Friday, June 21, 2013
Friday, May 31, 2013
10 Things I'd Like to do with a Potato Before I Die
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| I like to imagine that her name is Melinda |
- Menace hand maidens.
- Wear it as a merkin.
- Chuck it at my neighbor Barry's head (really hard).
- Hide it under the seat cushion of my mom's favorite chair.
- Carve it into the shape of a lamb and hide it in my sock drawer.
- Toss it 5 feet into the air and using the power of my mind make it float there.
- Balance it on my head for one hour (without dropping it).
- Mount it to a church door using a large hunting knife.
- Wrap it in tinfoil and use it as currency in Burkina Faso.
- Cradle it lovingly for 30 minutes every night for a week.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Thursday, March 14, 2013
AOD - RealUglyGirl
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| I think she's probably a lawyer or something... |
OKCupid Profile Here
Part One:
XIX – I love you ReallyUglyGirl! Please tell me you have a
vestigial limb! Lie if you have to, just say the words…
RUG – Dear Sir, While I would like to say yes, (because
truly at one point in my life I did), it is simply no longer the case.
Regrettably, Christopher Buttons felt that it was in his best interest to
consume said vestigial limb (or most of it anyway) despite my repeated protests
to the contrary. Such a delightful scamp, that Christopher Buttons… always up
to shenanigans.
Sincerely,
Agatha Tameryn Gray
XIX – Dearest AGs, Tender is the night!!! Wouldst that you
portray but one thing – and that, a vestigial vestige! Forsooth; I quiver.
And to thy musculusin chum, Nantucket Buttons, my gratitude.
For you and I were made for one another my sweet misshapen fiend, and it is
upon your grace that I (and my delicious cake) await.
Your Servant,
Xix Feng
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Postcards From the Edge - BOOM!
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| Sans dorky operator, natch... |
I decided that I'm going to finish building that turret
mounted laser cannon up on the roof that we talked about. It will be pretty
sweet (and powerful)!
It’s going to need a targeting and fire control app for our
smart phones tho, so I was thinking that maybe you and your genius buddies at
camp could whip something up? Android version is fine for right now. We can
work on an iPad app when you come home.
If you hear a loud boom and see a smoke plume coming from
JTown, it works! Also, if the cops show up there and ask you a bunch of
questions you should just pretend to not know anything.
Love you!!! xxoo
Xix
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Nan and Co-Nan
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| A tender moment in front of Polearm Palace. |
Nan lived through her own Hyborian Age. Not unlike a barbarian, she felt the oppression of regional warlords, bartered with traders from foreign lands, and swung a bastard sword like a modern day Louisville Slugger. They called her Dorcas the Dealer of Death, but never to her face. To utter such things in her presence meant your ass. She was a devil or a deliverer of vengeance, depending on who you asked. She had her own moral code-- perhaps one not easily suited for life today-- based on a strong arm and the righting of wrongs, where she defended those who could not defend themselves by making examples of those who would enact cruelty or hardship. I'll never forget the first time I saw her lop a bald man's head from just below the nose. The BLOOD. Always she would throw back her head and shout to the heavens and the gods above:
"By Crom!"
When she got too old to swing the sword, our family petitioned a blacksmith to forge her battle hatchets, but it just wasn't the same. When she could no longer mount her horse and kill for food on her own, the Northern Tribes sent this young man to assist her. He kept her fed, bathed, and sang the Oaths of the Fathers as she dreamed of shearing flesh from bone. I suspect they, too, were lovers. What young warrior-- man or woman-- wouldn't wish to bed the Deathdealer?
After twelve days of mourning, as is custom with her people, he took to horse and vanished into the scrub waste. I have sent for word, by writ and by wire, but contact eludes me. In these days, it would be most comforting to look across the fire and behold his breast swelling with the Song of Dorcas. In the time they were together, him and my nan, I never learned his name. Now, I can't help but feel in her absence, he is lonely. He's not the only one.
May the great gong of Gwahlur shake the hereafter, Dorcas the Dealer of Death.
