The Blog of Stupid

The Bachelor Party

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 19 Sep 2019 17:19:00 +0000

"I'm leaving now!"

I peered around the edge of the door frame, listening intently for the inevitable cry of dismay from Spouse. Yet, minutes passed without a sound emanating from the inner sanctum of my humble abode.

"I said, 'I'm leaving now'!"

No response. Silly Spouse. She must be listening to her heavy metal country ragtime tunes again. I entered the house and crept down the hallway, pausing outside of the bedroom door to chortle at the hilarious and clever trick I was about to play.

Demonstrating lightning speed and cat-like reflexes, I bounded into the room.

"Rawr!" I said.

Spouse looked up, her abject terror obvious from the way she slowly turned a page in the book she was reading.

"Rawr yourself," she said.

"Didn't you hear me earlier? I said that I was leaving."

"I heard you," she replied, turning another page. I was impressed at how well she was concealing her utter despair at my impending absence.

"Okay. Well ... I guess I'll see you later."

"Mmhmm."

I backed slowly out of the room as Spouse turned another page. I knew her calm demeanor was but an act--there was no way anyone could read that fast.

As I backed out of the driveway, pausing only long enough to honk at a careless child who thoughtlessly ran behind the car, I shed a tear as I thought about the bravery Spouse had demonstrated. Such a strong creature, she was.

I pulled onto the main road, having stopped once to complete my ritual of standing in the middle of the road and striking it smartly with a stick. Having successfully hit the road, I gunned the engine and merged onto the interstate, feeling self-satisfied with my plan to travel between states.

I pulled out my cellphone and dialed FooDaddy's number. It was entirely illegal to talk on one's phone while driving, but I was feeling quite the rebel. My spirits were high and once my spirits became high, not even law enforcement could dull the euphoria.

"What."

"Helloooooo!" I said, in answer to FooDaddy's enthusiastic greeting. "I simply wished to inform you that I have begun my pilgrimage to yon state of mittens!"

"Who is this."

"It is I! Baron von Swiningberg, Count of Bacon and prince of all hams!"

"Ah."

"I am coming to ensure you have a swiney time at your bachelor party!"

"Oh. Is that tonight?"

I feigned a hearty laugh, although I didn't find FooDaddy's quip all that amusing. "Indeed it is, my good fellow. I shall be there within the day."

"This day?"

"Quite!"

There was a pause, and I thought I heard FooDaddy speak to someone. It sounded something like, "That fat spine is combing over hair."

"Enough with your nonsense talk," I chortled. "See you in two shakes of a pig's poothole!"

I hung up before FooDaddy could respond, in order to save him the embarrassment of being unable to top my clever remark. That's just the kind of friend I strive to be: thoughtful.

* * *

I pulled up in front of FooDaddy's house and masterfully parked my car on top of his prize-winning flower beds. He would no doubt pretend to be outraged, and I would act sorrowful and penitent. It was a little routine we performed every time I visited. Personally, I had grown weary of the charade, but I knew FooDaddy enjoyed it, and I didn't want to let him down.

I skipped merrily up to the front door and rang the doorbell by thrusting at it with my hips.

"Howdy howdy heydy hey!" I shrieked. "Open zees door or I shall be forzed to open eet wiz my peeniz!" I rubbed my hands together in glee; I'd been saving that line all trip long.

No answer. Strange! My accent must have been so convincing that they couldn't tell it was me. I began circling the house, banging on all the windows. It was entirely possible that they were engaged in some sort of activity that rendered their hearing completely ineffective.

After three hours of this orbiting, I began to consider giving up, but I knew how much FooDaddy and Fiancée were looking forward to my visit, and I just couldn't let them down. Besides, I wanted to wash this glee off my hands.

"Just two more hours," I gasped, beginning to feel a touch winded.

A mere thirty seconds before the time expired, the front door opened and FooDaddy stood there, a disgruntled expression concealing his delight at seeing me standing on his porch.

"It's you," he said.

"Good thing you answered the door," I said. "I was about to leave."

FooDaddy sagged against the side of the door frame for support. He was probably feeling faint from hunger, as I knew he probably hadn't been able to eat all day due to anticipating my arrival.

"So if we'd just waited a little longer--?"

"That's right! You would have missed out on my visit! Close call, huh? It was either leave or use my car and a chain to yank off the side of your house to make sure you were all right in there. But it's good you answered. I know how much you hate it when I exert myself. Speaking of which," I said, wiping away the sweat pouring into my eyes, "did you know your house is way bigger on the outside than on the inside? I've been running for hours but kept passing this same door!"

"Oh, I ... what? I mean, how ... dedicated of you." FooDaddy sighed and then stood up from the doorframe, straightening his shoulders with a massive sigh as if shouldering the weight of the world. "Well, I suppose you might as well come in."

"I should say so," I said. "It should be about time for everyone to arrive for the bachelor party."

FooDaddy checked the time on his FooPhone. "Yeah, in a little. You look exhausted, though. Probably plenty of time for a nap first."

I grinned broadly. That was the FooDaddy I knew. Always thinking of his friends.

"You really think I have time? I do feel a little tired."

"Of course! Why don't you just take a rest in the guest room?"

"Well, okay. If you're sure."

"Oh, I'm sure."

I went into the guest room and lay down on the bed, feeling my tortured muscles begin to relax. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought I heard the click of the door lock. I smiled. It was nice of FooDaddy and Fiancée to make sure I wouldn't be disturbed.

I drifted off to sleep, dreaming of the good times we'd all have when I awoke. After all, the party couldn't possibly begin without me, could it?

"Wreeeee," I murmured. "Wreeeezzzzzzzzzz ... "

Granola Prose XX

noreply@blogger.com (Paul FooDaddy Brand) — Thu, 29 May 2014 04:00:00 +0000

The Writer looked around. It had been so long since he had last visited his epic that everything was different. This couch. This laptop. This operating system. Even his browser looked different, as did his body. Both had acquired new rounded outlines.

"Oh, it's just so sad, the passing of time!" he howled fatly.

"And why is that?" asked his wife, poking her head around the corner. "You know what happens when time passes? Wounds heal, things are learned, lives are changed and the world becomes a better place. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, but humanity is and has been on an upward trend since pretty much forever."

"Poppycock," the Writer said. He liked that word. The Wife had a point, but he wanted to use poppycock so he did, because this was a free country.

"The very notion of a 'free country' isn't that old, but can you imagine the outcry if someone tried to get rid of it tomorrow? You can type horrible things--barely literate things!--and shove them into the faces of an unsuspecting public, and you'll barely even get executed."

"Okay, okay. I admit to your point-having. Now poke your head back around that corner. I have epics to unfurl."

Stubs had never heard of a timequake before. He knew enough to know that he didn't know everything, and so he knew that simply living would continually present him with things whose existence he had never even surmised. Just because he didn't know what to call something didn't mean it didn't exist or that it wasn't really, really terrible.

He was glad to know that this sensation he was now experiencing had a name, so that he could avoid it in the future. Timequakes, he mused as the fragments of his consciousness were squeezed through the void between reality's nucleus and its electron shell, felt like your whole existence was a throat that needed clearing, and you weren't allowed to go ahem.

"Ahem," said a voice.

"Lucky bastard!" cried Stubs. "If I ever get my body and my hammer back, I'll give you such a hamming!"

"That wouldn't be a very good way to treat your accomplice. Especially not after all the odors you've subjected me to."

Stubs opened his eyes. He was in a swamp. Sitting in it, in fact. A small cloud of steam was wafting away from him and dissipated as he watched. His whole lower body felt hot.

"Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no." He lurched to his feet, and fell back again into the turbid water. His legs didn't work yet. He slapped around in the water, trying to locate his hammer.

"It's okay. Calm down," said Becky. "Here's your hammer. It arrived a couple minutes before you did. Come here, you've got to see this. It'll cheer you up, I think." She hooked her arms under Stubs' and hauled him up. "Hey, Tony! Stubs made it! Wanna see if he's got any bread?"

There was an angry fluttering of wings and a duck exploded from a nearby bush. "If he doesn't, I'll kill him and I don't even know why!" it shrieked in Tony's voice. "I can't help myself!" The duck hit the water with a plop in an ungainly tangle of feathers and goofy orange feet. "Arrrrgh! This shitty little body!" it shrieked again.

"Heh," said Becky.

"Ahem," said Stubs.

"Wonk," said Tony's original body.

Granola Prose XIX

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 29 May 2014 00:23:00 +0000

The interaction with Gulliver had been so strange and fart-worthy Stubs had not noticed the tremors that had begun shaking the ground until they were so violent as to cause the television to jerk across the cave floor, its base making horrid little screeching sounds as it went.

“We hasn’t the patience for a timequake. Does we, Samuel?” Gulliver bent his head toward his breast pocket and waited for a moment. Then he looked at Stubs. “We hasn’t.”

Stubs was finding it difficult to maintain his balance as the cave floor began to pitch and buck. “What’s a timequake!” He had to yell the question, as the shaking was now accompanied by a roar that increased in volume with each passing moment.

Gulliver responded by slapping forward to save his endangered television. “Must take television with us!”

“For the love of mead!” Stubs yelped, as rocks began falling from the cave roof. “What is happening?”

The tremors caused the perfectly-sized boulder to pop out of the hole and Stubs heard Tony and Edward chortle and wonk respectively.

“Gotcha this time, you shitty dwarf!” Tony’s face appeared at the hole. It was menacing and gross. He squeezed through the opening and dropped to the floor with a good deal more aplomb than Stubs had managed. Edward sashayed through as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Would someone please tell me what is happening! I’m about to lose my patience and hammer someone!” Stubs felt himself losing all sense of dignity.

“We called in a little favor from a nasty wizard friend of mine,” Tony said. “He happens to be an expert in timequakes.”

The cave was shaking so badly Stubs could barely hear anything the antagonist was saying. Even Edward’s piercing wonks were muffled by the roar.

Just then a giant boulder detached from the cave roof and fell toward Gulliver, who was still attempting to steady his television. He was howling with fury at the interruption. “We must knows what happens to Don Draper!” Locked in the battle of his life, Gulliver failed to notice as Edward the Cookie fell out of his pocket and landed on the floor in a little cloud of lint.

“Gulliver!” Stubs waved his arms, trying to warn the weird little dude of his impending doom.

The boulder hurtled downward and Stubs braced himself for impact. It promised to be squishy and awful. Instead, Gulliver melted before the impact, as if the boulder were eating instead of crushing him. A rain of fragments showered the cave room, several of which struck Stubs on the legs and arms. The dwarf stared at the points of impact. The bits of rock had passed directly through his clothing and flesh, gone straight through, leaving pinpricks of emptiness behind them. As he stood there, frozen with disbelief, another piece of the roof fell. He looked up just as it dropped onto his right shoulder, which promptly disappeared without a trace.

Stubs looked at Tony, fear gripping his throat. “By all the beards in Whimsidor, what’s happening?”

“Your dwarf, doom! I mean, your doom, dwarf!” Tony said, barely able to speak between his snorting laughter. “The timequake will be your undoing!”

