My brain fart turned into explosive mental diarrhea

Sometimes when I am trying to pry the screen window off of some unsuspecting schmuck's suburban home, I get to thinking about what life would be like if I had decided to follow in my dad's footsteps and entered the work-a-day world. The alarm clock in my hand, which I can only guess is one of those fancy ones that plays soothing ocean sounds or crap like that says 8:12, which, if it were in the morning, would be about the time my dad heads off to work every day. How does he do it? He would have to work for a month to collect the amount of cool stuff I am going to pull out of this place tonight. And I will get it all for less than an hour's work, casing included.

My friend T.J. who is in jail right now for burglary may have a different take on things, but if he hadn't passed out in the neighbor's crib after a five day bender hopped up on goofballs, he probably wouldn't have ever been caught. They called it robbery because he kicked in the front door, stole a bunch of stuff and carried it next door before he fell asleep. If you ask me, he just got screwed over by a rookie public defender who probably couldn't even plea bargain his way out of jury duty on a case he was trying.

Really. You want to talk about theives. Look at those bastards. They write up a lot of paperwork, go to fancy meetings and dinners and stuff, and then they charge a ton of money to let people they don't like talk to them. Imagine if the rest of us could charge people we don't like to talk to us. I could go to one family reunion and make enough just there to retire in Branson.

All bowling alley tales aside, I really do like the smell of a pizza right out of the pizza oven. Microwaving pizza just isn't the same. I also like rented shoes. But that is a whole nother story that needs to be told sometime when my dogs aren't barking. Those three won't shut up. They just run around the yard all moronolly as if they are actually looking for solid objects to run into. Sometimes it is fun to put tape over their eyes and watch them run around like demolition derby dogs.

Speakin' of demolition derby, Rusty down the junk yard finally found me a door for my '67 Chevelle. The door is technically for an El Camino, but he said that with some torchin' and some poundin' it could be made to fit into the gaping hole where my door once was before Eli took it. He claimed I owed him money for a bunch of candy bars I bought off his kid, but seriously, who just up and takes a car door as payment? Apparently Eli. That's who.

Interneting: More Than Just Un-re-un-re-gripping

The computer problems of my co-moderator have been quite fascinating to read about; and I'm sure that is what accounts for all the recent hits to this site. I'd like to get back to something with a little depth. There's been a lot of fan mail pouring in about The Wacky Misadventures of Furry and Poke. I appreciate all of the interest these beloved characters have generated in American History. I am currently in talks to bring our two heroes to the big screen. As of this writing, I've been a little hesitant to say anything because of all the offers I've rejected (as I will undoubtedly reject the current offer). I don't want to see some bastardized version of these symbols of the indomitable American spirit. There are many stories yet to unfold for this persistent duo.

One such adventure, I just happened to have run across, comes from an early reference to our friends having something to do with the legend of Johnny Appleseed. While it is true that John Chapman traveled the countryside planting nurseries, all references to Furry and Poke have been mysteriously deleted...until now. Planting seeds was a cover for some of the unusual sexual practices that Mr. Chapman engaged in while visiting various brothels during his travels. It would seem that Furry and Poke were often used as "props" to put the ladies at ease if you catch my meaning. Despite the name, Poke was never used as a phallus. Johnny would prance around in the all-together twirling Poke while tickling his companion's fancy parts with the tail end of Furry.

While neither Furry, nor Poke ever complained, this practice soon grew tiresome. It's been noted that the two had a way with the fairer sex, but one can only scratch a scab so many times before the skin begins to lose sensation. One night while Johnny was practicing for a late night encounter Furry and Poke were able to convince a towel boy at the brothel to send them by Pony Express to Philadelphia. It is there they relayed the stories of Johnny Appleseed, leaving out some of the more graphic details. Over the years the legend of Johnny's seed became jumbled to only include the apples we associate with him today.

We all apparently owe quite a debt to Furry & Poke. A pair of rugged individualists who I, quite honestly, thought I had made up. As my research continues I'll be sure to share the real version of American History that unfolds. We really need to get some of these history textbooks revised, so that we can begin to get a sense of ourselves; and not learn our nation's history from some version created by committees of Southern Rednecks in the pockets of the Daughters of the Confederacy.

