Man Shoulders

Paul and I now live in mortal fear of being beaten to death by a giant transsexual in the parking lot of Starbucks.

For years now, Paul and I have been making a certain Starbucks a part of our Wendsday night nerdly-to-all-hell comic book run. One of the things we love about this particular Starbucks (aside from the fact that they have clearly slipped some sort of highly addictive opiate in our Frapps) is that it consistantly collects the weirdest assortment of people we have ever seen.

Every Starbucks always has that little contingent that hangs out at the tables outside where the smoking is allowed. And yeah, every Starbucks has weirdos aplenty. The thing that makes ours so unique is that the clumps of people who hang out at our 'Bucks just plain make no sense at all.

Hmm... Let's see who we have tonight:

Table one consists of two tatooed college girls, a 70-year old man in a blue blazer, and what appears to be Charro.

At table two we have a 50 year-old mid-life crisis Parrothead, an obese shirtless hippie with dreads and the bastard love child of Ronald McDonald and Marilyn Manson.

At table three, it looks like 2 suburban soccer moms, an albino with no lower jaw, and three 10 year-old girls in Catholic school uniforms playing with a shaven cat on a leash.

Think I'm exaggerating? Okay, Charro wasn't there. Otherwise, I've painted a pretty accurate picture of the kinds of people we see at the Starbucks daily freak-clump exhibition. It's not just the people, but the groups of people who clearly have absolutely nothing in common. If you were to attempt playing the "one of these things does not belong" game, you'd be there all day.

So, how exactly does this bring us to the threat of tranny-inflicted violence? We're getting there.

Two weeks ago, as we pull up to the 'Bucks, we notice this amazon woman sitting outside. (Most likely with a dwarf and a guy in full Nazi regalia... I can't actually recall...) She's eye-catching in that "Hey that woman could kick the snot out of me" kind of way, but upon first glance, fairly feminine.

As Paul and I are inside ordering, she comes in to use the rest room, and as she walks past, I get a look at her from behind. Huge man-shoulders.

I should take a moment here and say, so that I don't come across as a complete asshole, that I have absolutely no problem with transexuals. In fact, I can only imagine the horror of feeling like you were born the wrong sex. If they can get to a place where they are happier with themselves, then more power to them. I treat trannys the same way I treat anyone else, which is to say I will mock them from a distance, just like I do the elderly, children, dog owners and my own sister. (Hi Kelly! Nice shoes!)

So anyway, Man-shoulders. One bummer for male-to-female transexuals is that there are just some changes testosterone does to you that you just don't get to take back. I think it's much easier for a female to become a convincing male than vice versa. You can take all the estrogen you want, you will have man-shoulders until you die. Or at least until you get old and stooped and have uni-sex skeleton-shoulders.

Paul and I were discussing all this as we drove away from Starbucks, which is probably why Miss Man-shoulders stuck in my mind. The following week, as we were pulling in to the parking lot, I spotted her sitting at the same table, and said to Paul, "Hey, there's Man-shoulders!" Paul replied, "Quiet, she'll hear you," to which I responded "She can't hear me. Man-shoulders, man-shoulders man-shoulders!"

At which point, Paul pointed out to me that:

a) I'm a dick.

b) My voice carries.

c) My window was wide open.

Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. Always check the window before you make a complete ass-clown out of yourself. Yep. Sure enough, Man-shoulders is GLARING at us as we park. Fuck. Me. Not only is Man-shoulders glaring at us, but so is her companion du jour, who appears to be an escaped felon who now makes money breaking rocks with his head. Fuckedy fuck fuck FUCK.

I need at this moment to point out that while I will make fun of you from a distance, I will not, generally speaking, make fun of you to your face. At least not unless I'm pretty sure you can take it. Because, despite how it may seem sometimes to you blog-readers, I'm not a cruel man. I take no pleasure in making people feel bad.

And so I felt awful that Man-shoulders had heard me. I felt absolutely horrible that I may have hurt her feelings, and I felt especially badly that she and her giant companion were probably going to beat me to death with my own leg.

They were probably going to beat Paul to death as well, but fuck that, he runs a lot faster than me. At least he had a fighting chance.

I considered just driving away, but I felt like at that point, leaving the scene would be an even more dickish thing to do. You can't just do a drive-by mocking like that, you have to be a man and take your lumps. So we walked in, and got our drinks, and walked out, and the whole way we were being glared at, and the whole way I am hanging my head in shame. They did not, I have to admit, beat the ever-loving shit out of us, but I figured that if they had, we would have deserved it.