By Crom.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Feng Industries R&D Blotter
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| That's me! Early Xix back in the day... |
Sticky Weasel Bombs (TM) - SWB's are really just living grafts of tissue wrapped around a musculoskeletal core that contains a neurological processing unit, creating a furry ball of bitey mouths and claws. The hair shafts of which are coated with a patented Quantum Gription (TM) technology that allows the little devils to instantly adhere to any target that they might strike (while biting and clawing furiously). These were initially developed for my own personal enjoyment to be deployed against my neighbor Barry who mows the lawn in a speedo, but the military benefit is undeniable as well.
Nuclear Powered Swarming Micro Tugs (TM) - The NPSMT are incredibly powerful, durable, and tiny tugboats about the size of a quarter. The theory is that they would be permanently deployed into a harbor area, and by teaming up, be able to shove bigger boats around without having to take up very much space. Their small size also means that they could collide with one another, and other ships without causing, or taking, damage. This would avoid so many hassles for FI in our domestic harbor operations and the tugboat captains (typically enhanced chimpanzees) always seem drunk on the job. Fuck those dudes.
Incendiary Tomatos (TM) - Non-lethal flash bangs of tomatoey goodness. Designed to create a low density explosion whenever the skin is penetrated (ie upon cutting) coating the target area in a burny citrus based lycopene gel. Grown on a vine using cybernetically enhanced DNA they would look and smell just like a 'normal' tomato, and would primarily be used to create geographically targeted micro destabilization by randomly substituting this product with real tomatoes into grocery stores within specified neighborhoods. Again, NON LETHAL. We just want to scare the vegans, not kill them.
Frisbee of DOOM (TM) - This was another personal project of mine that was devised to clear a football sized area of annoying humans and small animals. Initially irritating swarms of Frat boys on a college campus, but expanded to include gangs of wheelchair thieves operating in certain areas and small packs of goth/emo teenagers. The basic premise is that when thrown the spinning frisbee generates an electromagnetic field that disrupts the flow of neurological impulses within the cerebral cortex of individuals that happen to be in the radial area of effect (about 250 feet) creating a feeling of creeping dread and doom. This can also be used in tandem with Feng Industries Glee Generators (TM) to move an entire population along a pre-defined path or into a designated target area.
Pocket Bose Enstein Condensate (TM) - Ah, the mighty PBEC! Upon activation this device creates a tiny sub universe in which tiny miniaturized rubidium* atoms are slowed using a reverse symmetry trap. This is useful for a number of things, like slowing down light (fun for parties), but the biggest advantage that it offers is generating macroscopic quantum phenomena. Phenomena like superconductivity. Seriously, a pocket superconductivity generator? Need I say more? Let's just consider the mayhemic possibilities for a moment. Sublime...
Eelmen/Pigeonmen (TM) - Flying, or swimming human animal hybrids. The Fishmen/Pigeonmen came about because I am just SO tired of my chimpanzee army and their chimpanzee ways. Seriously, I'm like totally DONE with modified chimps. Not only do they drink and argue amongst themselves (when cybernetically enhanced) they really are quite delicate, and often afraid of water (I know right?). E-Men and P-Men are hybrids that exemplify the best traits of both hybridized species and none of the negative. Their skeletal and respiratory structures are modified and enhanced which allows them to operate in any environment (deep sea, outer space) and they can be genetically predisposed to receive instruction from only a single individual (me) which eliminates any embarrassing mutinous scenarios (I'm talking to you +Michael Penick - very funny. I'm sending the deactivated chimps to your mother btw...). When not acting upon a received instruction set they will go into a photophobic dormant state (hide in the dark), or return to base.
Hopefully, you are now just as excited about these projects as I am and will
Thanks for reading! :)
-Xix
* Can substitute sodium or helium atoms as needed
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Arson, a Bonafide Miracle
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| Firetop: fact or friction? |
“And my old lady says I got through two wiener wrappers AND an insectomy.”
“Wow.”
“Yuh.”
“What an insectomy?”
“Don’t you know nothin, Dirtball?”
“I know some stuff.”
“Says you.”
“Just tell me already.”
“Nuh uh. I could get in trouble.”
