The Jolly St. Nick Parade Of Horrors has begun!

Well, it's time once again for me to set out across this great nation of ours and ruin the holidays for everyone. Yes, in just a few days you will be standing in your local mall/shopping center/S&M parlor, and you will be horrified to see that they have already hung their stockings with care. Weeks berore Thanksgiving!!! Mere seconds after halloween, and already the Ho-ho-hoing has begun!

And yep, I'm partially to blame. Suck it up, whiners. It's a living.

Anyway, I won't bore you with the details, but the next 3 weeks will find me all over the place, and once again, blogging may be in short supply. But fear not, my friends! You never know what blog-portunities might arise on my travels. I may spring for the maddeningly slow hotel-TV internet, or I may just knock an old woman down and take her laptop. Anything can happen, people... Anything.

In the meantime, they send me out with this crappy little sad blue pager. I'll get a total of like, 3 work emails on it the whole time I'm out there, so I'm going to pass some information on to you. If you promise not to abuse the power, you can email me at 4106401026@airmessage.net.

Why? Cause I like you weirdos (well most of you... some of you creep me out a little. You know who you are!) And any line you feel like dropping me will go a long way towards keeping me sane while I erect giant snow globes and hang huge wreaths. And I promise I'll write back. If only to say "Please come kill me. Ho ho ho."

2 Caveats:

First, I'll be working all night and sleeping in the morning, so no pre-noon emails, please. Feel free to drop me a line in the afternoon or evening. Or if you're up late at night, say hi. I'll be up too. Probably hanging one handed from a boom-lift while my life flashes before my eyes.

Second, Keep any emails fairly short. Like no bigger than one big paragraph or so. The pager chokes on anything above a certian number of characters, and then the pager company tries to charge Santa, Inc, and then I get yelled at. And nothing with an atatchment, obviously. This do-hickey is low-tech.

Can you believe I'm asking you all to do me a favor, and then I'm getting all conditional on you? What kind of dick am I?

Your kind of dick. Admit it.

See you out there!

Who has bigger balls than me?

Karla, that's who.

I'm man enough to admit when I've been beat, my friends, and been beat I have. Been. Beat. Um...

There was recently an exchange of emails between the lovely and brainiful Mrs. Karlababble and myself that, to be frank, just blew the doors right off of the "Good Taste" Barn. In a good way. Nay my friends, in a great way.

If you're like me (read that as: sick and most likely criminally depraved) you'll get a kick out of this. If you're more faint of heart or light of stomach or not liking of sicko humor, then you may want to look away now. Don't move on to another web page, just look away. No fair clicking blindly with your mouse in the vain hope that you'll hit a link and be transported to some other less offensive blog either. Just you look away and sit there like the Wussy McWimpsalot you are.

So here's the story: Next week one of my "Deck the malls for Santa" trips is going to take me right into Karla's neck of the woods, and I'm going to get a chance to meet this wonderful (frightening and wrongheaded) woman and her long-suffering hubby face to face. Some emails were exchanged to square out the details of this whole meeting, and suddenly I found myself in the midst of what can only be described as a spirited game of "I can out-deprave you." And yeah, Karla gave her OK to share this with all of you sick fuckers.

It began with me, at the end of an email, saying:
"I fly out to Texas on Sunday. This is your last chance to set the mall on fire and spare me a trip."

To which Karla replied:
I hadn't thought of setting the mall on fire. My plan was just to plant several bombs throughout the DFW airport set to go off just after your plane lands. I like that idea better, because that way the mall will still be intact in case I need to buy shoes sometime in the future. And no, that wouldn't spare you the trip, but it would save me a drive to Plano.

Wombat:
Mmmm... "Bombs" and "Airport" in the same email? That pounding on your door is probably the feds.

Karla:
After that, I'm off to kill the president.

Wombat:
Dear NSA Analyst:

My friend Karla is just joking about these things and didn't mean to set off any alarms in your stealthy e-mail reading software. Disregard any mention she makes of the violent overthrow of the government. Please regard any mention of sedition and/or public anarchy as, you know, just fucking around. Any references to Communism, Marxism or Dictator-incited jihad should be taken with a similarly huge grain of salt. Please do not smash down her door and arrest her. She has a small son to take care of and to parade through the liquor store.

No, wait. Disregard any mention of the liquor store. Under no circumstances should you read her blog.

Um, please go back to masturbating over internet porn and think no more of my friend Karla, the harmless, oh-so-completely harmless Texan mother who is in no way plotting to take over this great nation of ours and install herself as "Supreme Pooh-bah."

Thanks.

Karla:
Look, I'd love to sit and read these emails all day, but I've got a meth lab to run here.

Wombat:
How do you find the time do it all? Between the meth lab, running the underage Nicaraguan whores out of your basement, Selling arms to the Dallas street gangs, and selling your own illegitimate children into white slavery, I just don't know how you don't go insane. I'd be a wreck.

