Have you ever noticed...?

The growing number of updates and traffic the Peripheral Fiasco has seen over the last few weeks is staggering. But like a wino caught in a banana-peel factory we flounder on and bring you our newest segment entitled "Have you ever noticed?". We here at the pf will act as the ringleader to your circus. The captain to your dingy. The pimp to your hoe.

Without further explanation I bring you...."Have you ever noticed...?"

Have you ever noticed that postulate and prostitute sound a lot alike?

Have you ever noticed that the sheer amount of friction needed to create belly-button lint is mind-boggling?

Have you ever noticed that children who have outie belly-buttons are seen as cute. Adults with outies are seen as freaks.

Have you ever noticed that two of my posts involve belly-buttons?

Have you ever noticed that fetish and finish are like that whole postulate/prostitute thing from above?

My belly-button and I have set the foundation and we now leave you to come up with your own. Enjoy.


inspired by coworkers

Dick slap death is the death i choose to die.
Does this surpise you? You of many buttons and olive hair tonic?
Does this shock you? You of finger sandwiches and scarlet letter sensibilities?
And what about you there? All eyebrows and snake oil you are... Speechless, are you not?

It sure caught my parents off guard.
My blissful past, is gone at last,
And I’m worse for the wear.
Another day looms sullenly
And less I couldn’t care.


Jewel's Wondertreat (Food for the "Big Game")

It's Sunday, and the "Big Game" is only one week away. Have you thought about what you are going to eat until you can't get off the couch? When it comes to the "Big Game" my theory is this, If you aren't playing in it you should be trying to eat yourself into a larger trouser size.

When it comes to "Big Game" Sunday all rules are out the window. Things you never would think of eating you should eat in excess. It is a freebie, and ever since tall Noreen stopped hooking down at the Home Depot, we all know there is no such thing as a freebie anymore. So take advantage of this.

I offer this little culinary jewel to you. Oddly enough I learned it from Jewel, the snaggle tooth Alaskian princess of pop, she came over to a "Big Game" party I had a couple years back. One of my friends seemed to be dating her at the time. That girl can eat every bit as well as she can sing. So, I lifted this wondertreat from her.

Jewel's "Big Game" Wondertreat

1 can Hormel Chili
Velveeta Pasteurized Prepared Cheese Product (the big brick)

combined chili and pasteurized prepared cheese product (to taste) in a microwave safe bowl.
heat until pasteurized prepared cheese product is melted.

This dish is great on just about anything. I like to put it in my sombraro chip & dip platter then sit back and watch the goodtimes ooze. I will offer you a word of advice that Jewel handed down to me, this is really a 1st quarter treat as when the wondertreat hardens it transforms in a semi-solid paste. So eat it while it is hot, then when it cools use it to caulk that hole in the barn.

There is no other day of the year when this wondertreat is even an option, so make it count and start counting the days until the next "Big Game"

Enjoy and go Lions!


I'm sorry...what?

Something interesting happened to me last night. A guy I know introduced me, among others, to his girlfriend. Turns out that he only met her on my space. She was crazy as crazy can be saying things that made no sense at all. We laughed at her all night long. My cheeks began to hurt as the night progressed. I blamed this on my constant laughing. Throughout the night I had the feeling that someone was talking about me. You know the old wives tale that your ears will ring when someone is talking about you? As the night went along, I started to realize that no one was talking about me...I was losing the hearing in my right ear. Around 2am my ear was ringing and I could hardly hear out of it. I went to bed and attempted to "sleep off" my new hearing impairment. It did not work. Every sound coming to my right ear now sounds muffled and my cheeks are still hurting. This worries me a bit as I like the option of being able to hear if I so choose. Is there a new greeting card for this sort of personal deterioration?

American Greeting Card System

There was a time when no matter how much I drank, smoked or swallowed in pill form I remained incapable of Oscar winning displays of theatrical prowess. Even today I struggle to connect with my emotions, ever hoping to make my break and kick the artistic world square in the huevos. And I have finally done it, succeeded where others failed.

I identified the flaws in America's greeting card system and, in the spirit of capitalistic brotherhood, endeavored to fix those problems for a fee. PF readers, here's where you come in. Find me someone to buy this shit. We'll talk money and fruity rum drinks later. Onward.

Let's call the bum crazy and admit America's greeting card system is dated. It's a relic of a simpler and arguably more fantastic time than our own. Greeting cards were created to express the joy, sympathy and thankfulness of a generation of white bread world war winners. I'm a modern man. I prefer a multi-grained bread and avoid war like a 1 pack of Tequiza. I know many PF readers (w. debalt's recent poll confirmed at least 1 person reads this blog) share my frustration with archaic condolence cards, sappy valentine's day cards, or sterile thank-you cards. I'm here to argue that 1) We don't need any of those damn things 2) What we do need are cards that fit our modern lifestyle and can therefore adapt to any occasion.

