For quite some time now, ever since I jotted it down in a notebook months ago, I've wanted to share an idea with you that makes my television experience that much richer. What can I possibly do, I hear you asking, to make watching satellite TV even more rewarding than it already is? Could I even be proposing something more fun than infomercials galore at 4 in the morning?
Yes, I have the greatest idea in the history of watching television: Whenever someone uses the word diabetes, I automatically mentally substitute the word diarrhea. If you think that isn't fun, you haven't laid on the bed laughing until the tears flowed freely after that Patti LaBelle commercial for the diabetes testing strips airs. Or after BB King informs us he's had diabetes for 30 years. Wow! The 30-year diarrhea! That's gotta get old after a while, not to mention the stinging. His starfish must be done to a tender turn by now.
I wrote it down so long ago that every time I go to post about it, I start to doubt myself and think that perhaps I've already written about it. I've officially been blogging long enough to lose track of all the shit I've posted. Today I did a search of my archives for the word diarrhea, and if the search results are correct, I have not used that idea here before. However, I did come up with diarrhea mentioned in an alarming number of posts (I found 11), leading me to believe that perhaps I need to find some other phrase that's equally as descriptive as "bubblin' like Satan's diarrhea" and such. Also, a Google search for "diabetes" "diarrhea" "bucky" brings me up as the, ah, number two result.
However, a search for the word urine in my archives yields 33 posts. Hmmmm. Let's see about vomit...30 for vomit, 19 for puke.
God, my need for therapy is pretty obvious, isn't it? Maybe I need to explore something new, like earwax. Or maybe I just need to shut the fuck up. I'll get back to you on that.
Holy fuckin' shit, how is it the end of July already? Didn't I just get here?
I'm proud/mildly ashamed to say I've finally got the last big brought-in-April cardboard box unpacked in my room (I still have a few things in small boxes from my last trip to Flint, but those don't count). It's not that I didn't want the stuff out of the box, but until I built my bookcases, I really had no place to put the boxed tchotchkes.
But now I can share the glory that greets me whenever I open the door. Granted, it doesn't have the Homies and the Gumbies yet, but I did finally manage to get all my Babylon 5 and SinCity figurines freed from their restrictive packaging. That very action, the night I spent unraveling action figures from their boxes and twisty ties, probably sent out a massively unpleasant ripple among collectors, who shuddered as one and declared, "You took it out of the box! Now it will lose its resale value!" Well, fuck that. I don't buy toys to look at 'em and then sell 'em someday, even if I thought somebody would actually want this stuff; I buy the shit to play with it. Seriously, should I buy vibrators and leave them in plastic on shelves around my room? I think not. Same goes for my tchotchkes - they are not merely decorative, they are functional. They function to further my retardation.
Behold my wall o' tchotchkes.
Maybe it's not kosher to mix Babylon 5, Kill Bill, and Ren and Stimpy on one shelf, but you know what? I'm a rebel like that. Just my little way of stickin' it to the man.
There are lots of little pieces/parts/accessories with these figures, and with all the cat traffic I get in my cat-free room, I thought it best to put that stuff together in a safer place. I wouldn't be thrilled if the cats made off with Ambassador G'Kar, but I'd feel safer than if they got 'hold of a gun, or a beer bottle, or a whip.
Who says geeks don't know how to have a good time? Step up the mini bar.
I don't have anything on the second shelf up right now, and am using it as a temporary holding place for my phone while it's charging and for my glasses when I'm in bed, at least until I get the smaller storage rack built for behind my bed. It's apparent to me that I should really fill that shelf soon, lest someone in this house labor under the impression that he, too, is a tchotchke.
Sure, it's cute...until he has to poop.
Speaking of Wobbles, which I usually am, Eeyore was putting the muscle on him the other day, and I'd say Wobbles wasn't very manly about it.
"I surrender!"
Look at Wobbles' eyes: Eeyore must have him in a sleeper hold.
Wrestled into unconsciousness...both of them. Of course, being the concerned citizen I am, I took photos and stole their wallets.
I found something out about myself tonight: I like to watch.
