Horse Dung in a Dead Theater

By the second act they became sullen. To them the stage bore no comfort, gave escape to none. A drape of factory smoke choked the theater so not even the mill worker could escape it. Its chilled chairs reclined only halfway, then dusty springs claimed their victims.

The fiasco died it seemed, with the sword swallower and trapeze. Horse dung laid conquered by gravity and wept until it dried. The magpies, bored of their laughing games, swept along to another terrace. One with better scenery. Even stone walls lost hope or feared the worst.

But that night, nearby in moderately priced apartments, awoke the minds of many sleeping children. They itched like thieves at a witch's bedside. Their minds, burning with unfamiliar questions, slithered toward opening doors. Remembering the theater, they felt fire on the periphery and the fiasco was rekindled.

your fortune cookie

Patience is for the needy.

That is not a hair related question.

"It had a very sinister appearance," Coakley told reporters. "It had a battery behind it, and wires."

What has this world come to, when a couple of Lite Brites can shut down an entire city? The way these two guys that are being charged in this case are dealing with it is nothing short of awesome!

read more about it here and here

Kudos to these two guys for dealing with such an absurd situation with with absurdity of their own.

SBMDAAFBW

Ok. I just can't take this any more. I bit my tongue when "Big Momma's House II" came out (and was the #1 movie at the box office its opening week). I can no longer sit here quietly and take this.

Hear me when I yell this:
"A SKINNY BLACK MAN DRESSED AS A FAT BLACK WOMAN IS NOT FUNNY!!"

Am I wrong here? Seriously!!

Ok, when Eddie Murphy did it in "Nutty Professor" it was kinda funny, I admit the whole "Hercules, Hercules..." thing was funny at the time. That was 1996! Then came "Nutty Professor II" in 2000 and it was already played out. 2000 was when the Skinny Black Man Dressed As A Fat Black Woman (SBMDAAFBW) trend really started to pick up steam. It was this same year that the poor man's Eddie Murphy, Martin Lawrence, also did a SBMDAAFBW film. "Big Momma's House" hit the big screen and for some god damn reason it was a success.

Why America? Seriously? I know that I am talking to the country as a whole in a very Bernie Mac-like way, but Jesus, what the hell is going on? Am I on the outside of the joke? That's fine, wouldn't be the first time, but someone please explain it to me. Do you think this is funny?

I know fat people are funny, and I have found that fat black ladies can be some of the funniest people on this planet. That is a fact. They don't give a shit and they know how to laugh. Loud! So why don't we have any movies with REAL fat black ladies? Eddie Murphy and Martin are taking all these rolls (pun)? Is there a Hollywood agent somewhere with a whole stable of hilarious plus size black women? If so, I am betting that they are funnier than Eddie and Martin in their SBMDAAFBW roles.

That brings me to what has pushed me over the edge. Skinny little Eddie Murphy has a new SBMDAAFBW movie coming out. It is called "Norbit" and as far as I can tell from the previews it follows the same equation as all the SBMDAAFBW flicks. If this movie does well at the box office, I am going to fuckin' lose it! 9 full years after the SBMDAAFBW shtick was kinda funny in "Nutty Professor!" It is 2007, the future! When I was a kid I totally thought I would be flying around in flying cars by now, not going to see movies starring men in fat suits. Give it up! That is like me thinking that the whole "knock, knock. whose there? orange...." bit is still funny.

What is it? Am I too white? Can I not identify with the humor because I am neither skinny nor fat? Do I secretly hate fat suits? I know that I have a deep dislike for Martin Lawrence, but I don't think that is solely to blame for my anger.

I will tell you one thing, if you go see this movie I will hate you!

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

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

Preparation:
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:

www.txdps.state.tx.us/schoolbus/2006SBspecs.pdf
pg. 76 – notes that a white roof is optional on school buses within this district

www.ase.org/uploaded_files/greenschools/update27.pdf
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

Double Move.

Ok, so I have been trying to suppress this, but I can't. I used to be a big fan of professional football. There was nothing more I enjoyed more than spending a hungover sunday on the couch watching 8 hours of the pigskin ballet. I had a spell where I even entertained the notion of buying myself a referees jersey, luckily that passed.

Like I said, I used to be a big fan. My fandom diminished when my viewing was filtered through the multi-headed beast that is fantasy football. In my haste to prove my website changing prowess over my friends, the game changed. I was watching the ticker on the bottom of the screen more than the game... slowly it poisoned the game... but this is all here nor there, I didn't come here today to open a forum on the goods and evils of fantasy sports... or any of your fantasys for that matter.

What I need to vent today is this. THE FUCKING "DOUBLE MOVE"!

Ok, I don't know how much you watch football on television. Like I said above, I don't watch as much as I used to, and I by no means proclaim to be an expert. But I am pretty damn sure that the phrase "double move" was invented sometime early this season.... And since then, no wide receiver anywhere has done anything but a "double move"! It drives me absolutely insane. From where I am sitting nothing has changed as far as the wide receivers routes, it is just that Johnny Thickneck (ret.) in the booth now deems every damn route a "double move".

So the "double move" (as I understand it), is any time a WR makes one move, which last years was just part of the route, and then makes another move (hence the "double")...

This whole phrase creating this is nothing new, you may remember that the "red zone" was invented about a decade ago, and really brought front and center by the new cutting edge graphics of todays telecasts! I swear to god Eric Hipple would roll over in his grave!

I just wanted to share this with you, because it really is about the most annoying thing going... I hope it irritates you as much as it irritates me, because I can't endure this alone...

I wonder if there was a league wide memo? Because I really can't explain it, not since the "is that your final answer" craze of 02 have I seen a catch phrase catch on so quickly.... Which reminds me, I just want to tell all my friends up front that if I see you with a tshirt or a coolie that said "double move" on it, I am going to do a "double move" on you... Steal one of your shoes and hide your keys...

Go Lions!

Top 5 words of 06

5. Balls!!!
4. Aces!
3. Smoothie
2. Mustache
1. Triptofantastic


Least Favorite words of 06

5. Danza
4. Ferber
3. Redundancy
2. Ferber
1. Comcastic

Top 5 P.F. posts of 06

5. Tis the seasoning
4. To Whom It May Concern:
3. Huge Calculator
2. I was a teenage hand model
1. Fear is a Method

the final mustached days of 06

As I sit here, trying to keep my mustache out of my mouth, I am overwhelmed with the annual year end lists that are all the rage in late december. Best of, most overlooked, Purplest (prince won again)... When will it stop? My first reflex is to create lists of my own... in short, start and stop, meandering fits... and since my first reflex has never (ever) been wrong my entire life (so far) that is what I am going to do.

