Tuesday, August 31

Now is time for advice to give to the children. A simple monologue delivered by me on the leather recliner by the fireplace.

I have a pipe. Corncob. Unlit with nothing in it. I chew on the mouthpiece thoughtfully.

So I say, Keeping yourself busy is how they trick you. They say things about idle hands and angry demons or something, but they just don't want you to stop and have a good time. You should sit around and stare at the clouds way more than you do. Hours should be spent smelling the grass and the wind and the ocean, not just select moments when you accidentally forget to think about your taxes.

Breaking things and making a lot of noise is another really good thing to do. Break things that they say shouldn't be broken, and stomp around and sing loudly when they say you shouldn't. Be considerate of other people's property and right to happy times, but also be aware of when you can get away with things. Like smashing extra dishes and bowls. You only need so many.

And I'll leave you with a thought. A thought to get you thinking constructively about the world. If you were to watch a time-lapse of someone's entire life of them standing in place, you would witness a seemingly constant inflow of food, and a constant outflow of waste, piling up into an enormous mountain behind them.




It just kind of puts everything in perspective, I think.

Monday, August 30

Mr. Happy Puppet Head takes me to a very tall building in the middle of the city. He says there's a great view at the top that he wants to show me.

We enter the builiding, a fancy hotel, and I head for the stairs. He says, "Hey, were're you going? elevator's over here." And I say, "I'm going to take the stairs."

"What? It's like forty stories or something."

"I always take the stairs," I say.

"When do you ever have to go up stairs?" He bobbles over to the elevator and pushes the UP button with his face. "You never have to go more than one flight ever."

"I like being the master of my own elevation."

"You're just scared. You scaredy."

"No. I like going down them. I jump and I feel like I'm floating." Which is true, as long as there isn't someone else in the elvator who might look at me strangely.

"Master of your elevation. No way." The elevator dings and he bobbles on. "Get on the elevator, dude." But I look over at the stairs, then back at him. The metal doors slide shut, breaking our eye contact.

By the twentieth floor I have taken off my cape and rubber boots. So hot. I'm breathing hard. by twenty-five I can barely move. I collapse on the twenty-ninth. The thud of my body hitting the metal floor echoes up and down the cavernous stairwell. I'm alone, scared, and can't move. No one else takes the stairs in this building. I am the only one who cares how my various states of elevation are attained.

It's a sad state this world is in.

I guess I fall asleep or something like it.

I dream about this.



I wake up with the chill feeling of animate dismembered hands crawling on my face. I sit upright and find Mr. Happy Puppet Head bobbling down the stairs towards me.

"You alright?" he asks as he approaches. "I've been waiting for like fifteen minutes."

"Sorry," I say. "I fainted." I check for my wallet, and remember that I don't carry one.

"Well, come on, dude." We take the elvator up the rest of the way. And at the top is a really great view, and a bar. It slwoly rotates around. It's one of those rotating bars. Mr. Happy Puppet Head buys himself a big glass of alchohol, and gets me some pineapple juice. We sit in some chairs by a very big window and sip from our glasses, admiring the skyline as the sun slowly sets over the rest of the tall buildings of the city. Beautiful.

Then I remember the hands, and I can't drink my juice anymore. It tastes like animate dismemberd hand.


Thursday, August 26

An Educati-FUN Video!
********************

title: "Crime. Crime is so Bad."


Me and Mr. Happy Puppet Head are standing at a stoplight. I have a knife concealed under my cape. It's a big kitchen knife.

"Wait, what are we doing?" asks Mr. Happy Puppet Head.

"Just follow my lead. And remember, it's for the children." Soon a fat middle-aged woman pulls up to the stoplight and there isn't anyone else around. I run around to her window and tap on it. I brandish my big ass knife and motion for her to get out of the car. She freaks out and gets out of the car.

"Please," she says. "I have to save my husband, he's about to fall off a cliff and into a lot of sharp spikes and I don't have much time!"

"I'm sorry," I say. "It's for the children. They have to learn the difference between right and wrong, and simply telling them not to steal cars at knifepoint isn't going to accomplish anything." I gently push her aside and unlock the passenger side door. Mr. Happy Puppet Head jumps in and we drive off.

We drive for a little while in silence. "So..." asks Mr. Happy Puppet Head. "Where are we going?"

"We're just going to drive until we can show the reppercussions of violent crime." I explain. "Like getting arrested or something."

"Oh, okay."

We drive a little more until we are carjacked by a gang of big fat men. The boss guy has a big machine gun and is eating onion rings. I plead for my life, and he spares us, but not after making me do a little dance in order to spare my feet from being riddled with lead. He laughs, and we are sent on our way. But he has left us in the "bad part" of town, and we are soon kidnapped by a notorious mob leader and sold into prositution.