“Oh come on. Your mom’s nice.”
“Shit. Ain’t my old lady I’m worried bout.”
“Please?”
“Okay. But you didn’t hear this from me.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“So the dad goes to the doctor, right? And he has him take off all his clothes and stand in front of a mirror and hold it straight up so it looks like a fire hydrant.”
“Umm-- so?”
“So then the doctor puts a wooden clothespin on it down at the bottom, you know...”
“What?”
“You know-- above the berries?”
“Berries. Got it.”
“And that keeps the babies away.”
“Oh.”
“Yuh.”
“So-- why do they call it an insectomy?”
“Hell should I know?”
“But-- don’t you have a little brother?”
“Yuh. So?”
“So what’d he go through?”
“Who cares? He’s a pain in the butt.”
“Yeah.”
“Yuh. Don’t matter none. I was the miracle.”
“You were?”
“Shit yuh. You should hear my old lady. PRAISE BE TO JESUS.”
“She say that alot?”
“Every morning just about seems like.”
“Weird.”
“Yuh. So how bout you shut up for once so I can think.”
“Sorry.”
“My old man says it a lot. When the old lady gets on about money.”
“Uh huh.”
“So you got the stuff?”
“Yeah. Well, sorta.”
“Of all the--”
“I got this.”
“A jar.”
“I couln’t find a can.”
“Your dad don’t got one? You check the shed?”
“Can’t. It’s locked.”
“What’s this then?”
“Dad keeps it in the basement. Kerosene, I think.”
“It burn?”
“Lights a lamp pretty good.”
“Yuh?”
“And it burns, you know, for a long time. Thought that was better.”
“Guess so. C’mere and hold this.”
“You got matches?”
“Better. The old man’s lighter.”
“Wow.”
“Yuh.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Just pour it all over there and make sure you get it all around.”
“Over there?”
“That’s what I said.”
“But isn’t that awful close to Mr Zimmerman’s garage?”
“Yuh, so?”
“So won’t it, you know--”
“Yuh. That there’s the idea.”
“Umm, I dunno.”
“Just do it, Dirtball.”
“You swear we won’t get in trouble?”
“What?”
“Swear.”
“Sure. Whatever. I done it lotsa times.”
“How many?”
“How bout you do like my old man says.”
On One Hit Wonders
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| You know who they are... |
It was a catchy little number and when our song came out it was quite popular locally and managed to catch on nationally as well thanks to a local DJ. Things got very exciting very fast and our teenage heads were filled with dreams of fame and fortune. Unfortunately those dreams came crashing to the ground later that year when the popular press began to speculate that the song was really just a simple minded double entendre for something far more nefarious.
Truth be told it really was just an innocent song that I happened to write a few years before when I was in high school. I was attempting to earn extra money by mowing lawns, and it was an ode to the cutest girl in town, Sarah Jane Zbikowski. I desperately DID want to mow her (or rather her father's) lawn. See, I was totally in love with this precious creature, and I felt that if I could just get a chance to mow her (front) lawn, she would see me out there, and the sight of my buff teenage abs glistening with sweat in the hot summer sun* would prove to be too much for her and she would come swooning out through front door of her cute little ranch style home and cover me with kisses.
Sad to say, not only were we villified as perverts by the national press, but my undying love for Sarah was also proscribed into the unrequited cull pile of love. She never even got a glance of my hot bod because her father never allowed me to mow their lawn, even for free. I heard later that whenever their adorable cat pets went into heat he would put out poison for all of the male feral cats in the neighborhood that would inevitably gather on their stoop. So obviously the dude was hip to the hormonal male trip and perhaps there was something pathological at work there as well.
Also, I never had the courage to actually speak to her.
To this day I am disappointed at our treatment and lack of success due to this misunderstanding. I mean seriously how could a song like 'Puff the Magic Dragon' live on in famy (or infamy depending on your perspective) while 'I Wanna Mow Your Lawn' is consigned to the dustbin of overt entendral history. Sad, really...