Without further delay.
my year end lists

Top 4 unresolved issues of 06
1. I never found out why the tops of school busses are white. It is driving me absolutely insane.
2. I never got around to weaving that belt out of the nose hair of a goat. I have long longed for a belt like this, and finally 2006 was the year that I collected enough goat nose hair... which is the hard part. Somehow I can't just sit down and do the easy part (the weaving). Maybe all along, I just wanted the chase... i.e. to pluck hairs from a goats nose.
3. I still havent drank egg nog from a moose glass
4. The greatest true story ever told*

Top 5 snacks I want to eat until the inside of my mouth bleeds of 06
1. salt & pepper cashews
2. sea salt & pepper kettle chips
3. pepper
4. salted pepper
5. peppered bannanas

Top 7 hookers "my friend" told me about meeting in the home depot parking lot of 06
1. Kiki
2. Cookie
3. "Sif" Phyliss
4. Kate
5. Pauly Shore
6. Honor
7. Tall Noreen

Top 2 concerts I didnt get to see in 06
1. The Distasteful Gentlemen at Shea Stadium
2. Gutshot: The reunion tour

Top 1 word modifying year end lists in 06 (also top "spiny" toy of 06)
1. Top

---

Now it's your turn. What are your top 5 PF posting of 06?

----

Happy Boxing Day everybody!
May your holiday season be filled with the joy of the Merry Mustache.
Love your neighbor, shock brains, and be kind to domesticated pets.

Confession: "I choked a bitch"

I too have a confession to make.

When I'm in my basement making love (usually alone) I often am the host of my own fucking show inside my head. I recite to the "audience" the proper way to thrust and parry. The segments generally last between 15 and 30 seconds and are "taped" for a global internet audience. Reality and the occasoinal-paid-for-sex-worker provide the laugh track.

Usually I can refrain from squeezing or biting when I'm "hosting" my show. Last night however, as I "prepared my meal" I went to add a dash of some excitement and accidentally "choked the bitch."

Now I'm being sued.

Confession: Bamm!!!

I have a confession to make, and since I'm not catholic, protestant, jewish, mormon, episcopalian or satanic, I've decided this would be the best forum. Please don't think less of me after you read this. Remember I'm only human.

Ok...here I go.

When I'm in my kitchen making food (usually dinner) I often am the host of my own cooking show inside my head. I recite to the "audience" the proper way to prepare anything from fine cuisine to grilled cheese. The segments generally last between 15 and 30 minutes and are "taped" before a studio audience. I'm still working on acquiring a laugh track.

Usually I can refrain from talking out loud or even moving my lips when I'm "hosting" my show. Today however, as I prepared my meal I went to add a dash of salt and accidently shouted "bamm!"
Now I'm being sued.

Truth Be Told

I flounder in the face of commitment.
I'm committed to floundering, I'll face it.

your fortune cookie.

Impatient is the man who buys a calendar before January 1.

I am no Paul McCartney.

I once watched Paul McCartney shave.

He lathered up his whole face with shaving cream. Over the lips and all. I thought that was odd. Also, he talked a lot while he was shaving. I guess that is what fame will do to a man.

I went home and tried to shave this way. This is when I first learned, I am no Paul McCartney. This was fortified when I tried to play bass left handed.

Topeka

I once overheard a conversation on a train. Man 1 was telling Man 2 about a young child, his nephew, who had an interesting affliction. It seems this boys body produced the equivalent of 100 times the amount of mucus that a normal person would produce. This was weird enough to classify as the strangest thing I had eavesdropped that day, but there was more. It seems that as a biproduct of his super-mucus this boy was extremely prone to electrical shock. A simple "zap" in an underhumidified room from a polyestered bystander would cause a mini explosion in his nasal cavity.

Man 1 went on to describe how this put a severe damper on the boys lifestyle. No exposure to shag carpet, everything had to be humidified, and absolutely no balloons aloud... ANYWHERE!

I am not sure why this stuck in my head for all these years. I had not thought about it in quite some time, I suppose I almost forgot about it. Until today, when I read about the man whose nose spontaneously exploded in a small town outside Topeka. It made me wonder. Was this the same boy I had heard about so many years ago?

I don't know why, but I pictured a balloon as the culprit in the explosion. I just assumed that all those years living his life without the joy of a simple balloon and the static electricity that goes with it, that he would have yearned for holding that balloon just one time. Or maybe he got his nose shot off in the mean streets of suburban Topeka. I don't know I didn't finish the article.

Ray Bradbury Was Right

Why did they build them?
Who thunk such suckiness?
Was it Pharaoh, Napolean, Jake Busey?

Why was the old way worse?
Did they mean to jettison tradition?
Were they angry at the sun?

Someone built a library.
And someone else in turn
Built another even taller.
And quieter.

Now any Joe Pencil, high on cheap green
With dreams of fiasco plums and world domination
Can peruse the photos of late-seventies female tennis players
And draw thick pirate moustaches

In inappropriate places.

I stand firmly opposed
To the slander and pain
Brought forth by librarianism.

I will persevere and store my books
Where my father and his father
Did theirs.

In the moist recesses of my own rectum.

Tis the seasoning

A good friend of mine had a very productive day last week by experiencing 9, count them, 9 epiphanies. I would like to take a moment to thank him for generously sharing them with us. Thank You.

I've got to say as far as epiphanies go they were goods ones. One, however stood out to me. Number 9. His revelation that we are ushering in the "Pepper" age in the sack-food arena has changed my outlook on life. If you are not familiar with his post I suggest you take a moment and go several entries below and read his thoughts on this subject in the comments section.

Welcome back.

I agree with him that Pepper is on the cusp of greater acceptance, however we must not forget the proud history Pepper has. Unlike Salt, the every-man's seasoning, Pepper is the party dress of food-enhancements and saved for special occasions. You never see anyone foolishly wasting pepper by tossing it over their shoulder. Nor do you see waiters in fine restaurants asking if you would like ground salt on your Caesar salad. There is even a fine cut of meat baring this noble seasoning's name, Pepper Steak. You would gag at the tiniest bite of a salt-encrusted steak.

Even though Pepper and Salt are synonymous they couldn't be more different. Our esteemed colleague Pepper comes from fruit of a lush green plant that is found in tropical climates. Table Salt is a rock that is mined from the ground. I tend to favor eating plants over rocks. How about you?

Pepper comes in various varieties: black, green, red, and white. Salt: table and road.

Snack food enthusiasts should shout from the mountain tops that their palates will now get to tango with the bold rush of Pepper. Salt should thank it's lucky stars that Pepper decided to "slum it" down in the snack-food projects.

But be aware that your consciousness is not yet ready for full-on pepper flavor, so be content the powers that be have dumbed it down by pairing it with salt. But as the age of awakening continues Pepper will come into it's own and rest assure Pepper will become a major player on the scene.

For homework please head out to your local convenient store and pick up a few hunks of peppered jerky. For when the full onslaught of the pepper arrives you will be of the first to stand up and say "Pepper. Yes Please".

It's all handshakes and baby kissing

I shook hands with the newly re-elected Governor of Illinois this morning. His hands were soft and my handshake much firmer than his. He was on TV when I went to sleep last night, then already at the train station where I saw him this morning at 7:30ish. Although his handshake is a bit on the wussy side, he sleeps less than me and his hair is quite impressive in person.

