Well Begun is Half Dun

I've unearthed an appliance that transforms ordinary coffee beans into actual, viable coffee grounds. Useless. Vanity of vanities; all is vanity. It's good for scaring squirrels out of the cupboards, I suppose, or for grinding AA batteries into an energy drink of sorts. I've gone off coffee, though. Blocks my chi. Now I start each day with a cool glass of Pantene 2-in-1 shampoo + conditioner. My chi practically vomits a million thank-yous.

Grrrr

This blog is pissing me off. The last post was about knobs. Christ, who am I, Erma Bombeck? I'm going to go stand in a closet and recite pi to the 3000th digit. Back in ten.

These are the Knobs that Try Men's Souls

You seem like a sensible person. So tell me, did you ever buy a chest of drawers, and you didn't like the knobs it came with, so you thought you'd go to Home Depot and buy attractive replacement knobs? Damn, listen to me, because that's what I did! When I arrived at Home Depot I was devastated by my choice of knobs. They were hideous - monstrous - worse than the knobs that came with the furniture.

Unsightly knobs? Do not do as I did, friends! No! Rather, let my tale of woe be your balm on a cloudy day.

"The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What knobs we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every knob its value." -Thomas Paine

Do They Shun Me Because I Find Opals Distasteful?

Australians avoid this blog like nobody's business. What is it they can't handle, these "Australians?" Is it my patrician reserve, my cool serenity, my sagacity beyond my years? Well, what is it? Speak up, I can't hear you. I have a plastic bag over my head.

Look at Me

I made up these fine jokes to tell at parties. Everyone will laugh if you tell them at parties, too. USE EXACT WORDING, DO NOT CHANGE A SINGLE WORD OR YOU WILL RUIN THESE JOKES. First you ask the question, then pause and look everyone in the eye, then hit them with the punchline. If I ever go to a party, you can bet I'll be using these jokes on all the party people. I will also tell them in the office if I get a chance.

Joke #1. Why girls not play guitar? Calluses
Joke #2. Why Spaniards play guitar? Don't know
Joke #3. Why joke not funny? They are funny, you are stupid
Joke #4. Why dog sleep on couch? To rest for the party
Joke #5. Why president? Don't argue with me
Joke #6. Why dog sit on towel? It is true, he did
Joke #7. Why man ignore me? Gay or just busy
Joke #8. Why cranberries on turkey dinner? To get to the other side
Joke #9. Why frika fraka brika braka? Secret sauce

Is this Blog Sleeping, or Just Resting its Eyes?

Sorry for the eerie silence, but I've been busy hiding artifacts all over my land. These artifacts are meant to look old and valuable; my goal is to plant the remains of an entire ancient village under my turf. Then I aim to call a local news tipline and tell them I'm living on the remains of an ancient village. "Looks to be Mayan or something," I will tell them. When the guys come by with their cameras, I will dig up a few artifacts for them. While the camera crews are pouring over my artifacts, I will drive off in one of their news vans. "You'll never catch me alive!" I'll holler out the window as I peel off. A car chase will follow. This will make a fantastic news story, I think, especially if I can get away from the chase long enough to spray "Free James Brown" on the side of the van. Later, people will say, "James Brown isn't in jail," and I will reply, "I meant to write 'Free Michael Jackson' but I couldn't remember if he spells his name with a J or a G, so I just went with some other name entirely." Then, before they can tell me that Michael jackson isn't in jail either, I will throw a handful of white flour on the crowd and, in the ensuing confusion, I will drive off in another news van. Rinse. Repeat. Fantastic endless news story.

My Poignant Deathbed Scene

I am blessed with abundance and I often get my way. But that is not enough. I'm not going to get into the grimy details. I'm just saying that if I can't have what I want, then I'm going to have to stay in bed and slowly waste away unto death. I mean it - I'm not getting out of bed again ever. Pity, isn't it? The bathroom sink is only feet away, but I will not drink. The fridge is one room over, but I will not eat. I want what I want, and I don't appear to be getting it. So fuck everything! I'm putting on my pajamas right now, and you won't be hearing from me again. Goodbye forever, suckers!