*ok, perhaps such purple prose, which the song was full of, *did* promote the entendre theory
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Honk if You're Homely
 |
| The girl of my screams. |
She knew a lot about everything, being something of an overachiever. There was a face she made in her confidence. That self-satisfied half smile. It shriveled what was between my legs and my lungs, but from that palpable impossibility grew the first twig of something I feared give name. It was something I’d felt but in passing; for my kindergarten teacher’s teenage daughter, the dark featured teller at Dad’s bank, even Mom’s friend from church whose feathered blonde hair framed her perfect smile. It was something I’d reserved for age and experience and only ever felt for those beyond my years.
This was new. Foreign.
Terrifying.
The classroom was no exception. I sat at the rear right corner, where Elly sat up one and over. Her back was always straight, legs crossed, nose and chin tilted up. I often watched how her lips pursed with thought, the way her nostrils flared before her hand went up to answer a question. How it stayed up even after Mrs. Schultzgaber called on someone else. Sometimes that person was me. Sometimes when I knew the right answer, I’d give the wrong one so Elly could answer instead. One time I did this, she turned to me and smiled, lips pressed together. It made all the crickets and butterflies in my stomach do somersaults.
Then it happened.
It was the middle of a math test. Multiplication tables. I noticed something shudder out of the corner of my eye and I looked up. Elly’s shoulders raised as she inhaled sharply.
“ACHONK.”
I dared not breathe.
The classroom erupted with laughter. Even Mrs. Schultzgaber cracked a smile. Elly blinked several times and joined them in a fit of giggles as the teacher offered her a tissue and a prayer.
"Bless you."
In the moments after, as everything settled back into the dull hum of young minds calculating numbers, mine skittered away on its own tangents. Where before she and I were separate, apart in both attitude and flesh, I saw how the criss-crossed web of destiny and chance drew us together. It wasn't the sum of her individual parts that bore weight of her grace, but their quality. She was different. She was idiom.
She was weird like me.
Elly was still Elly, but to me she was Goose Girl. She was the perfect match for Dirtball, or so I had it all planned out in my head. We'd go on walks together, talk about the things that mattered: sci-fi shows, ice cream flavors and camping out in the back yard. We'd read comic books together and discuss which characters we liked best. When she sneezed like a goose, I'd follow up with one of my own, even if I didn't have to sneeze. In that shared expulsion of dust and slobber, she'd know being different meant she was beautiful. Validated.
Loved.
I spent most of class running these scenarios through my mind; the endless possibilities. Every one ended with a smile and a bashful kiss. It went on like that forever until we were eighty on the front porch sipping lemonade. That far into the future was difficult to bring into focus, but I held onto that single image as if it explained everything. In my head, happy lives culminated in old couples on the front porch sipping lemonade. The real stuff. With pulp.
Goose Girl's goosneezes became the thing I looked forward to most in school. That is, until the day I had to sneeze and it didn't come out quite the way it was supposed to.
"GACHONK."
It sent shivers all through me, and while I sniffed back a follow up, I noticed everyone staring at me. Silent as a library, the room closed in, every face an accusation. Goose Girl's was worst of all.
Her's was one of betrayal.
Mrs Schultzgaber cleared her throat.
"Do you need a tissue?"
I slouched behind my desk.
"No, ma'am."
On the walk home after school, Goose Girl approached me with her two closest friends in tow. Her eyes were dark, pinched. Mouth puckered up like a raisin.
"Hey, Dirtball."
I tried looking her in the eye, but couldn't get above her dimpled knees. Her stockings were argyle. Pink, white and gray.
"Umm, hey."
"Shut up."
I looked up just enough to see the way her mouth was wound like a pitcher.
"You're stupid. Your FACE is stupid."
"But--"
"It's JUST like a butt. A fat. Dirty. STINKY. BUTT."
Giggling. The malicious kind. My mind reeled as my heart melted.
"But--"
The smack felt like a firecracker on my cheek.
"Don't talk to me ever again."
Elly scowled as she walked away. It was a face she'd reserved for a special kind of dirtball.
