You Will Find No Electrifying Wheat-Based Drink at Topic Drift

What is this “electrifying wheat-based drink” that everyone is searching Google for? Why do these web detectives darken my door in their bewildering quest? How many thirsty travelers must Topic Drift turn away? Why aren’t they searching for more reasonable or believable entities, like justice, or lost keys? Electrifying wheat-based drink, indeed. Try Googling it. It does not exist. I certainly hope it isn’t Al Qaeda code. If it is Al Qaeda code, I hope it means “The Fergus Falls Burger King does not offer Frozen Coke. Commit your custom elsewhere.”

I Need a Lift; I Also Need Help With Subjunctive Construction

When I watch Foyle's War, I say to myself, "If I had Sam Stewart to drive me around, I, too, could solve crimes." But I probably would not solve crimes right away. I would probably have Sam drive me to Taco Morelos, or to the mall. She would probably hop out of the car and question a loiterer or two while I am shopping. Later, I would return to the car with my nachos or my new Hugo Boss shirt, and she would fill me in on whatever clues she picked up. "But I'm not currently in the process of solving any crimes," I would remind her. Then I would eat my nachos in the car, because they're no good when they're cold.

Beans Beans the Musical Fruit

Fellow Thick Fat Loonies, let us change this sad state of affairs. If we cannot mend our ways, then we must find a way to cork the incessant contempt that deluges us from abroad - for when foreigners make fun of us, we sublimate our shame by eating three tubes of Pringles and all of The Cheesecake Factory leftovers. It’s like we’re just running in place, man. Without actually running, of course, because running is hard work.

I Know What Michael Howard Wants

Mr. Howard, you do not want to visit the White House anyway. Nobody wants to go there. Even the pastry chef finds the place intolerable. You want to experience the deadly allure of Minneapolis. You want to visit the spot where the poet Berryman hopped off the bridge to his death. You want to visit “North,” purchase a small sack of illegal, and ask the locals to point out scenes of needless death. You want to visit the Uptown Diner, where you will ask, “Why does my club sandwich smell like maple syrup, and why is there a pecan in my fries?” You want to visit the airport, where you will be whisked away to that great fascinator, the Corn Palace. At that point, you will notice that I have your wallet, your mobile phone, your passport and your security posse. You will experience the one situation that every American fears above all others: you will be stranded in the Dakotas without identification, and you will be wearing a hot, dark suit. And who will believe that you are leader of the Tory party? Nobody. Tory who? Tori Spelling? That’s spelled with an “I.” America is scary, the President doesn't want you, and nobody at the Corn Palace knows who you are. That’s a heartbreaker, isn’t it? Nobody at the Corn Palace knows who you are.

I Use Positive "I" Messages To Communicate With Mark Thatcher

I feel annoyed and hurt when you participate in coup attempts in oil-rich African nations because there are perfectly good coup-ready nations closer to home. I feel sad when you choose these far-off nations, because I miss your cheery demeanor and your shit-eating grin. I feel uncomfortable when you fleece and play foul far from home because my care packages take ages to reach you, and all of our telephone calls are fuzzy and short.

I Take a Bite Out of Crime

The shrubs in front of my house are too high. They are unruly; they know no discipline. They are taller than I am, and ever so wide. But I don’t let the danger inherent to these particular shrubs get me down; if any bandits dare lurk in the shrubbery, they’ll have to deal with my booby trap: I’ve arranged some La-Z-Boy recliners, a lamp, ashtray, monster truck magazines and a few cans of Busch under the foliage. My hospitality will sear all memory of burglary and mayhem from their criminal minds. Later, when I smell their cigarette smoke, I will push the piano out of the window above them.

Pshaw, you say. Too easy. Too predictable. Well pshaw to you, then. Come over and trim my shrubs with that big mouth.

You, There! To the Left of New Zealand!

People of Australia, why do you do me like that? We had a gentleman’s agreement; I looked at my stats and you’re not holding up your end of the bargain. I cover all of the issues you burn for, and yet you look away. I bring you incisive commentary, and you cut me dead. It’s like you have no idea that I exist. Two can play at that game, Australia. I don’t know how just yet, but I will get you. I will think of a way to make you pay. Or not. I’m already losing interest here.

