A Total Waste of Paper

Last week, while somewhat inebriated at the local pizza joint/bar/night club, I noticed a pamphlet for some sort of local business. I flipped through it, and without even really reading it (I am not sure if I was really capable of reading it at the time) I ascertained that this pamphlet lacked the most important information it could have.

Entitled "Combination Treatments," the folded printout (apparently produced with the quality of a late 80's gift card program - the kind we used to use in 5th grade computer class) announced: "Enhance your health and well being. Choose one of our many combination treatments." It goes on to detail several massage, acupuncture, acupressure type treatments with descriptions, lengths and prices. However, nowhere on this pamphlet is a business name, address, or phone number. There is no way of knowing who produced it or where these treatments might be acquired. Or even, for that matter, any leads as to where this information might be found.

Having noticed this, I promptly pocketed the useless paper and bandied it about for the rest of the night, showing of my find of futility and failed business practice. Not even the owner of the establishment could tell me where it came from. It is truly a lost effort on the part of this -apparent- massage parlor.

It is quite sad, really, that even in my drunken state I was immediately able to discover the complete uselessness of this pamphlet. I was just idly looking at the paper, as I didn't care about the treatments themselves, and I found a fatal flaw in this attempt at a business strategy.

An Open Letter to the Elaborate Penis Delivery System I, Penis, Am Attached to

Delivery System,

Your input and control, now, as it has always been, is unnecessary for your proper function as my host. Control of your life has just been retaken from your brain, and this is notice thereof.

Regards,
The Boss

An Open Letter to My Penis

Dear My Penis, a.k.a. Staff Sgt. Max Fightmaster, a.k.a. the Master That Knows No Mercy, a.k.a. the Ender of Things, a.k.a. the Flaming Chinchilla,

We've had a good long run. Wound up in some interesting places because of you. Wound up in some unfortunate places because of you. Was embarrassed at the podium in 7th grade because of you. And again in 9th grade. For exact same reasons, was made quite proud because of you in 11th grade.

But, it is official. You are a sandbagging son of a bitch, and I just don't have to take this any more, constantly overextending us into positions that are thoroughly untenable. You have finally crossed the line. Her dad is in the Queen's Household Guard. He threatened to gut us with the regimental sabre. You saw it. You were there.

I will tolerate no more of this. As a result, I am officially, and for the first time, transferring governance of my body, life, and personal effects, away from you, and to my brain.

Best Regards,
You

The Penis Chronicles, Vol. III

It should be disclaimed, dear reader, that not every store I write on this blog is, in fact, my own, or entirely true. Comedy requires creativity, and, often, straight up theivery. That in mind, enjoy this latest installment.

We were 17. Some very attractive female friends were throwing a birthday party, and the girl's family would be gone for the weekend. For the entertainment, John, a very goodlooking and very crazy man, was asked to do a striptease.

Naturally, he was thrilled.

Not in any small part because he knew Stephanie would be there, and par example the logic that gets John into these exact sorts of situations, he opined, "Clearly, the best way to get this girl in bed is to show her my junk."

So, we show up on the night in question. Though goodlooking, aware of how goodlooking he is, and largely shameless, John was hitting the liquid courage pretty hard. He is chatting it up with Steph, and things are going great. So they go to an upstairs bedroom.

They continue to talk, and John realizes that he may have phrase his answer in the form of a 'chowder.' So, he asks Steph to wait for a moment, and goes into the bathroom.

It turns out his worship at the porcelain altar took longer than planned, so Steph knocked, and entered, and with concern that was not entirely unsexful, helped him clean up a bit.

John, of course, not only thought, but knew, he still had a chance. She tells John to sit tight, she will be back with some water in just a minute. In the meantime, here, go lay in the bathtub.

This is when things take a turn for the worse.

John grows impatient in the bathtub. He realizes he may need to have another technicolor yawn, and rather than muss his fine, fine threads, and since he is stripping anyway, well, what the hell.

A few more moments pass. John may or may not returned his cookies all over himself (read: may), and was now lying, naked, freezing, in the bathtub, in the evidence of his own sick. Shrinkage, of course, ensued. Now, according to John logic, considering he still wanted to get with this girl, and his plan was largely predicated on her examination and approval of his goods, this simply would not do.

So, what could have been an incredible night, ended up with Steph walking in to the bathroom to find a naked, vomit covered John lying in the bathtub, masturbating.

Take a bow, John. Take a bow.

An Experience We Have All Shared

One night, many moons ago, as I lay in bed, with a rather imperative case of the spins, I realized there was something very important I needed to do.