Bruce Willis is a genius

In life, there are few better experiences than removing your socks after a long day. Relief and relaxation, comfort and cooling, it’s hard to beat sweaty feet airing themselves on a coffee table…unless it’s making fists with your toes. Shag carpet is the best, but nearly anything will work. You just crumple your toes and try to lift the carpet with that little area between the toes and the ball of your foot. And for those of you “in the know” you’re probably saying to yourselves that got this idea from Bruce Willis in the original Die Hard movie. Well I did, but then again Die Hard got its idea from a little movie called Towering Inferno...so I guess all is fair in movies ideas and sock removal.

7 of the 9 miniature epiphanies I had today. (note: it's only noon)

1) Warm yogurt is good for no one.
2) Left handed people need to shut up about being left handed.
3) The wind is a bitch.
4) I look at digital clocks far too often at 11:28 for it to be a coincidence.
5) I think about the show Night Court a lot, and therefore Reinhold Weege.
6) Picture frames are way too expensive.
7) There should be a Kurt Vonnegut day. It should replace Tuesday.

The Call.

If you are a Tiger fan, do yourself a favor and listen to Dan Dickerson's call of the ALCS winning walk-off homer. It is sure to send chills down your spine, the pure joy and excitement of his call. If for nothing else listen to it to hear a grown man say "... OH MAN!!!..." with every ounce of his being.

The Call

More things to watch out for

The wonderful sound of the tuba. We need more tuba.

Villa and the Steamrollers

New Mexico's numerous "Do Not Pass" signs are remnants of Pancho Villa's last top secret mission to thwart the Americanization of the Southwest Territories. Villa, sensing his grip on the New Mexico Territory was weakening, vowed to leave a perpetual thorn in the side of the encroaching Americans. He especially despised the East Coast Americans, for even in the early 1900's, the industrious New Yorkers were building trendy coffee shops near the border of Old Mexico. Villa hated the smell of coffee, almost as much as he hated the smell of New Yorkers.

So he began covert operations to make the roads more curvy. For you see, Pancho Villa was a visionary. He invented the first steamroller and often fantasized about an efficient asphalt-based mass transit system. He knew mass transit was the key to the New York coffee invasion. He also surmised curvy roads to be the enemy of speedy mass transit. So he played his ace. His highly-trained group of mercenary road engineers heartlessly massacred nearly every straight road in New Mexico. In extreme displays of power, they constructed roads that had no beginning and no end.

To this day New Mexico has zero trendy coffee shops, with the exception of Santa Fe. Villa's girlfriend really loved coffee, so to appease her he made a deal with the aliens. In exchange for two carriage loads of Mexican Jumping Beans, the aliens gave Villa the schematic for a machine that defied the laws of physics, making it possible for curvy roads and trendy coffee shops to co-exist. But the aliens had the last laugh. Their machine also released microscopic particles which acted as both an aphrodisiac and a poison, attracting New Yorkers and repelling full and healthy moustaches.

what's in the briefcase?

My last briefcase was stolen on the road to Reno. It's contents? Items from my place of employment.

unnecessary questions and comments posed to "look interested"
misplaced accolades
underserving respect
insincere sincerity
forced laughter

It also contained a small tin of Bronson lighter fluid and a 50 count box of strike-anywhere matches. We were driving out to the desert to burnt the shit out of it. This was out third trip to the desert this year.

kelly green

I have been thinking a lot about you lately.

I think you should wear more kelly green. It is a good color on you.

That old kelly green t-shirt that you used to wear. What ever happened to that thing? It used to seem so perfect with your dark hair and your big smile. You still do have dark hair don't you?

Remember when we used to bake cookies in your kitchen every Tuesday night? You would always be wearing that kelly green apron, with the little birds on it. You used to throw dough at me and being apronless I was defenseless. Do you still throw cookie dough at innocent bystanders?

Who could forget that beautiful day in late October, when the best snowball-making snow ever fell from the sky by the bushel. I never knew such joy as throwing snowballs at your head that day. The whole time I was focused on that kelly green hat and scarf you wore. It bounced around the yard like a bright kelly green target, inviting me to pelt the living crap out of your head and neck with snowballs. Do you still have that scar from the rock that somehow slipped in with that one snowball?

How about that time when I died your white cat kelly green for St. Patrick's day. That was awesome! I know that you didnt think it was funny at the time, but admit it, looking back that was hilarious. I am sorry about the bleach thing, I figure it works on socks... and that was the cats name right? I felt really bad about that and I bought you a new cat. Do you still have him?

Everytime I see a green Tic Tac I think of...

What? You never had dark hair? Or a little bird apron?
You have no scar on your face? You're allergic to cats?

WHAT?

I meant baby blue! I think you should wear more baby blue.

Hitler's Ghost

When he looked at the lightbulb he saw a burning star.
A glimpse at the eternal light of the universe.
And then he realized all things were made of such stuff.
And so was he. And the dogs. And the lanterns.

Fortune found him littering on the eco-highway.
He wavered not, for he knew Zen was a bread bath, a sea of cheese.
He felt his stance was poetic.
But he was to discover he had no stance at all.

That night Hitler's Ghost discovered the path to financial freedom.
And the gods wept.
For tomorrow they were to relinquish their primordial hold.
And primordial holds were strictly their business.

Mr. David Ferber

David Ferber is a bad motherfucker. I'll say it again. David Ferber is a bad motherfucker. There - I said it. Take that little parcel of information and do with it what you will, just DO NOT cross David Ferber. Don't even mildly upset him. Double Chin Sal, down on the corner, still cringes every time he sees a shopping cart. And if I'm not mistaken, isn't your mom still using an inflatable donut cushion? Yeah, I thought so. Shit, my dog still looks over his shoulder very time he relieves himself in the bushes.

Even if none of these incidents had gone down, one taste of his spicy avocado salad with ginger glaze would have you saying "David Ferber is a bad motherfucker.

If they handed out Bad Motherfucker Awards, they'd stop - 'cause David Ferber would be the only one winning 'em.

talk to me. please.

I work at a business and I have an intern. The intern reminds me of a younger…well, me. I will call the intern into my office and offer them a stool. It is here that I will gently prod them for details of what they did the night before, or what they are planning for the weekend, or where a good restaurant might be. I laugh a lot and say things like “get out of here!” “ahh, to be young”. It’s all under the guise of office banter, but I couldn’t be less concerned with the actual job they’re doing at the business. I pay the intern in fish sticks and internally reminisce of days gone by.

Redundancy is blind, I think.

Today I saw a man with a blind cane and an eye patch. I wanted to take his picture, but I thought he might see me.

this is progress...

On my way to work I pass what used to be 3 rundown old houses lining the road. Some weeks ago the homes were knocked flat and most of the debris removed. You could still see their footprints, though – and there were a lot of “leftovers” laying around. Enough to make you think that you should really go by one day and scavenge. Or at least explore. I like doing that – you never know what you may find...someone’s pictures, or diaries, or shopping lists from 1942. Just sitting there in the rubble. And each of the homes were surrounded by old age trees. Trees that went back quite aways.

On my way to work today there were no more leftovers. And no more old age trees. There were some yellow mechanical vehicles and an industrial chipper. And a stack of woodchips of which I have never seen the like. I’m not exaggerating when I say it was at least 2 stories high. And deep. It went back further than the homes had. And the chip pile was steaming. I had never seen woodchips steaming before in the early morning sun. They must have been freshly chipped. It looked so surreal. I felt like I was in a dream. Not my own dream, but someone else’s.

