The Blog of Stupid

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 (Craig Hart) — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 19:13:00 +0000

Warning: This Post May Be Lame

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Hart) — 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 (Craig Hart) — 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 (Craig Hart) — 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 (Craig Hart) — 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.

A Surprise Visit

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Hart) — Sun, 12 Dec 2010 23:35:00 +0000

“So watcha doin’?”

The look on FooDaddy’s face as he opened the door and saw me standing on his doorstep was priceless. His eyes opened wide and his lip curled. He clutched his stomach and hiccupped. Obviously, he had eaten something that disagreed with him and I was happy I had made the decision to surprise him by coming over unannounced. He needed some cheering up if feeling poorly.

“Feeling sickly, huh?” I said, thinking a little conversation would make him feel better. “Whatsa matter?”

“It just suddenly came over me,” he said. “I think I may be allergic to annoying things.”

I stepped inside the house and looked around for our buddy Kevin, but he was nowhere in sight. I didn’t know what FooDaddy was babbling about and decided to ignore it, although I was a bit concerned that perhaps he was becoming delusional.

I glanced back and saw a trail of snow and ice melting into the carpet. I frowned. “You really need to shovel your driveway,” I said reprovingly. “I might have slipped and fallen, did I not possess the agility of an emu.”

FooDaddy walked to a cabinet and retrieved an economy-sized bottle of antacid tablets. He poured out a handful and began munching them like Skittles®. “I wasn’t aware emus were particularly agile.”

“Shows what you know!” I said, laughing and punching him good-naturedly in the trachea. The good thing about FooDaddy is that he can play along with a joke, although I felt that clutching his throat and collapsing to the floor was going a little too far. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, I chuckled appreciatively and then walked into the living room. I noticed a video game screenshot on the TV and sat down on the couch.

“Playin’ games, huh?” I said. “Can I play?” I waited a moment for FooDaddy to respond, but he seemed too interested in pretending to choke and struggle for breath. It was okay as performances go, but all the gagging was actually pretty disgusting and quite overdone.

Not wanting to encourage this behavior, I ignored him and picked up a game controller. I unpaused the game and began using the joystick to navigate the map. Within a few seconds, the screen went dark.

“The game stopped working,” I said. I was trying to remain calm, but was rather annoyed that FooDaddy had let me play a broken game. Very thoughtless, although typical.

“It’s a shooter,” he said, his voice strained and raspy. “You have to kill the enemies before they kill you, otherwise you die and the screen goes dark and takes you back to the menu.”

I dropped the controller in disgust. “You can die in this game? LAME SAUCE!” I bounded from the couch and heard something crunch. I looked down to see the controller under my foot.

FooDaddy dropped to his knees and grabbed the broken pieces from the floor. “Do you know how much this cost?!”

“Lord, no! Why do you think I come over here to play games?”

Feeling a bit bored, I began fiddling with random objects sitting on counters and shelves. My fingers were still a bit numb from the cold outside and a little ceramic mug slipped from my hand and smashed on the floor. “Whoopsies!”

“Why must you break things?” Still cradling the shattered remains of the controller, FooDaddy made a show of weeping uncontrollably.

I was beginning to wish I’d stayed home. I had come over here to relax and wasn’t in the mood for drama. FooDaddy was still burping, gasping, weeping, and crawling around the floor. “Well, I don’t mean to rush,” I said, “but it seems kinda dangerous here. I think I’ll go home before I get hurt.” I walked to the front door and grasped the knob, which somehow managed to come off in my hand.

“I think that’s a good idea,” FooDaddy said. “And maybe next time you could call ahead before you arrive. So I can be gone.”

I laughed. That FooDaddy was such a jokester. I could tell he was disappointed I was leaving so quickly and I decided to drop by tomorrow to see if he was feeling any better. I had the day off and so could spend the entire afternoon being a good friend. It would, of course, be a surprise.

But Wait! There's More!

noreply@blogger.com (Paul "FooDaddy" Brand) — Fri, 10 Dec 2010 23:09:00 +0000

Oh, my colleague! Isn't he a card? A hunched, odoriferous card with bean dip on it? Ha and ha!

But the joke's on him, of course, because I don't have any peers.

Let the Party Begin, Er, Renew!

