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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

He stood up.

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