Shant We?

Shant we be friends?
You with your cloak and dagger hairdo
Me with my needle and its haystack

Shant we be friends?
You with your wandering eye
Me with my goat and dreams of Lionel Richie

Shant we be friends?
You with the current administration
Me with the the shadows of a lost jug band civilization

Or shall we be enemies?
You with a synchronous pink strobelight
Set on -bang bang-, -stun-, or -shit hits the fan-

Me with the Eagles and hell all freezing over
Armed only with a three-footed fish
And a strong affinity for reprimands

In the last week, I have...

Urinated outdoors at will.
Learned that the Cormorant eats 4.5 lbs of fish a day.
Been stung by a wasp.
Eaten both Bratwurst and Kielbasa.
Napped everyday.
Fixed an outhouse door using parts from a broken outhouse door.
Saw the best shooting star that I have ever seen in my life.
Known the beauty of "Eh!?"
Cursed a Jet Ski.
Caught a fish that was longer than 3 feet in length.
Released it.
Been shown the value of a piece of dried Birch in the fire starting arena.
Cursed an employee of Northwest Airlines.
Seen the Northern Lights.
Laughed outloud at our "Current Administration".
Sat next to a man listening to the Eagles on his iPod.
Had a dream about a "battle of the bands" in which my band placed third.
Woke up happy.
learned to tie a new knot.
Had "Dancing on the ceiling" stuck in my head.
Remembered alot.

On the couch, naked

The bee is gone,
The busy one.
Left his peripheral post
For a night on the northern coast.
While fellow bard
Acquire lard
And sit quietly on our hands.

Well, he’s the sort
Who’d think it a tort.
On a normal quest for fish,
One’s typical primary wish
Is revelry and hype
Of the fiascotastic type.
And I fear the reprimand.

Things to watch out for.

The wonderful use of the color pink in Wes Anderson's The Royal Tenenbaums.

Shaq

Goats. I don't know what it is about goats that I like so much. It has been said, historically, that goats are associated with the Devil. I am in no way affiliated with the Dark Prince. Perhaps it's their eyes. Goat's have freaky eyes, for sure. I once worked with this girl who had what some refer to as a "go-funny" eye. I am sure there is a medical term for this. I don't know that term. This is where one eye "flies away". You can never tell if there are looking at you or not. Do I feel these people are servants of the pitchfork wielding horned mother from down-under? No. A bit freaky? Perhaps.

Letters: Fritos

To Whom It May Concern,

Today I had a mid-afternoon craving. Familiar with this yearning, I opened my desk drawer, retrieved 70 cents and headed to the cafeteria. I inserted the coins in the almighty vending machine, pushed A7, and watched the coil retract and my favorite snack plummet to freedom. I reached in and grabbed what I so desired. I smiled, knowing that soon my hunger would be bludgeoned by a simple recipe of whole corn, corn oil, and salt. Fritos to the rescue. Oh thank you, old pal.

I opened the bag as I walked back to my desk. I started to chew with a smile. I sat down, and slowly realized something was different. I had never experienced this before. My Fritos® weren’t good! THEY WERE STALE! Aaaahhhhh, how could this happen? I have been disappointed by many things that I hold dear in my life (my friends, my family, the human race in general) but not you Fritos®. What is this world coming to?

My love of Fritos® goes back as far as I can remember. It was always the chip of choice in our house. I remember many carefree days as a kid drinking Pepsi® out of a glass bottle and enjoying the finest corn chips ever made. Eventually I gave up the Pepsi®, but I never outgrew the Fritos®. When I was in college, I boasted that I had accumulated the largest Frito® bag collection in the Midwest. I eventually sold off my collection, but I could never sell off my love of Fritos®.

Now this! My world is turned upside down! What am I to do when mid-afternoon hunger strikes? Next time I go to the vending machine, I will actually have to think, “maybe an Almond Joy® at D4 or some Munchos® at B6.” I don’t want D4 or B6, I want A7, I want you, Fritos®!

Now, I sincerely hope that this was one of those freak accidents. God knows it can’t be an easy task bringing corn-chip bliss to the masses. At the same time, I am sure that you, the good people of Frito Lay, would want to know that some bad Fritos® made it into the hands of the unsuspecting corn chip-loving community.

I hope that this serves as a wake up call to you, Frito Lay. You have an obligation to serve the corn chip community. I challenge you to rise to the challenge and produce nothing but the freshest corn chips that today’s corn chipping technology will allow. To make sure that you get them quickly, not only to slot A7 in the vending machine in the cafeteria down the hall in my office, but to every slot A7 in every cafeteria down the hall everywhere.

I leave you with the faithful words of the Frito Bandito.

Ayiee, yie-yie-yieeee,
I am dee Frito Bandito.
I love Frito's Corn Chips,
I love dem I do.
I love Frito's Corn Chips,
I take dem from you.

Yours in whole corn, corn oil, and salt.

Respectfully,

Huge Calculator

Does anyone else think that those really big calculators are ridiculous? What is it about the calculator that makes it think it can shrug off the downhill tumble that is technological betterment?

In an age where cell phones are smaller, thinner, and shinier than forks this defiant slave to long division stands still. Like your 268 pound neighbor in his running shorts bending over to pick up his keys. It seems to be bragging, "look at me I am obnoxiously huge, pay heed!"

I have come up with a plan. Next time you see someone using one of those huge calculators, simply go up to them and start singing "smooth operator", but instead of the real words substitute "Huge Calculator", if that doesn't work take them to see your neighbor drop his keys.

note: my cell phone has a calculator in it. It also has the ability to take a picture of my 268 pound neighbor. Pay heed, the downhill tumble will be triggered by convenience. I'll call you and we can talk about it.

The token first post: My brother, strong ale, and the Gulf

Last week when I ran into my brother Jay at the bar he was sipping on an ale and munching on some stale pizza. As he dined on the crust, he told me about a Time magazine article he had read. It was an article about a siege in the gulf of Arabia in which the WHIG party (White Heterosexual Irish Gangsters) made a move to drive their enemy, the AX party (Arabian X-patriots) off their bit of land. Like a sly fox the WHIG party had a major break with a move that can only be described as a pogo offense. They flung a log of meat at their opponents. Waco indeed.

In a need not to be out done the AX party countered with a grenade that consisted of a mixture of tofu and poi. This was their yin, to the WHIG's yang. Alas it was a dud.

So as AX pined like a baby to their ma, a drastic change occurred. A tini collection of Ewe people from Ghana arrived. Often compared to the Mars rover, the Ewe confronted the warring parties and made them see the error of their ways. To insure no hard feelings the groups sat around with stong ale, a game of Scrabble, and paints.

Thomas Edison: Son of El Alacran

Is it any wonder jello is made from horse hooves? Is it any wonder there is a space-missle silo buried in the Rocky Mountains and under your rose garden? Is it any wonder there are tiny little maggots living in the pores beneath your eyebrows? Fame.