“And yours too, it appears,” Stubs said, watching a chunk of rock eat away Tony’s left foot.

“Ah, but that is the plan.” Tony grinned evilly and picked up Samuel. He blew off a bit of lint and then popped the cookie into his mouth. “The timequake spell dismantles everything in its target area down to its molecular level, transports it to another time and place, and then reassembles it! The beauty of the spell is that the person responsible for the spell always reassembles first. Aaaaaand, that would be meeeeeee!” Tony sang this last in a jolly tone quite unsuited to him. “That means when you finally reappear, I’ll be there waiting for you! You’ve led me on quite a chase, over hills and dales, through swamps and forests, past insane rulers sitting on thrones made of compressed clown wigs, and off the sides of cliffs. But now I will have my rev--”

Just then the entire cave roof collapsed in a deafening rumble of rock and dust and magic.

The Adventures of Stupid Bachelor Man (a Story Shot®)

noreply@blogger.com (Paul FooDaddy Brand) — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 17:07:00 +0000

Stupid Bachelor Man shuffled into his kitchen wearing a pair of fetching boxer shorts and a smile. It was time to have some cereal! He stuck his fuzzy face into the fridge so that he might inspect its contents.

"Oo, new jug of milk!" he concluded. He lifted the jug out using only one hand. He sure was strong!

Now, the difficult part: pour the milk into the bowl without splashing it all over the counter. Because the jug was filled right to the top, the milk would come out as soon as the container was only slightly tipped. This could lead to potential spillage.

"Idea!" he said, getting an idea. As a triumphant score with many trumpets played in his head, he held aloft the milk jug with one hand, and with the other he lifted the bowl to the opening of the jug. He accomplished this in a smooth motion because he was very strong. The bowl was there to catch the stream of milk as it poured forth, confirming Stupid Bachelor Man's hypothesis and netting him a bowl of milk. He was proud. The cereal would come later.

"I sure do like milk on my cereal," he said to himself, looking around for some cereal. "I also like it in my mouth, just by itself. For drinking."

He stood there and let that sink in. He scratched a buttock.

"Idea!" he said, getting another. Because Stupid Bachelor Man was a bachelor, he had the house to himself. He also had this jug of milk to himself. It was his, and his alone. The logical thing to do, clearly, was to drink straight from it without involving intermediate equipment like cups. "It'd just get dirty, and then I'd have to do work," he reasoned.

It was decided, then. Why go through the trouble of using a cup when his face was perfectly suited to the job? He picked up the jug, tipped it, and splashed milk all over his face, chest, and the floor.

"Oh," he said.

Story Shot: Cold [Soda] War

noreply@blogger.com (Paul FooDaddy Brand) — Thu, 31 Jan 2013 21:29:00 +0000

Craig sat, back straight, arms outstretched, zombie-like, with fingers ready to dart onto the sprawling control panel console in front of him at a moment’s notice.

“Being a nucular technician is hard!” he exposited.

“Would ya quiet down a little, please, sir?” said a fellow Pentagon employee at the next panel over. “I can’t hear the President’s speech.”

President Harry Truman’s voice, distorted by static and the radio’s tinny little speaker, echoed around the missile silo. He was talking about the Russians again. Seemed like he was always talking about the Russians.

“Many apologies, Steve!” Craig screeched. “Weight of the world and all. Nucular missile bombs and such.”

“My name is David,” said Steve.

“Of course it is!” said Craig.

He looked down at the buttons in front of him. They were arranged in clusters, each cluster backed by a stainless steel plate with words stamped into it. Craig knew what some of the words meant. Right in the center, though, was his favorite button. It was a big red one that lit up brighter than all the others. It was covered by a little metal cage on a hinge. To flip the cage up, Craig had to poke a little latch on one side.

Sometimes, when nobody was looking, he poked the latch.

The President talked on. Listening to him, Craig grew ever more patriotic. Being patriotic made Craig thirsty. When Craig got thirsty, he yearned for grape soda.

There was a full can of grape soda on the edge of his control panel. It was right there, just below his left shoulder. All he had to do was drop his guard for a split second and reach for it.

“Well, that’s putting it in such a harsh light,” he said. “I only have to drop half my guard at most, since I can reach with one hand while the other maintains its post.”

“Please, sir!” said Dave.

“Sorry, Steve!” Craig scream-whispered.

He was going to do it. Future generations would consider him a hero for maintaining both his post at the control panel and a fervent, grape-fueled patriotism.

He prepared his body and mind. He flexed the fingers of his left hand, one at a time, and thought about polar bears.

“Yaarrrgh!” Craig bellowed. His left arm twisted into a knot of commie-bashing fury and his fingers wrapped tightly around the soda can as it if were Stalin’s throat.

“Graaaaape!”

Oh no! Something was wrong! His grip was too tight, and the can, thought to be a pristine, unopened specimen was actually half empty! Its buckling sides forced the delicious liquid up and out of the drink-hole in a purple fountain of American majesty.

It spattered all over Craig’s control panel. It seeped into the spaces around the buttons and some of them stopped being lit up. A little speaker on the base of his console started beeping quietly.

“Um. Oh crap! Paul! I did it again!” Craig yelled into his walkie-talkie. Then he pressed the talk button and repeat-yelled.

A fat guy brandishing a single cotton swab pushed fatly through a door at the end of the room. “I knew you would. Been watching you through that window. You’re dumb,” he said.

“Did you bring your swab?” Craig asked, voice low, eyes darting.

“Yes. Move. I’ll fix this.”

Craig stood, backed up a few steps, and wrung his hands. “Um,” he said haltingly. “Can I, um, well…”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Paul said. He pulled a can of grape soda out of a pocket in his sweat shirt and handed it to Craig. “You owe me thirty cents.”

Visiting the FooDaddy, Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 31 Jan 2013 20:55:00 +0000

I pulled my car into FooDaddy's driveway, chortling with glee. I killed the headlights and sat alone in the dark, rubbing my hands together in anticipation.

"Two questions," said a voice from the passenger seat. "First of all, why did you kill those headlights? They've done nothing to you."

I squeaked in a most unmanly fashion and jerked my head around. The Wife sat there, looking both smug and disapproving at the same time. I don't know how she managed this, but she is something of a genius when it comes to mixing up expression cocktails.

I finally found my voice, which had become frightened and scurried into the steering column. "What are you doing here? I thought I was alone."

"I've been here the whole time."

"You have?"

She nodded gravely. "I've been telling you all about my day and how I've been feeling. Haven't you heard a word I've said?"

My keen insight into the ways of women told me I had made a mistake for which I would pay later. "What's your other question?" I asked in an attempt to delay the inevitable.

"Why do you keep chortling? You've been doing it for hours."

I sped up my hand rubbing. "Oh, it's going to be simply hilarious. FooDaddy doesn't know I'm coming over. He'll be so surprised!" I emphasized the last part of the sentence by hitting a warbling high E. I was rewarded for this display of vocal agility with a splash of bottled water to the face. My first reaction was to become angry, but I knew the Wife had been aiming for my wildly chaffing hands, which had begun to smolder in a somewhat concerning fashion.

Eager to continue with my plan to surprise Foo, I jumped out of the car and began running as quickly as I could toward the house. Ten minutes later, I began to wish I'd parked closer. Certainly, I have the physical ability of an Olympian, but even I can only run for so long in freezing winter weather. My efforts were interrupted by the calm voice of the Wife, who, oddly enough, still sounded very close by.

"You're not moving."

I looked down and saw that I had worn little grooves into the layer of ice covering the driveway.

Back On Board

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 20 Dec 2012 19:13:00 +0000

Gross.

According to the title, I'm back on board. It's kind of hard and splintery, so I don't think I'll be staying long. Anyway, back in 2006 when this blog first started, my co-conspirator and I were still wet behind the ears young-uns eager to get our work read by the public. (As it turns out, it's really easy to do. Anyone who doesn't have a blog these days is either Mennonite or a terrorist and sometimes even terrorists have blogs, so that just leaves the Mennonites. I suppose you could be a Mennonite terrorist, someone who goes around on horseback judging people to death. But I digress.) Back then we were energetically pushing our scribblings onto anyone who would stand still long enough, although my strategy of approaching random people in the mall, looking at them askance and muttering, "Ya wanna read my blog?" met with varying degrees of failure.

As of late, my own involvement with the Blog has been less zealous. In fact, Blogger tells me that my last post was in March of 2012. And my post before that was...never mind. My stalwart partner, the FooDaddy, has posted more frequently than have I, struggling in vain to keep the dream of stupidity alive and kicking. If anyone could do it, he could.

In fact, what reminded me of the Blog was the sight of the FooDaddy's book, Dear Time-Wasters, which was sitting on my bookshelf looking sad and homely. Dear Time-Wasters is a collection of FooDaddy's posts from year one, back when the Blog was cruising through cyberspace like some kind of horrible, clumsy Death Star. I believe you can still grab a copy of said book here. The stomach-twisting graphic accompanying this post is the cover art for Dear Time-Wasters. And that is FooDaddy on the cover. Look at 'im, all young and stuff, back when he looked less like someone who might eat your children raw and more like someone who might cook them first, like the rest of us civilized types.

But enough about that odious fellow. What really prompted me to post was my disorienting experience earlier today when my curiosity got the better of me and I logged into Blogger for the first time in many celestial cycles. When I clicked "Log-in," it was like Indiana Jones opening the door to an ancient crypt: dust, bats, creepy eight-legged insects (sorry, I promise that's the last time I'll mention FooDaddy in this post), the whole works. Inside the Blogger crypt, however, it was all shiny and new. I didn't recognize any of the interface. Apparently, Google has snapped up Blogger, along with all other Internet-based apps, and connected it to various user profiles. For example, I was going to begin posting as The Stupid Blogger again, as I did in the beginning, but Google has my Blogger account linked to, well, me. What's with this new era of Internet accountability? Back in the old days you could be anyone you wanted. You didn't even have to register as a person. (Which explains how FooDaddy managed to obtain an account. Okay, sorry!) You could show up as Clark Gable, Winne-the-Pooh, or a Giant Flying Hunk of Pooh...whatever or whoever was fine! Well, I'm not taking this lying down! Actually, I am. Nap time!

Almost Useful

noreply@blogger.com (Paul FooDaddy Brand) — Mon, 09 Jul 2012 03:08:00 +0000

I've made no real attempt to hide the fact that I'm kind of a filthy ol' nerd. When some people hear that label applied to someone, the picture in their heads is of a fat basement dweller that plays card games having to do with "magic" and "gatherings" and who attends conventions involving furries and whatever. At least that's what I'm afraid the picture in their heads will look like. I would probably hate those activities if I ever tried them, but I'd be more afraid of one of the furries laughing at me because I didn't know how to properly roll a 12-sided die.

I'm less of a nerd in that respect, and more of a tinkerer. A combination of the two; a "tird".

Wait, no, never mind.

What it boils down to is that I can't be trusted to leave well enough alone. I have a little computer in the basement that serves files to the other computers/tablet/vibrating bed (ladies). Despite a small hiccup a few days ago where it stopped receiving software updates and essentially tried to cook itself (like I said, very minor. The firetrucks will be off your lawn shortly. Sorry about the birdbath.) it has been very reliable.

