It's kind of a lateral move

I seem to have traded my addiction to weed for an addiction to BBQ-flavored Fritos.

Created by a kindred spirit...

Check it out:

http://www.kylebaker.com/www/multi/content2/GhostChimp.htm

Ghost Chimp, M.D., where have you been all my life? I mean, you're up there with Sgt. Gorilla, from DC's old WWII comics, and Detective Chimp, and Lancelot Link, Secret Chimp, and Rex Mantooth, Kung Fu Gorilla, and Super-Gorilla Grodd...and Sky-Ape...and Monsieur Mallah...and the Mod Gorilla Boss...

I need to lie down...

It really does boggle the mind

Here’s another entry to my ever growing list of really, really bad marketing ideas: Wild Eye caffeinated schnapps.
Caffeinated schnapps.
Caffeinated… schnapps.
CAFFEINATED SCHNAPPS!
The mind reels.

Patton Oswalt, one of my favorite comedians, has said that alcohol ads usually tell the saddest short stories you can imagine. The billboard for Wild Eye I caught sight of in Denver is, sadly, proof that he was correct. It was on Colfax Ave., in a good spot that made it visible for nearly a quarter of a mile. “Denver, here’s your wake up call!”, it blared, and can you guess what picture accompanied it? A pretty girl, you say? In cut-offs, on a bar stool, holding the neck of the thick, cylindrical bottle in a death grip, down near her groinitological region? With a knowing, ‘Come on big boy, you know you want it’ look on her face?

How ever did you know?

“You ever have one of those mornings where you roll out of someone else’s bed and know from the volume of vomit on their floor that it’s gonna be a hard day? What with your boss, and the kids, and the wife bitching about how you didn’t come home last night, you know you can’t face the day sober, but you can’t afford to be found sleeping on your desk in a pool of spit again? Brother, we got the sweet nectar you need, and a little something extra. For those times you need to be stumblin’ drunk, yet awake, there’s Wild Eye caffeinated schnapps! It offers the best of both worlds, and lets you be inebriated AND jittery at the same time. What better combination could there be for rush hour traffic than the twitchiness of caffeine overload mixed with liquor’s gift for making your small motor skills truly minimal? Wild Eye caffeinated schnapps will give you the energy to punch out a cop, and the impaired judgment needed to think it’s a good idea! Wild Eye, you can’t make the police chase last for three hours without it!”

Good lord, where’s Carrie Nation when you need her?

I'm sure this would make money.

Are you an old freak? A senior citizen who's into water sports, coprophilia, S+M, B+D, A+P? Do the other old people at church not understand your love of latex? Are they confused by your references the works of de Sade and Sacher-Masoch? Look aghast at your vast number of lovingly collected 'toys' and antique porn?

Then come to KinkyWrinkle.com! Where you're never too old to get your freak on! The place to meet oldsters just like you! The kind who could teach these kids today something about the proper use of a bullwhip and correct orgy etiquette! The kind who says a hard slap is the same as a loving caress! The kind who really want to punch the midget! The kinds who like their sex just the way you do: deviant!

Velma G., 81, of Teluca Lake says: "I met a hot slab of manhood the first time I went on! The moment he saw my burlap teddy, he could barely control himself. He all but dragged me into the coatroom of the bingo hall, took off my panties, unrolled my labia, blew the dust off of my clitoris, and went to town. 'Course, I broke a hip, but it was worth it!"

Vern H., 78, of Hybiscus adds: "All kinds of sweet honeys have flocked to me since they found out I can't get them pregnant, and they call me 'the Sandblaster'. That's because, when I come, only sand comes out! And they love it, yes, they do..."

If you're a MILF, a FILF, an AILF, an UILF, a GMILF, or a GFILF, KinkyWrinkle.com is the place for you! So unlock your 'Secret Drawer', blow the dust off of your rubber Gimp suit and strap-on, get online, and get off! Go for the gusto! Find the weird turn-on you were always too shy to ask your long-dead partner for! C'mon, you're gonna die soon! Get the lead out, you white-haired sack of raging hormones!

Never a dull moment...

Life in a VA hospital can be boring, but there are moments that more than make up for it. We’re housed pretty close together, and there come occasions that a normally laid-back individual suddenly loses his cool over something. Might be a neighbor slamming his drawers too loudly, might be someone making noise early in the morning, or hogging the TV, or just the result of whatever oddness landed that person in the VA in the first place. It’s these outbursts that give this place its spice.