You, sir, are desensitized to wonderment, fantasy, truth, fiasco. Thomas Edison's middle name is Alva, and you don't blink. Alva was his mother's name and your heart beats, thump thump, American Idol, thump thump, ground fault interrupted. Thomas Alva Edison from the magical Mexican City of Durango played soccer in the streets. Streets where the mighty Spanish were forced to sign-in at the door to the New World. On Saturday Thomas Edison swam the English Channel, on Sunday he invented electricity. On Monday he counted his rubles and asked the girls to call him Tommy. And they sang:

Listening to Tom, I hear a hat dance, Mexican
I hear a light switch, coming from Tom
He is inventing
And in Durango, El Alacran

Hail Son of El Alacran! Mighty wizard of sand and stone. Inventor and space aviator, father of a well known Sea Captain. Let the pale faces sweat your name. And let them pay royalties to whomever does your taxes.

Carpi Diem

I've lurked. I've read. I've commented. Now...I POST.

I am known by many a name but here, now, I am fAtHanD.

My inclusion begins.

Tony Imperial gets a trim

There’s a bar I’ve hit up with Mardi Gras on many occasions. It sits on main street in downtown Utica. “Main street” and “downtown” are misleading as it’s a quiet street with old businesses – some fairly rundown. Every time we’ve patronized that watering hole I’ve noticed this building just down the street, a barbershop. Cement blocks that were painted white many years ago are now dingy, crumbling, and comprise the structure. Plants overrun the window space inside. Outside a barber pole sits unspinning. I’ve always wanted to walk in and get a cut. So much so that I have concocted elaborated fantasies as to how the whole affair would play out. Yesterday I grew up and replaced those fantasies with a tangible reality.

It had an underlying odor, none too pleasant. Indeed, the glass door gave way to dinginess. The plants were overrunning the bay area by the long street side window. That ledge undeniably belonged to the flora. Old bottles of hair tonic and the like (and I mean real old) were scattered here and there on the counter. Old tools like hand held driers, combs with faded plastic, scissors, massive electric razors and the like gently littered the work area. Three absolutely ancient barber chairs ran the length of the floor. Carl would turn out to be from Poland and have 77 years under his belt. Forty of which were spent in this little shop turning mortal men into Adonises. He was working on a Macedonian, maybe five years his junior.

I sat in a crappy chair and leafed through the day’s Free Press, but only half interested. I basically took in the place and listened to the old guys talk about the stuff old guys talk about: the “old country”, the weather, the crazy people the Macedonian rented apartments to – you get the idea. When my turn came I was really excited to sit in this gigantic old barber chair. It had this ridiculously big wrought iron foot rest. As Carl spun the smock around me I could smell him. Slightly more than faint, but not completely overpowering, he didn’t appear to favor deodorant or an anti-perspirant. I told him to take about half an inch to three quarters off. He pulled out his electric clippers.

As he began to take a generous amount of hair off the top of my head, he began to make outrageous claims. He told me that people get fat because of the ice in their drinks. He related a detailed itinerary of how the ice methodically deterred the body from properly digesting food. He also asserted that eating different foods in one sitting was extremely bad for people. In his words, if you were to “eat fish, then you get the clam chowder. Not a vegetable or a beef soup.” He continued to hypothesize that the mixing of animals or plants was a culinary and gastro-intestinal no-no. He continued to fashion my hair in a manner I was sure I had just
seen on the Macedonian, filled his brush with talc, and administered a sound brushing. Next came the hot foam. My one disappoint arrived with the absence of a long thick cut of leather upon which the blade would be sharpened, but he did produce a straight razor and proceed to shave me, including around the ears and the back of my neck. While this may be the piéce de resistance of the barbershop excursion, as I sat there I sincerely believe that he was shaving me with the exact same blade he had just worked on the Macedonian with, sans sanitization of any kind. I could be wrong here, but I doubt it and that bothers me a bit. The shave was sequentially followed by a soothing tonic applied by 77 year old polish hands, another talc-infused brushing, and the proclamation that I would now be “the most
handsome young man out on the street”. I told him that was why I was there, and paid the man nine dollars for the cut and an extra two for his sage advice.

---

a footnote from Mardi Gras Dave...

This account of one mans barbering experience has brought a tear to my eye for a couple of reasons. One, I just got home from getting my hair cut. I paid way more than $9, and the lady working over the mop ontop of my head had quite the runny nose. The tissue she used to absorb the mucus leaking from her nose was kept in her smock. This very same tissue traveled from her smock to her nose via her hand...with no washings in between. The second reason is that I have been lucky enough to see said barber shop, and heard the dreams of T. Imperial about one day...oh, one day, getting his hair sculpted in that building. I'm happy this day has come to fruition my friend. And the last reason I was so happy to read this story is that last night, on my way home from a nice brisk evening walk with Mac I stopped by Mr. Imperials abode. We chatted, he had a beer...there was a pipe. I noticed, altough I decided not to mention, someone had gotten a haircut....and it looked good!! My friends, and fellow hairy guys alike, this was no $9 haircut. Congratulations Mr. Imperial, on one hell of a haircut...as well as another checkmark off the list of things to do before your time here on earth has expired.

MGD

Today's "Outrageously Successful" Tip

An excerpt from "How to be Outrageously Successful with Women: A Guide to Surviving the Sexual Revolution" by John Mack Carter& Lois Wyse. Published in 1975 by William Morrow and Company.



THE BRIDE:
(page 34)

If she married you less than a year ago, you're right. She is your bride. Anything more, and she's your wife. The gray-haired man who peers over his potbelly to introduce "my bride" is not enhancing her role. He is demeaning it.

Women have a right to be known as "my wife," and men have no right to treat them like duitifully decorative objects with an insipid introduction like "my bride."

Incidentally, that also holds true for men who speak of "the old lady,"* "the little woman," and "my better half." They are all cliches for what these husbands obviously regard as the all-time cliche of their lives: marriage.



* Not to be confused with "my old lady," a reference made by unmarried men to the women who live with them.


... now get out there and knock em dead, slugger!

In Capotugtry legend

Glen Does, and likely Sally Does 2


Glen Does wore a large domed bead in the shape of a tire which hung from his emaciated neck like a pendulum and swung with grand purpose as he spent his morning tending the herd. At the age of 84 he found no greater joy than shepherding his herd of alpacas through the quiet mountain dells of his native Capotugtry, careful not to mar the picturesque flora that speckled the meadow like constellations on the night sky. The locals of Capotugtry had all known Glen for an eon and several would, on occasion, join him in minding the alpacas against their one sworn enemy…the silver fox. But this day, Glen was alone.

The foxes were sly as their reputation precedes and would lie in a shallow pit bordering the lea by which Glen tottered. This pasture sprawls for 400 acres from the Does family home, a modest dwelling that is the pride of Capotugtry and has been for centuries. Generally their goal was to snipe out any alpaca lagging behind the main cell. On this day however, the foxes had an altered brand of revelry in mind.
When Glen came past the pit trailing the herd, two foxes lit after him with a pace that warmed the earth. Out of sheer terror he fell toward the ground reaching in his furry man-purse for anything he might use as a weapon. To his chagrin, it’s only contents were an awl which he used for making holes, especially in leather or wood, and two ticket stubs from a John Tesh concert which he attended with his younger sister Sally 2, named after her grandmother on her fathers side, she was not Sally the 2nd she was Sally 2. Glen was as close with no one in the world as he was with his sister Sally and he confided in her everything.

