Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
dirt
I am addicted to my Burt's Bees Carrot Seed Oil Complexion Mist. When I apply a modest spritz to my face it's as if I am giving my skin a refreshing drink of water. My face says thank you. I keep a bottle on my desk for frequent application throughout the day. Earlier this afternoon, while in a twilight zone typing in a monotonous manner, I mistaked my vanilla blackberry body mist for the burts and squirted it in my face. I know what you're thinking "I bet your face smells nice." It does.
Last night before falling into a deep nights sleep I wrote a pop song in my mind. I am not a fan of pop music, hate it in fact, but that doesn’t mean I can’t write the junk and make my first mil. The tune was so unimaginative and easy for the average closed minded music lover it was sure to be a hit. I pictured waking up early on a Saturday morning to tune into the local mainstream crapstation, something like the Top Hits of 2008 - 96.5 FM The Zebra, where my song would be played on Casey Kasem’s Top 100. Naturally, there would be some bullshit of a sob story portrayed before leading into the first beat of the song. I envision kickstarting the number one hit with a high pitched growl. I’m still working out details. Being ill equipped to play an instrument I mentally sounded out the bass, the electric guitar and keyboard. During my preliminary outline I really pushed for a trumpet/piano combo in lieu of the drab sound of a keyboard but in the end realized that would be a little too progressive for this sterile genre. The hook, being loyal to its class, was paltry and predictable.
Having already begun my journey into the world of dreams, I could not bring myself to get out of the sleepy sheets to document my musical gem to paper, instead made a good mental note of the masterpiece to perfect the following a.m. Alas, I found myself getting out of the tub this morning when a wave of disappointment came over me. What was sure to be a life altering journey had escaped my thoughts for eternity. My vision vanished. The struggle to find the right producer, interviewing for the right vocalist, a visit to Letterman, an appearance on the Today Show, jet lag, a late night dinner at Nobu with P Diddy, the stress of writing an acceptance speech before nabbing my first Grammy – bye bye. I am kicking myself for not getting my rear out of bed to capture the words of my first opus “Caught in Love”.©™® [writers note: I had a glass of Merlot directly before bed and was exhausted from a late night swim.]
Speaking of rears, for the good part of this week I was victimized by chronic constipation. General moving felt like work until today – the day of reclamation. This small girl with a big fat appetite could not eat a thing all week and the little I was able to swallow and digest merged with the 10 pounds of waste burdening my colon. I felt fat, run down and spent most of the day pushing on my belly encouraging my lazy big intestine and his small helper to do their jobs. By day 3 I woke up feeling full on an empty stomach and knew it was time to take matters into my own hands. A purchase of a Fleet Enema was imminent – at a store that offers self checkout kiosks, naturally. “Ewww…gross.” Shut up. When I succumb to the dire straits of constipation I am wallowing in a pain induced delirium so it doesn’t bother me a bit to squirt 120 ml of sodium phosphate into the anal canal. I welcome it. During the intense seconds following insertion I generally like to read a magazine in a humble attempt to distract my mind from the immediate pressure. Sometimes when I forget to bring reading material I am left to browse the instructions located on the outside of the Fleet box. It makes me smile when I read “Remove the tip from the rectum and maintain the position until the urge to evacuate is strong”. What do you mean until? There is no waiting period. Picture this: someone has just handed you a flaming piece of paper and says "hold this until your hand starts to burn." The trick of the evil enema is the longer you retain the fluid the greater chance at bowel evacuation (I know it sounds sick but it’s science). Let me tell you, the scene is not pretty. I recommend doing the deed when no one is home. There aren’t many other situations I would be more embarrassed to be caught mid act. Here is another tip: when you decide your body will no longer hold what naturally wants to come out make sure you aren’t far from the commode. Just trust me on this. If you follow the simple instructions the Fleet magic should succeed at releasing the compounded mass that is killing you slowly. I must’ve had quite a bit of blockage but lucky for me the enema came to my rescue and cleaned me out. I am dehydrated but my tummy is flat again and it feels as if I gave birth. I am positive if I got on a scale I would be 5 pounds lighter.
