quite right. They won't serve me because I'm naked," the dog told his new companion.

"Right. As they shouldn't. Not wearing clothes is weird." He waved his hands and the dog was dressed in a fancy zoot suit.

"Sweet. Now I can go get a beer!"

"Tell Cindy the barfly that Peter the Genie says hi!" the genie shouted at the dog as he pranced off.

"Uh oh. It's you again," the bartender exclaimed as the dog entered.

"Voila! I'm wearing clothes! Now you must serve me!"

"Well well well. You're right. What would you like?" the bartender asked.

"XX," the dog barked. "Dos Equis and a frosted mug."

"Yes sir," the bartender said as he poured the dog a cold one.

"Zang," the dog said as he gave a thumbs up. Excellent.

* That's "oh my stars" in dog.

Last year, Santa got Microsoft Office for X-Mas. Part 5

Instead of the usual red suit, red hat and black boots, Santa Claus was wearing an orange jumpsuit.

He sat on an old folding chair in the middle of the prison commons. A line of thieves, murderers and accountants-gone-bad snaked through the large room. At the front was a midget wearing a large sock as a hat. He led the prisoner who was first in line to Santa.

The prisoner, a drug dealer, sat upon Santa's waiting knee.

"Ohhhh," Santa grunted, "You're a big boy?"

"My mamma used to take me to see you every year, Santa," the prisoner said. "I always asked you for video games."

"Is that what you want this year?" Santa asked. He wouldn't dare ask if the prisoner had been good this year. He had already made that mistake. A prison war broke out. Lucky for Santa, the resident Mafia guy had broken it up. And then gave Santa his personal protection.

Everyone in the prison kinda liked Santa. Even despite the fact that he was accused of indecency with children.

"You're Santa Claus," the Mafia guy said to Santa. "St. Nick! There was never a dirty saint. Plus, I owe you one. You gave me my first gun when I was six."

Santa remembered it well. Little Tony had written him such a nice letter that year. And Little Tony had been so good! He always helped old women across streets and he dressed in suits. 

Santa didn't think it odd for a young boy to ask for a toy gun. The violin case to put it in, though, should've been a red flag. Santa made  a mental note to stop giving guns to boys and girls in the future. If he had a future.

***

Santa walked through the cafeteria line. He filled his plate with the sloppy potatoes and the chicken-fried chicken. The prisoner serving dessert gave him an extra cookie and a wink. Santa smiled and continued through the line.

As he walked towards a table to sit, the prisoners separated to allow him easy passage. Santa sat down and before he even picked up his fork several prisoners had brought him small cartons of milk and extra cookies.

In prison, Santa was a god. 

He filled his days with taking Christmas wish requests and watching Law & Order reruns.

Santa was hoping that he would be granted a mistrial and he would be back at the North Pole in time for his annual flight. Rumor had it that was incriminating evidence against him, but it all mattered on how the prosecutions spun it.

Santa's nights were filled with whittling wooden toys out of scraps that prisoners and guards brought him. He had made several rocking horses, a nutcracker and a small electric chair just for humor's sake.

The morning of Santa's first (and hopefully last) hearing, he had whittled a small gavel that he left behind in his cell.

There's no love for the commas.

Once upon a decade, they were plentiful. Commas were everywhere. 

As a young girl in public school, we were taught to stick commas in certain places. Almost twenty years later, I follow these same rules whenever I write. I put a comma before "and" in a list. I always stick one on the business side of "too" and "also." I would place one after "so" if it was at the beginning of a sentence.

When I started writing as a profession, I'd be very careful about grammar and punctuation. I prided myself on editors returning my scripts and copy sheets with "no changes needed" scrawled at the top. (It was like being back in school getting As!) But one day, one dark and dreary day, I got a paper back. Half of my commas had been struck through.

"But that's proper!" I'd exclaim. "That what I was taught in school."

"Rules change," I was told.

My commas, my beautiful, pause-inducing, thought-sorting commas were unloved by others. Cast off. Deemed useless, unloved, and dead. See this last sentence? That last comma apparently isn't proper anymore.

But it sits so perfectly before that conjunction.

"Deemed useless, unloved and dead" just doesn't do it. That final comma forces a pause which makes the sentence so much more powerful.

Poor commas. It's like they're becoming extinct. They're being phased out of literary existence.

I say save the commas! They're necessary! We need more commas in our print!

There are some people who use too many commas. This used to bother the crap out of me. Not that I'm perfect or anything. English is a pretty awkward language to write with all of the rules that aren't in stone, etc. But commas show pause. They give the reader a bit of a break. And they can help sort out ideas and thoughts and they just help okay so deal with it.

Who's making these decisions to change punctuation rules, anyway? Tell me who you are! I have a bone to pick with you, jerk. Why are you picking on the comma? Pick on a punctuation mark your own size. Like the exclamation point. Or the ampersand. Or the asterisk! Just leave the comma alone. It did nothing to you.

And with that, I'm going to go forth into the world with my arsenal of commas. We've got some invading to do.

Come on, boys.

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 

I'm going to improve my life! 2

I've been thinking more and more about this male dancer/soundtrack thing.

And I really think this is what I need. Except (there's always an exception) when I'm in an airport.

(Eventually, I'd be so intimidating and famous that I wouldn't be using public airports. But even I've got to admit that the days of private-jetting are at least a year away.)

My arrival at the airport would, naturally, be kick ass. Male dancers in starched uniforms would twirl and glide around as my limo pulls up. One of the dancers would open the limo door. Another would take my hand and help me to my feet.

I'd be in all black with large sunglasses on. Very somber. "She's Leaving Home" by the Beatles would be playing.

The dancers would  almost march alongside me as I make my way to the E-ticket machine. I would reach into my purse for my ID and not be able to find it. Frustrated, I drop to the floor and start throwing things out of my bag. The music would pause as I do the same. One of my dancers would see my ID on the floor and gracefully hand it to me. "Thank you," I'd mouth. I'd get my boarding pass as the music continues.

So far, everything would be working smoothly. Then dancers would have to collect their own boarding passes. 

Good thing I made millions of dollars in my last post, huh?

We'd make our way to the security line. It would be difficult for my men to dance in the cramped line. Plus the power-obsessed security guards would be getting angry. One would place a hand on his weapon.

We get to the tubs. The music is Sia's "Breath Me." Since we'd be busy taking off our shoes and watches, the song seems wasted.

Two of my dancers would forget to put their liquid items in plastic baggies. "But I need my hair gel!" one of them would whine to a security guard.

Once everything gets sorted, the metal detection, of course, would go awry. Some of my dancers would have piercings and metal knee caps. So those boys would have to be frisked.

Meanwhile, I'd be losing my graceful, weepy beauty and gaining angry, frustrated sexiness. This could be good, but the whole point of this particular flight was intriguing sadness. "This Ain't a Scene" by Fallout Boy would be appropriate. So it would play. (Yeah, it's poppy, but you know what? BLOW ME!)

I'd stomp through the terminal. My dancers would stomp and flip and jump in tow. People would stare. Who is this woman in black? they'd wonder. And is she filming a music video?

My dancers and I would find our terminal. Then we'd sit for an hour, drink a coffee and finally board the plane. It wouldn't be very exciting.

On the flight, we'd eat the peanuts and watch the crappy in-flight movie. Well, that's not all true. I'd probably watch a Batman flick and the dancers who got seats near me would peer over and watch with. (It's a requirement that my male dancers love Batman, by the way.)

We'd arrive in LA or New York and be groggy from the flight. But Oasis' "D'You Know What I Mean?" would start playing. And we'd blast out of the airplane like Mafia bosses. The wind would whip my hair around. The dancer's suit jackets would blow behind them. And we'd walk to the baggage claim where we'd wait another half hour for the suitcases.

I'm going to improve my life!

I've decided that I need two things to make my life complete.

1) A soundtrack. This will play at all times. When I'm walking down the street, pop music. When I enter a room, horns and trumpets. When I say something witty, laughter. Everything I do, every emotion I convey will be enhanced with an appropriate sound effect or musical score.

2) Male backup dancers. They will tumble alongside me as I strut. Their purpose isn't to overshadow me, but to draw attention to my supreme awesomeness. Having small, tight-bodied (and possibly shirtless) male dancers surrounding me at all times is better than having an announcer.

Picture this. You're sitting in some intimidating meeting room in some fancy-pants highrise building in a bustling metropolis. There's a twenty-foot long, oak table. There's a wall of windows that overlook the streets below. There's one of those Star-Trek-looking phones.

At every one of the thirty chairs sits a suited older man. Each one has been waiting for ten minutes. That act alone has cost some public company at least ten thousand dollars.

This is the scariest room in the United States. This is where people wish for death at the feet of corporate America.