Karla:
I'll admit, it makes for a full schedule. But just knowing how much unreported income I'm making gives me a rush that the rest of you tax-paying citizens can't understand. There's nothing quite as thrilling as cheating the IRS out of hundreds of thousands of dollars per year.

Wombat:
Oh hey, I was cleaning out my hard drive and I found those pictures of you stump-fucking that 11-year-old blind kid at that un-registered Klan rally. Boy that was some good times. Speaking of, did you ever remember where you hid the money from the armored car heist? I know you can stay afloat on the money you make trafficking in stolen organs, but the rest of us need to eat, you know?

Anyway, Uncle Jimmy gets out of the big-house next Tuesday and he wanted me to tell you that he's looking forward to raping a few Mexicans to death with you just like the old days.

When I visit next week I want to see you get your kid strung out on Horse like you did last time. That shit was FUNNY.

Karla:
I don't know about next week--you know Halloween is my busy time. I'll be putting razor blades into apples and stickpins infected with the AIDS virus into mini-candy bars all week. I'm a little behind in the project because I just got back from Louisiana, where I've been doing a little home-and-business looting. (No one would suspect an out-of-towner.)

While you're in town, I may need a little help. Do you know where I can get some Santa suits? I've hired some guys to pose as Santas collecting for the Salvation Army at store entrances all over town. That should bring in some crazy money. I've got the bells for them to ring, I just need more Santa suits. I do have about 100 suits, but I've rented them already for top-dollar to pedophiles so they can hang out at malls and strip malls and let kids sit on their laps reciting their wish lists. If I make a big enough pile of cash this holiday season, I can give up grave robbing, at least during the winter months.

Aaaand we're back to me: At this point I gave up and admitted defeat. I had to. I think if I hadn't it would have ended with one or both of us being hauled off to jail, screaming "I swear, I was just joking about the necro/pedophilia ring!!!"

What does this mean, oh blog-buddy? What moral can you get out of all of this filth and depravity? I think the lesson here is don't get in a fight with someone who has bigger balls than you, because when you get down to it, it's all about ball-size. And Karla is one chick with a big old hairy pair.

Grave robbing... I'm still laughing. If you're not reading her blog, please, for the love of God, do so immediately.

The Plane Truth

I'll return with the the humorous (or humorless, depending on your perspective) anecdotes soon, but in the meantime, here's a 100% true sketchbook excerpt involving my recent trip back from Long Island:

Travel is a hoot, isn't it?

Bear Magnet

Chicago was lovely, Jacksonville was sunny, and Long Island was... Well Long Island was fucking bleak and rainy. And yet in each place I happily performed the work I was sent there to do... Doing the bidding of the Big Red Elf, all praise his holy name, all bow before his majestic and rotund stature. We beseech thee, oh Jolly Saint Nick, Guide us in times of worry, shelter us in days of woe beneath thy luxurious white beard and bestow upon us great mountains of loot, which we do not deserve and for which we will utterly fail to send out thank-you notes...

Oop. Sorry. I was zoning there for a second. Still shaking off the elf-conditioning.

I still have some Santa-work yet to come, but my next trip isn't until almost Halloween, and so I find myself home and finally springing blog-ward once again.

Because I need to tell you that I sometimes get hit on.

And I also need to tell you that every time this happens, the person doing the hitting-on is invariably a big burly gay guy.

Everyone has a demographic out there somewhere that they appeal to. It doesn't matter how unattractive you think you are, there is someone out there in the world that will look at you and mutter under their breath, "hubba hubba." Got a huge nose? There's a man out there who wants to lick it. Got a wooden leg? There's a girl out there somewhere with a prosthetics fetish. Been mauled by a pack of ravenous hyenas? There's a - well... how mauled are we talking here? I mean, a couple of sexy scars, or a face like a mashed banana floating in a puddle of marinara sauce?

My point is that every single person (except possibly the hyena-mauled) has some group that they appeal to. The trick is having that group turn out to be someone that you, in turn, are attracted to. My problem is that my demographic is pretty much the bear community. (that's bears as in "big hairy gay men," and not bears as in "Large possum-eating animals." Although I suppose that it's entirely possible that some of the big hairy gay men might be possum-eating animals...) I think the biggest problem is that I myself, look rather like one of the previously-mentioned big hairy gay men. Big round guy? Check. Bald head? Check. Full beard? Yep. Friendly eyes like soft pools you could fall into? You bet. "Right Said Fred" T-shirt? Well, no... can we go back to talking about my eyes?

I once got hit on by a teller at a Barnes and Noble who chatted me up a bit and then very casually lifted his sleeve up so that I could see his bear claw tatoo and gave me a knowing wink.

Once I was at a local eatery that is a very gay-friendly place and a table full of big leather bears all simultaneously scoped me out and then raised their glasses to me.

And once, I had a man run up to me on the street, shout "You're sexy!" and then run off.

