I heard the rumors. It was impossible not to. It seemed like everywhere I went, I heard people say, "Gee, Cody said he'd update his website on Tuesday and it's been two days already! The Mexicans killed him!" Well, they would've. Especially when they found out those weren't pesos I was handing out, but torn off pieces of a napkin that I'd colored. Fear not, good people of Webachusetts, for I eluded my captors and have returned.
This is going to be a brief entry for I am incredibly tired. Why so tired, you ask? Well, I got hijacked last night by a gang of angry jam consumers. Yes, I have been selling homemade jams and jellies again, to disastrous results. In actuality, some associates of mine came down yesterday, surprised me at work, and then chained me to my couch and forced me to watch Young Einstein. Anyway, I am taking tonight to recover, so don't expect any $10 entry. Think of this entry as a salad bar, with no choice of dressing and a sneeze guard made out of gravel.
I got some bad news last night when I went to get in my car after a long day of work. You know how excited we were that Donna Shalala was going to be the guest writer while I was away? Well, I found this on my windshield last night.
I'll be back on Tuesday. Stay out of the horseradish.
I hereby declare July 22, 2003 to be Bob Odenkirk Day. Tonight I made a trek to downtown to see his movie, Melvin Goes to Dinner, which was great. And then I get home from the movie and guess which episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm is on? The one starring him as Porno Gil, an alltime classic. Ahh yes, sometimes it pays to sacrifice stray cats to the God of Thunder. I've said it before and I'll say it again: if I had to take a day off work to eat corn dogs with Bob Odenkirk, I would. Even if I had to bring the condiments.
Is there any stranger social interaction than when you're sitting in an empty movie theater and some strange person sits right next to you? That's what happened tonight, and at first, I wasn't freaked out. I just figured, "Oh, he's going to proposition me for sex acts." And so I went ahead and whipped out my price sheet (laminated), put it on his lap, and started applying some rouge. The weird thing is that the price sheet just sat there the whole night. That guy wasn't even interested in prostitution; he just wanted to sit next to me and smell me. I can't blame him, as I now smell like the rain forest thanks to the good people at Zest. You could drop me off in the middle of the Amazon Basin and the natives would accept me as one of their own. Heck, they'd probably make me their leader once I started telling them my ideas on parliamentary procedure.
Anyway, my point is that it makes me uncomfortable when strange people sit to me when plenty of other seats are available. I know that just to look at me, you'd think I would like being whispered to and carressed by strangers during a movie. Sometimes I do. But most times, I guard my personal space like a boy in a bubble. You do not enter my hermetically sealed environment without a scrub down and a crazy moonman suit. Speaking of moonman! Yes, I have always wanted to use that transition. Speaking of moonman, someone at work today brought a big box of Moon Pies for us to eat. Not only did I enjoy the snack, but I got to achieve a little dream of mine: send an email that ended with "Oh, and thanks for the moon pies." Now that I look back on it, today was a day of triumph.
As I've mentioned before, I am fleeing the country on Thursday evening. Fear not, for I will be back on Tuesday. We're doing a little family vacation down Mexico way, meaning me and my mail order bride are packing a sack lunch and hitch hiking towards the border. Hey, if you see us, why not pick us up? Her stabby phase is over with, more or less! Also, we've got her into training pants. I have to admit, I was a little shocked when I took her out of the box. I said, "Hey, I ordered a hot Japanese co-ed! Not a savage wolf girl from the cursed forests of Estonia!" But then I said to myself, "Screw this, I'm getting my $20 worth." And so, after 6 long months of shock collars and rubber sheets, we're both starting to come around a little bit, meaning it's freaking partay time in Mexico.
So, I guess with that intro, I pretty much have to talk about mail order brides and the risks one enters into when ordering one. First of all, I hope you can lock your fridge because that bitch is going to want to eat all of your Lunchables. Yeah, go ahead and explain to her that Lunchables must be earned, but she won't care. She'll just play that "I'm a foreigner and I don't understand" card, and then the second you leave the house, it's Lunchable city. What I'm getting at here is that you'll want to stock up on some of her native foods: berries, twigs, and rocks.
Also, don't just assume because you're man and wife that it's going to be romantic city. For the first few months, she will attempt to light you on fire or poison you many, many times. You learn to deal with it, though. You walk around in a wet sweatsuit so it's a little harder to get the blaze going, and you employ a legion of squirrels to test your food for you before you eat. And eventually, after enough ruined sweatsuits and dead squirrels, the romance takes care of itself. And maybe one lucky day, you find yourself doing extensive research into the venereal diseases of the third world to figure out if your new rash will kill you. Those, my friend, are the salad days.