Cry and You Cry Alone

I used to be like you. I used to wake in the morning and crank open my blinds in despair. But I’ve changed. Now that Nicky Hilton is married, I have a new lease on life. I am so into being alive and awake that today I literally tore the blinds from the window, punched through the exposed screen, grabbed the cooling pie from my neighbor’s window and smashed it on my face - that’s how excited I am about Nicky Hilton’s marriage. When I first heard the news, I broke two lamps and kicked over my stove. That snapped the gas line, so lets hope nobody lights the commemorative cigars I’m distributing.

Win a Boat

I’m holding a contest called “Win a Boat.” You can enter by sending me a slip of paper with your name on it. Any name, really, I don’t care. After you send me a name, shop around and find a boat you like. Then, find a way to win that boat. I’m not really affiliated with the actual winning of the boat. I’m just holding a contest called “Win a Boat.” Good luck, and may you win the boat of your dreams.

August is Give Me Presents Month

I once had a photo of myself ignoring Santa. There he was, looming behind me in his suffocating, beardy grandeur while I was peeling my presents with my back turned to him. “Who cares about you, old man,” my body language said. These days, however, I see things a little differently. Where is that fat monster with all my presents now? I don’t mind that it is August. In fact, I prefer it. I prefer presents in August. August, with the presents. Hello, is this thing on?

Would That I Had a Casual Acquaintance

If I had a casual acquaintance who liked NASCAR, I wouldn’t ask him about NASCAR right away. I would let him believe that I was “cool.” Then, after an unspecified period of time, I would blurt out, “Don’t you know, I’m curious as to why you like NASCAR!” Then, on with the dirty looks, I suppose, because every non-NASCAR person surely asks the NASCAR person the same set of questions: Why do you watch NASCAR? Is it because of your dad? Do you watch only for the crashes? If so, is it a wasted race if no one crashes? Do you watch for strategy? Is strategy involved? Is there such a thing as a boring NASCAR race? Is it riveting to stare at something so repetitive for so long? Is it, in fact, repetitive? Would you watch without the aid of beer? Do you pretend that you yourself are driving one of the cars? What in heaven’s name are you doing? And so forth. I would rush to assure this man that I would never ask these questions in order to injure or ridicule. I would ask these questions in order to understand. I would ask these questions in order to learn to adore this elegant driving game. One gets so frightfully tired of whist.

I Spoil and Clarify

Owain is writing a book. He’d like nothing better than for me to keep quiet about it, but I’m going to give the plot away, because I cannot keep a secret. His book is about a man who gets stuck in his tractor. His tractor seat caves in at an angle, causing the underseat to pop up and grab on to his thigh. “No sweat,” he thinks, “I’ll just drive home and get Nan to help me out of this.” What he does not realize is that Nan is stuck in a tree. She had tried to retrieve the laundry that had blown up into the tree from the lines below. Since it was a pine tree, nobody could see her, what with the thick pine and all. Plus, she was all messed up on opiates. “No sweat,” said Nan, “When Bur gets back, he’ll free me.” Do you see where this is going? No, you don’t. Their farm is very isolated. Well, that’s what the book is about. It’s actually a series of books. About magicians getting on in the city. Oh yes, and when Bur’s tractor pulls up into the farmyard, Nan starts yelling and Bur starts hollering, and their voices drown each other out. Solve that one, Angela Lansbury! It’s not so easy when there’s no body, is it?

Nb: If you ever read his book, and you find that the story differs from the one I’ve just related, remember that your reading comprehension skills are probably very poor. You could also blame me for making it all up. Because now I can't remember if this is his book or not. In fact, I think this story actually happened, and had nothing to do with Owain. I might have heard it on Dr. Phil. No, I don't watch Dr. Phil. Very mysterious. Let's eat.

I Ask the Tough Questions

I tried Bissli snacks. I tried the Falafel and Smokey varieties. These snacks are passable, but I won’t eat them again soon. Why? Because I prefer pretzels and because I do not fit into the Bissli target audience, which consists of “Teenagers, especially the media buffs who are constantly seeking real time change and up-dates. Main areas of interest–everything media-related from music and sports to fashion and computers.” I am no teenager, and my main areas of interest are avoiding hassle and finding Lord Lucan. I say, where is that man? Is he in Mexico City? How does he meet his prescription eyewear needs? Does he suffer gout? Does he enjoy low-cholesterol wheat-based party snacks, such as Bissli? These are the sort of radical, hard-boiled questions that we ought to be asking at this late stage, and for some reason, I appear to be the only person asking them.