I’m employed in a therapy job in the recreation center of the VA I’m currently living in. It’s a cool job, with decent co-workers and patrons. Mostly, it involves assigning people to computers and helping them find whatever they need online, with a lot of web-surfing in between. Not a place where a lot of drama occurs, usually.

But yesterday was a little different, apparently. I was the only person working at the time, and had to use the bathroom. I closed the door, and put up the ‘Back in 15 minutes’ sign, but I neglected at lock the door. And while I was…occupied, someone’s craziness came out.

Reports are inconclusive, but someone, for some reason, apparently locked themselves into the computer room and began gallivanting about shirtless. The mystery person might have been sans shirt, but did possess guts to spare, as the recreation area had a number of people in it and they couldn’t have known when I’d return. The internet here is closely controlled by a VA security program that is quite good at keeping pornography inaccessible, and everyone who frequents the computer room knows this, so we’re all a little confused as to why the doffing of clothing was necessary. No odd stains were found, nothing seems to have been stolen, and the person got away clean.

Maybe it was just one of those times when a person needs to be alone, shirtless, in a computer room. I doubt we’ll ever know.

I should stop eating oysters before bedtime

You know what I hate?

When you get hungry late at night, so you drive over to McDonalds, but when you walk in, you realize it's not a McDonalds, it's a crackhouse, so you figure 'What the hell, I'll buy some crack', but the dude selling it wants to haggle over the price, which takes, like, twenty minutes to set, and then he insists that he wants to be paid in Dutch Guilders or some damn thing, but then the cops raid the place, and you manage to make it out the back door and down the waterslide; then, as you're running down the street from the ruckus, you notice you forgot your pants, and while you're looking around with something to cover yourself with, so you won't shock the ladies when you get to your mother's tea party, Henry Kissinger and Mickey Mouse jump out of the bushes, and Kissinger's wearing a Bozo costume, and Mickey has a double-barreled over-and-under shotgun, and shoots you right in the goddamn face with a couple loads of double-aught buckshot.

That's what I hate.

I like Mashed Potatoes

It's like vanilla ice cream.

But made out of potatoes.

And with gravy.

Nothing wrong with that.

Brothers know the coolest tricks

I'd been visiting my brothers, Mark and Jeff, in Atlanta. As always I'd had a great time, probably more fun than the bro's did, given that I was 11 or 12, and they were 10 or 15 years older. It was kinda like hanging out with cool uncles. They didn't mind me staying up late watching TV, fed me a lot of junk food and took me to movies, did all of the cool stuff the parents wouldn't allow.

Our time, as with all good things, came to an end, and the three of us were driving down to the airport to catch my flight home. We were in Mark's boat of an Olds, which was appropriate, as it was pouring rain, the thick stuff that cuts visibility down quite a bit. The car dipped down under a bridge that had standing water, and, all of the sudden, the feel of the ride... changed.

It was like the car was floating, a sensation I enjoyed immensely, and the front of the car began wandering off to the right. Now, Mark claims that the car made several revolutions, but I only recall one. What we agree on is that the car did spin some number of times, and at a moment that the hood happened to be pointing in the correct direction, the tires got traction and we sped on our merry way.

Again, I was 11 or 12 years old, so I just assumed that what had just occurred was some kind of cool rain-driving trick that Mark broke out every once in a while. Y'know, something he was doing to send me off with some last minute fun. I suppose that when Mark looked back at me and said, 'Let's not mention this to Mom', I should have gotten an inkling that something unplanned had occurred, but I thought it was one of those brother things, like getting your first hit of weed, that was between us and didn't need to come to the parents attention.

It was about five years before I figured out how close to death we'd all come. I learned the term 'hydroplaning' and found out that a good number of people die when things like that happen. A great big 'Hmmmmmmm', indeed. I mentioned the incident to Mark, and he said he had been pretty scared through the whole thing. I'm actually glad I didn't know how scared I should have been, 'cause it seemed like an amusement park ride to me. Good times.

I did end up telling my mother about the hydroplaning when I was in my twenties. And, predictably, she threw what can best be described as a 'tizzy'. Given that it had been more than a decade, and my mother had spoken to all three of us multiple times in the intervening years, I didn't think freaking out was warranted, but, hey, she's a mom. It's what they do.

You should learn something new every day!

So, military school was not a lot of fun, but I did learn a couple of things there. For instance, if you get into a fight with an upperclassman, all you really have to do to win is not get your ass kicked. If the upperclassman doesn't beat you like a red-headed stepchild, he automatically looks like a pussy. There are times that living in a place with the general mentality of a pack of monkeys can be turned to your advantage.

During the Annual Federal Inspection that took place at the end of my last year their, I learned a new word.

