This many wide is wide enough for you

Well, good news. Wrote a new song that I want QOTSA to sing. Them or the Jovester. Either way.

Bill Clinton called and said that he had a song idea and he really wrote most of it, but I added my few thoughts, so thanks, Bill Clinton.

If QOTSA won't record it, you should. I'll give you at least seven dollars if I make at least 8 thousand off of it. That seems fair.

hamburger hero
bulgy brown tunic
you have a morning star
you fight the crocodiles

In the park by a shade tree
you wear your armor
you fight a minotaur
he has a battle axe

His name is Peter
He runs the laundromat
You know him pretty good
He is your enemy

Then there comes Julie
Engineer half-elf
she wears her chain mail
made out of styrofoam

She casts the fireballs
Invisible fireballs
They burn the minotaur
Invisible fire

Hamburger hero
You drive a minivan
Listen to Journey
Pretty good at the numchucks.

Make me a buffer zone and make it hot and line it with wires and liars and all the gadgets extreme

Dear alchoholics,

I have been considering your offer and I think we might be able to talk except there are a few points that I need cleared up before I sign any contracts.

Number one, I want to be one of the cool ones. I picture myself more like a Rick in Casablanca or Marv in Sin City than Mickey Rourke in Barfly. If I can't have the real persona then I would settle for a simple delusion of grandeur as those have carred me pretty well, so far. I'll leave that detail up to you.

2.) I need to be the kind that keeps a job and a pretty good one. I have lots of bills and cannot afford to live in a box. Plus I hate camping. Hate it. Camping is for people who don't know how good they have it and then go see how bad it can be.

Ok, so there's just the two things, I guess. No, wait. One more thing. Gum. All I can eat. Wintergreen, if possible. Unchewed but that's negotiable.

Please run this up the chain of your operation and get back to me before the end of the week or I may be having further neogiations with drug addict.

The hard goals that we cannot reach should be redesigned

I have been struck with some higher power thought over the night and I believe I know how to get on the wiki.

I was over there reading about the Ricky Martin--formerly of that band named after pig gut soup which the Jews and the Muslims would not be able to eat no matter how delicious--and the wiki debate on the discussions tab relating to whether he's gay, (he is) and it was then that it struck me.

The problem with the wiki is you have to do something very nice to get on it. Be a star, strangle yourself whilst pulling evil, etc. I have neither the talent nor the temperment to ever reach that level of goodness and I know this. The only thing remaining to do to get the wiki under my belt is to actually get a job. Work for the wiki. Fetch the ones whom write coffee and when they say, we need proof that Ricky is gay then I solemnly nod my head and say, "Yes, proof. Just by looking at him and how well he dances is no way to form that sort of gay v non-gay opinion. I mean, look at that Elton John fellow. You'd never know unless he said something, right?"

So I've drawn up a powerpoint presentation and detailed it with next best steps and such and the next best step is to find the one who does the wiki and start the terrible ass kissing.

ps, thanks be to Indigo for the picture of me in leotards.

Life is pale Ogden

I have a personal question to ask you.

Let's say you have one normal hand. It has five fingers, no more, nor less. The coy would say something about the thumb. Please don't.

One normal hand and it happens to be the right one and on the left one you have half an arm and an odd finger that acts much like an elephant trunk as it wraps around objects and picks them up and fondles them all the way into your sack.

Let us further say that someone asks you, "Where is the sorbet?"

Which hand do you use to point to the sorbet aisle, elephant hook trunk finger hand or regular hand?

This is you. I don't know what you are but you sure are cute!

( /\__________/\ )
\(^ @___..___@ ^)/
/\ (\/\/\/\/) / / \(/\/\/\/\)/ -( """""""""" )
\ _____ /
( /( )\ )
_) (_V) (V_) (_
(V)(V)(V) (V)(V)(V)

Spellcheck this and get it out, STAT

I think that the biggest problem with the innernet recently is that I am not on the wikipedia.

I have to ask myself, "Why am I not a bigger part of the wiki community? Why am I not an article on the wiki with a robust discussion about vaginas etc on the discussion tab where people are calling each other assholes and demanding cites and pictures of me in the wild with my vodka and sweet, gray shades and hook hands. And hook hands?"

I saw on there the other day as I was reading it for accuracy that one Huchins guy whom abused himself unto death has a wiki. I suppose if that's what it takes I could abuse myself with a towel and a jar of hand cleaner.

