Disguise this!

If it turned out that the cat I'd owned and loved for twenty-two years had actually always been a giant turtle in disguise, I think the following would immediately race through my mind..

'Did Scott put you up to this? He did didn't he? Fuck him. He swore, SWORE he'd get me back for hiding that book of poetry by T.S Eliot in his sandwich when we were eight, he didn't 'get' any of the poems, plus he found them bland and hard to chew, and I kept waiting for hell to rain upon me, but it just hadn't come yet, and then time passed and it still hadn't come, and then so much time had passed that eventually I thought he'd forgotten, but it turns out he'd just waited nine years then pulled the best trick ever. Damn you Scott. I bet you understand Elliot better than even T.S by now too! Bastard. 

But what's in it for you Miss Cotton Face? If that even is your real name? Twenty-two years is a long time to help someone else pull off a prank? I mean I guess living indoors is a nice change from having sharks want to eat you, but why didn't you complain when I'd bring home live sharks for you to eat? Then again, based on the chunks taken out of my left thigh, I was probably the one who ate most of them. They taste horrible while still alive, should I have cooked them? Why am I asking you, you're not a cat, I should ask T.S. He'd know, he's probably one of the few people who got all the way through Hemingway's 'The Old Man And The Sea', if that doesn't have a shark recipe in the back three-quarters, then how on earth did it win a Nobel Prize? 

You could have just told me you know. I wouldn't have been that upset. Sure I adore kitties more than literally anything in the universe, and find turtles to be prehistoric looking, (and not in a sexy way), terrible at climbing trees, very reluctant to get their feline-AIDS shot in their back, too quick to lay ten thousand eggs in your sofa cushion, and terrible rat catchers, but we could have made it work, by which I mean I would have fed you to a snake, or OR, dropped you down the waste-disposal. The point is I'd have made it swift, unlike you and Scott who dragged this out twenty-two years! 

Still, I guess I'm partially to blame, I should have known things were suspicious when you'd go on those three week long ocean swims, but I thought I'd just inspired you by that time I lived in the bath for a month to prove to my girlfriend at the time that I was as 'hopelessly in love' as she wanted me to be. What's more hopeless than living in a pool of urine diluted water for a month? Plus I still think that she wouldn't have moved on with that other guy if I had have told her I was going in the bath, but how was I to know she wouldn't notice me missing and break into my house to see if I was dead from a self inflicted wound? She knew I was clumsy and yet like playing with super sharp knives! 

And yeah, your head and limbs would often disappear, but I just thought you were one of those kitties who'd actually learned to use its shell, I mean some cats barely even seem willing to grow their's in, and you were proud, brave, forward thinking, evolutionarily, the type of kitty other kitties could look at and say 'well that's a more advanced kitty, I should be like that, even if it IS less cute, and remarkably less lovable'. But I was wrong. It's not the first time, I thought my ex would like matching leg bite wounds, but she found my face and teeth full of her flesh 'creepy'. 

And I guess this explains why every Halloween you went as a giant turtle, and managed to pull off a remarkable costume, even though you had no money for materials, weren't allowed to use the sewing machine ever since the time you'd sewed your leathery paw to the curtain behind the fish tank, and thought that it was Halloween 352 days a year. But I loved that about you. It felt like that wonderful book, 'The Old Man And The Sea', you know? Just epic repetitiveness to the point of a tedium that could strip paint. 

The real question is what do we do now? I don't want a pet giant turtle. But I also don't want to take back the past twenty-two years. All the fun times, watching finding Nemo together saying 'I really relate to a life going down the toilet', going through photos of the ex, with me crying and you rolling in the tears with a frantic spirit suggesting that if you didn't get moisture on you soon you'd die, watching baby turtles climb out of the sofa cushion and try and find the ocean, only to end up being eaten by the next door neighbor's wolf, and both of us laughing so hard we had tears streaming down our face. So I'll admit it, you played a cat perfectly, you're a fine actor. If they ever make a movie of a T.S. Elliot poem that has a giant turtle pretending to be a cat, then you're a shoe in. But I doubt they will, I think Scott is probably the only person who's both read and eaten one his poems, and as we all know, the Hollywood criteria for a poem to be turned into a film is for 62 people to have done that.