There are all sorts of neat, unexplained monsters who lurk the earth and occasionally show up on the news. We've got Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, various Yetis, that thing in China is is sort of a rip off of the Loch ness Monster, and my own personal favorite, the Skunk Ape. Everytime I read about one of these (which is very often, seeing as how I am the Editor in Chief of both Yeti Illustrated and the Skunk Ape Mysteries), I am a little saddened because there's nothing like that in Texas. We have all sorts of neat stuff like the Alamo and the Snake Farm and the world's 2nd largest fire hydrant, but we have no monsters. Unless you count Willie Nelson and his band, who really are more scraggly than monstrous.
What I propose then is that we create a monster for Texas to call its own, much like the Skunk Ape. I'm thinking it should be some sort of mutated Texas symbol, like maybe a zombie Nolan Ryan. That being said, I have racked my brain and come up with the following Texas monsters that would be suitable as urban legends.
I feel like I don't even have to ask you guys who should win. It's all possum, like most other things in life. In order to get this legend started on the right foot, I have created an imagine showing just what the Possum of Pestilence is capable of. Here's a picture of him running rampant at the Texas State Fair. Be very afraid, citizens of Texas: the Possum of Pestilence is out there.
I got my Triple A card. I'm a little disappointed by the whole thing because apparently, what I signed was a membership form for some roadside assistance club and not a minor league baseball contract. That's a shame because I was looking forward to some Major League style hijinks. Hey Pedro Cerrano, leave my undies alone! It's probably a good thing I'm not going into the minors as I don't think the guys there could handle my change-up, when the speed of my pitches suddenly changes from 40 mph to 38 mph.
Anywhozzle, I think it's a good thing that I have the roadside assistance thing going because I've been thinking of using a new put-down and I could see some bad side effects. The new put-down: "Oh yeah? Well, if you're so awesome, why don't you go sabotage my car?" Yeah, it's going to hurt them bad, but I am worried of people taking it literally. Triple A has got my back now.
In other news, I am glad I don't hang with rappers because I think there's a lot of ambiguity in their terminology. For instance, when they're talking posses, are they referring to their group of friends or are they talking about actual Old West style posses? I'd hate for Ja Rule to call me up and invite me into his posse, only for me to look like a fool for showing up and being the only guy there without a lasso and a hankering for justice. And don't act like this wouldn't happen, because you know those rappers with their feuds; those guys demand vengeance. I think they need to start specifying. I think the Old West style posse should get to keep that word, and the rappers need to find a new way to refer to their friends. I'm thinking they should say knitting circle or maybe coterie. Just so everyone knows, I had to get coterie from a thesaurus, but knitting circle was all mine.
Well, the results are in: Donna Shalala will be guest writing while I'm away. It's going to be big for you, the readers, and for her, as she has been waiting for a stage this large to display her talents. This begs the question: what can I expect from an entry written by Donna Shalala? First of all, I hope you can read Welsh since that's what she likes to write in. And not the Welsh all of us learned in middle school, but sort of a street slangy version. It's weird, but you get used to it. Second, we have a gentleman's agreement that she will give us the scoop on the executive branch tickle parties that used to go on when she was in Clinton's cabinet. I'm talking no holds barred here, folks. Finally, she posts a lot of song lyrics, mostly Huey Lewis and the News.
This is pending her approval, of course. We can't go and commit the Shalala to something she can't do. I'm going to have to ask her. That being said, does anyone have the keys to her house? I'd like to discuss this over breakfast with her some morning, kind of a spontaneous thing. If she's not home, maybe I'll just leave her a note on her pillow and rummage through her underwear drawer.
Okay, so I'm in a new city and I don't know a lot of people, and I've been brain-storming ways to get plugged into the social scene. One option is to get hooked on drugs. I'd probably meet a lot of interesting people from diverse socioeconomic backgrounds, some of whom have funny nicknames. We'd go on lots of adventures, like trying to find some powder ground up from a elephant's tusks so we can inject it into our eyeballs. And I imagine there are lots of little drug pranks we'd pull on each other, like giving each other Hepatitis. All of that sounds good, but I know something better.