I, and the guys in my section, had been waiting for most of the day for the inspectors to get to us, sitting around in full-dress uniform trying not to get wrinkled. We were one of the last sections inspected, but we finally got called to stand at attention outside the doors of our rooms, and the inspectors, who must have been pretty bored themselves, were making pretty quick work of us.

The Colonel who was leading the inspectors got to my room, and my roommate and I followed him in and stood at attention by our lockers. The Colonel glanced around our room, as exactly like the hundred other rooms at the school as we could make it, in a cursory fashion, looked briefly in our lockers, and was set to roll out when something caught his eye. His brow furrowed a little as he looked closer at the gap between my locker and a wall.

"Is that your nickel there?” the Colonel asked me.

"No, sir!" I continued without thinking, "You can have it if you want it!"

The Colonel looked at me closer, his eyes showing surprise. Behind him, I could see Colonel Horton, the head of the school, close his eyes and sigh silently.

"Son," The inspecting Colonel said, not unkindly, "Try not to be facetious, all right?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Do you know what 'don't be facetious' means?"

"No, sir!"

"It means don't be a wiseass."

"Yes, sir! I'll remember, sir!"

"Carry on." And the Colonel led everyone back out of the room.

See what I mean? Everyday, new things come up.

Baby steps to gettin' healthy

I used to eat 2, sometimes 3, sticks of butter every day.

Then the last doctor I talked to told me it was bad for me. I think 'You're gonna die in a couple of weeks' were his actual words.

So I cut out the butter.

Now I'm satisfied with just a tub of 'I can't believe it's not butter' every couple of days.

And, y'know, I really do have trouble believing it.

My chest hurts...

And it was going so well...

Ever suddenly discovered that something you thought was completely wrong, and found out that you were an asshole? I did.

I never ask women out. Look in most dictionary's and you'll see my picture next to the entry for 'gutless bastard'. I don't know why, but when I think of putting myself out there, I immediately find myself right back in ninth grade. I gain weight, I feel pimples cover my face, and my voice takes on this tone that makes the Squeaky-Voiced Teen from the Simpson's sound like Robert Mitchum. It's sad. Very sad. And emasculating.

But this one time, I did it. At work no less.

I was behind the counter, at a copy shop on a beautiful Wednesday, and she came in, looking to fax something. A little chatting, a couple of corny jokes, commiserating over the fact that her fax wouldn't go through, all in all a nice couple of minutes. She said her name was V (Thomas Pynchon stole that from me), and she was new in town. So on impulse, I mentioned that one night every week during the summer, there was a free movie in a park downtown. I went almost every week, and maybe she'd be interested in coming along...? And V said yes.

On the appointed day, I met V at the shop, and we caught the train uptown. We got there early to stake out a spot, grabbed some food from a local shop, and hung out, chatting, until it was dark enough for the movie to start. Good times. The conversation was smooth without any of the uncomfortable pauses that are the usual hallmarks of my dates, and our senses of humor seemed to mesh pretty well.

Right before the movie started, V said she was going to run to the public restroom so she wouldn't miss any of the show, and headed out into the gathering twilight.

She never came back.

The previews rolled, and then the movie itself began. Stalag 17, as I recall. Not my idea of a date movie, but it was free, I was poor, and sometimes you just don't get to choose. I sat there, people packed in on every side, growing more and more incensed as the time ticked by. Jesus, she must have secretly hated me! She'd even abandoned a lighter and half a pack of smokes. Just broke and ran. Well, fine, I fumed, fuck 'er. Bitch.

Anybody see where this is going?

I sat through the entire film. Didn't get any joy out of seeing Peter Graves get killed, needless to say. But screw it, I was going to see this film all the way through to the last credit.

After it was over, I headed out into the night. On impulse, I hit a payphone and checked my messages. If you think there was a message from V, you are incorrect.

There were two messages from her. The first explained that V hadn't kept track of where we were sitting, and couldn't find her way back. The second was left about twenty minutes later, and, in a disappointed tone of voice, V said that she kept getting yelled at to sit down, and was heading home. Guess she hadn't abandoned her cigarettes, after all.

I did call her then, but I don't seem to recall being very contrite, or apologizing at all, even. V was less than enthused, herself. And we never spoke again.

This all happened about five years ago. I swear to god, it didn't occur to me until about a month ago, I mean really hit me, that I should have gone looking for her. It never even crossed my mind, not once. Nor did being actively sorry, or explaining my thought process to her, maybe turning it into something we could laugh over. Not for five years.