And then suddenly the lights flash. There's something invading the ambient noise of the room. The noise grows louder.

"Is that ..." one of the men says. But he never finishes his question. Because the large, double doors are thrown open as Europe's "The Final Countdown" blares into the room. Then, strapping young men run in doing back flips and front flips and jumping on the table.

Papers fly into the air as the evil business men stare at the scene in total shock.

The music crescendos. The men lithely line up at either side of the doors. And I enter wearing my jeans and some snarky T-shirt. I strut to the middle of the meanest men in the room. I throw a folder onto the table.

"Here's your ad campaign, gentlemen. Changes won't be necessary. You'll accept it as is. It'll cost you millions. It's been a pleasure doing business with you." And then I leave. The music and the dancers follow.

The business men just sit there for minutes. Then one of them punches a button on the phone. "Wanda," he says, "I need the checkbook."

Every sentence has five words.

We're not counting syllables here. We are only counting words. And every sentence has five.

Why five words, you ask. Well, the answer is simple. I had no other ideas. It was classic writer's block.

It doesn't happen too often. But sometimes, I go blank. Even I have my moments. (Should "I" be one word? After all, it's a letter. Oh, well, I'm being silly.)

This blog is writing itself. The sign of good ideas. All good ideas fill out. They need no writer's help. Kind of like good ads. You only need just one. The rest all write themselves.

Any good writer knows this. (I consider myself pretty good.)And we feel like hacks. Quentin Tarantino said that once. (Did I spell that correctly?) It was about a scene. He said it wrote itself. He felt guilty for it. What movie was it again? I seem to have forgotten. I don't think "Pulp Fiction." Oh, wait, maybe it was. The "royal with cheese" scene? I really can't remember it. 

I should write a movie. What would it be about? Maybe panda bears and toads. They'd live in harmony together. They could chew on bamboo. They'd give warts to children. And fun times would follow.

Speaking of fun times, yawn. It's sleepy time for me. So I'm gonna sign off.

Have sweet dreams, dear reader.

Last year, Santa got Microsoft Office for X-Mas. Part 4

Mrs. Claus had finally settled down and Santa was finally allowed back onto his computer. It was sometime in mid-December.

Usually by this time the elves and Santa were completely through with making toys and trinkets and they spent their time wrapping gifts.

But with the computer complications (and the being grounded by his wife), Santa was a few days behind.

So he worked some major overtime and was finally catching up when there was a knock on his door.

"Mormons," Santa grumbled. "Dear, would you get that?"

The front door opened, Santa heard Mrs. Claus conversing with a man or two, then footsteps. They grew louder until they were behind Santa.

"Are you Santa Clause?" A man's voice asked harshly. "AKA Christopher Kringle?"

Santa spun his chair around to face two older men in cheap suits. "Most people just call me Santa."

"Well then, Santa, we need your computer," the balding man said.

"And we need you to come with us," his hairier cohort added.

There was a confused moment of silence while the jolly old elf and the two cops stared at one another. Then Ms. Claus entered the room. "What is this?"

The bald man, obviously the more senior of the two cops, answered first. "Your husband, ma'am, is under arrest for child indecency."

"We have proof that he's been conversing with minors via the internet," the other cop hissed. "Little girls and boys."

Santa gaped. "That's my job. I'm Santa!"

The bald man grabbed Santa's arm and turned him around. "It's best not to fight, Claus."

Mrs. Claus started to sob. "Just do what they say. Be good for goodness sake!"

A few moments later, nine reindeer and thirty elves lined the snowy path in front of the North Pole cottage as a cuffed Santa Claus was placed in the back of a squad car.

***

Beware o' the Bacon Monster who lives in your fridge.

When you find your milk has gone sour, that was the Bacon Monster.

When you see your pasta sauce has grown hair, it's cause of the Bacon Monster.

When your eggs take a sudden turn from good to bad, blame the Bacon Monster.

If there's anything in the fridge, teetering on the edge of spoilage, it's in the sights of the Bacon Monster. He just can't resist spoiling food.

The Bacon Monster used to be the Bacon Man. He was just as he sounded- a little man made of bacon who lived in the fridge. His job was to turn on the light when the door was shut. He was made out of bacon so he could go about his business unnoticed. After all, most logical people would freak out if there were a little man living in the fridge.

But there was a flaw in his design. Meat spoils. Especially bacon.

So after some time, the Bacon Man became the Bacon Monster. He became spoiled and mischievous. At first, he would just move things around in the fridge with the goal of confusion. Then he'd open packages and loosen jar lids. His goal was to create spills and other messes. But the Bacon Monster noticed that some foods would go bad.

And he felt that all food should spoil. Just like he had so long ago.

When foods became full of preservatives, he had to work overtime to ruin them. He'd dance on pies and leftovers only to run across butter later. You might have witnessed his track marks. They look like knife and fork imprints full of crumbs.

He loves swimming in orange juice. Usually after he's punched holes in your fruit.

And his most favorite thing is squeezing bottles of ketchup and mustard just enough to create a gooey mess under the cap.

So if you see odd spots in your fridge, or you notice that food isn't lasting as long as it should, beware. There just might be a Bacon Monster living in your fridge.

Happy 50th blog! It's nothing special!

Haikus About the Winter Holidays


Oh Christmas Tree, oh
Christmas Tree, how lovely are
your branches. Today.


Jews have Hannakuh.
How do you spell Channakuh?
AHH! Too many ways!


Have you heard the rap song
Written by Dr. Dreidel?
"Made outta clay, bitch!"


My snowman melted.
I was just drying his hair
With a blow dryer.


Frosty the Snowman
Was a jolly happy soul
Until the spring came.


When I was little
He knew when I was sleeping.
Santa was creepy.


Cats climb Christmas trees.
Dogs sleep under Christmas trees.
Squirrels? They poo in 'em.


It is time to feast.
The holidays mean eating.
Wasn't that last month?


"Going to lose weight.
Your new year's resolution.
Ha! Good luck, fatty!


Dad, for my present,
No joke, I would like to have
Piano lessons.


If no piano,
Because you think I'm too old,
Can I have sneakers?


Wreaths on car bumpers
Look really really stupid.
I will kick your wreath.


That's alot of stuff.
That house looks like Las Vegas.
Electric bill death.


Holiday cookies
Enhanced with herby goodness
Will make X-Mas bright!


Frankincense and myrrh?
Wise Men, heard of Target?
Apparently not.


Ebenezer Scrooge
Was a selfish crabby dude.
With a sweet top hat.


I've been good all year.
So that I can hunt for eggs.
Oh wait. That's Easter.


Happy holidays.
Whichever one you prefer.
(But Christmas is best!)

I'm not going to make it to June of '08.

Dear Batman,

It's me again. I just wanted to let you know how excited I am for "the Dark Knight" to open in theatres. I hear you're pretty tight with the director and studio, so could you maybe ask them to release it early? You know, get the editing and stuff done like, oh, next week?

Because I can't breath. I need to see this movie. The comic books and the teasers online aren't enough. I want to see in your batty goodness on screen. In full color. At the IMAX.

(I'm not even sure what IMAX is. I know the screen is taller than it is wide. Why this is so awesome, I don't know. I guess it's like a portrait photo vs. a landscape photo. And the negative is really big so the picture is super sweet. But couldn't they make a really big negative that's horizontal? I mean they (proverbial they) have been selling us on wide screens forever and now IMAX is doing the opposite. And then saying it's better! Just seems weird. But as long as I get to see you kick some serious ass, I could care less about the format.)

And the Joker! I've always had an uneasiness about clowns. They're just creepy. But there's something about that Joker. He's just so ...

... evil.

He's a complete sociopath. But he's a genius! I read today about the opening scene where he's revealed and, well, I got that funny feeling that I used to get climbing the rope in gym class.*

I can't wait to see you two play cat and mouse. Will he outsmart you? Will you leave me rolling on the ground, unsatisfied, begging for a third flick?

Are you going to punish me?

I think we need to meet for coffee, Batman. So we can discuss this in person. And I can get your autograph. And we can play Rescue the Helpless Girl and Take Her to Your Batcave. That would be oh so cool. I'll even put my hair in pigtails, if you'd like.

Or are you going to be too busy battling the dregs of Gotham? I recently read that Predator made a visit to your not-so-fair city. But you, naturally, triumphed. I knew you would. Some dreadlocked, clicking alien doesn't stand a chance against your cleverness and pectoral muscles.

Batman, I'd eat meat for you. Just thought I'd throw that out there.

Is it getting hot in here? I'm not wearing a kevlar suit or anything like you do, but I'm feeling warm. Maybe I should take off this constricting towel.

...

I love you. XOXOXXXO
-Veronica

*That doesn't happen to girls, I know. It's funny, though. Admit it.