UPDATE: I had to get out of bed to pee, so I thought I'd update. Tedious, wasting away. I also drank another glass of water because I had some salty beef jerky just now. But that is IT. You won't hear from me again. Watch for my obit in the Star Tribune.

UPDATE: Went to the kitchen for another piece of beef jerky. Tasty. I also put a glass of water beside my bed. But after that, NO MORE getting out of bed. I intend to die miserably. I will teach the universe to deny ME what I want. Stupid universe.

UPDATE: If I knew wasting away was this boring, I would have just gone in to the office. I'm going to have a piece of banana bread and file my nails.

My "To Do" List

- Dust the rabbit figurines DO NOT USE PLEDGE, THAT’S FOR WOOD
- Weigh lipstick tubes and organize by ounces viable; be sure to tare the caps
- Construct complete Days of Our Lives family trees from memory – include thumbnail sketches
- FINALLY pull out the fridge and retrieve the summer sausage that rolled under there last May
- Proofread complaint letter to Clabber Girl Double Acting Baking Powder Corp.– why can’t Clabber Girl be more like Calumet? Calumet’s always giving me 110% - but Clabber Girl disappoints time after time, the chubby slattern.
- Assemble the window herb garden that Nancy dropped off before she fell into the pothole last month
- Phone the city about the pothole out front. Notify morgue (?) about Nancy in the pothole.
- Do something about the onion smell in the guest room
- LITTER BOXES
- ASH TRAYS
- Pick hairs off all the soaps – Darla’s bringing the family this time
- Rotate couch cushions - my spot’s getting flat
- Put the scoliosis brace back in the closet – scares Darla’s kids
- Find the cockatiel (attic?) and glue cage back together. Don’t glue the cage door shut this time - you’ll just have to break it again
- Replace tarp over picture window (tear in left hand corner)
- Paint nails
- Mail Mensa dues and gas bill
- Replace the brownish doilies with fresh ones
- Full-spectrum light bulbs? Check dollar store first
- Ask Annette to move her urine jar
- Why are we keeping the broken recliner? Every time I sit in it I throw out my back. Ask Todd to haul it over to the neighbor’s yard with the others. While he’s at it – if it’s warm outside - he can hose the mice out of the old Volvo and fill up the tires.

There Isn't Anything About Nothing that I Don't Understand

I just had an idea about something that drives me up the shitting wall, but then I got distracted by Paula Abdul on TV. Then I got distracted by a movie trailer that involved the biting of necks plus demonic palm reading. Then on with the Arby's oven mitt. I would tell you that I hate that oven mitt, but hating the oven mitt is no longer fashionable. It's trite. I know what you're thinking: "If hating the oven mitt is trite, I don't want to be trought." Well, stop thinking so much. What that oven mitt needs is a van dyke beard and an RV with a full tank of gasoline.

If you didn't get the bit about the van dyke beard and the RV with a full tank of gas, that's because it's an inside joke. Between me and some ... guy. What?

Failure to Gossip Properly Will Keep You Up at Night

I’ve heard that Woman X is divorcing my best friend Schaffer. Good, I say. If I had married Schaffer, I’d have divorced him in a heartbeat, the savage baldy bore - though Woman X is no prize either. What can you say when two bores divorce? Very little. You can’t even gossip about it properly - and failure to gossip properly will keep you up at night. You know you’ve made a ruin of your life when your botched marriage fails to generate the scarcest glimmer of schadenfreude in your supporting cast.

Time of Day: A.M. Fast, or P.M. Slow?

Hi, everybody in the website. I just received a fold map for children from the store with learning toys from Hong Kong. I like the maps for learning, they are good for a afternoon. My new maps comes with the flag stickers for the adhere to map on the countries where it belong. The fun is fast and intense. I put the stickers in their places! Some flag stickers I did not know. These I will save for another purpose. Something to do in this summer or autumn.

After I place the flag stickers on their designate places, I read instructions to the map for placing flags sticker correctly. I did it wrong.

Instructions:
1. Can be adhered and assembled freely to allow full exercise of your creativity.
2. Enjoy together with the kids to play with the stickers and tell the tales.
3. Create a warm family for the stickers.

