Three days and counting: the off-kilter woman has not gotten sacked. I'm fair. I'm not counting weekend days.

New topic: The slimey lawyer down the hall makes my stomach twist. His head is smaller than his neck. The corners of his mouth are pulled downward and back, tightly. Or maybe that's just me, thinking about it. I'm sure he's rotting from the inside-out. Even other lawyers think he's a foul person. The grayer his scribbly neck hair gets, the ruddier his capillaried skin goes, the more he honestly looks like Jabba the Hutt everyday.

What a surprise, he usually hires little girlies to answer the phones up front. He's hired more than I can count right now. And they never last for more than two months. Some smoke in the restroom, and some don't. Next thing you know, you see him back behind the girlie's desk, administering work over her shoulder, leaning in to look down her shirt. So really, how would I know? It's because they have glass walls and are right across from the ladies' loo.

Now, I guess after going through a few twenty year-old girlies this year, he has finally given up something deep inside and hired a very proud Biblical man who dresses in a three-piece suit with vibrant ties and shiny, matching shoes. And he wears a really loud cologne that smells like my grandmother's jewelry box. I can smell it through the glass walls on my way to the ladies.

He rode up in the elevator with me. Even though I assume the stance, casting my eyes downward, I knew it was him. Was almost positive anyway, by his shiny red patent leather shoes. But in Memphis, he could have been almost anyone heading for a slimey lawyer's office. He asks in a strong solid tone, "...An' how ar' yyyew tew-day?..." Prying my eyes from the red shoes to respond politely, "I'm fine... how are you?" And as always, he pronounces that he is "bless-ed, just bless-ed." Too bless-ed to be stress-ed, I think to myself. That's fine. Then he introduces his name and his right hand to me, as he has twice before, and I've forgotten his name both times. He reaches inside his coat to the pocket pulling out the yellow check for Eternal Life, and he hands it to me. I think that is nice enough. And I sure hope it's good for a bless-ed haircut* because that's where I'm off to right now.

*ps: In God We Trust, but as luck would have it, Tangles would only accept my Visa.





www.kollaboration.org

If I could redo existence, somehow I would have to come back as this kid. Or as the insurmountably creepy girl who sits behind him in calculus, faintly intoxicated by the smell of his freshly washed hair. (See? I could be creepy.) Click the Noodle Boy in the red shirt.

It's harder than it looks.

Solving the bunny puzzle, and also creating a nice little job like this guy has. Oh well, maybe one day. One damn fine day.





You have to register to play Piercing Mildred, and that's about as far as I got because I am using up all of my energy, fighting to stay awake at this computer today. This game of mutilation looks kind of interesting though.


Day Number One
Today has been one of those excruciating Fridays spent counting down the hours 'til quittin' time. It started immediately when I got here this morning. Boy, I wish I could tell you. And you know why I usually don't talk about work. That's right, because somehow I'd probably end up sued. Which reminds me...

The only interesting news today around the watercooler (I say that like we actually have one) is that one seriously off-kilter woman here told an innocent co-working woman down the hall to "fuck off". Let's count down the days til she gets sacked, shall we? Then I can tell you some really funny stories. I bet she doesn't get sacked. Which reminds me of another funny story that I can't tell you until this woman is sacked. Or, could it be me who gets sacked for saying so? Regardless, let the countdown begin.

No. Satchmo was not a badly-tinted, 59 year-old white guy.

Not to rain on anybody's parade, but gee whiz. Check out some beat-up Celebrity Look-Alikes. I'm actually offended by a couple of them.

For starters, the Louis Armstrong look-alike is almost sacrilegious. Compare to the true Gabriel-like jazz soloist.

And say what you will about Christina Agu...aaa...Aquileriaous...ess..., she does not have an infected boil on the side of her nose. Yet.

(I must not be the only one who's noticed this growing trend. Damn, and I just missed the photo submission date by seven days. How biblical.)

A Higher Coffee Ground.