You May Have Heard of Wade Parks

I came across a little piece of gossip: Wade W. Parks peed his pants in his cubicle, and he “likes” Lori Dubenthral. Now, I like Wade. I know that he’s a girl and all, but he is generous to a fault, and his family vacationed where my family vacationed. While that doesn’t make us blood kin, it does create a pocket of sympathy. You may be interested to learn that he keeps back-up pants in his cubicle. If you are single, you may desire a date with Wade Parks. I do not advise it. He is debauched to the extreme. I dare not tell you more. Oh, okay, one more thing: Wade Parks will burn your barn if you make him angry. If Wade Parks burns your barn, and you take him to court, will little Sarty Parks testify against his father? I have no idea, and you heard none of this from me.

Helpful Household Tips

I don’t know what to eat for dinner, but it must include salt, fat, and deliciousness. No, just kidding, all I eat is hardtack softened with a little bathwater. You should take pains to reuse your bathwater, otherwise is just goes to waste. Also, eat off both sides of your dinner plates before you wash them. In bathwater. Also, if the potatoes in your pantry go bad, hide them in your loved ones’ laundry piles. When they find the potatoes, say “Gross, you let your laundry go so long that it grew potatoes. And then the potatoes went bad.”

I Can Help You

Nancy W. of East Lansing, Michigan, writes in to ask “Under what circumstances should you call a dress a ‘frock’?” Answer: Under no circumstances. ‘Frock’ means a fracture of the hock. “I fractured my hock,” you could safely say. “I have a frock. Only a hairline frock, though.” Where is your hock? It’s connected to your thorax. If you break your thorax, it’s called a ‘thwack.’ If you break someone else’s thorax, it’s called an accident, or ‘thwaccident.’ Unless you did it on purpose. Then it’s ‘assault.’ If you need more legal advice than what I’ve provided here, you’re going to have to show up at my office and pay the fee.

Another Fae Wellington Success Story

I’m thinking about opening a museum. It will be called “Fae Wellington’s The Underwater Museum of the Painted Zoftig.” I can explain. By “Painted Zoftig,” I mean a chubby lady with heavy make-up, husbands for money, and poofy hair. By “Underwater,” I mean in an aquarium that has gone out of business. By “museum,” I mean an exhibition of photos, personal effects, drawings/paintings/sculpture of and by Painted Zoftigs, life-size wax Painted Zoftig figures, and so forth. I’ll begin by featuring the following Painted Zoftigs, and add more as they occur to me:

Gabor Sisters
Sante Kimes before prison
Anna Nicole Smith
Liz Taylor
Jayne Mansfield
An Assortment of Mafia, Borscht Belt, Las Vegas, and Florida Ladies
Tammy Fay Baker
Liza Minelli, almost but not quite

It’s a bare-bones list, but I have to start somewhere.

The real moneymaker in my museum will be the Children’s Underwater Sleepover, modeled after the Aquarium Sleepovers that are so popular with the bourgeoisie. My sleepovers will take place in the Painted Zoftig Underwater Viewing Area. Kids will learn about the ladies, eat pizza, and fall asleep to the hypnotic blue glow of the Painted Zoftig Life-Size Wax Figure Underwater Tank. The children will wake up screaming, I suppose. After they calm down and roll up their sleeping bags, it’ll be Frosted Flakes time.

If this electrifying vision appears a little desperate, that’s because I thought of it while running without my walkman.

Go, Vikings

I wish professional football players would play without pads or helmets. That way, players would occasionally die of injuries on the field. It would be an honor to die on the field. The bereaved might erect small white crosses on the field where players fall. Fans would leave mounds of flowers and teddy bears by the field crosses. Other players would have to play carefully, so as not to disturb the crosses and mounds of loving debris. Sometimes, a player might lose his temper, and kick one of the crosses into the stands, or tear a teddy bear to shreds with his teeth. Not classy. Fans would probably boo. Eventually, team morale would sink so low that players would just drive their cars onto the field. The football itself would fall out of use. The object would be to smash your car into cars of the other football players until your car is the last car running.