Just let me know. I'd have to settle accounts and things if it can be arranged. Buy some towels and such. I'd use probly a pink one because that reminds me of heaven. And some anti-bacterial soap. For the germs and the dirt that touching brings.

I mean, I was hoping to go out via the shiv wound in a bar at the hand of an angry husband.

But for the wiki... I could do the Huchins for the wiki.

My favorite letter is the one after Omega. Zomega. LOL.

A lot of people say that President Bush is very dumb and not doing a super job running things and I must say that I stand against these people as does the dam stand against the very weight of the cubic waters.

In fact, let me say that it is wise and also very humorous and reminds me of a favorite story of mine from the only thing I ever read, the Sunday funnies.

Remember when Marmaduke's neighbors had house guests and the guests came over and broke up Marmaduke's house and made a kindling out of it and then sang around the fire and then left early in the morning?

Marmaduke was so sad. I remember seeing his big, cute face, tears streaming from the brown, soggy eyes. I CRIED FOR HIM, THAT DAY! And I'm not ashamed to admit it.

For a week I had to wait for the next installment and let me tell you that was one long week.

Then remember how the entire neighborhood came and said to Marmaduke, we are all feeling very bad for you. A terrible thing was done, Marmaduke. Our hearts go out to you and that neighbor of yours should be ashamed.

Marmaduke, if you will recall, said nothing but there was a look on his face which resembled a firm, manly resolve.

Another long week.

Finally, remember how Marmaduke burned down the neighborhood to show them that we don't burn down Marmaduke's house? And they were angry and yelling but Marmaduke went to Crawford, Texas to hunt and fish and he was so happy.

So anyway, let me stand as does the rock under the weight of the mighty boot of scorn and be one of your few lone uncritics, Mr. Bush. If you ever need a place to stay in Omaha, you just tell me. My bed is your bed.

This is me:



Happy Sunday Afternoon. Take a bath to wash your sins.

Dirty work is what your work is but mine is clean

I think that when you consider a big fight between Count Chocula and Frankenberry it's very evident from the get-go that Frankenberry would crush the Count just like Andre the Giant would totally take the Baron von Rushdie. Von Rushdie couldn't even get Andre's head in The Claw even if he went into the angry claw goose-step mode which he was so famous for, right? It's laughable.

As much as I think we are in agreement about The Claw and the Frankenberry sitchy I think you can quickly turn the tables when you ask yourself, "What about the rap wars?" Certainly a lot of people read rape wars, and that's a normal Freuding thing to read which means that you're secretly a pervert. Your ego and your ID are all wrestling in the dark clost of your stinky brain and the ID is probly winning. ID's greased up, well toned, muscular-shaven-body is no match for hairy ego.

Anyway, then we have to move our money onto the Count because he's the black one.

I'm not saying that black cereals are better at rap than pretty, fleshy, pink ones (but they are).

Sexifrage

Dear baby bunny,

When I saw you in my cat's mouth I thought of what a nice job my cat was doing rescuing you from my hot garage and I was to commend her for looking after the fellow creatures of the woods.

When I saw your dull, scared eyes, however I knew that something was amiss.

I think you saw me coming over toward the two of you but I can't be sure, often when under stress you don't notice things, so I want you to know that I was coming over to assist you.

I wanted to assist you as I just said but when I saw that your guts were hanging outside of your general torso it was at that point I realized that you had some kind of breach in the cavity of your cavity and then I knew that probably you had a living will or something and did not do any heroics.

So anyway, next time stay out of my garage.

Love,

Ho.

Nibble nibble, little fish, grant to me my ugly wish

Just when I'm about to give up on marriage on account of the Navaro sitchy my faith is restored with the news of Kid Rock and Pam Anderson's plans to marry. Thank you, Jesus. It's really true that when one door closes, three open. You can take that one to the bank.

So guess what, my dog turned seven this morning and I scheduled her first colonoscopy!

I know that she's not technically fiddy and I was tempted to divide 365 by dog years but then I remembered that I am an American and automatically bad at math, so I went ahead and scheduled the appointment, today.

Now between you and me, it's not a real appointment. I have some pretend Versed and we're going to watch reruns of Katie's probe, then we'll go ahead and start looking down there to see if there are pulpy pollups.

Finally, good news. I talked to Osama Bin Laden last night and he said he was going to change his name to Hosama Bin Laden. I think that will help things. I'm working on Kim Jung Il but it's not as easy. A lot tricker.

