Woowee, I've got nothing today, folks. I had a really long day of work and I was considering mailing today's entry in, but then I made the smartest decision of my life: I checked the visitor logs for this site. Following are a list of search terms people used to get here in just the last day, along with my incredibly witty take on each.
karate monkey surly. A surly monkey is bad news, as I recently read a news story about a surly chimp who tore off a guy's nose. Now imagine if that chimp knew karate. Sweet bearded Jesus, you've signed your death warrant.
I love nachos. I don't even know what to say here, except that someone has come to the right place. If I were to become really rich, I'd go on a year-long nacho bender. I'd lock myself in my personal fortress and wander the halls with a shotgun, some jalepenos, and refried beans smeared all over my chest.
about voodoo witch doctors. There's a lot of material to cover here, so I'll give you the broad overview. Voodoo witch doctors wear necklaces made of bone and raise zombies from the dead, often through the use of chicken blood. Pretty much the worst thing on earth would be to anger a voodoo witch doctor who happened to be a surly karate monkey.
nigerian convicts with jaguars. I hope they're talking about jaguars the animals, because that's pretty much the most frightening concept ever. Just a bunch of Nigerian convicts roaming the streets, ordering their jaguars to attack innocent bystanders. I'd get a jaguar of my own in that case, so it could maul me before the Nigerians got me.
Is Matt Damon hung like a horse. A shetland pony is a horse, right?
michael irvin is chinese. I'm almost scared to say too much, knowing how litigious Mr. Irvin is. I'll share one little bit, though. Back during the glory days of the Dallas Cowboys, the personal trainer of the team was bopping around the locker room, straightening up the players' lockers. Most everyone had the same stuff in there: shoes, deoderant, cocaine, etc. Not Michael Irvin's, though. Instead, his was full to the brim with egg rolls and throwing stars.
cheech marin's house. More commonly referred to as PARADISE.
One member of the inner circle recently got married, and another will be following suit shortly (take a bow, Mr. Venza). With all of the recent happenings, I've devoted a little bit of thought to planning my own nuptials. Of course I won't be tying the knot any time soon, not with Sandra Day O'Connor still refusing to ditch her man and shack up with me. But in the event the unlikely did occur and I became the unofficial 10th Justice of the Supreme Court, here are a few possibilities I'm throwing around.
One idea I had was to script out an bizarre opening scene for the wedding, allowing me to make an incredible entrance. I'd slip the priest $50 because I'd need his help, but no one else in the joint would know. Here's how I see it happening. The bride walks down the aisle, with everyone is boo-hooing and cherishing the moment. Right as he's about to start, the priest says to the crowd, "Excuse me, I have an announcement to make." And then he'd scream unintelligibly and rip his shirt off, revealing a huge skull and cross bones tattoo. "This broad is coming with me," he'd yell. While all of this is happening, I'm on the roof. After I hear the priest start up with his bit, I'd open up the skylight and jump down to the floor with a crossbow in my hand. "Not so fast, Padre," I'd say, as I shot him in the chest with an arrow. He'd stumble back and fall onto the pipe organ, while I shook the glass from my hair. Then I'd walk up towards the bride, trying to act modest about my feat of incredible bravery, when the priest would raise up with his last ounce of energy to hurl a knife at me. The crowd would gasp, expecting my gory death to be played out in front of their eyes, but I'd whirl around and catch the knife. Preferrably I'd catch it with my teeth but the knife would be the important part.
Just when everyone is starting to pee their pants and cry uncontrollably, I show the knife to the crowd. It's made out of flowers or wedding rings or dress material or something like that, and I'd hand it to the little lady. The crowd would all say "AWWWW" at once, the priest would put his clothes back on, and we'd continue with the ceremony. I maintain that if you didn't tell anyone about doing this beforehand, it'd be one of the funniest things in the history of the world. Yes friends, I am that confident.
My other idea was dressing up in a bunny suit. Yes, that idea is a little more concise than the previous one, but just as good.
