Saturday, January 31


We here at the Midnight Mailman Show (for learning and fun) are developing a new cartoon series to air on this very program.

the pitch: it's about an unemployed pirate captain living in a suburban apartment complex, and his best friend, the fifteen-year old half-retarted kid who lives next door.

so the pirate's name is Bloodbath, we're pretty sure about that, right Mr. Happy Puppet Head? yeah. his name's set. but it's the kid we're having the trouble with.

so here are our options so far:

Arpit and Bloodbath

Kevin and Bloodbath

Carlos and Bloodbath

let me know what you kids think. we're just trying to make the best possible cartoons for our audience. this is all for you. for serious.

well, i'm excited...

so very.

about everything from now on.


Thursday, January 29

Why don't ghosts do friendly-strange things istead of creepy-strange things? like make breakfast or perform otherworldly sexual favors? or maybe they do, only you don't hear about that stuff because no one complains.

"I'm not a hermaphrodite, but this is a good book."


Wednesday, January 28


There are men at the door with guns and knives and baseball bats and whips and maybe even a chainsaw. They bang on the door and yell. They’ve been there for about ten minutes now, upset that the inhabitant of apartment 3B isn’t opening the door to their requests, and getting more upset as time passes. A real upset kind of upset. Spit dribbles from their chins, their faces red, eyes bulging. These men clearly want that door open more than anything, and by the sounds of it, don’t seem averse to forcing their way in.

Roger is on the other side of the door, the one refusing to open said door, and clearly has no intention of opening it. His plans had been to go to the Mexican restaurant down the street and have some beers, but the men with weapons outside convinced him it was a better night to stay home.

The door to his bedroom is closed, so the banging and yelling is still audible, but muffled. It’s easier to ignore that way. Easier to concentrate on the pornography.

With his pants around his ankles and eyes glued to his computer screen, Roger masturbates furiously. His face resembles those of the men outside, only he seems much more content with things. Roger isn’t in his apartment, not really. He isn’t even Roger. He’s the guy with the enormous dick fucking the brains out of that woman with the enormous breasts. He's the one getting a blowjob from those twins. He’s in a cheaply constructed barn set, on the beach, a shower, a mechanics garage, so many places that are so far away from apartment 3B and those terrible men that he never even has to worry about that stuff anymore.

The front door gives way with a crack. Roger’s eyes dart towards the living room, but instantly re-affix themselves to the computer screen. The men with the guns and the knives and the baseball bats, and definitely a chainsaw, are now inside. Their volume has increased dramatically since the subtraction of the door. Roger hears a lamp break. He closes his eyes and quickens his hand. As the tropical sun beats against his bare skin he urges the girls to continue grinding against one another, against him, and he laughs.

Tuesday, January 27

when i was a kid we lived in Los Angeles, and occasionally my parents would take me to Universal Studios Hollywood. somewher in there they had a replica of Kit, the Nightrider car, and if you stood in a line, they'd let you sit in the car for a minute or so and you could ask Kit questions and he'd answer you.

HE'D ANSWER YOUR QUESTIONS. my mind was blown.

but i never did get to visit with Kit. i don't know why, but i think i might have been kind of nervous about the whole thing, like meeting a celebrity. what would i ask? it had to be good, because there wasn't much time.

wow, even now i have no idea what i'd ask him. so many questions...
I don't want anything right now except Springtime. what a great season that one is.

Once I get really rich I'm going to take all my friends out for fancy haircuts and glamor photos. Then we'll get drunk from liquor and ride the quarter rides under the escalator at the mall. When police and angry mothers tell us to stop, we'll throw wadded ten dollar bills at them. What can they do against that? Nothing.

Sunday, January 25

The maraca has to be the most underrated instrument in the history of the world.

Mr. Happy Puppet Head, please pass out the complimentary marracas to the audience members. We're going to have an all marraca drum circle.

Yes. And... go.

Me: Hey, Krista?
Krista: Yeah?
Me: There's an oppossum.
Krista: Really!?
Me: No, because the joke is that there ISN'T an oppossum!
Krista: Really? (she laughs real hard) That's great!

the best part is that krista was the one who made that joke up the night before.
a segment on SEX EDUCATION. (the kids need to know... and now)

I will now put on an education sex movie. It's entitled "Passion Cove 12" starring Leslie Taylor and all these other hot chicks. Let's just roll the tape now. Alright...

So watch here as they kiss and breathe a whole lot. This is what we call "love."