Card 1.
For your neighbor Bill "Bong Daddy" Bonter, who is confused by everything. I mean everything, the amazing, the ordinary, the sun. Just confused by it all.

There is a reason for everything.
There is also a finite number of jelly beans
in the Sacred Guessing Jar...
Which will be delivered to your door in exactly 3 minutes.

Card 2.
For Phyllis, your co-worker who is so tragically lazy that she kisses tons of ass, but only on Fridays.

God had a plan.
He also had a rectal disorder.
I hope he planned for you to have a rectal disorder.

Card 3.
For your teenage brother who is convinced that his generation is better than yours because they invented skateboards.

Simplicity is easily found in simple situations.
So is boredom.
You jack off too much.

Card 4.
For your grandma who refused to acknowledge that you're a vegetarian. Again. Another holiday dinner. MMM. Mustard sandwiches.

Tea is best served with milk and toast.
So is the flesh of the underclass.
Slavery happened.

Card 5.
For a previous girlfriend, or your mom if the spirit moves.

Behind every man is a great woman.
And a lifetime of anguish fueling a fear of commitment.
You almost made me gay.

Card 6.
Perhaps the most multi-purpose card. For any religious occasion, really. For your friend who told your darkest secret to the internet. Or to your nympho cousin Trina from Vegas. Bad Trina.

You could have thrown stones at glass houses.
Or pissed in a public swimming pool.
But you fucked a horse in church.


Is anybody out there?

Does anybody read this?

Not that it matters all that much. I just want to know. I mean, I know there are a few. Devildog Wrapper for one, will be there in the shadows piping up when a topic rubs his inner thigh. Are there others? Lurking in the cyber bushes? It would be great if this turned into a two way street with comments from the reader. Whatever the case may be I am confident that PF will continue waxing poetic on whatever particular topic decides to present itself that day... it would be nice if you joined us, but really we can do it no matter what... are we talking "To" someone? Or is this whole thing kinda like masturbating to Ru Paul.... you know, its still masturbating but not the kind you started out to do...

I mean, I have no problem doing things alone. It reminds of when I was young my brother and I used to make those "tornados in a jar." You put food coloring, water, and a house from Monopoly in an old peanut butter jar and spin it in a circle and watch the twister devour the house. Great fun. Anyway, my brother and I thought it would be a great idea to make a bunch of these and sell them. So we did just that, set up a stand at the end of our driveway. Only problem was that our driveway was 1/4 mile long and we lived at the end of a 2 mile long private road out in the middle of the woods. There were more dogs that came by our house than people and as we found out the hard way todays modern dog just doesn't have much use for twisters in a jar. So after some hard selling the only twister jars we sold were to our parents, and even they held out for a deal.

Basically what I am getting at here is that if I have to get my parents and a couple neighborhood dogs to read this blog, I will. I would rather it be you leaving the comments so my mother never has to know about things like Ru Paul, but I am not above it.

Just so we can see what kind of people read this. If you are out there, leave a comment and answer me this one question, cause I really need to know this... (I know what I think, but I am sure this will be a hotbed discussion)

Is lint recyclable?


a hybrid form of cutlery

Like the majority of the working mass I am allowed a break to nourish myself. The hour between noon and 1 p.m. EST is my alloted time to do this because I work from the hours of 9:00 a.m EST and 5:00 p.m. EST.

The area surrounding my place of work could be described as light commercial in that there is a high density of small businesses and a spattering of strip malls and apartment complexes. The local food is as eclectic as the area around it. One can find anything from Thai, to Indian, to all-you-can-eat fish fry (on Fridays). So as they say, my lunch options are sky's the limit. However I find that as the traditional lunch hour approaches and the bulk of my coworkers head off to enjoy Crunch Wrap Supremes I prefer the solitude this hour offers me. It is not that I do not enjoy the company of my cohorts, I do occasionally join them on their excursions, I find this down time therapeutic and re-genitive. Chicken gumbo for my soul.