I know how the universe was created (Well. Maybe just parts of the planet Earth): God left a coffee pot to go bad for a week. All it takes is a one-quarter inch of old coffee, and there you have it, you get what appears to be Mongolia.

Mystery solved. Back to work.

One Mo'



In honor of my sweet mutated heap of Otis, and by way of New Orlean's own Hurricane Lisa Robinson and her Urban Dog Magazine , I give you a cool tribute to "Flawed Dogs" by Berkeley Breathed. Yep, the same Berk Breathed of Bloom County.

Why does the neighbor's cat glow-in-the-dark?
See how close nuclear waste comes to your neighborhood. Enlightening.

And right now, I'm dreaming about more sleep. But if that recurring dream of dark, mossy caves and fighter jets is haunting you, then have your dream translated here. Ignore the photo of the disturbing child clutching her face.

For example, I dreamed that a white poodle in a red dress played a piano and smelled of mothballs. And possibly turnip greens.

Translation: Words like white: People feel they can rely on you. You have an abundance of energy and vitality. Words like red: This is an indication of great passion and sensitivity in your emotional relationships. Words like greens: Growth and serenity. There are projects which you are enthusiastic about. Great pleasures from simple things.

(Alright, so it's not brilliant. But it's free and an inch more fun than working. Which is where I'm off to right now. Yes, like A Bona Fide Sucka-trator.)


And lastly, you too can sound like a drunken Dr. Suess book.
All you need is some malt ripple, this handy shizzlolator, and maybe this churchy teen lingo-izer.

Mmmm... phat cheddar.

Monday Bloody Monday

Expected topic? Yeah, I know. Then why does it annoy me every week. Just when you think a Monday may hold a little promise and then, zip-zero, nyet. Well there you have it. Onward to Tuesday. Maybe I'm still a little mad that I dreamed of brown recluse spiders all night long. What an itchy rip-off. Which reminds me...

On to a more interesting and satisfying topic: A Picture of My Dog.



Meet Otis, the world's sweetest mutation. He is known by many names. Tardo, Ree-Ree, "O Tardia" (to the tune of "O Canada" of course), and Aaagh!!-Get-Off-My-FOOT-you-@#$%, to name a few.

He is half Black Labradore and half Bassett Hound. I don't know whether to call him a Bassadore or a Labrahound. He just looks like a Black lab constantly standing in a hole. Like Bjork, he's short but strong.

When we walk down the street (or rather, when I'm pulled helplessly down the street, urged on by the possibility of a dislocated shoulder), people in passing cars either laugh, point and stare, or remain expressionless and faced-forward, yet squinting from the corner of an eye for a guilty peek. There's no in-between. Passers-by on the street usually grin like confused 5 year-olds and exclaim "Awwwwwww..... what IS he?!"

And if that person is over 5'11" and a male, then Otis will clumsily launch a spitty bark-attack and unleash the Black Fury on them. At this point, I usually die of embarrassment as he skiis me across the gravel. But it's apparent that some tall man beat the daylights out of Otis with a cast-iron skillet because he is terrified of tall men. Which doesn't sound unreasonable sometimes (it's a joke) but also reminds me of that time when the 6'2" woman came down at Otis to pet him. And Otis, as did I, mistook her for John Lithgow with a wig. Otis mulched the ground beneath him as I dragged him a safe distance away, and watched as the ladyman tripped quickly yet safely through the daffodils to escape.

Yes, Otis is a big, black, freight-train mutation who wandered lost into the front yard of Ron's life. And much like me, Ron decided to load him up in the car and take him home.

Why-o-why couldn't Otis have been a gerbil instead. Gerbils don't shed bales of hair all over like a two-month old Christmas tree. In three annoying lengths, and all over my white-tiled apartment. I have never lived under a roof with a dog the size of a goat, and never planned to do it. But dammit, this dog has a heart as big as my mean old Aunt Martha Ann's butt. And anything that big that is hard to overlook. Plus, unlike truly-mean Martha Ann, he has no smell whatsoever.