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Hart) — Fri, 10 Dec 2010 21:03:00 +0000

Like a moth drawn to a flame, the Blog of Stupid has worked its magic and drawn me back into its moldy embrace. And it only took two years. Twenty-one months, to be exact, but who’s counting? Oh, that’s right--you are! There are no doubt legions of faithful fans who have not moved from their increasingly uncomfortable chairs for two longish years, staring at their computer screens and manically clicking the browser refresh button, the desk and surrounding floor piled high with pizza boxes and empty take-out bins. Their t-shirt fronts, stretched to the point of no return by their massive, quivering bellies, are covered with the dust of a thousand Pringles®. Although nauseated by this mental image, my heart is warmed as I imagine the croaks of joy that escape their parched throats and picture them attempting to stand and cheer. They are, of course, unable to do so, their asses having fused to the fake leather of their office chairs sometime last August.

I must interrupt the joy for just a moment, however, to make a confession. I have been unfaithful. Yes, it’s true. I have written for other blogs. One of which was for an excellent cause, however, namely turning the life of a co-author into a living hell. I started a blog devoted to mocking and belittling him. After several posts in this vein, however, I thought, “Why not bring this mockery to a larger audience, while at the same time reviving The Blog, possibly even returning it to its former glory?”

But then I thought, why waste the grand re-opening Blog post on such an unworthy subject? Would that not merely encourage the little wanker to further incompetent mischief? So I reached a compromise. I will, indeed, write a Blog post employing the lowest blows possible in hopes of crushing the spirits of *ick* him, but it will not be this one. It will be a small, insignificant post uploaded in the middle of the night so that only people of ill-repute will be likely to see it. In this way I will be sure to ruin his reputation among his peers. Haw.

The Moron Fills In (Part Deux)

noreply@blogger.com (Paul "FooDaddy" Brand) — Mon, 30 Mar 2009 19:44:00 +0000

His chest expanded, chin jutting, arms thrown back and his feet planted exactly three feet apart, the Moron stood astride both the Dude's Barbershop floor and the monumental responsibility housed within like a posable action figure left out in the sun.

The brunette was pointing out various barbery bits around the Dude's shop, but she was one of those soft-spoken girls, and the music in the place (played over a system that sounded like a public restroom full of $20 clock radios) was rather on the loud side.

"With the reliant bums in, sneak them in a mile and back-slap their bike with a worm trowel," he heard.

The Moron understood that she felt an obligation to explain everything, but wished she wouldn't bother. He was a professional. Professionals knew how to do things already. That's what made them professionals.

"Thank you very much, Abby. Which one of these recliners is mine?"

"Stephanie."

"No. Recliners."

"Stephanie!"

"Step on you? Why?"

She moved closer. "Steff-UH-nee. That's my name. Since you're filling in for Megan, you use her chair. Over here." Stephanie guided the Moron to a chair close to the shop's plate glass front window. Some dimwitted, surely unprofessional, putz had painted the text on it all backwards. It was a wonder this place got any business at all, poor souls. This seemed like a good time to buoy their spirits by showing them that he had come prepared for anything.

"I brought my own scissors," the Moron said, his tone deep and soothing, like a bottle of confident cough syrup that wanted the best for everybody. He tugged a pair of scissors from his back pocket. They had what the Moron considered to be very impressive fluorescent green handles, one of which was bigger and more elongated. This was part of their dark mystery, as the Moron had yet to discover what purpose this served, but he would have to do that research on his own time.

He had bigger problems to deal with right now.

"Oh, um. That won't be necessary. Megan left all of her supplies in her toolbox here, and..."

Stephanie's voice sounded like it was coming from deep inside an empty oil drum in the next room. The Moron was busy staring at his scissors. There was a problem with them. They had somehow developed a sort of sickle shape he couldn't remember them having before he left the house.

If one is to transport something in one's back pocket, it should be something that will not bend and take on the contours of one's buttocks, the Moron wrote on his pad of mental Post-It notes with a liquid-ink, rollerball thought-pen.

It was this kind of throughness that made him who he was, so it was not surprising that when inspiration struck, the Moron did not duck but took it right on the chin. These scissors are not broken. They're enhanced!

"They're contoured to follow the curvature of the skull!" he bleated, flourishing them like an infomercial huckster. "Bang. Productivity increased by ten to sixty-four percent right off the bat. Where are your Snickers?" He flexed the scissors mightily and one of the handles fell off.