I would like to get involved with planning a jail break. I can't be involved in staging one, since I'm not incarcerated. I really want to plan one, though, for three reasons. Number 1: I think I have the sort of ingenuity that would really shine in an escape situation. Number 2: No one knows the tunnels below the prison like I do. Number 3: I can't wait to see the look on the Warden's face when he learns that Cody Powell got him again. Since I know that 98% of my readers are locked away in our nation's correctional institutes, I look forward to getting involved in a few of these. I've got a number of ideas for busting you guys loose, and here's just one: sending someone a cake with a rocket pack baked in the middle of it (like the kind the Rocketeer had). If anyone wants to start one of these up, you know how to contact me. (That is to say, passenger pigeon)
Today marked my first paycheck at my new card. Guess who you don't have to kick around anymore, Folks at the Plasma Bank! I appreciated your fig newtons and Sunny Delight, but you've seen the last of me. Likewise the people at the Sperm Bank. Your assortment of pornography was truly impressive, but I'm masturbating for free now. So take that!
Well, I'm going to be kicking it out of the country for a few days soon, so I'm looking at some pinch-hitters who can do this thing while I'm away. The application process was grueling. I mailed out a 2 page application, front and back, to a small list of candidates. The responses had to be written in cursive in the blood of Sasquatch. I asked things like, "If the readers of this site requested that you kidnap Randy 'Macho Man' Savage, how would you go about it? Also, rate the level of stealth involved in this mission from a scale of 1-10." and "Who is your favorite hamburger visionary? Is it Dave Thomas, Ray Croc, or maybe John Larroquette, whose culinary accomplishments have yet to be duly recognized? Imagine a night with them in their secret Burger Lair and share it with me. Extra points added for schematics of Burger Lair."
From that, I was able to narrow it down to a final group of 5. I had just one simple request of these 5: to come to my house and play me a song on a didgeridoo about a theme of my choice. That theme: You call that potato salad? I ended up with a final 2, after I had to throw Pat Morita out for blatantly copying Kansas's "Carry On My Wayward Son". These final 2 are none other than legendary funnyman John Leguizamo and former Secretary of Health and Human Services Donna Shalala. So, I bring the choice to you, who do we pick? Leguizamo or Shalala? To help with your choice, here is the tale of the tape.
|Weight||84 lbs||370 Centigrams|
|Finishing Move||The "Zip You Up In A Potato Bag and Drop Hammers On Your Head"||Purple Nurple|
Okay, it's 9:30 at night and I'm going to rock this thing like the Caucasian Hurricane we all know me to be. First of all, let's all be happy that no terrorist has thought about making exploding money. Or money that gives you diarrhea. That'd be a real struggle for people, because everyone loves money. But do you take the rest when there is exploding feces involved? I'd risk some death poop for a $100, I think. I guess the only thing for our country to do is to start putting little bits of exploding devices and diarrhea germs on our currency so we can build up a little bit of a resistance. And then when the terrorists finally do strike us, we'll be so used to buying things while pooping our pants in the midst of violent explosions, we won't even notice. U-S-A!
To the cashier at the HEB this afternoon, we really had some camaraderie going today, didn't we? I know it wasn't just me. When that African guy in front of me couldn't remember the word for cologne and he was holding up the line, you gave me a wry little grin. I laughed and shrugged my shoulders. We were just two strangers united by our love of groceries and our intolerance for foreigners; we didn't know where this was going to go.
Then, standing there in line, reading over the latest shitstorm that Oprah's got herself into, you started text messaging me on my cell phone. It was innocent at first ("What up, dude?"), then it became flirtatious ("Looking at that butt makes me wish I'd brought my sketch pad"). Finally, it was downright bawdy ("Press 1 if you want me to show you my boobs."). How did you get that number? And how did you know that I liked boobs?
And then later, when you were scanning my items, and while no one was looking, you reached into the cash drawer and pulled out a big wad of bills and shoved them down my pants. "No one will see!" you whispered frantically. I was afraid because I respect and honor the supermarket institution, but you were brave enough for both of us. The Manager came over and asked what the problem was. Why were my pants torn apart, my pockets stuffed with money, and the cash register empty? Why isn't the cashier wearing her underwear? He asked me to walk with him back to his office, and then you stepped between us. "This is Cody Powell," you said. "He is a handsome millionaire, and if you don't leave him alone, he will have his henchmen kill you." All I could do was smile and nod; I am very humble. As I walked out, I heard you start to cry. I didn't know what to do, so I did the only logical thing: I turned around, rifled through my bags, and threw you a Fudgesicle. Yes, I will be back next week, and I will bring coupons.