And those are some boobs. You'll see a lot of those in the movie. And in life, if you're lucky.

Hey there Mr. Happy Puppet Head, just in time. You missed a little bit of the movie, but it's not like you're missing any plot really. Oh, kids, that's what we call Oral Sex. Good stuff. Since we're on tv we can't really show any direct mouth-to-genitals, but the close proximity of the two should tell the story in itself.

If you'll pay attention, you will learn many new "erogenous zones" that you may have overlooked. Your own neck, for instance, can be a very exciting place to rub lovingly as you masturbate while looking at your personal servent running a bath for you. Yeah, she likes that...

I watched this one earlier, Mr. Happy Puppet Head, and these girl's touch boobs a lot. I think you're gonna like it.

Yeah, you like it when they touch boobs.

Of course you like that sort of thing. It's like, double boobs.

What, you don't like double boobs?

Oh, look at that... this is good stuff, huh, Mr. Happy Puppet Head?

I"ll be back in a few minutes with an update. I'm going to the... bathroom.
rfjko0t76w. that was me pecking at the keyboard with my nose. i have a pointy nose. for which to peck.

In first grade I used to write my will and leave it around the house for my mom to find. I wanted to give all my toys to that gorilla foundation that Koko the gorilla was a part of. How I loved that Koko. She could talk with sign language.

I was a sad kid. My parents were divorcing and apparently there was lots of crazy stuff, but I don’t remember it. I just remember contemplating jumping off that second story balcony and ending it all. With one leg over the edge I would wonder in that six-year old mind what it’s like to die, what God’s like, and what it would feel like to land on my head.

When I was in second grade I was institutionalized for a brief spell. Maybe for two weeks or so. Miserable, and how. But I did discover my love for reading. I was introduced to the beauty of Roald Dahl’s work while confined to a mental hospital. And I met some great kids, like Harmony and Sage who were brothers. When I first saw Sage I thought he was a girl because of his long hair. Sage painted pictures of peace signs and during music therapy introduced me to Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog.” He taught me what a virgin was--which I had thought was some sort of Viking—and he liked me because I always laughed when he farted.

I cried the entire first night I was there. Because I was keeping my roommate awake (I think he had a brain tumor. Real nice guy), they had to take me to a special quiet room where they could have strapped me down if I got violent. I didn’t. All I wanted was to call my mom, but they wouldn’t let me.

I blamed my brother for the whole thing. He was the one who accidentally peed on me, which set me off kicking and yelling. I kicked at my big wooden desk until the bottom drawer collapsed inwards. Soon after the men (not wearing white coats, but regular button-up shirts with ties) came and took me away in their station wagon. I tried to act really normal so they would let me stay home, but they didn’t buy it. My mom packed me some soup in a thermos and off I went. It was my brother’s fault, I thought. I resented him for a long time. Even when he and my mom would come to visit me--which was maybe an hour drive away--I would ignore him.

I always regretted how I treated my brother. Be nice to your siblings, kids. They're the most important thing you have.

Friday, January 23

my lifetime goal:

for the people who have Calvin and Hobbes at the top of their list of all-time best and most important art things, i want to be second on that list.


1)Calvin and Hobbes
2)Robert's lifetime of work
i gave some nice people a bag of my blood today. what a great citizen i am.

so they gave me cookies. i always eat as many cookies as i can while i'm there, like half a box, and when i leave i always say "have a nice day" with my mouth bulging full of those awesome peanut butter sandwich things. sometimes i take a bag of oatmeal cookies for the road, too.

good times.

i'm a sissy. that's all.

i'm a passifist vegetarian liberal tree hugger. sometimes i actually hug the trees because i love them so much. for serious.

and what if i'm not as charming and loveable and clever as i think i am? i think i'm fairly attractive, as well. but what if i'm wrong? how does one tell?

how many whordes of admirerers is this thing judged on? 'cause i don't really have any.

Thursday, January 22

now for vulgarity.

"She's got nice lips. The kind I'd like to rest my balls on."

~some guy at a bar quoting his grandfather

Wednesday, January 21

now's the time for an audience participation game. you and you, come down and play the game with us.

here's a big hunk of meat. i think from a cow or something. you little boy, hold on to it, don't let it fall all over the place.

now we're going to play Velociraptor in the Middle. yay!

and the game commences.