I did not enjoy together with the kids and tell the tales, I did not ever once create a warm family for the stickers. Also, my map has an ocean called Southern Ocean.

Update: I will put a flag map away for now for snack nachos.

Good Luck to Them

Don't try to plant anything in your garden yet. The ground is still frozen. My neighbors laugh in my face when I tell them this; so why do they keep digging and hacking in their garden? Some mornings, I stand in my picture window with my coffee in one hand and my cat in the other arm, and I watch them dig for hours. I'll tell you what they're doing. They're trying to find the rubies I buried before the first gulf war. Well, good luck to them, the brawny oafs. They're not digging anywhere near my cache. They do appear to be dangerously close to some buried power lines, however. Good. How I ache to have my time spent at the window rewarded with the spectacle of a good neighbor-frying.

Fae Wellington's The Flattened Bread Revolution

In the olden days, I would sometimes take a piece of bread and flatten it before I ate it. If you flatten the bread first, it isn't so puffy. It is simply flat and delicious. So, the next time you want good, flat bread that isn't puffy but is delicious, just remove a slice from the bag and flatten it against a dinner plate with your thumb or with the bottom of your glass. I think that you will agree that it is less puffy, but delicious.

This may surprise you, but I have never flattened two slices of bread to make a sandwich. For a hilarious sandwich, flatten two slices of bread and put a puffy regular slice between the flat slices. You will roar with laughter! A flattened bread sandwich! That is indeed the living end. I chuckle to think of such an outrageous sandwich.

I do think that flattened French toast would cause your guests to positively vomit with merriment.

To flatten a few slices of bread and toast them will result in small pizza crusts that are out of this world, though they will not elicit the bellowing jocularity that the flattened French toast can (and will) elicit.

When camping, consider flattening your bread the night before you leave. This will help preserve space in your knapsack, and will increase the deliciousness of the bread. Common sense dictates that flattening will also increase the waterproof nature of your bread. Flatten it one slice at a time, because if you flatten it all in one go, you will have a devil of a time peeling the slices apart. Nobody wants to wrestle a flattened loaf of bread while squatting before a campfire or while balancing in a charming birchbark canoe.

Lawrence Summers, We Hardly Knew Ye

Do biological differences explain why more men than women tell hilarious fart jokes at science parties? Yes and no. When it comes to excelling in the field of science, there is no "Man" or "Woman." There is only Golgi apparatus and strong force. If you can master the Golgi apparatus and the strong force, you are a scientist. If you are a manly scientist, you are called a "Man of Science." If you are a lady scientist, you are still called a "Man of Science." "Woman of Science" just sounds funny. It sounds like a new eau de cologne. "What is that fantastic scent?" people will wonder. "It's my new perfume - Woman of Science." This damnable confusion of title and scent is, I believe, the crux of the issue for Mr. Summers and me.

EWP: On Painkillers

It's EWP Wisdom Wednesday, wherein I, EWP, offer my unalloyed wisdom on a Wednesday. Note that while I consider all of my wisdom definitive, I reserve the right to alter it drastically at any time and without notice.

On Morality
What is morality? If we knew, we could lock the warden in a linen closet and go home now. I maintain that morality is really a waste of time, especially when you consider how much time I spend waiting for my dinner to thaw. Time is the problem when it comes to morality. Who has time do the ironing or shovel the walk? One out of every three women do, but they have little time left over for folding their napkins into swans. I'd rather wipe my mouth with my un-ironed sleeve than with an un-swanned napkin. In some areas, people refer to napkins as "serviettes." Does this absolve them from guilt? No! They are still bad people!

On Faith
Some people have faith; others fake it. Some people have faith in God, some people have faith in their country. Some people keep faith tucked between their cheek and gum, though this leads to tooth loss and gum disease. Some have stolen their faith from their employers - and who can blame them? Those fat cats have all the faith they want just handed to them, and we wage slaves have to BUY ours! Once I bought a can of whipped cream and the dispenser was BROKEN. I had to eat my sundae without whipped cream. I could have opened the can with a stab of the knife, but did I dare? No way, Jose. This, too, is faith.