"All the stuff you'll need is right here in this box," she said, patting a steel Craftsman toolbox.

Snickers, the Moron thought. In a toolbox. How grand. I must search for them. He cracked his knuckles in anticipation. There were few things in the world that the Moron enjoyed more than a good rummage. The big red toolbox, with its multitude of drawers and cake-like layered design was ripe for rummaging. His fingers twitched and he began to vibrate and drool.

"I've gotta run to the bank and get some change for the cash drawer. If you have any questions, just ask Hailey."

"Mm hmm."

The Moron waited for the door to close behind Stephanie before he scanned the toolbox for weaknesses. Perhaps one of those little drawers in front. A bit of spastics, and he'd be right in. He twisted his right hand into a claw, and coiled his arm like an arthritic cobra that could only bend at the elbow. Suddenly, his hand darted out and hooked a drawer open. A confetti cloud of clipper parts burst from the drawer and rained down all around him, disappearing forever under chairs and sinks.

"Hee hee," the Moron chuckled. "Parts."

A chime sounded. The Moron was deeply mistrustful of chimes, so he immediately put his rummaging on the back burner to investigate. The chimes were located above the entrance to the shop, and as he swung to recon that area, he noticed the door closing.

He heard footsteps.

The Moron followed their sound to the man making them. The man was talking to the girl (probably this "Hailey" character he'd heard so much about) behind the low desk with the LCD screen on it. Now he was writing something on a clipboard.

Hailey looked up from her LCD. "Your first client!" she said.

...to be continued!

The Moron Fills In

noreply@blogger.com (Paul "FooDaddy" Brand) — Tue, 17 Mar 2009 19:22:00 +0000

The Moron slammed his shiny red sports car into third gear and planted his foot. The engine screamed, the car's chassis tilted slightly under the influence of the torque, a rush of air blew his hair back, and the Chevrolet Cavalier behind him blew its horn. He glanced up from the tachometer.

The light was green. The Moron quickly shifted into first gear and let out the clutch. He turned the fan down and watched the Cavalier shrink in his rear-view mirror. A sweaty little frog of jealousy reached out from its dank cave and fondled his heart as he wished aloud for perhaps the hundredth time that he had bought a Cavalier instead. They were so cool, and the rusty ones looked even classier. Like a distinguished gentleman graying at the temples.

He wanted one sooo bad. Preferably in a nice shade of mauve with whitewall tires and a big ironing board spoiler and a really loud fart cannon exhaust and those blue halogen headlights, and...

Whoops. That was the street he needed. He was going to be very slightly late now. Normally this would not bother him, but today was special. Today he would not be rocking the socks off his own job, but filling in for his girlfriend at the barber's shop. As he spun the car into a tire-smoking U-turn, his vision blurred and the windshield full of angry motorists turned wavy, then dissolved altogether as the flashback chimes sounded, and he was once again standing in his boxer shorts in his kitchen.

"You're going to need that sock's mate if you're going to work for me today, candypants," his girlfriend was saying.

"Grappling hook!" the Moron said for no reason, and looked down at his feet. They were indeed only 50% socked. "Periwinkle!" he added.

"Be that as it may, you're going to have to be dressed for this job. I don't know what your dress code is like at The Company, but it's quite strict over at the shop." She ducked back into the bathroom to remove the scaffolding and finish the work on her hair.

The Moron allowed the arm holding his mug to relax. Coffee dribbled onto the floor as he prepared a professional office-person statement about The Company's regulations regarding employee wardrobe.

"I wear whatever I want!" he hooted. "I'm a professional, and as such I am permitted to garb myself as I see fit. I even wore a bowtie one day, but it fell into the document shredder." He crossed his arms and dumped the remaining coffee over his left shoulder.

"...regulars who expect me to remember their last cut. It's in this bag here. I really appreciate you doing this for me, hon," his girlfriend continued.

Evidently she had been explaining something important while he was defining his territory.

No matter. He'd figure it out. The Moron tossed the empty coffee mug skillfully at the dishwasher, watched fondly as it bounced off the closed door and rolled across the linoleum, and stalked off to find pants. As he reached into the laundry basket, its contents blurred, became wavy, and suddenly he was back on the road, in his car, drooling on the gauge cluster.

These flashback sequences weren't strictly necessary, since the events encapsulated therein took place less than an hour ago, and they tended to be more trouble than they were worth. The Moron made a mental note to tell his doctor. He then made a physical note to get a doctor.