Well, I would have. Paul was an innocent. Not that Paul's innocence would have stopped me from screaming "It was him, for the love of god, kill him!!!!"

See point "a" above.

Anyway, Man-shoulders and her mongoloid friend decide to spare us an ass-beating and whip us only with their scorn. I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to Man-shoulders for any pain I may have caused her, for I have truly learned my lesson. She is a human being, with a heart as easily broken as yours or mine.

And because she could kick the motherfucking shit out of me. Did I mention her huge shoulders?

Jiggling It.

Back before I became self-employed (and no, I don't mean that as a cute euphemism for unemployed) I worked for this company here in Baltimore, and this company had a security guy. I'm just talking about one dude here, one dude in a uniform whose job it was to patrol the building, walk the ladies to their cars and lock the joint up at night.

"A fine idea," I can hear many of you saying, "I like this security guy idea. Sign me up for one of those." And you are right. It is a fine idea.

Or rather, it would have been a fine idea if they hadn't hired Dan*.

(*Name changed to protect the not even remotely innocent. In fact, strike that and replace it with: Name changed to protect the axe murderer.)

Dan was a guy who took his job as lone security dude waaaaaaay too seriously. Dan was also a guy who probably liked to rape small animals. Dan had that look in his eyes that made you back slowly away, reaching for the nearest blunt object with which to defend yourself. Dan actually frightened the women he was supposed to be protecting. Dan was an insecurity guy.

When I say Dan frightened the women (and, let's be brutally honest, the men as well) I don't mean that he actively frightened them. He made no lude comments, he made no threats, he certainly didn't ever, to my knowledge, hurt anyone... He was just, you know... The kind of guy who has bodies buried in his back yard.

Let us now jump this story to a certain night, and imagine if you will, myself and two of my co-workers sitting in our shared office, burning the midnight oil.

That's an expression meaning "to work late," for those of you who are insufferably dense and are actually picturing me burning oil.

Dan's routine was to wander the building after hours, most likely stopping in each empty office and imagining how he would most like to murder that office's owner, and then at the end of the night, he would do a sweep of the place before arming the alarm and leaving. It was during this final sweep of the night, that he came upon myself and my buddies.

Again, for you extra-dense readers, "came upon," in this instance means he encountered us, not jizzed on us. Although I wouldn't put it past him.

Being "encountered" by Dan late at night in a deserted office building was not something that filled us with a sense of well-being. In fact, I would describe the sensation I had when he came in as being more of the "Oh god I don't want to be anally raped and left for dead" sort of thing. A glance around at my buddies told me I was not alone in this feeling. Have you ever heard the sound of three assholes clenching in panic simultaneously?

Dan was overly excited this evening because he had just gotten a brand new night-stick. Someone high-up in the company had wisely refused his request to come to work armed with a handgun, and so the night-stick was his weapon of choice. He brandished it and showed it to us, or at least showed it to us as best as one can when the three other people in the room are desperately trying to avoid eye contact with you.

The really exciting thing about this new night-stick, from Dan's point of view, was its handle. Imagine if you will, the night-stick as a meter long fiberglass rod. This one had a short handle about a third of the way up its length. You've seen the sort of thing I'm talking about in martial arts movies. This particular night-stick had at the end of its handle, a sort of mushroom-cap protrusion on it, making the handle look sort of like a stubby penis.

This comparison was made crystal clear to us when Dan pointed to the mushroom-cap and said "You know what they call this? Huh? Huh? The call it the head. Heh heh heh... The head..."

Never in my life have I wanted more to throw myself out of the nearest window. I was absolutely convinced that the anal rape was moments away from beginning. I wasn't the only one, either. Have you ever heard the sound of three assholes slamming shut in terror?

At this point the room is utterly silent. My co-workers and I are trying to pretend like we didn't hear what he said, and aren't aware that he's standing there grinning and stroking the head... I'm thinking "Look at your monitor... Don't turn around... Maybe he'll go after one of the other guys first..."

Then we hear him mutter to himself, the way somebody (somebody insane) might whisper to a girl in a centerfold, "Cause if anybody fucks with me, I'm going to stick this thing here straight up their ass.."

Have you ever heard the sound of three assholes positively inverting in abject horror?

But then, my friends, then, after a slight pause, he added: "...and jiggle it."

Soon afterwards he left the room, and no anal rapes were handed out on that night. Everybody breathe a big sigh of relief that my virgin ass is still intact. Go ahead, I'll wait.

...