On Luck
Luck is not real. It is completely unreal. Lucky people are just unlucky people with nice haircuts. How do they maintain these haircuts? They don't! Sooner or later, their hairdressers move to a bigger city. That's luck for you. Same goes for manicures, only more so. Luck is not about winning the lottery. It is about hurling your cup of coffee at the car that nearly ran you over, and not having the driver emerge from his car with a shoulder-held surface-to-air rocket-propelled missile launcher. That's luck.

Who Is John Galt?

You know, with all the rabid blogs I read, and all the MSM I inhale, I still have no idea what this fellow "Easton Jordan" did. For all I know, he cut open a pregnant woman and lied about the casualties. I'm not even sure if I have his name right. All I know is he's a bad seed. Also, we need to privatize Social Security toot sweet - before the North Koreans loot Pakistan and suffocate the pope with a wet rag.

And what of this Churchill fellow, running his mouth? Phoney witches were drowned for less.

What Do They Mean, "Old Hickory?" What the Devil is "Old Hickory?!"

I always thought the guy on the $20 bill was Charles Dickens. It's not. It's actually Andrew Jackson. Preposterous, really, because who has ever heard of Andrew Jackson? Nobody. But everybody's read Little Dorrit. Doesn't make any sense. I think the American people need to do a little soul-searching re: the US Mint. Is the Mint really operating in our best interests, and if not, can we exchange our bogus Jackson twenties for store credit?

But You'd Be Wrong

What's this? Flavian sent me a postcard scrawled with a bold appeal for my presence. "COME SEE ME IN HAITI. BORED SHITLESS," it read. No way am I going to Haiti. I'll get behind on my soaps. "They probably have TV in Haiti," you might say, but you'd be wrong. No TV. Flavian said they don't even have Bud Light in Haiti. He has to make do with Amstel Light - and those caps don't screw off. He has to cut the bottles open with his machete. It's just a plastic training machete, mind you. He's usually too intoxicated to pass the official training/safety licensure course that is required for wielding real machetes.

My Sponge in Every Sink Speech

As many of you know, I spend much of my time traveling the country, making inspirational speeches. Today I gave a speech at the Former Drunks With Dreams Syndicate, Omaha chapter. Oi, It was outrageous! After my speech, wholesale riot! Broken chairs, broken jaws, broken hearts! For those of you still drinking, or for Former Drunks With Dreams who had previous engagements, here is the text of my speech:

Thank you for inviting me here today, ladies and gentlemen of the FDWDS - and thank you, Professor Iain J. Jackson, for allowing me to stay in your gorgeous lakeside home. I won't actually be staying there, but my friend Steve will, for he has no home to speak of. He was abandoned at an early age. Then he was reacquired for tax purposes. Onward, however.

Harken unto me, Former Drunks. I have something to say, and I think you'll like it. What is it, you say? It's not that easy. It's never that easy. Lao Tzu said "All difficult things have their origin in that which is easy," but that is of no use to us today. We live in the atomic age, and that means no shirt, no shoes, no soft-shell taco. Except in Arizona.

We need peace and prosperity! We need a sponge in every sink, a ham in every garage, a plastic hand-held weapon that bakes and fires tiny bran muffins! We need lemon-scented Pledge for our wooded surfaces, and something else for the formica! We need a man for all seasons! I would suggest Conway Twitty, but I've heard that he is dead. Just as well. God bless his soul. But what does this have to do with me, you ask. Keep asking! It is one of the eternal questions. "Where in the world is Carmen Sandiego?" is another one. "Where are the salad tongs?" is another. Ask them all. Ask them all!

When I last spoke with Mr. Twitty, he told me a little story about a man with a problem. Yes - a deeply problematic man. Is he you? Probably. He was every man, but with a dirtier shirt. He ate at every Chinese buffet in Grand Forks, and he had the paperwork to prove it. But he was hurting inside. What he needed his folding basket full of-


Sorry, folks. That was the end of my speech. I was cut short by the massive brawl. My words of inspiration whipped those Former Drunks With Dreams into a sublime fury, a riot of epic proportions! I was smuggled out the back door in a violin case; my assistant, Porkpie Lewis, drove me to the airport in an unmarked Camry. I was fortunate to have escaped with my life. Exhilarating.