My friends tell me I'm smart, but I know better. I look back on how I screwed up then, and how it took five years to figure out what I should have done, and I know the truth: I'm the King o' the Maroons.

One of those times

I tend to do pretty stupid things when I get angry. That's one of the main reasons I work hard to contain my anger. When I was just starting school, I was forever getting into trouble for bouncing blocks off of other children's heads, and suchlike.

This particular incident happened while I was in military school. My parent's enrolled me there about halfway through my freshman year of high school, after a run of failed classes. If you're interested in seeing what my school looked like, rent 'The Omen II'. I found it perversely appropriate that a film about the Anti-Christ was filmed at my school. To anyone considering military school for their child, I recommend taking a good long look at the monkey house of your local zoo. That's pretty much what your baby will experience, but with more weapons and less with the flinging of the feces. Mostly.

Anyway, it was near the end of my second year, and it had been a long one. The school was getting ready for the annual federal inspection, during which actual military fellows walked through the school for a few hours. I suppose they wanted to make sure no students were being beaten, or kept in cages and suchlike. The inspection, which occurred every year, involved a frenzy of cleaning, and added even more pressure to an atmosphere already tense with the need to get this shit over with, already, and get the hell out of school for the year.

My freakout came on a weeknight, a day or two before the inspectors arrived. I don't really remember what the catalyst was, but something, a fellow student tearing apart my carefully ordered locker, another stupid assignment by a section leader who hadn't gotten off his ass all day, a recalcitrant bed sheet, set me off, bigtime.

I'm a lover, not a fighter, and don't like getting hit, so instead of beating the crap out of whoever was responsible, my rage-maddened eye fell onto my bunk. It was a warm night in late spring, and my window was open, and how to dissipate my rage suddenly crystallized. The bunk had to go.

And go it did. I grabbed the mattress, knocked my startled roommate out of the way with it, and stuffed that son-of-a-bitch out the window, letting it fall the story down to the ground.

By the time I had the metal bunk frame about halfway out the window, my roomie's half frightened, half amused yelps had drawn a crowd. As I recall, most of them seemed rather amused, and some were cheering. When the raised window dropped down unexpectedly, one of them rushed past me and held it up, so that I could continue ejecting the frame unimpeded. By this time, I was a little winded, but the frame only needed a little work to send it dropping out of sight. I assume it made some noise when it landed, but everyone was yelling too loudly for me to hear.

My company commander came in. He looked at the open window, at the other babbling students, at the space where a bunk should have been, and then at my red, sweaty face.

"You threw your bed out the window?", he said, not even sounding surprised. I nodded.

"You freaking out?" As he said this, I saw him calculating how crazy this might get if I was truly going nuts. He could have taken me, no doubt, but nobody would have come out unhurt.

"Not any more.", I said, chest still heaving.

"Go get your bed. And don't do that again. Really."

So I went outside and carried the mattress and frame inside and back to my room.

I did feel a lot better.

Idea, and a bit more

So, I decided to try a new commercial venture. I'm going to market my own scent, for men and women.

It'll be made from a base of unrefined crude oil and choice, finely minced hobo, and each bottle will have just a splash of holy water, to make it Jesus-tastic. Christ-rific. Whatever.

It will be named, 'Stanque, by Carter'.

On a related note, I shared this particular idea, which is the beginning of a comedy bit, with my friend Sarah. She was quiet for a second, and then said, "The holy water... doesn't make sense."

My brain kinda locked up over that. The crude oil and diced homeless were perfectly fine, reasonable as can be, but the wheels came off with the holy water?

Confusion, thy name is Sarah.

Come with me on a little journey...

I'd like you to take just a second, and contemplate God. Doesn't matter which one, just pick one you like.

Now, take a second to contemplate the mystery of our existence, and the majesty of the universe in which we find ourselves. Try to capture the scope of it, from the smallest particles through the vast spaces that comprised most of the reality we call home. Include the wonder that is you, and the people you love, the ones you don't like, stretch back to consider all members of the family of man, and those that will follow us. Add in the uncountable number of other creatures that share our home, the variety of the plant and animal life, the beauty of the natural processes that make it possible, from the shift of tectonic plates to the growth of crystals. Consider time itself, stretching billions of years both in front and behind us. Contrast our smallness and beauty. Savor it for a moment. Really try to picture it all, the whole of existence in it's nearly infinite variety.

