Wondering Again...

Who in a fight?
The Swiss Army or The Salvation Army or Swiss Family Robinson?

Just Wondering...

Who would win in a bare-knuckle fist fight:
Rumsfield or Powell, or Mr. Howell, for that matter...

Have A Good Weekend, You Jerks...

I want the mob to contact me.
I'll work for them. I need money.
Maybe I should show them this,
then they'll hire me, huh?

p.s. The Bozzies will be presented at 9pm est Sunday night March 23, 2003!!!
Then after his awards ceremony, we'll hit the gay bars.

The Gombe National Preserve In Tanzania...

Fiona Apple loves Lemony Snicket. Where the hell's she been lately, by the way? David Blaine broke her heart. He must have done a magic trick and made it disappear, I guess. Never trust a magic user, I say. Ask any wood elf. My foot gets all purple when it's cold. Then i have to hike it up on permanent Rockette duty or like Jenna Jameson. The I bring it back down and then it gets all purple again. It's never-ending cycle folks. It's like Sisyphus on a Schwinn. Is that two n's on Schwinn? Am I related to em'? Hmmm...might have to check that out, yo.

I like magic tricks, didja know that? Of course you don't. Uh oh. Madonna's playing now. Get into the groove. Very eighties. It reminds me of riding my bike and singing this song. Better than being a young boy and singing "Like A Virgin" as you're pedaling past Michael Jackson's front gates. And on whose blog did they say that they liked Mike and that he should just live in Vegas permanently? He could make a crapload of moolah performing in Vegas. He'd fit right in, and if freaks like Liza, Celine, and Siegfried and Roy can do Vegas duty and make a living - Mike can too. Maybe he'd get in less trouble. Maybe he'd start dangling "Blanket" off of the Startosphere, though. I hope you all are following my ramblings, cuz if you ain't - then catch up before you get too far behind.

I'll be right back. Hold on. I'm back. I had to go chase a Possum away. How he got into the house, I don't know. Just kidding, I just had to go chase this monkey on my back away. A cigarette later, and he's gone. That was easy. Uh oh...y' hear that? No. Over there. In the trees. No that tall one. He's lookin' at me. Okay, let's continue - but if he starts flinging poo - I'm outta here.

I think that my little sister's personal boycott of Fat Free Milk is over. She got offended because I called my mother a bad name. I need to learn how to speak more Vietnamese. I only know, like, three things, and how to say "horny old goat". That's it, folks. I must've looked pretty gooky today, beacuse all I did for a good portion of the day was sleep. Then when I woke up, my eyes looked normal again. My father is the whitest guy in the universe. Quite the handsome man, though for a guy of 65 years. I wonder how he's doin'? Probably gearing up for another fishing tournament. I remember when I was young and my parent's were still together, how when we'd go on fishing trips, after we'd get home, my mother would spread out some newspapers on the kitchen floor and slide the cooler full of live fish next to her, grab her big ol' hatchet thingy and start fish head choppin'. I'd look on in amazement as she hacked away. Fish bodies would be flopping everywhere. Then she'd take the knife and scale it, gut it, save the eggs, if they had any, and sometimes save some of the heads if she wanted to make a soup later. Can you imagine being a four or five year old kid and wondering what smelled so good simmering on the stove top, lifting the lid off of the pot and finding fish heads looking up at you? I'd sometimes sip at the broth, but never touched the heads. That was my mom's deal. Picking at a fish head. That was all her. She was a great cook. Mexican food too. But sometimes, certain dishes got too much for my father and he'd round up all of the kids and take us to Carl's Jr. or Pizza Hut.

Do you guy's remember when Pizza Hut used to be a family restaurant? They had tables, booths, waitresses, and a bar. Video games and jukeboxes too. God, I loved going there. Now? Feh! Yukky poo. I used to work at a Pizza Buffett-type-Shaky's kinda restaurant owned by a family of Christian freaks. And I could cook up the best Mojo potatoes around, let me tell ya. But I'm not too proud of that, because I was living in the bosses RV behind the store. It was leaky, cold and pretty scary. I'd peer at the Mexicans digging through the dumpsters at night, looking for cardboard to recycle. They should've killed me and sold my kidneys on the black market.

When I have more money, I'm thinking of making a batch of Fat Free Milk t-shirts, my neighbor has a printing company, so I'll be able to swing them pretty cheap, I think. I also want to buy Fatfreemilk.com when all of my debt calms down. That would make me very happy. As a fooking clam.