I made a big purchase this weekend: an enormous box of Hot Tamales. There are days when you just want to eat a shitload of cinnamony plastic, and that is when the makers of Hot Tamales laugh all the way to the bank in their gold plated Tamalemobile. One interesting thing about Hot Tamales is that on the back of the box, there's a little line of text that reads, "A great candy isn't made... It's just born." I could literally talk about that one line for hours. I guess one question is why they're just born, like no one can account for these Hot Tamales' origin. It's immaculate candy conception. If we eliminate the word just, we can move on to bigger questions. Who is birthing these tamales? Are they washed off after their trip through the birth canal? Is sexual intercourse involved in the creation of these tamales? If so, they should definitely alter the box so it reads "Hot Genital Tamales".
I decided to take this hunger for Hot Tamale knowledge to the streets. One of the first sites I found was a site where people review their Hot Tamale experience, like an amazon.com thing. I direct everyone's attention to the first review, by one Michelle Teague of Texas. She writes, "I love Hot Tamales. I love them in the morning, afternoon and night. I love to eat them when I play cards so Steve does not get any." The first two sentences are completely reasonable, although a bit extreme, and then there's that whammy of a third sentence. Who is Steve? Is it Steve Perry from Journey? Steve Wozniak maybe? Why can't Steve Wozniak get any Hot Tamales when you're playing cards? Maybe Wozniak has lobster pinchers that are well suited to playing cards, and Michelle doesn't want those filthy things grubbing on her Tamales? Michelle Teague, Steve Wozniak, and Steve Perry: contact me and we'll get down to the bottom of this.
Okay, continuing on with the reviews on that site, there is another that is stuffed with intrigue. Clym Mackenzie of London writes, "I'm sure you'll have gathered I love cinnamon,but I'm almost obsessed with the stuff. When I tried my first pack of Tamales it was like entering a whole new world of cinnamon eating pleasure.Wow they have a great kick and then you get to chew on them too,mmmmmmm I love em. Keep em coming ma!" First of all Clym lays it all out on the table: he's obsessed with Hot Tamales. Welcome to the club, brother, we'll come up with a handshake later. And then there's that last sentence, "keem em coming ma!". It makes me think of the just born comment on the box. Ma as in madre, like there's a hispanic woman who is producing all of the world's Hot Tamales through an enigmatic, super-secret birthing process. Or is Ma short for Yo Yo Ma, who may be fooling us all with the cello thing so he can rule the non-chocolate candy industry with an iron fist? That seems like a Yo Yo Ma scheme if I've ever heard one, and I'm glad Clym called him on it. You may be able to bully the people at Mike and Ike, Yo Yo Ma, but you're not bullying the Internet Hot Tamales Club. The truth will be heard.
I think I am going to start taking a lot of peyote with dinner every night so I'll have something to write about in here. I can't write much tonight because tomorrow is Breakfast Taco Day at work, and I was specifically warned on several occasions that I had to get there early to get the good stuff. Thus, I have chained myself to the stove in the kitchen at my office 12 hours in advance. Also, I've triggered my pants to explode if I'm forced away from the tacos before I've had my fill. Yeah, I can disable the bomb with a code phrase, but I'm not giving it to you chumps. Hint: the secret phrase may or may not be 'Breakfast Taco Day'.
What's the difference between broth and soup? I don't really know, but I can tell you which one I prefer: the brizzoth. Let me tell you why. Soup is what you drink when you're sick, broth is what you fling at the eyes of the marauders who've come to burn down your peasant shack. It's like feisty soup that kicks your taste buds in the nuts. Am I wrong? At least that's where I'm going with Powell's Brand Broth: The Only Soup-like Food/Drink To Kick Your Taste Buds in the Nuts. We have to make the words really tiny on the label to get all of that on there.
Now folks, this isn't your Granny's broth, and I'll tell you why: we spike ours. Yeah, each can could be spiked with gin or pepto bismol or motor oil. We don't tell you which; we leave it up to you to figure it out. And what is that at the bottom of each can? A syringe, or maybe a tooth. It's the beginning of the Extreme Foods movement, and I encourage each of you to get a bite while it's hot.
