May 23, 2007

-- Andy’s going on his Magical Mystery Tour today. I’m supposed to wrap a piece of ham around a pill at 11:30, and feed it to him. And by 1:00, when his groomer appointment is scheduled to commence, he’ll presumably be flying like Sunshine on “antibiotics,” and not have a care in the world.

Is it crazy that I’m wracked with guilt? The thought of exploiting Andy’s trust in me, and tricking him into eating drugs, makes me sad. I have visions of our poor border collie watching the sun rise in the desert tomorrow, and barking, “I get it! Sweet Jesus, I get it!!” 

I wish the whole thing was over, and he was back to just being on high-alert for the sound of potato chip bags rattling, and the engine of a UPS truck off in the distance. The way God made him.

-- Speaking of Sunshine… She left a single rose in a vase on the windowsill of our family room. I think Mumbles gave it to her for Mother’s Day, or something like that, and she left it behind. 

What do you think are the chances there’s a listening device in that flower? Wonder if they’ve spent the past few days in North Carolina eavesdropping on our conversations here(!), and drawing conclusions? Hell, maybe there was a bug in that cookie Nostrils left “filed” on my CD rack in December as well! 

Or have I just been watching too much Veronica Mars?

-- I watched Little Children a couple of nights ago, and immediately wanted to fling myself off Suicide Bridge. Have you seen that uplifting film? Holy shitballs, Batman. 

I nearly had to break the glass on the box in our family room, and remove the copy of Deuce Bigelow: Male Gigolo housed inside for extreme emergencies. But I was able to dial it back at the last moment. It was a very close call, though. Whew!

-- I’ve been doing a lot of anthropological work at local bars and restaurants lately, just observing people and trying to pinpoint the exact reasons they get on my nerves. And here are a few of my findings:

In addition to their Inner Sanctum voices, teenagers are always performing for each other. It’s just a never-ending show, complete with too-loud laughter for no apparent reason, and the wholesale waving of arms. That gets on my nerves.

A lot of people, teenage boys especially, seem to believe that if you take something that isn’t funny on its own, and say it real loud, it instantly becomes funny. “If you can’t be funny, be loud” is a theory that gets on my nerves.

Some men like to walk around acting like they’re muscle-bound, when they are not. It’s a certain way of moving, where their arms never actually touch their sides, because of oversized phantom muscles. Maybe they’re fooling some people, but they’re not fooling me. And they’re getting on my nerves.

Stay tuned for more science in the coming days.

-- Toney and I just finished the fifth season of Homicide: Life on the Street and a funny thing has happened. That show has pretty much ruined Law & Order for us. 

I’m not kidding, we can barely watch Scrote and his buddies anymore, because of predictability and high-lameness concerns. We used to think it was a pretty good franchise, before renting Homicide from Netflix. But now it’s all shot to shit.

We had two new episodes of SVU (a former fave) saved to our box, and sat through one of ‘em last night. And the second one got deleted, because we were shocked at the elevated level of suck we’d just endured. 

I didn’t think it was possible, but Homicide has driven a stake right through the heart of Scrote.

-- Some rare good news: the new Wilco CD  is excellent. I had some early concerns that the thing might be crushingly dull, but it only took three or four listens before the songs started worming their way into my brain. And now I can’t stop playing it. In fact, it’s cranking right now in the bunker, for the second time this morning.

-- And I think that’ll just about do it for today, my friends. I’ll leave you now with a question: what’s the most memorable example of bathroom graffiti you’ve ever encountered? 

Mine was at Moe’s & Joe’s bar in Atlanta. It read: “If you voted for Newt Gingrich you can’t shit here, because your asshole is in Washington.” The fact that it targeted Newt has nothing to do with it, I just think it’s funny.

Are there any such things that jump to the front of your mind? Tell us about it in the comments, won’t you? And if you’ve ever been the author of shitter poetry, we’d like to know about that as well.

I'll see you guys tomorrow.

 

home>>

Last updated
01/17/12 12:12 PM

The Best of TheWVSR.com
Hey, everything's relative

Further Evidence
The end is near

TheWVSRcam
A live camera inside the Surf Report bunker

Smoking Fish Sightings
Our logo gets around

The Mountain
The evidence is starting to pile up

Ads vs. Reality
Shiny, neon-orange, liquefied pump-cheese, and all

Black Box Stew
Who would you like to see go down in that next big air disaster?

Rules of Thumb
Things that are true

Archives
Old issues of the shitty paper zine

Dispatches From The Bunker
Join the mailing list!

Reader Map
It takes a village to write a really good dick joke