I'm not going to lie to you, folks: I've got nothing today. I've tried a few different things here, and it all came out flat and lifeless, much like my homemade bundt cake. Rather than rocking anyone's world, how about a few near limmericks?
There once was a guy named Chuck
With a world-renowned mandarin duck
You could squeeze on its beak
and then it would speak,
"Chuck is wearing women's underwear!"
There once was a lady named Jane
whose mustache could not be explained
She said, "My name's not Pierre,
so what's with the lip hair?
I guess it because I ate a thermometer while I was a baby."
I once had a cat I named Lester
Who was quite the savvy investor
He looked at my stocks
then crapped in my socks
and replied, "A mutual fund may be more appropriate for your risk tolerance."
Aloha, turkeys. Speaking of turkeys, I really like old, hard-boiled detective novels, Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler and stuff like that. Anyway, one thing that Sam Spade always says is, "Talk turkey!" I could understand if there were a comma between the two, like, "Talk, you turkey!" But I've seen that line in multiple places and there's no comma. I can only guess that to talk turkey means to speak truthfully. And if that's the case, I guess it means that the turkey is the most sincere barnyard animal. How many turkeys have been arrested for perjury? Zero, and that's a historical fact.
So if turkeys really are this truthful, I need to find a turkey selling a treasure map. And then, a league of turkey manual laborers to dig the thing up, since I don't want to do it myself and I don't want anyone stealing my treasure. This is where it gets complicated. Eventually, if this idea holds up, I see turkeys becoming like the Jedi Knights of the world: the only entities we can really trust. Over time, it will become illegal to eat turkey since the animal is so valued, and turkeys will overwhelm the earth, destroying humanity with their beaks and their statements of fact.
We're faced with a choice then. We can accept the wisdom of the turkeys, perhaps making the world a better place. In doing so, we embrace humanity's demise. Or we can all start gorging ourselves on turkey every meal until we rid the world of this wretched beast. The fate of the world rests in our choice of lunch meat. What shall we choose? It's a pretty heavy issue, and I don't know exactly where I stand on it. Until I figure it out, I'm going to align myself with the pigs.
Look, it's my exclusive 1 on 1 with the Easter Bunny!
Also, if you're a livejournal user, I should point out that somehow, the lj goulash feed has fixed itself. Let's call it another Easter miracle.
Every year at this time, I write about how much I hate Easter. The antipathy goes back to the early 80s, when a particularly cruel Children's World employee would pelt me with spoiled Cadbury eggs whenever I wouldn't settle down for nap time. Ever since then, I have hated bunnies and any bunny-centric holidays. This year, Easter decided to take its battle to me early. In the event the actual day of Easter should succeed in assassinating me, I feel I must share my story.
Sometime in the last few weeks, I told my special ladyfriend to make me an Easter basket. I have no idea now why I made such a demand, but it is definitely in keeping with a lifetime of outrageous requests (see: inviting Andre the Giant to my birthday party, demanding Warwick Davis respond to my emails, etc). Anyway, last weekend, I got the aforementioned Easter basket and because I had no idea why I requested, I put it in my car. For all intents and purposes, my car is my mobile storage unit. For the past two weeks, I've been keeping a pair of shoes in there. Whenever I want to wear that pair of shoes, I walk out to the car in a separate pair of shoes, take those shoes off and throw them into the floorboard, and put the desired shoes on. Since I only have two pairs of shoes, this is a cycle that repeats itself daily, and I imagine it's only a matter of time before I change all of my clothes every day in the front seat of my vehicle.
Anyway, last Sunday I had to drive about 200 miles, and midway through the trip I realized that the candy would in handy (lovers of poetry, take delight). The candy had been in the car for maybe a day and a half, so it was pretty squishy. It really didn't matter to me, though. While I was driving, I began to unwrap all of the candy and gobble it up, hoping that most of the mushed chocolate ended up in my mouth. After 30 minutes of melted candy bacchanalia, I stopped for gas and went inside to pay the clerk.