Bad news, chums: it looks like my plans to go to Lebowski Fest are in danger of being squashed. I was going to document the whole thing and put it up here, and make it into a whole multimedia pornographic travelogue type thing, time permitting. So, since that is looking like it's on the outs, I have decided that if I can't go, I am just going to stay in my apartment, act like I'm at Lebowski Fest, and document it anyway. Either way, the insanity starts July 18. I will let you guys know what happens here, and no matter what happens, you'll probably want to clear you calendar. Just barricade yourself in your room with some Saltines and a bucket to pee in, and get ready for the ride of your life.
When does that Johnny Depp pirate movie come out? They say it's based on that Disney ride, Pirates of the Caribbean. If so, I look forward to waiting in line for an hour and then getting 5 minutes of watching mechnical pirates dance. I actually want to see this movie because I have always been a big pirate guy. Most kids want to be baseball players (lame), most of the remaining want to be astronauts (lame), and the rest want to be periodontists (cool) or pirates (awesome). We all know which group I fell into. My fascination with pirates peaked with the Sega Genesis game Pirates Gold. I rocked that game like a gorilla in a nursing home. I don't want to brag, but you're talking to Marquis Powell, according to that game. If I could find some sort of grant money for me to simulate the effects of pirate mentality in a postmodern society or some bullshit like that, I could just sit at home and play that game all day. I'm getting choked up from thinking how great that'd be.
Okay, I need to add something else here because I set a 3 paragraph minimum for myself. Well, I'll tackle the major issue of the day. Britney Spears is no longer a virgin. If you any of you were trying to reach me last night, you know where I was. Hey o! To prevent a lawsuit, I will just say that Britney wishes she could get a piece of this. A lot of times, I'll go into work and she'll be sitting at my desk with a big bag of panties that she continually throws at me. It's hard to get work done that way.
You know how those monks used to protest Vietnam by lighting themselves on fire? That is really making quite a statement, doing something like that; you really must respect someone's point when they light themselves on fire. And so lately, I've been thinking up ways to make serious statements like you get with lighting yourself on fire without the horrifying, painful death part. So far, the best thing I've come up with is to pee in a cup and throw it at yourself.
The idea then is to save the lighting yourself on fire thing for the really big issues, and then just pee in a cup and throw it at yourself for the smaller ones. Let's say your country has been seized by brutal oppressors; in this case, you'd light yourself on fire. Now let's imagine that someone at work keeps taking your tape dispenser; this is clearly a pee in a cup and throw it at yourself situation. Or maybe your idiot brother won't let you watch Judge Judy. Again, pee in a cup and throw it on yourself. Nothing says, "I don't have to take this kind of shit!" like the old Self Pee act (that's what I'm going to call it, since the description is too long).
One question begs to be asked. I am looking for a maid as I hate cooking and cleaning the possum carcasses that people leave on the floor of my living room when I'm not around. However, I have no money. What I am wondering then is if I can get a homeless lady to be my maid. Hey, homeless guys, don't start with the bellyachin' because you guys are invited too. Here's the deal: you cook and clean, and in return, I'll give you a place to sleep in a tuberculosis free environment and promise not to stab you with a homemade shiv when you back is turned. Try getting that promise from any of your comrades on the streets. And if you want to do a little tapdancing in front of my front door for some spare change during the day while I'm at work, I won't stand in your way.
Okay, first things first: Put on your Vaporub. I won't have you spreading your consumption around here. For some reason, I am thinking that someone I knew used to eat Vaporub rather than putting it on the accepted way, which is of course to rub it on your genitals. That's neither here nor there. Second, check out the latest issue of Haypenny. Why, what is that peaking around the corner? A little something by me, perhaps?
If you click my name on my Haypenny thing, you can read the bio I submitted to them. I was reading it over today and I realize now it isn't entirely in English. I quote: "Cody Powell has been Texas's leading wholesaler of navy and pinto for the past 22 years." "Navy and pinto what?" the people demand. I'm not going to clear that up for you; it's like a Choose Your Own Adventure. See, that's the thing about the very rich and the fabulously handsome: we often omit words from our sentences. And maybe your time would be better spent if you got serious about that Pilates shit that everyone else is doing and stopped going word for word through websites. You weiner.