So where is he now? He's at home, crammed under Ron's desk and on Ron's feet probably. Wishing he could chew up a catfood can or have another hotdog. He doesn't ever care it's Monday because every morning is Christmas Day all over again. And he makes me forget it's Monday every week. Aww.

Except for the part about the tall man and the cast iron skillet, I wouldn't mind being Otis.

I tried to get his picture in the paper this past Sunday, but a white poodle in a red dress got published instead. Not that I'm biased or anything, but you tell me: From just looking at this photo, do you get a whiff of that lingering mothball smell, too?*

(*Aww, that was mean. Mean because it's true.)



And this just in from My Favorite Client, Mr. "Sloppy Joe" Valentino of Oak Ridge, Tennessee:

message from Joe:

amzanig huh?

>Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in
>waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht
>the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae.
>The rset can be a total mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm.
>Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef,
>but the wrod as a wlohe.

"Uhm... in high school, I used to hear that I favored Peter Deluise on
21 Jump Street on more than one occasion...," said billionaire Mike Norton...

"But it wasn't until I opened up a pack of '21 Jump Street' trading cards (I won a trivia contest and that was the prize) that I realized the awful truth... WITNESS THE HORROR!" exclaimed co-creator of the new universal-smash comic of giant proportions, Jason and the Argobots.

Sure, Mike. You *won them in a trivia contest*. If that's what you want to call snipin' them on eBay from a 42 year-old named Screech 69, then your secret is safe here with me.

Actually, Mikey does have somewhat of a gargantuan secret that I can't tell right now, but I'm completely proud of Our Boy Norton whose hard work and talent have begun to really pay off. And I also respect the part where he just got a gold tooth in the back. I'm ghetto-jealous.

Stay tuned here for more good news and elaborate, champagne-filled celebrations to come.


This just in from contributor Josh "Office Shizzle" Brigham: Your Friday Moment of Zen.

The most elaborate use of Peeps yet: "The Lord of the Peeps". Enjoy.

eleventh hour

within the promise of a blue morning sky

label this day stolen

broken by our own wings

and forced to watch

no one can change this

just as no one can change that

they held hands in flight

in final kindness and strength

when everything was lost

remembering what is left behind

is to be lifted again

from underneath a blue, mourning sky.


Editor's Note: Scott doesn't like poems, and thinks I'm a mushy girl. Dammit. I hate it when he's right.


Hey, rumor has it that Ringo Starr just bought a house here in Memphis.

Move over Cybill Shepherd.

He may have; he plays the nearby casinos every year. Ringo was my least favorite Beatle. Like he cares. But I did like the movie "Caveman" because it was so horrible.

Maybe this house isn't the one. But I-know-a-guy-who-knows-a-realtor who said he Ringo did buy a house. And he also said,"Yeah, and it's so big that his garage has a separate address."

I had a great aunt like that once. Big woman. Loved Doritos.

Maybe I'll go over one night and wait for him to hop in the ole Aston Martin for his trip over to the local Piggly Wiggly craving a pint of Ben & Jerry's Karamel Sutra. And then, I'll jump out from behind a big bush, squeal, point, and throw a pair of panties in his hair.

And then he'll just stand there stunned and motionless, with some pink satin underwear hanging from his left ear, and he'll just look at me through his sunglasses until I get embarrassed and walk away, crunching off down the gravel driveway. Wondering why he's wearing sunglasses at night. And I'll think about how much I miss John and George. And how I still can't stand that uncooked biscuit Yoko who ruined everything, just everything.

Either that or I'll be ripped into several meaty pieces by two large Rottweilers with pinching testical clips.

Even though I wish it were Suggs from Madness instead, I still think it's cool that Ringo may or may not have bought a house here. It is a nice place to live. And if you ever come to visit, come hungry and bring your stretchy pants.