Good gravy, I feel like Memorial Day tied me up in a sack and threw me into a river, so today's entry will be short and sweet. First, have I mentioned that I'll be in Las Vegas next week? I only have 4 days to lose all my money, get beat up by a prostitute, and have a hit put out on me courtesy of Wayne Newton, but I'm confident it can be done. Actually, the only thing I'm confident about is coming home a millionaire. I'm going to win so much, they'll make me stop betting money and start betting them for the white tigers at the Mirage. I hope those tigers like coleslaw, because that's all they're getting at Powell Manor.
Second, I was planning on buying Paul an inflatable woman for his birthday, but at the store I visited, all of the models were out of my price range. $200? I'm a fan of comedy, but not at that price. I began to ask them if they had an air mattress that I could put some lipstick on, but modesty prevailed. Instead, I bought him some sort of gay Nazi sex novel, which came with a free DVD. The name of the free DVD is so vulgar, I'm convinced I hallucinated it. I didn't know it was financially possible to get two horribly inappropriate gifts for $8, but the Ennis, TX adult video store answered the call. Kudos, gents; you are truly the epicenter for all deviants on a budget. Better entry tomorrow, when I'll be full of wiz and vinegar again.
I don't make a whole lot of sense right after I wake up. I could flesh that out with a list of times I've done something weird/freaked out/made a bizarre proclamation immediately after being awakened, but if I did that, I would be here until St. Crispin's Day. Really, I do it all the time. I do it so often, that if someone is going to be sleeping in the same room with me, I have to tell them, "Hey, if you wake me up and I happen to do something really crazy, just ignore it." Then the other person giggles a little, like they believe I'm joking but aren't quite sure, at which point I have to shrug and say, "It most likely won't be anything violent, but just watch it." Then the other person's eyes fill with fear, and they go barricade themselves in the bathroom.
I bring all of this up because I had an episode this morning. Around 7 this AM, a weird sound wakes me up. I'm not quite sure what is, but it sounds like a radio broadcast being played through some busted speakers right outside my window. I take a look through my window, see nothing, and attribute it to an act of God. I go back to sleep. A few minutes later, I hear the sound again. I check the window again, see nothing, but this time, I am annoyed and befuddled (annuddled) enough to put on some clothes so I can inspect my patio. As one might expect, no one had left a broken radio out on my patio. I head back inside and just a few seconds later, I hear it again. I go back out to the patio, and now I'm worked up enough to jump the railing so I can inspect my neighbors' porches for the source of the disturbance. The observer will note at this point how absolutely nothing good can come of this.
I live at the very edge of my apartment complex, so my patio is bordered by the wilderness. That does not deter me in hunting down the phantom stereo. I stomp through a bunch of mud, sticks, and gravel so I can make a complete round of the building and inspect everyone's patio. I came to my senses about halfway through and realized I had no idea what I was trying to accomplish. I felt like I had an obligation to my sleepy, insane self of 5 minutes previous though, so I continued with my investigation. It should come as no great surprise that I found nary a busted boombox. I came back to Powell Manor ready to light my room on fire in order to exorcise its demons, when I hear the sound again. This time, it strikes me that the noise sounds exactly like a fly trapped between my blinds and my window. I inspect the area in question, and sure enough, there is a fly trapped in there. I attempted to inspect his pockets in the impossible event that he'd be carrying around some broken speakers, but he was too quick for my shakedown. Some might say a fly getting stuck in my blinds is slightly more likely to occur than someone leaving a busted radio on my patio at 7 AM. To those people, I say that I do not play the odds.
I don't want to come off as an egomaniac here, but I'm beginning to think I could be a superhero. There have been clues for a while (laser vision, the theme music that pipes up whenever I enter a room, and my fondness for capes), but the following was the clincher: I don't seem to get sick while I'm awake. Allow me to elaborate. Over the past 4 years, I've only been really ill (feverish, pukey, and gross) two times. Both times, I felt fine when I went to sleep, only to wake up in the middle of the night feeling nauseous. I get up for a few minutes for a quick bout of vomiting followed by heavy medication, then go back to sleep. When I wake up, I feel just fine. From this, I conclude that I am impervious to sickness while I'm in a non-groggy state. Is your mind exploding yet?
