Amblyopia

2002-08-21T04:22:00.000-05:00

You have all, I have minuscule doubt, encountered teletron commercials that bear striking similarities to the following:

Male Construction Worker # Beefy: Oh Satan's Steaming Shit! I am full of intense back pain that inferior pain relievers simply cannot attend.
Female Construction Worker # Bouncy: Here, you silly hunk of manmeat! Try these Superior-Brand, doctor approved pain-relief pills! They are guaranteed by the script to ensure you will pretend your spine isn't impacted by the end of our tv spot!
# Beefy: Wow Bouncy, these Superior-Brand's really work! I will be back to my ass-goosing macho self in no time!
# Bouncy: ::coy laughter:: Oh you!

And, then the commercial ends, but it is heavily implied that they engage in sexual relations, most likely right there at the construction venue. (insert joke about concrete getting hard...here) And it is also implied that you, too, should desire sexual relations with these poeple. But, only after taking their pain-relief product.

I am certain that I am not the only creature that feels somewhat cheated here. First and foremost, by the fact that i do not recieve oral pleasure whenever I open a bottle of Tylenol, and second and not-as-foremost by the fact that when i go to work I will not encounter any offer that could possibly lead to oral pleasure. The commercial is totally misleading. Am I supposed to equate back pain with flagrant consummation in public places? Should I grab "firm-booty" when my feet hurt? I am confused and, yes, a bit distressed, at the lack of direction I now feel by such advertising. I believe the time has come to fill commercials with nothing but talking stuffed animals with no discernible gender. This way, only the small portion of the population whom is attracted to unisex stuffed animals will encounter the mixed feelings that I now have about taking pain pills.

2002-06-24T03:58:00.000-05:00

After what was without doubt a far-too-long interim, I find I am once again able to properly operate a pencil, heavy machinery, and my keyboard well enough to provide an update to this travesty of a blog. The evening of the explosion (which has been hereby dubbed "Q-Bertragedy" by the media) the surviving remnants of the habitation-plex were gathered to have physical examinations - in part to judge the extent of their damages, and in part because the hospital workers are controlled by creatures from a different planet, which are harvesting dust-mites from our skin to use as a food source. Those deemed unworthy of medical attention (read: burned beyond the Great God of All-Fuck's repair, so no dust-mites could possibly have survived) were carted off in wheel-barrows (and in one particularily unpleasant case, a Gerber babyfood jar) to have their wills assessed. Somehow, a miscommunication occured, and whilst I was sleeping off the effects of my NIE (Near-Immolation-Experience) I was added to the "pile o' deaders" list. I had left what was written, in bold and excellently legible letters, a sign stating "Still alive". However, Les Z, coming up with a non-characteristic burst of motivation, decided to enlist in the "combat muscle atrophy campaign" and used that sheet of paper to draw little pictures of dancing lilac bushes. I awakened in the ambulance. I asked "where am I?" and a kindly old healer with 3 eyes informed me "Still you exist on your native-hole, Earthldalinger. Harvest is good yes no yes? Mites like the sky, in my food-ingestion unit!" It was then decided that i was in dire need of a histerectomy. As i had chosen to be a male that particular evening, I had serious concerns about that prognosis turning out in any manner positive. Fortunately, i have been in the presence of military badgers for a good long time now. Using the techniques I had learned through shrewd observation of my enemies, I burrowed a small hole in the bottom of the ambulatory vehicle when the aliens were putting on their rubber gloves. (i swiped some, in case i wanted to make balloon animals! Suckas!) It has since taken me that long to walk home. End of Line.

2002-05-22T16:47:00.000-05:00

Surgeon Colonel's warning: The material below may be detrimental to the health of younger viewers. And will *definitely* be detrimental to the health of older ones.

Yes Kiddies! its time for another....Unromantic Romance!

(You have been warned oh yes you have!)

Tonite's episode: Hot Sauce and Walnuts.

Delilah stood up off her knees, wiping her mouth, a beaming smile shining across at the man before her. He gave her a dazzling smile in return, and giggled a bit at the taboo activity that they had just completed. A sense of ecstasy floated over them both, as they swam in a sea of desire, longing to move on to the next step, to give in to the yearning they both felt. Slowly and gingerly the man reached down into her box. Delilah winked at him and then took his hand, guiding him inside, deeper, farther, letting the moist heat roll over each blessed finger. Suddenly he stopped, a look of horor creeping across his fair boyish features.