As I made my way up to the cash register, the cashier stifled a giggle and said, "Everything ok, sir?" I looked down to see that a large deposit of my Easter candy had managed to smear itself all over the front of my pants. My first inclination was to ask her if the incontinent get a discount. Instead, I pulled some of the wrappers out of my pocket and declared, "It's okay, it's Easter candy." Except it's not okay, because I only have like three pairs of pants and one of these is now marked all to hell because of this stupid holiday. On the bright side, if I ever encounter some more melted chocolate, I have just the right pants for the job. Easter is on thin ice already.
On my way into class morning, my car began to sputter. Its coughed its way into the parking lot of a nearby bar, where I turned it off and got out to see if I could use the bar's phone. The door was locked, so I gave it a few cordial knocks, then turned my attention to just how many kidneys I'd have to sell to get a new vehicle. I looked back to the door when I heard the its lock begin to turn. The door opened and a man reeking of Old Spice grabbed me by the collar and pulled me inside.
"Cody Powell, we've been waiting for you," he said, pouring himself a big cup of Hawaiian Punch.
"What? What is this?" Looking around, I saw balloons and crepe paper all over the place. In the middle of the room was an ice cream cake, and I soon realized that my assailant wore a party hat on his head. "Hey, you look kind of familiar..."
"I should," he said. "I'm Matthew Modine. Maybe you've heard of a little something called Memphis Belle?"
"What the hell are you doing at this bar at 8 AM? And how did you know to expect me?"
The answer to this question came from another man sitting across the room.
"We know plenty, Cody. We have to; all of us in this room are inextricably linked."
"What? Bob Costas?"
"It is I, Bob Costas. And perhaps you know the fellow in my lap, Mr. Wolf Blitzer."
"Yeah, it's a pleasure, Wolf, but I'm at a bit of a loss as to what's going on here."
And just then, a fog machine turned on. To the beats of German techno, a purple velvet chair lowered from the ceiling. Perched in it was none other than William Shatner. He threw an apple core at me, and then addressed the room.
"Are you really that surprised? What's the date, Mr. Powell?"
"March 22," I said.
"Yes, but it's more than that, isn't it? It's a special day for you, as it is for me and Matthew Modine and Bob Costas and Wolf Frickin' Blitzer," Shatner said.
"Well, it is my birthday," I said.
"Indeed it is. Actually, it is all of our birthdays. And so, every year on this day, we gather together for the annual meeting of the March 22nd Society."
"The March 22nd Society?"
"An informal association whose only members are those sharing the same birthday. We get together occasionally to fight crime and to sing Happy Birthday to each other. Today is your initiation," he said.
"What's involved in that?"
A devilish smile crossed his lips. "Modine, wake the gorilla! If you can fend him off with a ballpoint pen, you will then become a fully fledged member of the March 22nd Society. Watch out, for the beast is bloodthirsty and not above socking you in the genitals."
"Woah, hang on a second! This is getting a little intense." I began to pace around the room, working it all out in my brain.
"So I'm supposed to fight a wild gorilla with a ballpoint pen, and if I should win, I get to join a club with Wolf Blitzer. Okay, I'm with you on that point. What I want to know is, if I defeat the gorilla, do I get some of that ice cream cake?"
"You get will get .... two pieces of the cake." Matthew Modine began to protest. "And Modine's share of the Hawaiian Punch," Shatner said fiercely.
My mind was made up. "Hey Costas," I barked, "fetch me a pen."
Well, Elian Gonzalez '05 is currently playing out in front of the entire nation, and this debacle has got me to thinking. Since a print-out from my website will carry a lot more weight in a court of law than a will or any of that crap, I'd like to register my own preferences here. If I'm ever in a state like that poor woman and someone gets in the way of an expedient death for me, I will devote whatever brainpower I have left to master telekinesis. And then, once I have it mastered, I will use my powers to pour the contents of my bedpan onto that person at every opportunity. The showering will become so frequent, the person will take to wearing a pancho every time he steps inside the hospital. It'll be like going to the whale tank at Sea World every time he ventures near my room. With Goulash as my witness, this is a public vow; be wary, right to lifers.