One like me.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Postcards From the Edge - Battle Spiders From Outer Space
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| Certainly not this lovely creature. Her name is Anne... |
Hey Buddy!!! I hope you are having an awesome time at camp! Last night after we got off the phone I heard a loud thumping on the roof so I went outside to see and it turns out we were being attacked by giant spiders from outer space!!! Some of them were burned up and others were still frozen but the ones that were still alive were mighty vicious!
Fortunately I managed to beat them back with a dinner fork and a trash can lid. It was brutal dude. By the time I won the day I was covered in spider blood and twitchy leg bits!
Fun Fact: Spider blood tastes like root beer!
-Xix
Friday, March 1, 2013
The Drink Panther
There was this kid I knew growing up who lived on my street. She was the only one close to my age and we used to spend the summer together since we went to different schools. We rode bikes in circles in her driveway every morning, trying to decide what to do that day. Until the morning she asked me if I’d ever been to The Barn.
There wasn’t a grade school kid on our side of town who didn’t know about The Barn. Stories varied, from a prohibition era flophouse to the place where high school kids went to get tattoos and try for babies, not necessarily in that order. I never went there or even wanted to talk about it because it scared me, but when Debby told me I’d wake up with a bedful of dog shit if I didn’t go with her, I didn’t have much trouble changing my mind.
The Barn was at the back of the property that used to belong to the Wisselfitzs, whom had stories of their own, none of which I believed. It was just outside the edge of town, back a long gravel drive, with a house halfway up and another struck by lightning and burned to the foundation right next to The Barn. No one was sure if anyone still lived there, but just about anyone who went to The Barn never came near the house still standing. Lucky for us, it was on our side of town, and twenty minutes later we were pedaling down the farm road that ran parallel to the property.
As we got close, I could tell we weren’t the first to arrive. There were bikes dumped near a thicket around back, none of which I recognized. Most were Huffys, of varying age and condition, and a couple of Frankenstein jobs from kids whose families were mechanical. I was neither. My black and gold AMF was both cheap and uncool. Even Debby rode her older brother’s bike, a white Huffy with red trim and hand brakes. Mine still had coasters, and a single hand brake that only sometimes worked. I dumped mine away from the others, behind a busted up washing machine.
We could hear the others inside, laughing and carrying on. While I was careful with each step, trying not to make any noise, Debby strode right in, hands on her hips.
“I came here to kick ass and chew bubble gum-- and I’m all out of bubble gum,” she said.
I could feel intense pressure on my eardrums. A tall kid with shaggy hair and an AC-DC shirt hopped down from his perch on a rusted out tractor.
“Hey, Debby. Who’s the new kid,” he asked.
“He’s cool,” she said.
And that was pretty much it. We hung out the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon. One kid had a six-pack of Red, White and Blue with four cans left we passed around a group of seven. AC-DC flipped over a wooden crate and pulled out a big plastic Pink Panther mask he handed to Debby and she donned it without word. I shot him a look and he shrugged.
“Pink wears the panther,” he said.
Debby elbowed me in the ribs and he passed me the first beer. I didn’t know what he meant, but I took a small sip and passed it back. She titlted the mask back and took a couple gulps. We kept it up until there were mostly empty, when we all called “NO BACKWASH” and tossed them on a pile in the corner. I didn’t much care for the taste, and drank as little possible. One kid, a short, reedy thing named Kevin, drank two of them by himself. He did impressions of his weiner dog to fits of hysterics.
Debby moved away the following year and I went back to The Barn a few times hoping to catch the gang, but every time I was alone. I looked all over for that mask, but couldn’t find it. I never saw it or any of them again.
Years later, while looking for a car wash in New Mexico, I pulled over at a rest stop. Parked next to me was the person pictured below and wondered, for a moment, if it was Debby. I half waved, but they just sat there with the radio playing Amboy Dukes.
It reminded me of home.
 |
| Sandra Lee gets a makeover. |
Thursday, February 28, 2013
On Swordplay
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| This is me, teaching my neighbor Barry a lesson... |
Where did you learn how to sword fight?
From my sister. From the time I could walk until early adulthood her only goal in life was my aboslute destruction. Typically at the tip of a sword, but from a variety of other means as well. It was during this time that I was also able to build up my formidable resistance to poisons and various forms of electrocution.