So as I am left relatively alone in my cube to enjoy my "me time" I have realized the freedom this hour gives me. It started out small at first, I would wipe my mouth on my sleeve. All the while looking over my shoulder expecting judgmental eyes to be bearing down on me. But this was not the case, so my actions each day would get bolder. I began to eat spaghetti with my hands. Once I stomped grapes and had a small dixie cup of Burgundy with my turkey sandwich. My latest, and in my opinion, most revolutionary act has been going on now for over a week. I have traded in my metal fork and spoon I use each day from the company kitchen and have replaced it with a plastic spork. That is right, among million dollar deals and other important stuff I sit in my cube and eat 2 day old beef stew with a spork.


land dispute proves fortuitous

I recently acquired 20 wooden barrels from the settlement of a land dispute. Eight oak, seven cedar, some purpleheart, and a handful constructed of planks from the critically endangered Mersawa tree. The land dispute arose, as they so often do, as an offshoot of a heated exchange over the merits of public transportation of the (255, 216, 0) persuasion in communities lacking protein-based, spontaneously combustible fuels. I found my way into this particular offshoot, as I am wont to do, after drinking long and luxuriously for the better part of an afternoon with my Persian neighbor Sampson. The fervor of the exchange appeared to be directly proportional to the rate at which Sampson and I consumed our Persian yogurt sodas. We digressed into the roofing of the school buses that passed about town each morning. Sampson was of the opinion that the white roofing was a clever ploy to disguise the inevitable seagull feces that littered the local bus yard and buses, thereby reducing the need to for regluar cleanings and alleviating the municipal tax burden that had been placed on the citizenry. Awash in a filthy mind-bending sea of Persian yogurt sodas, I stuck to my guns, demanding at a rather loud, and at times inappropriate, volume that the white roofing clearly was used because said color would stand out most clearly amongst the inferno and billowing smoke once the bus had rolled into the ravine and burst into flames. When Sampson’s man servant once again arrived to freshen up the yogurt sodas, my Persian friend instructed him to settle the matter for us. Always the resourceful man servant, Farookh promptly returned with another round of the intoxicating quaffs and the requested information, which I submit here:

pg. 76 – notes that a white roof is optional on school buses within this district

pg. 4 - outlines an elementary student’s hypothesis of the color white absorbing less heat than standard roof colors

http://www.gadoe.org/DMGetDocument.aspx/Georgia%20School%20Bus20Specifications.pdfp=6CC6799F8C1371F6CC5B1631475805BB52E820C868EDDC3FA764C0BDD3A5405E&Type=D pg. 22 – posting from Georgia’s Department of Education noting that white bus roofing can be used to aid in heat dissipation

This was, I shouted at Sampson and his limp-wristed man servant, “the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s white-painted-back”, taking an intoxicated glee in my reference to their homeland’s preferred method of transportation. After loudly accusing Farookh of being unable to objectively rule on the subject and using various means of middle eastern sorcery to steer the debate into his master’s favor, I threw down the gauntlet. And by that I mean the better part of a gallon of Persian yogurt sodas exited my belly via nose and mouth, to be deposited at the feet of my stunned audience. Needing nary a moment to compose myself, I stomped off and immediately returned, triumphantly perched atop the riding lawnmower, much to the continued amazement of Sampson and the poor Farookh. Still hopelessly within the grasp of the powerful beverages that now lay splattered about the neighbor’s lawn, I careened up and down the length of the Persian’s property, snake-like swaths of freshly manicured grass providing a fair and accurate assessment of the state of my sobriety. Sampson looked on in silence, painfully aware that under Persian drinking rules once a man had vomited on another’s lawn after an invigorated debate, that man was entitled to whatever land he could mow before falling off the tractor. Myself, I managed to make a handful of passes before succumbing to the call of slumber…

But once again, I digress. We were discussing my fine barrels I recently acquired… You see, in exchange for returning the narrow strip of the Persian’s property, Sampson compensated me to the tune of these 20 wooden barrels you see before you now. The cunning Sampson had arranged to have them thrown in as part of the deal in which he acquired the man servant Farookh, as a way to “sweeten the pot” as it were. But that is a story for another time. At any rate, they are mine now, and I treasure them.


Different Strokes For Different Folks

In lieu of bathing, I roll in toast.
Perhaps it’s a tougher choice for most
But a tepid pool of one’s own grime
I’m sorry, that just sounds less than sublime.

Now a running shower may get some by,
But it seems to make my skin less dry.
So I’ll toast off a loaf and line it across the floor
And leave for work smelling like buttery goodness once more.


Regular Cone

There's an ice cream parlor in upstate New York. Local legend has it that Rick Moranis once stopped in for a double scoop of chocolate mint (regular cone).

This doesn't seem too weird, almost not worthy of mentioning. Except, I too have been in this particular ice cream parlor, and I have seen the autographed 8x10 glossy headshot of Rick hanging on the wall. It reads "Honey, I love this ice cream! Best, Rick Moranis." I too, have read the 4 paragraph plaque that hangs next to the picture commemorating that days events.

As I ordered up a strawberry (regular cone), I remember thinking that it was pretty pathetic how this place was so proud of the fact that Rick Moranis had once happened to stop in. I was even laughing to myself. Then I noticed how genuine the older woman was who had scooped my cone and how her eyes lit up when she mentioned Moranis. I started to feel like an ass. I had been to hundreds of ice cream parlors in my life and none of them had put up a plaque summarizing my visit. Who was I to belittle Rick Moranis? And more so who was I to look down on his hundreds of fans?