The Only Souse Allowed On My Sidewalk at 3 a.m. Is Me

You thought you could sneak a few clubs by me, Demon Rum, but I cottoned onto you mighty swift like. The disreputable barrooms in my milieu have proliferated like arms, and I was curious: where does the Temperance Movement stand today? Surely a few mustachioed, scowling harridans hold the standard on some bleak mountaintop? I commanded my research team to find answers. My research team is lazy, and consists of me and Google, so little was accomplished. However, I discovered that the Women’s Christian Temperance Union still exists. To join, you pledge total abstinence and you pay dues. Here’s the pledge:

“I hereby solemnly promise, God helping me, to abstain from all distilled, fermented and malt liquors, including wine, beer and hard cider, and to employ all proper means to discourage the use of and traffic in the same.”

Dues are ten bucks. That could mean a loss of about five happy hour beers. If you take the pledge seriously, it means a loss of a lifetime of beers. I don’t want to lose a lifetime of beers. I want my neighborhood to lose a lifetime of beers. I need only one bar for my purposes. The other 39 bars have got to go. I’m making a list of the things I’m going to do when I get my time machine, and number 144 is “Transport Carrie Nation to my neighborhood for one merry afternoon of saloon smashing.” I would have her back home by dinnertime.

Let's Get America Moving Again

The campaign season is too long. It distracts voters from Scott Peterson in Paris. WAS he in Paris? EEEE! I’m sure I’LL never know! Anyhoo, during a Levitra commercial, I devised an improved campaign structure:

1. First, each candidate for President completes an application in his or her own handwriting. I suggest we cut costs by using that free art test where you draw the turtle pirate. Candidates can write their ideas for the future on the back. Candidates mail a copy of the application to each voter.
2. Urine sample collected on live TV, tested by Maury Povich’s lab staff.
3. One month to stump.
4. One 8-hour debate on live TV. Open bar for debaters. No food or water served.
5. We vote.
6. Loser sacrificed to sun god on live TV.
7. Winner violently hazed by current administration on live TV.

Excellent, isn't it? A brief campaign that reflects American values and frees up time for such autumnal activities as: back-to-school shopping, stowing patio furniture, locating and airing out sexy cat costume in time for Halloween, frying smelt, winging crab apples at cars, et cetera. Maybe you don't know what smelt is. Maybe smelt is fried in the spring. I can't help you with any of that. It's not my thing. My thing is getting America moving again.

Shark Attack!

Just kidding, for now. I am in the process of patenting the Personal Shark System, the multi-tiered, scatological, microbial aquaculture system that will revolutionize the self-directed shark attack industry. I will make it possible for you to create and control shark attack scenerios in any body of water, large or small. Look out, loved ones!

I've Taken to Things

When Trinny and Fatty show up at my door in order to rip all of the unsightly clothing from my closet, they’ll have a surprise waiting for them: I’ve taken to hiding my unsightly clothing in the refrigerator. Nothing tops chilled trousers on a beastly, humid August morning. Unfortunately, it’s been colder than a witch’s teat here in the metropolis - real mitten weather. Now I’ve taken to warming my clothing at the hearth. So if you’ve been wondering why all my cruddy clothing is singed and sooty, it’s because I warm my refrigerator clothes before an open flame. “Why live in fear of Trinny and Fatty? Do you see how fear of Trinny and Fatty is tearing you apart and destroying the last vestiges of your clothing?” people ask me. Huh. What am I supposed to fear, if not Trinny and Fatty? Centipedes? Banking? Small talk? Barfing? Too late, peoples. I already fear those things.

