Not dead yet.

I did take pictures at the Fair, but not of the scary people with bad hairdos. Like the grandma moonshiner whose hairdo (a Kentucky Waterfall Mullet, of course) was Kiwi shoepolish jet-black down the back with the crown of her 'do stark white. She looked like she was wearing a skunk-skin cap. But she scared me, and I know my limitations: Do not provoke a seasoned cast-iron mountain woman who sounds like a banjo when she talks.

So, no pictures of skunky hairdos. But you get the picture. And if you don't, consider yourself very fortunate. Even though I wouldn't mind dropping a few pounds quickly, I don't know if my insurance covers having my jaw wired back on after a physical attack. It certainly was a fashion show on the days I went. I would've liked to take some pics of that, too. But again, I didn't feel like getting attacked by anyone. So I stuck mostly with snapping inanimate objects and goats and others animals I will never eat again because they are so damned cute. If only I had that USB cable, but no. You'd think it was a gold brick at Fort Knox around here, hidden away behind a locked door and a locked cabinet. Well. Tomorrow I'll forget to bring mine again. But I hope I don't because I have a new Meeting Doodle I'm all happy about.


Speaking of Not Dead Yet, I completely forgot.

It's Day Eight now, and The Nutter Woman Who Told the Innocent Woman to Fuck Off is still a no-show. Yep, we have not seen this woman since the Unfortunate Incident. Well, why should we. We have direct deposit. Awe-inspiring.

My favorite part of the whole matter is reading the sign-in sheet every morning, just to see what excuse the Nutter Woman has called in for the day. There it is waiting, just a simple notation by her name. Last week, it was a couple of doctor's appointments. Boring. Then around Wednesday or Thursday, my favorite notation was just two big question marks by her name. Remarkable.

I know I said I'd wait til Nutter was sacked to tell this one, but I can't. It's too funny, and it's obvious she is never getting sacked. I'll get sacked before her for commenting on her not getting sacked. But anyway, my all-time favorite call-in excuse for Nutty's absence was... if I could have a moment of silence please... a parasite. Yes, ladies and gentleman, a parasite that she got from a third-trimester pregnant girl who works at the zoo. Brilliant.

It makes you so sick that you can't even use a cellphone. But unless I'm reading it wrong, you have to eat infected feces. I don't know about you, but I'd much rather show up for work than have anyone think I had accidentally ingested giant panda poop. Well, let that be a lesson to all Nutters in training: Kill-off your aged relatives sparingly, or you'll have to resort to beaver doody diseases or some type of congo fever.

I swear I do have compassion. But I save it for real situations.





What is Diet Pepsi Vanilla?

Thanks for asking, my man, Chip. Daddyhood (Congrats to you and M and Peanut!) has made you middle-aged psychic man as I just sampled one of these yesterday and thought it needed a review before anyone got hurt.

Ok, I know you're a gamblin' man. But here's my tip: Bet your 60¢ on something other than this drink. Unless you know someone who likes the taste of a flat Diet Coke Icee that got hot in a car sweltering in the summer sun, and that misfortunate concoction was somehow recarbonated, rechilled and resold, I can't help but see this as a crapshoot for Pepsi.

I was hoping one of the big daddies, either Coke or Pepsi, could get the vanilla-flavored cola thing right. Big sigh, I was wrong. But, I'm not all bitter news. I can suggest a good soda I sampled this weekend. It's called Moon Mist Blue, and it's Faygo's flavorful attempt at a Mountain Dew taste-alike, yet they added that blue, mystery berry flavor that's all the rage these days, and they threw in some carbonation to boot. It's so good, it made me want to slap a racoon and call my momma a Hoe Down...

Sorry, I spent too much time at this year's Fair.

But in my opinion, save your money on this one. Baby needs a new pair of shoes!

Finding Nemo Delicious.

Thanks to Hallie for sending me this, and for making me hungry and disappointed at myself all at once.



"Here's a New Thought: Your Own Common Sense."