My friends and I discussed the incident afterwards, and we all came to the conclusion that "I'm going to stick this straight up their ass..." may have been a terrifying thing to hear a psychotic muttering behind you, but it was "...and jiggle it" that was truly the cherry on top of our sundae of crippling horror. To this very day, whenever any one of us tells a dirty joke or a foul little anecdote, and then crosses over the line, (for example suddenly inserting a man drinking dead blended fetuses through a straw into an otherwise tame joke) we will agree that that person has "jiggled it."

As you may imagine, my friends, I get blamed for jiggling it quite a lot.

Anyway, the next time you're at the water cooler and a co-worker is telling you about their weekend, and begins graphically describing their sex life, or last bowel movement to you, just say "Dude, you just totally jiggled it."

This will catch on, I know it.

Wet Floor

At the place I used to work, there was this older Russian guy who handled all the cleaning. He took out the garbage, vaccumed, dusted, you name it. I have to say that he was a really great guy, and he had an amazingly positive attitude considering all he did all day long was clean up after us pigs.

Anyway, his name was pronounced SIM-EE-ON, like the word "Simian." The spelling of his name, however, was a different matter: "Semen." Yep. Like, you know... jizz. My co-workers and I would giggle uncontrollably every time an email came around with his name on it.

I once tried to politely ask this nice, nice man about the spelling of his name, and he said "When I come to this country, my boss, he say "Semen, the name... is no good..." I know... I know. But is my name, you know?"

I figured, if he was cool with the name, who was I to judge? So my co-workers and I put the matter to rest and stopped giggling over his name. Like I said, he was maybe the nicest man on earth, and we all really loved him. So no more with the giggling.

Until he put up the sign.

One day, Semen had to mop and wax the hardwood floor in the office of the VP. Being a thoughtful sort of dude, he put up a notice to warn anyone entering the office, and then, I suppose so they'd know it was for real, he signed it.

Here it comes... Get ready...

It was several years ago now, but I'm pretty sure I physically collapsed when I saw the sign. And then of course, I regained my composure and took a picture.

Dookies!!!

As my best friend Paul likes to point out (repeatedly and at great length), I have a bit of an obsession with poop. I can't deny it. I don't mean "obsession" in the "rolling around in it" sense. Let's please be very clear about that. My enjoyment of poop does not extend in any way to wearing it, smelling it, touching it or (shudder) eating it. I do quite like to talk about it though... Furthermore, I seem to have this uncanny ability to steer any conversation I'm involved in, regardless of topic or context, inexorably poop-ward.

I would like very much to think that this is because I recognize the unique comic properties of poop... It is a social taboo, yet it's something that all of us share and experience... We are embarrased by it, yet we all do it daily (or nearly daily, for you clenchers out there)... It's also an extremely cheap and easy laugh. Especially if you're Sally. Those of you who have met my wife know what I mean.

Paul has another theory, one based on a story from my childhood. As much as I hate to admit it, his theory isn't entirely far fetched. I'd like to offer up this story (and Paul's theory) to you, my Blog-Buddies, and ask you to weigh in.

The year was... Well, it was a while ago, and I was just a toddler. Maybe 2 years old. The day was hot and sticky, and my mother was beside herself with excitement. The reason for this excitement was that my mother, for the first time in her life, was about to enter the posh Baltimore Country Club. My grandparnets, her in-laws, were members, and they had decided to allow my mom (and her beautiful baby boy) to use their membership and spend a day by the pool, hob-nobbing among the Baltimore elite. (Is there such a thing as an elite in this town?)

This was a big deal for my mom. I think she probably felt in many ways like she had finally arrived, so to speak. And so there she was at last, by the pool. Waiters were carrying drinks to the sunbathing mothers... The whole place, I'm sure, smelled like suntan lotion and money... My mother squeezed my chubby arms into a pair of floaties (remember floaties?) and plopped me into the wading pool. Then she picked out a nice lounge chair in a sunny spot and commenced with the well-heeled relaxing.

This lasted all of, I don't know, 3 minutes or so, before there was a huge commotion over in the wading pool. Some older kids (older than me... like 4?) were screaming "Dookies, dookies!!!" All the mothers came rushing over, and there I was, sitting in the middle of the pool, surrounded my 4 or 5 little floating turds. Yup. I grumped in the Baltimore Country Club's wading pool. Moms began snatching their children out of the now contaminated pool... My poor mother was, at this point, splashing around trying to scoop up the offending nuggests... I, of course, was just floating there, happy as a jaybird... And the whole thing was going down to that chorus of "Dookies, dookies!!!"