While everyone in the house at 130 Sycamore Street was still asleep, Henry broke in and made himself some breakfast. He took it down to the unfinished basement, sat in a corner, and ate his cereal, two slices of toast, and an apple. The apple was a bit bruised, but Henry didn’t mind.

Halfway through his cereal, after he’d eaten both slice of toast and a few bits of the apple, a small girl came down the stairs.

“Who are you?” she asked.

With his mouth full he replied, “Henry.”

“Oh. I found that apple at school yesterday. It was in the trash, but Mrs. Malorie said I could take it home.”
Henry nodded. He had washed it in the sink. “Don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t really eat when other people are watching me.”

The girl just stared at the Mickey Mouse cartoon on his shirt. His enormous stomach distorted the poor mouse into something very strange looking.

“It’s my house,” she replied. “And my apple.”

“Do you want it back?”

“No, you can have it.”

“Thanks.” He took a large bite out of the apple, small bits of it spilling from his droopy lips. “But, go away.”

“Mom! Hey, Mom!”

“Aw, kid, come on. I said I like being alone. Get out of here.”

“My name’s Juliet.”

“Juliet, get out of here. I’m tryin’ to eat.”

“I have to wash my dress for today. It got a big stain on it and I have to recite a poem for class. It’s about clouds, but I forget it right now.”

Juliet’s mom came down the stairs. “Oh, my. Who’s your friend, Juliet?”

“Henry.” He said as he took two more bites from the apple, foamy juice and white bits of apple covering his chin.

“Oh… your apple, dear. He’s eating your apple.”

“Yeah, I told him he could.”

“Hey, like I was telling your kid, I can’t eat when other people are watching me. So beat it. Both of you.” He tugged on his t-shirt as he noticed the girl’s mom looking at it.

“Well, we have some laundry to do,” she explained. “So I’m sorry, but you’re just going to have to deal with us for a little while.”

Tuesday, January 20

at Rock City there is a life-sized animatronic gnome named Alvin who plays country favorites.

at Rock City there are gnomes everywhere. they drink magic gnome beer and are locked behind cages.

at Rock City there are large rocks that you can walk over, around, and under.

at Rock City there is Fairytale Land, where creepy fairytale statues live in blacklight underground, perpetually frozen in place as they do their creepy fairytale things.

I will be going back to Rock City, and you'll come with me.

Monday, January 19


Four monsters are picketing a canning plant. Even though these particular monsters don’t work at the factory, they are big worker’s rights activists. They have a political club and meet every Thursday night.

They march in a small circle in front of the factory as they chant and wave their signs. They started around midnight and now it’s five in the morning. It’s still dark out and their protest is almost over.

“Fair Wages for Fair Workers!” reads one sign.

“Down with Capitalist Injustice!” says another.

Shiner is small, round, and kind of goopy. He drips. A multitude of arms protrude from his gelatinous mass, and his two eyes sit on top of his head like golf balls. His gaze is vacant, but he chants “Union or Lose It!” just as passionately as the rest.

Bermuda and Steve each have their own head but share the same body. When first meeting them, one tends to have a problem not staring at their oversized monster genitals. They refuse to wear any clothing.

“Shiner, stop it!” says Steve. “That’s your last sign and we’re not done yet.”

“Sorry,” Shiner swallows what he’s been chewing, and takes another bite out of his sign. It now reads, “Canners Have Fee.”

“No, really, stop.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He continues chewing away.

“Don’t worry about it Steve,” says Lorraine as her legs get all tangled and she falls flat on her face, nearly crushing little Shiner. “The sun’s almost up anyway.”
Lorraine is the worst smelling thing in the world. She’s always optimistic and cheerful, even after she’s been picketing for five hours, but she still smells awful.

“Aw, man.... finally someone’s here to see us and his sign is all messed up.” Steve points out the mustached security guard walking towards them to unlock the gate.

Bermuda sighs and looks the other way. “You always do this.”

Shiner takes another few bites from his sign. It’s now just a stick, but he waves it importantly anyway. “Union or Lose It! Union or Lose it!”

Steve stares at Bermuda. “I always do what?”

“You can’t just leave him alone, huh? He can’t help it. I’m hungry, too.”

“Yeah guys, it’s ten after. Let’s just call it a day and get some breakfast, alright?” Lorraine smiles at Steve who makes a rude face at her.

Shiner finishes off his stick and waves a long drippy arm at the security guard. “Hey mister, good morning! Union or lose it!”

The mustached man in blue opens the gate, slips inside, and quickly closes it behind him.