With the confidence of a born Office Professional, The Moron shoved open the glass doors of Dude's Barbershop, and propelled himself toward the row of chairs with a poot he hoped wouldn't linger.

"Relax, ladies! Your substitute barber has arrived!" he boomed.

Two young ladies standing behind a short desk with an LCD screen on it looked up. The brunette nudged the blonde.

"That guy's only got one sock on," she whispered.

..to be continued!

Paul the Crimefighter, Part II

noreply@blogger.com (Jack W. Regan) — Thu, 12 Mar 2009 22:34:00 +0000

Across the town of Berg, parents tucked their children into bed, pausing before kissing them goodnight to listen to the distant hooting. Then they smiled and turned off bedside lamps. They walked softly across bedrooms and closed doors gently, leaving their slumbering children in the care of kindly glowing nightlights and…Paul the Crimefighter.

Yet another inhabitant of Berg paused to hear the hooting. To this pair of ears the sound was not comforting, but rather tenebrous and forbidding. It grated on his nerves and caused him great angst. He twirled his grand mustache and paced the length of his tiny quarters.

“Why must I have such tiny quarters!” he growled. He halted for a moment and grunted. There was a soft foomp! and a cheese doodle appeared in his hand. He rubbed it between his fingers for a moment and then used the greasy cheese to oil his long, twirling, pencil-thin mustache. He popped the mangled, now cheeseless doodle into his mouth and chewed. His trademark facial hair sufficiently groomed, he resumed his pacing.

“I’ll tell you why I must have such tiny quarters,” he continued, wiping his hands on his sweater vest. “It’s because of that mindless baculum of an arch enemy! Oh, why must I have such a worthy foe?”

He walked to a bookshelf and removed a volume from his set of encyclopedias. Scanning the index, he found the entry he sought. He turned to the correct page and read the article for the hundredth time.

Crimefighter, Paul the

A mysterious proponent of justice. Date of birth unknown. First official acknowledgment on renowned website Stupid, Blog of on April 15, 2006. Known to have pygmy marmoset sidekick named Pthabbth. Neck is capable of producing cape, blue. Arch enemy to nefarious crime lord, Doodler, the Cheeze.

Although he wasn’t sure he completely understood the entry (the encyclopedia seemed to have become enamored with its own formal structure), the Cheeze Doodler was pleased to have been mentioned. But a mere mention was not good enough. No, he would not stop until he merited his own article. To do that, he would have to pull off the most evil act of his career, something that would make the entire world sit up and take notice.

He went back to pacing, his greasy, orange hands clasped behind his back. Perhaps the world was too big a prize for now. He would concentrate on only the Western Hemisphere. But why get greedy? North America would suffice. On the other hand, to provide a solid structure for his legacy, he needed to start small. He would focus on the United States, the Great Lakes region to be precise. Of course, they might be expecting him to strike at a large area. It might be wise to narrow his target. Detroit, for example…such a huge city.

The Cheeze Doodler stopped and chortled in nefarious glee. “Why spend money on air fare?” he wondered. “I can begin right here, in the little berg of Town, and…wait.” He checked his notes and then cleared his throat. “In the little town of Berg! I shall initiate such a crime, wave of, which has never before been seen!”

After the initial wave of euphoria passed, the Cheeze Doodler became thoughtful and used his index fingers to coil his mustache before letting them spring outward again with the force of a teamster’s whip.

“And yet even Berg is rife with possibilities,” he mused. He walked to a wall where he tacked up a map of Berg. “I shall point to a random street on the map and there precipitate my tsunami of crime.”

He closed his eyes and spun slowly in circles. Then he stopped and walked forward, one finger pointing out.

“I shall begin…there!”

…to be continued.

G.I. FooDaddy 2

noreply@blogger.com (Paul "FooDaddy" Brand) — Sun, 08 Mar 2009 18:11:00 +0000

"Moldy sack pajamas! Do any of you butt-tards have any gardamn questions?" screamed Major General Whack Buffalo from the front of the briefing room. He picked up his glass of water and hurled it at a file cabinet.

Randy Sourhill raised his hand.

"Do we get to ride in the Jeeps today, sir?" he asked, a dopey grin sprawled across his jaw like a drunk on the beach.

"Gritty shit gophers, son! How the damn do you think we're gonna kickslap ripsnatch our way into their front lines? In a fuck bus? Move the hell out!"