Obviously, this is bad news for international assassins and anyone looking forward to inheriting my stuff when I die. Well, it's bad news as long as I stay awake, that is. Knowing my fondness for naps, this news doesn't affect my long-term chances for survival at all. Not only that, but I'm still just as likely to be ravaged by a puma or get a piano dropped on my head, which I have determined are the two most likely causes of my demise. As you can see, all of these caveats may not make me the world's most reliable superhero. Whatever, I still maintain that if you need a guy to withstand a virus in his waking hours, you come to the Pickle.
The reason I brought all of this up is because I had one of these episodes last night. I don't know what the deal was, but I was most certainly not living large at 3 AM this morning. I was feeling much better when I got up for work, but I can't help but think that something foul was afoot. There are a large number of parties who want me out of the picture: Carlos Jacott, the hooligans in my apartment complex, Dick Cheney, Octopussy, the UN, the National Association of Broccoli Farmers. Nice try, pansies, but it's going to take a little more than that to bring me down.
On rare occasions, a piece of art will speak to me. It doesn't happen often, but when I do come across one of these works of blinding brilliance, it lifts me out of my prosaic existence, slaps me around a little bit, and ultimately changes the way I see the world. It's a rare event, but it's just these happenings that have made me the person I am today. Last night, I had one of these experiences. It was a foreign film that I hadn't heard anything about, so I didn't go in with high expectations. By the time I left, though, I felt as it life had cheated me in giving me 23 years without this movie. It was called Erotic Ghost Story, it only cost a dollar to see at the Drafthouse, and it was awesome.
I don't want to ruin it for anyone, so I will just say that when the Chinese people put the word erotic into a movie title, they mean it. Goodness gracious, I have watched my share of late-night HBO and I still couldn't believe this movie. I think the producers found an 8 year old boy and asked him what the best movie ever would be. His response: "In every single moment of the movie, there should either be a naked lady or a werewolf. EVERY SINGLE MOMENT!" Kudos to them for setting the bar high and then clearing it with regards to that standard.
Of course, there was too much plot for just one movie, so there have been several sequels. I am not one to break my word, so believe me when I say that I will not rest until I have viewed the entire Erotic Ghost Story saga. If I can't find them here in Austin, then someone better set up a cot for me in Shanghai, because I'm headed to China. And if I can't them in China, then I'm just going to round up the cast and make them do the movies from memory. Please don't make me resort to this.
Message to all Austin HEBs: could you guys make it a little harder to find the boxed Delicato? Yes, it is a treasure and definitely worthy of being hidden from the heathens, but not from me.
Today, I'd like to ramble about foreign languages. I've always thought it'd be really cool to be able to speak another language. I don't know how useful it'd be on a day to day basis, but I imagine it would put me on the fast track to free refrills when ordering at certain restaurants. Not only that, but if I'm going to fulfill my dream of being a grizzled ex-patriot who flees the country under mysterious circumstances, I'm going to have to speak something besides English. Perhaps I could just go around speaking gibberish to the natives. It may not be productive at first, but I'm pretty sure that through this and my utter disregard for corn tortillas, they'd come to regard me as some sort of deity.
In spite of my passion, I have been completely incompetent at the second language thing. In high school, I took three years of Latin, and in a class full of slackers (Danza, Frito) and weinerbiscuits (everyone else), I managed to distinguish myself as the worst student in there. I was so inept, it would only take one attempt at conversation with ancient Rome's dumbest 3 year old before a centurion would be moved to kill me out of mercy. I blamed this on Latin, and continued to belief that there could yet be hope for me and another language.
Then, at college, I tried my hand at Spanish. I worked pretty hard and got good grades, but I wasn't going to be leading any Latin American revolutions with my language skills. Being in San Antonio, I got plenty of chances to bust my Espanol out, but it only took a few of these before I realized that my friends from south of the border were laughing with me, not at me, and that ano meant something very different from año. After a year of Spanish, I gave up.
This brings me to last night. While driving around before a baseball game, one of my companions pointed out all of the missing turtle signs that were around the neighborhood. She noted that there used to be some similar signs in Spanish, but they had been taken down. Since there is no off setting on the genius switch, I got to thinking. My turtle is missing in the tongue of the Spaniards... I could do this. I racked my brain for a few moments, and then almost imperceptibly, I murmured, "Mi tortuga es perdido." A-ha! Mi tortuga es perdido! I have no idea how correct that sentence is, but I think it's close enough. Not only is it close enough to accuracy, but it's close enough to instill an idea that there may just be a second language for me yet. Gracias, tortuga, no me olvidaré.