My dear friend Ohio informed me last eve that he is going to be leaving us towards the end of this year. The sucker is moving to South Carolina (finally). Here is a bit of trivia, O, the state flower is the Yellow Jessamine. In the less than 6 months we have together I will do what I can to show him a good time, heck I may even document an occasion or two. It’s going to be a difficult task attempting to top the night Ohio and I had to pull up Stacie’s jeans after she tumbled to the pavement while urinating in a downtown parking lot, but we’ll give it our best shot. Our first rumored trip is to the casino – Las Vegas, Nevada or Tunica, Mississipi. I know, night and day right? Matthew says Tunica is the Vegas of the South. What a joke. More like Vegas finds himself homeless, alone and addicted to meth.
In closing I would like to mention that, with the current state of the economy, mediocre earnings and inflation, I am getting ready to buy my first mini horse, T.J. Hooker, solely for the purpose of transportation. You’re right – whatta waste. Transportation and mini horse baseball. Since I am fun size (thanks Mariah) I won’t require a grand daddy size stallion although I would be willing to negotiate with Mr. Ed, if he is still around, because it’d be nice to have someone to vent with while trying to find a parking spot at my neighborhood Kroger.
Last night before falling into a deep nights sleep I wrote a pop song in my mind. I am not a fan of pop music, hate it in fact, but that doesn’t mean I can’t write the junk and make my first mil. The tune was so unimaginative and easy for the average closed minded music lover it was sure to be a hit. I pictured waking up early on a Saturday morning to tune into the local mainstream crapstation, something like the Top Hits of 2008 - 96.5 FM The Zebra, where my song would be played on Casey Kasem’s Top 100. Naturally, there would be some bullshit of a sob story portrayed before leading into the first beat of the song. I envision kickstarting the number one hit with a high pitched growl. I’m still working out details. Being ill equipped to play an instrument I mentally sounded out the bass, the electric guitar and keyboard. During my preliminary outline I really pushed for a trumpet/piano combo in lieu of the drab sound of a keyboard but in the end realized that would be a little too progressive for this sterile genre. The hook, being loyal to its class, was paltry and predictable.
Having already begun my journey into the world of dreams, I could not bring myself to get out of the sleepy sheets to document my musical gem to paper, instead made a good mental note of the masterpiece to perfect the following a.m. Alas, I found myself getting out of the tub this morning when a wave of disappointment came over me. What was sure to be a life altering journey had escaped my thoughts for eternity. My vision vanished. The struggle to find the right producer, interviewing for the right vocalist, a visit to Letterman, an appearance on the Today Show, jet lag, a late night dinner at Nobu with P Diddy, the stress of writing an acceptance speech before nabbing my first Grammy – bye bye. I am kicking myself for not getting my rear out of bed to capture the words of my first opus “Caught in Love”.©™® [writers note: I had a glass of Merlot directly before bed and was exhausted from a late night swim.]
Speaking of rears, for the good part of this week I was victimized by chronic constipation. General moving felt like work until today – the day of reclamation. This small girl with a big fat appetite could not eat a thing all week and the little I was able to swallow and digest merged with the 10 pounds of waste burdening my colon. I felt fat, run down and spent most of the day pushing on my belly encouraging my lazy big intestine and his small helper to do their jobs. By day 3 I woke up feeling full on an empty stomach and knew it was time to take matters into my own hands. A purchase of a Fleet Enema was imminent – at a store that offers self checkout kiosks, naturally. “Ewww…gross.” Shut up. When I succumb to the dire straits of constipation I am wallowing in a pain induced delirium so it doesn’t bother me a bit to squirt 120 ml of sodium phosphate into the anal canal. I welcome it. During the intense seconds following insertion I generally like to read a magazine in a humble attempt to distract my mind from the immediate pressure. Sometimes when I forget to bring reading material I am left to browse the instructions located on the outside of the Fleet box. It makes me smile when I read “Remove the tip from the rectum and maintain the position until the urge to evacuate is strong”. What do you mean until? There is no waiting period. Picture this: someone has just handed you a flaming piece of paper and says "hold this until your hand starts to burn." The trick of the evil enema is the longer you retain the fluid the greater chance at bowel evacuation (I know it sounds sick but it’s science). Let me tell you, the scene is not pretty. I recommend doing the deed when no one is home. There aren’t many other situations I would be more embarrassed to be caught mid act. Here is another tip: when you decide your body will no longer hold what naturally wants to come out make sure you aren’t far from the commode. Just trust me on this. If you follow the simple instructions the Fleet magic should succeed at releasing the compounded mass that is killing you slowly. I must’ve had quite a bit of blockage but lucky for me the enema came to my rescue and cleaned me out. I am dehydrated but my tummy is flat again and it feels as if I gave birth. I am positive if I got on a scale I would be 5 pounds lighter.
