If I sprout wings you may not touch them

I'll bet the inventor of the ham megaphone didn't make nearly what it's worth on the open market. Probably he didn't even sell even one except to his mother and she's an invalid and has to buy his inventions because he has power of attorney.

And that's the problem with inventing.

You come up with an idea, say ... mixing a ham and a megaphone and you get a product that the world has craved and didn't even know about it.

I'll bet you'd want to call it a Hamaphone.

If you had been the inventor WHICH YOU ARE NOT THE INVENTOR--I AM.

I know it doesn't technically boost your voice...in fact it has the opposite effect...a muffled hammy mumble as you sit and talk through the fat and tissue of delight.

I'll bet Crab Men invented velcro years before us

I'll bet when vampires throw up it's always blood and when they see what's come out, they're all, "Oh, dear. Look at this. Rhenfield, get the car, I'm grievous ill."

Then they remember that they're vampires.

Then they're all.

"Oh, yeah. I guess I did eat that. LOL. Never mind, Rhenfield, it was just indigestion, go back to your ants."

But I'll bet vampires don't vomit all that much, as a rule. Except the anorexic ones. And that's just to be pretty.

So that makes sense.

And what else.

Was she serious with the one tissue wiping comment?

I just want you to know that when I commence to wiping I send one tissue in to tell the rest of the tissues that their cozy life is about to become stained with a grief that not even a good flushing will fully mend.

Environment be damned.

Serious.

One tissue.

Dirty-fingered finger sniffers.

Pooping in a bag would suck

I imagine whenever Darth Vader says that so-and-so seems gay all the people laugh behind his back.

I like to think in my brain that they refer to Darth's intuition as the Vaydar Gaydar and then they giggle, as I giggle among them but they would never say that to Darth's face because he would choke them with the force.

Especially Grand Moff Tarkin.

That's the gayest name in the Degobah System--even after the destruction of Tatooine.

What kind of mother names the son Grand Moff?

That's right. One who wants to turn her son gay from the abuses of young youth.

I bet Grand Moff was bullied a lot as a kid. Big Vagina Tarkin. That's a bitter pill to swallow as a young boy, I can imagine.

In a way he kind of deserved it for having such an unfortunate name.

In a way and really?

In every way.

Time travel is hard

Sometimes I wish that I was Billy Bob Thornton because then I would have had crazy sex with Angelina Jolie a few years ago.

People would always ask me, was that bitch as crazy as she seems?

I'd be all, she wore my blood around her neck, didn't she?

Damn right, she did.

She tattooed my name on her arm, too.

Damn right, she did.

You have any woman ever tattoo your name on her arm?

No. That's right. Because you're not Billy Bob Thornton.

You didn't do Sling Blade. You didn't play a football coach in that one movie. I did. Me, Billy Bob Thornton. I saw Hallie Berry naked in the flesh and pressed her boobs against my hairy chest.

And while it's sad that I assumed his identity after him and the Jolie split up, it's kind of good in a way. If you think about it, I'll always have the good memories of the sex and the blood we wore around our necks, and all of the chaos we had at the end of our relationship? Time has healed.

And I beat Brad Pitt to her crotch.

How many men can say that?

Pressure is bad. Quiche is good, though.

I'm not saying it's a good idea but you might want to consider feeding your kids less food so that they can one day become jockeys because jockeys get lots of pussy.

That's what a jockey friend of mine tells me.

He's a little guy and we sit there and he swings his legs on the big boy chairs but don't tell him reveal to him I said because he likes to fight.

He sits there and he says in his baby voice, "Ho? Jockeys get all the pussy, they're like rock stars, I swear to fucking God."

He always says to me (his name is Rocko and he's an Aquarius or some shit), "All the girls want to ride the guy what rode Man O War to preakness victory."

I'm not sure what what a preakness but I'm pretty sure it means retard convention. Retard convention with horses, I mean.

Anyway, think about it.

I have allergies so bad

I have been at the vertex of an equilateral triangle, so-called equiangular regular polygon with the point facing in no particular direction unlike where your mind has wandered, no doubt. I did not say it was downward facing, I did not say it because I have not been there and I don't generally lie and admit it.

I have been trapped there in a way with the fractions.

Not the bastard fractions of a general sort but the common numbers and percentages, trapped in thirds.