Tea For Me

When I stand out of doors, surveying all that I own, I often say to myself “Why isn’t someone here offering me a cup of tea?” I’m not entirely opposed to making my own tea, to be sure. What I'm saying is that I would drink wads more of it if someone else made it for me. “Cup of tea?” someone would ask. “Yes, duh, of course, YES,” I would reply. If this tea-wrangler passed me a mug of black tea, or worse, a mug of hot water with a tea bag in it, I would slap the mug from his hand, pluck the mug from the lawn and strike the brute with it. I think its clear that I’d like my tea with milk and sugar. I'd also like my tea in a cup with a saucer. If I can't find someone who makes my tea the way I like it, I will just go on complaining about it until they send me to the bughouse. If its crazy to want someone else to make me a cup of tea, then that's where I belong. And in case you're wondering, I will complain while I'm there, too.

Sunday Afternoon, Plague of Flies

Though I couldn’t smell it, I suspect that a mouse carcass burst open in some disused room or alcove yesterday, because by mid-afternoon the house was thick with flies. Fat Old Molly was everywhere at once, whipping saucepans through windows, overturning potted plants and tearing doors from their jambs, all in frenzied effort to halt the ghastly onslaught of flies. We needed all hands on deck; I helped with my red flyswatter – until a fly I swatted exploded into a yellow gob of maggots. That’s when I stopped swatting and considered showering. Later, when the flies thinned and Fat Old Molly relaxed at the table with a cold compress and a gin ricky, I heard her tell some poor kitchen sap about the time she almost died in a dairy barn, and woke with maggots feasting on her bare feet. That’s just the kind of crap you learn when you listen at doors.

I'm High On Whalebone Corsets

Do you like stories that are short? I do. Not to be confused with “short stories,” which I loathe. I like stories that are short, because time is money. Do you like money? No matter. Do you like stories that are short AND involve buxom ladies with corsets around their knees flying suddenly from their toilets into public waiting rooms? I do, too. We have much in common, you and I.

August is Ghost-Finding Month

I suppose it is reasonable to assume that my house hasn’t any ghosts. But I’m going to assume that it has, and I’m going to find them. Doubting Dave of Discovery Kid’s “Mystery Hunters” has three suggestions for me:

1. If you draw chalk circles around household items, you will notice when the ghosts move your stuff.

While I’m not too lazy to draw chalk circles around my stuff, I am too lazy to locate and unearth my cache of hoarded chalk. My carefully monitored chalk circles would surely draw the attention of Anne, who would begin to underestimate my sanity, if she has not begun to do so already.

2. Use a compass to detect any unusual electromagnetic business in your home.

Every time I take a step forward, my compass needle jiggles. What does it mean? Am I unsteady on my feet? Do my ghosts suffer delirium tremens? Yes.

3. Use a digital thermometer to find ghostly cold spots in your home.

I don’t have a digital thermometer.

Other factors indicating the presence of ghosts in my house: The floors creak when I step on them. Key snacks go missing long before they ought to. Small piles of mixed change become piles of only pennies. My phone never rings. Hair in the drain. The cats don’t like their food. The servants have all left in a fright. Tap water tastes ghosty.

On Sunday

I’d like to order breakfast for tomorrow. I’ll have waffles with strawberries, syrup, and whip cream. I’ll have coffee with honey and cream. I’ll need some salty bits too, so bacon will have to do. After breakfast, I’m going to need a driver, because I plan on going somewhere outstanding. Like Europe. I’d like to stand on the roadways, or on the pavements gray, and all that. And then I’m going to have to turn around and go home again, because there’s good TV on Sunday night.

Mayor Goldie Wilson Is Going To Clean Up This Town

I have a radical idea that will blow your minds. I’m going to buy an entire city block and raze it. Then I’m going to put in a Hard Rock Café, a Cold Stone Creamery, an arcade, a parking garage, a fantastic cinema, and so forth. Ha! Criticize me then! I will be the boss of you. I will permit you to loiter outside my fantasy compound, but you will have to wear one of the following uniforms: 1) nylon skullcap, a humungous jersey, roomy trousers and some really terrific shoes, or 2) a relaxed, button-down pastel shirt, black or brown wrinkle-free slacks (you must refer to them as “slacks”), brown scuffed shoes, and reading material. If you conform not to my uniform restrictions, I will set my hounds upon you. Actually, I already hate this idea. Forget I brought it up. And if you steal my mind-blowing idea, and I see my rejected idea come to fruition, I will be heartily wroth. I will set my hounds upon you.