Cheddar Company filed out of the room, leaving the Major General to noisily dismantle the podium with his Winchester 12-gauge. Jake Toboggan pushed through the crowd and came up beside Randy. Jake and Randy were best friends and terrible soldiers.

"Hey! Didja hear that? Jeeps, man! Frickin' Jeeps!"

They exchanged a hi-five.

"Ow, geez, not so hard, willya?"

"Hand still hurt?" Jake asked, acting more concerned than he really was. His friend was tough. Nobody in Cheddar Company had been shot as often as ol' Randy. He was practically a cyborg, he had so much metal in him. Jake fought back a wave of jealousy.

"Yeah. And you know what? Someone really ought to print a warning on the outside of grenade boxes to warn you that they blow up when you pull the top off. They're sneaky, though. They don't blow up right away--they wait for you to put them back in your pocket," Randy said, shaking his bandaged hand like he'd just dropped a hot potato.

"Major General says the Germans and the Irish are advancing along the...something about a seaboard? I mean that's probably just some bullshit he's gotta pass down from the higher-ups, but what're the odds we'd be fighting the Germans today?" Jake snatched his trusty M1 Garand off the rack as he passed.

"He told us we were shooting Germans yesterday. We're probably going to have to shoot them today, too. Did you get any yesterday, by the way?" Randy said, pouring a handful of gumballs down the barrel of his rifle.

"Nuh uh. They kept ducking. I musta got a bag of really slow bullets."

"I know, right? I couldn't even aim half the time because I kept getting stuck on logs and stuff," Randy said.

Outside in the base's Jeep lot, a group of soldiers had grouped around one of the Jeeps.

"Seems to be some sort of commotion over there. Let's check it out!" Jake said, pointing unnecessarily and jogging the six feet over to the crowd.

"I'm just saying," said Steven Whisp, Cheddar Company's token gay solider, frowning at the Jeep, "that they don't always have to be green! It'd just so institutional and wretched. Don't even get me started on the radio. AM? Hellooo! How about a little FM action? AM is sooo yesterday it gives me cramps."

"Hey, calm down bud," Jake said, patting the jumpy private on the shoulder. "We get to shoot Germans again today!"

"That's your answer to everything," sighed Steven, climbing into the Jeep, careful to keep his immaculately pressed and creased camo trousers from brushing the mud-splattered side of the vehicle.

Three stories up, a window exploded, showering the tarmac with shards of glass and one coffee mug. Major General Whack Buffalo shot out of the opening, his body stretched horizontally, fists forward, like an angry Superman. He hung in midair for what seemed like five seconds before tucking into a cannonball roll and crashing into the driver's seat of the Jeep below.

"Daaaaammmn!" he cried, throwing the Jeep into gear and tearassing up to the front of the formation. "Fall the hell out!"

Through the cloud of dust kicked up by the Major's tires, Cheddar Company trekked. Jake and Randy were in the back seat of the last Jeep, with a pouty Steven in the passenger's seat up front. The driver was a nondescript private with blonde hair who was probably going to die. The enemy could be anywhere, Jake reminded his fellow soldiers.

"Even in this lunchbox," he whispered conspiratorially. He held it out at arm's length and squinted at it.

"Oh, puh-leeeze," Steven lisped. He huffily applied some military-grade lip balm. "In that gaudy thing? It's got Mickey Mouse on it."

"I'm serious. They--ohmygod!"

The Jeep's front left wheel disintegrated in the landmine explosion, shredding the driver's seat and its unfortunate occupant. The blast lifted the front of the vehicle and threw it to the right. Jake, Randy and Steven were thrown from their seats as the Jeep pirhouetted on its rear bumper and ricochetted off a tree, finally coming to rest with a bang that drove its windsheild deep into the gravel road.

Jake stood up and brushed himself off, a shower of gravel and lug nuts pinging off of his helmet.

"Damn," he said. "Good thing that driver guy was expendable. Do you think the rest of the company saw that?"

Randy squinted into the scope of his Springfield rifle. "They're not too far ahead. They just crossed that bridge up north there a little way."

"Ah. They'll be back to pick us up in no time." Jake said matter-of-factly. He squatted with his back to a tree and went to work trying to pry open his mangled lunchbox.

"They just blew the bridge up."

"Um."