How funny, my e-mail address is benedictxvi@hotmail.com

So, like this site has been running really poorly on my computer lately, and, combined with my above-par apathy, I just haven't done my best to keep up. But then you have a night like I had last night, and it becomes crystal clear in your head that this is what blogs are for. The night I had last night would keep most mortal bloggers in material for weeks, but I will try to limit myself to this one entry, and perhaps I will do some follow-up in the comments section.

The night started out as ordinary as any night. I had a work function I had to go to, and so begrudgingly, I did that. Nothing terribly exciting about the event. Lots of people there. There was a keg of beer, but it was Summitt, and I HATE Summitt, so I was not overly enthused. I talked to some people about some stuff. Then, later on in the night, I went home and went to bed.

Can you believe I managed to fit all of that stuff into one action packed night? That's more social activity than most bloggers fit into an entire month.

Suck it you boring bloggers.

The Pope's email address is: benedictxvi@vatican.va

Speaking of whatever the hell all that last post was about...

The readers of this blog will be happy to know that I am now an inspiration to a guy who had a stroke. Not an old guy either. He made it a point to walk over and tell me. Never you mind the boring details, but that makes a shit load of people who know I'm awesome. I would've told him, but he probably knew that too. I didn't want to be bothered; but I just couldn't bring myself to tell a stroke victim to piss off. So I acted like something got my attention out the window and walked away. Speaking of acting, I still plan to get back to the reason for this post--the 2" x 4" scene that has the theater world gang-banging itself. I'm just waiting for the last moderator to check his damn email so we can move this little blog into spotlight.

Apropos of nothing, it's probably time we addressed this...


I made that. Go ahead, click it, then make it bigger, then take a real good look. It's a fucking sandwich. If you're lucky, one day you'll eat a sandwich that good, but I doubt it. Please feel free to comment on the lame shit you eat and then I'll delete your post.

Also, back to my idea for The Wild Adventures of Furry and Poke:

I was thinking that they could be the ones who chopped down the Cherry Tree right after they molested a young George Washington. He gets Stockholm Syndrome or some shit and takes the blame. Then he passes the hat and stick along to some other lame ass.

I guess the 2" x 4" will have to wait.

Alan Fine LOVES white men

So, I updated my profile today to keep pace with Slappy Internet. Not wanting to steal his ideas or whatnot, I did mine before reading his. All I can say is, compared to mine, his is quite incomplete. I mean, really. As that famous country band once sang, "If you're gonna play on the intenet, you gotta have a fiddle in the band" But I think they would be in favor of a more in depth profile for the founder of what promises to be one of the internets most ________ blogs.

I'll come back and fill in that hole later. (Is that a great porn line or what?)

Garden Hoses

So, on Sept. 18, I finally logged onto this site as an administrator, and all I can say is, it is TWICE as awesome as I thought it would be.

The way the words go straight from my keyboard to everyone in the entire world. well, that's damn skippy cool. I mean, somewhere, right now, some Sri Lankan fucker is probably reading this and thinking how smart I am, and at the exact same time, some hot chick is having sex with some guy who once beat up a kid for having a blog.

I mean, what could be cooler than that?

Gripping the One-Piece of Destiny

While talking about the Lewis & Clark journals with a friend, we hit upon a concept that I'd like to develop a little further here. I propose a cartoon that features a coon-skinned cap and a walking stick that belonged to Lewis and or Clark. And did I mention that they can talk? Well they can. They'd get passed around from one famous early American to another, and they'd tell the stories of all kinds of famous events from their own perspectives...

Like flying a kite with Benjamin Franklin, crossing the Delaware with General Washington, or even watching Betsy Ross masturbate with a wooden fist. They would have the I.Q. of about an 8-year-old, and be inquisitive as hell. They'd be narrating shit and waiting to get passed along at the end of each episode. Kind of like Quantum Leap, but the cap and stick are not quite as big of pussies as that Star Trek guy. Also for some reason, they'd like women.

The show could be called The Adventures of Furry and Poke. And I could sell the episodes to Church groups who have a lot of home-schooled kids.

I know it's not a robot, or tubes, but it's something for you to suck on while you wait for the golfball headed in your direction.

Over a decade in the making!

The wait is nearly over.