On Swordplay

This is me, teaching my
neighbor Barry a lesson...

People are always pestering me for advice about sword fighting so I thought I would compile some of the more common questions I've received for a simple primer on this fine, and deadly art. Please to enjoy the below:

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.

The Eye of Moron

Exhibit A: What we see here is the facial hair equivalent of what Vaudeville used to remove bad acts from the stage. Where this one differs in representation instead of application is, alas, a distinct lack of modern day Vaudeville-- with the somewhat tarnished exception of Old Country Buffet.

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".

Dangerous Liasons

That's my little bird Kevin...

A frozen fish makes an excellent defensive weapon, and if it's big enough it can stop a bullet. Cephalopod (frozen or raw) are useless as are smaller fish. Go for a swordfish for thrusts and swipes or a shark for audacity.

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.

Groucho Surpriso

High ball, low brow. 

Great Uncle Aloysius was known by many to be a serious, even dour, individual. He worked as a railroad foreman and knew how to keep men at the job be they cheerful, spitting blood, or any mood inbetween. He had five kids-- three boys and two girls, all a year apart-- and lived in a duplex close enough he walked every day, rain or shine. When his youngest was four, Uncle Al caught him throwing stones at the neighbor dog in the alley. He reached into his lunch pail, put on his nose and mustache glasses, and sneaked up behind the boy. Then he yelled “BOOGA” and the boy whipped around with a yelp and wet himself where he stood.


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!

Postcards From the Edge - Scary Bunnies

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.

WTF bunnies available here.

A Boy and His Dirt

This is the first post by our new contributor Colin McK! This post is the first in a series...

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.

For Those About to Rock

It's Angus Young!

Ever since this song came out, it has puzzled me. Sure it's a totally kick ass tune (it has a cannon after all), but what does it mean? What does someone, who is on the very cusp of rocking, but has not yet rocked look like? I always pictured some dude with long hair and a Kiss T-Shirt, head thrown back, ready to swing forward and bang into something - or perhaps Angus Young leaning back, arm raised high, pick in hand contemplating his next power chord.

About to rock, but not yet ... rocking.

Moreover - why just about to rock? Why not for those who have rocked, or typically enjoy rocking? Why not salute those dudes?

For a long time I assumed that it was just based on syllabic necessity, until I read this post from +Will Robinson. It was then that I realized that there must be some instant, just before an event of calculated madness that one perceives the totality of the moment they have chosen. Plan in mind, hand on doorknob, and a sense of propriety admirably absent. This is what it means to be about to Rock, and while fleeting, it seems only reasonable that the moment should be marked with cannon fire.

Will Robinson originally shared this post:

Just ran across the gale-force windy seafront in a t-shirt and jeans singing "POLYAMORY!" to the tune of the Balamory theme. Got spun around twice, pushed into the road repeatedly, almost knocked over, and am now in adrenaline comedown

The Wayback Machine: October 31st 2012

Name is Cthulu, natch...

Given that last year on Halloween I feigned madness I decided this year to embrace it. It was either that or provide a double tap to my own skull (hey, don't knock trepanation until you've tried it) and since there are too many people that need me to pay their bills I'm forced to keep the mortal coil unshuffled as it were.

So once again as darkness fell I donned my traditional garb, turned on the porch light, and sat down in the entry to wait.

It didn't take long. When the bell rang I threw open the door and before the assembled fiends could say anything I shouted

"Knock! Knock!" leering, as they collectively stepped backwards - taking it all in - the underwear, the tattered bathrobe, the clenched fists.

The spittle.

"KNOCK! KNOCK!"

Given that American children are remarkably well trained in this particular form of challenge/response the greedy charlatans inevitably shouted back

"Who's there?" Hopeful. Tentative.

"Aha!" I cried. Accusing. Stabbing a quivering and gnarled index finger at the sky and making them jump.

"WRONG ANSWER!" and then I would slam the door and snap off the light.