Antiques Roadshow: Deceivers! Liars! Scoundrels!

Just got back from a disastrous filming of Antiques Roadshow. For appraisal, I brought my 1902 Crossley Bros monocle, my set of 4 Louis XV dining chairs, my Poole Stoneware Quails, my beaded Turkish nut cracker, and my signed Ann-Margret record. By my appraisal, my loot is worth at least $25,000. Here's what their five "experts" told me about my antiques:

Monocle: "Where did you get this? I only ask because it is not a monocle at all. It appears to be a plastic button from a pea coat. Do note its blue, opaque nature, and it's embossed anchor. Not a monocle, and not an antique."
1902 Crossley Bros. Monocle: $.02 - $.04

Set of 4 Louis XV dining chairs: "Hmm. Not Louis XV. Not even chairs. Reginald, will you call security? Not sure what this woman is doing here. Miss, what you have here are four Kemps Vanilla Ice Cream Buckets. Security? Yes. Yes. Oh dear. I need a ciggie."
Set of 4 Louis XV dining chairs: $.01 - $.02

Set of Poole Stoneware Quails: "These stoneware quails appear to be actual frozen - yet thawing - sparrows. These would not make it to auction, as dead sparrows are not antiques, but carriers of disease. Excuse me."
Set of Poole Stoneware Quails: no value given

Beaded Turkish Nut Cracker, circa 1880: "This is a soiled athletic sock full of gravel."
Beaded Turkish Nut Cracker: no value given

Ann-Margret, "On The Way Up," 1962, signed jacket: "While this is indeed an Ann-Margret LP jacket, the signature is illegible and may, in fact, be a chocolate stain. The LP inside is not 'On The Way Up,' but Lisa Stansfield's 'Affection.' Wickedly scratched - probably not playable."
Ann-Margret LP: $.00 - $.25

Buffoons! Never have I been so outraged. This is NOT over.

I'll Tell YOU What Time It Is

Today I wore a wristwatch that was set to daylight saving time. I didn't give a hoot, because I wear my watch as a fashion accessory only; my watch has no truck with accuracy. Sometimes I even cut wristwatches out of magazine ads and tape them to my wrist. Completely useless. "What time is it?" people ask me. "Time? Don't know what you're getting at," I roar as I stomp on their kneecaps. The kneecap-stomping is the key to teaching these toothless interrogators a lesson; I don't want people wasting my time with their rummy questions.

I'd Rather Collapse on Live Television than be Thought a Libra

Every few months I mitigate some of my boredom by retaking the reverse astrology test. I always come up Virgo. This is maddening; I am a Virgo, and I don’t appreciate being told that it shows - though the thought of being any other sign repulses me to no end. For example, who wants to be a Libra? I’d sob with boredom.

I Don't Know Where Dr. Phil Finds these Unforgivable Frankentwats

Today Dr. Phil had a guest who hates her 4-year-old daughter and admits abusing her. Why is this woman not locked up? Will a little tête-à-tête cure her cruelty? Christ almighty, where does that afflicted magician find these savages? Dr. Phil is one tough-talking parasite, yes, but I'll bet he sucks his thumb and sleeps in diapers, the opportunist swine.

On a lighter note, Saint Paul's Winter Carnival ice sculptures are melting - proof that God really does answer prayers.

More of the Same

I can't see the point in going on. Every day is the same. Today I thought I saw a python in my room, but it was just my trousers flung over a chair.

Let Us Immediately Set Flame to the Works of Robert Burns

Robert Burns said "A quiet mind cureth all," but he was full of beans. No sane man would posit such asininity. Does a quiet mind cure VD? No. You'll have to see a doctor for that, you snaggletoothed bedlamite.

No Soul-Shocking Trap-Snapping

Haven't posted much today. I ran out of words and had to pop down to Menards for more. They were out of stock, as usual, so I brought home a mouse trap that promises to enclose a live mouse in a house of loving steel. That way you can deposit the filthy live miscreant in your neighbor's garage. No gutty mouse mess, no soul-shocking trap-snapping. Things are looking up.