Oh, not like that. Well, maybe if it's gay cat sex, but that's not what I'm talkin' about here. Take your collective minds out of the gutter, Internet as a Whole; why would you even think like that around here in this bastion of wholesomeness? Makes me wanna take the rolling pin out of my cavernous vagina and admonish you all with it. Shame, shame, shame. Haven't I raised you better than that? Gosh!
No, it dawned on me this evening that I take great delight in watching Jess play Sims 2 on the computer.
I've been peripherally aware of the Sims; my last guitar player had it for PS2 and was obsessed with finding the cheat code to make his characters naked. Beyond that, though, I'd never paid much attention to the whole Sims phenomenon.
Earlier tonight, I wandered into the computer room and saw Jess busily running the affairs of two remarkably lifelike computerized characters, one very nervous fellow with a mohawk and another, more authoritative gent with short-cropped hair and a beard. She saw my fascination and took me on a tour of the room, which included a lie detector machine and an electric chair. I couldn't look away.
She explained to me that you could manipulate the characters' interpersonal relationships, which, of course, means making them fight and have sex (not necessarily at the same time, but not ruling it out, either). Then she demonstrated the art of changing the appearance of the game people by giving the bearded chap the makeover of his life. By the time she was finished, he'd ditched the blonde beard in favor of a red fu manchu moustache, had added some fetching eye makeup and red lipstick, and the glorious final touch that really pulled the look together, she'd plopped a horned viking helmet atop his head. He was ready to socialize.
Viking boy and the mohawk guy met up in the kitchen and she demonstrated how one could accelerate hostilities between the two, including irritating each other with grossouts (spitting, belching and farting noxious yellow gases, and snot rockets), verbal insults, poking, slapping, shoving (the viking seemed prone to breaking down in tears after all this), and finally, attacking, where the two characters dissolve into a cloud of dust and debri worthy of any Warner Brothers cartoon. Then, when the viking's wife came home, mohawk dude proceeded to hit on her in front of an agitated viking.
I'm hooked, and I haven't even seen them perform WooHoo yet, though I'm told it involves two characters diving under the covers where they rustle about, bark like dogs, and giggle, then emerge hungry, tired, and dirty. There's also the distinct possibility that WooHoo will lead to pregnancy. Oh, and if you stare through the telescope long enough, you'll be abducted by aliens, and men have been known to come back from this experience knocked up with alien babies.
If watching Jess play Sims in wrong, I don't want to be right. But then, no one has ever accused me of being right.
ps: She just had her Marilyn Manson Sim make WooHoo with Vampirella for my amusement. And theirs as well, from the look of it. I heartily approve.
As an aside: I'm truly annoyed with my misbehaving laptop right now and am using one of the family PCs here to write this. To add a nice layer of insult to injury, I went to Apple's web site to apply for credit to purchase the Mac Mini of my dreams, and was awarded $750 in credit. Seven hundred and fucking fifty dollars. Might as well wipe yer ass with it. Just like I plan to do with my laptop. Hmmph!
If you're offended by the sight of graphic gay sex acts, you'll want to find a safer haven on the Internet than my site. However, if you are brave of constitution and adventurous, follow me down the Hershey Highway of Love.
It was a typical summer Monday, hot, muggy, the smell of turkey bacon hanging in the air like a Blue Angel on pause; there I was, minding my own business, busily arranging tchotchkes on their new shelves like the mature adult I am, when I heard a high-pitched yowl at my bedroom door. Only one creature in this house has such a stunning soprano voice, and that would be Eeyore, aka Bubbies. His voice is even higher than that of Incredibly Gay Wobbles, who was apparently off practicing his gaiety somewhere else at the time. I admitted Eeyore and he made a beeline for my pillow and settled in for a blessed, dog-free nap.
As I amused myself far more than was necessary with my three Scarface action figures, each in a distinctive suit of clothing, all posed as if they were battling for air guitar superiority, there was a most demanding knock upon my door. Actually, it was more of a pounding, an imperious order to unbar the gate and make way for the King. It was, of course, Roo, aka Rooster, aka The Great Mouse Killer, and he wouldn't even bother knocking if it weren't for his tragic lack of thumbs. I hurried to let his highness in, and he flitted his tail at me charitably and sauntered over to the bed.
