A Good Punch in the Face

We have an alley in back of our house. If you don't have an alley, you should get one, because that way other people can block you from getting into your garage or your driveway or the street, or, really, wherever it is you're trying to go. 

The other day a fellow had his mammoth truck parked in the middle of the alley, clogging it like a turd in a straw. He's dinking around with something in his garage, comes out, sees me waiting in my car, goes back into his garage. This causes my lips to purse and me to wait. I waited. I waited for him to come back out to see that I was still waiting, but with pursed lips this time. I guess the lips did something because he got in his car to move it. Only, he didn't just move it, he made me back up for him. He didn't pull his fucking truck over to the side a little bit so my thimble of a car could poke through. He make me back up out of his way. After he drove by, out of site (I guess to the street in front of his house), I had my house keys in my hand, out the window, ready to key his other car. But I decided that that's not what neighbors do. So later that night I fashioned his likeness into a life-size doll and scorched it in the backyard.

Then, today, Levi and I are returning from a happy hour on a motorcycle, and, lo, there's something blocking the alley. But not completely. The bike can fit through tiny gaps, so Levi goes for it, figuring that the man leaning against this truck will likely step aside as we motor by. But the dick doesn't budge, just watches us as we butter ourselves up so we can slip through the crack between him and the fence. So thanks, jackass, for stepping aside. I hope you're good at driving without brakes. 

Get an alley. Really, you're gonna love it.

The Warmth of James Earl Jones

As I awoke this morning, I was thinking of far-off things, as I usually do when I awake: an accordion made of butter; day-glo sweatpants on Dolly Parton (turns out you wouldn't even notice them); and, today, James Earl Jones on the toilet. This last occurrence is the only of the three that I've experienced first hand, thanks to a trip to the Late Show and a duck that appreciated cottage cheese. I didn't see James Earl Jones on the toilet, but I did hear him on the toilet and, when he was done, I assumed his throne, and I did feel the heat of him left on the seat. It was very intimate and something I immediately called to tell a friend about. And you thought there was nothing warm about Darth Vader. 

This is my left ankle:

(This is where a picture of my ankle should be, but I tried to take a picture and, because I'm freakishly pale, my camera couldn't translate what it saw into anything but a square of pure white.)

When I was five of six or seven my mom was giving me a ride on the back of one of my grandpa's brakeless bicycles. She took a right turn, I failed to keep my legs out, and my left foot was sucked into the spokes much like a bony, featherless goose is sucked into a jet engine, but without the sucking. My leg twisted around for a bit before my mom figured out I was screaming, not about how much fun I was having, but about a bloody, mangled appendage being cleaned of its skin. She and some nearby horrified neighbors pried me from the wheel, carried me to a bright orange Volvo wagon (the closest thing to an ambulance we had access to), and we were off to St. Anthony's where a large nurse in tights and a wedge hat (I know!) scraped, with a wire brush, whatever was left of my ankle into a stainless steel bin. I don't remember the noises I made, but they were, apparently, quite obvious. 

Here's that horrible bike:

Here's that horrible nurse:

Let's Milk It

This particular piece, a collaborative effort, is a firm reminder of postmodern rule. Its simple lines are skewed, but certain--a classic signature of Billy and Colby. Notice a hint of malignancy in the left breast; no doubt the artists were referring to the struggle between first period and their preliminary recess.

Donated by Acres Green Elementary School, 2004

Fat Guys Don't Waterboard

Because I write the jokes five days a week, I read a lot of flipping news. Every news site has a health page, the new black. Most of the supposed news on these health pages is about fat people: scientists find that jogging may help fat people be less fat; Twinkies add to waistline, scientists say; studies show that eating the family dog may be a sign of fatness; etc. Do you think that, when every health-related story our nation produces is written, not with ink, but with trans fats, that we maybe have a problem? Regardless, I urge you to visit your favorite online news source's Obesity Update before some fat guy eats it.

Speaking of Twinkies, I read today that President Bush is vetoing legislation that would force interrogators to knock off the waterboarding already. Wikipedia tells me that this torture tool is like drowning, but with a way cool burlap bag over your head. Here's a fun waterboarding picture:

Here's a better one:

Notice in the first picture how merry the waterboarders seem. Proof that systematic torture can be fun. But I suppose if you watch American Idol, you already know that. And doesn't it appear as if the torturer in the second picture is getting the building janitor back for a bad office prank? I mean, really, who does their torturing in a tie? Anywhoo (does that annoy you?), Waterboard or Die, right Bushy? Oh, and Save the Whale Steaks. 

Accordions Are Sexy

This week I'm taking my first accordion lesson, and it's from a woman named Margie who has the Fargo accent, so I'm doubly excited.  I think we'll probably start with a little "Stairway to Heaven," then work up to something along these lines:  

youtube.com/watch?v=o2-vwkGSE4A

    

Last night I finished Bret Easton Ellis' "American Psycho," a book whose main character is, eh, a psycho.  And American, so it all makes sense.  Lots of horrible things are done in this book, among them a flame held to a living victim's eyeballs until they burst, a starving rat coerced into a dying woman's acid-melted, cheese-smeared vagina.  Jesus.  I think last night, while finishing the last two hundred pages, I said "Oh my god" out loud four times.  Then, starving from not having eaten all day, I tried to down a bowl of stew.  All of this is to say don't eat stew after reading "American Psycho."  

reading is sexy

Shelfari.com is a website where you can read about what other people are reading. Something nice about the site is that it actually smells like a book.  Maybe try it out.

My Shelfari page:  www.shelfari.com/not_amish

Britney, 90210

This is my friend Ashley in front of Britney Spears' Hollywood Hills home, which, as you can see, is protected by a network of sharpened rods. These rods are meant to keep Britney in, much like the spiked rods at the San Francisco Zoo were meant to keep that tiger that chewed a kid's face off in. Unfortunately everyone's favorite Pop Tart occasionally escapes in her Mercedes, its trunk full of progeny and secured with bungee cords. Oh, wait---I think they took her kids away from her, which means, when she's not out flashing her bidness to the paps, or stealing lighters from the local gas station, Brit Brit is all alone in this giant adobe crate, pitching back and forth on a tiny rocking horse with her head in her hands, chanting "Oops, I did it again," or, more likely, "Oopsie." I hope they at least give the girl some chew toys, maybe even something made out of her old hair.

Speaking of hair, if you look closely in the above picture, you can see a somber Britney sitting near a window, her delicate nicotine-stained hands stroking her golden wig tresses, which drape over a single shoulder. She's singing a sad song about a bluebird she sees crushed on her driveway, its viscera glistening, splayed across a delicate pattern of tire tread.