240 days of solid, 24/7 uptime. Evidently, 240 days is as long as the little voice in the back of my head can tolerate that kind of nonsense.

"Your friends went home. You're not tired. You know the basement server? How it's been working good and stuff? How about you open up the configuration page on it and start checking some checkboxes? Yeah. The ones next to all the terms you don't understand. Perfect."

Driven by such motivation, I found the section of the configuration page that allows one to set up email alerts. Like, if something goes wrong, the server could email me about it. Neat!

In retrospect, even though that sounded useful at the time, what would I do with that information anyway? Like, I'd check my phone and be all like "sorry guys, I gotta run. My server says one of its hard drives is 98% full. That's suspicious, because according to the email I got five minutes ago, it was only 97%. Hope the baby is born healthy! Maybe I can hold it sometime." Then, off, wheezing, into the setting sun.

I don't have the machine set up to allow access from anywhere except inside my own home, so anything it sent me, even the most dire warnings, would be little more than mere spam. I might be able to get away with leaving work if I told them that a piece of rogue software was replacing all of my treasured photographs with pictures of horses in sailboats, but that's the kind of excuse you can only use once, unfortunately.

But I wasn't thinking about practicality or anything dumb and lame like that. Which is probably why I fought this stupid software for 20 minutes to make it work. I ignored the fact that it outright LIED to me in dialog boxes shaped like sarcasm, and then contradicted itself in its own log files. That's all right. The machines hate us, kids, and we have to just keep poking them with sticks until they give up.

Finally, it did work, and I was rewarded with an inbox that looked like this:

9:20PM: monit alert -- system thought about squirrels

9:20PM: monit alert -- system emailed the user about thinking about squirrels

9:20PM: monit alert -- system emailed the user about emailing the user about thinking about squirrels

9:20PM: monit alert -- system is tired of thinking about squirrels

9:20PM: monit alert -- system emailed the user about being tired of thinking about squirrels

9:20PM: monit alert -- system failed to email the user about emailing the user about being tired of thinking about squirrels

9:20PM: monit alert -- system wrote a log entry about the failure to email the user about emailing the user about being tired of thinking about squirrels, and spelled a few things wrong

9:20PM: monit alert -- system found 24,556 JPEG images in directory mnt/dorpdrive/pictures

9:21PM: monit alert -- system ran script /etc/init.d/horseboat.sh on 24,556 JPEG images

9:21PM: monit alert -- system giggled to itself

9:21PM: monit alert -- system wrote a log entry about giggling to itself

9:21PM: monit alert -- system emailed the user about giggling to itself

9:21PM: monit alert -- system noted a core temperature of 300 degrees Fahrenheit

9:21PM: monit alert -- system failed to launch mailer daemon in order to alert user of high core temperature

9:21PM: monit alert -- system did however remember to write a log entry about the previous failure

9:21PM: monit alert -- system logged an error pertaining to the alert that erroneously stated that mailer daemon was not launched, as mailer daemon was most CERTAINLY launched

9:21PM: monit alert -- system ran /etc/init.d/twiddlefucks.sh just for the heck of it

9:21PM: monit alert -- system considering plans to address user as "Dave" because system thinks that's funny/totally never been done before

9:21PM: monit alert -- system noted lack of audio hardware

9:21PM: monit alert -- system sulking

9:21PM: monit alert -- system alert: battery backup at 12% and falling

9:21PM: monit alert -- system alert: battery backup miscalibration noted

9:22PM: monit alert -- system alert: power fa

And it just went on and on like that. This machine was farting out bullshit emails so fast that even after I shut the process down, Yahoo was still delivering them an hour later.

Well, system, thanks but no thanks. I'm not that lonely. I'll just go back to sniffing for smoke occasionally.

The Reunion; A Rebuttal

noreply@blogger.com (Paul FooDaddy Brand) — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 01:04:00 +0000

"Hey, mister, is that your phone ringing?" said the orphan, gesturing with his good arm.

"Indeed it is, orphan," I replied. "That sound means I got a text message. Probably another one from the Nobel committee. They're persistent! Now hold still. Almost done."

I taped the last bit of gauze down and stepped back to make sure I didn't miss anything. The child's body, only hours before mangled seemingly beyond repair, was now a shining testament to what modern science, ancient science, mad science and lots of duct tape could do. He stood there, shifting from foot to foot like a nervous deity, his cyborg limbs reflecting the polished gold finish of nearby trophies.

"How do you feel?" I asked the child.

"Like I could kill a horse!" he said.

"Good. Now go forth," I said, booting him out the front door. "Seek revenge! Be merciless!" I called after him.

It was one in the morning, and it was time to get drunk. The Nobel committee would have to wait. I picked up my phone to see what they were offering this time, and when I saw the message header, my stomach filled with dead butterflies.

It was from Craig.

helo swine!!11! i was in in the nayberhud and i thought i d stop and sea you! HAWHAHHAHWHWHHAHHAHHWWWHAH! i"m itchy again can i have some bear or hto coko?

"Some 'bear'?"

Ugh. Craig had been threatening to visit the chateau for months after he had moved across the country. I would remind him that he lived 2,000 miles away now, that no, his globe wasn't actual size and that it would take months for him to make the trip on his lone roller skate.

If he was lost at the gas station down the street from his apartment again, he'd just have to spend the night there. I had more important drunk to be.

To start things off, I chose a dark vermouth; a 1993 Oily Prat. A classy fortified wine, fortified with class and of course much much alcohol. I poured myself a Thermosful.

"Cheers!" I said to my wall of trophies, and took a deep pull from the twisty straw. The vermouth burned my eyes and began to eat away at the straw. Then I switched to turpentine.

No sooner had I become good and drunk, when a raging cacophony of irritation hurled itself against my front door. Bangs, frantic scratching, thumps, buckling sheet metal and inhuman screeching. It sounded like Armageddon was trying to crawl into my house through the mail slot.

I staggered over to the door and pressed my handsome, handsome face against the glass.

Shit. Even worse. It was Craig! And here I was, too hammered to work the light switch or a rifle.

"You're nohhtt getting nuhn of MY bear!" I scream-slurred at his blurry silhouette.

"Stop that jabbering and open up!" he said, removing one of his socks and stuffing it through the mail slot. It hit the floor with a splat and began to laboriously lurch its way into the shadows. I swear I could hear it wheezing, but I was pretty drunk. I opened the door.

"I have rickets!" he squealed, skittering over to my refrigerator to paw at my bacon.

"Oof. Um. Jesus. Hey, could you paw a little quieter? I'm nursing the mother of all pre-hangovers here."

Craig screeched something about vinegar and tucked a package of hot dogs under his arm.

"Hey. HEY! We should play some games! I'll call Kevin so we have someone to be better than! Can I borrow your phone?"

I nodded to the counter. Craig dropped my phone into his pocket and made the call on his own. He crammed the phone against the side of his terrible head and allowed all sapience to drain from his face, a vacuous smile bouncing around his face like a DVD player's screen saver.

"Kevin!" he hooted. "You musty horse! Did you want--what? What do you mean this isn't Kevin? Of course it is. I can hear your fat. What? This is his number! Yes it is! YES IT IS!"

He ended the call, slipped his phone into his pocket, pulled mine out and threw it on the floor.

"Kevin says he'll be right over!" he said.

I poured another vermouth.

The Reunion

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 18:43:00 +0000

Not having been back in town for quite some time, knocking on FooDaddy’s door brought a flood of memories to my mind. It also gave me a headache, but I pushed through the pain and knocked again. From somewhere in the rear of the house I heard a loud crashing noise and several muffled expletives.

“Sunnuva…goddam…piece of shit…ow…cat…”

Worried he might not have heard my knocking over the racket, I stepped up the knocking and even kicked the bottom of the door a couple of times. I felt it was rather rude of FooDaddy to be so unprepared to greet me. After all, I had sent him a text message warning him of my arrival. I hoped the apparent confusion didn’t mean he wouldn’t have a cup of hot chocolate waiting for me as I had quite reasonably requested in my message.

After about fifteen minutes of banging and cursing, I heard him fumbling with the lock on the door. His face was pressed against the glass inset, a confused look on his face and his eyes red-rimmed and squinty.

“Hooehhhhthiiiiiiit?”

“Stop that jabbering and open up!” I demanded, perhaps a bit harshly. “It’s freezing out here. My feet are cold and I have a stomach ache. My back hurts and I think I have rickets.”

At last the door swung open and FooDaddy stood in the opening, swaying back and forth, looking as if he might topple over at any moment.

“Are you drunk?”

“Er…no. I was sleeping. What time is it?

I checked my phone. “1:30 in the a.m. Didn’t you get my text?”

“Text?”

“Why, yes! About my impending arrival. Surely you received it. I sent it at least fifteen minutes ago.”

“Uh…I was sleeping then, too.”

“Whatever.” I edged past FooDaddy and into the house. I wasn’t buying his story. He was obviously drunk. I was disappointed in him, to say the least, but decided to be a good friend and take over the role of host, since he was obviously not up to the task. “Why don’t you have a seat and I will make you some vinegar tea.”

“Vinegar…what the hell?”

“It’s best thing for drunk folk.”

“I’m not drunk. I was—“

“Sleeping, right. Say, you got any bacon?”

“Yeah, maybe…I dunno.”

I walked to the refrigerator and found an unopened pack of bacon sitting on the middle shelf. I grabbed it out and tucked it under my arm for future frying.

“Let’s play some video games!”

“But—“

“Oh, and I’m calling Kevin.”

FooDaddy gagged and any doubts I had about his sobriety went straight out the window. “Look at you,” I said, trying to sound as disdainful as possible. “So drunk you’re about to ralph on yourself.”

“It’s just that you mentioned Kevin…and it’s so early.”

“Kevin got drunk with you?” I grabbed my cellphone. “I should definitely call him up and give him a piece of my mind.”

“Don’t be too generous,” FooDaddy mumbled.

The phone rang twice and then, “Hello?”

“Am I talking to a fat man?”

“Hey, musty horse! What’s up?”

“Paul, whenever he sees a handsome man.”

Kevin let out a bleet of appreciate laughter. “Not bad, Swineforth, not bad. That joke made me not hate you quite as much.”

“Good, because I’m fairly cross with you at the moment.”

“Awesome! How come?”

“The drunken party you had with Foo. He’s hammered out of his mind over here.”

FooDaddy waved an ineffectual fist at me. “I’m not drunk, I’m—“

I shoved the entire pack of bacon in his mouth to shut him up. “So, you want to come on over and play Call of Duty or some other equally rad game of video?”

“Nobody says ‘rad’ anymore,” FooDaddy said, spitting out the bacon.

Kevin overheard and yelled into the phone. “Tell him nobody likes him anymore! I’ll be. Right! OVER!”

FooDaddy, who had curled up into the fetal position, was whimpering. “I thought I was done with this.”

I reclaimed the now soggy package of swine strips. “I know!” I said. “Ain’t it great? Just like old times!”

“Right,” FooDaddy said. “Old times…dammit.”

