In response to Afif Hoosier,
Avril Shubert,
Aoibheann Schoch,
Peter Groins,
Mort E. Jaculator
and Harry Torpedo:

No, thank you, I don't need any

Xan ax
VIA GRA
CIAL1S from only $3,75
Meri dia from &2,79
AmbiEn
P Rozac from *1.99
I don't even know what So Ma is.


But let me get back you about that VAL1 IUM.

Please say someone's brought in gyros for lunch,
and that it's not just a deodorant what's failed.

(Ew. I need to stop the decongestants already.
Heightened senses with no edit. Take these only at night.)

(And everytime I think of failed deodorant jokes,
I fondly think of you, Angry Czeck,
travelling cross-country in his surliness.)



Lately,
I've been thinking about getting a monkey.

This is Bobo.


Bobo lives in Reno with my dream job.
People just walk up to her
and hand her fistfuls of change
just for being a monkey.
I would gladly invest her cash flow for her.
No, really. I can see it now:


"Sweet, swollen baby of incubus!!
What's this $5,672.69 charge on my AMEX to...
Jungle Fever, LTD?!"

You bought a monkey, remember?
In the box over there. With the holes in it.
The chow was in the other box.
Here's a piece of what's left of it.
The dog ripped into it and ate it all.

"Damn these decongestants!",
flushing them down the toilet.

Apparently, dogs are allergic to discount monkey chow.
So, y'know, the couch is dead now is what I'm trying to say.
Phone's been ringing off the wall
from the organ grinder salesmen alone.


(Annnd, scene.)


My mom had a monkey when she was a kid.
My grandfather owned a *service station* and they bartered
with exotic animals like that. Go figure.
Whatever happened to the monkey?
He ran up a telephone pole and completed an electrical circuit.
Gzzzt.
Just like that.
Gives new meaning to a smoking monkey, I know.
It was for the best, my mom said.
He liked to run up on top of customers' heads,
part their hair, and bite.
(There's an idea.)
Being a monkey at a service station in Mississippi
in the 1940s will do that to you.

I didn't say it was a good story.

Aha, I knew it!
Crinolines are making a comeback, add that to the list of wants,
maybe thanks to Lily Allen , maybe her stylist, doesn't matter. Nice.

Saw a good t-shirt last night.

Said, "I'm not a doctor, but I'll take a look."
No really. It was funny, you just had to be there.
It wasn't the typical sunburned cable-guy type
who'd wear the "Moustache Rides, 5 Cents" greasy, sweaty cap.
It was a woman with gold-rimmed sunglasses
who looked like a 4th grade teacher.
One who'd take her shoe off and threaten you with it
if you didn't share your crayons with that creepy kid
with the chipped tooth, the one
who wears grass-stained socks with his sandals
and picks his nose while he stares you right in the eye,
and his mom and dad always look mean and
have to start their car, a station wagon with wood paneling,
with a red screwdriver, and the antenna is broken off, clean off...
what's that kid's name?...Oh yeah: Cliff.
That's it.
Still not funny?
Ok, it must be the decongestants then.

My new adult entertainment name:
Candy Beans

(That's all. Just had to claim it. Carry on.)

Can't stand it, had to post
your weekend happiness early.

I don't know why Blogger's servers were down
hacking up hairballs yesterday.
Could it be...
YouTube?

Enjoyyyy.

I can't properly express my love for MXC.

My next job. I can't wait.





And finally, I'm saving my pennies up for Space Camp.
I'm getting the t-shirt for sure.

Bigfoot, alien hovercraft, and Nessie.

Try not to make eye contact.

And then I saw my shadow and, dammit,
there were 6 more weeks of summer.


(Eh, not a bad one for the end of the day.
Thanks to our contributing wildlife and oddities photographer,
Miles Stephenson for this rare shot. )


Summer. Hot. Need Gatorade.

Homicidal tendencies on the rise.
General heat riles up the bandits, while excessive heat
calms them down and occasionally heatstrokes them
right out of the game.
We've got an air advisory out today, too.
Would've been nice to know before the morning walk.
Memphis. It's all those FedEx planes.
It really is.

Air advisories.
They really have you by the goodies when it comes to air, don't they?
Gas prices soar. Ok, I'll walk or just won't use the car.
Fuzzy, huggable animals don't want to be eaten.
Not a problem, I'll have soy.
(Luckily, soybeans don't have cute wiggly-tailed babies.)
But air... man. There is no substitute for that, is it?
Gas masks, maybe.
All the rage with the military, I'm hearing.

Do they come in pink?

Oh, it's comin', babies. But eh, have no fear.
Things work out, you watch.


Did I tell you I'm going to the beach in two weeks?
*squeal*
Scott said he'd take a screenshot of me here
****yooooo-hoooo****
when I get there

Ron told me they have pink RAZRs on sale.
Dude. Like I can concentrate now.
I've been threatening this for awhile, but now, I mean it.
Tomorrow, my new life with a pink camera phone gets underway.

Please join me for the ribbon cutting.

It'll be my special brand of lighthearted boring,
so join me, won't you.
There will be pizza.
Thin crust.

And hooch.

But get there early for that,
brother.

Please vote for the cute little lamb in Video 1,
or we'll *have him seen to* with the kaiser blade.
In front of the children.
You want that? Huh? Do you?

Still unsure?
Vote for the cottonball detailing alone.

Plus, he'll punch you in the face if you don't vote for him,
and he's skyscraping tall. With a heart of gold.
Awwwww.

(For real.)


Speaking of, I have to admit something
so I can get on with my life.

I have a paralyzing crush on Stephen Merchant,
and I can't stop listening to the xfm archives.

I'm serious. I really can't.

Maybe you should listen, too. But fair warning:
He's mine, all mine.

(Yes, Angry Czeck, that was to you -- mine not yours.)

Giant fake teeth... check.

Giant fake boobs... check.

Giant real sad item... checkcheckcheckycheckcheck.

"Sure, I enjoy contortion...

...the kind that is graceful and beautiful*
and not to be confused in any way with this Garden of Eden variety
worming its way straight toward the tender, yummy children,"
I whispered sideways, eyes trained on the alien spawn,
as I instinctively began feeling around
for the cold steel of the loaded shotgun behind me...

The children did the right thing by remaining very, very still.
Personally, I'd have fainted and urinated on myself in that order.

But if you make it to the end, you'll notice that even Santa
looks to the camera for some sort of explanation or direction or whipcrack.

S-S...Santa?

I can't say for sure, and we don't know yet,
but Santa may have peed on himself, too.


(Santa tinkle? Has this blog officially taken a turn for the worse?)


*Also, not to be confused with this type of contortion:
where sitting on your own face in red pleather
not only suits you but also the middle-aged paperboy
enjoying the warm glow of the Dell monitor too, too immensely.


ps: the other day, I found one of these
crawling out of my shower drain and squashed it.