Today was the highly-anticipated Alumni Board elections. On a positive note, no one ran against Darby and I; I thank Goulash for again inspiring terror in my foes. On a negative note, I never managed to find a ballot, so it's entirely possible that no one at all voted for me. Boy, that'd be a bittersweet victory. I can only hope that some confused elderly lady took the ballot for an opinion poll and circled an area near my name. At least then, I can claim that the people (or person) have spoken, and that holding all alumni board business at the dog track was part of the election mandate.
Even though I was running unopposed, we've yet to get word back regarding the results here at our election headquarters. Tensions are high. Octopussy, my head speechwriter, has been chasing bugs around and scratching my chair in disgust. Even I have found my cinnamon muffins a little less delectable under this great strain. So, if you happen to see me over the next few days, don't take it personally if I box your ears or attempt to strike you with my buggywhip; it's just the stress talking. I wouldn't put it past the Enemies of Powell to try to steal this election from under me, just like they stole that Steve Martin autograph at that auction we had at my junior high (I will chronicle this event at a later time).
I haven't shared any status reports on the Summer of Cody yet. It has gone okay, aside from the fact that I have gotten sunburned two straight weekends. It has not been a summer of triumph thus far, but rather one of skin abrasions and excessive peeling. It's just further proof that pasty boys like myself belong inside, playing with our pogs, rather than outside, where we're prone to spontaeously bursting into flames. This has been duly noted, and the Summer of Cody will now continue.
Woooah, it's 9:30 PM and I just got home from work. Thus, no Goulash today. Just find a boozed up derelict and ask him to talk about dinosaurs or something; you pretty much get the same effect that way.
As the first members of the Royal Order of Goulash to tackle the institution of marriage, allow me to congratulate Eric and Kristin on their engagement. Now, I must offer some blessings up for them. May both of you grow old and prosperous together, and maybe look into getting a gazebo at some point. May your first child be a masculine child, with a cool car and a neat haircut. May your second child be a bit of a disappointment at first, only to get her act together in college and become a wealthy periodontist. May your third child redefine the way all of us come to appreciate macaroni-based dishes. Finally, may children 4-13 form the world's greatest jug band, and perform as the featured act on many, many Carnival cruises. Congrats, you two.
Hey, gas prices! A prostitutes to the stars called; she wants her outrageous rates back! That joke might not work so well, since I imagine a prostitute to the stars earns more than $20 a fill-up. Unless she's the madame to the stars of Telemundo, who I presume don't make much money. I could be wrong, but I thought I read somewhere they got paid with wheelbarrows full of manure. Obviously that works well in a strong wheelbarrow + manure market, but right now? Forget about it! I imagine several strongly-worded letters have already been written to Alan Greenspan about all of this, so I will step down from this soapbox and get back on the one I originally stood on, which was dedicated to gas prices.
Hey, gas prices! Some people are getting so worked up about you, they sent me some emails saying, "Don't buy any gas on May 19th!" I try hard to be the apple of everyone's eye, so I didn't share my opinion with anyone who sent me such an email, but I don't know effective this tactic is going to be. Instead of buying some gas today, you have to buy even more gas tomorrow. Game, set, match: protesters. Big oil has been put in its place, thanks to some quick thinking. If these people were serious about making a statement, they would sell their cars and all buy Segways, pogosticks, and big old tricycles. But no, they'll keep forking over their benjamins to old Richie Oilypants down at the gas station rather than support their local, mom and pop tricycle dealer. Unacceptable!
Hey, gas prices! If you don't go down soon, lots of people are going to start buying hybrid vehicles. This presents a problem for the bullies of our nation, as they won't know whose lunch money to steal. Right now, I bet a bully sees a hybrid and thinks, "I can easily shake that poindexter down and go buy myself a Nutrageous." But soon, he may risk angering a regular citizen, or even a fellow bully. Bullies killing bullies, say it ain't so.