The 50th blog is approaching.

I can't help but get a little jazzed that the 50th blog is near.

That's 50 semi-coherent rants/stories/poems by yours truly. I actually made it this far. I don't think I've ever done 50 of anything with such dedication.

Well, except for maybe eating 50 of something. But even that sounds loony.

I digress.

I'd like to do some kind of best-of/thank you type of something. Because I know I have readers. I'm just not sure who you consist of. I mean, I know six for sure (funny enough, I've seen a good chunk of those naked, hmm).

So if you've got a topic or an idea, I'm opening up the request line. Usually, I hate getting suggestions. But 50 is a big deal. That's enough time to learn to swallow the ego and invite outside inspiration.

And after 50 comes 100 (after all of the fillers, of course). And then I can't really get excited about another one until 200. Or something like that.

So, please. Let me know who all reads this. Send suggestions this way or just mention something I wrote that hangs out in your head. Maybe I can make up a little ditty about you.

Unless that frightens you. Which it might.

And now, a haiku about carpet:
Apartment carpet.
It's beige and cheap and ugly.
Next time? Concrete floors.

Last year, Santa got Microsoft Office for X-Mas. Part 3

A bewildered Santa Claus stared at the static computer screen.

He clicked the mouse. He mashed keys. He took a nearby workshop hammer and raised it over the CPU when he heard a reassuring ticking.

The file saving that Santa had started three minutes ago was finally completing.

Santa let out a thankful sigh.

The computer reciprocated by filling the screen with naked, moaning women.

"Honey, what's that noise?" Mrs. Claus' voice drifted into the room from elsewhere in the house.

Santa frantically tried to close the windows, but with every X he clicked, another three women would appear with backdoor requests.

"Just an email from my brother, dear," Santa shouted back. "You know how he is."

He yanked the computer's plug from the wall and the women were silenced.

***

The next day, Santa was working on the computer while Mrs. Claus was dusting around the office.

"What's that?" Mrs. Claus pointed to a small picture on the screen of a beaver and a clam hand-in-hand.

"I'm not sure. It was just there when I turned on the computer."

Mrs. Clause took the computer mouse and clicked on the odd icon.

The computer screen went black. Then ...

... "Oh, my word. CHRIS!" Mrs. Clause shouted. "You work with children! How could you ... What are you ... Is that a ..."

"Ho ho hoes?" Santa replied.

"I've been a very bad girl this year." "You need to be punished." "Fill my stocking."

Seeing Mrs. Claus glare made Santa realize he needed to say something. Anything. "I don't know how they got there. I've never seen any of this ..."

"All this time I thought you were working and you've been looking up pictures of ... Frosty the Blowman!"

Santa tried to explain to his wife about spyware and adware and the never-ending battle with unwarranted downloads.

Santa slept on the couch for a week. He decided it was time to invest in some spyware filters.

somebody, please send help.

I am writing this on my iPhone from a dark cave.

The men have kidnapped me and are making me watch football.

In all fairness, though, they are no longer aware of my presence. So I am soon going to make my escape (thank you, Romo).

Seriously, though. I could be standing here in Frederick's of Hollywood's most scandalous ensemble and I'd still go unnoticed.

Football is amazing like that. It has magical powers beyond biology.

Oh! Game over.

Last year, Santa got Microsoft Office for X-Mas. Part 2

Months passed. Santa spent the majority of his time gathering raw materials for toy production and watching daytime soaps. Just for grins, Santa would keep track of his purchases and discoveries with a spreadsheet that he created.

"This will help during tax season," Santa chuckled. The great thing about being Santa, everything is written off.*

As Santa was adjusting font sizes and colors, a window popped up.

"There are updates available for this computer," it said.

Santa clicked the window. The computer started downloading software.

"Neat," Santa thought. "It's working out."

Santa continued his spreadsheeting/databasing.

Every few days, Santa's computer would update itself. Everyday, Santa would enter important information into the computer.

Days turned into weeks which melded into months which lead Santa to October. Crunch time.

Santa cursed the day that department stores started prepping for Christmas in October. It totally butted in on his and Ms. Claus' Halloween fun. (This last Halloween, Santa went as Hugh Hefner and Ms. Claus went as a bunny. True story.)

Throughout October, Santa began building templates for lists of children:
Children who were good
Children who were bad
Children who were good last year who are now bad
Children who were bad last year who are now good
Children without parents
Children who have siblings
Children who have no siblings
Children who have pets
Children who are twins
Children who go to inner-city schools who have overcome huge obstacles despite society
And all other things vital to determining how many presents, if any, a child deserves.

In November, Santa researched all the hot new toys and gadgets for the following holiday season. He made more lists.

Then, December came 'round the bend. And Santa was ready.

He put names into lists. He spell-checked them twice. He was filing and editing who was naughty and nice. Santa Claus was fully online.

He'd cross names out when the presents were made and labeled and put in proper places. He'd move kids around from list to list. He'd have incoming messages from children go to one folder and messages from family members go to another folder. As for spam? He'd put those people on his very-naughty list.

Santa was amazed at what all he could do with the awesome machine.

Until it froze.

...


*Santa doesn't pay taxes. After all, you can't fill in the number forms on a tax form with "cookies" and "glasses of milk."

Last year, Santa got Microsoft Office for X-Mas. Part 1

Back in the old days, Santa used to get hundreds upon thousands upon hundreds of thousands of hand-written letters from children during the winter holidays.

Then Santa started dropping computers down chimneys (I know cause he left my sister and I one) and children began typing their Santa letters. Jolly ol' St. Nick really liked that because as we all know, children's penmanship is sometimes difficult to read.

Some years later, homes became web-enabled. And children would send Santa emails.

The problem? Santa didn't have internet access. After all, there's not much in the North Pole besides a barn full of reindeer and some elves. So Santa would have to send elves down South to public libraries and print shops where the elves would print out all of the emails and bring them back to the North Pole. This, of course, made last-minute requests difficult to fill.

Sometime back in 2005, one of the major internet providers installed some cables near ninety degrees latitude and Santa's workshop was online! To celebrate, Mrs. Claus bought Santa a computer for Christmas (or "elves made Santa a computer;" whatever).

"A computer! For me?" Santa asked. He was so used to giving them to video-game-obsessed tweens that he never even thought to get one for himself.

But with emails being so easy to send, Santa got even more letters than he had ever gotten before. Not to mention that some children would email him daily! So the amount of letters that Santa was receiving nearly quadrupled.

Santa didn't sleep. Santa didn't eat. Santa would spend all night checking his email and printing out letters and making piles of "good" and "bad" requests.

So the next year, Mrs. Claus gave her husband the latest and greatest version of Microsoft Office because that's what big, American companies used.

"It has a spreadsheet so you can sort your lists electronically," Mrs. Claus told her husband. "And all those emails you get? They'll automatically be filed into good and bad!"

Brilliant! This computer could automatically sort and create charts and make schedules! Santa could focus more time on toy quality like in the old days before the population boomed (so many naughty children having children).

So sometime in February of 2007 (Santa spends January vacationing in Florida because he's old), the elves and Santa set up the new computer.

...

Isthay ogblay is ypedtay in Igpay Atinlay.

Enway ymay istersay and I ereway ittlelay, eway ouldcay eakspay Igpay Atinlay osay icklyquay atthay onay unway* ouldcay derstandunay us.

It usway antasticfay.

I'm underingway* if ymay istersay ancan eadray is eallyray ilyeasay. I etbay osay. I etbay ethay ajoritymay of oeplepay oohay* eadray ymay amblingsray ancay. Herwiseotay, umbday oeplepay eadray ymay ogblay. Otnay atthay it attersmay.

Ywayanay, Ackiejay and I ouldcay eakspay eallyray astfay. Eway ouldway alktay outabay eoplepay in eirthay esencepray. Ey'dthay avehay onay eaiday. Unnay*.

Osay ethay erothay aday, eway ereway ithway our ommay and unway* of erhay upidstay iendsfray. Ackiejay and I ereway endingsay ailsemay ackbay and orthfay omfray ossacray ethay ailnay alonsay (eway ereway at a ailnay alonsay, ybay ethay away). Utbay even ithway our esomeaway onesphay, it asway akingtay ootay onglay. Atthay and ymay ailsnay ereway eingbay oneday and I ouldn'tcay ypetay.

Osay eway okebray out in Igpay Atinlay.

Ethay ingthay about ailnay alonssay is atthay ethay adieslay and entlemenejay* atthay orkway erethay uallyusay easkspay apidray-irefay in onnay-glishenay anguageslay.