A scant 2 minutes later and there I was in my baby seat with my mortified mother screaming at me as we tore out of the gates of the Baltimore Country Club.

To this very day, my friends, she has never gone back. Although, to be fair, I'm pretty sure she's forgiven me by now.

Okay there's the story. It's cute, and a little funny... But now we get to Paul's theory. He insists that this is the exact moment in my young formative life where I equated poop with attention.

When he told me this, I opened my mouth to tell him to go fuck himself, but then fell silent. Shit. Shit, he's got a point.

Anybody want to ring in on this one? Am I comedicaly enlightened, or am I the turd-centric version of Pavlov's dogs?

As an aside, I want to say that I thoroughly enjoyed meeting many of my fellow Balti-bloggers at the happy hour last night. You is my dawgs now. ACW however, is the dawg that I'm keeping chained up in the back yard, because frankly that fucker has a scary brain.

Stamos

I would like to take this opportunity to formally apologize to John Stamos. Because, you know, I'm sure that Stamos reads this blog.

About 12 years ago, I was in Manhattan on a college trip and I was tooling around the city with my good friend Dogbutt. (Yes, that's a nickname. No, it's not an insult. You'll have to take my word for it. Dogbutt, by the way, writes a lovely and frequently touching blog here.) Anyway, Dogbutt and I were wandering around NYC, going to galleries, digging the artwork and doing all the stuff two art students do when they're in NYC. At the beginning of the day, we had decided that, come hell or high water, we were going to see a celebrity. We had no specific requirements for the type of celebrity we wanted to see... Anybody cool would do.

A fine goal, but one that, six hours later, was completely and utterly unfulfilled. We had gone from Central Park down to Soho, and along the way had spotted absolutely no one good.

Man eating his own boogers? Check.

Crazy hobo speaking in tongues? Check.

Anybody we even vaguely recognized from stage or screen? Nada.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not a total dork-tourist. I've spent plenty of time in New York and I'm not particularly that into celebs. It's just that, on this particular day, we had a freaking goal, you know? We had a mission.

Now we were walking down a side street in Soho, and our feet hurt, and we were tired, and we were depressed that we had seen not one famous person, and to add insult to injury, we had just found out that a bunch of our friends had seen (and actually talked to) Eric Idle at the MOMA.

Eric. Freakin. Idle.

I'd kill to meet Eric Idle! As a pal of mine used to say, I'd knock my mother down to meet Eric Idle. God hated me on that day, my friends. Everybody else got Idle, and Dogbutt and I got zippo.

And that's when it happened. We were trudging past this little pub when Dogbutt sort of half-heartedly points to the window of the bar and in this utterly dejected voice goes "there's John Stamos."

I looked, and sure enough there in the window having drinks with some buddies was John Stamos. We both stopped and stared at him in this totally let-down "this is all we get?" sort of way, and he looked up and saw us standing there staring at him. Staring at him like he was the celebrity sighting consolation prize, which in a way I guess he was. "Thanks for playing, sorry you didn't meet Eric Idle... Here, take a Stamos on your way out..."

It must have been several seconds that he stared at us, staring at him with that sad look on our faces, and then he waved. And without returning the gesture in any way, we both just turned and trudged off.

I'm sure that John Stamos has had plenty of worse moments than that. I'm sure he went back to his beer and his friends and didn't give the pair of us a second thought. But I have to admit, I've always felt a little rotten for dogging Stamos like that.

And so, Stamos, I'd like to apologize for acting like a douche. You're a fine actor and hell, you're Uncle Jessie, for crying out loud. You deserved better. If I ever see you again, I promise I'll run up to you, screaming your name and crying in joy, and I'll plead with you to sign my hairy man-breast or something.

9 People Who Honk Me Off Just A Little Bit:

Look out! I'm feeling snarky tonight!

1) People who say "ice-cold beverage." Ice-cold is frozen. That beverage is simply low-temperature. Well, the ice cubes in it are ice-cold. Perhaps you could offer me a low-temp beverage with chunks of ice-cold water.

2) People who call that thing in their basement the "Hot Water Heater." There is no need to heat hot water. That device is heating room-temperature water.

3) People who have speakerphones but still hold them up in front of their faces. If you're going to go through the trouble of engaging your arm, why not go the extra 4 inches, put that fucker up to your ear, and spare me from having to listen to your inane conversation.

4) People who stare at the menu and then go, "What do I want to eat?" How should I know what the fuck you want to eat? I'm too busy being me over here, I really don't have the time to be you as well. You are a lot closer to your stomach than I am. You figure out what it wants.