The Man (we shall call him Charlie): Its...its empty!

Delilah: empty already? That sure went faster then usual! Let me check!

She bent over and checked inside. Careful scrutiny showed that her box was, indeed, close to empty. All that remained was a gooey, cheeselike substance, a bit of hot sauce, and a half eaten breadstick hanging half in and half out. She quickly devoured it, hoping Charlie hadnt noticed it when he was peeking inside.

Delilah: we're just going to have to start in on the next box then.

Charlie: But i could get into alot more trouble for that. My boss is going to pound my ass if I am late, and ive spent so much time here munching already that i dont dare have any more!

Delilah: oh come, Darling! its so moist and tasty! I can't bear to not have any more! please, just one more bite!

Charlie furrowed his brow. It was a difficult choice for a pizza delivery boy to make. Coming to a decision, he licked his lips, pulled out another box from inside his insulated sack, and they eagerly dove in.

Delilah: MmMMmm. Thats sooo good!

Charlie: Tastes kinda fishy..

Delilah: Oh, thats just the anchovies. You can pull those out if you dont like them.

Charlie: Gingerly, Charlie yanked out all the offending sea-life, and finished munching.

Delilah: Thank you so much for that! I haven't had pizza this good in years.

Charlie: I am glad you enjoyed it. That will be $22.50

Delilah: Oh. I don't actually have any money. You just want to have sex instead?

Charlie: Sounds good!

And, so it was.

2002-05-20T03:00:00.000-05:00

Good Morning, Im Cherry Mcflopkins, and this is WAXY News.

Upcoming in our newscast, certain areas of of the Minneapolis/St. Paul metropolitan area need to stop drinking their tap water *immediately*. Stay tuned, to find out where, and why!

But first, our top story; Infamous celebrity Mel Bungenheuser has been acquited of all charges in his drunken driving case, because the prosecution could provide no evidence proving that the bottles of empty tequila had been full before Bungenheuser had entered his vehicle, nor provide any rebuttal that his breathalizer test had been tampered with. When interviewed about what he would do with his restored freedom, he was heard to comment "I'm going to DisneyLand to get shitfaced and play bumpercars!".

And now, to Maria, with the weather.

Its time to grab your umbrella, and strap on those goolashes, because its another stormy day out there folks! Tlaloc's wrath is going unchecked, and we can expect constant roadkill to occur as it rains toads and frogs throughout the state. Back to you Cherry!

Thanks Maria. And now its time for a new segment, called "Breakfast with Bertha".

Hi everybody! Call me Big Auntie Bertha! I'm here to offer you a quick way to make a morning snack for those go-getters who feel they don't have time in the morning for breakfast! Speed is the key, so let's get right to it! Here's a quick mix for some lemonade to beat the heat on your way to work, that only needs sugar, a lemon, a splash of O-J, and water right from your very own sink! And, after these important messages, Jorge will tell you about a local man whose started a tremendous cuisine craze through the quad-county area - fried badger on a stick! Stay tuned, this is WAXY news...

2002-05-16T15:28:00.000-05:00

Pillsbury Cinnamon rolls, right form the oven.

Kentucky Fried Chicken's Southern Rotiserie Gold.

Speed-E-Mart's rotating heat lamp dogs.

I am dangling over the flames, and I must admit, it is making me a mite peckish.

Whilst I never expected it to come to pass, I find a whisper of thanks escaping my (Brown and Serve) mouth, for the ethernet cable that was (slowly toasting in) installed without my consent through the center of (the oven.) my domicile. I managed to snatch a hold of (Nestle Quik) the cord (which burns) during my unexpected descent into Badgerton, and find the flames are licking at my poor tootsies like (in the microwave.) an anxious drunken cat. Q-bert (Rules,) has fled the building, (they should be followed) leaving a wake of burned badger hide for the morning (when making dinner!) news to rifle through for the amusement of the masses.

Niagra Falls.

The St. Croix River.

Buxom Bertha's Golden Showers part 3: the Reckoning

If fire makes me think of food, then water may entice me to pee. And we all have heard those brave stories of people putting out blazing infernos with their urine. But it seems thoughts of water just won't bring forth those precious life-saving fluids.