There he spied his long-time concubine, Eeyore, who had moved down toward the fan at the foot of the bed. Apparently, turkey bacon was not the only thing heavy in the air, as Roo's eyes lit up with a mixture of lust and romantic longing upon spying the handsome yet shy Eeyore. Before you could say "Rough Rider" Roo was upon Eeyore, expressing his love in a totally dominant fashion.
There they were, two elderly gay male cats having sex on my bed. What else could I do? Of course, I grabbed the camera and documented the tender moment, which I will now sully even further by sharing it with you here.
Roo mounts his love with a grace unknown to human men.
Apparently, this butt sex is deLIcious.
I can't decide if Eeyore is silently asking for my help, or if he's begging me to turn the camera off and let them have their moment with some dignity.
Spent, Roo dismounts as Eeyore wonders, "When do I get to finish?"
Obviously, gay cat butt sex is exhausting.
The after-butt-sex cuddle. Must've been delicious for Eeyore, too.
Now, you tell me how gay love can be wrong when it's so adorable.
The more I hear it said, the more I think feng shui sounds like something that can only be removed with a healthy regimin of Tinactin.
Now that I have the complete DVD set, I'm surprised at how many episodes of Strangers With Candy I apparently missed when it was first broadcast. Last night was filled with sushi and the totally inappropriate humor of SWC. It's the kind of show that's so extremely twisted and wrong that I shut it off hastily and with great guilt when the kids come in the room. There are too many things in there that could stunt their growth, quotes like "Stoney and I would go over to Buckle's and Puff would turn us on to a hot load of mescaline crumbled into a tumbler of ether with a float of Percocet jimmies. I'd wake up with blood on my ass, and then we'd get high. Those were some good times!". Hell, I think it may have stunted my growth, too. That would explain a lot, wouldn't it?
I see a package of turkey bacon in the refrigerator and it's all I can think of. Wonder if I can will it into the frying pan tonight...
Wouldn't you think that, at age 41, the gods would see fit to stop sending me all these motherfucking ZITS? Of course, the gods would probably be more helpful if I hadn't brought home three bags of Better Made potato chips from Michigan.
On Friday, I have an appointment at a different day spa to get the fuzz ripped off the monkey. This will be my fourth waxer in a year. My monkey is a total slut. A scary, scary slut.
Good news! I got a letter from the payroll department where I used to work, stating that a check from March had never been cashed. I wrote to them and explained that I am not in possession of this check, so they are reissuing it! Rock on, Chaka Khan!
I don't think it's too presumptuous of me to say that Israel is experiencing some, ah, extraordinary conflict right now. That said, when I was looking through my Site Meter search results last week, I found that someone from a scientific institute in Israel had found my site via a Google search for "shove a gerbil in your ass through a toob" Now, either someone's just lookin' to relieve a little tension, or something is being planned that is clearly in violation of the Geneva Convention.
Speaking of gerbils, that reminds me of a conversation I had with a girl where I used to work. She had never heard of the the delightful concept of gerbiling, so, being ever helpful, I was explaining it to her. She wrinkled up her nose and got the most disgusted look on her face, and exclaimed, "UGH! Wouldn't that break their necks?" Then her expression became contemplative and she looked off into space for a second; she laughed a little before admitting, "Oh, wait - I was thinking of guinea pigs!"
I mentioned recently that I had bought a bookcase whose sole purpose in life is to display my tchotchkes. And really, I have more of the aforementioned tchotchkes than a sane adult needs. Well, any adult, if you wanna split hairs. Seriously, my room is overflowing with my nonessential crap (the PS2 does not fit that category - I'm once again addicted to GTA: San Andreas). I need to spend some time organizing my shit, lest Jess come in here one day and find that the figurines have rebelled, fed up with their living conditions, and I have been murdered in my sleep by tiny Uma Thurman and Daryl Hannah.
The bookcase finally came out of the back of my car today. Sure, it's been a few days since I bought it, but not long enough to be disgraceful.