Steve throws his sign on the ground.

i don't believe this. i wrote another entry about going to Rock City and it ate that one, too. but not this one. how strange. strange and frustrating.
the blogger just ate my last entry. and i totally don't feel like writing it again. it was heartfelt and wonderful and detailed my trip to chatanooga this weekend wonderfully. it was great.

and now it's gone and i don't feel like doing it again. it's too nice outside.

Friday, January 16

New performance art piece.

i'm dressed like a little kitten and i am standing next to an enormous bird cage. I take some keys out of my pocket and open the door to the cage, get in, and lock it behind me. i then throw the keys accross the room. i can no longer reach the keys, and i procceed to meow sadly and reach for what i so recently cast away. i really seem to want freedom, but whenever someone walking by and hands me the keys, i get out, but i get all scared and jump back in the cage, lock the door, and throw the keys accross the room.

at the end another cute little kitten walks by and picks up the keys. only this time when she opens the door, she gets in the cage with me. she throws the keys accross the room, and we both meow and reach out for them. together. for a really long time.

we then cut to a segment of me teaching underprivledged children to trim their fingernails with electric pencil sharpeners.

Thursday, January 15

A RERUN from September 16, 1998. the high school years.

"About Math"

There is lots of stuff to say about math. Just so darned much to say. Oh boy.

Math has to do with numbers and procedures that give you answers. You can check these answers sometimes. You can also count things with math. You could count chickens, atoms, clowns, biscuits, numbers, nostrils, noodles, nobodys, and of course, balogna. That is nine things you could count with math. You could also add them all together like this (each one counts as one of thses things).
1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 = 9


You need math for lots of stuff, I don't know much about trig[onometry], but what I've seen so far, the main purpose is for school. I like it when I do well in math. Good grades = good. That is an equation. Equations are part of math. Math! Whoohoo!

Math makes up lots of jobs, too. Accountants and math teachers mostly. And math students. You need them to have a math class. You could teach math to goats, but they probably wouldn't get it. I heard that if you wave a matrix in front of a goat, he will charge you and eat 74.5% of your [tin] cans. MATH!

there are no kids in the audience today. there are always kids in the audience.

so as i speak this monologue to start off the show, there is no one to respond to the blinking Applause sign. no one to laugh at the jokes.

where are you, kids? don't you want to see Mr. Happy Puppet Head dance? Look at him go, don't you feel sad that you're missing this?

Here's a joke, maybe you'll like it and come back to the show. Here goes: How do you get a nun pregnant?

You fuck her. Or at least get some sperms near her ovaries. That should do the trick.

Yeah... it's strange when you tell a joke to an empty audience. No one laughs or anything.
i'm totally addicted to the very thought that someone out there, anywhere in the world can be reading the stupid things i write down. it's like subtle orgasms.

i hope that one day i never wake up and realize i only dreamt i had this awesome brother. that i only imagined one for that one dream, and i'm actually an only child. that's a sad, sad thought. that'd be way worse than when i wake up and realize that the really cool girl i had a crush on just a moment ago doesn't exhist.

here's what i think and wholeheartedly believe. never trust anyone that prefers creamy peanut butter over the crunchy kind. the same goes for people who like black liccorice. there just isn't any reason for people to like those things.

on the marta train to school i use the windows as mirrors so i can look at people undetected. i've seen a man hold his toungue in the most innocently disgusting way one can hold a toungue while reading a book. it was all curled up against his upper lip, almost touching his nose. what kind of way is that to express intrest in good reading? i once saw what colonel sanders would look like if he worked out and had biker tattoos up and down his arms. one woman had this crazy far-off sort of look, and she kept getting up and moving to the seat next to hers, then back again. and she wore an orange turban and was white and kind of pretty except she was in her late thirties/early forties. and she mumbled nervously to herself constantly. sometimes as if she were talking to someone next to her. when the train stopped at the end of the line she didn't show any signs of knowing she had to get off. i asked her if she were alright and knew that this was the final stop. she asked me how to get to Grady Memorial Hospital. I told her to go all the way back south and get off at Five Points. she nodded her head, but i knew she didn't really listen. as i walked to my car i regretted not giving offering her a ride back downtown. just like that one time the bum was sitting outside the station in the pouring rain and i wanted to throw my umbrella out the window for him to have, but i didn't. i don't use umbrellas, so why didn't i give him the one i have?

i'm so happy about the possibility that someone else will be reading this.