5) People who call you on the phone and ask "What'cha doing?" I'm talking on the phone. To you, genius. Do you mean what was I doing before you interupted me?

6) People who fart and then act like they didn't do it. Nice poker face. Dude, there's 2 of us in the room, and I know I didn't do it. What exactly is to be gained by pretending you didn't just rip one? It's not like up till now, I assumed you didn't fart. Farting actually comes with the ass, buddy. Got an ass? Got farts. I've made my peace with it. You should too.

7) People with those ribbon shaped magnets on the back of their cars. I'm all for supporting the troops, you know? But all that magnet is doing is supporting the dude who makes the magnets.

8) People who slow down when there's a cop on the side of the road giving some other schmuck a ticket. Don't slow down, speed up! This is the one time you know without a doubt that the police are otherwise occupied! Floor it!

9) People who say "Self-help book." If it's self help, you don't need the book. That's a book-help book.

Next time, I promise I'll write something that reflects a deep abiding faith in humanity.

Blong?

I was just reading Karla's blong.

Okay, I meant to type "Karla's blog," but I'm going to leave that typo intact. What Karla writes is so much better than a blog, it deserves that extra letter. Please, if you aren't already doing it, read Karla's blong here.

Anyway, what I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself, was that Karla was talking (typing) about when she lived with 4 guys in college. This inspired me to tell you of the time I lived with 4 guys in college.

Um... 5 guys. I mean I was a guy. I mean I am a guy. I mean, I'm a dude, and I lived with 4 other dudes. In college. But not in a gay way.

Karla was recounting the horrors of living with 4 smelly, frat-boy types who lived in squalor. My story is different because I lived with 4 clean-cut, intelligent, scholar types who took their work very seriously, studied a lot, and lived in squalor.

These were: a genius physicist, a global economics major, a future doctor, and a guy who was triple majoring in math, economics and finance. You're picturing revenge of the nerds. Admit it. But they weren't nerds. They were good looking guys, smart guys posessing that nerd-killing one-two punch of girlfriends and social skills. If anything, I was the nerd.

Oh my god. I was the nerd. I'm going to stop typing for a second here and sob uncontrollably.

----sob!-----

Okay, I'm back. I didn't really sob uncontrollably. The giveaway is that people who are sobbing uncontrollably don't take the time to type "----sob!-----." Sheesh.

So these guys, these future MD's and PHD's who could balance the global budget, harness the power of the sun to cure cancer and all that? Apparantly you can only force all that info into your brain if you sacrifice little things like "doing dishes," and "how the ice tray works," and "how to put the fucking lid back on the mayonaise jar instead of leaving it on the counter for a week to see what kind of nasty mold you get."

I don't mind a little mess. Sally will tell you, if you ask her, (and tell you repeatedly if you keep buying her beers) that I am not what you would call "fastidiously neat." You probably couldn't even get away with calling me "tidy." Don't misunderstand me, I don't roll around in my own filth or shit the bed on a regular basis (notice I added "on a regular basis..." Heh heh...) but do I mind a little tiny bit of squalor? No sir and/or madam, no I do not.

I do however, mind the fact that living with these 4 guys changed me. It changed me into something that no self-respecting man would ever want to be. What did it change me into? Well, somewhere between chasing my housemates around with the vaccum cleaner and lecturing them on how exactly to fill a fucking ice cube tray, it hit me: It changed me into my mother.

Un-for-fucking-givable!!! Let me say right here and now that I love my mother, and that she's a wonderful woman to whom I owe a great many things, but loving her doesn't mean I wanted to be her. I wanted to be a slobby lazy 20-year-old. And yet... Take 4 less-than-sanitary braniacs, add a horrible, creeping, nausiating smell eminating from one corner of the kitchen, and what do you get? Me, lecturing my buddies at every turn on how if they would just, for 5 minutes, make the smallest effort, we could all live in a happier and healthier environment. "Would it kill you to wash a dish?" "That trash isn't going to take itself out!" "I'm not your personal maid, you know..." Then I would grumble as I cleaned their dirty dishes, stacked them neatly on the shelf, and thought "One day they'll apreciate all I do for them..."

When did I become the clean one??? Sometimes at night, lying in bed, I pick my nose. And sometimes, if there's no kleenex around, I just flick whatever I find out into the darkness of the bedroom. Does that sound like the guy that would become the "take out the garbage" Nazi???

(perhaps I should have kept that nose-picking story to myself... Sally reads this blog. Oh well...)