I see that the Cable is burning through. Which is good fortune as well as bad, because whilst I am going to die, at least its made me lose control over my bladder! Lamentably it seems the aforementioned tales of heroism were remarkably exaggerated. I close my eyes, preparing to fall, and feel myself...ascending. Apparently, falling to your death feels eerily like climbing to safety. I'd like to know which god thought THAT would be a funny irony, and beat it amidst the inner thighs and groin. End of Line.

2002-05-13T15:28:00.000-05:00

They came in the night, disguised as a pack of Q-berts. They bounded to the left and right, always at an angle, and wherever they stepped the ground lit up beneath them, illuminating their way. Who they truly were, I suspect I shall never know, but clearly, they were well-financed - My Q-bert costume cost a fortune, and does not have half the authenticity that theirs did, let alone that handy "light-up" feature. As they passed my domicile, One of them muttered into what appeared to be a wrist-watch "Coily is on the pyramid, we are go for launch, repeat.." and then he repeated it, and a thunderous explosion erupted from the downstairs. In mere moments I could smell the acrid odor of burning badger-skin and toasted ethernet cable. Looking through the hole in my floor, i could see flames dancing amidst a glorious scene of wreckage. As the heat beneath my feet indicated the clarion call of structural failure, an important revelation spawned within my psyche, an urge that I am certain any other technological enthusiast on this planet would share when death is at hand:

"I have GOT to get me one of those watches."

And then the beams sighed an audible "Why me?" and burnt through, and I was on my way to oblivion.

2002-05-09T19:40:00.000-05:00

Have you ever awakened in the morning to discover, despite your considerable best efforts to avoid such a n occurence, that a badger wearing a potted helmet with a spike welded on the top has laid category C cable through a freshly imploded hole in your cieling? (and, to be discovered when you attempt to put on your now-incinerated pink bunny slippers, the floor?)

This has happened to me. Twice now.

I hate nature.

2002-05-08T05:15:00.000-05:00

Due to overwhelming demand (read: to get Jimmy the Ferret to stop pestering me) here is the Unromantic Romance. The faint of heart, easily offended, or those who appreciate good capitalization skills should probably find a website about potted plants or wool-knit sweaters instead of continuing reading tonite's post.

Its time for another...Unromantic Romance! ( You have been warned yes you have!)

Beads of water ran down her silky-soft skin as the steam from the hot water misted around her. She was in the shower. And you know what that means. Yes. Thats right. She was...UNCLAD! She ran her hands up and down her...unclad... (teehee!) body. Finally locating her magical happy yum yum place, the place that has so much to do with when everyone is born, she inserted her fingers...in..and out..and in again. She groaned. It felt oh so good to finally have something inside there, taking care of the business that needed to get done. She took her fingers out, lathered them up with soap, and put them back in, rubbing in wide, thorough circles. Then she splashed water inside - that hot, steamy water I mentioned before. Finally, satisfied her belly button was clean, she turned her attention to masturbation.

She was having a fine time doing all those things that women do when masturbating, which, if watching porn has been an accurate guide, involves a wide variety of fresh garden produce, a pair of magic 8-balls, and a horse. Suddenly from out of nowhere, a black midget with a peg-leg appeared behind her. "eek!" she said. "you startled me! I have no idea who you are, but I find that strangely compelling and erotic!"

"damn right, bitch! You ready for some hot love-juice, ho-cakes?" said he.

"Well...I've never met you. And you are half as tall as me. But ok!" came her reply.

"aaaaaaah yeeeeah!" You know who said that.

The duo began to commence copulation. That, in romance novel terms, means "their passions, burning like unquenchable tire-fires, could no longer be contained." Quick to show she was a capable lover, she grabbed his Oscar Meier Wiener and thrust herself upon it, claiming "I shall be your hot-dog bun, you sexy stud!". The midget took a step back, his peg leg tumping on the shower floor loudly. He was caught off guard by her raging desire for his beef by-product, but was more then up to the challenge of taming such a spirited young foal. Up and down they grinded, his juicy frankfurter meshed inside her Tastums brand white bread, when he began to ponder the taming of spirited young foals more deeply.

"daaaaamn...i sure could use my horny-ass some'a that action!" he thought.