Scott Stapp is praying for you

This is you: http://www.stryper.com/images/promo-reborn2.jpg

You're the jaunty one with the cocked cap and walmart shades, fancy striped clothes and 80s rocker skinny legs.

I'm the one you're lightly shoulder-touching and I so desperately want to fuck you but I know it's evil and God objects to the touching of men (men, not boy and man as so say the Catholics) so I don't but dear lord, help me but I want to know your too skinny bundt cake.

Also in the news is this story which I have been following very closely and it's entitled: Carmen Electra, Dave Navarro to split.

Suddenly the world doesn't make sense. They were such a good couple, together and if people like them can't make a go of it, what chance we? You and me? And...Dupree?

One funny thing and I mean this. I went to the stryper site and right clickied one of their pics and I was warned about copyright. Stryper, you need the press, babycakes. If someone wants to plaster your stripy mugs about the nets, by all means...let them.

Finally, I've had this on my mind for some time: I never want to win first place at anything. I never want to be the Violent Femmes who are the Beach Boys of some generation x. I want to be the second place or third place fellow whom gets a job in a metal factory after a brief stint with success.

Please ensure that for me because I don't like the Beach Boys and what they've fattened into.

Not one bit.

Nickleback, nickleback, nickleback blister, I'd rather have a tittie twister

Dear England,

That was a real great idea you had dropping the Jews into the middle of a pack of angry Arabs. Well done. Please fix that shit before their nuclear dust is climbing up into my nose and giving me headaches.

What the fuck were you thinking? Had you asked, where shall we put all these Jews, I would have gladly spoken with you about the matter. Had you said to me, shall we put all these Jews in the middle of the fucking Arabs whom have nothing better to do than blow shit up including themselves I'd have said, England, think on it. It's a desert and they hate Jews.

So now it's too late.

Why couldn't you have picked some other spot like in the crease of France's ass like that one little country, Lickenstine? They do no harm to nobody and they have no army so the Jews could have gone into there and built up a big wall and just happily dominated.

But now it's too late.

Anyway, I'm well, just wanted to see how you were doing. Been hot here in Homaha. Like a million degrees, probly.

Hope all is well.

Love,

Ho.

Best hair band evah!!!

If I were a vagina I would learn how to make the smoke signals like from the olden days.

I would build great, pluming signals to the indians and I would shout out, "Oy, the white man has kidnapped me and wants to fill me with raw soil and loam and leaves of grass. SOS. LOL!!"

Of course no actual indians would show up because they're all on reservations in the desert in Utah where no one but the indians and the mormons want to live!

If an actual indian showed up, though I would say, "I'm sorry, I wanted a real indian from India whom believe in all those crazy gods and don't eat steak like we do and who will be greatly disappointed to find hell and not reincarnation when they perish from this great earth."

If that didn't work, I'd either call John Wayne's ghost to come and help me fight the savages off or spit a fine spray of vaginal goo in his eye and then run on my swift vaginal legs using the loping leg style that wins me my races.

You own the world's tiniest ramrod, or at least you'd like to

Bill Clinton sent me an email and said that he stumbled across you or your boyfriend on the net. We both agree that you are looking quite fit and Hillary also agrees: http://www.gasian.us/gallery/view/?ID=416

Please write him a love poem and send it to him as one of my friends swears he's depressed about the state of affairs in the suspender industry.

My thirty-two's are mocking me.

She lays there in the comfort of the drawer untouched in months--who am I kidding....years--just sleeping away the day and watching cartoons and such.

I picked them up the other day and she said, "Oh, it's you! How have you been, it's been a long time since I've seen you."

"Yeah, I been keeping busy, workin out and such. You know, just living my life, having fun."

"That's great," she said.

Then I tried them on, just to see. I got them up past my knees when she yelled out, "OUCH, YOU'RE HURTING ME."

My thirty-four's have been pretty good about it. They tell me she was a bitch to me and I'm better off without them but I just don't know.

The 34's are always like, "Hey, bud, let's go get some beers, you should meet my friends 36 and 38, I think you'd really like them."

And maybe I would.

I don't want to seem a snob but I don't want new friends, I want my old friends back.

You're a Jazz Spaz

This is a promise that I make to you: If the movie which is coming out soon called, Little Man is any good I'll eat a sack full of baby foreskin.