Like a lot of people, I feel pretty strongly about this issue. So strongly, in fact, that I considered sending out an email to my friends and family telling them they could pull the plug on me whatever they'd like. If I had to go in to get a mole removed, they'd be completely within their rights to storm the office, strip off the oxygen mask, and scream, "People weren't meant to live this way!" I elected not to send this ultimately, since I foresee myself going crazy one day and getting a lot of risky elective surgery. If I decide to have a tusk mounted on my face, I'm pretty sure I'll want to live long enough so I can wake up and admire it. You would definitely get haunted if you pulled the plug on me in that situation. So, I nixed the email, but I'm not done with this idea yet.
It's a very touchy issue, and both sides make valid points. Nevertheless, I couldn't help but applaud when I stumbled upon the anonymous comment left on Plastic today:
We need to pass a new law that limits the role of the federal government. It needs to list the powers that the federal government has and reserve the rest to the states and the people themselves. Then we need all politicians to swear an oath to obey this law and defend such a law from those who would abuse it. I know it sounds insane, but if we all band together and get behind some activist judges, maybe we can make such a crazy concept happen some day.
It's Sunday, so let's hit the archives of stuff that never made its way to cp.com.
If you parked your car in Jesus's driveway for 12 hours, do you think he would tow it? I have been thinking about that a lot since Sunday and I have concluded that not only would Jesus not tow your car, but he'd probably wash it for you while it was there, with a really fancy sponge to boot.
On Sunday, I was responsible for getting a car towed from a church parking lot after it had been there for 12 hours. Then, I was the one responsible for paying $110 to get that car untowed. In addition to those things, I will also be the one responsible for throwing a cup of pee at the person who got my car towed. Actually, that may be crossing some kind of unspoken line, but I will definitely give that person's bottom a swatting they won't easily forget.
I won't deny that they had the legal right to tow the car, but it just seems so harsh for them to do that when the car was only parked there for one night. And also, it was parked right next to the dumpster in the crappy spot that no one wants to use except the hobos who probably don't tithe. I think it is way unchurchy for them to do that after 12 hours, and I plan on writing a letter to the Pope and to Cat Fancy magazine condemning that church.
Someone here beat the ever loving bejesus out of my tailbone last night. It's weird. I go to sleep with my tailbone as fit as a fiddle; I wake up the next day feeling like I spent the night sharing a cot in the big house. I can't sit without leaning really far back or sitting as straight as possible because of the pain that is caused whenever I try anything between the two. So, I spent most of the day at work today sitting like Snoop Dogg for an hour and then sitting like the 5th grade class president for the next hour.
I am starting to think that maybe it isn't my tailbone that is hurt, maybe I am just growing a tail. That would be bad because I'd have to start shopping at the Pants For People With Tails Store, but good because then I could spank people and they wouldn't know it was me. Yes, there is a trade off to having the tail. It is a trade off I am willing to embrace, though.
Somehow I forgot that today was Saint Patrick's Day. How on earth could I think I'd finish up a contest on a day which would ordinarily be spent searching for leprechauns? Anyway, as I said yesterday, I held a Goulash contest for the worst song on which I could spend a download on iTunes. As one might expect, the people of Goulash rocked the polls. Really, I don't understand how the central nervous system of this fair site withstood the barrage of votes; Goulash must be so smart that it's creating its own neural network. Nevertheless, after a few hours of tabulating the results and narrowing it down to two finalists, I was faced with a stark and terrifying decision: did I really want to get into a recursive iTunes competition? Allow me to explain.
The winning prize for this contest is an iTunes credit that I won off from a contest on iwannaspankjenniferlovehewitt.com. The administrator of that contest entered my contest, and I soon foresaw an endless chain of contests, where the only two entrants were the two of us. I'd be so intent on beating Shawn, I'd give up on society entirely. I'd sit around in sweatpants, screaming obscure zydeco songs at my monitor, all in a feeble attempt to triumph in our increasingly esoteric contests. It'd get so bad that I'd eat applesauce with my hands and throw the empty containers at the mail man, with the excuse that I had a contest to win, a contest with no other competitors. I've been down this path, friends, and it's not a pretty one.