When the foxes approached they tried to bite his ankles but instead got hold of his pants which would frequently sag loosely around his feet. Tugging at the pants they began dragging him toward the pit which most certainly held a family of hungry foxes. Afraid for his life Glen grabbed for the large domed bead around his neck and swung it at his attackers knocking them both immediately unconscious. In shock and filled with adrenaline he reached for the ticket stubs and swiftly slit their throats.

To this day when asked if I know who killed two foxes with a bead and some John Tesh ticket stubs I invariably reply Glen Does and likely Sally Does 2

THE FIRST SPY AT THE IDLE LUAU WILL FEAST ON POI AND DANCE WITH DAWN... TIL DAWN!!!

The following story was written using the words (in bold) from the scrabble game pictured below.




I took a drink of my Coors Light, swallowed. The next thing I know I woke up, cold and confused. I looked to my right, and saw two middle aged women one was wearing sweatpants and a Seattle Seahawks t-shirt the other wore a toga. Both women wore boas, one green and one pink. They were watching the Ultimate Fighting Championship on a very small television. One of them must have noticed that I was awake, she came over to me and shoved a brat in my mouth, then instructed me to chew. I resisted at first, but then I realized that this was the best brat that I had ever tasted. I wolfed the entire thing down then turned to the woman in the green boa. "Where am I? And what's with the brats?"

She assured me that everything was fine. She said her name was Iris, and the other woman, the one in the toga, went by Dawn. Iris told me I was in no danger, that the brats were imported from Mali, and that I would find no finer brat in all the land. I said "NO SHIT!!" with my mouth full and focused on my second brat, which was just as good as the first. All of a sudden Dawn turned to me, looked me in the eye and yelled, "THE FIRST SPY AT THE IDLE LUAU WILL FEAST ON POI AND DANCE WITH DAWN... TIL DAWN!!!"

Maybe it was the brats, maybe the excitement of the Ultimate Fighting Championship match but her wild outburst didn't startle me at all. I just looked at her and said, "AHHHHHHH!" which made her smile and blink. As she continued to blink I heard a faint sound. It slowly grew louder, it seemed familiar. The louder it got the more familiar it seemed, I finally realized that it was the beginning of the song "Sober" by Tool. I looked back at Dawn and realized that she was blinking along to the song. I slapped her in the face and told her to "cut it out", then to lighten the mood I did the hand signals that Dave Coulier did on Full House when he said that. It worked, and she just turned and continued watching the Ultimate Fighting Championship on the small TV.

Just then a commercial came on the small television advertising the county fair, it encouraged us to "come on down and bring the kids..." The commercial promised "big fun!" and most importantly the star of Knight Rider "KIT" was to be there signing autographs. I was sold, and much to my surprise both Iris and Dawn were excited too. It seems that they liked Knight Rider even more than Ultimate Fighting Championship. Dawn opened a closet door and pulled out 3 backpacks, one she packed with what looked to be small wads of meat and gave to Dawn. In the next backpack, she place a shiny silver urn, and 3 packages of Big League Chew. She gave this bag to me and said, "you earned this one!" She then picked up the rug she had been standing on folded it neatly and placed it in her backpack. With our goods safely backpacked, we set out for the fairgrounds.

I was happy to get out of that little room, it was homey but smelled like jail and for some reason it made me think about Jason Barnes, he was a kid I went to elementary school with. He had lice in 2nd grade, I wonder what the long term psychological ramifications of having lice in second grade are... But enough about that we were on our way to see Kit at the county fair.

It seemed like it took forever to get there, we got lost several times and wound up in some interesting parts of town. We finally stopped and axed for directions, and it is a good thing we did because if we would have continued on the route we were on we would have wound up in the wrong county, and when looking for a county fair it is fairly important that you look in the correct county.

Once we found our way to the fair, it was like a little piece of heaven on a muddy lot. They had it all, big blue stuffed animal dogs, Van Halen mirrors, GOLDFISH!!! Dawn and Iris made a bee-line for the game where you shoot the clown in the mouth with the water pistol, which makes a balloon fill with air. They claimed to be really good at it, they really weren't, but they seemed to be having a lot of fun. This was one of the nicer squirt-the-clown-in-the-mouth games that I had seen. The guns were not pistols but uzis, I took some sweet pictures of Dawn holding the uzi gangster style, she looked really bad ass. But how can you not look bad ass wearing a toga and sporting an uzi? After about 45 minutes of errant squirting Iris finally won, much to her dismay her prize was a small box of Gain laundry detergent. Seems weird, but to some folks I suppose it is just as good as a mirror with a wrestler on it and everyone knows that only the biggest spenders get the huge purple bears.

Now that the girls had won something we could finally go and see Kit. To our delight, there was a very small line when we got there. In no time, we were face to bumper with Kit. He was very nice, and much shorter than he looks on TV. He posed for a bunch of pictures with us, then he signed the rug Iris had in her backpack. Iris then reached in my backpack and pulled out the urn, she offered Kit $20 if we could have some of his oil. To my surprise, he was more than willing to let us take some of his essential fluids. This saddened me a bit, but I guess you gotta do what you gotta do to get by. We got to hang out with Kit for quite some time. He told us how he had been arrested in the late 80s for aiding and abetting an underground Shetland pony smuggling ring. It seems he thought it was a Shetland collie smuggling ring. "I thought they were smuggling doggys" is what he said. For the most part he was very nice, and aside from him referring to us as "Michael" I really thought he was a swell guy.

As we walked back down the midway toward the car we stopped to play one more game of chance, this one you tried to make Tarzan climb a vine by throwing ping pong balls at a cup. Dawn challenged me to win something, she said I couldn't do it. "Ho, I'll show you!", I exclaimed. Turns out I was quite good at this game and in no time I had won the girls a roach clip that had yellow and red feathers on it. They were happy and it really was the great way to end the day.

On the way home, we stopped at a gas station to get a snack. I choose a Hersey's bar, Dawn a roll of sprees, and Iris an Almond Joy and some corn nuts. On the way back to the car, I bit into my slab of chocolate delight and the next thing I know I woke up on my couch with a half full bottle of Coors Light in my hand and the Ultimate Fighting Championship on television.

Before I could think, the phone rang, a voice on the line said, "It's dawn"... I looked out the window and it was indeed daybreak. I asked the voice on the phone, "who is this?" the voice said, "It's Dawn" and then said something about wanting the "doubles of the toga uzi pictures and the ones with kit". I hung up.

a distasteful genesis

Here’s how I remember us getting started....


Who could’ve known that the corn dog had become quietly rancid? It was, truth be told, resting atop one of the many overflowing garbage pots that littered the Tri City Fairgrounds that afternoon. And it was, to continue in this truth business, a particularly sweltering day. But the corn dog looked fine. After all, it had already been nibbled: someone, at sometime, had found this delectable fair fare palatable.