Blowjobs may pay, but only a little. And in the long run, not-crime pays a lot more than crime. Like a good job that involves helping people, or being a lawyer. That pays lots more than carjacking cars, then being carjacked yourself, then being forced into prostitution. See? Now you know.

Wednesday, August 25



coming sometime in the next few weeks... The Story of Mr. Children For Hands... The Movie.

So stay tuned.
The man screamed with pain emanating from deep within his stomach, his stomach that churned and churned and writhed with fire that the only hope of quelching is by yelling like an asshole. Yelling and disturbing the sleeping children.

He runs up and down the street, ripping his clothes off, smashing his hands into mailboxes and making a ruckus. The neighbors look out their windows and wonder what's going on, but they don't try to help. They know those screams, they are the ruckus of a man in the throes of inconsolable pain. He can smash their mailboxes with his hands all he wants, if it will only help. Neighborly prayers are sent his way via Heaven.

He finds a cute thing in the street. A thing so cute and beautiful that he stops his yelling for a moment. His pain is still there, but it lies dormant as this most wonderful of life beings stares up at him with grace and magnificence.

But soon he starts yelling again, he can't seem to help it. And with only his screaming and his ruckus and all the pain pouring forth, he breaks the cute little. Right in half.




This piece of gross drippy meat goes out to the tallest girl I know. She's off to spend almost a year adventuring in India and Sweden, like some sort of sexy Indiana Jones. She's going to live in a small village in India. Possibly in a hut with a thatched roof surrounded by anorexic cows. She so awesome and brave, and we can't wait until she comes back next summer with more wonderful photography and stories about exotic lands and their peoples.

Tuesday, August 24



Man: Boy, my elbow sure itches. And the back of my neck. And I don't know why.
Meat: You could put some salve on it. Is it a rash?
Man: No... doesn't seem like it.
Meat: Maybe it's psychosomatic? Are you nervous or overly anxious about anything?
Man: Not really. No. I'm doing all right.
Meat: Then buddy, I don't know what to tell you.

At this point the man starts scratching his elbow and the back of his neck so much that he passes out. The meat leans over and wonders aloud if he should call an ambulance.

Man: No, I'm okay. Just a little passing out from frantic scratching. I'm okay. Sure.

The meat looks skeptical.

Man: I got a job.
Meat: Doing what?
Man: Proofreading Bibles.
Meat: Like for a Bible publishing company?
Man: No, I break into people's houses and make sure their Bibles are all spelled correctly and no blasphemy accidentally got in there. When I find a mistake, I simply circle it with a red pen and burn the house down with gasoline.
Meat: How is that a job?
Man: Well, it's only part time, like twenty hours a week. But part time still counts as a job.
Meat: But how does that count as a job? Who pays you?
Man: No one pays me, silly giant talking meat. I steal valuables from the houses I break into.
Meat: Oh.

The meat starts crying a little.

Man: What's wrong?
Meat: Nothing. Just the sad inevitability of life, that's all.
Man: Hey, don't worry about it. There's lots of happy things to think about. Like hugs. And bubble wrap. And one-eyed kittens found in garbage cans behind restaurants.
Meat: I guess...

The man steps forwards and hugs the meat real tight. They hold each other for a very long time, just being with each other in a friendly, comforting way.

The End.



Thursday night will be more adventures with the Cabbage Rabbit. When I told Mr. Happy Puppet Head we'd be making another trip to Not-Too-Far-Away Land to visit Rabbit, he said, "Oh, okay. Sure." But I know he's excited. He's been humming and fidgeting. I know I'm excited. Good things will happen.

Monday, August 23

Today is the first day of school for Howie the little girl. Her mom told her not to bring her pet old man head, she said the other kids might make fun of her. But she hid her best friend ever in her backpack and trotted off to catch the bus, her mom never suspecting a thing.

Getting to school is always fun on the first day. Lots of people and excitement and that smell of all the kids with the greased hair and new clothes. Howie anticpates all the fun she will have once she gets to school. But right now she's riding the bus.

"What's in your backpack?" asks a boy sitting next to her. "What's that smell?"

"It's my best friend," and she takes him out of the bag.

The boy's eyes go real wide. "That's so gross!" he says. "Did you kill an old man and cut off his head?"

"No," said Howie. "He's just like this. He's real funny, too. He tells jokes and he slowly turns colors and changes smells every few weeks. I love him and he loves me."

"Wow, I want a severed head for a friend..." Then the boy's eyes get even wider and he asks, "Hey, can we share him?"