Hardly Worth the Effort

Just had the fright of my life. I thought I saw a hunched old woman in the shared entryway to my duplex - but my double-take assured me that it was only the play of sunlight on the ruined Victrola that my landlord uses to block my escape in case of fire. So all is well until that fire occurs.

In case you were wondering, I'll be lunching on beans on toast presently.

Calling All Sane Men of Action

I think my neighbors are fleeing the country. First, they go missing for two months straight. Then they reappear in the middle of the night. Now they have people in tracksuits carrying full file drawers to their car. All good fun, but if they're fixing to blow up their house on their way out of town, my house will go too, and I will feel compelled to personally track them down and hatchet them. Unless I die in the blast. If I die in the blast, I'm going to need someone else to hunt and hatchet these bizarre hippies. Please leave your name in the comments field if you're willing to avenge my death by hatcheting these hirsute rotters.

If I were you, I'd wait until they've crossed into Mexico before hatcheting them. They have no laws in Mexico.

Good Earth Tea is a Pox on Humanity

I've been suffering smellucinations. Yesterday I thought I smelled that repulsive Good Earth Tea; and just now, bubble gum. But there was no Good Earth Tea, and there is no bubble gum! These odors from nowhere may indicate paranormal activity - but what kind of spectre would risk smelling like Good Earth Tea? Must have been diabolic, whatever it was.

I was lucky to escape with my life.

You Wiwl Be Wichwy Wewarded in Hebben

I would like to remind you that I am quite upset about being made to wait. I am tired of waiting. I am not a woman of patience.

It is quite likely that you have no idea what I'm hinting at. Good. Let us agree to part company with this ambiguity swarming between us. It will make our relationship stronger.

If, however, you can guess what I'm waiting for, I shall fiddle with my blogroll and place you atop the tawdry laundry-list of screeching tomfools. You will also be richly rewarded in heaven, and all that.

Note: If I read a precious post like this in anyone else's blog, I'd hit the "back" key faster than you can say Jack Robi-

He Empties the Sack of Ears in a Fit of Needless Drama

I was just remembering that one poem by that one woman. It concerned some Columbian or Salvadorian magnifico and a sack of human ears. Grisly. The fellow empties a bag of ears in a fit of needless drama, and some of the ears are cupped to the ground, "listening" or some such nonsense. Supposed to be a warning in there somewhere, with the glass in the walls and the ears like peach halves, etcetera. Anyway, who is this poet? Don't make me Google his ridiculous poem, people. It had better not be the work of that barbarous Sharon Olds.

I think it was a prose poem. Uncivilized, prose poems. I hate them so.

UPDATE: It was Carolyn Forche. Thank you, all zero of you who volunteered this vital information. Your replies fell like pecan pies from the pie-gravid clouds.

The internets tell me that Nick Lachey is 5'10". How can this be? Jessica Simpson is only 5'3"; he should tower over her, yet tower he doesn't. Perhaps I'm not taking her heels into account. Perhaps he wears heels also, like Prince or Louis XIV. Well, I'm 5'10" too; if I ever meet this madman Lachey, I shall insist that we both remove our shoes and stare each other directly in the eye. If he refuses to remove his shoes, I will know that he is an impostor. "I can't remove my heels - I'm wearing my holey socks, and we're standing on a patch of pigeon poo," he might whine. Impostor!

What a Friend You Have in EWP

I feel sorry for the people who clicked onto my blog today. Nothing here. Just that terrible Groundhog Day screenplay that gets progressively more tedious with each blast of wind. Why not go read Stephen Baldwin, or Outer Life, or Misspent? I’d read these terrific blogs myself, but reading blogs is a colossal drain on my time. Really, I just shuffle through my bookmarks, scanning for my name or for chances to win major international sweepstakes. No practical man would read blogs for any other reason.

Ever So Sorry

Gauls sacked my Groundhog Day screenplay under cover of darkness and nothing remains but smoldering ruins and wailing women. So sorry. I can tell you this much, however: Dave finished the salsa before Milly had a single chip.

I knew it would end badly.