And so, with all appropriate fanfare, the winner of the iTunes credit goes to Mr. Chippy, who blew all other contestants away when he suggested a Billy Ocean song. Billy Ocean played a pivotal role in my favorite Mr. Show sketch ever (Operation Hell on Earth), so it was a little unfair for me to allow the compettition to proceed after I saw that enter. I don't care, though. I run Goulash like my own banana republic. If I want to allow a contest to run after I've already picked a winner, so be it. And if I want to write an entry after I've been drinking on St. Paddy's day, well, I don't know who's going to stop me. Thanks to all of you who entered the contenst, and here's hoping you manage to memorize my favorite Mr. Show sketches before I hold the next one.
I declared yesterday I would soon win a contest, and then I went out and won a contest. It was not my office NCAA pool, but instead a contest that Shawn was running over at iwannaspankjenniferlovehewitt.com, which is one of my favorite sites on the web. I triumphed not because I promised to write the preceding statement on my site, nor because I promised Shawn first crack at my sister once she got cured off the sauce. Instead, it was because I have a talent, nay a gift, when it comes to recommending music. Making music? Not so much; for further proof, I direct you to the reviews I received when I filled in for Toby Keith's washboard player. Not only did an enraged and humiliated Toby Keith swing a microphone stand at my head that night, but the NY Times then proceeded to liken my playing style to musical necrophilia. This is neither here nor there.
What is both here and there is that I won two free songs off of iTunes. As part of my undying love for contests, I've decided to offer one of these downloads to you, the good people of the Internet. In order to win it, simply suggest the worst conceivable song on which I could spend my free iTunes credit. The song must truly be horrible, something that could, though its sheer awfulness, cause me to spontaneously suffer from stigmata whenever I hear it. Also, it must be available through iTunes. Also, it must be performed by albinos (I'm flexible on this one).
Make your suggestions in the comments, and I'll pick a winner Thursday night. In the event no one suggests anything, I'll then comb through the referrer logs and start picking you off one by one. I make a dangerous enemy; enter the contest or face the consequences.
I've got some bad news for those of you who work with me: you owe me $5. I predict that in the very near future, my left butt cheek will droop noticeably as I strut through the halls, weighed down by all of the money in my wallet. If you want to go to Arby's or a garage sale or a garage sale at Arby's anytime in the near future, you better hit your wall safe because the cash in your pocket is going to this guy. If you write checks like an old lady, you may make this one out to Cody Powell, Professional NCAA Basketball Bracket Buster. In case you don't know, the Tournament is starting soon and I won't rest until I win my office pool.
It's going to take some luck to do this. If memory serves, I didn't even come close to winning last year. That's what happens when the school I picked to win didn't make it into the tournament. In fact, it didn't even have a basketball team. That's the last time I bet on Julliard to win any athletic contest. Sure, they could out-aria the Kentucky team any day of the week, but good luck getting a mezzo-soprano to make a 3 when it counts.
I'm not just picking teams that basketball, but teams that play basketball well. How do I determine this? Well, let me ask you: in a basketball team, would you take Duke over Delaware State? Of course you would, and that's why I'm taking your money. Maybe you didn't know this, but Delaware was the first colony in the USA to ratify the Constitution. While all the other colonies were wasting a bunch of time debating over a document, do you know what the people of Delaware were doing? They were all practicing their jump shots. (I'm pretty sure there are some wood gravings to back all of this up.) By all means, pick your Dukes and your Illinoiseseses. History is on my side, as are the basketball gods. Pay up or get beat up, chumps.