Howie agrees. Friends are for sharing. But for now she puts him back in her bag. "You can write notes to him, he likes stories about butterflies and glowing ponies that sing opera." The boy nods and they sit in silence the rest of the bus ride, enjoying their newly shared frienship with the head.

Sunday, August 22



He stood up.

"Wait," he said. "Where are the girls? I was told there'd be girls at this party."




Today is for chefs who don't know how to tie the spagetti in knots when the famous politician asks for it and everyone says, hey, just do what the famous politician says, and the chef is sitting in the back room trying desperately to tie the slippery ends of the pasta together, but he just gets so nervous and he squishes it with his fingers and the knots just come undone and he never was very good at tying knots and now maybe the politician will be angry with him and have his henchemen take crowbars to his restaurant and then what will he do becuase his wife will probably leave him without all the money to keep her with him and he'll be damned if he'll ever work in someone else's restaurant again, if only he could tie all this spaghetti together.

He needs help. He needs your help.

Here's what you do, kids, just start banging on your keyboard and yell loudly. Dont worry about what you're yelling about, just make some loud sounds from your throat. You can throw your computer mouse accross the room if you have one, that might help. The main thing is to just make as much noise as you can right now so he can tie the knots in the spaghetti.

okay...

not bad, keep going...

Okay, that does it. Our chef ties all the spaghettis into one big pasta string because you made so much noise (if you didn't make noise and just read further on, it's never too late to yell incoherently). You did a great job, and now he still has one. So thanks. He says to come by the restaurant sometime and he'll give you a free Coke or something.

Saturday, August 21





Images taken from the textbook, Science, from the chapter entitled "Learning About Getting It On, Don't Do It Until You're Married."


Friday, August 20

A Performance Art Piece!
******************************

Today I will be portraying a scene from my childhood in which a mean boy on the bus tries to take my hat that I love so much. A tall felt hat with horizontal blue and white stripes.

Here I am, this chair represents me sitting on the bus, and just pretend that I am wearing a big funny hat and I'm shorter and fatter with big plastic glasses.



Bus rides are fun. Look at the trees as they zoom past my window. Wow.

The mean boy will be played by the station's janitor, Mr. Winkles. He may be 60 years older and far more hunched than the boy on the bus, but you can use your imagination children.

Hey! Give me back my hat! I grab his hair and pull hard. He whines painfully, and I only let go when he pretends to give me back the hat. I can see he's starting to cry as he shuffles off stage, and I'll have to appologize to him later. But I'm in character now.

Anyone who wants to touch my funny hat had better not! I'll pull your hair, don't even think I won't. But now here's my stop, and I'll be getting off. Nobody mess with me, okay?

The bus pulls up to a stop... and I get off... and I run away real fast.


He's naked and looking at me and I don't know what to do when a man who is so naked and hairy he doesn't care what's going on in a public bathroom and I have to go so bad but I don't know what to do when he looks at me like that.

"Don't worry," he says.

"What?" I ask. "Oh, I'm okay." And I go stand up against a urinal and turn my back to him. But I can't go, I know he's still looking at me, so I can't. I hope he doesn't notice. My entire stomach burns with urine, but it doesn't seem to want to go anywhere.

"You know," he says. "You just gotta worry about who you're staffing, if you know what I mean. Staffing, you know. Just find some hot chick that doesn't mind doing it the ways you like it, and you're set, you know?" But I don't care I'm in so much pain. "It's like my old lady, or my old old lady that is, she was something. Shit, you should'a seen her. But... you know how things go. She wanted to kill me, but she left instead. Better that way, sometimes, I guess."

But I don't care. None. It's been about a minute and if I'd been pissing I'd be done by now so I flush and zip up and wash my hands.

He says something else, but I don't pay attention. I mumble a goodbye and shuffle quickly out the door.

Mr. Happy Puppet Head asks, "Hey, can you buy me this?" He wants a few bottles of some sports drink. I buy it for him since I can't think about anything through the pain. And now I'll have to hold it until we get home, which won't be for at least twenty minutes. Thanks, naked bathroom guy. Thanks a lot.


Thursday, August 19

Me and Mr. Happy Puppet Head are watching TV late at night. It's some new public access show where these girls dance around in their bikinis and it flashes their telephone number if you want to go on a date with them. So far most of them have been generally unnatractive. Mr. Happy Puppet Head laughs so hard when he sees them, then drinks more alchohol.

Then there is this one girl now in a leopard print one-piece with some sparkly shiny parts and she's doing this sexy dance around a motorcycle. She's got long blonde hair down to almost her knees and she wiggles in a real nice sort of way. Mr. Happy Puppet Head laughs at her, too, but I just stare. She's beautiful and I love her.

