Life is a Big Slab

I had a bad feeling about it: Harriet Miers wasn't going to work out. This morning I dashed to my internets, as usual, for news and frothy inspiration, and I had my suspicions confirmed. Good, I thought. I never liked the cut of her jib, anyway. I didn't understand why she wouldn't state her position on trans fat, or on government vouchers that would allow up-quarks to go to private protons. I wanted to know if she would try to eliminate my constitutional right to purchase sub-standard electronics from Walgreens, including robotic plush cats and festive stocking caps that vibrate to the tune of Jingle Bell Rock. What is her position on intimigration, I wondered, or on conswervation? Would she try to keep me and my snowmobile out of Everglades National Park? Is she opposed to Fission-Assisted Suicide, and if so, what does she propose we do with people who dance in public? Has she experienced any unexplained activity that could be described, construed, understood or otherwise interpreted as "poltergeisty"? Who is Betsy, and what makes her so Charming? Is Scotus his first name or surname? Does she want to overturn Beard v. Justmoustaches? I wanted answers, and she wasn't talking. Anyway, all that unpleasantness is over now, and life is a big slab of butterscotch. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to Walgreens to buy a plush AM/FM radio telephone that reheats coffee in your car.

Life of Rafe

I always knew that Rafe was writing his memoirs, but today I actually found them. You may wish to read a few bits – they’re frightfully good:

from Chapter Eleven

Once I decided to be an architect, it was simple. All I had to do was learn what every building thing was called, and where the thing goes, and how to draw it with and without a roof. For example, that thing that sticks in the air. What is it called? And what does it do? It’s the Washington Monument, and it’s called a Pointy Guy. Then I drew up some plans for a new Pointy Guy for the local Chamber of Commerce. I was going to call it the Jones Monument, after Chones Jones, inventor of the tractor piece that connects the front to the back. He also invented the Tree Monitor, which is a string gate with a sensor on it. The sensor beeps when the tree moves. I have always found these devices useful.

from Chapter Fifteen

Once I decided to stop using this particular cough syrup, my acne cleared up and I found time for (several unintelligible sentences)... a terrible shock. I stopped going to public toilets at that point.

from Chapter Sixteen

When I discovered her real age, I was aghast! No, it couldn’t be that she was thirty-six! I thought she was sixteen, but then, I’d only ever seen her in the dark. She didn’t have a drivers license! She wore braces on her teeth! It was unfair, but what could I do? I returned her bowling shoes to her immediately. I also swore off blackberry brandy. Just when I thought the wounds had healed, there she was at my door with a pan of fried chicken! “Rhonda! What are you doing here? And with fried chicken!” I cried, as the tears rolled down my cheeks.

from Chapter Twenty-One

I woke near the hydrangea bush with my suitcase flung across my body. The last thing I remembered was the train carriage, and the intense halitosis of the woman opposite. I remembered getting off the train and walking the four miles to the Wilberforce-Packard estate, as nobody sent a car to gather me. Later that day, Esther asked me if I thought I had a drinking problem. I said no, and that I always make sure to pass out before I do anything stupid. She asked me if I remembered punching her horse in the face, or crapping on the settee like a common monkey. I said no, she must have me confused with somebody else. I could tell she didn’t believe me, so I decided to fix myself a sandwich.

They Shall Beat their Hand Socks into Plowshares

Just ate a Reese’s peanut butter cup. I must warn you, though: I’m thinking of buying some mittens. It’s only October and I’m already tired of wearing socks on my hands. Sooner or later, one must take responsibility for one’s hand coverings - or risk looking silly.



Franz Mehring: Marxist Wild Man and Bearded Choking Bore;
Never replaced his provisional hand socks with proper mittens. Looked silly.

Accept My Sincere Apologies OR ELSE

Great. I give Flavian the keys to the blog for one week, and what does he do? Nothing. This, after threatening to have himself shot if I didn't allow him to guest post. "I'll have myself shot if you don't let me post on your blog this week. I can do that. I know a guy. He'll shoot anything for $14," he told me. The phone connection was bad, so I'm not sure the $14 figure is correct.

Anyway, I was so busy asking forgiveness of God and my fellow man this week that I had no time to blog. This is what Tuesday morning looked like, for example:

6:00 am - Ate breakfast in the shower. Dressed, ran out door.