So it's farewell Miss Cotton Face. I'll miss complaining to my friends that my cat weighed almost a tonne more than average cats its age, and that cuddling it was like being shot with a cannon. Take care. And as you leave, watch out for the wolf, he has the taste for turtles. Oh I just realized, those were around 26000 of your children! Ha ha. Irony or something. Good bye'. 

But of course I never will get to think that, as my beloved cat of twenty-two years did NOT turn out to be a giant turtle in disguise. My twenty-two year old cat turned out to actually be a set of fireplace utensils in disguise! It was definitely a surprise. 

Although at least that finally explains why her kisses kept chipping my teeth, but then, what's been pooping in the kitty litter? 

Awww - A poem

Ghurg, a visiter from Frhjkeerger, in the skyslu Galaxy a couple of light years east of the Milky Way, was catching a suburban train in Sydney for the first time since he arrived on earth.

'Meh' he thought 'not as bad as everyone suggested it would be'.

Just then his hyropin gland, or his 'neck dick' as teenage humans seemed to like calling it, excreted around three liters of Dguop fluid, a thick purple grey, gluey textured type substance, all over the lady sitting next to him.

'Meh' she thought 'still not as bad as the time when the pit sweat guy grabbed my ass and then wet sneezed in my face'. 

The two of them are now married with a teenage kid named Dennisaghtl, he's a hit with the ladies too, just had his hyropin sucked off by a girl for the first time. 

Unfortunately this was not something he desired, in fact it was so painful he sprayed her with his Bydhdj laser, turning her into a statue of a frog tonguing a poisonous spider.

'Meh' she thought 'at least now my mum will have to drive me to school, that means no more public transport, who hoo!' 

Pit sweat guy went on to choke to death while trying to pronounce everything in this story.

So it was pretty much happy endings all around. Awww. 

Shovel

I know what your thinking...

'I'm modern, I'm 21st century, I'm sophisticated, I don't need the things they needed in yesteryear, like the newspaper delivered to my house, a housewife to make my dinner, dinner microwaved in asbestos packaging, a Sunday best to wear to church, a cure for polio, cartoons on Saturday morning to watch while sitting on a siblings head and farting, the word yesteryear, or a shovel'. 

Well I'm here to tell you that you're wrong! And not just about the usual things, like that that outfit looks good on you, but also about the things you just mentioned above, like the shovel, and possibly the word yesteryear, but definitely the shovel. 

Consider this every day, completely normal, life like situation: 

You meet someone new...

(Please note: for those not good at talking to strangers and meeting them, myself included, a new person can be assigned to you for only $59.99, through my new business - New People For You!)

(Please note 2: Want to make an easy $20? My company - New a people For You! - is hiring, and I'm guaranteeing 100% of purchasers money goes to you! I don't take a cut at all, I swear.)

And say this new person becomes a significant person in your life. I don't know why, maybe before this you were an asshole and so no one liked you, but this new person is paid to like you, and they didn't read the small print that said 'for life', and this new friend of yours is an idiot, just a real moron, they didn't even realize I ripped them off $49.99, how stupid can they be? So you have a new friend for life. 

But who wants an idiot friend? No one. Well most people, smarter friends suck, I know, that's why few people want to be my friend, I'm just so much smarter than them, they de-friend me like the wind! But YOU'RE not the type of person who wants a dumb friend, so you need to get rid of them. And you can't just de-friend them, because that's cruel (trust me), and because they have a contract, so what do you do?