"Look at her! Jesus!" Mr. Happy Puppet Head guffaws.

"What?"

"What do you mean, what? She's a moron. Look." He takes another swig from his flask, but he keeps his eyes on me.

"Yeah, sure. But she's kind of cute."

"No, she's a moron," he says. "Too skinny, too. No meat on her. I like the big ones, you know. Just burry my head all up in there. Yeah..." The beautiful girl I now love on TV swings her legs around the motorcyle and kind of wobbles and almost falls over. Mr. Happy Puppet Head bursts out laughing again, but I think it's endearing. That little wobble was like a glimpse into her soul.

I repeat the flashing number on the screen over and over in my head so I won't forget it. Later I'll write it down and maybe I'll call her and she'll see me and fall in love and it'll be so wonderful. Maybe she'll fall in love with me right off, or maybe I'll have to convince her. Maybe we'll get married and have kids and a mortgage. Maybe I'll actually even call her.

Wednesday, August 18



The Toothpaste Dilemma

Tuesday, August 17

The cowboy is hurting. He'd been shot just below his ribcage on the left side, and that gang of no good teenage ruffians are still after him. The cowboy limps badly as he rounds the shed, his ankle twisted, and tugs at the locked door. He can hear their horses coming close, their hooves churning the dust and rocks as they pound after him.

He had said some things, made some lewd gestures, and maybe now he regrets it a little. Some things aren't seemly of a cowboy, but sometimes cowboys get a bit cocky and think their torsos are impermeable to bullets, and only after they get pierced below the ribs on the left side are they reminded of their mothers and siblings and that girl he'd been flirting with for years now and how he should probably ask her to marry him, or should have already.

He tries think of a way to appease these angry gun fighters, these wild near-children who've decided they can kill people whenever they want.

He will die, this cowboy. The shed will be locked, but there will be a deep well not far. The cowboy, in his desparate search for safety, will jump into this well. He will fall and break both his legs, but it turns out to be the best of hiding places, as his persuers continue past, thinking there's no way he would jump into a well. But he did. He jumped into the well.

And no one will find him until his bones are yellowed and clean of pierced flesh, both legs broken, and any messages to family or lost loves scrawled in the mud walls will be long washed away by the rain.


I don't understand anything.

Monday, August 16

Today's Lesson: Be prepared!

Children, today we are going to talk about being prepared in life. There is no reason in the world that you shouldn't have all of your basic needs not only met, but exceeded by a disgusting ammount. We are the American Middle Class. There is no excuse not to have several comfortable places to sit, the power to control the temperature in small enclosed environments where you can put your chairs and couches, and to buy enough juice for very long periods of time.

My rabbit friend that I love and I figured it all out. Once you turn 18, sign up for a credit card. If you are responsible and patient, they will eventually raise your credit limit. Once it reaches $5000, go out and buy yourself some juice. 34 years and 91 days worth of juice. And not the cheap Storebrand kind, either. No, the good $4 kind.

There is no reason you need to be going out to the store every 10 days to buy a new gallon of juice. So once you are old enough, responisble, and patient, go down to the local supermarket and pick yourself up 1250 gallons of the stuff on that credit card.
It's as easy as signing the reciept.

So, in conclusion, make sure you never squander this most precious gift of bourgeoisie-dom. Soccer moms and business suit dads, Powerade and artificial sweetners, strip malls and the really big malls... This is life, children, this is life.


Mr. Happy Puppet Head looks at me like I'm a moron. "That's not a game."

"Sure it's a game," I say. "What's not a game about it?"

"First off, games are fun. Throwing potatos accross the yard for no reason isn't fun." His mustache wiggles. "Second, if there's no winner, it's not a game."

"It's a game where everyone is a winner." I pick up one of the potatos from the pile and throw it accross the yard. It hits the fence and falls into the thick, umowed lawn. "See? It's fun." I run and fetch the potato and throw it back. It lands under Mr. Happy Puppet Head.

"Watch it, dude! You almost hit me."

"I did not." I walk back over and hand him the potato. "You try now." But he just looks at me like I'm still a moron and goes back into the house.

I think it's a great game.




Sunday, August 15


The Big Scary Monster just found a bunch of bugs under a rock. He thinks they look really good to eat, so he pops one into his mouth.

"That was awesome!" says one of the bugs in his hand. "Man, greusome death, right there! Damn that was awesome."

The Monster looks the little creature over, thinking. He casually eats one of the other bugs as he inspects the loud one.

"Yes! You totally ate that guy like it was nothing. No respect for lives other than your own. Badass! You are such a badass!" screeches the little bug.