"Sweet Lana Turner! It's the Germans! They have us surrounded and most likely mean to do us severe harm!" squealed Steven in a bit of dialogue that was obviously written in at the last minute.

The foliage at the sides of the road suddenly bristled with Sturmgewehr 44 assault rifles and swastika-emblazoned helmets. The only sounds were the beating hearts of the stranded Cheddar Company, the crackle of the burning Jeep and a mournful breeze. A distant "fuuuuuuck!" drifted down from the north on that breeze, and Jake had to agree. They pretty much were.

...to be continued!

Paul the Crimefighter, Part I

noreply@blogger.com (Jack W. Regan) — Fri, 06 Mar 2009 02:17:00 +0000

Darkness was closing in on the little town of Berg. The late evening sun sank slowly in the east as Paul the Crimefighter drove his new sports car along the busy, deserted streets toward his downtown office in the countryside. Before long, he arrived at the end of his long commute and parked his car on top of the underground parking garage. He stepped from the car and made a mental note to open the door next time. The crimefighter-shaped gash was going to be hard to explain to his insurance company.

“Kibbles-n-Bits,” he muttered. Knowing the importance of a tough, crusty persona, he had been working on his swear word vocabulary and recently signed up for a profanity correspondence course. After only two lessons he was at the top of his class.

He entered the elevator and ran up the stairs to his office. It was a luxurious suite in a converted janitor’s closet. It perched on the twenty-fifth floor basement of Nanner Plaza, the tallest building in Berg, and from its lofty vantage point he could gaze out over the sleepy little town. This made it easier to keep an eye out for crime, which was often wide awake.

Nanner Plaza was almost deserted, most other employees having gone home for the day. But crime never took a holiday. Night—night was when Paul the Crimefighter’s best work was done. But that would have to wait. At present he had crime to fight, because somewhere, at this very moment, a misdeed was being perpetrated. It was time to change into his crimefighting garb and dismantle some evil!

A scream tore through the still night air, startling Paul and causing him to drop the pair of tights he held. He turned to see his lovely secretary standing in the doorway.

“Miss Prim! I thought you’d gone home. Please accept my apologies. This is simply inexcusable.”

“I should say so,” she mewed. “The copy machine is out of toner again. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“So change the cartridge.”

“Silly hero. You know I’m not strong enough to replace it all by my little, helpless, soft, curvaceous, and oh-so-willing self. Could you lend me one of your strong, manly arms? Perhaps the one that ripples to and fro?”

“I’m sorry, love, but I need them both for my civil duties. I have a feeling there are powerful forces at work tonight.”

“But how am I supposed to make those copies you asked for? Jerry wants his magazines back by tomorrow so he can bury them again before his wife…”

Paul the Crimefighter waved her into silence. “Fine! You may use one of the Strong, Manly Arms from the supply closet. Just be sure to fill out a requisition form. Leaving my name out of it, of course.”

He finished dressing, then turned and made for the nearest window. “Later, my love! I shall flog some crime and be back before the sun rises. Save me some grits!” He opened the window and perched on the sill.

“Wait!” Miss Prim ran forward. “Your cape!”

Paul the Crimefighter paled. Yet another close brush with disaster. Had he left his perch without first unfurling his cape, well…it would not have been one of the finer moments in his long record of public service.

He squinted, tensed, and grunted mightily. With a pop and loud rustling, a billowing cloud of fabric erupted from his neck. The legendary cape was now in place.

Standing upright on the window sill, Paul the Crimefighter looked out over Berg as lights blinked out across the town. Citizens were turning in for the night, secure in the knowledge that their hero would protect them from evil.

Lifting his arms to the sky, Paul hooted at the rising moon and slowly bent his knees. Then, with a mighty lunge, he leaped forward and ran down the fire escape, his cape fluttering heroically.

The street was quiet when Paul dropped softly onto it. The dumpster, however, offered a few sarcastic remarks, none worthy of our hero’s time or wit.

Paul crouched on the cool pavement and hooted again. He listened. Was that an answering hoot he heard in the distance?

...to be continued.