Ellway, enwhen eway artedstay ithway ethay Igpay Atinlay, eway ahday ethay vantageaday. Utbay eway ended up eminiscingray outabay owhay esomeaway eway ereway at Igpay Atinlay. Oh, and itchingbay outabay Ommay's upidstay iendfray.

Eestersay, isthay's unway* orfay ooyay*. Onglay enispay Essicajay.

Oodgay ightnay.


*Elledspay oneticallyphay.

Holy crap, I suck!

I took a holiday hiatus from the ol' blog and was supposed to write last night.

And I totally forgot.

Instead, I wrote my new holiday outgoing voicemail. I guess that's a valid excuse.

If you know my number, feel free to call and listen to it.

The gnome wouldn't take gno for an answer.

There was a little house on a little street in a little suburb.

The little house had a little yard with a little garden and a little lawn gnome. The little gnome stood to the right of the path next to a bird bath. He stood there for three years with a lawn flamingo, a metal dragonfly and a key-hiding rock.

Then one day, one life changing day an old four-dour Ford something drove by with speakers blaring. The bass shook the leaves in the little yard in front of the little house. The highs made little animals flee from the little garden. The music shook the little lawn gnome to the very core.

With every pulsing beat, the gnome wiggled and vibrated and scooted around. What a rush! The gnome could only hope that something similar would happen again.

He looked around at his yard buddies. They weren't so amuzed by the sudden burst of sound in their garden. The flamingo had fallen over; the rock had opened up to reveal its key, and the dragon fly rung with the sound of a tuning fork.

But the gnome, oh the gnome was filled with the urge to dance.

"You can't dance," the flamingo said. "You're a lawn gnome."

"Yeah," chimed in the rock. "Your purpose in life is to be stolen by teenagers."

"And photographed in comprimising places," the dragonfly dinged.

The gnome could only laugh at his cohorts. Their words hung in the air like treble clefs so he twirled and swayed to them. He do-si-doed to the sounds of jogger's MP3 players. He tapped his toes to TV jingles that escaped from windows.

For weeks, the gnome danced to the sounds of his little street. And one day he heard a familiar sound.

The car! With the music!

The gnome felt as if he were being lifted into the air. He flew over the yard. He ... wasn't where he was supposed to be. Something wasn't right.

The gnome was tossed into a trunk. He wasn't dancing at all! He was being kidnapped!

He traveled around the greater part of the large city near his little suburb. And now he resides in a little, music-filled office on a little shelf next to a little lamp.

This is a blog. This is not a diary.

Dear Blog,

I'm so glad I have you. You force me to write something five times a week. And that's so good for me. Because no matter how tired, irritated or drunk I get, I must take at least ten (or five) minutes and type out what must be shared.

So thank you, Blog.

I feel like I can tell you anything.

Well, almost anything.

Okay, not everything. You're Google searchable (right?) and I have no idea who all is reading you. So I can't really type about work cause that could end my job. And I can't really talk about stupid crap my friends have done, cause they might see it and know that I think they're stupid. And I can't type about all of the prostituting I've done, because Lord Allmighty, if my dad saw this! Whew-wee! How embarassing would it be for him to know about that one time I snuck all of that black tar H across the border in my butt!*

But I can type make believe stories into you, Blog. And that's great. I haven't been able to think of any make believe lately. Perhaps the muse will sing in me tomorrow and I'll tell the tale of Pinnoccio's half sister. Or the two-holed bowling ball. Or maybe I can come up with something about a catepillar who was raised by snakes.

Heck, that last one writes itself. I might have to go ponder that one for a bit.

Until tomorrow, Blog!

-Q of A



*Just kidding. That story is false. It was really tabs of X!

My lungs weren't working right.

I started feeling light-headed and dizzy. I realized that I wasn't breathing. Not because I couldn't, but because the little part of my brain that keeps me breathing wasn't working.

My lungs would not start burning and my brain would not tell my diaphram to drop.

So I inhaled deeply because that's what I needed to do. I exhaled slowly. And I didn't do it again. I waited to see if I would just do it because that's what normally happens. Because my body usually breathes without me having to do anything.

Some time elapsed. I started feeling light-headed again. So I inhaled and exhaled a few times. I was fine.

Why wasn't this simple, involuntary bodily function working?

Since I couldn't tell if and when I needed to breath, I just started to do it constantly like in yoga.

I noticed that the windows in the car around me started to fog up. Obviously, I was breathing too much now.

So I stopped breathing before anyone else noticed that I was fogging up the windows. Why wasn't my body self-regulating my breathing? Why was it suddenly a conscience effort?

A voice floated around the car. "The windows are fogging up," it said. Crap! They noticed. Would they know that it was me who fogged up the windows?

How long had it been since I last inhaled? Was it time to breath in again? Because it was a bad time. The windows were still foggy. If I breathed, they'd get worse. If I didn't breath, I might suffocate.

Where was the balance? This beathing is too big. This breathing is too small. Couldn't find the breathing that was just right.

Maybe I needed my inhaler. But that didn't seem right. Breathing wasn't diffcult. I just required thought.

Breath in. Count to five. Breath out. Count to five. Breath in. Out. In. Out.

I soon exited the muggy car and was hit by the cool, night air. It shocked my body back into its old ways. And again I could breath without thinking.

Not a moment to soon, too. Because walking and trying to regulate my oxygen intake at the same time would have been too much.

I need time.

I need time.
I need lots of time
to heal.

There are wounds,
deep wounds,
that simply need more time
to knit themselves closed.

There are bandaids over scratches,
over stitches and staples.
The bandaid is ripped off
only to reveal
a scar.

Scars serve as reminders.
Reminders of these wounds
and the things
that caused them.

And as long as the scars
remain,
the wounds will never heal
all the way.

So until time can erase scars,
I will remain damaged.

Hey, public schools, teach the kids things they can use.

Sam, 22, has his first job interview. It's for a sales position at a window manufacturer. Sam is wearing a new suit, carrying a freshly printed resume and sporting a new hair cut.

He sails through his interview with no problem at all. The interviewer loves him. They have great raport and Sam has all but been offered the job.

"So, Sam, one last question for you," the interviewer says. "In the U.S. Presidential election of 1904, who was the Republican candidate?"

...

Lisa, 23, has just finished art school and has a sweet, new gig at some fancy design firm. She has a desk, a drawer full of colored pencils and a phone. HR calls her on that phone to schedule her benefits introudction.

So Lisa heads to the HR department and is handed a folder chalk-full of paper. That night, Lisa stares blankly at a W something form. She can tell anybody the RGB and CMYK values of colors and what inks work on what kinds of papers and how to most-efficiently lay out a brochure. But for the life of her, she doesn't know what "head of household" means.

Lisa feels she might have to quit her job.

...

Jeff, 18, has just gotten his first apartment. His portion of the rent is $515.00. In order to pay the rent, Jeff must write a check.

So Jeff sits and stares at his new checkbook. What is a memo, anyway?

...

The point is that Christopher Colombus and commas and chemistry are all very cool, but unless you're planning on being a history teacher, an editor or a cancer researcher (and let's face it, not many of us are any of those), then most of us are wasting our time in public schools.

Too many of us look at tax forms and go dizzy. Some of us can recite Shakespearian sonnets but can't balance a checkbook (thank you, online banking). And a good chunk of us can't grocery shop worth a damn.

Instead of learning life-relevant things in school, we colored maps of Africa and memorized songs in Castillian Spanish. Side note: Why did we learn Castillian Spanish? Last I checked, Spain was an ocean away while Mexico is a car ride away. Teaching Texas children Castillian Spanish is like teaching kids in Mexico the English language with a British-English accent.

Oh, but schools overfill brains with all of the history, political history, chemistry, physics, biology, algebra, geometry, European literature, African literature ... Some of this stuff is very relevant. The problem is that different things will be relevant to differnet people.

I write for a living. My job is to make things understandable and perhaps make boring things slightly more entertaining. I don't need the quadratic formula. I'll never need the quadratic formula unless some crazy dude holds a gun to my head and demands, "Tell me the quadratic formula or this bullet's going between your eyes."

And if that does ever happen, this is a world I don't want to be a part of any longer.

So is there a way to change the education system? Probably not. And if there is, none of us have the mental tools to figure it out. After all, schools were too busy teaching us to standardized tests.

The Woeful Tail of Jacob the Christmas Tree

Jacob the Evergreen Tree stood rooted in his little lot with the other trees.

They had all been planted with the intended purpose of being chopped and shipped and decorated for Christmas.

The trees were all so excited.

"I hope I get decorated with angels!" one tree exclaimed.

"I want red lights," another said.

"Look how long my trunk is," a tall tree added. "So many presents will fit under me."

But Jacob the tree couldn't joyously contribute to the conversation. He couldn't get excited about living in some home for the holidays.