Dear Cashier at My Local Grocery Store,
We've had some good times, have we not? I remember when I first moved to town and I bought a map from your store. You were working the register and, putting my merchandise together with my scared bunny look, you reached out to me. "New to town?" you said. While I don't remember my response (no doubt it was sparkling), I do recall a wave of comfort overtaking me, for I knew then that I had found my grocery store. Not just a grocery store, but a cashier, too.
Every week since, you've been my partner in comestibles, libations, and sundry goods. Lest I think our anonymous friendship was one-sided, you soon proved how you treasured my company. Whether it was the way you'd bust my chops for my id whenever I bought beer or the thumbs up you gave me that time I bought some condoms, I felt confident that I was one of your favorite customers. I didn't need a notarized certificate or an embroidered sash to prove it; our 30 seconds of camraderie each week was enough.
But then on Sunday, something changed. Allow me to refresh your memory. I pulled into the store parking lot, in search of Cherry Coke and shredded cheese. When I exited my vehicle, I noticed you and a coworker standing outside the store, taking your breaks. I began to saunter towards your direction to toss out a greeting and a playful rejoinder to get back to work when you leaned over to your associate and whispered something. He looked up at me, stifled a giggle, and looked back down. Now, I do not know what it was said; for all I know, it could've been the ending of a delightful anecdote or a gleefully wicked pun. I get the suspicion though that it was a snide comment at my expense. Was it about my hair? My dental hygiene? The way I inexplicably continue to buy pinto beans? This exchange has tormented me since I witnessed it, and I demand answers.
I am more than willing to attribute this slight to you waking up on the wrong side of the bed, but I hope you notice the pains I took to avoid the express lane that day. Exact change from me is a distant memory until a full apology is issued.
Good Day to You, Sir,
Cody Wayne Maxwell Powell
"This is gonna be my time. Time to taste the fruits and let the juices drip down my chin. I proclaim this: The Summer of George!" - George Costanza
Earlier this morning, something occurred to me: I've yet to have a summer all to myself. All through school, my summers were consumed with idiotic summer jobs, camps, and various ass-grabbery with my friends. Last summer started right after I graduated from college, which seems like it'd be the perfect time to claim it as mine. I didn't live up to the challenge. I spent the first two weeks doing too much celebratory drinking, the next two weeks freaking out over the possibility of having to move back in with my parents, and the final two months trying to get adjusted to a city where I didn't know anyone and a job where I wasn't sure of what I was doing. Those were the dark days at Powell Manor.
A year has since passed, and I have turned my relationship with Austin from one of moronic embarrassment to one of absolute triumph. Whereas I once could expect to be pelted with rotten fruit by neighbors immediately upon leaving my apartment, they now take it upon themselves to bake me a rhubarb pie each week for being so delightful. The cab drivers used to make a special effort to run me over while I paraded around town on my unicycle; now I ride in distinction, on the platinum rickshaw that the cabbies' union bought for me as a present. And finally, when I first moved here, no female would have anything to do with me. Currently, I can hardly show my face without a barrage of impassioned pleas from the local women. Yes, almost all of these pleas are in Spanish, but I am still inclined that they have something to do with delicate kisses and nights of passion.
I have established myself, and so it is time to make an announcement. Effective immediately, I declare this summer to be the Summer of Cody. I will dip my cup of revelry into the oasis of summer, and guzzle on the Fun Juice. I will be so footloose, I will scarcely have time to be fancyfree. I will take the summer into my home and invite it to sleep on the couch. I will offer to make it breakfast and check it for fleas. I will tickle its chin until it giggles and coos. It will have reservations at first, but it will give in when it comes to an important realization: I am Cody, and I have claimed this summer as my own.
Psst: if anyone's sent me email in the past day or so, could you resend it? We had a major mail snafu yesterday.
Like any truly great event, the pun-off was as painful as it was enjoyable. The contestants were true masters of the art, and any thought I had about entering was quickly dissipated when those guys started rocking the mic. It was a lot of fun. However, it also really bright and shiny outside, and so I, being the honkiest of honkeys, burst into flames immediately. If I can just figure out a way for nothing to touch my thighs or toes for the next few days, I think I will live. But anyway, one part of the pun-off was where the contestants would be given a subject, and then they had to trade puns back and forth on it until someone ran out. Here are a few of the ones I came up with, when I wasn't babbling incoherently from of a combination of ant bites and sun stroke:
She's a good cook, but I don't like herpes.
