Earthlings...

Howdy.

All My Friends Need Blue Star Ointment...



I'm kind of disappointed with their schedules. The rare times that I stop by their houses, they're either not home or are doing things that can't include me like laundry, dates, and masturbation. Sometimes all of those things combined. I hate it. I'm on strike. Today was my day off. I stopped by one friend's house to borrow that copy of Lost In Translation that she has because she's a SAG hag. She wasn't home. I stopped by two friend's houses, but one was going to go return things from Xmas and then go grab a hamburger. The other was waiting for a girl to come over. Nobody wanted to play poker with me. I mean, c'mon - it's like, free money I'm giving you because I suck at it!Two people I called didn't answer. Now, I know that everybody might potentially hate me. You all just let me know if that's the case. I'll go live on that leper island or that freak show town in Florida or in the Ewok Village on Endor.

Every single time that I want to do something - nobody's around. But guess what happens when I'm working a lot or busy as hell or trying to think about writing.? Hee. Think. Everybody sucks. I'm done with all of you. Yeah, you too. Everybody needs to work according to my schedule. Now. Work it out. You need to be available when I want you to. I'll buy you all Palm Pilots or support you when you quit your jobs. If I'm not in the mood to hang out - you all just need to crawl in your cryogenic tube and chill. I'll call you when I'm ready. Be ready to play poker and to listen to me talk about Fat Free Milk, Paris Hilton, and Comic Books.

Thank you.

Now go away.

I'm thinking about writing.

While My Pen Gently Weeps...

Headphones. Got some for Christmas. Now I need to crawl down underneath the table and plug them in...good. Done. I'm using a lot of periods lately. I must be on my period. Or this is my period period, maybe. Because this is all art now, isn't it? No. It's not. But that's good. Eees Okay, Seenyore.

You know, with these headphones on - I can't hear my girlfriend. She kind of wakes up sometimes in a panic and screams. She's like my retarded cancer patient. Ooohhh, maybe he shouldn't say that because that's cruel to the mentally disabled and maybe he's jinxing himself and now she'll get cancer. Suck it. I know what I'm doing - otherwise, Great-And-Powerful Jeebus would've struck me down with lightning or had a plague of locusts burst forth from my butt a long time ago.

I used to write to music a lot, a long time ago, but that was before shared living with another who studies hard. So I usually write when alone or during snippets of conversation. I can't blare the music like I used to, it disturbs the birds - so these headphones are cool with me. I asked for them. I got them. I will now enjoy fucked-up, loud music. I will now enter that zone again...now all that I need is a blindfold, and I'm set.

Funky Pants...

And it's cold. And My fingers are numb. And Tony and Tom just got done singing a song about pants when I was over at Tony's house after work and I can't get it out of my head. And Tony spilt beer all over his bed. And yes, it was a long night. And I am glad that all of my friends come to the bar because if they didn't - then I wouldn't make any money. And is it wrong to take money from them? No.

And it's time for bed.
And for you to go to work.
And that's all folks.

Merry Christmas...

Stepped In...

Dog poo at work. Came home to a cat poo house.
Cleaned the turtle poo filter in the tank.

Poo.

Dear Paris Hilton...



I’ve never written to you before – but since Christmas is coming - I better get this letter in soon so that it can get to you in time. I hope I’m not too late, but even if this doesn’t, I know that somehow, somebody will read this and put it into your hands. First, I just wanted to tell you that I think that your new show is great. I don’t even watch TV shows on a regular basis. I didn’t even see that second part of the new Battlestar Galactica thing that I thought was pretty good. It’s hard for me to remember to change my pants. Let alone set up a schedule for TV programs – but I have for you, Paris. Oh god(s), yes, I have. I have watched every single episode of your TV show. I haven’t done that since Saturday morning cartoons used to be sort of okay. I think right about when Batman Beyond and Freakazoid left – that was the final nail in the coffin. I was holding on for a long time, Paris – but the networks ruined it. I wish that your daddy was the king of cartoons instead of the king of hotels – that would make me want to meet you even more.

Paris, don’t listen to everybody else. Block them out. You’re great. Serious. I think you and me should hang out. If you ever came over to where I lived, I’d show you a good time. I don’t like to golf, so you’re safe – but I do like comic books. I don’t talk about them much in public because nobody else likes them anyway, and I learned early on not to talk too much about totally geeky stuff because that won’t get you laid. Talk about books and poetry and pain and paper cuts. That makes you mysterious. The chicks eat it up. Talk about poets and small kitties. I don’t like sewing. I don’t like football. Hey, isn’t it funny, I just grabbed a couple of comic books to read while I smoked in the backyard and I thought that it wouldn’t be enough, but I only got through the first couple of pages of the Robin comic before I started getting distracted, and by that time my cigarette was over. Funny, huh? Hee haw, said the chuckalicious donkey.