I remember leaving that parlor trying to figure out what had made me think I was better than Rick Moranis. I thought about it for most of that afternoon. The only thing that I could think of was that he has been in at least 3 "Honey, I shrunk the kids!" movies, and I none. But when you factor in that he is Canadian that kind of cancels those out. Then I remembered he was in "Little Giants" too, and it all made sense. But then I remembered Strange Brew and SCTV and once again I was inferior.

After days of beating myself up about this, and sleeping in my car on the side of the road in upstate New York I realize this whole comparison was ridiculous. It was that day, that I decided that I wanted to meet Rick Moranis and tell him this whole silly little story. We would enjoy a couple of ice creams (regular cone) and watch "Brewster's Millions" and have a good laugh.

That never happened.


A good chuckle

Mr. Eko asked me, "May I invite you to have coffee with me?"

"Sure," I told him. "In the hatch?"

"No," he said in his even tone. "The coffee there is too bland, I prefer something with more body."

"Where then?" I inquired.

He responded, "At Fourbucks."

We both had a good chuckle at this and then headed off to the new Starbucks that just opened near the caves.

He had a Tall of their featured coffee of the day, Arabian Mocha Sanani. We agreed it to be wild and exotic, with an aroma of spice.

I enjoyed an Eggnog Frappuccino® Light Blended Coffee. He so astutely pointed out that I had just committed a cardinal coffee sin, the equivalent of wearing white after Labor day, by drinking Eggnog post December. We enjoyed another spirited laugh.

"Would you care to taste my Blueberry scone?" he asked.

"No thank you," I said. "They are not the same since they removed the trans fats."


ball pean, claw, sledge, or deadblow?

a bag of hammers on a south bound train
heading down south to open a brain

some hours in the bar car primes the pump
rounding the bend it's time to jump

down the hill, follow the moon
a bag of hammers slips into your room

the rustle of a hammer in a burlap sack
bags of hammers say whack! whack!


Mother Nature Is A Whore!

Recently considerable attention has been given to Global Warming concerning its effect on the arctic ice caps and subsequently the polar bear habitat and population. In contrast much of the country is currently feeling the effects of yet another El Nino, defined as sustained sea surface temperature anomalies, which is reeking havoc across the central and southern U.S. with increased precipitation and a decline in average temps.

It occurred to me the other day while watching an old Chris Farley sketch on SNL that El Nino actually translates into English as “the child.” And while society generally bestows both blame and praise for the weather on “Mother Nature,” Global Warming must simply be the slutty older sister trying to make her mark on the world, having grown tired of her actress/waitress endeavors.

While it is true that kids will be kids, in my opinion, Mother Nature should do more to control this adolescent rebellion. Perhaps if she spent more time at home rather than gallivanting around the countryside in those pointy shoes. I think what this situation really needs is a swift boot in the ass from Father Time.


a slumbering memory gently roused by a tearful ode to momo, or momo-kins, as i knew him...

Drifting through grasses
Heavy boughs undulate as
My sun burns softly

Something in the works

It has come to our attention (we, the posters of this blog) that major plans for the Peripheral Fiasco are being plotted by one of our very own. And I quote - I's got plans- end quote.

I have held his warning in my heart for the past few days and have formulated, postulated, and pontificated as to what these plans might be. I now share with you (the reader) a few scenarios of what's brewin in the pot.

1. Changing the name of the Peripheral Fiasco to "If Yellow Was Orange"
2. All posters (us) are required to post in the nude. For you (the reader) clothing remains optional
3. A mandatory 2% of our income must now be sent to said "plotter" in order to cover blogging expenses. He got's to get paid
4. The amount of quotation marks will now be limited to 5 per post. ("getting" "them" "in" "while" "I" "can")
5. The posters are here forward to be referred to collectively as "El Guapo". Please note it.
6. The amount of awesomeness per post will increase ten-fold

Please stay tuned and to see if any, or all, of my predictions come true.

Momofuku Ando, good bye my friend

With a heavy heart bathed in steaming chicken-flavored broth I say goodbye. I bid adieu to a man most might not recognize however all have been touched by.

Momofuku, or Momo as I knew him, was the inventor of Top Ramen, the scrumptious brick of flavored noodles that when combined with hot water creates a culinary delight that has no rival. What began as Cup O'Noodle, through time was developed and evolved into the many varieties of Top Ramen we have today. I could go on and on about Momo, tell you about his work with orphans, or all the money he so graciously donated throughout his 96 years on this planet, or how he was a devoted husband and father, but instead I leave you with this haiku.

Top Ramen is good
My favorite is chicken
Noodles fill me up