6:10 am - Drove to Pale Tom's house, woke him up, apologized for breaking into his car and stealing his stereo and travel mug last March. Since I was already there, I apologized to his cat for kicking over her water dish last July.

6:30 am - Drove to the laundromat and apologized to Mr. Flatley on behalf of the Wellington Throwing Club. Last spring we threw giant gobs of wet lint at Tony 'n Tina's Wedding participants. We never reimbursed Mr. Flatley for the lint. He accepted my apology and insisted on giving me two 30-gallon sacks of packed lint. Excellent.

7:00 am - Drove to Violet's house and threw pebbles at her window until she opened it. "I'M SORRY I TOLD EVERYONE THAT YOU WERE PREGNANT WITH A PRIEST BABY," I hollered up to her. It was very windy and a wet leaf schwucked against my face. "THAT'S OKAY, I GLUED IT BACK ON. GOOD AS NEW," she hollered back. Not sure she heard me properly.

7:15 - Sat in the car with my sacks of lint and dialed Flavian's number. I wanted to apologize for allowing him to write on my blog. I had the feeling he'd be overwhelmed. When he answered the phone I could hear an electric can opener and a woman howling profanity in the background. "Can't talk now, I just broke this lady's electric can opener," he shouted.

7:25 - Drove to John-Boy John Rickets house to apologize for repeatedly poking him in the belly with a stick while shrieking "Giggle again! Giggle again!" To be fair, everyone does this to John-Boy, as he is tremendously chubby and jolly. He wasn't home, so I left a note and a box of mini powdered donuts (minus the two I ate in the shower) on his stoop.

8:00 - Rafe phoned to tell me he found a baby in a basket at the front door. "I think it's a baby. I'm too frightened to look under the blankets. I have a massive headache. The basket's making sounds. Like crying sounds, but muffled, don't you know," he said. I told him to bring it to the kitchen to have one of the cooks look at it. Turns out it was just a tape recorder and a note that said, "YOU'RE HUNG OVER, AREN'T YOU, RAFE." Oh, how I roared.

9:00 - Stopped at the library to apologize for never returning books. When they tried to "pull up my records" to "see what kind of overdue fees we're looking at," I slapped the librarian's coffee from her hand and dashed out the door.

The entire week went on like this, see. Exhausting. I'm going to have a lie-down now.

Guest Post

Damnit damnit I was suposed to guest post this week while E was at off repenting. As you can see, I did not post much. Fortunately, E cant do me any bodily harm seeing as I am in Porta Prince an shes in the states. My ears are pluggged up, I think I have something. I cut my habd on a can opener last night. Somethings been biting me at night. I have these bites. I Stubed my toe too. and I found out that I have two passports now, one for me and one for some guy named Patrick Michael Feck from Teaneck NJ. How I got this guys passport I do not know. The only place hes been is Norway, the asshole. His secrets safe with me. these bites itch pretty bad

from flavian hoenbroekken

How Dare You Offer Me Advice!

Some dude wrote to me to say that I should post a photo on the days I don't post words. Pshaw. Maybe. Then someone else wrote to tell me that I should wear nicer shoes. Again, maybe. But I doubt it. Listen, who are you to tell me to wear nicer shoes? These shoes may look worn, but they used to belong to Rosemary Clooney.



"Don't let the Republicans get their hands on my shoes after I'm gone," she whispered. Then she died in my arms.

Signs

Sign #1: Today at 3:00 p.m., channel 45 aired the Brady Bunch episode where Myron the mouse gets picked up by his tail. You should never pick up a mouse by its tail - it's cruel. You should pick up a mouse they way you pick up a baby: that is, wrap the mouse in a blanket and quickly hand it to someone else. Sign #2: Today at 3:30 p.m., channel 45 aired the Brady Bunch episode where Peter gets a black eye and, in effort to ameliorate his shame and/or placate the evil spirits, Alice places a medium-rare steak on Peter's face. What's all this? That's not where steaks go! I can barely believe what the hired help gets away with on television these days. Plus, this morning there was a spider on my toothbrush and I saw a man walking a pterodactyl on a leash. Pack your bags, the end times are near.