Another reason why it's not good to be related to me: I will crash through your house at midnight with 25 drunks that I may or may not know, waking your wife and kids, leaving stains that only an industrial strength sand blaster and an exorcist can remove. In my defense, this is what happens when you attend a wedding in a winery; things get a little blurry. So, when one of the attendees decided to bust into my aunt's room while she was asleep so he could stand on her bed and salute her, I just had to go with it. How am I supposed to know if that's some kind of Scandinavian wedding tradition? The last group I need on my case are the Norwegians; those people are animals.
For those of you who haven't been keeping track, our own sweet Danza joined the ranks of the wedded on Saturday. At least, that's what I'm told. In all honesty, the weekend spun out of control around 10 PM on Thursday. One minute, I'm eating nachos with my friends, and the next, I'm running through a park at full speed, planning out the wording for my surrender letter to the FBI. Once we'd established that, the weekend just continued along the same lines. Lots of alcohol, some great food, a nice reception, and the craziest dance party you've ever seen.
I'm not a professional mathematician or anything, but I'd be willing to bet there's some sort of equation that maps a man's drunkenness with his willingness to dance. Something like, for every ounce of alcohol consumed, the guy becomes twice as willing to moonwalk in public. So, after a few hours in the winery, the dance floor looked like an episode of Soul Train. An episode of Soul Train full of white people bordering on incontinence, but an episode nonetheless. And lest you think I'm untainted here, I was leading the charge out there. I broke it down like the lost member of Kriss Kross out there. I had an idea to stop after throwing the bride's great aunt into the wedding cake trying to attempt the helicopter, but I just couldn't. I could go on for hours about this weekend, but let's just say that if the women of Dallas/Fort Worth were especially amorous on Saturday night, I take full responsibility. I shake that moneymaker like a maraca in the hands of a speed freak, and I don't care who knows it.
Yesterday, I was sitting in class, fantasizing about how for the next two weeks I didn't have to spend a single minute on the UT campus. I got so enraptured with the idea, I decided to calculate the date of the next time I'd be appearing in class. I expected to be awed by the date, something like October 57, but it produced a very different reaction. What I came up with was March 22nd, which, for the uninformed, is the birthday of three special people: William Shatner, Delta Burke, and the best looking guy on the Internet, yours truly. On that glorious day, we align forces and call ourselves the Shatnurkewell. Sometimes we fight crime, but normally we just use our heat vision to set people's pants on fire.
Anyway, seeing that day made me realize that I've shared very little with my family this year about what I want. I do that every year, and I suspect they'll all eventually get tired of it and start unloading giant dump trucks full of manure onto my yard, saying that my present is that I get to clean it up. Good luck explaining that to the Shatnurkewell; see how much sympathy you get when Delta is brandishing her nunchuks. You really better hope that Bill has the Neosporin in his fanny pack that day. Alas, I digress.
If you happen to be one of these gift purchasers, here is my advice for the 24th edition of Cody Powell Birthday Fever: don't get me any crap. My room is literally filled with crap people have bought me because they don't know what else to get. If you had to conjure up an image of me based only on those gifts, you'd think I wore nothing but Scooby Doo ties, and I travelled solely by pogo stick. No amount of wishing can make that into reality. If you are thinking about buying me some crap this year, just make me a card instead. On the inside of the card, write "Happy Birthday, and screw you. I'm never buying you any presents again." And try to rig it so that a boxing glove somehow pops out of the card and bops me in the nose when I open it. I'm much more likely to savor that gesture than the book of profane riddles you were otherwise considering.
Probably no entry tomorrow, since a certain someone has a wedding. And that certain someone asked another certain someone to be in the wedding party, and that second certain someone has some travelling to do tomorrow night in order to accommodate that request. The first someone? Danza. The second someone? Me. The third someone? Ha, there is no third someone! I may soon be another year older, but that's proof that I'm just as wily as ever.