I've had a shooting pain in my posterior for the past few weeks. I finally went to the doctor yesterday. When I pulled down my pants to show him the afflicted area, he took one look and said, "Ast-e-roids!"
It occurs to me now that puns don't really come across very well when you write them down, not to mention that I need to curtail this pun thing immediately before I am deemed the world's lamest individual. Nevertheless, I maintain that both of these puns are great, and if you do not appreciate them, it reflects very poorly on your character.
In other news, my cat has taken to napping inside of my computer case. The case is exposed, so she can crawl in right under the sound card and the hard drive. While I'm no pet psychic, I think she's expressing her desire to be a cyborg. Part cat, part computer, all feistiness. Must I even elaborate on how exciting this is? The whole one-eyed thing is really convenient, since I can put in laser vision for the missing eye. I just need to find a Cybernetic Cats for Dummies book at the library and we'll soon be off on this adventure.
I like to enter elections. In college, I crushed all of my foes in a race for student government senator by plastering the campus with catchy slogans like "If I could raise those sea monkeys, I can run this university" and "Our school deserves the best, but won't it settle for me?" When it came to the debates, the other candidates didn't stand a chance. At one of these events, I began a speech with, "My mother has told me I am both the smartest and best-looking individual on this campus. For that alone, I deserve 100% of the vote." Then I sat down. The audience high-fived, while the other candidates wondered what in the hell I was doing. After a few confused moments, the next guy got up to speak, but before he could make it to the microphone, I ran back up to the podium and continued my speech. Needless to say, when the underground student paper came out the next day, I was the only candidate they enthusiastically endorsed.
My point here is that no one stands a chance when it comes to running against me; I am simply too delightful. I figured I would share all of this with the world now so I didn't have to administer any bad medicine next weekend at the Austin Trinity Alumni Board elections. Last night, in an inspired moment of delirium, my friend Darby and I nominated each other for these board spots. While the responsibilities are unclear, the outcome isn't: an electoral spankin' for anyone who opposes us. If anyone reading this happens to be a Trinity alumnus in the Austin area, come out and rock the vote, or else your name is on the list. I will soon be a powerful enemy; step lightly.
It looks like it may rain on Saturday. I can only hope this will drive away the Pun-Off competitors, allowing me to win without even entering. Also, the Lakers suck, and I sincerely hope that the Spurs send them to bed tonight without a fudgesicle. Or, if they're going to let them have a fudgesicle, stick it down the Lakers' collective pants. Have a good weekend.
If I have a corporate enemy, it would have to be Bank of America. In a foolhardy moment, I chose them to handle the Powell riches. Since that day, they have taken to screwing me over in ways that Carlos Jacott could only dream about. It would not surprise me at all to flip through their annual report and see a glossy, 4 page section, full of bar graphs and executive testimonials, all about their progress in screwing me over. I do have to admire the way they constantly try to top themselves, though. Nearly every day in the mail, I receive something from them detailing a new product or service to destroy my personal finances. This has been going on for years, and I usually just shake my fist at the heavens and throw the mail away. Today, however, I decided to strike back. Until Bank of America stops sending me stupid mail, I will respond to each mailing with an envelope of stale pretzels.
It's possible to miss the beauty of this plan. First, in each mailing they send me, there is an envelope with pre-paid postage. Second, I have a load of stale pretzels left over from the original Centennial. Third, I am an idiot. By utilizing a little Pythagorean theorem, mathematics pretty much forces me to mail these old pretzels to Bank of America. I will not attempt to predict the outcome of my devious new plan, but I will document any future pretzel-based correspondence between myself and my corporate nemesis.
In other news, Patrick and I got to participate in the job interview process for some candidates at work a little bit today. It was an interesting feeling, to ruin an interview as the interviewer, as opposed to the interviewee. I did manage to discover my own unique style of interviewing during this: ask a poorly-phrased question, then shrug my shoulders and struggle not to giggle. Luckily, Paddy was there to back me up and do essentially the same thing. I call this method "Laying an Early Groundwork for Future Incompetence", and I expect it to be all the rage at the Harvard Business School 100 years from now.