Can a chainsaw be used as (or considered) a sword?
Absolutely - and it makes for an invigorating battle as well; however they are far more effective for thrusts. If used to parry they create quite a bit of rattle and chatter (called churn) against the opponents blade that make the weapon hard to control.
Do you like to sword fight with women?
No. I typically lose. Stop asking.
Is it easy to defeat a professional actor in a sword fight?
Yes, it's quite simple and most duels rarely last more than a few minutes. This actually occurs in the lobby of the Chateu Marmont more than you might imagine. Most actors are poorly trained and if you get in a tight spot you can just menace their face with your blade and they will back the fuck off. The exception to this of course are those actors (and actresses) with Shakespearean training. Most of them are quite bloody minded and seem to know what they are doing - this incorporates about 80% of the Brits. Of course the face rule applies here too, so still pretty easy.
What is the best type of sword to have in a sword fight?
Well, that really depends on the fight doesn't it? If one is mounted (on a beast, like a horse or a dinosaur) I'm partial to a large two handed affair, like a claymore. It makes it easy to hit targets on the ground with some force and you can use that bad boy like a lance if need be. If one is unmounted and/or fighting a child, a broadsword is an excellent choice as it allows for the occasional close in work and can be hurled a respectably long distance when the opposition (inevitably - if a child) tries to run away. This technique is also highly effective against the French.
What is the best way to disarm an opponent in a sword fight?
With a gun of course. This is called the Indiana Jones opening.
Who was the best opponent that you've ever faced in a sword fight?
That would be my ex-wife. Her technique was far and above the most complex and deceptive I've ever seen, and in a pinch she could use her toungue just as effectively as any blade. I still shudder when I think of it.
What's the proper way to challenge someone to a duel of swords?
I'm not certain if there is a 'Proper' way. Personally I prefer the direct approach, like walking up to the individual and stabbing them in the leg. If they are armed, they will respond. This may not be an honorable approach, but swordfighting is a serious business, and it's far easier (and preferable) to face an opponent who is limping.
Is it possible to disable a motor vehicle using a sword?
Yes, through the front grill, but it requires a tremendous amount of strength and a modicum of bravado. If the vehicle happens to be moving at the time you'll also need excellent timing and the dexterity of a cat.
Do you really own a sword fighting Monkey?
Yes, a small army of them in fact. Glorious!
My son/daughter would like to learn how to sword fight. Can you recommend an instructor?
While they are neophytes and still young (and smallish) - YOU are really the best teacher. Just begin by chasing them around the house with kitchen knives. This is how I learned as a youngster, and in time they will acquire basic defensive techniques. As they become teenagers you will want to get them a proper instructor. I recommend The Portland Sword Fighting Academy in Oregon if you are on the west coast, and the Dover Delaware Dueling Society if on the east. Of course if you've been chasing them with knives since they were small children you will also want to pick up some defensive instruction for yourself as they are likely to harbor malice.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
The Eye of Moron
Behold: a mountain of corn and riblet studded mashedcaroni and cheese potatoes, resentfully monikered “Mount Consume”, whereupon rests a triple drumstick king with a clucked up crown of pizza pepperoni.
Three plates for the elderly coots under the weather,
Seven for the fat bastards with bowling ball moobs,
Nine for the children of men doomed to dine,
One for Guy Fieri and his peroxidized hairy.
In the old country of Buffet where we're all porcine.
One buffet to rule them all, one buffet defines them,
One buffet to call and nether gravy falls recline them,
In the old country of Buffet where we're all porcine.
The man above, who referred to himself in third person as Boroweird, had only this to say:
"One does not simply walk out of Old Country Buffet. Its cobblers are gilded with more than just apples and cinnamon. There is a menu there that never leaves and the great prime ribeye is ever tasteful. It is a gastroenterological playland, riddled with meat and starch and cheese, the very air you breathe is an aromatic plume. Not with ten thousand Hoverounds could you do this. It is folly."
His hot sauce stained tee proclaimed him "Lord of the Wings".