Uncooked. Not even any Ketchup. Not even a small grain of salt, just raw pp skin.

I'll take the bag of at least 40 foreskins from various babies whom have had their wangs clipped and I'll gobble them as if a golden goose assuming Little Man is a good movie.

Speaking of circumcision, I read in the news about how the ones whom don't have the clippings (the Catholics and stank-ended-scabbers) are more likely to get the hiv. So, good job, Jews, you and I are like 10 times better at anal sex than the ones who have that fleshy impediment. I bet God told Moses about the hiv, I'll bet you at least fiddy.

What's the plural of clitoris? Clitorises?

I think that there should be a special allowance for beating a man to death with your own arm.

I mean, if you think about it, and I have... the fury and pain involved in someone tearing at their own arm such that it comes off in their hands, then wielding it as a cudgel or mace or shillelagh at their foe...that's fucking dedication, right there. Who can blame a man who would beat another man to death with his left or right arm?

Now there are some provisions to the self-arm beat to death rule and they are as follows: You may not chop the arm so that it's dangling by a thin, gory thread and then pull it off and beat with it. That's cheating. Further cheating is that you may not have it surgically removed and then frozen solid such that it's like a small branch. That's double cheating there.

After the beating there should be a judgement of style points wherein bleeding to death from the ripping would get you 10 points and reattaching the arm via surgery would get you a negative rating and a big tattoo of Pussy Pussy Can't Win A Fight right on your forehead.

Rub my back. I command you.

If I were a vagina I would never talk to my dirty neighbor to the south whose puckered mouth smells of sin and debauchery and the clenched visage of retention.

Always he's coming over with a cup to borrow sugar and flour to make brownie cakes and to use my toilet and always to clog it, always he sneaks out with my toilet rim full with poop and a few papers.

If I were a vagina I would peer at him from the curly screen that seperates us and the dog goes wild, running around yelling and yapping at the knock on the door.

"Are you in there," he says every time and every time I stay quiet.

I know he wants in on the action. You know, send a little cock my way. But send the little ones cause it hurts.

I do not outsource cock. Nor will I. You can promise that. If I were a vagina, that is.

Crunk, Crunk, booty full of Junk

Someone get Wolverine for me. The teens have been at my garbage cans again, kicking them over and upsetting the trash.

They also are about troubling things with my mail, going through it and extracting the ones that are of note.

The teens are small but they travel in packs and I need help and am afraid to leave my house or appear to ask for help because a pack of teens can sense fear and their mocks and derisions are enough to drive a man mad. The teens are try to drive a man mad.

Wolverine can be contacted at wolverine@xmen.com. No, wait, that's bad.

wolverine@xmen.edu. It's a school for the mutants, not a business.

I'll be attempting to contact Cerebro. Pray for me with all your godly might, it's going to be a long weekend, I fear.

Vite, vite, you're a cheat

So, good news. Jesus sent me some pictures and it's of His dad gambling.

Stick that up your e equals m c square-hole, braniac!

Here they are and that's no lie:





Thanks, Sharon, you are a gem among the very rocks and diamonds of that land whence that one guy went... El Dorado. That's it, Eldorado.

Snicker Snack says the Cheshire Cat

Dear people named Thom,

No one is impressed. Really. You think that extra h is so cool, but it's just confusing. Please conform to the regular spelling of Tom or we'll keep calling you thom. Same to you, Sean.

Guess what. Florida hires black people to drive their garbage trucks, too. When I saw that I was immediately surprised. My first thought was that there probably existed some invisible caste system based on race and perpetuated by poverty, racism and a pervasive sense of pessimism.

But then my second thought made more sense: the black mafia--an organization run by that one black fellow what done that Washington DC marching event. Remember? And the Fox news guys were all, there weren't even close to a million marchers. Then the other side was, there were so. At least a million, probly more.

Finally, I must admit that I cannot understand how you keep going to Subway when Blimpe is so much better. You're a tool to the advertising Jareds of the world. Unlike me. Because I go to Blimpe.

The only one working in the USA

Neither hurricane Joyce nor hurricane Marcos will do anything to excite the flaccid glob of Florida's uncircumcized mass because Florida doesn't like men or women, Florida likes boys!

All these years, Florida has lain fallow waiting for a hurricaine Georgie or Petie to extend the fleshy bump soaring out into the mighty Bermuda Triangle!

Sad news Florida, you're on the sex offender list! Uh, oh!

Better luck next time.