Quickly, he threw her aside like a package of moldy yeast products, and mounted up on the horse instead.

"Shit, bitch! Yo' sorry white-bread cootchy can't stand up to this tight-assed horse-ho!"

She looked appaled. "Don't you want me?" She cried. Then she discovered she'd landed on the magic 8 balls. They both came up saying "Decision cloudy...Ask again soon." She eagerly awaited to play with the balls again. Meanwhile, the horse whickered half-heartedly, poor attempts to convince the midget she was enjoying herself. But he was fooled nonetheless.

"Yo ho! I hear yo'! Scream fo' me, bitch! Say my name! Say my name!"

"I am afraid I do not know your name, sir" the horse replied.

All sound and movement in the room stopped, except for the dull pattering drips of the shower. Even the woman's magic balls had no wisdom to offer.

"What...?" said the horse again " You've never fucked a talking mare in the ass before? You'd be surprised how often it happens. But, please, do not stop! You're hung like a human! I just hope my boyfriend Eddie doesn't find out. He'll go bonkers!"

Suddenly, without warning, the shower door burst open. In strode Eddie, clearly the finest stud in all the showers of all the universe. His rippling muscles glistened in the water, showing nothing but power. His eyes were deep brown pools, so deep that they could drown an entire busload of children. The woman on the shower floor looked at him with obvious desire burning inside her. She shook her balls again quizzically. They replied "Try again later." She stood up, and left the shower with a baudy wink at Eddie. Then there were 3.

"This yo' ho, brotha?" said the midget

"Uh huh" replied Eddie

"yo brotha. I sorry. She's one damn fine bitch, daaaamn fine. Yo' mad?"

"Uh huh" replied Eddie

"I be afraid of yo' horse ass frontin' up on me, but...I find that strangely compellin' an' erotic, brotha"

"Me too" replied Eddie once more.

Not another word was said as Eddie the horse mounted up behind the peg-legged-midget that had been packing the fudge of his foal. Outside the shower doors, the clacking of plastic on plastic on flesh could be heard, alongside a voice whispering "C'mon honey. Tell me all signs point to yes!"

The balls came up with that answer every time.

2002-05-07T04:42:00.000-05:00

Whats that children? You demand the torrid piece of filth i mentioned in my last post? You should feel shame. Shaaame! Didn't your parents raise you to enjoy wholesome, nutritious Morali-T-snacks, The tasty teat* in the shape of a "T" that makes you goodly on the inside, and out? Made out of high-fiber granola substitutes, and a dash of unsweetened chocolate for flavour? It would certainly seem not, with all of the requests I have recieved (zero, but make-believe is a pass-time I've never grown out of) to put it on my page. Well, too bad, you deprived wackos! Get your fix of hot-steamy-pornographic-romance-stories-that-involve-horses-and-midgets at your local smutmonger, not here! I swear, this neighborhood is going straight down the Whisperflush.

*Originally a typo I meant to correct, "tasty teats" earned itself a place in my post when i tested it on the hilarimetric scale, and discovered 8 out of 10 people consistently laugh at the visualization implied with "tasty teats" (it inexplicably becomes 9 out 10 when i remind people to pronounce it "teets"). The other 1 out of 10 does not laugh, but instead stands disapproving, and acting altogether unamused, prudish, and quite superior in his/her "high-brow sophistication nodule". But I know they are laughing somewhere deep inside, at the horrible inappropriateness of it all, and i encourage them to succumb to the power of the gutter-side.

2002-05-05T13:00:00.000-05:00

I offer humble apologies to you, unidentified recipients of this post, for not having placed some writings on Standby for my absence. I left on a bit of a safari the other day and didnt have a chance to put up my "Unromantic Romance", a torrid little piece of filth that will likely amuse only those whose dimentia is so eccentric it is on par with the orbits of Uranus, Pluto, Neptune, and Vulcan (known to historians as "the one that got away"). Rest assured it shall be posted in its entire, horrid squalor during some other time in which posts appear to be null and void.

For those who determine that their life simply won't be complete without a whirlwind tour of an Earthling jungle and those that dwell within, I have compiled a short list of "Things wisely left undone whilst traversing an Earthling Jungle", or, for those who prefer a shorter title the "Well, Shit" List.