And who could’ve known that not one, but five individuals would separately happen upon that corn dog perched on its rubbish pile? What special, intangible qualities must this little breaded weiner have possessed to catch the eye of these passers-by?

And what were the odds that this little dog would not only call the eye of each of these gentlemen, but that its charms would rival that of the Sirens, tempting each to sample its forbidden delights?

When the stars are aligned, who can resist their pull? And when 5 men in adjoining rooms of the Tri City Hospital are having the contents of their stomachs pumped from their respective gullets, who can deny fate?

The rest, as has been said, is fine.

Today's "Outrageously Successful" Tip

An excerpt from "How to be Outrageously Successful with Women: A Guide to Surviving the Sexual Revolution" by John Mack Carter & Lois Wyse. Published in 1975 by William Morrow and Company.


CASTRATING WOMEN AND OTHER CONTEMPORARY BITCHES
(page 35)

There is a lot that is new about women. But some things are not. There are still castrating women and bitches.

Castrating women are not easily recognizable. Some people believe that a woman with power is automatically a castrating woman. False. A woman with power is nothing but a woman with power.

However, a woman with power is castrating when she fails to hire strong men and women to work under her, but delights instead in hiring people with heavy problems such as drug addiction, alcoholism, or wife-beating. A castrating woman then uses these problems to keep her employees locked in place through a combination of fear and gratitude.

Castrating women have long operated on husbands and sons. Now they are at work in work. But only in middle and upper management.

Bitches, both male and female, are at every level of business. And you don't need a book to recognize one.


... now get out there and knock em dead, slugger!

Blazen My Poor Heart

As told by Menistucles at the gathering of The Many:


"As we formulate this new civilization, importance should be placed on the fundamentals by which we operate. By Zues I have a mission, and my mission is what binds me. Binds me to the stars and to their prison. To the planets and their lonely drift. To the Sun and its heavenly reign. I have traveled the dark sea, I have slept with fallen angels. I have climbed the highest mountain, and my nude feta woes will not cease."

Hollywood Grill & Cheese Shack

It's the craze sweeping the fiasco! neighborhood. It's easy to play, take a famous person and fuse it with a food item. BOOM, you have your new obsession, creating menu items for our dreamland eatery.

Below is a partial list (with special thanks to the catheaded one, the Cains, the Hafs & Esther).Please feel free to comment with your creations. We look forward to dining with you at the Hollywood Grill.

HOLLYWOOD GRILL MENU

Appetizers:
Johnny Artichoke Depp
Ralph Nachios

Entrees:
Bea Arthur BQ sandwich
Donald Trump Roast
Mary Pad Tyler Moore
Jake Gylanthalmond Chicken
Meatloaf
Sean Penne Pasta
Shish ka bobcat goldthwait
Snoop Chili Cheese Dog
Lawrence Fried Fishburne
Lon-Don Johnson Broil
Howard Lobstern
Rigatoni Danza
Rip Torntelini
Corey Haim and Cheese
Dave Johnstonville Brat
Natalie Woodfired Pizza
Johnny Depp Dish Pizza
Christina Angel Haira pasta, with a Barry White wine and Janet Jackson-dried tomato sauce. (Served with french Bread McMahon and a glass of Danny Da Vino)

Sides:
John MashpoStamos
Gary Coleslawman
Melon Brooks
Johnny Cashews
Tony Fried Rice
Allison saurKrauss

Fruits & Vegetables:
Dwight Yokumquat
Ronald Reganchovies
Banana Kornekova
Bruce McCullochflower
WatermEllen Degeneres
Halley blackBerries
Jennifer Cantelopez


Beverages:
Ice T
Mr. Sweet Tea
E. Tea
* All tea comes with Ice Cubes, a Chet Lemon wedge, and Matthew Sweet-n-Low (Reece Witherspoon available upon request.)
Jay Lo-enbrough
Dean Martini
Arnold Swartzenjagershots
John F Kennedy-caf coffee
Hot CoConan O’Brien

Condiments:
David ArKetchup
Balki BartacoMustard
Celne Dijon Mustard
Nichole Richeese Whiz
Don Pickles
Scott Mayo
Barbara Mandrelish

Desserts:
Wayne Gretzky Lime Pie
Emenem and m's
Fiona Applecrisp
Vanilla Ice Cream
Oreos Speedwagon
Gerald Fordshun cookie

Breakfast:
Halley Joel Omlette
John Denver Omelet
Cher-e-oes
Sean Puffy Honey Combs

Cheese (our specialty):
Colby Jack Nichalson
MozzarElla Fitzgerald
Vida Blue Cheese

Misc:
Betty White Bread
Spamalea Anderson
Jack Black Beans

---------------------

Please share your concoctions with us! This game will slowly take control of your life, it is then and only then that you will begin to realize that the bad ones are often better then the good ones... Which is really the moral of the story... well that and the fact that Meatloaf transcends boundaries.

--

i was a teenage hand model

I was a teenage hand model.

When the nor'easter leveled Fin Copper's homestead, I was a teenage hand model.
When Aunt Shelley claimed to have been "divinely probed by the divine one", I was a teenage hand model.
When the boy band craze caught on, I was a teenage hand model.

I was a teenage hand model.

At age 94, he will fall from the fifth floor window of a hotel while under the influence of alcohol.

This is the way that Don is going to go. Valiant indeed.

How will you go?

http://evil.berzerker.net/death_predictions.php

Letters: Don Rickles

The following is a letter that I wrote several years ago to Don. He promptly replied with an autographed 8x10 glossy headshot with the inscription "Hello Tim Best, Don Rickles".


Mr. Rickles,

I am a huge fan of yours. I believe your brand of humor to be some of the funniest out there and sadly a waning breed. I was wondering if you could find it in your insult laden heart to send me an autographed picture, or at least a response telling me to kiss off. Either way I would be indebted to you immensely.

I thank you in advance for your troubles and hope to cross paths with you in Vegas sometime. Keep on doin’ what your doin’, you’re great.

Sincerely,

W. J. DeBalt


If you would like to write to Don and tell him how great he is you can do so at:

Don Rickles
c/o The Shefrin Group
808 South Ridgely Drive
Los Angeles, CA 90036

June is Don Rickles Month!

June is Don Rickles Month here at the PF ranch. Throughout the month the distinguished back-alley scribes of PF will be waxing poetic about the many ways Donny Rick has affected us. From the time that he spent with Mateaus at the maroon jackrabbit wrestling matches to the time that he pissed on my shoe in the St. Louis airport. Mr. Rickles has been such an instrumental force in molding our being. He is almost completely to thank/blame for the underlying "blow it out your ass" attitude that lies shallowly beneath the surface of almost everything we do.

In short Don Rickles is an American Hero, and this month we will testify to that.

feel free to share all things Rickles.

Here is something to wet your whistle

www.thehockeypuck.com/


Long live The Hockey Puck!!!

Give My Love To The Ghanains

A friend of mine works for a large software company. He received this email from a customer. As he says "totally out of the blue, no explanation".