Because Jacob was Jewish. And who's ever heard of a Jewish Christmas tree?

As the trees grew taller and the weather grew colder, as summer turned into fall and fall turned into winter, radio stations across the US began playing Christmas music, Jacob could only think of the saw that would rip through his trunk so some family could decorate him with ornaments of the baby Jesus.

Jacob shuddered as a particularly cold wind blew through his branches. It was November. He only had weeks until he'd be taken to some tree seller.

And that day did come.

Every tree in the little lot shook with excitement. The Christmas season was here! Soon they'd be tied to the roofs of minivans and tossed into trucks. They'd be on their way to lavish living rooms and frosted windows.

"Oh, fantastic. I'm so full of joy," Jacob sarcastically thought as a squirrel ran up his trunk and knocked off some snow. Minutes later, the lot lumberjack approached Jacob the soon-to-be Christmas tree with his saw.

But the lumberjack did not start to saw at Jacob's trunk. Instead, he dropped his saw and fell to his knees. He started inspecting the ground around Jacob.

There were stars of David imprinted into the snow. Everywhere snow had fallen from Jacob's branches from moments ago, to be exact.

The lumberjack ran to the buyer and quickly told them that he, Jacob, wasn't for sale. That Jacob had been sold to someone else.

Jacob the tree was confused. He didn't remember being sold or promised to anyone. Later that night, he was chopped down, loaded onto the roof of the lumberjack's car and taken to his home.

As Jacob woefully entered the house, he heard familiar music.

"But that's ... could it be ... dradle?" It was. Jacob the tree heard a Jewish song.

Over on the mantle, he noticed a menorah above the Christmas stockings.

"This family is half Jewish!" Jacob rejoiced.

The lumberjack set Jacob up in the corner of the living room. Children emerged and decorated him with small candles, dradle ornaments, little stars of David and other Hanukkah/Christmas hybrid items.

Jacob was a Hanukkah tree! And he lived happily ever after until he was set out on the curb to be hauled to the dump.

Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox live above me.

The first six months I lived here were relatively quiet. The next six were punctuated by loud bangs from above at random hours. And the last month, well, my neighbor has decided that night time is the right time for noisiness. And now he seems to have a dog that's just as lead-footed as he is.

What is that guy doing up there? Is he walking around with cement blocks strapped to his feet. Is he wearing a scuba tank and doing jumping jacks. Is he poorly juggling anti-matter?

I'm half tempted to say something, but that guy would probably answer the door wearing a suit of armor and carrying a baby hippo. And I'd say something to the office, but it would be quite obvious where the noise complaint came from. It's not like there are fourteen apartments below him (just me). And you don't want to piss off a noisy stranger.

Maybe the guy is a Dance Dance Revolution phenom. Only he's gotten so great that his competition makes him wear handicapping weight belts like in "Harrison Bergeron" by Kurt Vonnegut.

Maybe he has an extreme infestation of giant spiders and he must continually smash them. With a lead mallet.

Maybe he's just a really really really big dude. With bones made of the heaviest of metals. And skin made of the heaviest of metals. And he's got 18 pounds of necklaces on.

Whatever the case, the dude is loud. I might have to declare war. I'm going to need at least a dozen ten-inch sub woofers and an amp that can power an IMAX movie theatre. And a bullhorn just for kicks. And a trampoline. And some babies- lots of babies. Screaming, angry, gassy babies that haven't had their nap time.

And a howling coyote! And a police siren.

Or just enough guile to figure out who this guy is, befriend him and then coerse him into moving into another apartment.

He can take that freaking spider on my door with him. Yeah, that bastard is still there.

Forget carrying mase. I'm going to carry Raid.

You, reader, are afraid of something. Lurking in the shadows or around some random corner lies something that terrifies you.

Whether it's the blackness of night, the sharpness of blades, the roars of lions or the size of mushrooms (mycophobia).

My heart attack trigger? Spiders. I've a crippling case of arachnophobia. And tonight, it almost cost me a warm place to sleep.

I approached my apartment door at around ten thirty PM. I was about to raise my arm to unlock the door when I saw a grey spider inches from the lock.

I froze. Literally. I could not move. All I could do was stare at that spider. The evil arachnid who was keeping me from my home.

"Veronica," I told myself," you are a grown-ass woman. That is a spider. He's the size of your pinky nail. You've literally got like 140 pounds on him. Just smash him with your shoe."

But I couldn't listen to myself. Because I might have the size advantage, but that little creep had the appendage advantage. And the ocular advantage. And the web-spinning advantage.

"Okay, you," I said to myself. "Just back up a bit."

So I took a step back. Then another. I looked down the hallway to my left. Then to my right. I wished for someone to walk by so I could ask him/her to knock the spider off for me. Or lie and say my lock was being fidgety.

"My lock is being fidgety. Could you give it a try?" Then the kind stranger would let me into my apartment. I wouldn't have to risk touching the spider, and I could go to sleep.

Alas, the hallways were souless except for me. And that spider.

Side note: I think spiders are souless, evil things from planet Scary As Fuck.

Since waiting wasn't working, my next option was to telepathically plead with the spider. "Hey, you, spider. Could you please just, I don't know. Move about 20 inches to the right? That'd be great."

He didn't budge.

I tried being a little more forceful. I thought, "Move your hairy ass over to the right!"

He actually creeped closer to the door handle. The jerk!

So I started pleading aloud. "Please, Mr. Spider. Could you move to the right so I can get into my apartment."

Nothing. I probably screwed up by calling it Mr. It was probably a Ms. Spider.

Next, I blew at the spider. It moved! I blew again. He/she was about six inches away from the lock and handle. Oh, happy day! Except I remembered that some spiders can jump. And if I reached for the door, this spider might jump on me. Then I'd faint and die.

That's what the fear is all about. The potential of touching those horrid things. It makes me shudder now just thinking about it. I'd rather be close to drowning. Seriously. If someone offered me a thousand dollars to just touch a spider with my big toe, I would not be able to do it. I would probably try and then have an asthma attack from thinking about it. And then my heart would do that weird hurting thing it does when I'm really stressed. And then I'd die of fear.

By this time, I think about ten minutes had gone by.

So now I'm panicking a little at my front door. I walk away and pace a bit. Should I call someone? Should I knock on a neighbor's door? I can hear a TV in the apartment across from me. Hell, they weren't watching TV but looking through the peep hole and snickering themselves silly as a woman transformed into a little girl infront of their very eyes.

I decided that I'd keep blowing at the spider. Perhaps I could get him far enough away that I could at least unlock the door. Plus, I could do that from a safe distance.

A minute or so later, I was wheezing and the spider was a further away. But I got another one of those damning thoughts. It, the bug from Hell, was still on the door. The door opens inward. That spider could jump off the door into my apartment. Then I'd have to abandon all of my worldly possesions and move.

I paced again. I tried to convince myself that the spider wasn't going to touch me. That he wasn't on my door because he was plotting to kill me. That he just was cruising around the apartment complex and was taking a rest on my door. He could care less about me and my tasty tasty flesh.

I didn't really believe myself. So I spent the night in my car. And I typed this blog on my cell phone.

Okay, not really. But that makes for a better ending, doesn't it? I eventually got the spider a little further away, then I dashed inside as quickly as I could and shut the door as fast as I could. Then I ran to the shower and scrubbed myself like I'd just fallen in feces.

And now, everything is okay. Except now I'm afraid to leave my aparment in the morning. I just know that spider is building a web over my door. He's clogging the gears and cogs and bits in my door lock so I can't escape tomorrow. Then he and his spider buddies will continuously poke me with their stabby, pointy spider feet.

Oh god. I'm going to go find some prozac or something now.


NEXT DAY UPDATE: That eight-legged bastard was waiting for me in the morning. On the door! Needless to say, I ran to my car this morning. Who knows if I locked my front door or not. I'm not even worried. Super Arachnid will keep the burglars away.

Little Miss Muffet ran away with Humpty Dumpty.

Nursery rhymes need some updating if you ask me.


Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet
Eating her curds and whey.
Along came a spider that sat down beside her
And quickly became a blob of pastey protein after Miss Muffet went postal on his thorax with her wooden shoe.


Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the kings men
Couldn't put Humpty together again because none of them were Mr. Dumpty's primary care physicians, or on his HMO plan at all for that matter.


This little piggie went to market.
This little piggie stayed home.
This little piggie had roast beef.
This little piggie had none.
This little piggie had bacon. Pork bacon. And he got mad pork disease and is now living in a padded room.


Jack and Jill went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water.
Jack fell down and broke his crown
And Jill collected a heap of money from Jack's life insurance and now she lives in a mansion atop the hill.


Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep
And can't tell where to find them.
Leave them alone and they'll come home
Dragging their asses behind them. They'll all be pregnant, strung out on the nose candy and toothless. Should've been a better sheep watcher, Peepsies. Do you know where your lambs are?


Old King Cole was a merry old soul
And a merry old soul was he.
He called for his pipe
And he called for a bowl.
And he called that dude that hangs out by the Jack 'n' the Box cause he's the one with the good stuff. Go slip him some Benjamins and tell him the king sent you. You'll be a merry old soul, too.


Jack, be nimble.
Jack, be quick.
Jack, jump over the candlestick.
Hmm. Perhaps I should have told you this before you busted yo' punk head rolling down a mountain for some water. We have indoor plumbing, ya fool.


Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye;
Four and twenty blackbirds
Baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened,
They all began to sing.
Now, wasn't that a dainty dish
To set before the King who had hella munchies. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!


I love little pussy,
Her coat is so warm,
And if I don't hurt her,
She'll do me no harm.
So I'll not pull her tail,
Nor drive her away,
But pussy and I,
Very gently will play.
(Yeah, I'm not going to touch that one. It's already screwed up enough.)

"I wish I weren't in this museum," thought the T.Rex skeleton.

Once upon an ancient time, I was king of the world.

I was a big, powerful T.Rex. All life on earth feared me.

And now I'm just a glorified puppet in some natural history museum.

Like all of the other prehistoric creatures, I have no idea what happened. One minute I was alive. The next, I was being compressed between layers of sediment.

Then I was discovered, dug up, disassembled, reassembled, polished, preened, supported and put on display.

All for little kids to stare into my empty eye sockets. I can see you, you slimy piece of meat. And if I didn't have my feet nailed to the floor (and I still had all of my muscles and skin), I'd eat you. I'd crunch your little bones like dry leaves.

You'd think my appetite would be gone, seeing as I have no stomach. Or brain. But thousands of years of not eating will make you a little famished, you know?

Some people gawk at me in wonder. I like this. I like it when they marvel at my size and my strength. They usually make comments and stare harder after looking at that little pedistal in front of me. It tells the museum patrons of my habits. For the most part, the scientists were quite right. I was mean and pissed off most of the time (you try lugging around such a huge head!) and I ate tons of meat. But let's get one thing straight, I never liked eating other dinosaurs. I was a carnivore, but not a cannibal. Plus, dinosaur skin was quite tough. It needed barbequing. And with these puny, little arms, I wasn't a very good chef.

Yeah, the museum life is nothing compared to my days of terrorizing the planet. I used to run through the trees and across the fields roaring at everything -- the sun, the moon, rocks, clouds, shadows, water. Now I'm sitting under an air vent with rods shoved into awkward places and posed like I'm trying out for Broadway.

Over to the right of me, there's some other dinosaur skeleton with another dinosaur's skeleton dangling form it's mouth. Why couldn't the museum people pose me like that? Instead, I'm bowing like a supplicant.

I don't look as badass as I used to. Not having skin can do that to a fellow. They should have done something cool, though. Like give me gold teeth. Or play gangsta rap behind me. Then I'd be revered the way I deserve to be.

Instead, the scientists named me Teddy. There's nothing scary or terrorizing about "Teddy the T.Rex." They could have named me Grave Digger. Or Pulverizer. Or even Chomps. Something. Name me after a monster truck or blender speed. But Teddy? That's about a scary as a filtered glass of water.

(After)life could be worse, though. I could have been discovered by some future species of huge dog. I'd be dug up, ripped apart, slobbered on and reburried all over some giant dude's lawn.

Oh, look. Some old guy is wearing a T-shirt with me on it. That's kind of cool. Maybe this museum thing isn't so bad afterall.

Tonight, I'm blogging with my eyes closed.

That's right, kids. I'm typing this with my eyes closed. Let's hope I don't put my fingers on the wrong keys (I am periodically looking to make sure).

So why with closed eyes you might be wondering. Well, I just felt like being blind for a short amount of time. And let me tell you that it sucks. I'm only sitting on my couch thing with my computer in my lap and already I'm over it. Because not seeing what I'm doing is a royal pain.

I really admoire blind people. Because they hav eto do way more than just type.

I think i sfr s trslly bsf yyp. zoh, vtsp. yhid idn'y hoof, id iyz/

Wow, one wuick look (cheating, I admit_ and I notived that my hands were on the wrong keys. Damn. That sentence was supposed to be about a previous typo that I felt. Then an 'oh crap, this can't be good." It wasn't. As you saw.

So vision-impaired computer users have all kinds of nifty tricks to help them surf the web. Well, I only know of one nifty trick. There's this screen reader program callede JAWS. It reads the screen, hence the name 'screen reader.' But it sounds like a soulless robot from planet 'I'm going to eat your soul.' Seriously. The thing is scary sounding. JAWS is a perfect name for it.

I thinnk, no, I know that losing my eyesight would be the worst thing that could happen to me. I enjoy reading way to miuch. And I know that there's braille and books on CD. But they're not he same. Take my smell, taste, hearing. Just don't take my eyes.

I bet typing without looking is easier with an actual non-laptop keyboard. Actually, I know it is. I do it at work all of the time. It's easier to find the keys since they're raised.

Oh! You know what I just just JUST really notived? Thos little nubs on the jome keys. I can't tell you which keys they are, cause my fingers just kinda of know where the letters are )kind of know_. But if my jand slips off, I can just find the nubs with my pointers and be back in business. For the most part, at least.

You should try this typing with out looking thing. It's kin of fun.

And by kind of fun, i mean it's killing me. When I write, I usually go back and reread what I've already written a few times. Then I cahange things, reword things. Sometimes move sentences or strike entire paragraphs. That's no the case tonight. Now you get every erratic thought, typos and all.

Better stop now, then. For my own pride and safety.

Angels are perverts.

Literally, twenty seconds ago, I noticed a new freckle. I looked down, saw something on me, tried to wipe it off and discovered that it was permanent.

I have a cute little freckle where there wasn't a freckle before.

(If you must know, the freckle is in the chest area and it can be seen with clothing on. Perverts. Although, I'm not going into specifics of the types of clothing.)

It got me thinking about something my dad used to say. Freckles are angel kisses. He'd tell this to my sister cause she was a freckly kid. I, on the other hand, wasn't a freckly kid. So I felt that angels just didn't care all that much.

So I told the angels they could kiss my ass. Later, I noticed a freckle on my posterior. True story. I'd show it to you, but it's kind of my ass and not yours to see.

Believe me, though, it's totally hot.

So now in my less-than-innocent, not-quite youth, I can't help but rethink the whole angel kisses thing. What if freckles really are angel kisses? I shouldn't speak for everyone, but I'm going to anyway. People have freckles everywhere. Literally, everywhere. On all body parts including parts in the bathing suit area.

Somewhere, there's a homeless, smelly dude with a freckle on his sack. And some angel was just crap happy to give it to him.

Angels are dirty perverts.

Think about it. I mean, telling kids that angels kiss thier noses and elbows is cute. But you don't know every place that a kid has a freckle. You might be horrifying a child. Some kid might cry himself to sleep thinking the angels are going to return in the night to molest his bellybutton again.

When I was a kid, the eye doctor told me that I had a nevus (mole, freckle or other skin anomaly) in the back of my eye (apparently, that's pretty common). What I wanted to ask the doctor was how in the hell did an angel get my eye out of my head to suck on the back of it. That's the kind of thing you see in foreign porn, right? Ugh.

And are the freckles and moles dependant on the kind of kiss? The pressure applied? The suction used? Are light spatterings of freckles from soft, rapid-fire pecks? And are moles like celestial hickeys? What about birthmarks? Are they caused by angels licking a person labrador-style? These are important questions. I need to know if this mole that's been on my neck forever is something I should sue over.

Again, most of us have moles and freckles in various places all over our bodies. So are angels just going around planting their lips on any exposed skin while we sleep? It's enough to make me want to sleep in a jumpsuit with a padlocked zipper. No angel is getting any of this ever again! At least without permission, first. I mean, I don't want some homely angel puckering up to my neck. If the angel is totally hot, well, that's another story all together, isn't it?

My little cousin is cooler than your little cousin.

Yeah, you heard me. No matter what your funny, clever, charasmatic little cousin can do, my little cousin can kick his ass.

Because my little cousin is a Guitar Hero god.

This kid can play GH III on expert with the guitar behind his back. I've seen it.

This kid can play GH II with his eyes closed. I've seen that, too.

This kid can thrash and rock to songs that are three times his age. (Heck, some of the songs are older than me!)

I give him a week before he sets the guitar on fire. He's that awesome.

If there were a Jimmi Hendricks of Guitar Hero, he'd be a little dude from a Dallas suburb named Johnson*.