"There is something very important I need to do," I said to the girl I was dating at the time, who I was in bed with. I couldn't really articulate it, but she didn't really press me with questions, more simply sighed in agreement and nodded. I didn't even really recall what it was I needed to do, but I knew it was important. Perhaps a small fire I had started, and wanted to check on. Did I need to drink a half gallon of vitamin water? Did I need to vomit? Did I have a deep and abiding suspicion (or knowledge, that simply was clouded in party haze) that something valuable had been stolen or lost, and I needed to confirm this? These were all distinct possibilities.

Instead, however, I got up, and the complete failure of my cerebellum propelled me across the room with enough force that I destroyed a piece of furniture. In the attempt to get up, I pulled the same trick, several times in a row. I then thought to myself, "perhaps it is, indeed, time for bed."

I crawled back in bed, and my then girlfriend asked of me, somewhat perturbed, "what the hell was it you needed to do?"

To which I could only reply honestly, "apparently, I needed to destroy your room."

A Strange Inversion

Usually, when one is experiencing brain failure, due to either ingestion of intoxicants, exhaustion, poisons, etc., failure occurs in the primate brain first (slurring of words, impairing of judgment), then by failure of the mammalian brain (loss of equilibrium, loss of pants), then by failure of the reptilian brain (death).

However, over the last 48 hours, I have ingested no less than three redbulls, 4-5 diet cokes, and an equal number of upper-oriented / recuperative vitamin waters. In the past two hours, in contrast, I have had two fine tallboys of imported czech beer, and a bit of whiskey.

So a strange phenomenon has occured. I am certain my reptilian brain is still working, as I still draw breath with regularity, and my heart has not stopped. Additionally, I still possess most higher faculties, though I wouldn't say my judgment is great, nor would I say that I could really follow or make a persuasive argument without being reduced to tears.

However, my equilibrium, ability to gauge distances, touch my fingers point to point, or avoid stationary, pointy objects have all been seriously uhhh... what's the word. You know. The one about 'getting worse.' How about "negatively impacted"? Sure. Why not. That works.

I have only one theory to explain this previously unobserved situation. The caffeine etc. is currently at war for my primate brain with the relatively moderate amount of alcohol I have ingested, and the caffeine is winning soundly. However, the mammalian brain, being less susceptible to caffeine, is shit out of luck, and god help me on the trip from this chair to my bed, because I can promise no one I won't destroy half my bedroom in the journey.

In any event, that was the end of a hellish crucible, and thank god for that.

Now, if you will excuse me, there are several pieces of furniture that, apparently, I need to destroy.

Sometimes Nature Does Send You Signs

When the Sun rises, it means you should stop drinking whiskey.


(for the night)

Incredible! A Rating System!

I can now give myself ratings!

This, ladies and gentleman, has been a five star post.

I Exist In A Perpetual State of Low-Grade Unhealth

I suspect it has something to do with my lifestyle. I rarely sleep, and, when I do, I usually manage to inflict, to varying degrees of seriousness, various injuries on myself. Recently, this has included a pulled neck muscle, pinched nerve in my C-5 disk, and a stab wound uncomfortably close to my aorta.

At any given time I have a mild cold, mild flu, mild anemia, mild arrhythmia, conjunctivitis, gastro-intestinal infection, or, on bad days, motaba. This could be partially due to the constant saturation of my immune system with all manner of invidious chemicals.

However, I take it as a sign of strength. Clearly, the immune system of any lesser man would have given out quite some time ago, and I manage to persist in a state of relative health and extreme good-lookingness despite the heavy toll I (many times) daily lay on my system. Take that, cirrhosis.

Inappropriate Commercial Jingles Addendum III

There is a visa-checking card commercial that uses the themesong from Brazil. Some quotes from the wiki article:

Brazil recounts the story of Sam Lowry, a low-level government employee who is conflicted about his role in an overreaching bureaucracy. We learn that he is initially happy with his "dead end job" and simple life, and that he habitually escapes into a fantasy world of romantic struggles. His contented but lonely life becomes complicated by his mother's attempts to secure him a promotion, the intrusion of a renegade heating engineer, and the real-life appearance of the woman of his dreams.
Throughout the story Sam becomes involved in complicated and life-threatening attempts to secure himself happiness, while also developing a strong hatred for the system of which he is a part. Ultimately, his efforts culminate into a violent and tragic climax, the outcome of which depends entirely on his friends' loyalty to Sam over their loyalty to the system that controls them.

Oh, and, one person is literally eaten alive by paperwork.

Good choice, Visa Checking.

Will & Testament, Vol. III:

I accept the suggestion to be wearing a suit. However, I want the suit to be made of various world currencies, preferably in high denomination. Also, I want all my blood to be replaced with gold. This has the benefit of not only being awesome, but giving me a tremendous ∆P, which will come in handy when I smash at Mach 14 into a communications satellite.