It reads:
People bad. Sun go away. I swear -- the day turned to night. Stars came out. Birds flew around in terror. The sun had turned to a black disk in the sky with feint aureola around the margins. I was panic-stricken. Didn't know if the Devil's wings were covering the Earth. Fortunately, the Ghanaians were with me. They told me it was only a total eclipse of the sun and not to worry -- the sun would come back to the sky in a moment. It was a phenomenon of the moon passing between us and the sun. Can you believe that? Scientists are full of crazyshit. I am going to wear a chicken's left foot around my neck, just in case. Whew!

You know what I love? (I am talking the love of a man for a fine Cuban cigar, not the love of a man for a woman)

I love playing badminton with one hand, while holding a Budweiser tall boy (in a cooly that says "Do it today, because tomorrow it might be illegal") in the other hand... Barefoot on a mildly plush lawn under a hot noonday sun.

And of course all the repetitive jokes that go along with the shuttle cock.

Today...

I came to understand the age old adage: "don't leave your thumbs in the sun".

Looking Ahead

Here's what we hope to see more of this summer:

aggravated dance floor left turns
syrupy telephonic communicades
rollicking death cart rides
thick black ribbons of highway
needle perforated night-time sky
vitamins for the deaf
sonic hammer-to-ear applications
jargonized graham cracker expeditions
wild dogs devouring jell-o beneath a quartet of crickets
superfluous super-fluidity
rusty paper cut
noodle wallpaper
external combustion engines
de-solidified biscuits

Keep your eyes peeled

Today...

I got caught in a hailstorm. I recommend it.

Stairway To Heaven Beat Me At Checkers

If I'm remembered for anything I hope that it is for my cerebral approach to blogging. Today's Hollywood bloggers, like Denzel Washington for instance, take a far too direct approach. Denzel would probably envision himself in an after dinner checkers match with Robert Plant. A match in which Plant screams "And as we wind on down the road", distracts Denzel, and pulls the Plant Family secret fake double-jump to a "King Me!". The two would argue, of course. But Robert is British and wears leather pants. King him Denzel.

Up with the ramp!

I too am weary of the staircase. I fully support all efforts to promote the gradual ascent. I have been pro-ramp for several years now.

Below you will find a log of all the times I have fallen down the stairs since I turned 30. I fully expect this list to be an important document in the effort to transform America into a ramped nation. I encourage others to start their own stair mishap journal and for god's sake, slow down on the stairs!

A log of times I have fallen down the stairs since age 30.

12-17-05
The Cain house (3108 Woodslee Dr., Royal Oak, MI)

I had just got to cain’s house for the annual Christmas party/ meatball eating competition. He has some stairs at his back door leading into the basement, I took 2 steps down the stairs and it happened. My feet flew out from under me and I rode my ass down the stairs. Luckily this time I had on a backpack and was carrying two guitars. One guitar I gracefully saved by calmly placing on a top stair. The other guitar bore the brunt of the crash, but was no worse for the wear. The backpack saved my ass, literally. It absorbed most of the tumble. Leaving me with little more than some stinging fingertips and a bruised ego. As with most falls down stairs I was completely thrown into a state of disbelief and confusion. I survived and that very night witnessed the most intense display of meatball eating I have yet to see.

Pain Factor: 3 (out of a possible 10)
Embarrassment Factor: 1
Overall Fall: 4

03-04-06
My house (1434 N. Greenview, Chicago, IL)

I was rushing to leave town for the weekend. I was carrying (once again) my guitar in one hand and some books in the other and I had my backpack on. The stairs in our house going from the first floor to the second curve around in a “J” as some stairs do. The way they are set up the inside of these stairs get very narrow. In my hurrying, I misjudged the width of the stairs and down I came, about 8 stairs from the bottom. Again the backpack absorbed most of the damage. This time books went flying and my elbow was smashed. Again, the whole event threw me for a loop, and made me really uncomfortable, mentally. It is kinda like a reboot of your whole system. This episode has me convinced that I will more than likely meet my end as a result of an untimely stair falling. It’s only a matter of time.

Pain Factor: 4.5
Embarrassment Factor: 2
Overall Fall: 5.5

The ASPRR

I realized something this afternoon while trying to light a cigarette…I don’t like stairs. I’m just not a fan of them. And I feel completely confident saying that they don’t like me either. On a side note, stairs really aren’t a good place to try to light a cigarette. Best case scenario, you don’t fall down the stairs but you die of lung cancer anyway.

I don’t know what it is about them. Perhaps it’s the elevation change that plays tricks with my mind, or the confusing way the lines go from horizontal to vertical and back again. And as of late I’ve found going up is really just as challenging as going down. On a regular basis the muscle memory in my leg forgets the required amount of lift needed is 8 inches and supplies me with only six instead. It’s happened to you to.

Aside from the embarrassment factor and the physical trauma, the worst part is just knowing that those blasted stairs bested you again. Sitting there with that smug look upon their face, you can feel their laughter with every aching muscle in your newly bruised body, snickering through their sharp corners. They are just goading me to hurry again and “see what happens.” I hate those fucking stairs.

I don’t like escalators either. As if the stationary kind aren’t difficult enough, now you’ve got me doing brain surgery on the deck of a moving ship…no thanks. I’m a ramp man myself. If you fall going up a ramp, you’ve gotten what you deserve. And going down a ramp is simply a good time, especially if you’re in a wheelchair.

So I encourage you to join me in my anti-stair/pro-ramp revolution the ASPRR, and support the happiness of the wheelchair-bound everywhere!

Potato Salad & Scrabble

My life was semi-normal, until April 15 in this the year of our lord 2006. The day before Easter as a mayo mixture of fate and happenstance would have it. Up until that day, I had never known the enormous pleasures of the divine summertime nectar that is potato salad. Somehow I had made it 30 years without enjoying its goodness, and I now realize, without truly enjoying life.

The next day I was still reeling with a mayo/celery/potato/mustard body buzz when a true Easter miracle shown it's face in the form of vocabularic one-upmanship. Perhaps this was a door opened to me by my new friend potato salad, perhaps just a coincidence, but that faithful Easter day was the first time I played scrabble.

"Sweet Jesus!" you say.

"it's true." I say.

All I do anymore is eat potato salad and play scrabble!

Before that wonderful day of wonderousness, I had never known the joy of placing the letters Z-I-O-N on the board (The Z on a triple letter score, of course). Just one day earlier, I had found a new mistress for my mouth, and here mere hours later I find another for my mind (How many mistresses can one man have for his head, you ask?*) This has to be the biggest thing to happen on Easter since the Easter bunny found Jesus in that cave still alive.

Now, I am not going to get into the whole thing of "how could I have gone so long without, both potato salad and scrabble." I prefer not to think of it like that. I prefer to eat as much potato salad as I can while I play as much scrabble as I can. I am still so giddy to do either one, and both whenever possible, that I have not yet begun to ponder the possible connection between the two. I have a hunch that it will blow my mind, but right now and for the foreseeable future, I don't need my mind blown. I just need to eat as much potato salad and play as many games of scrabble as I can.

And just so you know, "zit" is not in our house rules dictionary, but delicious is.



* the answer is 7.