No, the real disgrace is the fact that, before the bookcase has even been unboxed and assembled, I have managed, somehow, very accidentally I'm sure, to acquire, um, more tchotchkes. I swear to you, I have no fucking idea how it happened. There I was, puttering innocently around the mall, minding my own business, and next thing you know, I was carrying a bag the size of my torso, and mysteriously, the bag was brimming with bargain-basement toys.
While I'm relatively certain these figurines were planted on me by some evil person with a strange sense of the absurd, I have to face the fact that I may have had a blackout, a clearance-tchotchke induced blackout. Perhaps I need to take twelve steps away from these false idols.
But before I do, I feel compelled to whip out the photos and cry "BEHOLD!"
So, behold already, will ya?
I now have three miniature versions of Al Pacino looking terribly constipated.
Because who doesn't need a Michael Clarke Duncan figurine about the house?
Oh, come on - ten bucks for Marv in the electric chair, with a light-up skull, and it vibrates and talks! I may just use this one on my naughty bits.
Well, maybe I won't.
Somebody make me build my bookcase so I will not be creating any more homeless action figures. Shortly thereafter, I will be taking up a collection to pay for the extensive psychological help that it's obvious I require.
I think my weird habits have finally gotten out of control.
Today, I made a special trip to Target so that I could purchase a bookcase.
The express purpose for said bookcase? To display my tchotchkes. That is the sole reason I now have this particular bookcase.
I guess it's the least I can do since they all lost their trailers in that there tornado.
Once again, you can consider my blog a public cry for help.
In other news, look how fab-a-lus the pictures turn out on my cameraphone!
Who's the cat with the popsicle eyes? It's Wobbles, Wobbles...incredibly gay Wobbles!
Quote of the day from Derek (commenting on the commercial for Kidz Bop being shown on Nickelodeon for roughly the millionth time today):
"And even if they do happen to include one song that's worth spitting on, they ruin it by having it sung by a bunch of kids. Yes, I said worth spitting on, because so many songs are not even worth the saliva."
I mapped out an alternate route to avoid all the construction clusterfuck on 80 West, and I may have put in more miles, but by god, at least I was moving the entire time.
All in all, I'm whupped. And not in a fun, leathery way. So I will go the route of the lazy slut and post some pictures.
Here is a still life of a typical night from my weekend in Flint:
Better Made chips and chianti in a cappucino mug.
Also, I found some new little friends in the vending machine at the Hill Road Meijer in Grand Blanc:
Series 9 Homies. I think the butcher figures no one will miss the homeless guy.
Conjunction junction, what's your major malfunction?
Is there such a thing as car lag? I can't say I'm feeling jet lag, as I've been nowhere near a jet lately. But I was behind the wheel of my car for nearly nine hours yesterday. Yes, smartass - it was moving; I wasn't just sitting in the driveway going "Wooooo! Faster, faster! My dad lets me drive slow in the driveway on Sunday!"
Well, when I say the car was moving, I don't always mean at a satisfying speed. There's some construction on the toll road near Gary, Indiana (go ahead and sing the song - you know you want to) where I do not exaggerate when I tell you that it took me an hour and a half to move about a mile. I would've stabbed myself in the eye if I had not wisely put all eye-poking implements waaaaay in the back of the car before I left.
I had to go to a pawn shop today with some of my guitars. Well, I didn't have to, but the prospect of hauling all that shit back home, putting it on eBay, and then having to package it up to mail just makes my head throb like I stepped into an icepick flinging contest.
I'm at a hotel in Flint that advertises high-speed internet access. What they really mean, I think, is slow, sporadic internet access that does little more than tease and taunt the user. I've had better 'net connections in a backwoods outhouse connected to a tin can and a string. So, I'm typing this from the PC in the lobby.
They just turned out the light over my head; I wonder if they think I'm surfing for porn back here. Come to think of it, this lighting IS rather conducive to a little romantical self gratification, and there's a nice little fake fireplace over by the couch. Wonder what they'd do if I whipped out a giant vibrator in the lobby. Um, not that I own a giant vibrator, mind you. Unless you consider thermos-sized as "giant."
This post is going nowhere faster than a drunken, blindfolded turtle walking backward. There's a bottle of chianti in my room just begging me to put it out of its misery. I'll see you all when the batteries on the thermos die.