That last one may not have been a pick-up, because I'm pretty sure I'm not sexy, and even so, running away is a terrible way to meet someone you like.

A few things to clarify:

1) I'm not trying to say I get hit on all the time, because I certainly do not. I am not what you would probably consider a good-looking guy. I'm just saying that when it does happen, it is always a big dude doing it.

2) I have no problem being hit on by gay men. I love gay men, and I'll take a compliment from whoever wants to throw me one. Thank you, Barnes and Noble teller, for making my day. Gracias, table full of leather-guys, for making me feel good. And for the man who yelled "you're sexy" at me? Well... that was creepy. Seriously, knock that shit off.

It's just odd to realize that you are someone whose demographic skews way off in a direction you never expected, or particularly wanted. The ironic bit is that Paul, who loves the big hairy gay men, is attractive primarily to small cute women. He and I need to hit the clubs one night. I'll snag Grizzly Adams, he'll get Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and then a fistful of roofies, and we'll trade. Sounds like a plan.

Of course, the sappy heart of this story is that I did find one magical girl who seems to think I'm the bee's knees (or the bee's lower mandible joints, or something). And honestly, that's all I need. One Sally is better than an army of naked gay lumberjacks.

Christ what a picture though. Okay, the tiny part of me that is gay is a little turned on by the army of naked lumberjacks. I need to go wake up Sal now and have some "boobie time."

Now I know how you people feel.

So there I am, on the floor at this gigantic scene shop in Chicago. It's 8 am. I'm surrounded by huge pieces of the Santa set we're building, and I'm eating a granola bar I grabbed off the craft services table. There are about 35 people milling about, a mixture of gruff display-crew guys, arty designers and a few corporate big-wig types. Everyone is kind of still shaking the sleep off their faces, and trying to get up to speed to start our day of work. That's when it happens.

That's when this girl I hardly know totally grosses me right the fuck out.

I know, I know... All of you who are still dry-heaving a little over my last few feco-centric blog entries are probably thinking that karma has finally showed up, several hours late and reeking of alcohol, to give my ass a well-deserved kicking. And you'd be right. I suppose I do deserve a little taste of my own medicine, but here's the sort of "Glass-half-full" sort of dude I am: I'm going to turn this story around and share all the horror and misery with you fine people. Take that, Karma.

So the girl in question works for Santa, Inc, and has been there for maybe a year. I've run into her a few times, but until the big shindig out in Chicago, she and I had never really hung out. Just because it pisses the Big Guy off when I appropriate his reindeer names, let's call this girl Blitzen.

Anyway, Blitzen is the kind of girl who belches in public unashamedly and who has a potty mouth and seems to like putting it to use... in this respect she is kind of like a certain someone who will remain nameless, but who we will call "my beloved wife." In short, Blitzen is something of a kindred spirit, and I was glad for the opportunity to make her aquaintance in Chicago. She and Paul and I (have I ever mentioned here that Paul also works for Santa, Inc?) had a pretty good time hanging out and sort of quietly mocking those people around us who needed mocking.

So perhaps, given that I had recognized Blitzen as something of a fellow vulgarian, I should have been more prepared for what she said to me on the morning in question.

What she came up and said to me as I stood there munching my granola bar, and what I should mention she said completely nonchalantly, as if it was the most boring statement of fact, was this:

"I woke up with a turd in my mouth this morning."

"Um," I cleverly retorted, "uh, you HUH?"

"Yeah," she said, "a garlic-covered turd."

I probably said something back at this point. I probably said something along the lines of "you - what the fuck are you... HUH???" but I honestly can't remember because the waves of nausea completely blanked out my brain. A garlic covered turd. A garlic covered turd... in the mouth. Waking up to a garlic covered turd... in the mouth... A BLEURGHBLEUAH!!!!

(That's me typing the vomit noise, for those of you who are a little slow, or for those of you who are also stuck in a "picturing the garlic-turd" loop from which you, like me, will never ever escape.)

I get that by "I woke up with a garlic covered turd in my mouth," she meant "I had an awful taste in my mouth this morning." I totally get it. But she said it like it was a common expression. Is this something people say??? I know I'm the foulest human being alive and I should be strung up for some of the things I've said out loud, but do we really live in a world where people say this??? Is there a place out there where waking up with a garlic covered turd in your mouth is as common as waking up on the wrong side of the bed? Or raining cats and dogs? Have I been living in a cave? Did I miss the mouth-turd memo?

At any rate, I, the prize winning feco-phile and notorius foul-mouth am utterly and completely beaten. I quit. I'm done. I am a potty mouth no more. At last I have been on the receiving end, and I understand the pain I have caused. I am truly sorry and I promise never again to deliberately gross you fine people out.

Just kidding. I'll never stop. But seriously, Blitzen, nice job.

Off to Jacksonville in a few hours. Might get to blog a bit while I'm there. We shall see...