My bed is a people-eating alien.

I had a creepy feeling last night. Something just wasn't right.
So I forced myself awake and was given a fright.

My bed's headboard was glowing like some demon light stick.
And I could swear that something gave my feet a lick.

"Is my bed alive?" I thought to myself. "No, you're being crazy.
You ate before sleeping and that's making things hazy."

So I pulled the blanket up to my chin and gave a mighty yawn.
Then I heard a chomp, a slurp, a gulp and my pillow was gone!

"Mom!" I shouted as I ran screaming towards her room.
"My bed's a people-eating alien. If I sleep in it, I'm doomed!"

"Stop being so silly, dear," Mom said, "And go back to sleep."
I tried to argue with her but she shhhed me, "Not a peep."

I went back to my room and it was covered with teddy bear fluff.
While I was gone, that jerk alien bed had eaten my stuff!

I figured I should spend the night on the couch. It would be okay.
The living room was safer. My bed couldn't fit through the doorway.

So I lay down on the squishy, cushy couch and sank into the soft.
And it was far too late when I realized something was off.

I thought it was the bed in my room going, "Slurp slup!"
But I got sucked into the pillows of the cou... "BURP!"

Ever had a conversation with the past?

The Past: Hey.

Girl: (startled) Ah!

The Past: (startled) Ahh!

Girl: Oh, it's you.

The Past: It is.

Girl: You startled me.

The Past: Sorry about that.

Girl: You can't just sneak up on people like that. It's rude.

The Past: Guess I forgot my manners for a bit.

Girl: You sure did. (pause) This is a really bad time, you know ...

The Past: ... I know ...

Girl: ... for you to pop up. I mean, stuff's going pretty good right now and ...

The Past: ... and?

Girl: God! And you just creep up like some kind of asshole fog! (angry) Who do you think you are?

The Past: I'm what you want.

Girl: How do you know that? How can you possibly know that!

The Past: Because I know you. Because I know how happy you were. And how you made a hard decision.

Girl: Yeah.

The Past: And you had hopes and dreams. And you had a plan. And it's time.

Girl: It can't be.

The Past: It is. It's now or never.

Girl: No. Not now.

The Past: You've already been given a second chance. Do you realize this?

Girl: I can't handle this right now. It's too much.

The Past: You can.

Girl: But what if ...

The Past: ... what if what?

Girl: What if things don't turn out the way I need them to?

The Past: You'll be fine. What's the worst that could hap... oh.

Girl: (sadly nods)

The Past: That would ...

Girl: I'm not strong enough. (a tear falls)

The Past: (thinks for a moment) Is the pain of possibly losing worse than not trying?

Girl: I don't know. I'm already in pain.

The Past: I know.

Girl: It hurts to just watch. It hurts to think of trying. And if I try and fail ...

The Past: ... you'll die.

Girl: It'll be over. Forever. I would have ...

The Past: ... waited too long. Just like you always have.

Girl: (stares off to the side) Why did you have to show up now?

The Past: I've always been here. You've just been too focused and really good about drowning me out. But even you can't ignore me forever.

(And the girl looks her past in the eye. And it glares right back. And together, they make a decision to for the future.)

This is the 69th blog. And that's funny.

You know what else is funny? Haikus! These all feature well-known personalities.

Let's do this.


I'm watching Colbert.
And he is chowing down grits.
That looks so tasty.


Dirty Jobs' Mike Rowe
Is one funny, handsome man.
I'd dirty his job.


John Stewart, you're hot,
And you are really funny.
I heart older men!


Who is this Heidi?
I have never watched the Hills.
Because I have class.


Rosie O'Donnel.
I don't think you're annoying.
Compared to a chimp.


Just kidding, Rosie.
I think you're kinda funny.
And now I've no friends.


Self-made celebrity
'Net blogger Perez Hilton.
How did you do it!


I want my fifteen.
Where is it, Andy Warhol?
Answer me, dead guy!


I have no writers.
Oh, wait. I don't use writers.
If so, I'd pay them.

Obituaries are crap.

Hey, Stanley.

The latest "The North Texan" arrived at my apartment yesterday.

In it is your NT obituary.

And it sucks.

"He worked at Miller Brewery for more than 30 years ..." it says.

"... and was interested in music," it says.

"He earned his bachelor's degree in biology from North Texas," it says.

And that's all it says.

It's not your official obit. I know, I've seen it. I was at the funeral. But still.

It's crappy that you were amazing and you died and the world knows only that you liked music. Big fat fucking duh. Who doesn't?

And that you graduated from North Texas. No shit. Really? I mean, fuck, your obit is in the damn North Texas magazine. They don't put dead MIT grads in this pub.

I know journalism. It's what I got my North Texas degree in. I know that obits're for public record and their primary purpose is to record the fact that people a) existed b) died and c) may have others in their blood lines. That's about it.

But couldn't they at least mention that you loved the Beatles? Or that music was a fan of you? Such a fan that some famous cowboy singer wanted to take your ashes on the road and spread them across the country?

Or that your nickname was 90 Mile-an-Hour Curry? That you had some crazy purple hot rod thirty years ago that your friends actually tracked down and were going to buy and fix up for your next birthday?

Or that you kicked cancer's ass and laughed at it for years before diabetes finally did you in? That you never complained and you looked healthier than all of us despite the fact that you were hooked up to a chemo bag?