I come to you this evening with disturbing news. At some point over the past 18 hours, the numeric keypad on my keyboard stopped working. In case you need proof, take a look: . That blank space there was me, attempting to type numbers. Could I use the row of numbers above the letters on my keyboard? I could, but I won't. Imagine I get fired from my job and have to take up work as a medical transcriptionist. Due to my faulty keyboard, I can no longer use my numeric keypad, and instead must use the aforementioned row of numbers, which isn't normally included in my repertoire of keystrokes. Immediately afterwards, old ladies start going to the doctor to have moles removed, only to leave the office WITHOUT THEIR EYEBALLS, solely because I threw a few errant ~'s into the document.
Crap, it gets worse. My semi-colon key isn't working either now. As evidence, I submit the preceding two sentences, which I otherwise would've joined with a semi-colon. I feel like a fool now, punctuating my sentences with only periods, commas, and question marks. Never exclamation points, because really, who am I trying to impress here? I'm not typing out the instructions to defuse a bomb or anything.
Ack, and now I can't do any periods? So with every sentence, I sound like someone who just learned English? And now the commas go too? That'll teach me to buy surplus keyboards from a Guatemalan leper colony? And good God there went the question mark and the enter key, so the rest of the entry will look like a newsletter written by the kids from Lord of the Flies So you can have an easier time following me I'll start ending my sentences with random words in all caps WAFFLES This is clearly not a long-term solution SASQUATCH I will find the person responsible for manufacturing this keyboard UNDIES I will go to his house late at night with but nothing a knapsack and a thirst for justice BUTTERMILK While he sleeps soundly I will pry the keys from the keyboard and insert them into his breakfast cereal JUBJUB Then the next morning when he crunches down on my Num Lock key and dislodges his precious gold tooth he will realize that there are some of us who still care about our typing TAMALES Or perhaps instead he'll think that Captain Crunch is trying to poison him WOMBAT I'm fine with either FUDGESICLE
First, thanks for all of the super feedback about my awesome cartoon. Sometimes I think about giving the site up, but I just don't think I could leave this adoring community behind. After all, if I stopped posting, where would people leave hundreds of unrelated comments advertising their online poker sites? And who would Jaleel White's lawyers send their cease and desists to? No way, man, I'm not letting my homies down; that's just not the way I do business here at cpdc.
I think having a website is like being married. (Well, I can only hypothesize, having never been married. I have, however, watched more than one episode of Mad About You, so I feel completely competent to utter these sorts of proclamations.) At first, you're really excited to be involved, and so this entity becomes the object of your attention. If something interesting happens at work, you make a note so you can share it later. You bring it up over and over in conversations, and most of the time, no one is remotely interested. It doesn't matter, though, because you love it and you see the possibilities. But then the years go by, and the excitement begins to fade. Not only do you no longer speak of the website, but whenever someone brings it up to you, you sigh wistfully. When you check your email and see a comment from it, you can barely withstand the urge to chuck a whiskey bottle at the monitor and yell, "You ruined my life! I could have you deported!" You invent bizarre hobbies like collecting macrame eggs and drawing Al Roker in puffy paint on your undies just so you have a reason to avoid it. I reached that point with Goulash some time back.
It certainly gets tiring to post here every day. There are a lot of times that I can't think of anything interesting, or I'd rather be doing something more productive. The temptation is strong to bop the server in the head with a roll of quarters and flee town in the middle of the night. Nevertheless, I never plan on stopping my posts. I like what I do here; I think it's a cool site. My goal was to create something that I would enjoy, in the event I got kicked in the head by a donkey and forgot all about it. I definitely have that here. And so, while I can't say that all 400 entries here have been of uniformly incredible quality, I like what I gots, and that's what matters. That and the love of the online poker syndicate. Here's to 400 more entries, huzzah.
Picasso. Monet. Rembrandt. Pollack. POWELL! Please commit the following artwork to memory.