1. Do not choose Eskimo Pies, Klondike Bars, Ice Creme Sandwiches, or Frozen Suzi-Qs as "good after-dinner eatin'". Setting aside the fact that it would cost a tremendous amount of money to prepare a refrigerated palanquin to port these delicious iced-goods, it is also important to not forget our good friend "Lactose Intolerance". Offering a tasty Oreo Creme Pie may seem like a grand way to impress local natives at the get-go, but when it turns their stomach sour, no amount of haggling will save you from their terrible wrath.

2. Traveler's checks are not accepted at the local retail outfits. Purchase any shamanic totems you may require before beginning your trip, and should you choose to dabble in exotic fetishes, please use caution, especially when preparing circles of summoning.

3. The Jurassic Park theory "It can't see us if we don't move" would have earned Dr. Grant a life-time boarding pass to the spaceshuttle "Crippled Beyond Repair" when on safari.

4. Oatmeal, and quicksand, bear an uncanny resemblance. One of the other members of the trip made ths grusome mistake. His last words, spoken to his butler Nigel, still ring clear as a resounding note on the gong of despair in my heart: "Nigel, be a dear and hand me my spoon? Ah, there's a good lad" It is entirely possible that he had actually intended to say "Ah, there's a good ladel", but the world shall never know.

2002-05-01T15:17:00.000-05:00

A fortunate visit by the Pixie of malodor has brought about an unexpected turn of positive eventitude. It seems that this morning I awoke far too groggy to recognize that, for reasons I am still at a loss to explain, I had been given the blessing of terrible and distressing befoulment of the aromatic variety. Quoth the raven who sat upon my sill, "You stink!", before fluttering off in a cacophany of laughter and feathers. However since it is a little known fact (but I promise entirely accurate) that Edgar Allen Poe had actually written his masterful piece "The Raven" with the title character squawking "You stink" instead of "Nevermore" I was unfazed.* Totally unknowing of my terrible malady, not a single member of the household approached me today. Obtaining my daily dose of Spaghetti-os went totally without hassle. Jimmy the Ferret seems to have gathered up his belongings in the evening, and fled to a different domicile. I had begun to think it was actually the leprechaun of shiny pretty fortunes that had visited me, until enlightenment was unshrouded from my vision by a poor child crossing the street. He pointed and screamed "Mommy! That man smells like the dump!" Not too hurtful a comment, with the exception that this child was several blocks away, and was so horrified that I was able to actually feel the burning wrath of his pointing finger boring into my forehead (the burning wrath of children feels remarkably like a squirt-gun full of pee, I might add). I quickly came to recognize the situation, and began to remedy it with a warm shower, until realizing that my day had gone so smoothly that to shower would be without question foolhardy. Thus, I create this post in solemn and blissfully quiet respite, secure in the knowledge that my hallowed shield of pure, spirit-crushing sewersmell will protect me from interruption!. Cheers, and may a stankfairy bless you this night as you sleep!

*Several days before the original press of "the Raven" was run, Poe was dumped without warning by his girlfriend Lenore. In a futile effort to get her to return to his beaudoire, he altered the lines of his poem from "You Stink" and "Ms. Pink" to "Nevermore" and "Lenore". This attempt to impress her failed miserably, but witnesses say Poe's editor is said to have "Heaved yon sigh of such relief, he apppeared 10 pounds lessened".

2002-04-28T23:39:00.000-05:00

To the Landlord it may concern,

I am certain that in the course of tenant-landlord relations throughout history, many a combative gesture has been brought to bear between those who provide lease, and those who accept such provided lease. Whilst paling in comparison to their larger-scale brothers and sisters, this particular brand of confrontation has no small degree of danger, and is not always without lethality. Such is the case, and concern, of this tenant. Allow me to expound.