There's an annual Austin event in which I've always been very interested. I'd see the signs for it on the commute between San Antonio and Arlington, and I'd instruct my man servant to make a mental note so that one day, I could attend. While man-servant has failed me in many ways (e.g. failing to sweep my quarters last night for scorpions), he has shone brilliantly when it comes to reminding me about this particular event. For that, I will shower him with candy corn. This is all a round-about way of saying that, on Saturday, I shall be rocking out the O. Henry Pun Off.
Being a hallowed elder of the Super Dork club, it should be no surprise to anyone that I like puns. To guys like me, puns are right up there with graphing calculators and dirty thoughts about Princess Leia, and I think my love for them could only be intensified with a battle-to-the-death competition. However, I am saddened to say that I will be at the Pun-Off as a spectator only. There are two reasons for this. First, I have been barred from international pun contests due to a nasty incident in the Helsinki Pun-Run last year. I do not wish to make excuses for my behavior, but I had no idea my good-luck tiger was so intolerant of Scandinavians. Again, I apologize.
Second, and most important, I am just not in competition shape. If I wanted to do it right, I'd have to pull a Rocky IV and set up a secluded training camp in Siberia. It'd be nothing but me running up snow-covered mountains, punning my heart out, while my salty, old coach chases me with a cattle prod. A mockery at first, I wouldbegrudgingly win over the hearts of the godless Commies with my old-school flavor and my never-say-die ways. I just think I'd be a little bit rushed to pull something like this off before Saturday. So, rest easy, pun-off entrants; each of you may actually stand a chance this year. See the sights, pow-wow with your buddies, and enjoy your "competition". Next year, it will not be so easy.
There are some days where I would rather do anything than an entry on goulash; this is one of those days. However, there is a reason that this site is the people's champ when it comes to the WWW, and that is because I never let this ennui overcome me. I know that the instant I start taking days off, some rascal will sneak up behind me and steal my core audience of confused Japanese senior citizens. I made a sacred promise to Mrs. Yamamoto that I would not let this happen, and I'll be a bug-eyed mule if I back out on that today.
Now, since I already let everyone know I am running on creative empty today, let's take a look at how people are getting to goulash from various search engines. The number one search term people enter to get here, as always, is goulash. Even though Google may not recognize it, this site is numero uno in the hearts and minds of Hungarian food enthusiasts everywhere. Number two, and I only wish I were making this up, is car sabotage. Some of you may find this odd, since I don't really talk about the black art of automobile sabotage that much. To those of you holding that opinion, I can only say that you are missing the subtext. While I may not explicitly make reference to car sabotage, it is implied with every single word on here, and don't you forget it.
A little bit further down the list are three really great search terms. The first one is le goulash, which may signal the beginning of a powerful, new French youth movement, where I will be its torchbearer. That ought to look pretty good on a resume. The second is basset hound diet. While I'm not yet a world-renowned basset hound expert, I feel I can help these people out. The proper diet for a basset hound consists of nothing but vienna sausages, peanut m&ms, and Schlitz. Anything else and your dog will hate you. Finally, a lot of people are getting here by searching for cuban hookers on Google. I don't know how to break it to these people, but you have found exactly the right website. Just keep reloading this page until a prostitute bursts out of your monitor.
Shalom, Mother's Day! I hope everyone took their sweet mommas out for a breakfast of waffles and champagne this morning. I also hope that, after a few glasses of the bubbly stuff, no one mixed their waffles with their champagne and forced their sweet momma to eat it; that is just gross. What do you think she is, some sort of Iraqi prisoner? It is refreshing to know you can drive your mom totally insane for an entire year, and it only takes some brunch and a pack of soap to make you square again. Of course, the irony is kinda diminished several years down the road when she moves into your house and loses control of her bowels. I forget what my point was here, so in closing, be nice to your mom.
I think I'm getting played for a sucker with all of these parent-based holidays. I have no children, but I do have both a plant and a cat, which makes me roughly 1/3 of a parent. And yet, despite spending roughly 15 minutes a day nuturing and whatnot, I've yet to receive any sort of gift from those two. I've always heard that rubber trees and cats are "Nature's Tag Team" but it surely doesn't seem like it comes to consideration for ol' Pops. I'm gone all day long; you'd think they would have ample time to plan something out. But no, all I get is more stuff to water and more poop to scoop up. If it weren't for all the free oxygen and cat hair I was getting out of the deal, I would consider trading those two in for a Gamecube.
