Love Hurts, but Not as Much as a Stab Wound
I felt it was time to re-post these beautiful and poignant words.
I wrote this during a period of deep personal healing…but mostly, I was drunk.
I felt it was time to re-post these beautiful and poignant words.
I wrote this during a period of deep personal healing…but mostly, I was drunk.
It was a chance encounter with a woman wearing a button that read: DISARM THE TOY INDUSTRY, in angry block red letters.
It’s all a Government plot to prepare the Innocent for evil, Godless War! I know what they’re up to! Our committee is on to them, and we intend to expose this decadent Capitalistic evil!
She told him as she handed him a smudged pamphlet denouncing the U.S. as a citadel of warmongers, profit-greedy despoilers of the young and promoters of worldwide Capitalistic decadence, all through plastic popguns and Sears Roebuck fatigue suits for tots.
It was this encounter that led Jean Shepperd to recount his youthful almost maniacal desire for a Red-Ryder carbine-action range-model BB gun, and the lengths he went one Christmas in efforts to obtain one.
He then wrote the autobiographical essay, Duel in the Snow, or Red Ryder Nails the Cleveland Street Kid, which became the basis for A Christmas Story.
So thank you crazy lady for helping give us a classic.
It’s Christmastime again: the perfect opportunity to brighten the spirits of a loved one with the gift of the rutabaga.
What’s so special about the rutabaga you may ponder–what isn’t so special about the rutabaga is my response.
Addendum: Don’t make rutabaga ice cream–it sucks.
The Virginia Zoo has announced that it has lost Sunny, its prized red panda. A frantic search was launched Tuesday morning when it was discovered Sunny wasn’t in her enclosure.
Upon investigation it was discovered a dimwitted caretaker named Ron was responsible for the escape. It seems Ron believing that Sunny was some weird raccoon that had gotten into the panda enclosure, opened the gate and shooed it away by manically waving a feces encrusted pitchfork and screaming, “git you weird raccoon, git.”
It seems the zoo has endured several odd mishaps at the hands of Ron; some of them involving misplaced animals, many of them involving feces, all of them disturbing.
“The biggest problem we have with Ron is that he is almost completely stupid,” one zoo official said. “He was kicked repeatedly in the head by a bongo antelope, and he was remarkably stupid before he got repeatedly kicked in the head by a bongo antelope. You should never try to collect animals’ feces by standing behind it with a bucket.”
After days of searching, Sunny still has not been located. Zoo officials fear the red panda has escaped the boundaries of the Zoo.
“Ron has a way of driving things away,” the zoo official said. “Usually it’s women, but I guess this time it was a red panda.”
While the zoo officials remain hopeful, they do concede that when Ron drives something away, it generally flees the state and changes its name.
Addendum
While recalling one incident involving Ron, a wombat, and a bag of feces, one colleague began to laugh so hysterically he lost consciousness.
I am sick and tired of people who think they are better than me.
People who think they are better than me just because they don’t eat crayons–there’s no law against eating crayons.
Do you know what all serial killers have in common: they don’t eat crayons. They occasionally eat people, but never crayons. Would you prefer I went around murdering people and eating them? I’ll bet you would, because you’re all judgmental that way.
I’m sick and tired of people who think they are better than me just because they’ve never slapped a mime in the face–there’s no law against slapping mimes in the face.
Okay, there is a law against slapping mimes in the face–but there shouldn’t be! When did this country become the type of fascist police state where you can’t slap a mime in the face?
I’m fed up with those of you who think you’re so superior just because you’ve never licked a toad then urinated on a police car. Police cars are inanimate objects: they don’t care if you urinate on them.
The police officer gets a little angry when you urinate on him.
It makes the toad furious.
And so what if I like to spend my evenings skulking in a dimly lit room, chugging bottles of Orange Jubilee Mad Dog 20/20, eating from a 64 pack of Crayola Crayons, with the B-52’s greatest hits blaring at full volume on the stereo as I fingerpaint pictures of giraffes and other even toed ungulates on the walls.
Sometimes I do it dressed up like a rodeo clown.
There’s nothing weird about any of that…except for listening to the B-52’s–I shouldn’t do that.
Think about this: if I didn’t do weird and unspeakable things this blog wouldn’t even exist.
I should probably stop.
Something is a bit off.
I seem to be suffering from some mysterious medical condition.
The symptoms are myriad:
In my quest for answers, I’ve read several books authored by a world renown doctor.
Unfortunately, upon reading these books, I’ve discovered them to be no help at all. Not only did these books not reveal any insights regarding my condition, but I also now have an incredible craving for green eggs and ham, and an intense desire to write in poetic meter.
This is bad.
It’s very bad–So very bad, you see.
“Egad it’s so very bad,” I said to me.
It’s sad when things are bad,
would you not agree?
I would be so glad to not be sad.
I’d be a happy lad, so full of glee,
and live so happily.
Do you see how infuriating that is?
After doing some follow-up research, I’ve found the author of these books, Theodore Seuss Geisel, to be a complete fraud, and not a medical professional of any kind.
Note: in another shocking turn of events, I’ve discovered the renowned author and childcare expert, Dr. Spock, wasn’t really a Vulcan. When will the misinformation and subterfuge end?
But this spurred an epiphany: my condition has been caused by stress and anxiety; the stress and anxiety that results from living a lie.
A horrible lie.
A horrible horrible lie.
Horrible!