At any rate, after a semester and a half of this, one of my housemates started dating this girl... She was really sweet and pretty and I believe she had actually been "Miss Nicaragua" at some point. Suddenly whenever I came home I would find her vaccuming our house, or doing our dishes. It seemed like she was constantly cleaning the place. I felt lousy about it because I was afraid that my housemate, who was not exactly the most enlightened guy when it came to women, was making her do it. Every time I saw her cleaning I would tell her she really really didn't have to do it, but she would just smile and say she wanted to.

I am going to hell for many, many reasons, but one of those reasons has got to be that I let Miss Nicaragua clean my house. But god-damn if that place didn't shine once she came along.

Yep. Going to hell.

Going to hell, and to add insult to injury, I was the nerd. You learn the craziest shit about yourself writing these blongs.

Next time, class, I'll continue to beat the English language into the ground, and we'll discuss my obsessive over-use of commas, elipses... (and parenthetical statements.) Also italics.

More proof that I should sell my keyboard and take up knitting:

This morning, in the midst of a deadline, my main CRT monitor goes kablooey on me.

Well, okay... It didn't go "kablooey," it actually didn't go anything at all, which was sort of the problem, because one of the many things it didn't go was "on."

I've known for some time that the damn thing was on its last leg. It's been coughing its death wheezes for like, six months. But you know how it is: when the end comes, it comes hard and fast and there's no time to carve a plaque.

Why do you give a shit about my monitor woes? Well you probably don't, so I'll re-phrase.

Why am I pretending you give a shit about my monitor woes? Because I went out this morning and spent money I absolutely do not have in the name of keeping ship shape for my illustration business, and am now the proud owner of shiny dual side-by-side 19" flat screens. Working on dual flat screens (shiny ones!) is the artist equivalent of being one of those dudes in the John Woo movies who jump around shooting twin nickel-plated pistols.

I, my friends, am a fucking gunslinger.

And in debt up to my eyeballs. No, beyond my eyeballs. Up to my... Shit, there's not much above my eyeballs... Forehead? Hairline? Crap. I shouldn't have given up on the eyeballs. I have officially screwed this metaphor.

Anyway, huge soul-crushing debt. But loving the monitors. Okay, I can hear you yawning. Fine you insensitive bastards, here is why I really sprung blog-ward tonight...

The supermarket nearest my house has a line of sugar free candies on display. These things are called "Go-lightly." Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't "Go-lightly" the stuff you drink before surgery that makes you shit like it's going out of style?

(Fear not, by the way. I stay on top of this stuff, and shitting will never go out of style.)

And while I'm on the subject of America's favorite pre-surgery poop-inducer, why call it "Go-lightly?" That just seems cruel to the person using it. It sounds so pastoral, so benign... One would expect that drinking "Go-lightly" might lead to 15 minutes or so of gentle and pleasant deficating, the kind where you never once have to bear down... The kind where you never look up from your copy of Reader's Digest at all.

Imagine your horror as you instead spend the next hour clutching the sides of the bowl just to stay on as everything you have ever ingested stampedes out of your ass? Instead of "Go-lightly," they should call it "Go-to-hell, cause this is going to suck."

Damnit, here goes another blog entry, spinning down the toilet bowl. Anyone who wants to start counting how many of my writings devolve into poop jokes... Well, anyone who wants to do that needs to get out of the house more often, but you get my drift.

Ask Me About My Narcissim!!!

So, Karla, whose brain quite frankly terrifies me, is doing this whole "5 questions" shebang, and I just had to be a part of it. Because, you know, I'm a narcissist. Here are the 5 questions she came up with for me, and (as you probably guessed) my answers. Because just printing the questions would be stupid. Grab hold of your... um... shift key, 'cause here we go!

1. You're in a plane with all your friends and family, on your way to Paraguay for the big Mixed Nut Festival, when your plane crashes in a remote mountain location. You're stranded so long that eventually you're starving to death. Who do you eat first, and why?

Hmmmm. I do love the Mixed Nut Festival... It's not the nuts that make it special, so much as the mixing... But I digress. This whole question reminds me of the time my then 8-year old nephew announced that there should be a game show called "Let's See Who's Edible." Smart kid.

But again with the digression. Okay, on with the people-eating!

I can't eat my wife, although, she probably would taste pretty good. She was raised in Pennsylvania Dutch country, and everything the Dutchies touch just tastes better. But I kind of like having her around, so she's out. Same goes for my best friend Paul. He'd be perfect, because he's got just a little fat on him, not a lot, just enough to keep him from being tough and wiry. Just enough in fact, to make a nice gravy from... Mmmmmm, gravy... NO! Must... Stop... Picturing... Eating... Paul...