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Dangerous Liasons
 |
| That's my little bird Kevin... |
If you survive the encounter you should really consider why you were fighting for your life in a fish market in the first place.
Seriously ... shit ain't right.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Groucho Surpriso
 |
| High ball, low brow. |
Groucho Surpriso.
There was a man Uncle Al supervised named Dennis, but everyone called him Balls. Balls was not a small man. He was a griper, a moaner, a wiseacre and a poop stirrer, and he liked nothing more than to give lip when Uncle Al had to tell it like it was. Balls had his own little group of passive aggressives and malingerers he liked to rile up when the mood struck. It was on one of these days his “Boatload of Balls”, as they came to be known, were pissing and groaning about as was usual for them right after lunch hour. Uncle Al tried to ignore it, but they were getting so loud it was starting to cause a scene. That’s when he reached into his desk drawer, put on his nose and mustache glasses, and walked right up to Balls.
“Ever wonder how blimps float, Dennis,” he says.
Balls gave him a puckered look.
“Keep talking,” he says.
“You callin me fat,” Balls says.
“What does your wife call you,” Al says.
Lips curled up sore, Balls took a swing, which Uncle Al ducked, and racked himself on a two-by-four poking out of the scrap bin.
Groucho Surpriso.
Grandma Millie’s birthday fell on Valentine’s Day, yet it never made her less of a sourpuss. It was always a gala affair and she expected everyone to attend. It was clear that day, warm, and Mom made me wear a jacket even though it made me sweat. When we arrived, I found my cousins and hurried off to cook up some mischief. We weren’t expected to be there until Grandma opened her presents, after which we’d eat.
That year, Dad decided to give Mom her Valentine’s gift while Grandma opened hers, and they sneaked off to one of the back bedrooms to do so. Not long after, Dad came running down the hall, but it was too late: Grandma already looked in the box that was meant for Mom. I didn’t know what I was seeing when she held it up -- some sort of weird rubber snake thing-- but it sure made all the adults hoot and holler.
Groucho Surpriso.
There was the time Cousin Arnold found nudie pics of his older sister with two guys dressed up like Tonto and The Lone Ranger. Groucho Surpriso.
And when me and the neighbor kid accidentally set fire to the pile of leaves raked to the curb four doors down and the fire department showed up. Groucho Surpriso.
Even the time my best friend gave me homemade chocolates wrapped in tinfoil at school and I spent the rest of the night on the toilet. Groucho Surpriso.
It was a somber day when Great Uncle Al passed, but he went in his sleep, and for that the family was grateful. Everyone gathered at Aunt Winnifred’s-- known to us kids as the “Party House”-- since that’s where grown ups went for cards and cocktails. Aunt Winnie was a bit of a harpy, and less than tactful about her dislike for Grandma Millie.
Now, if you ask anyone, Cousin George or Uncle Webster or even Mom or Dad, the story might not quite tell the same way. Some say Grandma came with Great Aunt Leanne, others will tell you Aunt Winnie was in the kitchen stuffing deviled eggs and puffing a Pall Mall. This is what REALLY happened, caught on film just as Grandma Millie arrived.
Winnie was on her fourth Old Fashioned, smoking and growling like a carnival barker. She swore on Great Uncle Reuben’s deathbed it would be the last time Grandma Millie set foot in her home. Aiming to stay true to her word, she stood behind the door as Grandma entered, prepared to cuss Aunt Millie back to her front step. When Winnie came around and got a good look, Grandma Millie’s jumped out at surprise crossed with Aunt Winnie’s seeing nose and mustache glasses surprise made them run into each other trying to get away and knocked themselves out cold.
Groucho Surpriso!
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Postcards From the Edge - Scary Bunnies
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| wtf Bunny is wtf... |
Hey my buddy! Love you! Miss you! :)
Yesterday I discovered that the bunnies in the back yard are hoarding watch batteries and sewing needles! I saw the little one shoving something under that metal frog by the back door and when I went to investigate I found their stash. I have no idea what they plan on doing with it all, but it's creeping me out! I caught one of the big ones and demanded to know who he was working for but he wouldn't talk so I put him in a shoebox and left him at the post office.