I did this routine for about an hour, and it was quite satisfying as you might imagine, but the little devils just kept coming and I grew weary. I had to do something different, and in a move surprising to myself I began to behave in a very unexpected manner.

Instead of providing a baffling and moderately depraved glimpse into the horror and depth of the human condition I decided to just go along to get along. As the screechy little monsters called out "Trick or Treat!" I would coo over them, offering them candy and traditional platitudes like I've seen other adults do on TV.

"Oh what a cute little witch!" I would say throwing freshly wrapped little candies into their outstretched hands, and "Oh my, how adorable, what are you supposed to be little friend?"

As their cheerful little upturned faces lit up with gratitude and pleasure I found that I was quite enjoying myself...

It's over now; they've all gone home. But I'm all conflicted and stuff. Where's the joy? The terror?

What is to become of me?

Great News!!!

Billy, and Ray Ray. My buddies...

I finally settled my lawsuit with those idiots at Acme Cutting Lasers - they have to subsidize and build a series of completely new shark tanks in my underground grotto! Yay!

It's going to be pretty sweet and I'm going full lux on the installation. It will have multiple 'dipping' chambers, a submerged passage leading to an enclosed outdoor lagoon, and a sweet little underwater viewing lounge complete with LED mood lighting, a fully stocked bar, and Italian designer furniture.

I'm going to have to cover the costs for a lot of the incidentals myself, like the trapdoor in front of the desk in my office that will lead to the tanks, but I really don't mind. It's been toooooo long since I've been able to mete out fishy sharp toothed justice to those that oppose me.

Once the build out is complete I'm also going to have to do a lot of testing to make sure that the mechanics are all up to snuff, and that the sharks behave as they should. To that end I think my neighbor Barry should prove to be the perfect subject for this quality analysis. He's pretty rugged and should be able to survive complete multiple test runs as we tweak things. He successfully fought off a pack of wild dogs once (my bad) and can speak Esperanto underwater (we train the sharks to respond to commands in Esperanto).

This is going to be great!

Also, can anyone out there recommend a good shark broker? Our last guy turned out to be a bit of a disappointment so we had to turn that dude over to the DPRK. :(

Don't Tase Me Bro!

Unnamed jerks...

One sure fire way to get into trouble at the Natural History Museum is to go there wearing a turtle shell as a hat.

I thought it would be all cool, kind of like wearing an american flag as a cape to a tea party rally, but nope!

Turns out they take that kind of thing pretty seriously there, and I cut my hand on the taser wires trying to pull them out... :(

At least it's not Monday!

The Wayback Machine: October 31st 2011

This boy's name is Devin...

WTF?!

Oh my god! What a night! All night long kids have been coming round and demanding candy; all dressed as fiends. Is there no peace?

By the end of it I was standing on my front lawn in my underwear shaking my fist and screaming

"Just leave me alone! Why won't you all just leave me alone?!!"

The children are fleeing in mortified tears and there are a couple of adults in the street who keep yelling "Turn out your porch light! Just turn off your damn porch light!!"

And I'll tell you what: if this weren't so much fun I would just turn out the light and be done with it. But I really think I hit my stride this year - there were some genuinely frightened faces out there tonight! :)

Postcards From the Edge - Phantom Limb

His name is Hamilton G. Fantomos...

-Sent to my daughter at summer camp-

Hello sweet peanut!!! I love you and miss you!

So last night my right arm fell off and started crawling around the house and banging on all the windows and stuff. It took forever to catch and stick back on, and by the time I did the stupid thing had managed to break a flower vase and hide my utility knife under the couch. WTF?

Also, there is now a bat living in your bedroom. I named him Larry and he hates cat food. I'd like to teach him to play the banjo or something, but I think he's kind of stupid. So we'll see...

Have fun, and be safe!!!

xxxooo - Xix

The Problem With Pigeons

Fights for our side now. Agent 63...