Mom and Dad are too old (sorry guys!), My sister is too... my sister. Eating your sister is probably like kissing your sister... Did I just write "eating your sister?" Moving on...

I'm going to have to go with my pal Skip. Skip one of those athletic guys who has gotten a little bit pudgier as he's aged, so I think there's gotta be a good ratio of nourishing meat to tasty fat on him. Also, he's a politician. So we can finally test the theory of "Does a politician do more good in government, or in your tummy?" Sorry Skip! If it makes you feel better, I can promise you we'll marinate you in something nice, and serve you encrusted in the mixed nuts we packed for the trip.

2. Name one thing you've said in your life that you wish you could take back.

One thing??? We could make better progress if I instead found the one thing I said that I didn't want to immediately pull back into my mouth and swallow. Most of those who know me can tell you that I was born without the internal censor that most of you normal folk have. Another way to put this is that the distance between my brain and my mouth is very short, and any thought that appears in the former, will most likely jump out the latter before I can stop it.

Let's assume that there's about 3 million things I wish I could take back, and I will instead tell you the story of the one thing that actually got me punched in the face for saying.

I used to be good friends with this girl, Annie. We had one of those antagonistic relationships where you really care about the other person, but show it primarily through abuse... We were just funny like that, And no, I don't mean that I just picked on her, she gave me hell too. at any rate, there was one summer in high school where I was doing my best to show her how much I cared by making fun of the size of her ass at every opportunity. I should point out that she did not, in fact, have a big ass. She had a normal ass. I just thought ass-jokes would be a funny way to get under her skin. So that whole summer it was ass-jokes at every turn. (See what a great guy I used to be? What a fucking dumbass.)

Then one night, a bunch of us were hanging out, and I made a big-butt joke and she stormed off, and a friend of ours pulled me aside and said "Look, it really hurts her feelings when you make fun of her butt like that." I was floored. This is going to sound SOOOOOO stupid, but I really didn't mean to hurt her feelings. I was just, you know, busting her balls, so to speak. (again, Dumbass.) So I went and found her and I sincerely wanted to apologize, because I truly felt like an asshole. So I go to her, and she's crying, and I put my hands on her shoulders and look in her eyes, and I say "Annie, listen, I am really, really sorry about all the butt cracks."

Butt cracks!!!!! The minute it came out of my mouth I could feel the corners of my mouth turning up in a smile!!! Butt cracks!!! I couldn't have said something funnier if I was trying! Now I was straining to hold back the grin that was spreading across my face! The grin that was threatening to turn into a full fledged guffaw! The look on her face was one of utter horror. I blustered "No! (chuckle) I didn't mean (snort) I really am... (snicker)" And here comes her fist.

She actually loosened a few of my teeth.

3. You cat gets a shot of the wrong medicine by a negligent vet (who is later revealed to have been high on crack at the time), and attacks you in your sleep, mangling your face horribly. Your life can go two ways: In one scenario, you become incredibly rich from the ensuing lawsuit, as well as incredibly famous from all the publicity. You do a round of daytime talk shows and news interviews, and are so loved by the public that you eventually get a string of acting gigs, and become a household name. Or, in the second scenario, you use most of the settlement money to restore your face to its former glory. You go unnoticed by the press and continue to live the happy life you have now. Which scenario would you wish for? (Your cat is fine in either case, by the way.)

I think I'll take the fame and fortune. If I was the type who didn't want attention, I probably wouldn't be posting stories about shitting myself on the internet for the whole world to see. Huge attention whore here. You dig?

4. Why did you choose the name Common Wombat?

Boy do I wish this was an interesting story. I knew a kid in college who was obsessed with stamp collecting. (Are you forming a vivid picture of the type of people I hung around in college? I swear to god I knew some cool people... Well, a cool person... Well, he was a nerd but he had an air conditioner... Oh god, just shoot me now.) Anyway, one day my friend got a letter from someone in Australia, and the stamp was a picture of a wombat with the title "Common Wombat."

We got to joking around about exactly what it would take to be an uncommon wombat, and how much we'd like to see that wombat, but the whole time I'm just rolling the words around in my head... common wombat... common wombat... I've always been someone who enjoys the shapes and sounds of words, and common wombat just had a way of rolling through your mouth. I just love the way it feels to say it. I vowed right then and there (I did a lot of vowing in those days) to use that name one day when I started a business. Lo and behold, 13 years later, and I have an illustration business called Common Wombat Studio. (www.commonwombat.com... ahem.)

So there you have it. 100% true and 100% boring.