Paris, don’t listen to me. Everything that you just read was crap. I think your show is the best show that I’ve ever seen because it strikes me funny and sad on a million different levels, I feel like a tool for watching it – it’s just like The Iraq War Coverage. Tool. Home Depot. That’s what we’ve become. So, now that it’s late – I’ve turned it off, but it’s too late to “kick up the jams� because my gal needs her sleep for more finals tomorrow, so I’ll be the cucumber. Refrigerated cool. Hoth cool. Like a Wampa meal. I’m gonna listen to The Capricorns, NIN, Sonic Youth, The Beach Boys, and Atari Teenage Riot at a respectable volume. I’ll keep it down to a dull roar. All praise Aslan.

Paris, listen…you’re super hot in that waify, model way. Just like I am. People like brooms. We’re useful…and kind of cute if you use us enough. Paris, it’s okay if you can’t hold a job and don’t understand the concept of money. I can’t. Nobody can. It’s all relative. I won’t clean my room for you, though. Deal with it. I’ve got other stuff to do. Oh, and please remind me that I have to make sure to collect my seventy bucks for writing for that Aerospace company and collect the fifty bucks for the real estate newsletter that I turned in on Monday. That’ll help later on in the month when I’m trying to come up with rent. I have to get a move on and also do a considerable amount of work on that cartoony scripty thing because that guy’s waiting for it and he said that the end of January would be fine. That gives me about a month to complete seven episodic scripts, running at about 23 minutes long…that’s more then a feature length film. Balance this with working, writing on Fat Free Milk, fighting off rats, friends and comic book reading, and I’m pooped. Oh, and by the way, Paris – can you believe that Marvel Comics is still going through all of their submitted material? Wow, I was, like one of the first people to catch that they were accepting new writer submissions. Six months. They said…that was…like…six months ago, I think…

Oh. And hey, Paris? I’d like to come for a visit. I can party like a rock star and won’t embarrass you. I’d fit in. I wouldn’t hang all over you or anything, and I like to dance. If you want to go make out with somebody else on the dance floor – I’d be cool with that because, I have a girlfriend and all. I’ll just talk to the cocktail lady about Fatfreemilk and about comic books. I can ask her questions about drinks, cuz’ the more that I know – the better I’ll be. Actually, like I could give a rat’s ass. I’m a pretty damn good bartender. You should stop by. Just don’t bring your friend, Nichole/Nicole. She seems okay, a little smarter than you – but unless she’s gonna sing some of her father’s songs - than I don’t care.

Christmas is almost here, Ms. Paris Hilton…what are you wishing for this year? Me? Really? Awww…honey, that’s so nice of you to say…but we wouldn’t last. I have my crazy-ass moments, but I’m getting old. I’ll out-drink and out-fight you one half of the week – but the other half, I need quiet. I need to write The Great American Novel. I need to conjure up a new generation’s-worth of Holdens. This type of crap takes time. This is anti-social stuff. Just ask Salinger. Ask The Dust, said John Fante. I’m totally okay with you going off and doing whatever you want – just remember that…I’m always invited…

For Christmas this year, I want…

A bow and arrow set.

A big barrel of toothpicks and glue. Serious. When I was in first grade, we did a project like this and we were all encouraged to build as big of a tower as we wanted. I loved it, and have wanted to do it again ever since – but toothpicks are too expensive and I don’t understand how we got to have so many, but this was the eighties and everything was different then anyway.

More comic books – but only the good shite. Anything Spiderman is fine with me.

A Cuisinart thing to help me cook.

Porno by Irvine Welsh.

PS2.

A New Laptop so that I can write this drivel from bars.

One of those huge carpeted tower things for my kitties to sleep in, but then terrorists might knock em’ down – so fogetit.

A travel ticket to New Zealand, Amsterdam, Japan, Australia, Alta Loma, Cincinnati, Austin, Narnia, Naboo, Krynn, and Ender’s Battle School…

Thank you, Paris.
I love you.
Be good.

Fat Free Milk, fatfreemilk, fatfreemilk.com, fat-free-milk, and Fatty Arbuckle...

Tonight, I am bigger than Neve Campbell and the daughter of Tommy Hilfiger's teeth combined.

I rule.

For you. For Christmas...



I am giving out email presents.
Presents made of nonsense, but better than nothing, right?
This means that I will write a bunch of gibberish to you on, or close to XMAS.
Give me your email address, NOW - before I erase this post later.

Or forget about it when I wake up.

Today...

Is go-to-the-comic-book-store-day...

(for me, at least)

Nerd!