Today, he loads up GH III on his Wii. He then informs me he's going to be playing a total stranger (oh, the wonders of the internet). Little dude totally held his own in battle.

I can only imagine who the other player was. I'm guessing it was a guy, early twenties, taking turns with a buddy. He (the current player) was the bettter of the two, a little skinny, and in a sparsely-furnished college apartment.

If only he knew he was getting owned by a kid. He'd probably laugh and tell my cousin that he rocked. How could he not? My cousin is undeniably kick-ass awesome.

He can also throw a ball, draw, play the piano, and cook. Rock on, little cuz, rock on.




*I ain't putting my kid cousin's name on the internet ... yet. We're gonna make YouTube videos soon. His mom, my aunt, gave me permission.

The emperor knew he was naked.

Hans Christian Anderson wrote a well-known story titled "The Emperor's New Clothes" (also known as "The Emperor's New Suit).

In this story, the emperor is had by swindlers. They tell him they can make a magical suit that's invisible to those not fit for their office and the incredibly stupid. The emporor upon not seeing the bolts of fabric (which didn't exist because they belonged to swindlers) claimed that it was the most beautiful fabric he had ever seen. Everyone in his company claimed the same, for if they admitted not seeing it, they were admitting to being terribly dense and unfit for their jobs.

So everyone in the kingdom fawns over the emperor's new clothes, although none of them can actually see it. Then, a small boy proclaims, "But he has nothing on at all!" And admitting the truth dominoed.

The untold story, though, is slightly different.

...

The emperor entered his private quarters and ordered his chamberlains to leave. No sooner had they closed the massive doors did the emperor drop his restrictive clothes to the ground. He raised his open palms skyward and stretched his naked body as long as he possibly could. He took a deep breath, scratched his exposed belly (and a few other exposed parts) and strolled to his favorite chair by the window.

The emperor plopped his naked ass upon the seat cushion and reached behind a pillow for his favorite magazine: Starkers Quarterly.

Before reading, the emperor realized he was still wearing his stockings. He peeled them off with a laugh. It felt so good to be totally bare. For you see, the emporor was a closet nudist.

The emperor opened his magazine and read about nudist-friendly resorts, beaches and cities. He pored over profiles of happy nudists who lived open lives. He became absorbed by one ad in particular.

"Are you a closet nudist," the ad began, "forced to conform to a closed-minded society?"

"Yes, yes I am," thought the emperor.

The ad continued, "Are you afraid that you will be shunned by those who admire you if they find out you prefer to be au natural?"

"I do fear that," the emperor said quietly.

"Are you a king overseeing a kingdom of heavily-clothed prudes?"

"Yes. Yes! YES!" shouted the king, perhaps a little to loudly for someone outside shouted back something quite lewd.

The emperor continued to read the ad's copy. Two men claimed they could solve the very problem the emperor faced - being a closet nudist.

The emperor tore the ad's send-in form and lept from his arm chair to find the nearest quill. He filled out the form, sealed it tightly and foxed it that afternoon (before the days of internet, mail, phones and faxes, foxes were used to send messages because they were fast and cute).

Three very agonizing, suit-clad weeks later, two men arrived at the castle. They claimed to be the finest tailors in all the land. Although the chamberlains weren't expecting any specific tailors, they found nothing odd of these men. The emperor, so they thought, had an odd obsession with fashion. He had tailors and seamstresses coming and going all of the time. He changed outfits several times a day. Everyone just assumed the emperor wanted to be trendy. In actuality, he was just vainly seeking something wearable that was as comfortable as his own skin.

The chamberlains led the alleged tailors to the emperor's quarters.

"We are from Jay Bird's, your majesty," they told the emperor.

Naked as a Jay Bird! He instantly knew they were the men from the ad. The emperor anxiously participated in the just-for-show conversation about cloth, colors and stitching styles. Then, the tailors told a tale of a magical cloth that was invisible to the incredibly stupid.

The emperor cocked his head. "Invisible, you say?"

"Invisible," the men of Jay Bird repeated. They pulled a clothless rod from their bag. "Just feel how exquisite that feels."

The emperor giggled. There was nothing there! As he mimed fingering cloth, he waxed poetic about the beauty of this textile, about the silkiness of it and about how he desired nothing more than a suit of it.

His chamberlains were in a panic. They could not see this cloth. They were surely unfit to work in the castle! So they praised the fabric that they didn't know didn't exist so they could keep their jobs.

The emperor ordered a suit from the men of Jay Bird. He gladly paid them a fortune for air and theatrics. He stood in front of his mirror for hours as they pretended to tailor a suit to his every muscle.

He was going to be able to walk around stark-ass naked. And no one could or would say anything about it for fear of seeming dim! It was perfect.

The emperor was so thrilled at finally being able to walk around in the buff, he planned a parade. He would prance down the main street of his land as his people watched.

The day of the parade, the people gathered and the musicians played.

The emperor emerged from the castle and felt the warm sun on his bare shoulders. He felt the cool breeze softly blow against his nether bits. Nothing felt greater than being out in the open while he himself was out and open.

"Oh, would you look at that amazing suit," the townspeople lied, unless they were referring to his birthday suit but no one would dare.

"That is the finest fabric I've ever seen," people would tell one another.

"If only we all had clothing so fine."

"The emperor looks smashing."

"You're all plum loony," a teen shouted. "He's as naked as the day he was born."

The crowd hushed and the music ceased. The emperor and his procession haulted. The emperor approached the teen and looked him in the eye. Then he winked and continued on with the parade.

Random rambles from a rambly rambler.

In seventh grade, Mrs. K gave us an assignment. We had five minutes where we weren't allowed to stop writing.

Write solidly for five minutes. If it entered your head, it must be put to paper.

Most of the kids wrote about not knowing what to write. Which I've found is a very popular topic for MySpace and Facebook profiles. "Um, yeah, I hate these things. So, anyway, here it goes..."

So tonight, I've decided that I'm just going to write for five minutes and at the end, I'm going to stop.

My fingers will never quit typing (although if there is a dreadful typo, I will backspace to save myself the pain). But if I get two sentences further and then notice it (which I won't be able to cause I can't stop typing) then I'm SOL. And if I notice it when I go back and read this blog por la manana, then too bad. My mistake will be there for the world to see.

So I'll either write the next great American novel in these five minutes, write total crap or get carpul tunnels. How in the hell do you spell that? I'd look it up on dictionary dot com, but I can't because stopping equals cheating and cheating equals lying and I'm not going to lie tonight.

Blogs are a funny thing. They're (mostly) diaries that you allow the world to read. Diaries with the hopes of validation. "Will someone comment on my blog today?" If so, life is candy and rainbows. If not, the writing was terrible, the thoughts vapid and you feel like the only kid not dancing at the winter ball.

The really crappy part is finding a topic that you really want to write about and you realize that you can't. Because you have no idea who's reading this thing. It could be a coworker, an ex, some random dude from Florida ... Gotta be careful.

The whole purpose of starting this blog thing was to make me write. Writing is my one true love and I've been neglecting it. We have a tendency to neglect the things we hold dear. Pitty, really. Perhaps it's because our loves will forgive us.

Five minutes is up.

What if golf had cheerleaders?

What if golf had cheerleaders?

Glad you asked. If golf had cheerleaders, they'd say things like this:


Swing that club
(clap clap clap clap clap)
Hit that ball
(clap clap clap clap clap)
Hit it far!
(clap clap clap clap clap)
Under par!
(Random cheers: Yeah! Go golfers! Wahoo!)


We say IRON
You say WOOD
Iron!
(Wood!)
Iron!
(Wood!)
Iron!
(Wood!)
Hit that ball good!
(Random cheers: Yeah! Woo! Golf rules!)


You want a low score?
What?
I said you want a low score?
Yea!
I'm gonna get a low score!
Wew!
(Imitate a swing) Four four four four!



Take flight birdie
Soar mighty eagle
Keep it under par!
If you get an albatross
You are a golfer rock star!
(Throw a cheerleader into the air)


The green is the goal
Aim for the flag pole
Get a club from your caddy
And show that ball who's its daddy!
(Random cheers: Alright! Win! Score!)


Bend your knees
(clap clap)
Eyes on the ball
(booty shake clap clap)
It's a breeze.
(jump)
Swing the club
(clap clap)
Aim the ball
(booty shake clap clap)
And don't hit shrubs!
(hand springs)

Tests aren't the best judges of intelligence.

There are IQ tests, SAT tests, ACT tests, AP tests, EOC exams, TAAS or TAKS tests, MCATs, LSATs, blood tests ...

The list goes on for ages. They're all used to meter intelligence (well, except for blood, but that day is coming). The problem is that some people are fantastic at standardized tests and numbed-brained when it comes to everything else. The opposite is also true; some fantastically genius people can't sit still long enough to take an intelligence test.