G.I. FooDaddy

noreply@blogger.com (Paul "FooDaddy" Brand) — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 05:00:00 +0000

Disclaimer: The entirety of the research involved in writing this post comes from a mish-mash of all the war video games I have played over the last few years. So don't expect it to make a whole lot of sense. Fighting Germans in the jungle? Why not? I am also aware of the intense focus exhibited by a well-trained soldier. This, I would not be. I imagine it'd be like in the video games, where my character spends most of his time bumping into walls, tripping over logs and trying to find his grenades. Getting shot also takes up a good deal of my time, but at least in video games, all you have to do is rest up a little. Who knew you could cure existing gunshot wounds by simply not incurring any new ones?

In the hundred-and-eight degree jungle, the heat was nearly anthropomorphic in its unrelenting hostility. Only another member of the human race would know what buttons to press, which weaknesses to expoit; how to be so perfectly unpleasant. The sandy rattle of semi-automatic rifle fire and the relentless mosquitoes churned the air into a eddying pool of exquisite hatefulness.

"Sweatin' like a fuckin' giraffe over here," muttered Pvt. Jake Toboggan. He lay flat on his back in the trench, staring up into the hazy afternoon sky, balancing his M1 Garand rifle, barrel down, on the palm of his hand. "When do we get that ice cream you promised us?"

Major General Whack Buffalo glared over his shoulder at the private. "You'll get your goddamn ice cream whenever I jolly the damn well fucking damn say you get it! Damn!"

The Major was a big angry man. He always had been. That's why he had those stripes and was the only one Central Command allowed to carry the big box of C4.

"Now sit the shit still, soldiers! Fuck it sideways, Toboggan, would you fix yer puking gig line! Zip your goddamn fly, son, or your goddamn bayonet'll fall the damn out! Jesus Christ!"

Private Toboggan put down the grenades he was juggling and zipped his fly. He didn't bother lining up all his buttons. Most of them were missing anyway.

"Hey. I, uh, can't find my Browning. You seen it?" asked Randy Sourhill. Randy was the worst sniper in the world, and Jake's best friend.

"You were using it to shoot at those beetles about half a mile back. What'd you do with it after that?" said Jake.

"Holy dancing whores! Would you two fucktards shut the dick up? You want Jerry to find us down here? Balls!" Major General Buffalo screamed. Brightly colored birds took startled flight for miles around.

The Major General was mad. The company could tell because of the way he kept eating C4 by the handful.

"No, I meant my little chocolate cakes. Brownies, I guess. I always get those two mixed up. I have my pistol gun thing right here," Randy whispered, patting his cargo pants. Suddenly there was a sharp crack and a flash of light from Randy's thigh.

"You really shouldn't keep it cocked," advised Jake, handing him a roll of tactical duct tape. "This should stop the bleeding."

"Fuckitty damn damn balls!" screamed the Major. "Cockin' yer gun, boy? Jesus Bob Christ!" He pulled a dirty magazine out of his pack, ogled it furiously for three seconds, then punched a hole in the earthen wall of the trench.

A Focke-Wulf droned by overhead.

"Germans! Aw, crap, man, right there! Take 'em down! Americaaaaaa!" Jake and Randy both emptied an M1 clip at the plane. When the hammer clicked on an empty chamber, Randy threw his gun at the aircraft and fished a beer out of his flak jacket.

"Time to celebrate!" he said. He popped the cap, and stood up. "To the Allies!" he said, and got shot in the shoulder.

"Ow."

"Dropped your beer," Jake said, pointing.

"Rusty ass-varnish!" thundered Major Buffalo. "Fer chrissake boy, quit getting shot! We're gonna flank the fuck outta that machine gun nest and we need you to stop the damn shit rabbit fuck chocolate--!"

At this point, the Major became too enraged to see straight, so the chaplain had to lead him by the hand so he could in turn lead the charge. The Whoop of Victory tore from the throats of Cheddar Squad, as they broke cover and fanned out.

"Holy shit! These guys have guns! Nobody said they'd have guns!" Jake screamed, dodging machine gun fire and flying debris. "This is totally not fair!"

Limping and grasping his shoulder, Randy followed close behind. "Let's see if we can get behind that hill. I can take out that gun emplacement. Cover me?"

"Hell no! Didn't you just hear me? Jerry has guns!"

"Bah fuckitty cunt a ding dong!" howled the Major General. He skidded to a halt and wrenched the bumper off an infantry transport truck. Holding it like a Samurai sword, he charged a line of German infantry. He detonated a smoke grenade, and was lost from view. Metallic bonging noises and German curses drifted out of the cloud.