Since we (the royal we) are talking about my nuturing skills, I feel like I should point that I spent $100 at the vet for Octopussy yesterday. Yeah, shots and stuff are expensive and I understand that, but I paid $70 just for 6 pills. After that kind of money, I expect this cat to be bulletproof, or at the very least, clairvoyant. If not, I will be seeking a refund immediately. You have been put on notice, Mr. Veterinarian.
Well, Friends is going off the air tonight. While all of the fans boohoo, I secretly rejoice. Not because I hated the show (I have no opinion of it), but because it means there's some room at the top of the ratings for the pilot I'm currently shooting. What's that? You didn't know I was shooting a pilot? Well, it's been a very hush-hush deal so far, but yes, I'm doing a little tv thing with some very high-level talent. I don't want to give too much away, but let's just say that some major stars of the screen and I have devised a new spin on a classic tale. Okay, since I'm trying to build up a bit of buzz, I'll give you a little more; here's what I've been sending out to the networks:
Hey America: strap on some diapers because your Thursday nights are about to get a little more spookalicious.
In a deserted castle in Transylvania, something evil is brewing. A terrible force has been unleashed, bent on the destruction of the earth, and only two men can stop it. The two most feared men on earth, that is. Kirk Cameron (as Dr. Frankenstein) reunites with Cheech Marin (as the Wolf Man) to destroy evil through some punching, some lunching (they're food critics during the day), and some evil munching. Watch as they attempt to thwart the dreaded Robot Dracula (Ralph Macchio) from destroying the earth, in the world's first sitcom/sci fi/food criticism/musical/reality/televangelism show. The only way to find out who wins is to WATCH! Or maybe just go over to Kirk Cameron's house and ask him, but he's doing some remodelling, so it's better just to WATCH!
If that's not Must See TV, then this isn't the world's most popular website. NBC, if you want a piece, you're going to have to outbid Telelmundo. And I don't want to share too many details of their offer, but they did say something about free hair cuts for Mr. Cameron, along with a recurring spot on Sabado Gigante for yours truly. You don't even need to pay me when you toss out something like that. Have a good weekend, jive turkeys.
Cinco de Mayo en la casa! Can someone explain to me why I've seen no Mexican restaurants offering a Cinco de Mayo Pie-o today? The rhyme is right there, people. I don't know exactly what one would find in a Cinco de Mayo Pie-o, maybe some guacamole and beer inside a pie crust. Then you could ride around the parking lot on a burro while you eat your pie-o. The only group that reads goulash more than prison inmates is restaurateurs, so I look forward to seeing this idea implemented later tonight.
I am going to try to find a Cinco de Mayo happening tonight because I feel like I've kind of let this holiday down in the past. It's an established fact that no one likes Mexico more than me (see for yourself), not even the drug runners. In addition to that, I lived in San Antonio for a long time, where Cinco de Mayo is a major deal. Despite these two facts, I haven't yet celebrated Cinco de Mayo in a way that involved me tossing a sombrero up in the air and then shooting at it. I've certainly made an effort, though. Last year, I tried to do it up right by actually going to Mexico on Cinco de Mayo, but then when we got there, it wasn't that big a deal. Yes, it was still great because it was Mexico, but George Washington's birthday was a much bigger party than that. I tried to be mad at Mexico for this, but I can't; one of the reasons why I love it so is because its citizens have their priorities so out of order.
This year, I get it right. I will eat, drink, and perhaps fall in league with some banditos. I will search out an army of Frenchmen and destroy them, in keeping with the legend of the holiday. I will go to a futbol match, get way too into it, and set the opposing team's bus on fire should they win. And then, at the end of the night, I will go to Cheech Marin's house and see what he's got going on, because I bet he does it right.
I don't know how I forgot to mention this. The only reason I can think of is that it was so traumatic, I immediately repressed it. And so, since Thursday, I've just been traipsing along, completely unaware of my near-death experience. But then today at lunch, while eating my chicken fingers, the entire, horrible ordeal came flooding back. I grabbed the collar of the cashier at the Golden Chick and gasped, "A possum almost touched me!" Then I barricaded myself in the bathroom, where I could weep and scrub myself with hand soap in privacy.