Well, luckily for the American-English-speaking world, I've come up with an easy way to instantly determine a person's true intellgence.

The pronunciation of the word "naked" is a true gauge of intelligence.

Saying ney-kid means that a person is at the very least, smart.

Saying nek-kid means that a person is, well, dim.

Now, all of you nekkid sayers, don't get your synapses in a wad. You might be clever and witty and artistic, but think about it. Aren't you a little dumb? Just a little bit?

You might be thinking, "I'm as smart as a club of fish, I is!" And I'm proud of you for having such elevated self-esteem. But you aren't smart. You're just manipulative or charmed.

Because if you say nekkid, ya ain't got that sharpa tools in yer shed, ya know? Ya just don't, hun.

There are some very powerful (and regretfully respected) people who say nekkid. I can only blame this on the sad fact that a good 49ish percent of the US population are nekkid sayers. But it's only fair that those in the nekkid sayer population have adequate representation in high society and politics.

But for us naked folk (ha!), this can be a bad thing.

So, in order for us to save the country, every child must be given extensive speech therapy to correct or ideally prevent the perpatuation of the nekkid pronunciation.

With the phase out we'll see more-efficiently-designed roads. There will be less hair in restaurant food. The cost of oil and gas will drop. And radio stations will stop playing only eight-year-old top forty hits.

I ask you, go out and help a nekkid person. Give him ego massage he needs to rise in society! May he use this new tool daily! May he stand erect and proclaim to the entire world, "Naked is the way to be!" ... What? Too much inuendo?

Samuel the Birtday Party Burro likes cake.

For forty-five minutes, Samuel the Birthday Party Burro walked in a circle with a rotation of squealing toddlers on his back.

For forty-five minutes, Samuel the Birthday Party Burro stomped the grass to death until the once-perfect yard had a now-perfect, grassless circle that would last for months.

For forty-five minutes, Samuel the Birthday Party Burro endured kicks to his ribs, being called an ugly horse and wearing a cone-shaped birthday hat. In protest, he took a dump right next to the birthday child's soccer mom.

So if Samuel hated being a birthday party burro so much, why did he continue to torture himself? Because Samuel the Birthday Party Burro had a sweet tooth. And children's birthday parties are known for cake.

With every revolution around the tree, Samuel the Birthday Parto Burro would catch a glimpse of this party's yellow-frosted masterpiece. He counted six blue candles and he thought he saw a frosting clown.

"Frosting clown equals jackpot," thought the burro.

Usually, Samuel the Birthday Party Burro would sadly stare at the least-jerky child and use his burro powers to get the kid to bring him, Samuel the Birthday Party Burro, a piece of cakey goodness. Not this party, though. Samuel the Birthday Party Burro wanted the entire cake. And he had a plan to make his fantasy come true.

At children's birthday parties where burros are rented, they are ridden before the treats are served. This is because children are prone to vomit and a birthday party burro doesn't need to be showered in stomach contents in addition to the other humiliations a burro must endure. So during cake time, Samuel the Birthday Party Burro's owner would be invited to eat cake while the burro was left tied to a tree to nibble on grass.

Suburban grass is the worst kind of grass for a burro. It gives them gas. Samuel the Birthday Party Burro didn't want suburban grass gas. He wanted cake.

So during the time that owner and birthday party attendees would be prepping for cake, Samuel the Birthday Party Burro would gnaw on his lead rope until it split into two. For the last four birthday parties, Samuel the Birthday Party Burro had been gnawing on that rope. Today, it would give.

As the last child's ride ended, the usual chain of events took place: burro tied to something, owner took a gulp of whiskey from a hip flask, owner went to the can, children gathered around a picnic table.

Samuel the Birthday Party Burro started to gnaw. The rope was weak. He tugged with all of his burro might and it snapped like a beatnik's fingers. He ran to the cake table. And he licked the clown off of the cake.

Then he dug his muzzle into the center of the cake. Mmm, chocolate. Samuel the Birthday Party Burro took gluttonous bites of the birthday cake. Each mouthful made the seventy yearly parties worth it.

"Look! The funny horsie is eating the cake," some freckled kid shouted.

Samuel the Birthday Party Burro looked up, sneezed out some frosting and continued to dine on the yummy, nummy confection.

Most of the children errupted in laughter along with a handful of the adults. The birthday child's mom stared in confused horror. The burro owner took another sip of whisky.

Digital cameras and camera phones emerged. Pictures were taken and videos were captured. Samuel the Birthday Party Burro just kept eating cake.

A day later, he was a YouTube star. "Jackass Eats Cake" was the number nine video for three weeks. Footage of Samuel the Birthday Party Burro appeared on various US talk shows and the situation was even referenced in a movie.

Cakes by the dozens were sent to Samuel the Birthday Party Burro's stall and he started working at all kinds of parties, but not as a beast of burdon but a star!

Samuel the Birthday Party Burro lived happily (albeit a little fatter) ever after.

The moral of this story, kids, just go for it. You can have your cake and eat it, too.

I don't know what a blog is. You see, I've been in a coma.

Here it is, folks. It's either the latest and greatest way to hit on strangers or the best way to eff with strangers.

It's the I've-been-a-coma technique.

How does it work, you ask? Pick a stranger and make one distinct observation. For example, you see a chick wearing a Fallout Boy T-shirt. Approach her and say, "I'm sorry but I was noticing your shirt. What is Fallout Boy?"

The girl should respond by saying they're a pop band (if she's really cool, she'll tell you that Fallout Boy is a comic book character from the Simpsons, but that's another story all together). If she doesn't volunteer the information, ask what songs they perform and how many albums they have.

Then when you find out they're relatively new, throw out, "Ahh. That's why I haven't heard of them before. I've recently come out of a year-long coma."

When you toss out the coma line, you have to be careful. If you're only twenty-five and you look twenty-five, you don't want to have a multi-year coma. If you're older (we'll say thirty-five plus which isn't old but old enough) you can afford to have been in a longer coma. For example, a ten year coma could be really fun; you would barely know about cell phones.

Not many people know others who've been in comas. So if you play it cool, the conversation will evolve. The stranger will be intrigued and want to know how long you were out. He or she might ask how you ended up in a coma. A great line is, "I can remember driving in my car and then I woke up in a hospital room a year later."

Be sure to say that while in a coma, you had no dreams, no thoughts, heard nothing. Because when you're in a coma, you might as well be dead. And be sure to toss in how your muscles had atrified and you've been in physical therapy to get your strength back (this is awesome if you're really skinny; say you lost like fifty pounds while in a coma). After all, spending x amount of time in a hospital bed eating through a tube, you don't really pack on the mass.

Mention how crazy it is that the world changed so much in x months/years. For example, "I found out yesterday that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are an item. Weird!" Or "I tried to order a medium soda the other day, and they don't have medium. Just large and extra large. When did that happen?" And my personal fave, "My sister showed me this thing called an iPod. It holds like a hundred casettes on it!"

If you want to play the super-pathetic card, say something like, "The worst part was when I finally went home and found out that my dog had died." This is a great time to shed a tear. Believe me, if you're a dude, you're getting a phone number.

The I've-been-a-coma technique is also great for being ignorant about certain topics. If you're sitting at a bar and some people try and get you to talk about sports and politics, just cock your head and say, "I'm so sorry. I have no idea what's going on in the world of [sports]. I've been in a coma for the last six months and I only woke up a week ago." Then take a long, slow drink from your beverage. If you steer the conversation right (and your friendly, local bartender doesn't rat you out), you might get some free booze.

It's a no-fail method for some good fun. Unless, of course, chance is against you and the person you're speaking to has actually been in a coma. If that happens, you're on your own.

Shelly forgot to put in her eyeballs

Shelly forgot to put in her eyeballs
As she slowly crawled out of her bed.
She tried to make her way to the bathroom,
But she went to the kitchen instead!

Shelly forgot to put in her eyeballs
One crazy-silly, forgetful morn.
After thirty minutes in the closet
She put on a some pants that were torn!

Shelly forgot to put in her eyeballs
And for entire day she was blind.
She wanted to eat a banana
But couldn't distinguish it from a rind!

Shelly forgot to put in her eyeballs.
They are next to her bed in a glass.
So instead of avoiding a puddle,
Shelly slipped and fell right on her ass!*

Shelly forgot to put in her eyeballs,
And she swears that this will not repeat.
Because whenever she wasn't sitting
Coworkers would put tacks in her seat!

Shelly forgot to put in her eyeballs
One morning when she got out of her bed.
And this poses a serious question:
Why were her eyeballs out of her head!


*Damn. So close to being a child's poem.