I think I'm going to lay off of watching the news tomorrow. It's kind of avoidable, though. But, I'm going to try. It's just another big "Monkey War". Desmond Morris' hairless monkeys fighting over the same old things. Territory, resources, and bananas. What? Well, I bet we've fought over bananas somewhere, sometime.

Okay, you god damn simpleton simians. I've got to go and hang at another monkey's tree for a bit. Take care of yourself and try not to sleep too much.

Hoot! Hoot!

Mr. Rourke...

Okay, who has tattoos? I don't have any. Never really got around to the grand masterpiece that I wanted. A guy I work with just got these prison-looking anchor tats on his forearms. Dude...c'mon, gay? Yes. Very. I have a couple of pierced nipples, though. I put peanut butter on them and let my dog, "Skippy" lick it off.

So where are your tattoos, you heathens? When'd you get them and what the hell are they. And all the girls with tattoos of butterflies or an asian symbol on the small of their back, need not reply. You buttholes.

Da' plane, boss...da' plane...

War Baseball Cards...

Okay. Not that it hasn't been done before, but I mean, somebody needs to fucking drink with me. I mean REALLY needs to fucking drink with me. Not tonight, because, today was weird and full of hospital financial visits, and an old, nice lady pushing me down a hallway in a wheelchair. Not mine, but the hospitals. I keep on wanting to type in HOLIDAY instead of hospital. I don't know why.

But, really guys. I want to go fucking nuts tomorrow day or night. I want to sit around and drink everything possible and just talk about bullshit. I want to talk til the morning. Play Castle Risk. Solve a video game. Write a screenplay from scratch. Bring out the old G.I. Joe figures. Saddam can be Sgt. Slaughter. Bush can be fucking Lobot. I want to dance. I want to skate. I want to read comic books. I want to slow dance with you, then, maybe we can hold each other in our underwear and open-mouth kiss each other...

I Am Jack's Lack Of Drive...

So I brought the wheelchair that I keep in the backyard inside finally. It was inside before, but my gal got sick of it and there wasn't any other place to put it. I bought it at the Salvation Army for twenty bucks when I used to have money. I've always wanted one since I saw one in a store when I was 19. I am so ready to try out for the Wheelchair Basketball Association now. I'm actually pretty good. I can do wheelies forever, spin around in circles and run over things. Before I broke my ankle, I was going to have Joe videotape me careening down the grass hill at the park across the street from my house. Hurting myself is always inevitable, so I guess I jumped out of a car instead, and just saved myself the suspense.

What the hell was the point of this?...???

Oh. Yeah. I just did something that one can only dream of. Olympic medals? Bah! Painting a great work of art? Double Bah! Feeding the hungry? Thrice Bah! Anything noble? Googleplex Bah!

I was playing a video game in front of that big ass TV in my wheelchair tonight...I pressed pause...slowly wheeled to the kitchen, opened up the fridge...and got myself a beer...and then wheeled back to play video games again.

Thank you.

Pork Chop Sandwich...

Isn't that gross? I was at a little diner-type/fast food window thing today and I saw that advertised. I have a cast-iron stomach and all, but that's gross, yo.

So, my ultimate Fat Free Thanks to Amy of Get To The Choppa fame. I just recieved a get well/boredom present from her. Very, very cool. I heard a thump at the door, so I one-legged-hopped to the door ready to kick some ass and the mailman put the package under the door. I kicked it out into the street thinking that it was a bomb. Never, ever, steal an Al-Queada member's girlfriend folks. You'll be paranoid for life. Anyway, after I got the package back, I opened it up and started to squeal like Ned Beatty's gay Vietnamese, pot-bellied pig. Inside was a cute page from a coloring book ( with crayons wrapped in a ribbon ). Ummm...awesome cookies...little oragami star ribbons, a mix cd, a simpsons coloring program, jelly beans...and that's it. i hope I didn't forget anything.

That's why, dudes - Amy is the queen of swing. That's why she's Chopparific. She's the best. I encourage all to visit her and say hello. Tell her that she rocks ghost socks.

I spoke with her, Boz, who is having the first annual Bozzie Awards this Sunday, Atl Superstar, Danee, and Angelo on AIM yesterday. My apologies for having to hop on out real quick and not having the chance to talk to Danee and Angelo. I had to go. I'll make it up to them.

Praise to the Chop.

t h e b l u e b i r d ...

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

Charles Bukowski

Raw! Houghh! Good God, Y'All...What Is It Good For?...

Absoulutely nothin', say it again.

Dude, this hamburger needs to go back on the grill.