My dear friend Ohio informed me last eve that he is going to be leaving us towards the end of this year. The sucker is moving to South Carolina (finally). Here is a bit of trivia, O, the state flower is the Yellow Jessamine. In the less than 6 months we have together I will do what I can to show him a good time, heck I may even document an occasion or two. It’s going to be a difficult task attempting to top the night Ohio and I had to pull up Stacie’s jeans after she tumbled to the pavement while urinating in a downtown parking lot, but we’ll give it our best shot. Our first rumored trip is to the casino – Las Vegas, Nevada or Tunica, Mississipi. I know, night and day right? Matthew says Tunica is the Vegas of the South. What a joke. More like Vegas finds himself homeless, alone and addicted to meth.
In closing I would like to mention that, with the current state of the economy, mediocre earnings and inflation, I am getting ready to buy my first mini horse, T.J. Hooker, solely for the purpose of transportation. You’re right – whatta waste. Transportation and mini horse baseball. Since I am fun size (thanks Mariah) I won’t require a grand daddy size stallion although I would be willing to negotiate with Mr. Ed, if he is still around, because it’d be nice to have someone to vent with while trying to find a parking spot at my neighborhood Kroger.
GOOD NIGHT MY LOVES!
Thursday, July 10, 2008
What ever happened to
By Scut Farkus
Old fashioned summer-time. I'm talkin' about orange sherbert push-ups and spending hours outdoors in the front yard, riding bikes in the street, playing kickball in parking lots, shooting hoops in the nieghbor's driveway, getting into shananigans on the roof of the house, climbing trees just for the hell of it, meeting friends for a game of whiffleball in the field across from the junior high school. What happend to surveying the yard for sticks so you could run through the sprinkler later minus injury. We didn't have the luxury of a backyard swimming pool. When the summer gods were good to us we were occassionally invited to a neighor's house on a hot afternoon to splash around in a horse tub filled with tap water which scratched our swimming itch. We were so delighted to be in a tub full of water, swimming in circles, that the third degre burns from the metal walls didn't bother us a bit - or not too much anyway. There were days when mother, aching for some quiet time, would give the siblings and I one dollar apiece to walk down to our neighborhood 7-11 for an afternoon treat. Neighborhood = a 3.5+ mile trek in the blazing heat. Halfway through our journey you could find us dehydrated and sprawled out in someone's front lawn bellyaching about heat strokes and bad ideas. When boredom ensued we brainstormed ideas to bring home profit. We were big fans of the driveway car wash, fully equipped with Dawn liquid soap and a lawn hose. Our only downfall was lack of marketing skills and zero motivation. Lemonade stands were fun - the thirst quencher sold itself - but we had to settle for the kool-aid flavor of the day because that's all we had in the fridge (orange was my color of choice). Once my sister and I raffled off prizes donated by the catholic church [wink] to neighbors around the block. Neighbors who knew my sister and I personally and neighbors who attended the same catholic church my family frequented (on a good day). The raffle ticket was crafted out of notebook paper with our [make believe] prizes, rules, and need not be present boldly written in bubble letters using a variety of crayola crayons. You would be wrong to guess that no one purchased a raffle. On a grand summer's eve the parents would declare "shut the windows kids" which only meant one thing - house meet air conditioner. We, like kids on their way into the magic kingdom, skipped around the house in joy for we were about to be treated with the magic of cold air! This enabled me to move away from the box fan I sat in front of for 8 hours each day and also allowed me to finally get some sleep at night.
What ever happened to the old mustang body style - circa '87?