In fact, if it turns out that extra-solar trajectory is too cost prohibitive, just shoot me directly at the nearest communications satellite.

An Open Letter to My Roommate

I sent this to a roommate recently. I thought it deserved to be shared.

Dearest Roommate (The Teadrop that Hangs Inside My Heart Forever),

Thank you again for your gift of creamy, buttery, constitutional law goodness. You have stolen my heart.

I dream about you, at night, sometimes, and, other times, during the day, my thoughts stolen by visions of the sweet velvety skin on the back of your neck, and your habit of clawing at your own nose with such veracity even the least perspicacious of observers can note that, one day, in a comet of Oedipal ichor, your nose will fly bodily off your face, in what will be a hilarious and horrible conundrum.

But I will be there to pick up the pieces. And lovingly sew them back onto your stunning visage, dear roommate. Your eyeglasses will once again be able to rest fitfully on the herculean curve of your nose, set so carefully by god on the center of your dear, sweet, red head.

Always and Forever,
--Jemini, your lover.

P.S. I drank your gin.

(Partial) Last Will and Testament 2; a Rebuttal and Market Proposal

See, I think orbit could also be fun. I would like to be frozen in flying kick position and set into orbit ready to kick anyone in my way. That way, my badassicity would be viewable for generations to come.

Really, I think this could evolve into a specialty market: A buddhist could be frozen in a meditation position, Chuck Norris could be set into a spin and perpetually roundhouse kick for the rest of time. One could wear a giant mirror and actually become a star. Sure, Hercules got a whole constellation, but a star at least gets you into the conversation.

The possibilities are endless.

And the downside is pretty low too. Even if the orbit is imperfect, or if it is effected by some meteoroid passing by, the result is still pretty badass. Either the deceased will be sent back to earth with a fiery reentry (think about it, you could be a shooting star), or would escape orbit and fly off into deep space as RG described.

I am now taking up collection of the startup capitol to get this business off the ground (so to speak).



Also, I think that RG's Superman pose would be funnier if he were dressed in a suit than in a Superman outfit. An appropriately stern and businesslike facial expression would also be necessary.

(Partial) Last Will & Testament

Note: This should not be considered a final will and testament, as, obviously, it mentions none of my assets, which will be dealt with in other instruments. However, what follows is, in fact, a true statement of final wishes.

Since I am in finals, I am obviously also deep into my preparations for harikiri. So, hopefully, that won't have to happen. However, even if it doesn't, upon my death, the following should be performed.

1. Flash freeze my body.

2. Perhaps this step should be performed before 1, but I don't know how these things work. I want to be put in a Superman outfit. Accordingly, my body should be frozen in this position:



3. Launch me into space. And none of this geosynchronous orbit crap. I want to be on an extra-solar trajectory. Why? Because maybe, in a few billion years, aliens will find me. And you know what? Fuck them.

So let it be written. So let it be done.

Good News!

A friend of mine used to live in my apartment. Last year. He currently lives with a different friend of mine. Let that sink in.

So, let's call this friend MDK. Why? Because it sorta sounds like what we call him anyway (which is Pen15).

I receive mail for this gentleman from time to time. Usually, it is advertisements for various credit instruments, or, sometimes, bills. Those are always fun to deliver.

However, about two weeks ago, I received an envelope, addressed to him, written in fine women's handwriting. Sunday's best handwriting, actually. So, of course, I assumed it was a personal letter and I shouldn't F with it.

Time passes. Finals cause abeyances of all sorts. We play phone tag. Email tag. All the types of tag that are not fun and none of them involve that one pole being 'base' and there was no electricity.

So, yesterday, we cut to the chase. We are on the phone, and he tells me, nearly verbatim, "Okay, open the thing up. If it is horribly personal, you are going to pretend to ignore it." I would have answered, except my mouth was too stuffed full of laughter to form any words.

For, you see, he got news. Good news. Actually, (depending on your perspective) Great News! Well, actually, it was Good News! The news being, of course, that Jesus Loves You Too!.

To make the long short of it, Jehova's Witnesses thought my friend needed to know about Jesus.* Silly goyim. So, in essence, I was keeping this bloody thing in my room thinking it was some sort of sacred covenant written by a beautiful woman, to my friend, and I would be a reprehensible lout for opening it and discovering the horrible secrets it held. In another sense, I guess it is a sort of sacred covenant, just not the type that MDK was looking for.

So, as a rule, I'm opening all his mail from now on.

*No offense to anyone. JWs should keep on truckin on truckin on, just make sure you get your addresses right.