The 3 thirds when split into three and meld voltron-like, back into one, I've been with that one missing percent, that's where I've been. The one that traces back so far into the vertex and I can just reach him, or rather just cannot reach him.

But Easter was nice.

We all ate fat gobs of ham and talked about how good it is that Jesus got jacked so that we could have ham. Lots of it.

One of our party complained that it was a shame that the jacking took place so long ago and I secretly agreed with him but that didn't stop me from spitty my gob of garlic infused potatoes in his smoggy face.

It was a shame to waste the infusion but the point had to be made and quickly.

Here's a poem.

Roses are red
violets are pink
your skin is pretty
and i have rosatia

I'm not very happy with how that turned out, let me try another:

Pome to the man at the pharmacy

I'm sorry for staring
at your kaposi's sarcoma
which i later found out
was rosatia
(from overhearing your
personals)
but told everyone
(in my party)
it was
cancer.
i feel real bad about that
but you sure have a bad
case of it
that you surely
won't blame me.

Well, now I get to work more, tonight.

Computers won't run themselves.

Shackleton was murdered

It's easy to imagine to little anime people sitting on a wall facing the waste.

Beyond the wall is some barren waste but with mountains (not just sandy desert), not like Jew hating Dune.

Tall mountains but barren and empty like Utah, but not with all the Mormons (unless they're anime Mormons carrying anime books in anime backpacks and that's funny but in a different way--but not on the wall. In the suburbs meeting anime housewives and drinking anime Red Punch...somewhere in Kansas...where God lives..).

And you can picture a strong wind blowing, can't you. Blowing against the wall.

And the hair on the anime guys is spikey as it always is. Even in the strong wind.

And the easiest thing to picture is that they're in a spit war and spitting into the wind at an angle so that the other is struck in the face or torso or eatsy fingers with loogz.

What's harder to picture is an army of these little guys on this wall and the carnage of spit mayhem.

That's harder for me to imagine, anyway.

Not the two, that's easy.

But an army of little China blue-eyed spitters.

The creeping turtle is unmolested except by the quick and the curious

I'm going to change my first name to Santa so that people will like me more.

Except the Jews.

And the Muslims.

Just no pleasing those two.

Give them iced tea and they'll ask for lemonade. Give them lemonade and they'll go on with their diabetes stories--the same ones we've heard a thousand times before. Offer them a handful of nuts and they will explode.

But the Hindis will dig me.

They'll paint my face a deep blue and give me a snake tongue which will go quite well with my red and white fuzzy cap with a white pompom toward the end.

They'll draw pictures of me and both of my soot-black boots will point the same way.

They have so many gods that the addition one more is inconsequential. And one who brings gifts, no less. Much better than the elephant one what just eats all the hay. Or whatever he does. His power. His whatever. Blue Elephant. L Ron Hubaphant.

They'll sit around and pretend presents were delivered except they're so poor that the presents will be rocks and the wrapping paper will be brightly colored feces.

But they'll still have fun.

Say what you will, it's very nice to live in America.

If I was Letter Man I'd turn the word toil into the word masturbate which would make work a lot gooder

This is something of which I'm 37% sure of.

If you was to lay back up and list in the middle of the pool shouting, "Mayday, mayday, mayday," and citing your position as the middle of the Sargasso to the air.

At which point you then let loose foul tidal waves of viscous excrement out the port bow which spread about you like a squid fleeing terror?

And then after you were towed to safe harbor you later claimed to be a tanker run aground on an ice burgh?

I'll bet if you could get someone to half-believe that you believed what you were saying that there would be a ten to 13 percent decrease in the disgust factor during the cleanup phase. But I'll bet you would never get to go swimming there, again.

You'd have to play your cards right.

Remember the can't say something nice rule? Me too.

I've been in my basement smoking pot with my uncle Louie for well on to a week, maybe more. My Sabbath vinyl is wearing thin.

Lou always says the same thing twice as if I never heard him but I don't answer. Fuck him, I'm not his parrot. I'm no one's parrot.

I've switched booze for weed and I'm on a 9 day non-hangover and Louie was right, weed is best if you can get it.

Louie and me, we've been talking about what we would do if we had a night alone with Cameron Diaz.

Louie says he'd put on dirty pornos and smoke weed with her till she gave him head.

Two times he said that.

All the time I'm thinking, "Fuck that."

"Louie?" I says.

But I don't say nothing else because I don't know how it goes.

I ain't never been with no star.