"Eat me next!" yells one of the other bugs. The Monster obliges, and then all the others chirp up demanding to be next. Soon there is only the one bug left, the one who called him a badass.

"Wow, that was great, huh?" asks the bug as he reclines comfortably in the monter's large furry hand. "Man... carnage. Awesome." The little bug takes out a little cigar and starts smoking it. "I think we're going to be good friends, buddy. Good friends."

The little bug takes a few more deep, satisfying puffs of the cigar before the Monster pops him in his mouth and crunches him dead.

Saturday, August 14

Update:

Howie the little girl and her pet old man head are sleeping under a bush in the backyard. It's the best place on a sunny day.

Arpit and Bloodbath are wrestling over some sort of magical amulet that makes magical breakfasts that, if eaten, cause the eater to grow really big and powerful and win all the contests for throwing heavy things.

Bermuda and Steve are spying on an old woman who is watching her soap operas. They think she is a spy. They hope that she is a spy. They have been stealing her mail for six months now, and take money from under her mattress when she isn't home. Sometimes when she is.

Me and Mr. Happy Puppet Head are swatting at fairies. They've moved into the rest of the house. We've become immune to their screams and wails. We just turn the TV louder.


Thursday, August 12



She's out there somewhere, the cute rabbit with the wit and the charm. I wonder what she's doing.

Wednesday, August 11



Roboctopus had left the clubhouse that night, despite all the things the kids had warned about. He went to the closest gas station. He waited outside until a small group of Mexican guys walked up. He asked them to buy him one of those 40 ounce beers. He gave them some money he had stolen from Chunks, and they bought him the beer. He drank all of that bottle and waited for more people to come by and buy him more of those big beers. Roboctopus drank a lot of beers.

Eventually a woman came to pump her gas, and while she wasn't looking, Roboctopus snuck into the backseat of her car. The woman didn't know he was back there until he started violently throwing up on her leather seats. She started screaming and crashed into a ditch. As soon as the car came to a stop, the woman jumped out of the car and ran away.

Roboctopus woke up the next morning passed out in the driver's seat of the car in Potato's front yard. He had run over the mailbox.

A week ago I followed a cute little rabbit into the mountains. She beckoned me with her wit and charm. We went on a magical journey through mountain plains and fields of wheat, thrashing through life with the type of dreamlike abandonment best viewed with some sort of crazy rock ballad jamming in the background.

So it was a good time. A great time I can't stop thinking about. And now I'm back.

All the house plants are gone. Mr. Happy Puppet Head promised to water them and now they're gone.

I find him trapped in the refridgerator.

"Hey."

"What?" he's lying with his back to me, cuddled next to a half-full milk carton.

"How long have you been in here?"

"I don't know. Long time." He still doesn't turn to look at me. "Why?"

"What happened to all the plants?" I had a lot of plants, too. And I've had them for a long time.

"Hey, don't go in the basement, okay? Bunch of nymphs or trolls or something got down there. I don't know." He mumbles something under his mustache, but I can't hear what it is.

"What?" But he's done talking now. I head down into the basement.

Fairies. Lots and lots of tiny people with wings and magic dust all floating around. Standing in the middle of the damp concrete basement, I am surrounded by a swirling mass of ethereral beauty, beauty of a higher caliber than I had ever before imagined possible. Everywhere is sparkling and shiny, flittering wings and delicate motions of hands and smiles. My heart beats faster as I watch them play. I reach up to scratch the back of my neck.

I feel something funny on my fingers as I itch. I find my fingers smeared in metallic green fairy blood, with tiny parts of a fairy hanging from under my fingernails.

A painful moan comes from the cloud of mystical creatures surrounding me. "I'm sorry!" I plead. "Sorry, I didn't mean, to, my neck just itched." I take a step forwards and I step on two more, green blood squirting out from under my boots. More moaning and wailing. I brush off my forehead, crushing the three fairies perched there. I try to apologize some more, but a sweep of my hand knocks several more to the floor and the moaning and the fairies crying has risen to such a pitch I can't hear anything else and my eardrums are buzzing so I run towards the stairs, trying not to count how many more fairies I kill during my escape.

I slam the basement door shut behind me. My chest heaves up and down, my heart beats against my chest. Wow. Damn. Wow.

Mr. Happy Puppet Head walks by. "Jesus, look at that," he says. I look down and find myself covered in shiny green blood and mutilated fairy bits. "I've been calling that exterminator guy for days, but they won't come without a credit card and I can't find yours. You're always hiding shit." He walks away and I hear the TV come on in the other room.

"Hey!" I yell after him. "What the hell did you do with my plants?"