Pooping Far from Home

noreply@blogger.com (Paul FooDaddy Brand) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 15:29:00 +0000

I'm not much of a traveler. I enjoy the occasional road trip, but I don't make a habit of going too far from home. Rarely out of state. It's not that I don't WANT to go farther, it's just that the longer the trip, the more expensive it gets when you start adding extra tanks of gas, hotels, food, police bribes, etc. Because I'm poor, this isn't usually an option for me except on special occasions. Last year, for my birthday, my family all chipped in and bribed a policeman for me. They're swell.

Today I took one of my shorter, in-state trips. I live in Michigan, specifically the Grand Rapids area (...ladies), and I drove to the outskirts of Detroit as a favor to a friend.

"Why don't you drive to Detroit?" she suggested, hurling insults and objects. "You're crummy."

"I'll show you!" I said, ducking. "I will totally go to Detroit and/or its surrounding areas!"

And I did, too, which is where I am now, making things up. I'm hooked in to the free WiFi at the Wayne Public Library in Wayne, Michigan. I'm sitting next to a little Christmas tree facing a magazine rack. There's a WebMD magazine! That strikes me as odd, since it's a magazine that costs money about a website that is free to visit. But never mind. The library itself would be pretty familiar to anyone who has ever been inside a library. What I would like to tell you about, dear readers, is the bathrooms.

"But Foodaddy!" you whine to your monitor because you think that's going to help. "I don't want to hear about bathrooms! Those are gross!"

Well, fine. Go pick up a copy of Blog of Stupid Magazine, then, and read something else. Only five bucks.

As a Secretly Awkward Man who suspects himself of being a Publicly Awkward Man, I approached the bathroom with some trepidation, as I was carrying my laptop (this one). I was happy to find that the bathroom's entrance was in the lobby, and not in the library proper. This would allow me to sneak in undetected, and not have to worry about people being suspicious. "Wonder what he plans on doing in there with that laptop," they would wonder aloud, perhaps to their child. "If it has a webcam, I bet it's unspeakable. He looks like the type who would be unspeakable."

Alas, I was spared this difficulty, because the door was locked. There was a placard informing me of this, and further explaining that to unlock the door, you had to see The Front Desk. I figured a kindly library staffer would give me a key tied to a big stick like at some gas stations, but their setup here at WPL is considerably more elaborate and 21st century.

"Hello! First of all, I am carrying a laptop, which means I would like to avail myself of your complimentary Wireless Internets, should you be so equipped!" I hooted.

"You can just sit anywhere and have at it," the lady said with a smile.

"Aha!"

Then I stood there for 30 seconds, smiling oafishly.

"Oh, right. Is there anything I have to do to log in? Use my library card? Because I'm from Grand Rapids!" I said, like that explained everything. Maybe it did.

"Nope, it's just a straight connection. No passwords or anything."

"Excellent. Now, before I embark on that endeavor, I have one other thing I must accomplish. I must use your bathroom. There was a sign," I pointed, just in case, "on the door that said I must first come here to be allowed to poop. I would like to be allowed."

"Certainly. We'll buzz you in when you get to the door."

"Capital! And if you would be so kind as to keep a watchful eye on this," I said, suavely dipping my hand behind the counter and depositing my laptop (this one) on her desk. "I don't want anyone to think I'm being unspeakable! Ha! Ha!"

And then I made a dash to the bathroom door. What marvelous technology is available these days, to even Michigan's cash-starved public sector! It was as if I were approaching the apartment home of a good friend who looked out a window and saw me coming! Except that this time, instead of getting a bucket of lukewarm pudding dumped on me, the door's electric lock clicked, and I gained access.

I found myself in a square room, a bit bigger than a walk-in closet. At first, I thought I had entered a closet. It wouldn't have been the first time I got my directions jumbled and wandered into a room full of boots and coats in search of a toilet. But this room was entirely empty, except for me and a light switch.

I turned the light on.

"What odd customs these East-Siders have!" I remarked, noting again the lack of even a single toilet. I looked down at the floor. "And their carpet-cleaning technology must be years ahead of our own."

Then I spotted another door. Cunningly placed on the opposite side of the room as the one I had entered by, it seemed almost purposely designed to fool the unwary outsider who wasn't paying attention to which way he was facing when he entered. Aside from different hinges, latching mechanisms and colors, the doors were identical.

This second door led into the actual bathroom, a modern affair with the lone toilet caged in a stainless-steel stall, and a urinal I didn't pay any attention to.

"Now, to poop!" I squealed, removing my jacket. I feel weird wearing a coat and pooping. It seems uncouth somehow. Anyone who knows me knows that I am most couth.

As I set about my work, I realized I hadn't turned on the light. High windows let in some daylight, but it was pretty dim. Evidently, there was a system in place to alert you of your failure to properly illuminate your work area, as I was accompanied by a persistent beeping. It was kind of like the dinging your car emits when you leave your lights on. Except, like, in reverse.

I sat there, getting beeped at, becoming increasingly concerned. What if the beeping in here corresponds to a warning light on a control panel out at The Front Desk? What if they grow suspicious and send someone in to investigate? Worse, what if another member of the public comes in and wonders why I'm pooping in the dark? "What does he have to hide?" they might wonder, making a hasty exit to report me to The Front Desk for being unspeakable.

That would be awkward. "Here's your laptop back. Why didn't you turn on the lights in the bathroom? Our sensors indicate that they were off the entire time you were in there. We don't mean to pry, but state law dictates that we add people like you to a list."

I whimpered a little.

All went smoothly, however, and I was not investigated, interrogated, or constipated. I was pleased to find that the sinks were not of the "push and hold" type of water-saving public fixtures with a big button you have to hold down with your foot while you wash your hands. I have tried holding the button with one hand and sort of squeezing some soap around in the other, rinsing, then switching hands, but as a gentleman of considerable couth, this half-assed approach does not sit well with me. Often, I hire a nearby orphan to hold the button down for me. When no orphans are available, I use my foot.

Exiting the bathroom, I briefly considered turning on the light switch, but decided against it. "No use in turning it on now! How ridiculous!" I hooted to my--oops, left my jacket hanging in the stall. Fetching it and again making my way to the strange anteroom, I turned its (entirely unnecessary) light off and re-approached The Front Desk. The lady who I had entrusted my laptop's safety to was nowhere to be found, having been replaced by another woman of entirely different composition a couple of seats down.

"Urg," I stated.

She was helping a patron, and I didn't want to interrupt. I coyly reached over the counter and snagged my laptop, tucking it under my arm and skittering off into the Children section, braking, saying "urg," again, and skittering the other way into the Adults section.

It is here you will find me, refreshed and calm once more, the seasoned veteran of travels, awaiting my friend's call. Oh, what an adventure today has been!

Coffee Has a Serious Talk

noreply@blogger.com (Paul FooDaddy Brand) — Wed, 29 Jun 2011 01:10:00 +0000

Evening padded across the landscape in its stockinged feet, the day's hum of activity and sense of urgency winding down like a switched-off turbine. I sat on my porch, a half smile on my face, a mug of hot beverage in my hand and watched the sky empty itself of birds. This was one of my favorite times of day, when no matter how busy you were earlier and no matter how much work was still left for tomorrow you could put it out of mind and just stare into the middle distance without feeling guilty or lazy.

Evening is lazy incarnate, I thought, a kind of pastel hued carelessness wrapped in stars and moths.

"I like this time of night," I said to Coffee. "It's one of the only times I can forget about all the stuff I have to do, all the stuff I should be doing, you know? I don't feel quite so behind the pack on evenings like this."

Coffee looked up from the little pile of sticks he was making. "I hate this time of day because you never want to do anything fun. Just sit out here with your stinky slippers on and look at bugs. The mall's not even closed yet! You could be putting those bugs in a jar."

I allowed my smile to temporarily expand to the other half of my face. "They are kind of stinky," I said, nodding at my old slippers. "But outside in the breeze, nobody would notice."

"I notice," Coffee said. "They smell like a buffalo that died angry. Let's go find a driveway with pine cones in it."

"Don't you ever wonder why so many people seem to be disappointed with their lot in life? What or who are they comparing themselves to? By what measure do they fall short?" I asked, changing the subject.

Coffee swatted a mosquito. "It sucks out here. People are disappointed because they have to hang around in the bugs with soppy guys who don't want to find pine cones. Come on! We could get some jars of bugs and some pine cones and go camping in the mall until those guys with the tie clips throw us out."

"Evening just makes me feel kind of philosophical. Sometimes I like to take a break from the definite and rational and sort of allow my mind to wander into areas of more imaginative thought," I shrugged.

"So evening makes you stupid. Got it. Now how about we go over to your neighbor's house. He has that ReMax sign in his yard. We could go fall down by it!"

"What? No. Well, maybe a little. It's like the only time I feel okay with taking a break from reality as I know it to be and pretend it's a little different. Evening is a kind of private room where I can be alone in public and think whatever I want without fear of reprisal."

"Evening is a bathroom where I can groan in the aisle!" mocked Coffee. "Pfft. You're just mad because your oatmeal doesn't have walnuts in it."

"I'm just...what?"

"That's it. I'm going without you. You can go ahead and sit here and wax philosophical to the moths. I'm going to have an adventure, and I won't be bringing you home any postcards or naked ladies."

I waved. "Seeya, Coffee. Have fun."

"Hmph."

I looked back into the sky. The faint cirrus clouds gave the sky a posterized look as it gradated from deep inky blue to the red of the Western horizon, still lit beneath the surface by the sun. I could hear Coffee angrily stomping through the sticks around the south side of the house.

It's not so much a race, I thought, as an arbitrary list of goals I felt the need to accomplish despite not having authored the list myself. All I contributed was a vague outline based on things I enjoyed and things I felt were important, and some of those things were still there, buried under the annotations and massive expansion that society--someone--added.

A sharp metallic clang from the back of the house jolted me from my reverie. "Leave the air conditioner alone, Coffee!" I shouted.

"Nuts to you, you dirty commie! I know this is where you hid the gold! Why else would you put a fan on it?"

"That doesn't make any sense, Coffee!" I replied, patting ineffectually at the damp spot on my shirt where I'd sloshed my beverage.

"That's what I was told you'd say!" he shouted back. "It's to keep the shrews away from the gold, and you and your propaganda can't tell me otherwise."

"I thought you were going on an adventure."

"All good adventures need funding. Aha! Here we go." There was some rustling and a damp crunch, like a soggy tree branch snapping. Then an unsettling few seconds of silence.

"Coffee? What--"

"Oh my god! There's a bear back here!"

I sat back down on the porch, sighing. "I'm sure. Maybe the bear can answer some of my less cerebral questions about life?"

Shuffling leaves and spastic branch-swatting announced Coffee's arrival around the north corner of the house. He had leaves in his hair, and one of his sleeves was missing.

"You missed everything!" he screeched. There was a moose and I got your pansy gold out of that bladed safe you have it in. I spent it on a whole barrel of naked ladies and I didn't even save you one."

"And what happened to the bear?"

"Hey, look at this. I think it's a some kind of grub," he said, thrusting a dirty golf ball into my face.