Well friends, it is easy to get depressed about your current state in life, what with the monkey pox, the whole situation in the Congo which I may or may not understand, and the continuing mystery surrounding the Sasquatch. I am here to say that it could be much worse. Imagine we were Spaniards, holding grudges for decades because that dude at the farmers market used the tu form when addressing us, when it was clearly an usted situation. Imagine we were Mongols, and Genghis Khan was always bugging us to go raid some poor mud people, when all we want to do is work our way through that book of Mad Libs with our comely wife. But what are you going to say to Genghis? He's got that pointy stick! And finally, imagine we were living in the Dark Ages and we had to eat every meal with our hands. I imagine the food is kinda pointy, plus inconsistently warmed. Good luck getting your wife to tear up your food for you because she's got the bubonic plague. So, it's not so bad.
Well, the Fourth of July has come and gone, like a faberge Bill Cosby pog that shatters the first time you play it. It's a lesson we all must learn: some pogs were meant to be appreciated in a hands-off fashion, while others were meant to reign thunder down on the filthy savages foolhardy enough to oppose you.
Here's a good exercise in determining if someone is dateable or humpable or whatever it is you want to find out. Just sit them down, give them a Fresca, and then ask which US currency portrait is their favorite. Before you start thinking of your answer to this question, familiarize yourself with the cast of characters. Okay, now that you've done that, here is the answer key to the question.
Their answer: George Washington ($1 bill)
What it means: First, why don't you pick something a little more obvious? Let me guess, your favorite Rocky movie is the one where he fights the Russian, your favorite Family Matters cast member is Jaleel White, and your favorite cinema genre is barely legal porn. You get a few points because George Washington had wooden teeth, but you should still be looked down upon for your lame, boring taste in everything.
Their answer: Thomas Jefferson ($2 bill)
What it means: Who the hell do you think you are? $2 bill? Someone's compensating for something.
Their answer: Abraham Lincoln ($5 bill)
What it means: Honest Abe is an okay choice because not only was he a great president, but he is also widely credited as being the father of plate-spinning, which remains a crowd pleaser to this day. A lot of people don't realize that his nickname isn't Honest Abe, but rather Honest Babe, because of both his phenomenal good looks and his love for that movie about the pig that talks.
Their answer: Alexander Hamilton ($10 bill)
What it means: It's gutsy to go with a non-president, so this choice must be admired. It's like someone asking you to name your favorite Toto song and you picking something off of Tambu, their 1995 release. Straight-up ballsy, but can you be trusted?
Their answer: Andrew Jackson ($20 bill)
You know a nice hairstyle when you see one. You have a folksy charm, with a commanding sense of leadership and an overpowering hatred of Native Americans. Bonus points if, when explaining your answer, you allude to the fact that Andrew Jackson captured a wild grizzly bear, tamed it, and then married it, much to the consternation of his Cabinet.
Their answer: Ulysses S. Grant ($50 bill)
Points are awarded because Grant is the only portrait featuring a bowtie, and then the points are immediately rescinded because it'll be a cold day in hell before anyone understands your irrational love of a pointless president like Grant. It only gets harder to explain when your volumes of Ulysses S. Grant related love poetry and erotic historical fiction are unearthed. Start preparing excuses now for when you sell off your loved ones' possessions so you can bid on Grant's femur.
Their answer: Ben Franklin ($100 bill)
$100 bill, ooh la la! You are probably a rapper or something. Others would be wise to stay away from you, or else they risk pregnancy, gun shot wounds, and being forced to wax your Escalade while you play the new Zelda on Game Cube with Method Man.
Well, no entry yesterday because some internet fiend decided to do everyone a favor and take my computer out with a virus. The Establishment has been waiting for that for some time, but I have a message for Mayor McCheese and the rest of the fat cats down in City Hall: You can't silence the truth! And to the person who sent me that virus: I will come after you. You'll be in bed one night, dreaming about the Olsen twins, and you'll hear a faint sound, like maybe your door just opened. You go back to sleep easy enough, knowing that no one could be in your house, certainly not the Internet Sweetheart known as Cody Powell. And then, all you hear is a *WHOOSH* and a loud smacking noise; say hello to a crimsoned backside. From there, I steal off into the desert, leaving you with your tears.
Well, it's the Fourth of July, the day most Americans set aside to celebrating a landmark event in American history, the birthday of that one dude from Born on the Fourth of July. Boy, that was long, confusing, and fairly unamusing (although this sentence rhymes and thus counteracts that). Today is the one day of the year it's legal to punch out a British person, and I think we'd be a bunch of fools to squander this opportunity by reading a bunch of crap on the ol' WWW here. So, I'm going to make this brief.