Unga bunga, I'm back and I'm black. Well I'm not all blank, just in a few gangrenous areas. And speaking of gangrene, how does that happen to normal people? It definitely makes sense if you're a jungle commando; you don't have time to change socks when you're leading mountain strikes on guerilla compounds. However, I've heard about just normal people getting gangrene before, and I demand an explanation here. If I haven't managed to get it, how could anyone? I am, after all, the man who refused to shower for 3.5 years until I heard a satisfactory explanation for Daylight Savings Time. And if I did sense a body part beginning to rot it out, I don't think I'd let that situation play out on its own. No, I'd make it down to Walgreen's real quick like and buy a metric assload of Neospirin/Nyquil/No Rots A Lot.
Speaking of gangrene, I'm also interested in how people get too fat to leave their houses. A few months ago, I read a story about a lady who was too large to move, and as a result, her skin became fused to her couch. You're too big to move and you're sitting in one spot just eating and drinking nonstop, so you're probably producing a pretty good amount of waste. Does that mean that she's fused to the couch by her ..... Oh goodness, I can't even begin to say it, but I feel I must. I will put it diplomatically: is the adhesive in this situation her bodily waste? Immediately after thinking about that, I want to put it out of my mind forever. I can't, though; I must continue.
Let's give this lady the benefit of the doubt and assume her skin just fused to the couch, and she still takes adequate measures with regards to using the restroom. In this situation, I would pity the person who lives next door. Here's how I see it playing out at the neighbor's house.
Woman: Hello my dear, how was your day at work?
Man: Ohh, same old same old. Boy, it's pretty ripe in here.
Woman: I know.
Man: I mean it really, really stinks in here. Did a yeti die and crawl under the house?
Woman: Actually, I think it's next door.
Man: Oh Christ.
Woman: Yeah, I'm not too keen on making that trip myself.
Man: So make one of the kids do it. Brian, get in here.
Man: Go next door and empty out Mrs. Johnson's poo bucket.
Kid: Do what?
Man: Go next door and empty out her damn poo bucket. She's too fat to get off the couch and it doesn't take long for that thing to get filled up.
Kid: I don't want to empty out anyone's poo bucket.
Man: Well I don't either, but it's the kind of thing we're obligated to do as good, Christian neighbors. If you don't rinse it out after you dump it, I'm taking back your Playstation.
Yesterday's abrupt and unpleasant entry was the result of a horrendous day at school and work. Kudos to the University of Texas for attempting to ruin my academic future, but I believe I have found a loophole. A loophole! As good as I am with loopholes, I sometimes think I should be writing merger agreements for billion dollar companies. If I were doing that, immediately after both sides signed, I'd turn to the guys and say, "I neglected to mention this until now, but the employees of both companies are now my personal slaves. It's called a loophole; now get into your loin cloths and carve me a monument."
I do this thing where if something bad happens, I immediately play it out in my mind to its worst possible end. Yesterday's situation was that I'm unhappy with one of my classes and I'd like to get out of it. The extreme I went to yesterday was that I wouldn't be allowed to drop the class, I'd fail it, I'd get thrown out of school, my stench of failure would drive me to unemployment, then I'd get evicted and have to live in the streets for the rest of my life. Within a few seconds, I was already searching for the nearest homeless shelter that I could move into. Free toothpaste was a big plus in that search, since I imagined the dental hygiene industry would no longer want anything to do with me.
Hopefully, the aforementioned loophole will save me from this ignoble fate. If it doesn't, I'm not completely screwed or anything. Not yet. I'd have two more months to live the high life, and then the screwing would occur. Two more months of wearing shoes, eating at Arby's, and not having to fight deranged Vietnam vets for the remote control. Should this loophole unexpectedly close between now and tomorrow afternoon, I ask that someone please say good-bye to the Horsey sauce for me.
Today on the bus, I was seated and a guy was standing right next to me, hovering over me. Sometimes, that arrangement is cause for concern, but this gentleman didn't seem like the type to try to make a wig from my hair. Well, wig maker or not, my snap judgement proved remarkably inaccurate, as a few minutes into the journey, the guy leaned over and dry heaved a few inches above my head. What are you supposed to do after someone points an act like that in your direction? Nothing came out so I wasn't dirty, but I sure didn't feel very clean. The day went downhill from there, thus no entry today.