Many new tenants have joined our cozy little coven over this past week, all of which, to not put too fine a point on how I feel about them, make bile crust over on its way up my throat (which is bad, as I need my throat to assist in my day to day breathing exercises). Of these, however, I am writing about my grave concerns about the latest tenant, a fellow known to me as "Jimmy the Ferret". Altogether I suspect that he and i could become rather decent acquaintences, properly bowing our heads to avoid eye contact like any good acquaintences do in an empty hall. However that is not meant to be, as he has become the key instrument in one half of my already leased, signed, and quite legally contracted room being cordoned off to provide him with rental space! If you were to check your arrangements packet, I am quite certain you would discover, to as much chagrin as I myself have felt since Jimmy's arrival, that room 13 is only capable, in both legal and scientifically physical matters, to accomodate 2 tenants. As room 13 is already accomodating both myself, and a fellow whom the household calls "Les Z" (whom just sits quietly in the corner, drooling and occasionally rambling eccentricities of no import, day after day) the Ferret simply must be dismissed. Already there have been 2 encounters of strange men in lengthy overcoats asking "You got the goods, man?" when I answered their knock (I assured them no goods could be found here, and at best only a few mediocres on the second Tuesday of the month), not to mention the repeated visits of Cap'n MegAmerica, begging for me to look through the ferret's personal affects to see if he'd come into possession of prescription steroids. I must bring personal demand that you have "Jimmy the Ferret" removed from my domicile within the week, or I shall be forced to utilize "Mjolnik, Estranged Second Cousin Once Removed to the Hammer of Thor" to strike him down. As Mjolnik was born with some physical deformities not shared by his family (he is actually a pogostick, and needs to be plugged in to properly spark electricity) it would prove quite grisly to use on my recently acquired dope-swindling roomie. With that in mind, I am sure you will do the proper thing.

As sincerely as the supbeona you will avoid recieving by taking care of this promptly, Zugg Fizzle, Room 13

2002-04-25T22:54:00.000-05:00

There is a cancer growing in the basement, and its name is "The Intra-Net Gestapo". And it is not just that kind of cancer that one discovers through extensive, embaressing testing, and then has incinerated by repeated blasts of radioactive spray. It is also not akin to the cancer your doctor tells you about after your recent physical in a manner such as this: "Well, sorry old chap. You gave life a good go this time around! Here's a pamphlet about where we go when we die, and I'd advise against dawdling when it comes to reading that, eh?". This, oh anonymous readership, is the kind of cancer that you, upon waking in the morning with it mutating inside your spleen, or lung, or wherever cancers hold such revolutionary get-togethers, decide it is nothing more then heart-burn, or a head-ache, or uncontrollable bowel disgruntlement. And, upon your dying breath and the inevitable revelation something has horribly and irrevocably malfunctioned, your brain states in a voice similar to your mother's after forgetting to wash your hands for dinner: "Well, now i bet you wish you'd looked into that closer!"

Well, I hear you, brain-mumsy, and I obey.

Sporting my best "unobservant and inconspicuous" facial gesture, I casually slipped downstairs to calculate the purpose of the badger's recent renovations. I was hoping to achieve the effect that I was "merely looking for scrumptious and tasty canned products, from my local pantry! ::insert plastic smile:: No inter-household spying concerns here!", which I am happy to say I pulled off splendidly. I am, however, equally unhappy to say that the badger has a remarkably well-evolved sense of territorialism, much comparable to the "I see it, therefore it must by default be mine" attitude of ancient Roman Emperors and very small children. My destination quickly became a query of no small import to the Intra-Net Gestapo patrol leaders. Questions were asked me. What I felt were adequate responses were provided (which is to say, blatant lies) to no avail. Questions recieved a security upgrade, and became Interrogatives. Again, I provided to the best of my ability adequate responses (more lies), and again i was not availed. Interrogatives recieved official clearance to upgrade to Ultimatums, to which I offered several sensible counter-proposals (A hearty "Blow my trouser howitzer, Nazi-badger scum!" followed up by a hasty retreat) to which I recieved a less-then-favorable response. Apparently, in whatever country the Intra-Net Gestapo has invaded from, offering to have your trouser howitzer blown is not an insult, but instead an offer to bribe law-enforcement officials with mouth-based carnal pleasures. Suffice it to say, had I known, a far more mundane insult would have been chosen. I spent the remainder of the day clinging to a slowly spinning cieling fan, trying to convince some very persistent 4 legged suitors that I was indeed insulting them, and that my misguided call for felaccio was a serious misinterpretation on their parts, and that no, they cannot have my phone number. End of Line.

2002-04-24T22:54:00.000-05:00

List of things I seek to accomplish today, in not necessarily but likely probably specific order:

1: Purchase one bag of waffle fries, sized large, unseasoned.