When it comes to our country, there is one idea that dominates my thinking. Would it kill us to replace the bald eagle as our national symbol with The Eagles, the rock supergroup? I have nothing against the bald eagle, but ask yourself this: When was the last time you saw a bald eagle bring the house down with a rendition of Witchy Woman? When was the last time one of the members of the bald eagle split to do a solo thing, only to end up writing the theme song to Miami Vice? I don't even think a bald eagle can play guitar! If we want to get serious about 21st century solutions to our problems, then we need to start first with our treasured symbols. I would be willing to agree to let the Eagles appear only in bird costumes at first to break in the population, but we need to get rolling on this, the sooner, the better. Or else, the United States of Rock and Roll is all just a crazy dream.
Well, no one commented on my orange shirt today, so I didn't get a chance to use any of my witty retorts. I thought about engineering some conflict just so I could bust those bad boys out, but no one was biting, which was good for them. I have a tongue like a rusty ninja sword: not only will it cut you in a most painful fashion, but there will be an infection to deal with later. The worst part is that you never see it coming.
Yesterday was Canada Day. Does it strike anyone else here as odd that Canada has their national holiday just 3 days before Independence Day here in the USA? Once again, it's Canada trying to steal our thunder. Those dirty frostbacks are desperate for attention and this time, I'm not giving it to them. Not until they put out a sequel to Strange Brew, at least.
How is it possible that Rick Moranis was in two of the best movies ever in Strange Brew and Ghostbusters, and now he is apparently the night manager at Popeye's Chicken in Missoula, Montana? Maybe he just joined a cult like everyone else in California and swore off the movie business. He's Vinz Clortho, the key master, for crying out loud! I am thinking about printing up t-shirts that say "I want MOREanis!" It'd probably need a picture of his face on there because the phrase doesn't really click on its own. And God help us all if somehow the print shop gets mixed up and prints "I want MOREanus!" next to a picture of Rick Moranis. I would just wash my hands of the whole matter then.
At lunch today, I noticed one of the guys at work has the exact same phone I do. His phone however doesn't seem to call his dad's phone number randomly once a week. I have no idea why my phone does that since I use the keylock and all that crap, but it happens a lot. That and the fact that I can't use my phone in my apartment make me think I should just trade it in for a big flock of carrier pigeons. I wonder if that would impress a girl. Sure, girls like it when you call, but what about a live animal carrying you a message and maybe pooping on all your stuff? That's pretty good, especially if you can dress the pigeon up in some adorable way. For instance, if the girl likes the Ramones, you could put the pigeon in all leather with a black wig. Hmm, it's worth considering.
Well, I scored quite a coup today at the grocery store. I bought $40 worth of food, mainly pixie sticks and Colt 45, and when I was checking out, the cashier told me that because of my purchases, I got $.25 worth of gas. Goodness me, if only I had the foresight to buy some dixie cups! I'm not sure who came up with the idea of rewarding the customer with .00625 of a cent of gas for each dollar spent, but kudos and kudos again. You know, I'd only have to spend $3200 at that rate to fill my car up, which is a pretty decent rate. Especially if you use gasoline squeezed from the utters of a mythical unicorn, as I do.
I watched a great movie tonight, Waking Life. Essentially, it's a movie about a guy who is dreaming and the conversations he has in this dream with various people on the meaning of life and other weighty matters. Maybe people do dream about profound things like this, but I don't. If someone were to make a movie version of my dreams, it'd be me, getting chased by a robot Jon Lovitz and then stopping for a minute to watch the occasional lesbian tickle-party. Of course, you'd have to strap on some 3d goggles to get the full effect, like with Captain Eo, and, also like Captain Eo, it will be one of the few movies to accurately depict what it's like to eat corn dogs in space with Michael Jackson.
Speaking of 3d, I remember lots of stuff coming with 3d goggles when I was younger. All the goggles seemed to be were cardboard, with red and blue saran wrap over the eye holes. Who knew that the secret to the next dimension was so simple? I imagine people had tried all different combinations of colors of saran wrap before a brilliant, young scientist, Thomas Edison probably, put together blue and red. And then, it all started coming together. He started inventing all sorts of stuff, like the lightbulb, phonograph, and the slap bracelet, because he saw one dimension more than everyone else. There's a lesson for us all here.