It's free. Plus, it will help reduce noise pollution. Silence the likes of Dr. Phil. Throw your hard-earned money at me instead. I'll build houses for the poor. (Me.) I try as hard possible to not pay attention. But I heard Dr. Phil has a new diet book out. And possibly an online program named "Shape Up!" Exclamation point. Which is why I try not to pay attention, and also why this country is killing me softly. But while I'm waiting for that overseas work Visa to arrive, and as long as everyone else is cashing in on our expanding lines of waste, then I will create a diet called "Oh Stop It, You Lazy Bastards". It combines strenuous activities like, say, walking, with eating a little real cheese instead of a whole package of fake, plastic non-fat cheese. I don't think that will be received as well as my "All Cigarette and Vodka Martini Dose-And-Cleanse Weight Reduction Plan". So, I'm undecided. I think I will just develop both and contradict myself. Luckily, hardly anyone will notice. Office Shizzle Josh-Next-Door wants to entitle his program "Let Me Guess. It's Your Thyroid." Josh is not only funny but also very accurate.


"How can a toothless woman eat a smoked turkey leg?"

"How can the Amish have an ice cream stand with electric lightbulbs running around an electric marquee?" and "Why do they call it pork-butt-on-a-stick when it has bones?" and "Have you actually seen the Fat Balls this year?"

These are all valid questions I will ask myself tonight at the Fair. Besides "Why can't you walk around the Midway with a beer?" The answer to that is easy enough: Not enough security for the acts of beer-induced bravery and fights that would erupt. You want that action, you'd better head out to Jerry Lawler's Strip Club and Jell-o Wrestling bar across town.

I personally can't wait, and hope to have some good pictures to show here. Oh and about the Fat Balls, I'm not making that one up. They are supposedly deep-fried dough balls split in half, filled with pie filling or pudding and then set atop waffle cones. I think it's a myth. I hope not. For many reasons.

Day five and still she's a no-show.

And tomorrow is her day-off. So I guess that will make it day six and still counting since the nutter hasn't been pink-slipped. Well, I'm in a gambling mood and go ahead, make it a day seven already, since I bet Monday will be another no-show as well. I could be wrong.

Went to Nashville today and passed right by Bucksnort, Tennessee, and also by Loretta Lynn's old Dude Ranch. She says "hey, you'uns!" How droll. And she's performing at the Fair on Friday night. Aren't you all just green with envy. Nite!

Who is really off today?

Four days and still counting. Apparently, the key to not getting sacked is to never show up for work again... Fascinating.

It's these introspective, reflective moments that make me wish I could be off-kilter myself. Fully. Because look how it seems to work out for the nutters. Unfortunately, I think I may just be half-off. Sane enough to know I'm not insane. Sane enough to be held responsible. What a pain. And what does sanity get me? Well, let's see...who is off enjoying the beautiful early autumn weather today? Probably frolicking at the Fair, with a pork-butt-on-a-stick in one hand and a Deep Fried Twinkie in the other. Is it me? No, I'm sitting here just half-off with a cramp in my neck. While the fully off-kilter woman is worrying about getting too much sun, with obviously nothing to lose. Again, I find this unevenly keeled aspect fascinating.


The Fair. I am going to the Fair on Friday.

I am clearing off my digital camera card right now to ensure I have enough room for this year's fashion parade of oddities at the Fair. This year, I'm not going to focus solely on capturing the perfect Fair Mullet or Mullet-on-a-stick or Midway Mullet hairdo as we say because quite frankly, I'm tired of all this talk about Mullets lately. They are now officially over-exposed. I'm not sure what I will find this year. But I'm looking to catch more than just falling change this year.



Meet my friends.



They keep me company in reeeeaaaally long boring meetings. You know, the ones that should only be seven minutes long, but instead they last for at least one hour and include at least one *golf buddy* story. Well. The first one here is the Earless Dog. What's his name? It doesn't matter. He won't come if you called him anyway because he can't hear. Maybe this Earless Dog is wishful thinking on my own personal situation, as I listen to someone rattle on about Antique Tractor Shows.

The second one is the Ever-Elusive Fingerman. He doesn't ever point at me, he just stares at me with that, that look. As if to say "My God, you have feet and toes. Why don't you run?" And then I remind him about the mortgage payment. He's cool with that lame excuse. At least until the next boring meeting.

And finally we have what appears to be either Fingerman's Jewish cousin named Lemmy, or it's a kosher hotdog with a tiny, armless suit on. I'm not sure. But he seems like a nice guy. You can tell he's related to Fingerman. He's got that, that look as well.

It's not his fault, it's mine. I need full-time excitement in a part-time job where you don't have really boring meetings. Like a pizza place.... Oh yes. A pizza place, mmm.

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.