If you have no shovel? Nothing. They'll your best man or maid of honor if your capable of finding a spouse (which you won't be with this loser hanging around), they'll be your key eulogist when you die, when they go on job interviews it will be wearing clothes nicked from your closet, when they fail to get jobs it'll be your smart phone they pawn to pay rent, which they then won't pay because they live at your place and you'll let them off, and it'll be they who say 'yesteryear' so much that you'll poke out your own eardrums with a knitting needle to end the horror. 

If you've got a shovel? Boom, you've  got a shovel motherfucker, so just say 'dig a hole' but don't tell them how big a hole, they'll just keep on digging, assuming, incorrectly, that you'll say 'done' at some point.

(Please note 3: If you need someone to bring them lemonade occasionally so they don't get suspicious, come see me at - New People For You! We have a special deal, for $59.99 times two, you can get TWO people! Plus if you have a shovel, once the second person becomes unnecessary, just smack them in the head with a shovel till they're dead. 'Where am I going to bury them' I hear you ask. You've got a shovel, just dig a hole you lazy dick!)

(Please note 4: Need a job? I have openings all the time at - New Person For You! Guaranteed to be a whole lot of fun, no no no, a WHOLE lot of fun, fuck did it again, a HOLE lot of fun!)

But that's not all, think of these great uses for a shovel: 

Got a lot a lot of paperwork at the office? Just shovel it into the office fire-pit.

Got a virgin, just shovel her into a volcano.

Got a wild monkey in your bedroom? 

Just shovel some ladies in and have an orgy. 

Got some guys beard hair caught in your underpants, well we've all been there, nothing a shovel can do to help. 

Pasta too bland, sprinkle some shovel on the top.

Haven't been to the dentist for a while? Sprinkle some shovel on your pasta and you'll need a dentist! 

Dentist charges too much? Shovel some small change in, he'll never count it. 

Got too much small change, well change is as good as a holiday you dick, stop boasting.

Got someone calling you a 'dick' all the time, shovel them in the dick. 

Accidentally prompting people to shovel you in the dick? Just swap your dick out for a high powered magnet and you'll get a free shovel.

Sell that idea to the stock market? And you'll be a shovel and magnet magnate! 

Yes, shovels are great, buy one today, now available at my new store - New Shovel For You!

(Please Note 5: Miss sitting on siblings head while farting? Come see me at - New Person For You! We've got staff waiting by to be farted on!)

(Please Note 6: Come work for me at - New Person For You! We're one of the few industries where inexplicably demand is WAY larger than supply!)

Blow me down

Harvey, a hurricane, got into a fight with his wife over finances, and stormed out of the house (ha ha, stormed). 

He was angry, and upset, and feeling unappreciated; all unfamiliar feelings to Harvey, 'I'm a hurricane, being universally appreciated is all I've got' he thought, as he began to wander around randomly and aimlessly, or more accurately to focus on venting in his mind 'aimlessly, who comes up with this shit, you can't be completely devoid of aim, even if your aim is to be aimless that's still an aim!' He thought, grizzily, which lead to a whole other internal rant about bears, and how 'they may be called grizzlies, but some of the time they're just being fucking playful, you dicks!'

When suddenly he realized that he'd gotten way off course, way, way off course, and he found himself somewhere he definitely was not supposed to be - tornado alley.

He immediately turned bright red with embarrassment, but this made him look like an evil hurricane, leading to six nuns screaming for God to have mercy on sinners, which of course only made him feel more embarrassed.

Leading to him starting to sweat and breathe heavy, making people think he was attacking, and so they began to dive for shelters, loot grocery stores, and run back and forth over the street with their arms above their heads and screaming.