Each Day Brings More Joy

M*donna’s Kabbalah grammar school opens this December in NYC. Will she find enough aging Talmudic scholars to fill a classroom? And will the bearded ones respond favorably when referred to as “children?” Unless she means to – gasp – recruit actual children for her school. No, that is outlandish. That's not the Kabbalah I know! That's not the Madonna I know! She would never!

Or would she? After all, her Munchausen School By Proxy was a smashing success.

The Salad Days, or, When A Thong Was A Thong

When I was a poker-faced and dubious robot child in 1980s Iowa, I called flip-flops “thongs”, and so did everybody else. Even the smash poet Gallagher called flip-flops “thongs.” These days, however, thongs are scandalous, uncomfortable unmentionables; they are not footwear. I have come to terms with this modern distinction. But have the others? I fear I shall never know.

My Clarinet, Myself

I recently exhumed my hated clarinet, and like most recovered corpses, its unholy odor rose to the high heavens and knocked the very birds from the sky. Did I rush to assemble the confounded machinery and tootle five bars of “I Lift Up My Finger And I Say Tweet Tweet?” No, and I didn’t dance around the open case with jazz hands, either. Instead, I silently relived the horror of middle school band: the lessons in the airless vault with the deeply pocked and oily bachelor instructor; the sideways, derisive glances from wee colleagues who had new, sweet-smelling clarinets; and later, the lies! O, the lies! “Just play clarinet for one more semester, and then we’ll move you to oboe.” Well, Mrs. Gulden, you wild-eyed deceiver, that certainly didn’t happen, did it?

AND He Preserved the Blessed Union of These United States

If the question “Who is your favorite president?” is bandied about your office, and you proclaim your affection for Grant, and your boss mocks your choice while refusing to commit to any particular president herself, why, that just makes a sucker out of you, doesn’t it? Yes, I am afraid it does.
“I like President Grant,” I said.
“A WARRIOR?!?” El Jefe cried, foam flying from her chops, teeth gnashing.
A warrior. Reader, you were not even there, but you blood boils, eh? Of course it boils! U.S. Grant was a man of exquisite fortitude, tremendous passion, and mind-boggling physical beauty. Which is why I could not defend him properly in the office: My mind was boggled by his bold, passionate beauty.

I Will Call It "Fae Wellington's The Bed & Breakfast Experience"

I will probably never open a Bed and Breakfast. If I do, however, remember this: Do not stay at my Bed and Breakfast. I am easily irritated and I will not put any real effort into providing you a proper breakfast. I will probably set a box of graham crackers at the foot of the stairs for you, and I may tape it to the wall to discourage you from absconding with the entire box. You pig, nine other guests have to eat from that box!

While bunking at my B & B, you will have to follow my rules:

1. Your shoes must not make noise
2. You are never allowed to whistle, sing, or hum, even if you think I can’t hear you
3. If you wear sweatpants and trainers, you had better be working out
4. You are not allowed to work out on the premises
5. You are not allowed to drone on about your medical problems
6. You are not allowed to say “my bad”
7. You are not allowed to say “somebody called me from this number”
8. If you wet the bed, I will tell no one as long as you buy the mattress and take it with you
9. If you do evil in my B&B, I will visit it upon you threefold. Perhaps fourfold, depending upon the severity of the evil. Twofold for funny evil.
10. If you see Zoe playing in the sandbox out back, remember: She may have the body of a grown woman, and the mind of a grown woman, but she is not a grown woman. Wait, yes she is. Just stay out of the sandbox, that’s rule #10.
11. If you have children, they’re going to have to sleep in your car.
12. No parking on the premises. Park at Arby’s and take the shuttle.

Stupid Crappy Doing it Myself

If you’re feeling sad, or maybe a little fat or hideous, don’t come crying to me. I don’t know how you feel. I have trials of my own. For example, today I had to rise early in order to assemble my own sandwich. I raised the blinds and brewed my own coffee. By myself, see. Yesterday, I laundered my own clothes and made my own bed. All me, for me. This nonsense has to stop. Summer is almost over – what am I to do when blood is nipp’d and ways be foul? Am I to bear my OWN logs into the hall? Am I to tote my OWN milk home, frozen in pail? Bullshit. I won't have it.