Don't forget: Next Sunday is Mother's Day.

Oh, fine. You can roll your eyes at me while the stinky protesting hippie inside of you says "Mannnnnnn, that is just another stupid Hallmark holiday." But if you don't buy your Mother something, then Dear God, you are one more star on the horizon. So you best join in the fun now while you still have all your internal organs in one place.

I have no idea what to get my mother. The only thing she doesn't have is a helper monkey. But those jokers are expensive, and I don't have time to make my own helper monkey now. Gee. Why do I wait til the last minute when it comes to good ideas? God forbid she ever really needs one. I just thought she'd like to have him around to take shopping, maybe he could vaccuum out the car, stuff like that.

Think, think, think...I need ideas.

It's not as if I can trace my hand on a paper plate with a crayon and have an adult help me glue some elbow macaroni on it and call that "love" anymore, can I? I mean, this is the woman who told me, as I lay dying in my own grief and regret one day, wishing that I had done something, anything exciting with my life, something that might help people, I said, why oh why am I not doing anything culturally beneficial with my life, something that would really make a difference to people? And my mother said "You are doing something good for people. You have a job, so you are not a drain on society."

There you go. When you are 98% correct that you have chosen the exact wrong path for your destiny, always remember: On that bright side of your soul-draining craptastic job is the part where you are, most importantly, not a drain on society. Put it like that, and you too can feel like a princess.

But really, my fondest fever-breaking comment came as yet again, I lay dying in my same old brand of grief and regret, this time over an unfortunate relationship gone bad with a fat illustrator, and I just couldn't see a way past the excrutiating pain, how was I ever going to get over this funny little fat balding bastard, this lying sack of dirty pink angora sweaters with chili-cheese homestyle fries on the side. How could I personally live without this selfish, impish goobernugget? Oh no, I'm not joking either, I was incomprehensibly and personally devastated. I mean, sure, this guy is probably gay, even though of course he is married now and his nut-crushing shrew wife has given birth. Fine. It's all part of the pattern of denial. Trust me, I've seen it more than one hundred times since the whole unfortunate incident, and besides the raw data, you really can't bury a gut feeling even with a pound of freshly fried chicken livers from Popeyes--

ANY-@#$%ING-WAY...

...my mom tried to be as motherly about it as she could on the phone, with the generic, Mom-like comments like "I know, I know" and "Well, you'll get over it in time, you will." But I could tell she really had something much deeper to say, something profound that she wasn't sharing with me, I could just tell, but I had no idea what it was. It was that truest moment in the mini-series of life that occurs about seven times in a person's life. And in retrospect, you hope you hear it again when you die because it's what the meaning of life is made of. Like how you can end sentences with prepositions if you want to.

So after the long pause, her mouth finally overrode her brain, and she said: "Well, hon, I mean honestly, you gotta admit...he's like...two milkshakes away from being Louie Anderson."

And just like that, the fever broke. The clouds parted. This was one of those rare moments when I have absolutely never felt better in my life. And I laughed so hard that I can't think about without laughing. It starts my life over from time to time, like someone took my Etch-a-Sketch and shook it clean. And then, because she is my mother, she Windexed it to a perfect, glossy shine like only a mother can do with: "You know, I'm serious, you really dodged a bullet..." and "Personally, I really think he might be gay..."

So now I just have to get her a helper monkey. Ya know? Might as well start Googling for one now. Snap one off eBay before they find out and unlist it. The FedEx charges alone will kill me, but don't you think she's worth it?

Happy Monday! No, really!

I could go on for days about "Things, Things and More Things" but why?

I'd rather show you that you, yes you, can have your very own private island. If you're a filthy millionaire like me.

No?

Ok, so you could have a refreshing glass of Canadian milk. Canadian milk is the way to go. American milk is full of steroids. It's true. American milk could probably kill that new strain of humans allergic to peanuts. How'd we manage to become allergic to peanuts? Oh yeah: Overuse of antibiotics. Whoops.

This is cool. Hmm. Don't get me started. I may have shown you that, ah who remembers these things. Oh, I'll never forget about this woman who planted a finger in the Wendy's chili. Oh no. But the capital or Maine? I have no idea.

Must be all the milk and peanuts.

I tell you what'll change your life for the better. Watch "Strangers with Candy".

And Arrested Development.

But whatever you do, don't watch the American version of "The Office". Holy crap. I had to watch an episode of the original last night just to wash the stink off my eyes from watching a mere 10 minutes of the new NBC one. What? Why? How? Who makes these awful decisions? Maybe the people who made this terrible show are allergic to peanuts. Maybe they aren't thinking clearly.

I think I'll just blame it on that overuse of antibiotics. And steroids. And mail-order chickens, full of hormones, I bet.

See, I got nothing to say, but hey, I missed you guys. I did. Swear.

Ok, off to make some quesadillas now.

Dammit, Mr. Pankreas.

I forgot just how funny you are. And I don't mean that gay kind of funny either, boy. Just that funny kinda funny.

Doesn't it just figure that one of the few people in Memphis advertising that I wouldn't line up against a wall and gleefully execute has decided to uproot and move to Knoxville. Good luck, you surly bastard! Ron the Greek and myself will personally miss your vigor and candor. So please, don't forget to write. Especially when it comes to Nazi Popes and wild chimps.

Everyone, please enjoy a fistful of The Angry Czeck, as often as you can.

Aren't people fascinating?













Say what you will, if it weren't for people like these above, researchers and scientists alike might never've had an urgent reason to invent the tetanus shot. I'll be thanking this person the day I step on that rusty nail. Because that day is a'comin.' Oh yes it is.

Because on a related note: My Number 4 Fear finally happened last Saturday. As I was frying up a piece of Spam*, the unholy grease from it popped right into my left eye. I've been waiting for that to happen for years. I'll probably die soon.

Are you still reading? See, I have you and about 5 other people convinced that I'm going to post about something useful. So I'd like to thank kittyspunk for these JPGs. As usual, you are the El Bombette!

Ok. So, who else is ready for the weekend? Scream "Johnnie Cochran is in heaven at Nicole Simpson's Tea Party!!" if you are. Where the heck did that come from? Oh yes, it's Fear Number 22 talkin': That I Finally Become Possessed, Full-Time, and Can't Turn It Off, Dammit.




*Fear Number 13: Frying a Piece of Spam Up for Human Consumption.