NO! Because obits don't say any of that pertinent stuff. Because they are complete crap. Total and utter crap.

At least all of your loved ones did right by you. They celebrated your life and remembered the long-haired Stanley of yore.

And I guess when it's all said and done, that's what really matters. Right? That and beer. Which I'm sure is what you'd tell me.

You know what we should do?

Hey. How's it going?

Want to go to Mexico?

I'll have my very own passport within the month. And I want to use it! So I think you and I need to go to Mexico.

It's really not that far. An up and down in a plane ride, really. Not much worse than a roller coaster.

We can eat good food and dance the night away (but not drink the water!).

We can rent scooters and barter with the locals. Or we can stay at one of those all-inclusive resorts and wear wrist bands.

Podemos hablar espanol!

So let's do it. Let's go to Mexico. I've never been. Have you? If so, you can show me around. It'll be fun.

I hear the ocean water is so salty that you float! I want to float in the salter water. Don't you?

And it's sun shiny and warm. That beats the crap out of this bunk coldness that we're having here.

I really want to go to Mexico. I need to go to Mexico.

I need to get out of the country.

Fast.

You know what? Screw the passport. Let's leave tonight. Can you leave tonight? Will you flee from the U.S. with me and run away to Mexico?

I don't have much time. The police are probably already at my apartment. And I think someone recognized me at this coffee shop where I'm currently sitting.

So, yeah. I'm going to Mexico with or without you.

But just in case you don't get this, I'm going to be at your door in thirty minutes. Don't worry about packing anything. I've got enough money for the both of us. Don't worry about how I got it. That's not important.

What's important is that we go to Mexico tonight. I'd say Canada, but that's too far away. I think If we drive really fast we can get there in like 7 hours. I've loaded up my trunk with gas cans. Half are full of gas and the other half are empty so we won't have to stop.

Oh, crap. Gotta go. If we don't get to meet up tonight, you never heard from me. Got it?

Tony the Tiger's High School Reunion Part 1

A fat, old, orange lump of a cartoon tiger sat at a vanity and stared into a mirror.

He patted his ears down. He stretched them up. He fluffed his whiskers and then quickly licked his paws only to slick the hairs back to normal.

Tony stood up and turned sideways. He sucked in a bellyful of air and puffed out his chest. He admired his slimmer figure for about ten seconds before he exhaled like a popped balloon. His furry gut popped out and bounced as he softly growled.

"Grrrreat," Tony sarcastically told his reflection. "Just grrrreat."

Tony the Tiger ambled to the kitchen and poured himself a bowl of cereal. As he topped it with milk, he paused and stared at the sugar-coated pieces floating in his bowl. His gaze traveled to his furry stomach.

"Hmm," Tony went. "Duh." He tossed the bowl into the sink and just drank milk from the carton.

Tony walked to a small kitchen table and sat down. An old high school yearbook lay within his reach. He slid it close to him. The open spread was of the senior class of 1948. Surrounding the picture of "Tiger, Tony E." were markered hearts and smiley faces.

"You're the sweetest!" was squiggled in fat, cursive letters.

Tony flipped pages and came to a picture of the football team. Then he turned the page to the cheerleaders. And there he saw a picture of a young, muscular tiger smiling amongst five very peppy girls.

A mascot for life, he was.

A soft purr erupted from Tony's throat as he traced the picture of one cheerleader in particular. He couldn't wait to see his old sweet heart again.

There was no time to waste. Tony had two weeks to get ready for his fortieth* high school reunion.

But right now, he needed a nap.


* According to Wikipedia (flawed as it is, it's my best resource at 11:20 PM) Tony the Tiger was first used in 1952. Seeing as he was most-likely full grown upon his introduction into the cereal world, there's no accurate way to tell when he would've attended and graduated from high school. For this particular story line, we're pretending that Tony the Tiger was 18 in 1968. This means that the ad agency/design firm/illustrator who came up with Tony actually drew him two years before he was purchased and placed on a cereal box. It's completely possible. Trust me. Oh, and Tony was an adult tiger his entire life. Fiction rules.

I want a song to be written about me.

More than anything, I want a boy to write a song about me.

A song about how I'm the one. About my eyes and my skin and the small of my back. About how the world looks with me in it.

A song about how I was the one who got away.

A song full of woe-heavy guitar strokes and lyrics that long for my touch. Just one more time.

I want the kind of song that makes teenage girls turn up the radio and silence their friends. A song to make all women, young and old, jealous.

I want to discover this song by pure accident. Hear it in the background of some independent movie or on a college radio station. I want to hear it and know it. Even if it's the first time the lyrics touch my ears.

I want to hear a line in the chorus that I will know is about me and only me.

I want a boy to write a song about me. About how despite all my flaws, I'm still perfect. And how every day and week makes me more beautiful. And how I also make the days more beautiful.

I want my song to be the choice song for weddings. Brides will pretend that their husbands wrote the song for them.

But, oh no, that song was written for me. And me alone. And it will always and forever be about me.

I want a boy to write a beautiful song about me. A song that will make me immortal. That will live on longer than I ever could.

A song that will make the hopeless believe in love again.

UPDATE (07.16.08): You know what? Screw a song. I had something better.