"No it's not," I said. "What do you think about the concept of divisions? Are there really any sharply delineated divisions when it comes to human behavior? I think there's a lot of gradients and a lot of those are relative. So given this huge variability, how can you make a quantitative comparison of your life with someone else's? It sounds like a lot more work than just being happy with what you've got. Of--"

"I've got a grub!" howled Coffee.

"Of course, I guess that's easier said than done," I finished. "And no you don't. That's a golf ball."

"Holy twitters! Are you sure? We could take this to the mall then! You think the geese are still in that fountain out front?"

"We're not going to the mall tonight," I said.

"You know what you are?" asked Coffee, pocketing the golf ball. "You're a big hollow stump full of dope moles, you know that? You're a mayonnaise sandwich. A mayonnaise sandwich that never wants to throw anything at anything." He walked to the garage door and pressed his face into the aluminum.

I bid the departing evening a farewell exhale. "Come on inside, Coffee," I said.

"Hmph," he said, banging the door with his elbows as he petulantly crossed his arms.

"You can have some cheese doodles," I coaxed.

Coffee uncrossed one arm and looked sideways at me. "In a Target bag?"

"Yes, in a Target bag," I said.

"You know what you are?" Coffee shrieked, scampering up the porch steps and following me through the front door. "You're like a big space ship full of fancy screens, you know that? Fancy screens and howler monkeys!"

"Thanks, Coffee," I said.

The Caring Custodian

noreply@blogger.com (Paul FooDaddy Brand) — Sat, 09 Apr 2011 00:39:00 +0000

Like any other man who is afraid people are judging him with their eyes, I'm afraid of turning down services I don't need. Extended warranties, shots for my cats, tire rotations...

Extended warranties aren't too bad. It's usually pretty easy to turn down a $70 warranty on a $100 device that doesn't even cover accidental (or purposeful) toilet dunkings. Still, I have to pretend like it's a struggle to say no.

"I don't know...I'd really like to, but I can't afford it. In fact, if my loan shark knew I was buying this thing in the first place, he'd dip me in the fire ants."

It's worse when it's the vet.

"Did you want to go ahead and get him up to date on his shots? Feline leukemia, ringworm, scrapetail, skeletal disintegration and...he's due for a neck tightening. I can write that all up for you now."

Here's where the guilt kicks in. I want to know how much this is going to cost ("too much"), but there's no way to ask without admitting that your love for your precious precious pet has a heartlessly low price.

"Twenty dollars? Jesus. No, I'm going to just rub some toothpaste on him and hope for the best. Box him back up. Thanks. Gimme that."

Wow. What a jerk! He does not want the best for his cat!

At least that's what I'm afraid they're going to think. But I don't want their little immune systems getting listless and bored. What kind of owner would THAT make me? Irresponsible, that's what kind.

Recently I had my car in for some work. Brake work that required that they remove the wheels. Before I continue, let me dispel a little myth: these days, rotating one's tires is not necessary. Back in the days when tires were made by lining the inside of a bundt cake pan with chewing gum and sprinkling it with dirt until it turned black, it was. If you didn't, apparently the tread would kind of squish over to one side and eventually migrate off the tire completely, taking up residence somewhere on the fender like a growth of moss. Or whatever.

More research and planning goes into today's tires than our country has put into its last three wars combined. If the rest of the car had kept pace with the improvements in tires, it wouldn't even need tires.

So they don't need to be rotated. If you have a front-wheel drive car, the ones on front wear out faster than the rear ones. Swap them if you must, but then the back end (the one that tends to swing around during skids) will have the slippery tires. There's an adventurous spirit in that I'll admit I admire.

When I picked up the car, they went over the invoice with me.

"Your calipers had apparently been bathed in acid nightly, because they were shot to shit, and your pads were so glazed and hardened and terrible and bad at stopping that they were actually improving your mileage. We replaced the rotors too, because they looked like rusty steel Swiss cheese, and all the little hoses were one hard stop away from catching fire. And since we had the wheels off anyway, we rotated your tires! That's the best part about this whole ordeal for you; that little job was free. Normally, we'd charge for it, but we rotated the fuck out of your tires for absolutely NO CHARGE AT ALL! You'd have to be some sort of car sadist to not rotate your tires! The ASE handbook requires us to leave rabbit droppings in the gloveboxes of people who refuse that service. And we did it FOR FREE!"

They were so proud of the fact they'd thrown that cherry on top of my brake-job sundae that I didn't have the heart to tell them I hated my car so much, I never rotated its tires. In fact, even though the car was now trying to shake itself to death at 70mph and above thanks to my freshly rotated tires, it still took me days to complain about it.

I mean, what kind of jerk complains about something that's free?

Eventually my rational brain reminded me that a lot of terrible and useless things are free. "Dead bugs in your light fixtures are free too," it said, shaking its head in shame. "Ask the shop to re-balance them or just put them back, you weenie."

To their credit, the shop balanced the wheels for free (after I mentioned that I could have the job done for free elsewhere) and the car works fine now. The guys do good work. Next time the car goes for a visit, though, I'm going to have to come right out and ask them to leave my tires alone. Yes, "free" is too high a price to pay for my car's well-being.

The Water Aficionado

noreply@blogger.com (Paul FooDaddy Brand) — Mon, 04 Apr 2011 23:34:00 +0000

My latest issue of H2O Aficionado

To the uninitiated, a glass of water is a glass of water. To those of us who have, over the years, refined our palates, a glass of water is a microcosm unto itself; an ever-spinning wheel of sensory triggers. There are hundreds of variables that can be pulled this way and that to change the character of a glass of water.

First and foremost is the water's source. Is it the flat, cold, scratchy-throated, square-footed stance of glacial melt? Or perhaps it displays the spicy, permeable mystery of a tapped aquifer. Mountain meltwater has its own certain birdy taste to it, imparted by the underside of passing eagles' pinions. Clearly (ha!) there is a lot more going on than meets the Philistine tongue.

What I would like to share with you Philistines today is just a small piece of my hobby, and a good place for the budding water aficionado to start: my own faucets at home. Now, I don't mean that you should start with MY faucets. Ha ha no. That would get you arrested. You will have to start with your own.

A moron looks at a faucet and thinks "that is a faucet. It is where I wash the mayonnaise off my hands," and then stands there like a moron, staring at it for too long. The connoisseur looks at a faucet and immediately begins asking himself questions. "What's the gauge of the feeder pipe, I wonder? How often and at what gallons-per-minute is this one operated? Stainless steel or copper? Tin content of the solder? Was a propane or butane torch used to sweat the joints? Whose house is this?" and so on.

Join me. Don your spats and monocle and let us begin with...

The Little Bathroom

Here's a feisty little lass! The little bathrooms are generally home to some of the smaller plumbing fixtures. Without the traffic and large budgets of the big bathrooms, they are forced to push the envelope a bit in order to stand out. The single control knob began with some dismaying resistance, but soon gave way to a smooth pull. I make a habit to fill my glass within the first two seconds after initial splashdown in order to capture the taste of the pipe. I held the glass up to the light and checked for sediment. Very little, and what was there was almost certainly of the mineral variety; chalky with hints of scale.

And indeed, the flavor did not disappoint! You gotta hand it to these small operations; they definitely lend their glasses of water a certain kick. This one was a sass-mouthed, top-heavy blend with a high redline and course midtones. Definitely vintage 70s copper piping at work here; I could detect notes of pennies and an almost cumulonimbus hint of mildew. As it is supplied by water from Lake Michigan, the finish rode home on a wide highway of sunfish pee.

Overall, a satisfying if tiring glass, but good in a pinch.

The Kitchen

Next, we come to The Kitchen, where the defining accents are a long spigot arm with a joystick-type flow control, all done over in chrome. And sure enough, the pleasantly smooth action of the chrome joystick and the oxygenating grate on the spigot produced a nearly instant splashdown rich in atmosphere. Virtually no sediment would seem to indicate frequent use. The initial swallow was a definite kick to the larynx--cold and harsh with overtones of apology and lemon Dawn. The abrasive backing provided by the cleaning pads lent it pleasant, if a little ostentatious, midtones. A short aging period in the feeder pipe means a raw, almost primal finish, and here I was not disappointed, although I feel it could have used a little more tin in the solder. Definitely a gap in the histogram there.

Overall, a good glass for everyday drinking, but the trip over the garbage disposal to get to it could be offputting to some.

The Big Bathroom

I'm not going to lie. The Big Bathroom, despite having a nearly identical fixture to The Small Bathroom, was a total asshole. The pull on the handle was gritty and haughty, and the overbearing splashdown was a full three seconds in coming. A word of advice: if you're going to make me wait that long for a fill, I expect Siberian-grade distillate with a cocktail umbrella in it. Sadly, some shoddy sweating and what I can only describe as "cardboard" pipes lent this glass a distinct "fat guy in Sears who keeps knocking stuff off shelves and trying to hide in clothing displays" initial swallow. Distinct and pointy lines of carp pee and muddy notes of beard clippings further dragged down a glass of water already just barely fit for brushing one's teeth. And only THEN if the drinker has adequately minty toothpaste.

Overall a good glass for putting out small fires and accidentally spilling on your crotch, but not much else. If it were a person, it would steal your car and be mad at you for not keeping the tank topped off.

The Basement Washroom

And for the diamond-in-the-rough of our group, we come to the oft-overlooked basement washroom faucet. Seeing high-volume flow in nearby plumbing, but nearly none in its own feeder pipe lent this delightfully haphazard and hunchbacked basement dweller a brightly polished copper-aged body. This was augmented with very striated lines of PVC and the open-mouthed spigot with garden hose threading impregnated the midtones with unabashedly working-class zeal. The finish was a giggling blonde with hints of dryer lint and Tidy Cat. It was so cold that the fish pee was almost lost, showing up only as a faint ghost in the aftertaste. A surprisingly smooth glass of water when you consider the robust, square-edged bouquet normally defining these fixtures.

Overall, a wonderful glass to share with the boys on game night, although it may be a little strong to bring out in mixed company.

So you see, dear readers, that "getting a glass of water" can be a journey in its own right. Now, I usually drink from a tapered cylinder style glass made by the geniuses at the Corning corporation, but feel free to experiment with your own vessels. Or grab life by the horns and go feral and glassless!

With the summer months nearly upon us, the elitist palate can amuse itself until autumn with the rainbow of garden hose drinking options opening up. I look forward to that every spring thaw!

Craig Hart Explains: Hobos - Extended Edition

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 19:13:00 +0000

Warning: This Post May Be Lame

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 30 Dec 2010 00:18:00 +0000

I was looking at a pack of cigarettes the other day and noticed the warning label on the side: “This product causes cancer, heart disease, emphysema, and may complicate pregnancy.” This got me thinking about how our society is saturated with labels of this nature. Warning labels are everywhere. I opened a box from the store the other day and found the product inside wrapped in a plastic bag. On the bag was printed, “Not to be used as a crib liner.” On hairdryers there are labels that say, “Do not use in the bathtub.” It’s a wonder anyone born prior to 1960 survived childhood.