"Hope the Major don't get shot," Jake muttered, throwing himself behind the hill. Bullets pelted the dirt and mud on the other side. "Hey, a Snickers wrapper! What's this doing here?"

"Okay. Jake, keep an eye out for guys in the trees. See that gunner in the pillbox over there?"

"Roger."

"Whatever his name is, that cracker's gettin' broke."

Randy went prone. He opened the case and extracted his gun's stock, action, scope and barrel and began to quickly assemble them.

"Is that a Springfield M1903A4?" Jake asked, tucking the Snickers wapper under his helmet.

"Only the finest!" squealed Randy, happily twisting the screw on a hose clamp.

"I, uh, didn't know they came apart like that."

"They do. This thing was a bitch to disassemble, though. I had to use a hacksaw. Hand me that C-clamp, wouldja?"

Randy mounted his gun on a tripod and took a deep breath. He squinted into the glass eye of his scope. He took the cap off the end and tried again. He slowly let his held breath escape in a carefully measured--

"What the hell!?" The Springfield toppled off the tripod and into the mud as nearby gunfire startled the hapless sniper.

"Oh, sorry. Saw a parrot," grinned Jake, re-holstering his Browning.

"Did you get him?"

Jake's grin melted like wax lips on the sun-washed hood of a Willys Jeep. "No."

"Hey man, don't cry. Maybe we can shoot at some monkeys when we're done here. Remember when we were back in Japan and you shot that lizard?"

"That wasn't in Japan," sniffed Jake.

"Wasn't it? Oh. Well. Still."

Randy re-mounted his rifle and took careful aim. He centered on his target, then moved slightly up and to the right to compensate for wind and distance. He slowly squeezed the trigger. The Springfield spat a brief burst of flame from its muzzle and the scope fell off.

"Ow! Hey, what the fuck?" A dismayed cry from Cheddar Company.

"Oh, geez. Sorry Gerard!"

"You shot me in the ass, Sourhill! Goddammit, that's the second time today!"

"Totally uncalled for, man! I said I was sorry!"

Jake stealthily pulled the pin on a grenade. "Look. A turtle."

...to be continued!

Literary-Based Geological Relocation

noreply@blogger.com (Paul "FooDaddy" Brand) — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 21:36:00 +0000

A friend of mine recently told me that in order to "move mountains with my words," I would have to address "larger" subjects in my writing.

Naturally, I was under the impression that I already was moving them. Twice daily. Like a tectonic game of checkers, I was chucking mountains all over the place, stacking them, putting them in rows and generally having myself a grand old time.

Unfortunately, it seems one's lack of navigation prowess (which makes the mountain-moving a little random, but that is neither here nor there) is not considered a "big" idea. "People actually have to be paying attention to your words as well," my brain reminded me. I wept silently and not a little bitterly.

I scanned the Blog archives and found that of my roster of characters, only The Hardass would move mountains. He would do it with his fists and jaw. Since that is more akin to "strip mining" than moving mountains in the metaphorical sense, which is what I'm sure my friend meant, even he is out of the running.

Then came the soul-searching. What subjects should I tackle? Which ones could I, given the limited space inside my head, even including my sinuses? And by "big" did my friend mean "exhibiting strong human relativity" or "sailing deep and uncharted philosophical waters"?

Farts are 100% relative.

Deities are uncharted. (Those who claim to have charted them are later discovered to be insane).

Hmmm...

Perhaps she meant I should express an opinion on things that exert a greater emotional pull on the general populace. Tort reform or abortion rights?

Now I see the problem: Discussing things like that endanger the delicate stupid plants we have carefully nurtured in putz pots here on the Blog. In other words, it would do irreparable harm to the Ambient Moronics (shameful plug, I know), in much the same way that CFCs munch up the ozone layer.

I find people who take themselves very seriously to be somewhat worrisome. I am concerned for their blood pressure, and I am concerned for whomever they're planning to bomb. Ecoterrorists and false prophets are the logical extreme.

Most importantly, they are not funny.

So rest assured, wasters of time, you will not load up your (surely bookmarked) link to the Blog of Stupid and find The Hardass discussing Gnosticism or Paul the CrimeFighter wrestling internally with the question of where to draw the line between "nice" and "euphemistic," and whether or not they overlap with "obscurantist".

If you want to know my stance on these things, meet me at Bob Evans, and we shall discuss them over a plate of sausages.