I have written in the past about a certain tattoo. A tattoo on my left butt cheek. A tattoo of Winnie the Pooh with his head stuck in a honey pot. I’ve referenced it often.
It’s a lie.
I haven’t any tattoos of lovable cartoons charters on or around my buttocks.
I apologize to anyone my lies may have hurt.
I apologize to A. A. Milne.
I feel so ashamed.
Hopefully now that the truth is out, the healing can begin.
Thank you for your patience.
ADDENDUM:
Sometimes when Elvis’ ghost visits me, he brings me peanut butter and banana sandwiches. They taste like pinecones and they smell like fear.
There are people who will tell you that slow and steady wins the race.
Don’t buy it; those people are slovenly dull-witted liars who can only win races if they convince everyone else to take it slow and steady.
If you were to make a list of characteristics detrimental to winning a race, being slow would be near the top of the list.
I could argue that being slow is the entire list.
And I don’t want to hear that adding the word steady to the word slow makes it beneficial to winning a race. Being slow and steady simply means you’re consistently slow.
It’s akin to saying a person is smart because they consistently do stupid things, things such as claiming that slow people win races.
People like to put forth Aesop’s Fable of The Hare & the Tortoise as the prime example of slow and steady winning the race.
The Tortoise didn’t win the race because it’s better to be slow and steady; the Tortoise won the race because the Hare was clearly drugged.
You don’t just decide to take a nap in the middle of a race.
The race was being judged by the Fox, and foxes are notoriously untrustworthy and degenerate gamblers.
There are two places you should never allow a fox: inside your henhouse and at the OTB.
A version of the fable details how a great forest fire breaks out the night after the race. The Tortoise being the newly minted fasted animal in the forest is sent to warn the rest of the animals of the forest. Because the Tortoise is slow, nobody is warned, and all the animals of the forest burn to death.
Fun!
So, the next time you’re in a race, take it slow and steady and see how that works out for you.
Here’s a bit of information: there are more than 500 official phobias.
If you have Epistemophobia, the fear of knowledge, learning that just freaked you out a tiny bit.
Some phobias are quite common:
Chiroptophobia: the fear of bats. Many people perceive bats to be terrifying, blood-sucking, winged creatures of the night. Some people may wildly wave their hands and scream like a little girl when a bat flies past their head. There is absolutely nothing wrong with this. Nothing!
Acrophobia: the fear of heights. Some people scream like a little girl if you put them on a tiny stepladder. This behavior is ridiculous–unless there’s bats up there.
Genophobia: the fear of sex. This is an extremely common phobia; every girl I’ve ever dated has suffered from it.
Other phobias are a little more unusual:
Automatonophobia: the fear of ventriloquist’s dummies, animatronic creatures, wax statues – anything that falsely represents a sentient being. (This explains my fear of the Kardashians.)
Walloonphobia: the fear of Walloons. Walloons could burst at any moment making a loud popping sound and startling you.
(My apologies, I thought this was the fear of balloons. Walloons are the French-speaking population of Belgium; it’s perfectly normal to be startled when Walloons burst and make a loud popping noise.)
Chionophobia: the fear of snow. Snow is lovely, how could anyone be afraid of snow? Unless of course you’re referring to Jon Snow the British news presenter–he’s freaky.
But I found this list to be horribly lacking. I suffer from a myriad of phobias that are not officially recognized:
Sonny-Bono-phobia: the fear of being haunted nightly by the ghost of Sonny Bono. I fear he’d hang out all night singing I’ve Got You Babe, openly questioning Cher’s life choices, and warning me of the dangers of downhill skiing.
Potato-salad-phobia: the fear of the potato salad your aunt brings to family picnics. The Salmonella is the least offensive thing in it.
Old-hag-phobia: the fear of your aunt whether she’s bearing potato salad or not.
Decimal-phobia: the fear of any number containing a decimal point. While many people have a fear of the number 13, I find numbers like 24.7, 44.6, or 58.758 to be horrifying. When I found out the average body temperature was 98.6, I stayed in a broom closet for days weeping inconsolably.
Broom-closet-phobia: the fear of broom closets. I developed this phobia after being trapped in a broom closet for days where I wept inconsolably.
Oikos-phobia: the fear of anything Greek (especially Greek yogurt) or any product that John Stamos is a spokesperson for.
Pi-phobia: fear of the Greek letter Pi. Pi represents 3.14: the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter. John Stamos frequently uses Pi when he is determining the volume of the circle on the top of a Greek yogurt container. (Pi is a bucketful of issues for me.)
Ticking-time-bomb-phobia: the horrible fear that masked intruders will break into my home as I sleep, kidnap me, lock me in a room with a ticking time bomb, and bind my hands so that I must diffuse the bomb with my tongue. If they’re particularly sinister, they will slather the bomb with my aunt’s potato salad. (The potato salad really is crap.)
Kool-Aid-man-phobia: the fear that the Kool-Aid man will come crashing through the side of my home, leaving a gaping hole in the wall, and damaging the structural integrity of the entire house. He will then yell “Oh Yeah” with his big bulbous face, and behave as if the act of pouring me a glass of Kool-Aid makes up for giant mess he’s created.
Humor-blog-phobia: the fear of wasting precious moments of your life reading the moronic ramblings that some witless stooge has posted on WordPress.
While any phobia can cause issues and have ill-effect on one’s well being; it’s the last entry on the list that is especially debilitating. So watch out for it.