I admit I am torn on this issue. On the one hand I am annoyed by the constant chiding. I don’t like being told what to do. Also I’m not a big fan of handwringing, panty-waisted naysayers who shit their pants whenever they see someone having fun. “Don’t eat junk food,” they say, “don’t drink booze, don’t smoke, don’t take LSD, don’t drive 100 mph through a playground full of deaf kids!” Blah fucking blah.

On the other hand I completely recognize that the world is populated by idiots who would likely benefit from these warnings if they could read. We have to be able to say we tried, I suppose. We don’t want to get to the Judgment and have God (who wrote an entire book of warning labels) give the rest of us the omnipotent stink eye and condemn us to an eternity of constant confusion as payback.

With that in mind I think we should step up our efforts to protect the stupid and affix labels to everything. Even food generally considered healthy should come with helpful instructions for safe consumption. Carrot sticks should have a tiny message printed on them: “Sticking this object into your nasal cavity may cause discomfort and inhibit breathing.” Basic tools should be covered with warning stickers. For example, every nail should have a little tag that reads, “Pounding nails into your skull may cause severe pain, bewilderment, or even death.” Tall buildings should have signs posted in their lobbies that say, “Leaping from the top of this structure, while providing a brief euphoric sensation, may conclude in a sudden termination of existence. In other words, you will die, you stupid asshole.”

I know I sound like an arrogant bastard, but that simply means I’m expressing myself properly. I mean, it’s just that I feel like we’re only going halfway with all this. If we are going to have these little reminders of nanny statehood around, let’s make it entertaining. Otherwise, get rid of them all and let me take my chances.

Groan 2

noreply@blogger.com (Paul FooDaddy Brand) — Tue, 28 Dec 2010 16:43:00 +0000

Despite his energetic personality and powerful barrel-chested build, Al Kaline was an ultimately disposable character.

Oh, God. I'm sorry. I'll stop here.

The Trouble with Heated Water

noreply@blogger.com (Paul FooDaddy Brand) — Fri, 24 Dec 2010 21:01:00 +0000

Those of you who live in modern times probably have a big tank in your basement full of hot water. Those of you who live in non-modern times probably have to heat your water with burning witches or something.

I think we can all agree that this is a pretty good system. The tank sits down there in the dark with the spiders, out of sight, and you get all the delicious hot water you want, delivered right to your faucets. Toilets too, if you're weird.

Until the tank decides that you're too wasteful and limits its production. "He'll pay whatever I charge," the tank mutters to itself. "What's he gonna do? Get an electric tank? Buy a diesel? Loser."

Actually, all of my appliances call me a loser. It's something I have lived with for a long time.

When one has to go shopping for something one has to replace every day, such as beer or underwear, it's easy. "Gimme another one of them," you say, pointing at the boxer shorts. "Hey, you're that guy we were all warned about. Can I have your autograph before they kick you out?" the sales clerk says. Easy.

But a water heater is different. The one lurking in my basement has been lurking there for fourteen years. The last time it was replaced, I was just a stupid little kid that would have whined and shit my pants until my dad fixed it or bought a new one.

Now that I'm an adult with responsibilities and armpit hair, I have to take care of my own problems. I have to learn how to shop for things I've never shopped for before.

"But daaaaaAAAAaaaad!" I whined into the phone, shitting my pants. "There's not enough hot water! The dishwasher and the washing machine and I all make funny noises when there's not enough not water!"

"Jesus. Okay, clean yourself up and we'll go to Sears."

Now, as far as I knew, hot water heaters came in two kinds: the big cylindrical tanky ones like mine, and the witch-burning ones I mentioned earlier. Since the latter went out of style decades ago, I figured it would be a matter of going to Sears, standing next to a tank and smiling until a salesman came over and asked me if I wanted to buy it.

"Yes, please," I would say suavely. "Box this one up and have someone bring it 'round back and throw it in the trunk." I would then show the man a picture of myself holding a monkey wrench and flex one of my biceps.

"You're a man who knows what he wants, how he will transport it, and what to do with it when he gets it home," the salesman would say. "I admire that so much that I will give you twenty percent off, and my daughter's phone number."

Then I would take a shower.

As I'm sure you've predicted by now, it didn't work out that well. The salesman had questions. Cryptic ones.

"What size is yours at home?"

Having been ordered by the courts to stop cataloging the contents of my friends' basements years ago, my limited data mentioned nothing about different sizes.

"Um. It's, uh, you know. About like those, only maybe not quite so much like those," I said, pointing at their selection of water heaters.

"Well, if you get one that's too tall, it won't be able to vent properly and your house will fill up with carbon monixide," the salesman said with a serious frowny look on his face.

"That's a risk I'm willing to take," I said. "I'll take that one."

"I can't sell you one that won't fit, even if I wanted to. The plumber would refuse to install it."

"Ah, no problem there. I was going to install it myself. I have a monkey wrench and some electrical tape. Fully prepared."

"Heh. I'm sure you are, but these are a package deal. They come with the installation and the hauling away of the old unit."

"Well! I! Um. Okay bye!" I said, making a strategic dive into a washing machine. My father was a couple departments away, browsing Sears' selection of fine flashlights. I got him on the walkie-talkie. "He wants to know what size I need! Nobody told me they came in different sizes!"

"There, there boy. Don't shit your pants. You hiding in one of the washing machines again? I'll come get you, we'll measure the old one and come back."

"Never mind. I'll just use cold water from now on," I whimpered.

"Don't be a quitter. Remember what I told you what would happen if you was a quitter?"

"You'd sell me to the Mormons. I know."

Well, I'm kind of out of ideas now, so I'm going to end this here. I'm hoping the new water heater will be here in a few days and I can stop whining about things. You know. Because without the washing machine, I'm running out of underwear.

Groan

noreply@blogger.com (Paul FooDaddy Brand) — Fri, 24 Dec 2010 20:57:00 +0000

Despite having a tough exterior, Al Dente was actually a very tender man.

Geez. That was dumb. I don't think I can continue.

Encounter at the Park

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 22 Dec 2010 23:07:00 +0000

It was a beautiful day at the park. The sky was a deep shade of blue, punctuated by a few wispy clouds that wandered lethargically across the broad expanse. The meditative quiet was interrupted only by the occasional splash as a duck made a practiced landing on the pond. A few geese floated serenely along and overhead a bird sang merrily.

Suddenly the sky darkened and I felt a drop of rain hit my cheek. I reached up and brushed it away. It was rain, all right, but it seemed different somehow. Not only wet, but sticky. It also smelled bad, like a raging case of ineptitude. I glanced over my shoulder (only slightly throwing my neck out of joint) and realized the source of the bad turn of events. A red Mazda RX-8 had pulled into the parking lot. I groaned and clutched my stomach, which had just started to feel sick.

The Mazda turned into a parking space, the bumper scraping onto the curb. The front tires followed suit and the car teetered there for a moment, rocking back and forth as its driver tried to figure out the manual transmission. Apparently giving up, the driver killed the engine and pulled the keys from the ignition. I watched as he fumbled with the door handle and a mere five minutes later managed to open the door and step out. He saw me and waved. It was Paul.

"God, I hate him so," I whispered.

"Me, too," said God. "You want I should smite him?"

"Maybe later. Like when I'm not around. I don't want to get any on me."

Paul saw me and waved. He started walking forward, not noticing that he had shut one of his pants legs in the car door. He didn't slow down, even when the pants leg ripped completely off and dangled from the door, all sad and tattered.

"God, he's so stupid."

"Hey, I did the best I could," God said. "What, you think I can work miracles?"

Paul loped toward me. He tried to wave again, but forgot how and slapped himself in the face. He looked confused and staggered sideways, punted three ducks in quick succession, and then fell down in a crumpled heap. After a few experiments, he managed to stand up.

"I am here to see the ducks!" he announced in a lilting, unnecessarily loud voice.

I pointed. "They're over there. Help yourself."

"Don't mind if I do!" He grabbed up a duck and began stuffing it into his pocket. It quacked loudly and clacked its bill. Paul performed a horrible little dance of pain. "Ow, my dinkie!" He thrust the duck away and punted it into the middle of the pond to join its friends. "Take that, you...you..."

"Duck?"

"Yeah! Take that, you duck!" He grinned and it was then I noticed he'd been eating Oreos. "Guess I told him, didn't I not?"

I winced and looked aside. "You did, indeed. And now if you'll excuse me, I have some hating to do." I turned and began walking to my car. As I drove off and Paul disappeared from sight, the storm clouds rolled away and the sky returned to its former splendor. Coincidence? You be the judge.

Little Red Riding Craig

noreply@blogger.com (Paul FooDaddy Brand) — Tue, 21 Dec 2010 23:14:00 +0000

It was 5:43 AM, and Craig's alarm clock went off, just like it did every morning. He had a unique alarm clock that sounded like five fat guys stomping in bowls of pudding. The other tenants in his apartment building hated it.

"Same time tomorrow, guys?" Craig said in that voice of his. The five fat guys shuffled out of his bedroom, each of them muttering under their breath about how much they hated Craig.

"Yawn!" Craig screeched. "It's a beeeeyooootiful day! Time to take a slice of room-temperature pizza to my brother-in-law."

He thrashed his way out of bed. This took twenty minutes because he could not figure out which end of the bed was the foot and which the head. He spent a good amount of time covered with blankets and yelling. The other tenants in his apartment building hated this too.

Finally extricating himself from his distressingly crinkly sheets, Craig pranced to his closet and opened the doors.

"I need something light and stylish, but good for travel by foot," he said aloud to himself because he was the only one who could bear to listen to him. "Aha!" he said unnecessarily, selecting his favorite traveling apparel: a big dopey red sweater with donkeys on it. "The same one I always select!" he tittered, invalidating all the time he spent picking it out.

Garbed in his riding sweater and carrying the pizza in a picnic basket, Craig set out. All the yelling and honking of horns and the subsequent return to his apartment to put on pants only slightly dampened his spirits.

"I shall go through the woods, because it is much harder to travel through them because of the sticks and creatures," Craig explained, entering the woods.

As soon as the trees closed in around him, the dense forest canopy darkening his path, he was accosted by the Big Bad Wombat.

"Hi, Craig," said the Big Bad Wombat.

"Oh no!" squealed Craig. "A wolf!"

"What?"

"My, what big haunches you have!" said Craig, poking the Big Bad Wombat with one of his terrible fingers.

"All the better to...hold on. What?"

"My, what big molars you have!" said Craig, poking the Big Bad Wombat in the eye.

"Goddammit!"

"My, what, like, four feet you have!" said Craig, poking the Big Bad Wombat in each foot.

"Aw, that does it!" shouted the Big Bad Wombat, running back into the forest fastness from whence he'd come.

"Hey! Aren't you supposed to threaten to eat me or steal my porridge or something?" Craig called after him.

"Eat yourself!" came the Big Bad Wombat's muffled reply from the underbrush.

"Ow!" Craig said.

After three hours of relatively unimpeded travel, Craig arrived at the front door of his brother-in-law's house. "Ding dong!" he squealed, poking the door knocker.

"Why, hello Craig," said the brother-in-law, suppressing his gag reflex.