Ah! I nearly forgot! I discovered another meaning for the word wombat, one that is kind of funny taken in terms of my creative business... Some hold that WOMBAT is an acronym for Waste Of Money, Brains, And Talent. I'll have to let my clients be the judge...

5. Tell me about the time you spent in that Turkish Prison.

All I'll say is that a) I had no idea you could fit that many midgets into an elephant scrotum, and b) I would have made it over the border if I hadn't had to go back for my priceless collection of cervical collars.

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BST PLTZ EVR.

I spring blog-ward this steamy afternoon to share with you the two best license plates I have ever seen in this, our fair city.

The first was spotted in the parking lot of the Cockeysville Target a few years back. Hanging from the back of a big bulky sedan was the plate "ROTN 2AT." My friends and I puzzled over this one for a while. Clearly it's meant to be read as "Rotten to a T," but I insist to this day that the proper interpretation is "Rotten Twat."

The second one has been spotted around Mt. Vernon on several occasions. The car sports several religious bumper stickers, so the plate, which reads "J IS LORD" is obviously intended to mean "J(esus) is Lord." Unfortunately, there was apparantly no room on the plate for spaces, so it actually appears as "JISLORD." That's right, my friends, "Jizzlord."

What would Jesus do? Probably not insist that his friends call him Jizzlord.

I HAD to draw this... Home Of Dismay (www.homeofdismay.blogspot.com) posted this exchange, and I could not rest until I had illustrated it!!! The original post: Overheard in Hampden:

Two women are fighting, screaming loudly, on the street.

Woman #1 (visibly pregnant, attended by hapless fat friend): If I wasn't pregnant I'd rock your world!
Woman #2 (skinny and wearing winter clothes in 100 degree heat): You're just a fucking whore!
Woman #1: I'm twice the whore that you are! I made more money being a whore than you ever will! 

Here's another entry in my sketchbook series of people I've seen around Canton... It was a REALLY hot day when I saw this dude, so I guess I can't fault him for the lack of clothing, but there was something about the huge naked gut combined with the cowboy hat just stuck in my mind... 

Four Unrelated Things:

First Thing:

From CNN's story about repairing the shuttle: "NASA will send an astronaut on an unprecedented in-flight shuttle repair mission to remove two protruding gap fillers that could cause uneven heating during re-entry, a NASA official said Monday evening."

God help me, the first thing I thought when I read that was "You don't want uneven heating, you want those astronauts to cook evenly as they re-enter, resulting in an all-over golden brown."

Also, I'm not sure but I think I may actually have "protruding gap fillers." Next time I'm getting undressed for bed, I'll have Sally look.

Second Thing:

Tonight we had one of those evenings that just make me happy that I live where we do. Sal and I walked down to the Canton Dog Park because if there's 3 things Sal loves, 2 of them are dogs frolicking. (the other would have to be potty humor.) From there we decided to mosey over to the waterfront park to enjoy the beautiful evening. While we were sitting there the Water Taxi pulled up and on a whim, I said, "Let's go over to Fells Point and have dinner." So we had a lovely ride around the harbor as the sun was setting, ate dinner outside at a Fells Point pub, and hopped the Water Taxi back home. The trip back was especialy nice, as I've always felt that Baltimore looks best when all its lights are reflected on the water. Just a wonderful, unplanned, on-a-whim, waterfront evening.

I bring this up just to say that sometimes I really get down on this, the city of my birth, and sometimes I can get to grousing about all of this town's limitations and flaws. (And as we all know, there are plenty of those.) And then, every now and then, I have a night like tonight and think "God I'm lucky to live here."

Some days, Baltimore, you is my bitch, but tonight, you is my bro.

Third Thing:

Michael Penn's 5th album (Titled Mr. Hollywood Jr, 1947) is out today. I've been a fan since No Myth hit the radio back in the late 80's, and for my money, he's the best male singer/songwriter out there right now. Already heard an advance copy and it's really good. Just a PSA folks... Doing my part for the cause.

Fourth Thing:

One of my cats has all of a sudden decided that the little mat by the kitchen door is a litter pan. I have no idea what brought this notion on, but the mat is kind of dark, and I'll be damned if her grumps don't blend right in. It's only a matter of time before Sal or I walk in the kitchen door and find ourselves knee-deep in cat-grump. For now, I'm trying to be extremely mindful every time I go near that entrance. Tomorrow I will throw away the mat, but I have this sneaking fear that she'll just grump away on the exposed floor.

It's always something around this place, and 9 times out of 10, it's something involving poops.