For those of you who don't follow my bizarre phobias with monastic dedication, I do not like possums. In fact, I hate possums. If I had to rank my least favorite animals, the possum would not only beat the gila monster, but it'd be so renowned for its #1 position, it'd give lessons to lesser beasts on how to terrify and disgust me. If I had to explain why I hate them, we'd be here until Cinco de Mayo, so just accept the fact that I loathe these brutes. And Thursday night, coming home from Emo's, I got up close and personal with one of them, the nastiest of American marsupials.
I had been at a show that night, so my spirits were high as I walked back to the car. Then, as I was rounding the corner of the state capitol, I saw something scurry in the distance. "What is that, a cat?" I wondered. I wasn't too worried; I kept moving. The critter in question continued to scamper towards me, and as it got closer, I began to realize this was no cat. No sir, it was way too dumpy and weird to be a cat. Then it struck me: there was either a baby Sasquatch running at me, or a possum. I surveyed the situation for escape routes; there were none. The possum crept up closer. I held my breath, made a cross with my fingers, and prayed for a quick death. After several seconds, I opened my eyes and saw him scoot around the corner of the building. I don't know what happened, but that guy was on the warpath and he had me in his sights; I can only credit divine intervention for surviving the encounter. Looking back on it now, I got two things out of this experience: another reason to hate possums, and a reason to stay away from the state capitol. That, friends, is possum country.
My cat has one eye. The real story of her cyclopsification isn't very interesting, so I've been trying to come up with some cool explanations for it. Here's what I have so far.
- The eye was poked out while defending me from a wild baboon attack.
- The eye was stolen by a shaman for use in a zombie-raising potion.
- The eye was shot out by the Sandinistas when she was conscripted into the Nicaraguan army.
- The eye was seized and then destroyed at the airport when the security guards realized she had X-ray vision and could see the pilot's underwear.
- The eye was traded for fish tranquilizers during a time my cat doesn't like to talk about.
Hmm, I am beginning to think I have a great talent here. Maybe I could be some sort of consultant to hospitals that they call in whenever someone has an ailment without a cool story to explain it. I don't want to jinx it, but I'm fairly certain I am sitting on a gold mine here. After all, it has been widely established that the world's biggest untapped market is deformed, untrustworthy people. If I can just get 50 cents from each of them, it's only a matter of days before I'm riding around town on a solid gold ostrich and throwing pizza parties that'd make the cast of 21 Jump Street blush.
Unforunately, as great as this idea is, it's not quite ready to be implemented. I have business cards to print and skywriters to hire before I go public with this. For right now, as a public service, I promise to come up with a great story for any physical ailment that you may have. Just leave the deformity in the comments and prepare to have a story so great, Tom Jones will be throwing his undies at you, for once.
Oh dear heavens, I had one of those weekends that should be reserved for former child actors who just escaped from rehab by hiding in the laundry truck. Thankfully, I am back in casa de copo, where the biggest risk is Octopussy knocking over my ceramic baby doll collection. Those aren't toys, they're an investment, and I will defend them as such. But anyway, now that I'm back in the squalor which I call my home, I am reminded of just how badly I could use some help around here. With my various civic duties, I sometimes don't do such a good job on the cooking and cleaning, which is why I am now accepting applications for my live-in maid.
Now that I think about it, maid may not be the correct title for this position, as I don't intend to pay this person. It's more of an indentured servant sort of thing. That doesn't make it sound very good, but I maintain it'll be a sweet gig. You'll get free room and board, plus lots of quality time with me. You can even make my patio into your very own living area. In exchange, you'll only have to work a few hours a day. You can spend the rest of your time putting together a puzzle, reading quietly, or sweeping the patio; what you do on your own time is your business. You will have to stay on the premises at all times though, since it's kind of hard to cater to my whims from down the street.
I must warn you, though, it's not easy to cook for me. The only thing I'll eat is Vienna sausages, and I expect them to be cooked a different way for every meal. And your cleaning duties may get kind of intense, as I plan on raising hogs in my living room. Furthermore, if you make eye contact with me, I reserve the right to thrash you with a bamboo rod. Aside from that, I will be a most benevolent master. Provide a CV with references to firstname.lastname@example.org and I'll get back to you in a timely manner.