Old fashioned summer-time. I'm talkin' about orange sherbert push-ups and spending hours outdoors in the front yard, riding bikes in the street, playing kickball in parking lots, shooting hoops in the nieghbor's driveway, getting into shananigans on the roof of the house, climbing trees just for the hell of it, meeting friends for a game of whiffleball in the field across from the junior high school. What happend to surveying the yard for sticks so you could run through the sprinkler later minus injury. We didn't have the luxury of a backyard swimming pool. When the summer gods were good to us we were occassionally invited to a neighor's house on a hot afternoon to splash around in a horse tub filled with tap water which scratched our swimming itch. We were so delighted to be in a tub full of water, swimming in circles, that the third degre burns from the metal walls didn't bother us a bit - or not too much anyway. There were days when mother, aching for some quiet time, would give the siblings and I one dollar apiece to walk down to our neighborhood 7-11 for an afternoon treat. Neighborhood = a 3.5+ mile trek in the blazing heat. Halfway through our journey you could find us dehydrated and sprawled out in someone's front lawn bellyaching about heat strokes and bad ideas. When boredom ensued we brainstormed ideas to bring home profit. We were big fans of the driveway car wash, fully equipped with Dawn liquid soap and a lawn hose. Our only downfall was lack of marketing skills and zero motivation. Lemonade stands were fun - the thirst quencher sold itself - but we had to settle for the kool-aid flavor of the day because that's all we had in the fridge (orange was my color of choice). Once my sister and I raffled off prizes donated by the catholic church [wink] to neighbors around the block. Neighbors who knew my sister and I personally and neighbors who attended the same catholic church my family frequented (on a good day). The raffle ticket was crafted out of notebook paper with our [make believe] prizes, rules, and need not be present boldly written in bubble letters using a variety of crayola crayons. You would be wrong to guess that no one purchased a raffle. On a grand summer's eve the parents would declare "shut the windows kids" which only meant one thing - house meet air conditioner. We, like kids on their way into the magic kingdom, skipped around the house in joy for we were about to be treated with the magic of cold air! This enabled me to move away from the box fan I sat in front of for 8 hours each day and also allowed me to finally get some sleep at night.
What ever happened to the old mustang body style - circa '87?
I had one back in '88 right before I met that evil whore cocaine. R.I.P. Sally.
What ever happened to Cowboys vs. Indians plastic figures. I had hundreds of these little guys strolled out on the cold floors of my bedroom when I was a young lad. Instead of playing out scenes from one of my favorite Westerns, I produced my very own amateur "Cowboys vs. Indians - Battle of the Bands" series. The Indians proudly carried the title Almika and Her Dirty Dozen (Almika meaning "She of the Sun"), while the Cowboys were known around town as Louis Lou and the Lone Ranger's. This is what I called entertainment not horsin' around with a woo or wii whatchamacalit. What happened to using your imagination? These days all you need is a little pocket change to buy your very own fantasies! And finally, in closing, what happend to good old fashioned walking. Back when I was a youngster gas was $1.24/gallon, give and take, and my family still commuted everywhere via foot. Quit your whining society!
Thanks for allowing me time on my soapbox ("soap poisoining" - ha) I could honestly go on for hours but life calls.
~ Scut
__________________________________________
About the writer:
Age: 38 going on 16
Marital Status: They say third time's a charm, right? :)
Who would play you in a movie made of your life: Easy - Ron Howard
Favorite childhood memory: Kickin' some Billingsley ass in '83. Nah, seriously I love the guy. Playing Bernardo in Fullmont High's rendition of Westside Story.
Favorite Song: The song of the moment is "Tiny Birds" by Yo La Tengo other than that anything by Natalie Merchant.
Favorite Television Show: I couldn't live without Friends reruns. Also lovin' that new Real World series. D-r-a-m-a! Not a big fan of that wife swap series - that one hits too close to home.
Favorite Leasure Activity: My wife is going to hate this response but I am a bit of a pool shark.
Guilty Pleasure(s): a zima with lime, a black and mild, and a dame.
Pets: Samuel L. Jackson, his bastard kittens and baby's momma Fruitloop (her original name was Penelope Priss but I changed it because I can't stand the bitch).
Favorite Athlete: PBA's very own Walter Ray Williams, Jr., of course. You're #1 Walt!
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