Now turn your mind back towards the concept of a creator. Picture the being capable of beginning, and, if you have certain beliefs, guiding to this very day everything that we know is, was, and shall be. A being (Male, Female, Black Lady with a Marmoset, what have you) of power and insight that we can hardly dream of. All-knowing, all-loving, all powerful, and everywhere. Omniscient, omnibenevolent, omnipotent, omnipresent. Imagine this being looking down upon their creation, picking out the spot that is our galaxy, the mote that is our solar system, the speck that is our lovely little planet.

Now picture that being becoming angry, saying "Fucking fags!"

Does that make sense to you?

Sigh...

So, I got new shoes for Christmas. Two pairs. Now I have an alternative to my squeaky boots.

But the new shoes, they squeak as well.

I think I need to come to grips with the fact that I may have squeaky feet.

The Virgin Mary, She weeps.

Just freakin' weird, that's all I'm saying

So I was watching TV over the weekend, and on The Soup I saw a clip where a dude claimed that even though he'd been having lots of sex with another dude, he wasn't gay. The dude in question justified his non-gayness with this line:

"When me and Whitney found out we weren't brother and sister, we had sex all the time."

What I love about that line is that only on daytime TV would that not be a show stopper, y'know? I mean, in any situation you can imagine, you'd need the person in question to back the hell up and give a lengthy explanation about that particular statement. Also, if you aren't familiar with the particular show this line came from, you really can't say for sure which show it was. This line could have been spoken on just about any daytime show for the past fifteen years, at anytime between about 9:30am and 3:30pm. Could have been Geraldo, or Dr. Phil, or Jerry Springer; Could have come from any soap opera ever made, might have come from The View, even, or the midday news.

The line did in fact come from a soap opera, Passions. Passions, for those who don't know, specializes in story lines that are straight up bat-shit crazy, even by the admittedly lax standards of detergent dramas.

Man, I love this country.

A little quick on the draw

So, I was talking to Hasty, a couple of days after I'd accidentally fired a 9mm round through the ceiling of the apartment in which I was staying.

"Yeah," Hasty drawled, "You mess around with guns long enough, somethin' like that's gonna happen."

"Really?" I said, sounding a bit testier than I should have. Hasty was trying to make me feel better, after all. "Something like this ever happen to you?"

"Yeah, but when I did it, it was with a shotgun. Blew a pretty big hole in the roof."

That shut my ass up.

Nerdcore, bitches!

I'm gonna be a Nerdcore rappper (The extra 'p' is for pimpin'). The great thing about making a statement like, 'I'm gonna be a Nerdcore rappper', is that it's such a freaking dorky thing to say, and therefore plays right into the whole idea. I just love that.

Anyway, self-amusement aside, I've been getting into MC Frontalot and a couple of other Nerdcore dudes. Frontalot kills me. He's got a song and video out called 'It is pitch black', which can be found on Youtube. The chorus starts with 'You are likely to be eaten by a grue', and if you don't get that reference, the song is gonna confuse the hell out of you. Nevertheless, I urge you, all three people who might read this missive, to do a little listening, as the guy actually has skill even if you don't follow the subject matter. I got no idea what the hell Busta Rhymes is talking about, but he sounds great. Same with Frontalot. MC Chris and MC Hawking have some good stuff, too.

So me and my buddy Blake are gonna pursue this, in addition to the amazingly original and funny comedy we're gonna do as Bad Puppets. Look out for dweeb rhymes from Oculus And Dactylos (I'm Dactylos, just so you know). We're gonna be kicking out fat beats behind songs about Nicola Tesla, Charles Fort, and the Emperor Norton.

Y'all better reconize!

Bored? Well, a little...

So... what would Amish porn be like?

A wood carving of a woman without a coal-scuttle bonnet? A man and a woman holding hands?

Send in your idea's!

These boots are killin' me...

I like these boots. Big black Army combats, steel-toed. They make me about an inch taller. I've been wearing them for more than a month now, so they're broken in and not giving me blisters anymore. The only boots I have left that were issued to me by the Army. The only footwear I possess right now, actually. They're insulated for winter wear, too. They are great boots. But...

They will not shut up!

Every other step, the right one squeaks. No matter how I plant my foot, they issue a loud half-farting sound. And they fuck with me. Sometimes the left boot joins in. Sometimes the right one stops, just long enough for me to think, 'Hey, maybe they finally...', SQUEAK! Damn you, boots! Every time I walk into the local college library to check my e-mail, the squeak cranks up the volume so that people with headphones are looking around, trying to see who's cutting the cheese with such metronome-like regularity. Cute college chicks give me The Look. It's all I can do sometimes to keep myself from looking down and screaming, 'SHUT UP, DAMN YOU! SHUT! UP!'

I'm telling you, these boots are lucky I don't have any choice about wearing them.