He tried to explain that he wasn't meant to be there, that it was a mistake, but with the mortification of his situation affecting him, his throat had closed and his mouth was dry, so it came out as an angry groan, and nuns began to loot shelters, and people began to dive into nuns, which wasn't easy, as they weren't used to having people inside them (ha ha), and mercy itself began to sin, which was tough because the Ten Commandments for Mercy are very different than those for humans, and read as follows:

1. Thou shall not get angry when your chips get hooked, and fail to come out of the vending machine.

2. Thou shall not get pissed off and shovey when people get to the top of the escalator and just stop.

3. Thou shall not get all angsty when the radio plays the same six shit ass songs over and over.

4. Thou shall not get fucked off when dickheads buy tickets to concerts they have no intention of going to, just hoping to resell them at profit.

5. Thou shall not point out that this list has curse words, if mercy can't forgive that shit, then who can?

6. Thou shall not complain that the things on this list are unreasonable, you're mercy for fucks sake, you only exist because of a lack of reason.

7. Like I'm not saying the people who do those things don't deserve to be smited, scolded or even smeared across a building after being dragged behind a truck for an hour, just have some compassion while you're doing it.

8. And just because the humans got ten of these doesn't mean you're going to get ten, stop being greedy you dick. The end. 

9. No wait, and stop showing up in pop-songs, you are never used right, it's embarrassing, have some dignity.

10. Oh, and if you think you have it hard, you should see the list I gave dignity! They can't even cry at the end of sports movies! 

11. Fuck that's ten, that really undermines number eight, um, thou shall not be shown to those who really deserve it, but routinely given to people who clearly do not, that'll do.

Obviously, given the list, it was hard for mercy to sin, as due to that number eleven a third tablet was needed, and Moses refused to carry them down from the mount; to quote Moses at the time 'I only have two hands asshole!' 

'You're going to stick the third in your asshole'? Came the reply.

And because of that quip he refused to carry even two. 

Harvey knew his situation was hopeless, his reputation was not redeemable here, so he tucked his tail between his legs, and backed out slowly. 

Then, just as the danger seemed to be passed, and people were climbing back out of the nuns, and mercy was making fun of he nuns to cover up its own shame, Harvey used that tail to knock over a hospital and two schools, 'meh, I'm still a hurricane' it said as it was doing it. 

It wasn't that bad in the end though, barely anyone noticed because everyone was distracted watching mercy attempt to sin by drinking a mug of donkey sweat, Moses really did screw over Mercy by not grabbing that list. 

Sponges - A poem

Sponges!