Yesterday +Michael Penick and I were discussing the very real scatological threat posed by city birds, and it quickly became apparent that something far more sinister was at work than just a bunch of inconsiderate flying rats. They couldn't possibly be acting alone.

To that end:
At 2300 Zulu yesterday a small team was dispatched from our headquarters in Nepal to New York City. Their mission was to capture as many birds as possible and return them for interrogation. This crack unit successfully detained and exfiltrated 73 live pigeons, and one who died on the table. Apparently the birds fought like champions, but of course we overcame them with superior intellect, technology, and insightful strategy.

At this very moment we are placing them in the modified surgical interrogation rigs that were previously used for the koalas (the cutest infestation ever!) and are calculating the appropriate anesthetic doses.

The basic plan involves using Directed Quantum Therapy to change the harmonics on 3 of the dimensional strings at the center of each atom in their little bird bodies. This will allow them to process information like a human. At this stage they will be taught simple linguistics (think esperanto for first graders) and subsequently questioned.

Hopefully we'll be able to get to the bottom of this and rid ourselves, and the pigeons, of whatever dark force holds them in thrall and makes them act like total jerks. I suspect they don't like it any more than we do.

Of course any bird who chooses to cooperate will be given their choice of freedom or minion (to be sent to +Colin McK to reinforce his homicidal librarian - who hopefully hasn't gone rogue or been destroyed). Any bird who chooses not to cooperate ... well ... the term surgical interrogation rig does have a rather specific meaning...

When it comes to the problem with pigeons, the beak is stopping here.

Pantyhose and Alchemy

This is not Joey, but it could be...

When I was a kid (in the 70's) I had an uncle named Joey that could make gold from old pantyhose. I always kind of figured he had something going on the side, because he didn't work but had a really nice stereo, sharp duds, and traveled constantly.

I wheedled his secret out of him one night when I was 10 years old and he was drunk. I kept bugging him about where his money came from, and I guess he got tired of it. He told me that he got old support pantyhose (support hose worked best he said) from my grandma, and could get about an ounce of gold from 6 pairs. I was totally amazed and wanted to know more but he got all quiet and shifty eyed when my dad came in the room (my father's terrible sense of timing has plagued me my entire life).

A couple of years after that we were at his mansion for a visit with my grandma when I caught her slipping him a paper grocery bag in the kitchen - I could see that it was full of pantyhose. They both jumped when I came around the corner but Joey told her it was OK (I realized then that grandma must have been getting a cut of the gold - explains the corvette that she drove), and motioned for me to follow him into the backyard.

He had an old shed out back with a padlock on the door and this is where he kept what he called 'The Goose'. It sat on an old workbench in the shed and looked like an old beatup mini fridge with a red funnel sticking out of the top. He opened it up and I saw a smallish metal basket resting inside. Grinning, Joey stuffed the pantyhose from the paper bag into this basket. Then he closed and latched the door, and picked up a gas can from the floor.

"The secret is the kerosene." He sagely informed me, and tipped the can, pouring the clear liquid into the red funnel on The Goose. One of my clearest childhood memories is of that moment - the smell of the kerosene, Joey's striped bell bottoms and gold chain, and that bright red funnel. Oh that funnel!

Then he set the can down, reached around the back of the device, and flipped a switch. The Goose started to quietly hum. I was enthralled.

"That's it for now." he said "We have to wait a couple of weeks for it to finish."

"Wow" I said.

"Don't tell your fucking dad." He added, jabbing a finger at me.

Then we left the shed and he padlocked the door behind us. I never saw the finished product as Uncle Joey died exactly one week later driving my grandma's corvette. She got a new one (a new corvette that is, not a new uncle Joey) so I always figured that she got the machine after that, and I NEVER told my dad.

I'm relaying all this now because my grandmother passed away last month (yes, very sad. She will be missed), and from her will I received a single large cardboard box. Can you guess what was in it? Yep! The Goose! Yay! After all these years.