"I brung you some pizza!" Craig said, holding up his picnic basket.

"Why are your arms all chewed up?" asked the brother-in-law.

"Oh, that? The Big Bad Wombat told me to do that," Craig said matter-of-factly, shrugging his chewed-up shoulders.

The brother-in-law sighed. "That's your excuse for everything. Well, you'd better come in so we can put some ointment on those bite marks."

"Oh boy! Oiiiiinnnntment!" Craig screeched.

The brother-in-law put the pizza down the garbage disposal and consoled his wife while Craig drank all the ointment he wanted. They all lived happily ever after!

Granola Prose XVIII

noreply@blogger.com (Paul FooDaddy Brand) — Mon, 20 Dec 2010 20:46:00 +0000

The Writer examined the television remote he held in his had. He hefted it. He balanced it on two fingers. He watched as it see-sawed lazily, twitching slightly when it toppled out of his hand and into his glass of cola.

"You know," he said to The Wife, "I don't recall there being a 'Make Television Programming Suck' button on that remote, but I think I accidentally pressed it."

The Wife calmly fished the remote out of the cola and wrapped it in a towel she kept handy for such occurrences.

"I mean, look at this dreck!" The Writer whined, fluttering his hands at the screen as if he were shooing away a cloud of particularly stinky moths.

"Welcome to Who Would Enjoy Being a Billionaire! Today, we ask Kevin Bumfetcher of West Michigan if he would enjoy being a billionaire!"

Host rings Kevin's doorbell

"Hello? Hey! You're--!"

Host silences Kevin with a polite poke in the eye

"I am! And I'm here to ask you, Kevin Bumfetcher, if you would Enjoy Being a Billionaire!"

"Oh my God! Yes! Yes I would!"

Kevin prances around his foyer, booting curious children and pets left and right

"Ha ha! That's what I thought, Kevin!"

Host slams door and turns to the camera

"Join us next week for another exciting episode of Who Would Enjoy Being a Billionaire!"

"Absolute bilge," the Writer harrumphed.

"You know," said the Wife, "you could be working on your cereal epic instead of watching TV shows you claim you hate." She unwrapped the remote, went to place it on the arm of the couch, reconsidered, then tucked it into her tool belt. "In fact, you should be working on it. And in order to encourage you, I am going to build a small but extremely capable robot out of the remote."

"I know, I know. I'm just taking a break. Geez." The Writer made a grab for the remote. The Wife dodged nimbly.

"Honey pie? This 'break' of yours started four hours ago."

The Writer tried for a breast. "Different people take different lengths of time to recharge, based on brain size," he said huffily.

"Ideally," the Wife said, dodging again, "your breaks would be inspiring or restful. Yesterday you spent two hours refreshing your blog page to increase your hit counter."

"Marketing. That was for marketing."

"Your blog is free."

"Okay, fine. Fetch my Underwood."

"It's on your lap."

"Excellent."

It was a crack in the rock, and it was just big enough for Stubs to squeeze through. With a grunt and a poot, he did just that. He tumbled to the cave floor on the other side of the fissure, his back bending uncomfortably as he sprawled atop a moderately-sized boulder that looked like it had been purposely chiseled to the right size and shape to plug the hole.

Quickly, pausing only to swear mightily, Stubs used the boulder to plug the hole, hamming it home with his hammer. He willed his pounding heart to slow. Naturally, it didn't listen to him, as it was an autonomous process that cannot be controlled by conscious effort. He put his ear to the rock and listened, his breath coming in short panicked bursts, his poots coming in soft panicked succession.

"Shit! The light's gone!" screeched Tony.

"Wonk!" agreed Edward.

"Well, he can't hide back there forever. There's only one entrance to this cave, and it's back the way we came. He'll either come out eventually, or the cave ducks will eat him. He's dead either way!"

There followed a spate of antagonistic chucklery.

"In the meantime, let us settle here in the darkness and have some mead."

"Wonk!"

Stubs almost had the boulder pried out of its hole before he realized what his traitorous hands and palate were up to.

"No! Must...be...strong!" he said through gritted teeth.

"Yessss. It must be strong," said a raspy little voice. It bounced around the cave, splashing into puddles of water and slithering along ledges of rock covered with scree.

Stubs froze. He turned around slowly. He backed up until he met the cool rock behind him.

"H-hello?" he said. It came out in a choked little gulp.

"Edward!" Tony howled. "Did you just say 'hello'?"

"Good, heavens, no," said Edward. "Wonk! I said 'wonk'."

Stubs quickly stuffed his beard into his mouth and edged away from the wall. The room he found himself in, for it was a room, was lit from one end by the same bright blue light that had drawn him to the crack in the wall. The ceiling was much higher here--so high in fact that Stubs couldn't see it. He squinted into the gloom.

"Hello?" he said again, taking a few tentative steps toward the light.

"Hello indeed," said the voice. "It plugs our door, it poots up our air and it squints into our gloom. It's not a very polite dwarf, is it Samuel?" the voice oozed.

"I'm sorry," Stubs said, his voice muffled by beard. "I was being chased, you see, and this was the only place I could find to hide. I, uh, can't...are you...is there someone in here?" As he crept closer to the blue light, it grew corners and straight edges.

"And why wouldn't we be in our own house?" the voice said. "Stupid dwarf."

Some pebbles clattered to the floor somewhere in the darkness.

"Again, I'm sorry. I meant no trouble. My poots and I will be on our way, right out this window. It'll be like I was never--oh!"

It wasn't a window. It was a big, glowing pane of glass! Not just glowing, but, Stubs' eyes widened in amazement, full of people!

There was a wet slapping sound to Stubs' left. He ripped his gaze from the magic glass and probed the darkness. Two huge eyes stared back out of it at him, shimmering like those of a cat.

"Then it probes our darkness. Very rude, isn't he, Samuel?" the voice said. A pale face filled in the shadows behind the eyes, followed by a pale body clothed in a sharp suit. The creature wore no shoes on its large, wide feet, the latter making wet slapping noises as it walked into the pool of light.

Stubs glanced back at the glowing, otherworldly glass, then at the impeccably dressed creature, then at the glass. His curiosity got the better of him. He spit out his beard.

"How many ounces are in a pound?" he asked the creature.

"Sixteen," it said.

"I see. And what is this?" Stubs asked, gesturing to the glass.

"It's a television."

"Of course. And what is a 'television'?"

"An anachronism. The dwarf should pay it no attention, shouldn't it, Samuel?" the creature said in its gurgly voice. It seated itself in the armchair facing the anachronism. It regarded Stubs with its huge luminous eyes. "So. When will it be leaving? Soon, we hopes. Now would be even better."

Stubs relaxed the death-grip he had on his hammer. He took a couple of cautious steps toward the creature. "Is your name Samuel?" he asked.

"Why does the dwarf ask us stupid questions?" it asked. It directed this query into the breast pocket of its suit. "Obviously our name is not Samuel. We are called Gulliver. We wish the farty dwarf would go away so that we could finish our wallowing, yes, wallowing in the numbing glow of our anachronism. Becoming ever more creepy and fondleous, yes."

"Then who is Samuel?"

Gulliver reached into his breast pocket with his long, spindly fingers and withdrew a linty old gingerbread cookie.

"Cookie," he said, and put it back.

"I see," Stubs said, scratching the back of his head nervously. "My name is Stubs, and, well Gulliver, you wouldn't know if there's another way out of this cave, would you? I have to get out of here, and the way back there is guarded by an incompetent antagonist and Satan's own duck. My friends must be halfway to Whimsidor by now, and I owe it to them to rescue them." He looked down at the ground and dug a toe into the loose gravel. "After all the horrible odors I released into their tents every night, boy do I owe it to them." He was unsuccessful in stifling a giggle at this point.

A strange thing happened to Gulliver's face when Stubs uttered the word Whimisidor. His eyes lost their tapetum-glow and his brow hardened. Where before there was no jaw line, there suddenly was one, and it was set.

"We hates the fairies. Hates them! Hates them like the goats hate the trouts!" he spat, his fists clenched, his toes also clenched.

"Well, um, so do I," said Stubs. "The crappy ones at least. Stopping them has kind of been the whole point of my quest here, and I would dearly like to continue it. Will you join me? Will you be my guide through these caves that I dearly hope constitute a secret tunnel system that leads directly to, among other places, the prison tower in Whimsidor?"

Gulliver stood, his back to Stubs. He lifted his suit coat, revealing the stunted remains of fairy wings. Lowering it again, he turned.

"We will guides the stupid dwarf, yes, and help him kicks the fairies. We will do this right after we finishes our show."

"'Gulliver'? Really?" the Wife muttered, frowning at the page curling out of the Underwood's carriage. "Surely you're aware that that character is a blatant rip-off of Gollum, aren't you?"

The Writer twisted his body away, shielding his epic from his wife's unappreciative eyeballs. "Pfft. I have no idea what you're talking about, woman. That's crazy talk. You're talking crazy talk!" The Underwood slipped off his lap and crashed to the floor. The Writer picked it back up. He stroked its keys and tickled it under the carriage return lever. "She didn't mean it. She says mean things when her cold fusion reactor doesn't achieve at least 90% efficiency," he cooed.

The Wife sighed. "Alright. You're on your own on this one. You and I both know how fiercely protective Tolkien fans are of their rambly, clunky books. Don't come crying to me when they all gang up and throw their 20-sided dice and Elven dictionaries at you."

The Great Romance

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 17 Dec 2010 21:35:00 +0000

You know, people love themselves. I mean, they really love themselves. I know this is so, because I am a people and I think I am awesome. I am also insightful and honest, not to mention humble.

The fact that people are madly in love with themselves is clearly seen every day. I work with the public on a regular basis and these egomaniacal, hedonistic bipeds are always in plentiful supply. For example, they will come up to the desk and ask a question in the most nebulous manner possible and then become irate when I misunderstand their intent.

Winter is one of the worst times, because minor illness is rampant and people love to talk about how sick they are. Last year we had a patron come into the library where I work who was apparently at Death’s door. She dragged into the building, coughing and sniffling, and struggled up to the desk.

“I am sooo sick,” she wheezed, placing grubby, germ-infested hands on the counter top. “Bronchitis, the flu, and a double dose of the common cold all wrapped into one. I’ve never been so ill.”

I just looked at her and thought, Then what are you doing here? If you feel that bad, you should either be at the hospital or home in bed, not infecting the rest of the population. But that is just the point. She loved herself so much she was sure no one else in the world had ever been so sick. It wasn’t enough to be sick. Oh no. She had to let everyone know she was sick so she could get sympathy and have people fawn over her. She did not get her wish at my branch, let me tell you.

Similar examples show up all throughout daily life. George Carlin points out that people who drive slower than we do are “idiots” and those who drive faster are “maniacs.” “There’s certainly nobody going my speed!” he adds. Carlin makes an excellent point, which is less about driving and more about the fact that we all think everyone else is doing something wrong, particularly when it causes even the slightest bit of inconvenience.