Am I right?
You know what I'm talking about?
You know what I'm saying?
They soak shit up!
But why?
What if I wanted that unsoaked?
I often want stuff unsoaked…
Like spilled spaghetti sauce…
Sponge that up and what am I having for dinner?
A spaghetti-flavored sponge?
No fucking thank you…
And yes, I HAVE eaten spaghetti-flavored sponges…
I briefly dated a clumsy Italian who enjoyed cooking…
At first I thought they were some weird dish from her homeland that haven’t made it to restaurants here…
So I told them they were delicious, and not at all hard to chew…
And she'd say 'chew this' then give me the finger…
And I'd think 'yet another dish from her homeland that hasn't made it here' and then I’d chew off her finger…
'How was it?' She'd ask…
And I'd say 'delicious, and not at all difficult to chew', even though if I'd been honest I'd have to admit the bones were hardly chewable at all, and that I'd swallowed them probably only half as much as I'd have normally chewed something for my preferred mush level for pleasurable swallowing, but you can't say that can you? 'Oh your bones aren't soft and easy to swallow', that's the type of thing that they'll sight upon a breakup as a reason for said breakup, 'you never really loved me, you thought my bones were too hard, and chipped your teeth' they’ll say, and you'd have to say 'I NEVER said THAT! I merely said, had I not swallowed them partially intact I MAY have RISKED chipping a tooth' and then she'd be all like 'oh now I'm hard to swallow' and you'd be like 'yes, but bones are supposed to be hard to swallow!' And she'd be all like 'well I never even wanted you to eat my finger, I was just proving that you were lying about liking the sponge spaghetti!'
So I never allowed us to go down that path, I just ate her fingers and said 'mmmmm, yum'…
But then after ten or eleven fingers it hit me that 'wait, in my hypothetical scenario I knew she knew that I was lying about the sponge spaghetti, so in real life she probably knows too’…
'So you just let me eat your fingers like a fool!' I screamed at her randomly, after an awkward trip to the doctor who had asked for a stool sample to see why I'd had recent digestion problems, fortunately he'd had girlfriends too, so he knew all about having fingers in your stool…
'Yes I did' she replied…
'Like a FOOL!' I reiterated…
'Well more like an IDIOT!' She replied…
'You NEVER support me, we'd already established it was a fool, and now you’re changing it, get out!' I yelled.
And she did get out, but she couldn't get a cab because they all thought she was shaking her fist at them…
Which made sense because she often stood in front of our house shaking her fist at cabs…
And sometimes throwing rocks at them…
I thought it was something she'd brought from her homeland…
An Italian delicacy…
But it turned out it was because one of them had 'assumed' all the change was his tip, and even though she had planned to tip that much, he'd taken away her chance to say 'keep the change' which was her favorite saying…
This was seeing as she'd previously been homeless for eight years, standing on the street sating 'spare some change' until one day a man who had just won the lottery replied 'granulation of the imperial cliff faces of the obsolete winds of opportunity are responsible for greater harpooning of school aged whales than any amount of jousting against unicorns could EVER be responsible for, because unicorns are NATURAL jousters, especially if someone straps a joust to those wimpy little horns they have, keep the change'…
And she'd thought 'that IS a change, normally people just say no'…
And then she sought out to find out if what he said had any truth, and took up a career as an unicorn horn joust strapper, which she'd then shoot out of cannons at whales, which really made her worshipped in Japan, as the kids there often dress up as sexual schoolgirls, a thing equally as mythical as unicorns, creating a bond which was stronger than any joust to horn strapping…
And because none of those cabs stopped we were forced to stay together for six more years…
I'm mean what could I do?
So yeah…
Sponges!

I Am right…
You know what talking about…

You know what I am saying…
Those fuckers….
Plus sometimes cleaning them becomes harder than cleaning the thing you cleaned with them….
So you end up just buying more of them….
And who can afford that AND doctors to fish sponge spaghetti and fingers out of your colon?

What are you going to do

Kenny walked to the train station that was located behind the building that sold Grants.

People NAMED Grant that is.

It was NOT a well liked store.

Because some of the Grants had not worked out for the best.

One of the Grants sold there turned out to be irritable. 

Three of them turned out to not like pie, which made them awful company at pie shops, pie festivals and even revealing a of pie charts showing off annual pie sales in various regions. 

Nine of them turned out to be fond of saying 'spoiler alert' only AFTER revealing said spoiler.  

A couple of them turned out to be quick to point out when people had food on their shirt, even at times when clearly there was nothing they could do about it, like when there are no bathrooms, or water fountains, and no one in their party has a bottle of water, at least one that they are willing to give up any of for use as a cleaning product, especially when water really isn't the best thing for cleaning out food stains, depending on the food type of course.

Six of them were women, which in some cases would be preferable to a man, but when you're buying a person named Grant, you're expecting a man, and not getting what you expected is bad service. 

One of them insisted that people call him 'Gra' and when they'd reply 'gre', he'd say '"gre", did I say fucking "gre", it's "Gra", it rhymes with "bra", take the dicks out of your eyes and learn to listen you you fucktard'.

Two of them wore too much cologne. 

One of them added Kenny and a train station to this story for seemingly no damn reason.

It really is a shitty Grant store.

But they have a ten year lease, so what are you going to do? 

Tough job - A Poem

Sandra took a job as a psychic medium.

Her specialty was speaking to the deceased spirits of relatives of pieces of fruit. 

It was a tough job. 