2: Attempt to play "Parliament Funkadelic" compact disc in my audio cassette player.

3*: Shout obscenities at audio cassette player, until it finally tires of being blamed for what is obviously it's owner's mistake, and regails the owner with repeated plays of "Dr Funkenstein".

4: Ensure that my video gaming consoles are in proper working order, by making heavy and recurrent use of them.

5: Send oiled, heavily-muscled men in thongs to friend Dani's house, to serve her breakfast upon her awakening. This procedure perks her morning right up, providing me with someone cheerful to talk to.

6: Ensure the downfall of communism.

7: Cook one bag of waffle fries, sized large, unseasoned. Use spatula in one hand to flip fries, whilst using the other to wield a rusted pitchfork in brutal death-match combat with ravenous housemates.

8: Visit gramma's house.

9: Alter blog entry so it appears it was written at 10:45 A.M. instead of 10:45 P.M.

Looks like a full day. Mmmm...Waffle Fries.

*: In my place of employment, consumers frequently display rampant incompetence, and in attempt to provide a mask of control in their mundane lifestyles, blame the nearest competent-looking creature - the employees. Activites 2 and 3 are an attempt to see how much satisfaction can be derived for blaming others for my own mistakes whilst yelling so much they finally believe it themselves just to shut me up. Results to follow in a future post. End of Line.

2002-04-23T18:30:00.000-05:00

I paid a visit to the badgers today, in the hopes they could inform me where my comment scripts went. I expected to find a loosely arranged hovel filled with shiny trinkets and enough masticated wood to give a Yellowstone Park Ranger heart failure.

Oh, for the sweet days when badgers were simple forest folk.

Already, they have organized. The hole they chewed into the wall to gain entry into the household has been repaired, and reinforced with some form of alloyed metal that I doubt has any origins in the periodic table. Armed badgers, sporting tight- fitting leidorhosen and sunglasses, have set up perimeter patrols around the storage area of the basement, warding off those who naught but yesterday felt safe and secure in the knowledge that their canned goods would always be readily consumable.
They have cut off my supply of Spaghetti-os. I am displeased.

It appears they are led by a trio of goose-stepping woodchucks. You may recognize them from Time magazine - they are on this week's cover, disguised as Yoda. Do not be fooled. That's just a puppet, and the puppeteers are as pissed as all get-out.

When I requested they return control of the ISP to me so i could set up my comments page, they kindly informed me that my inferior human-made Spaghetti-o's had gone bad, and that I was going to be held personally responsible for any salmonella poisoning that occured.

Silly woodchucks - there isn't anything remotely resembling an egg in any spaghetti-os i buy. But, next time I buy some I'm going to make damn well sure there are. You just cant trust the local wild-life these days.

2002-04-22T15:07:00.000-05:00

It comes to my attention, looking at my completed first entry, that there is no way to send comments! I suspect the badgers had something to do with this oversight. I will have words with them and see what can be done. End of Line.

2002-04-22T14:26:00.000-05:00

At the suggestion of a friend, I am testing out this blog-creature. As I have specifically tailored my current life-style to be one of complacency (Somehow, despite the routine, I find it still has that irresistable "new-lifestyle smell") I don't particularily expect to amaze people with my insightful wisdom or empassioned ranting. Thus, I suggest any prospective advertisers be wary: Endorsing this product may prove ineffective. You may even lose market-share, and bring patent dismay to your financial conrtributors. Even the author is unlikely to acknowledge having written what is clearly labeled with the "Zugg Fizzle" name-tag; Several days ago angry woodchucks appeared on the doorstep of said writer's household, and, when recieving no answer from the bell, chose to burrow their way into the basement and claimed all rights to the internet access. The author, who spends the majority of time huddled on the upper level munching on a bowlful of baked Lays, is powerless to stop the incursion.

I am not a particular fan of Mulligan stew, but the idea of tossing the morsels of another's intellectual plate into my pot doesn't sound half-bad. Thus, I invite comment. Cursing, melodrama, and non-sense have room and board down the hall, and thus their appearance will come as no great surprise or offense to the author. In fact, they shall likely find their way into posts on regular occasion. However, 1337-speak was long ago evicted on issue of harrassing the other tenants, and is likely to be mercilessly "mocked" into submission with a verbal tire-iron if he returns. End of line.