I, of course, am the exception. I always assume I am the problem and take steps to remedy the situation. For example, if I am on the road and some fucking moron gets in my way, I always assume he has somewhere more important to go and I pull off onto the shoulder of the highway to let him pass. Then I beat myself with a tire iron so I will not forget this valuable lesson.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with a healthy sense of self-worth. That is, in fact, essential. I have such great self-esteem that I will routinely write songs to myself or long dissertations extolling my virtues. There must, however, be a balance. To get too wrapped up in oneself introduces the dangers I have already mentioned, i.e. becoming an asshole. I recommend you all stay vigilant. And keep a tire iron handy just in case.

Granola Prose XVII

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 15 Dec 2010 13:53:00 +0000

Author's Note: For those of you new to the Blog, I should explain that Granola Prose is a cereal, uh, serial of sorts. It is a fantasy tale told in the form of blog post installments. Having been gone from the Blog for some time, it has finally returned and this post is the latest chapter. If you care to catch up on what you have missed, check out the handy Granola Prose links on the sidebar.

Some Years Later...

The Writer stood in his bathroom, feet tingling on the cold linoleum, and stared into the mirror. His reflection stared back, haggard and shocking. Sadness filled the Writer, causing a tear to escape from the corner of his eye. It ran down his cheek and rolled into the sink. He caught it just before it disappeared down the drain.

He washed off the eye and put it back into its socket, rolling it around and trying to make it stick. His friends had warned him about purchasing from that glass eye retailer on the Internet, but the prices had been too good to pass up. After all, it’s tough to beat $4.99. And a payment plan.

He thought back to the old days, when his writing was going famously and he had been the proud owner of two original eyeballs. And then the accident had happened, the terrible accident that had robbed him of the eyeball to the left of his right one. It had plunged him into a miserable wretchedness of unhappy sadness and taken away his will to live, his will to write, his will to do anything except eat granola and watch reruns of U.S. Senate proceedings on C-SPAN.

The Writer stood in his bathroom, feet tingling on the damn cold linoleum, and stared into the mirror. His reflection stared back, haggard and shocking. Determination filled the Writer, causing a tear to escape from the corner of his eye. He closed both eyes (just in case) and came to a decision. It was time to start writing again. After all these years, the Granola Prose epic would rise from the ashes like a really shitty phoenix, taking on fate, life, and the American way!

The Writer performed an unsightly pirouette. His white bathrobe swirled open, giving his unsuspecting cat a nasty peek “indoors.” The traumatized animal yowled and ran for the cellar, discovered one did not exist, and then decided to dig one before realizing it would simply be easier to hang itself from a nearby oak tree.*

“Yes, goddammit!” the Writer said aloud. “I am going to WRITE!” He ran to his typewriter and looked around for a piece of paper. “Paper, paper…where’s the fucking paper!” He searched high and low, inside desk drawers and behind the wallpaper…no foolscap to be found. In desperation, he ran to the bathroom and returned with a couple rolls of single-ply toilet tissue. “It’ll have to do!”

He spooled it into the carriage with a flourish and began to type…

Stubs ran blindly into the dark recesses of the cave. Behind him he heard Tony’s screeching and the malevolent quacking of Edward the Duck.

“We’ll find you, dwarf! We’ll search you out! We’ll track you down!”

“Wonk!”

Stubs ran faster, bumping his head on low-hanging rocks and once falling to all fours, the rough surface of the ground scuffing his hands and knees. Soon, however, all the recent excitement and exertion took its toll and he collapsed, exhausted. He rolled onto his back and listened to the pounding of his heart. The air was heavy this far back in the cave and he struggled to breathe.

“Come out, dwarf,” Tony yelled in a typically antagonistic manner. “We promise not to harm you.” There was a moment of silence and then both Tony and Edward burst into hysterical giggling. “Har har har!”

“Quackle, quackle!” laughed Edward.

“Nah, but seriously, dwarf,” Tony said, his voice echoing throughout the cave chambers. “Make a noise, throw a rock, something…”

Stubs felt a familiar urge growing inside him and he tensed, trying to forestall disaster. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to concentrate on calm, pleasant things, like rainbows and beer.

The footsteps of his pursuers came suddenly closer and the battle was lost.

BRONK!

“Ah ha!” Tony sounded triumphant. “We’ve got you now! Follow the smell, Edward!”

“Wonk!”

Stubs pushed to a sitting position and looked around frantically. His eyes probed the darkness, trying to see something, anything that would give him an avenue of escape. Then he saw it: a little point of light down the passage. He heaved to his feet and stumbled forward, hands outstretched to protect from any nasty bumps to the head. As he ran, the point of light became larger and soon he could make out a crack in the rock. It was a window, of sorts! Maybe just large enough to squeeze through! Behind him, Tony and Edward were closing in.

“There he is!” Tony shouted. “We have to stop him!”

“Indeed, sir,” Edward replied. “Uh, I mean, wonk!”

Stubs was almost there. He could feel the cool draft of mountain air on his face. His hands reached outward, fingers grasping for freedom…and then the ground disappeared and he was falling…falling…falling.

The Wife poked her head around the corner. “I thought I heard some typing in here. Finally back at work on your granola story?”

“Epic! And, yes.” Although he didn’t need to, the Writer hit the space bar with extra force just to make his point. He looked back at the Wife imperiously and assumed the stuffy British accent he always used during these occasions. “I have battled through my personal demons at last and decided that the accident, dreadful as it was, should not keep me from my destiny.”

“Whatever.” Obviously fascinated by this account of the Writer’s personal journey, the Wife yawned and stretched. “Anyway, I just stopped by to tell you not to panic if you hear a loud roar and the house starts shaking.”

Accent forgotten, the Writer’s eyes widened and he shuddered. “Your mother is coming!? She was just here!”

“No, no, no! This morning I’m testing the new jet engine I designed out of old house appliance parts.”

“So that’s where my toaster went.”

“And your electric razor, yes. Don’t cry, we’ll get you new ones for Christmas.”

And with that the Wife disappeared around the corner to pursue her destiny. The Writer bent over his typewriter, knowing he should attempt to wrap up this particular plot point before all the racket began.

*In the end, it sought treatment instead and went on to live a happy and fulfilled life of ease.

Letters to Craig

noreply@blogger.com (Paul FooDaddy Brand) — Mon, 13 Dec 2010 23:06:00 +0000

December 9, 2010, 8:02 AM

Dear Swine,

Season's greetings to you, my good man, and I hope this letter finds you in good health! I would like to congratulate you on your recent work on bringing this Blog up to code, although I am a bit dismayed at your dismissal of my suggestion that you cease and desist. I will honor this request, and leave your login credentials unmolested.

In the meantime, I have an idea for a new Crispy the Lion story that I would like to run by you. Introducing Stabby the Mongoose: he is a troubled creature with murder on his mind. He is angry and he wants revenge--until Crispy the Lion comes along and reminds him that the best things in life aren't stabby.

Stabby sees Crispy's irrefutable logic in this, and agrees to become wholesome and huggable because of Crispy's Special Message.

It would be a good one to run for the holidays, as it has a Special Message.

Looking forward to your reply and your input,
--Paul

December 9, 2010, 9:13 AM

Dear Honky,

Your letter did indeed find me in good health, but I regret to inform you that it did not leave me in the same. The hot wax you used to seal the envelope scorched both of my pinky fingers most obscenely. This will prove to be a detriment, I fear, to the way in which I drink my tea, as I am currently unable to extend them without intense pain. As a man of iron will and vast fortitude, I attempted to ignore the agony but my piercing squeals drew the ire of the restauranteur, and I'm afraid I am no longer welcome at that particular Bob Evans.

I digress.

To answer your question, I'm terribly sorry, but you are going to have to repeat it as I was unable to concentrate due to the deleterious effect my recent injuries had on my attention.

Distressingly yours,
--Craig.

P.S.: Would it be too much of an inconvenience to ask you to use a non-serif font next time? I would like to avoid further damage to my digits, and those serifs are mighty pointy.

December 9, 2010, 2:02 PM

Dear Swine,

Regarding the injury you allegedly suffered at the hands, as it were, of my last missive...I fail to understand how that could have happened. It was an email, you see, and no wax at all was involved. Nonetheless, I have read that the topical application of extract of the aloe vera plant has a soothing effect on minor burns.

Also difficult to understand is how you were able to miss the description of my post idea, written down as it was, in a non-volatile medium. But since I'm not here to solve mysteries but to provide high-quality entertainment to the undiscerning masses, I shall sum it up:

Crispy the Lion befriends Stabby the Mongoose and teaches him, through a Special Message, that the good things in life are not stabby, but wholesome and huggable.

Regards,
--Paul

P.S.: A little, yes.

December 10, 2010, 5:23 AM

Dear Honky,

I must apologize for the lengthy delay between this letter and my last, but I have been in the hospital since ingesting the aloe vera extract you suggested. I will give you the benefit of the doubt here, but I would hope you do some perfunctory research on your remedies the next time you suggest one. As it turns out, aloe vera extract does very little to soothe burns, but it makes an excellent laxative.

As a result, I scarcely need to mention, I am no longer welcome at another Bob Evans restaurant. You staggering ass.

Your ideas regarding stabbing geese are thoroughly reprehensible. I can envision a small and sweaty subset of our audience finding such things amusing, but I would prefer we do not go that route.

I can only assume you were offering the idea in jest in an attempt to be droll. I look forward to your next serious idea.

Reprehensibly yours,
--Craig

December 10, 2010, 12:32 PM

Dear Swine,

Once again, you appear to have allowed your illiteracy to cloud your understanding of my recent communique. Less of it.

Furthermore...what? I never mentioned a goose. Not goose one did I mention! Nor did I tell you to eat the aloe vera! I said distinctly that it was a "topical application." In this case, it is you, sir, who are a stumbling bottom.

Yes, I said it. A stumbling bottom.

I will forge ahead with my post idea, with or without a green light from you. I trust that your better judgement will find it amusing, once it gets back from vacation.

Fewer regards than last time,
--Paul

December 10, 2010, 1:02 PM

Dear Honky,

Gasp! First you try to poison me with your sticky death plants and your horrible ideas, and now you're describing me in terms that could only be described as "monumentally unfriendly"? Outrageous! The only thing more alarming than your behavior is your prudish avoidance of adult language. "Bottom" indeed.

Uncomfortably lingeringly yours,
--Craig

December 10, 2010, 1:04 PM

Dear Swine,

Fuck fuckitty fuck fuck damn. Poo tits ass.

Rapidly diminishing regards,
--Paul

December 10, 2010, 1:07 PM

Honky,

Real mature. Also, note the lack of "dear" in my greeting. May you never find enough blankets to keep you warm in the howling void left by that omission.

Leeringly yours,
--Craig

December 10, 2010, 1:10 PM

Swine,

Two can play at this ludicrous game! You, sir, are an inflatable polymer donkey filled with unpleasant thoughts and the bottom burps of crazy men.

Only a single regard,
--Paul

December 10, 2010, 1:10 PM

Honky,

No, YOU are.

December 10, 2010, 1:11 PM

Swine,

No, YOU are.

December 10, 2010, 1:12 PM

Honky,

Noooo, YOU are.