Wednesday, January 14

i got me some big plans for tonight, let me tell you.

i've got a 40 of malt liquer in the fridge, so i'm gonna strap on my Death-Proof Boots, go out to the log in the woods next to my house, and drink. maybe yell at the moon a little.

life seems very good at the moment.

there was a small public outcry over my retirement. maybe i just won't make this an every day thing. and i'll keep it short.

My Advice. Never forget that your gallbladder is there inside your chest (unless it isn't, and you'll know if it isn't) and it's working hard for you. It does important things that maybe you'll never understand. But it chugs away despite your lack of appreciation, assistance, or appraisal.

Ignore the sirens. They're for someone who forgot about their gallbladder.

thank you.

Sunday, January 11

i'm quitting the show. ratings suck and i'm just not up for it anymore. i don't even know what it's all about, this show.

maybe i'll start it up again sometime later, but it just isn't funny or any good really.

so bye.

Saturday, January 10

in one corner of my backyard i am digging a hole. i've been working on it for some time now and it's pretty deep. i'd say like thirty feet or so with a four foot diameter (that's a two foot radius).

one day it will be very deep. if i were to write up a list of hobbies, digging holes would be one of them.

i have no plans for said hole. but having a really deep hole in one's back yard always sounds like a good idea. so much you can do with one.

i think maybe i'm nixxing the idea of the french pirate. i hurt my back doing the happy wiggle dance the other night, and it hasn't really gotten better.

maybe my life now isn't that bad. but this seasonal depression sucks. i sure would like to move to the beach. maybe i'll just be me, only on the beach.

i sometimes wonder why i'm not on the beach all the time. i have no good answer for that.

Thursday, January 8

i have decided that i will discard my current life and take up a new one. gone will be the goggles, cape, death-proof boots, and lofty ideals of educating and entertaining the masses. i am taking up the career of French Pirate. i will wear a fancy red and black shirt, and probably draw a cool curly mustache on my face with a marker. i will constantly be eating chinese food out of a take out box with an oversized spoon, and will do my Happy Wiggle Dance for the children when they are happy.

there will be much yelling of simple French phrases. things like "au revoir! au revoir! j't aime! Je voudrais cette sandwich!"

it will be a grand new life.
my new performance art piece:

i'm wearing a white body suit, skin tight, kind of glittery. i stand on one foot and focus all my attentention on a small red apple that sits on a pedestal not too far away. i begin to lift my extra foot into the air as i humm a sad tune.

suddenly the sad tune snaps into a regular sort of tune one would hum during the day and the apple starts to shake. shake like a margarita. i will the apple to continue it's shaking and progress on its journey into becoming a very large replica of the Starship Enterprise, which it does. and it tastes like a great apple, all ripe and juicy.

come on kids, up on stage! take a bite out of fruity-tasting memerobilia!

and when the performance is done and all the kids are bloated to the point of unconsiousness with trekkie apple. i snap my fingers three times and disappear in a puff of smoke.

we cut to the segment in which i teach the elderly to shave their armpits using a cheese grater.

Saturday, January 3

this one dude on the bus to the studio today tried to take my goggles away. at first i saw him laughing at me and mocking the way i walk. i tried to ignore him, but when i wasn't looking he pulled the googles right off my face. quick like a bunny i jumped up and pulled on his hair. he was a little guy and i'm pretty big, so i think he was scared. and i was pulling his hair so hard. i was kind of nervous with this whole violent confrontation thing, and all i managed to stutter out was "gimme back my goggles." he gave them back real quick and scuttled back to his seat. i sat down real quick and put my goggles away in my pocket. for the first time in a long time i was kind of ashamed to wear them. i hate that.

so now is the segment of the show called "Effigy." I've constructed a crude representation of all the ills in the world, and we get a chance to show those ills what we think of them. and live on TV!

so i invite the children down to dismember, slice, cut, rip, tear, urinate, deficate, spit, chew, punch, kick, drown, belittle, gouge, puncture, cleave, behead, disembowel, beat, bludgeon, or inflame our effigy of badness. go ahead!

and that's all i have scheduled for the show today. it'll be good times. and we'll all wear our goggles.

Friday, January 2

and the celebrations are over. they weren't that much to begin with, but they were nice.

but now i feel like i'm standing on the edge of one of those big voids, like a canyon, only i'm wearing a blindfold. and i'm all alone. either that or everyone else around is also wearing a blindfold. god damn it. i'm tired.

tired for a new year.