Something has to be done.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
A Boy and His Dirt
This is the first post by our new contributor Colin McK! This post is the first in a series...
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| Test scores affirm he's a below average son, but an excellent mudder... |
Fact:
Everyone has something weird about them.
Case in point:
My Uncle Wurt on my dad's side of the family used to juggle his false teeth. Usually with an apple.
One might say everyone's got a funny uncle or aunt or stupid cousin or whathaveyou. What does that prove? Simple.
Everyone knows someone like that, who in turn knows others, and those people still others, ad infinitum. Uncle Wurt wasn't the only acquaintance or family member I knew who was weird, but for them-- knowing me-- well, I was the one most thought the weirdest.
It all started in the summer of 1983.
I spent a lot of time in the back yard during the day. It was fenced in and overgrown with trees, bushes and flowers. I couldn’t see the neighbors and they couldn’t see me. It was like I was cut off from the rest of the world. I knew that wasn’t true, but it was fun to pretend. Until I got bored being all by myself and decided I needed some friends.
For most kids my age, friends meant classmates, church buddies, maybe even kids from the neighborhood. In my case, friends meant I needed a shovel. I rummaged through the garage until I came up with one better suited for gardening or potting plants than my own task, but it would have to do. The big shovels Dad kept locked up and he was at work. Mom wouldn’t be much help, either, as having to ask anything other than if I could leave the premises was a big, fat no. Mom had shows, and shows required concentration on show stuff. Show stuff took up so much time and energy there wasn’t much left for anything else. In a way, Mom was like my gigantic desk top computer: one task at a time.
Shovel in hand, I found a good spot behind the shed and set to work. As a rule, I didn’t much care to get my hands dirty with anything but dirt. Like I said: weird. Before long I found several thin roots and a few as big around as my fingers, but I just dug around those. They weren’t what I wanted.
There was a compost heap nearby Mom ringed with bricks and that was where I normally found my friends. I’d overturned them all the previous day and, without a plan, let them escape. Most of them were little and not worth my time, though a couple seemed good enough. I got yelled at for not putting the bricks back the way I found them so I made sure that was the first thing I did that morning. Mom was known to spot check me when I played outside to make sure I wasn’t up to no good. I figured digging up the back yard might fall into that description, but I was too far into my work to turn back.
The first one came out in a chunk of sod and I held it up while it popped back into its hole like a gopher. Then in dawned on me I needed something to put them in. I dropped everything and ran back to the garage for a basket or maybe an old jar. Dad kept old nails, screws and other odds and ends in a mason jar next to the broom, but that was off limits. Undeterred, I ran back to my spot, falling to my knees to stop. I tore the dirt chunk apart and held aloft my prize:
A fat, juicy worm.
I continued my love affair for the next half hour, plucking several more from the ground and jamming them one after another into my pants pockets. Once I could feel them wriggling around against my legs, I knew I had enough, and began the painstaking process of funneling their former homes in after them. I had a fifth fistful of dirt when it happened.
“Hey, kid.”
My head whipped around. Two kids stood near the fence at the end of the yard, peering over. One was tall and chubby, with curly red hair. The other was short, skinny. His face looked like a rat. I knew them from the neighborhood, but not their names. It didn’t matter. They were trouble.
“Choo puttin in your pants, pal?”
I dropped the handful of dirt.
“Nothin.”
Firetop snorted.
“Don’t look like nothin to me.”
Ratface grinned half a mouthful of teeth.
“You playin witchoself back here?”
I felt the worms moving around against my legs and the blood drained from my face. I thrust my hands into my pockets, tried to make them stop.
“N-no.”
Firetop giggled, but Ratface wasn’t convinced.
“BULLPUCKY. Lemme see them hands.”
I knew it wasn’t the time for heroics. I’d seen enough cop dramas to know that. Just do what they say and it will all be over. All they wanted was to see my hands. So I yanked them out and held them in front of me like kids my age waved hello.
Firetop and Ratface had eyes like full moons.
“GET AWAY GROSS KID.”
And they ran to go tell their parents.
My name was Deke.
But everyone called me Dirtball.
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