I managed to finagle some old pantyhose from my sister in law (boy was that an awkward conversation) for the promise of a corvette sometime in future, and I started a batch last night. The Goose is here beside me now, humming quietly, and I'm here beside myself also - waiting for the two weeks to be up.

Anticipation is a bitter mistress indeed...

Screw Wireless

I don't name detonators...

About 10 years ago, before they poured the driveway at my house I buried a small watertight cannister of C4 with a battery powered detonator underneath it. In case I had to like ... disable the driveway or something. Well now its time to change the damn battery and it turns out I'm going to have to tear up that entire section of concrete just to get to it. For a 10 dollar lithium battery. DOH!

Screw wireless - that's my new motto when it comes to detonators. From here on out I'm going to hardwire whenever possible. It's just simpler, and a damn sight cheaper.

P.S. I always make my chimp Little Elvis wire up my C4 detonators, but not because it's too dangerous for a human. He's just better at it.

No Exsanguination Required

Her name is Bella...

This is an update to my previous post about my lycanthropic homunculus.

Good news! I have found a new home for Little Arturo! Or, actually he found it himself. The last few nights of the new moon (for some reason he only changes on the new moon, not the full) he has been escaping from his cage and leaving the house. I haven't worried too much because he's eaten all of the other pets and hasn't seem interested in breaking stuff, so I've just kind of been letting him go. I was honestly glad to be rid of the destructive little guy, if only for a few hours.

Well last night my curiosity got the better of me so I followed him to see where he went. WELL, it turns out that there is a crazy Lycan Lady in our neighborhood! Yep! Once out of his cage he made an immediate beeline for a backyard about 3 houses away where someone had set out a bowl of entrails for him, and not only that, but there was another lycan homunculus there with him. A girl! :)

It turns out that there are quite a few feral homunculii running around our neighborhood (who knew?), and this lady always makes sure that there is food and whatnot set out for them. She also has a few domesticated of her own, and Little A's new girlfriend belongs to this nice lady. So she was more than happy to let him make his new home with them. This is so awesome! Everybody wins!

Just wanted to let you all know that the problem is solved, and without having to exsanguinate the little guy!

Postcards from the Edge - Tree on Fire

From a postcard sent to a happy little camper this summer...

This tree's name is Stan...

Hello my sweetie pie! I hope you are having a blast!

Your grandparents came over last night for an arm wrestling match and a foot race. The race was pretty mellow and I don't think I need to tell you who won, but then they started arguing during the strength contest. It got out of hand pretty quick!

They started wrestling all over the kitchen and knocked over the monkey cage, so the chimp got involved.

I just left.

When I got back home they were gone, but all of the lights in the house were on and the tree out front was on fire. :(

When will I learn? Oh well ...

I love you and miss you!!! 

xoxoxoxo - Xix

Life's Little Lessons #84

Austin...

I once had a friend who owned a poker playing chimpanzee. The chimp's name was Austin. Austin could beat just about everybody I knew at the game, because Austin was the best damn cheater I've ever seen. He palmed, counted, and bluffed like a pro. Once he even put his cigar out on a mans hand to distract him. He was an asshole monkey, but he was our asshole monkey and he was worth a gold mine!

Sadly, in the end, he died in a car accident. He wasn't driving but he had been drinking. I still miss him...

Moral of the story:
The only thing cooler than a poker playing chimp is a belligerent poker playing chimp who cheats!

What part of 'No Soliciting' do you not understand?

Unnamed illiterate...

There is a large red stain on the entry carpet at the front door. I don't know where it came from, it just was kind of there one day. Creepy right? Whenever we get salesmen or proselytizers I stand with the door open and shift my eyes between them and the stain as they are giving their pitch. When they are done I say: "Come on in, stand right here," - gesturing at the stain - "and don't move."

Usually they decline.

This works even better if I happen to be holding skin moisturizer or duct tape at the time...