Typical reading:

'Alright so let's get started here, I am feeling the letter g..., um, wait, oh holy hell, um, so.... not sure how to say this, but I'm getting, something, well, ok, it's a hundred and fifteen generations of your family, many, many thousands of them, they were all picked alive... then cut up into cubes, or ground into liquid, gnawed on by teeth, kept in cups with *gulp apples, or jammed into marmalades then jammed into mouths, before being confined to stomach innards, then broken down by stomach acid, and stripped for a variety of bodily uses, none of which seemed in any fun, exciting or even pleasant, at least for oranges, oh oh, and your grandma says hi'.

It was not enjoyable news to give.

I mean who wants to hear from grandma?

No one. 

You're talking to the dead for Christ's sake, you can't bring up the cute girl from the branch on the wrong side of the trunk, who committed suicide after her father forbid you from being together? 

Oh man, I remember her, her innards were jui...CY.

Still she needed the cash so she decided to stick with it. 

That's until she discovered the worst thing of all.

The fruit NEVER fucking paid their bills on time. 

Selfish bastards. 

Oh and deceased honey-dew melons would often be present and yet be too shy to share.

It really was a shitty job. 

Sandra now thinks of it as her third worst ever! 

But she did develop a sick joy for going fruit picking.

And new hobbies are always fun. 

Always Watching

Roger decided to relocate one of his eyes to his upper left shoulder.

'I've had it' he explained to his surgeon 'everyone has their eyes in the exact same place, well except for the occasional child born from first cousins, but even then it's only like on the other side of the cheek, but where is the originality, where is the risk taking and how do people keep an eye on their butler while he dusts near their precious jewels without awkwardly pointing their heads at them?'

The surgeon was convinced; that he had enough money to afford the surgery that is, and the operation proceeded with minimum fuss. Roger was as happy as Larry with the results, Larry being his pool boy who earned a full time, yearlong wage, even though Roger was still only in the 'thinking of putting in a pool' phase.

Still, despite the success of the operation Roger did discover some problems:

- With no ears on his arms he had to staple on his glasses, then tweeze them out and staple on sunglasses when the sun was out, a rather awkward and frustrating process, particularly annoying during picnics on 'partially cloudy' days.
- He had it put on his stronger left arm, because as he'd thought at the time 'I want strong vision', forgetting that he kept his precious jewels to the right of his sofa, requiring a total remodeling of his jewel/ television room.
- His new facial eye-patch would get sweaty and then stink, meaning everyone thought he was giving them the stink eye.
- He began to have to wear a form of shirt people kept referring to as a 'wife beater' even though he insisted 'I don't have a wife, I have a girlfriend, and while I beat her black and blue five times a week, it's only in chess, on our fancy black and blue colored pieces set, where we switch sides after every game, because we are in a loving, sharing and non-violent household, although she did once fall down the stairs after slipping on a silk neck tie I'd dropped there, on our way to passionately making love, so I guess you could accurately say I once fucked her into the hospital'.
- An eye on the shoulder isn't wired to the brain, so what it sees isn't registered anywhere anyway, rendering it pointless.

'Still, at least I tried something new' Roger thought to himself with pride, as he sipped wine from his peacock skull goblet, through his mouth that was now located on his right butt cheek. Perhaps if he'd put his eye on that arm he'd have noticed that his food and beverages now bypassed his stomach and spilled out a hole behind his right knee, and despite eating and drinking ample quantities of nutrients he starved to death.

His surgeon, having mysteriously come into some money, bought a beach house, AND just lucked into finding a hardworking, honest butler, fresh on the job market, whom she married. Larry is still waiting to see if a pool will be built. He hopes not. He doesn’t know how to take care of a pool.

Getting to know me

I feel like people don't know me well enough, and I don't feel well when I feel not well known, so here's a little more about me...

I'm the kind of guy who likes to write himself 'things to do lists', and then chastise myself for not ticking the things off the list more rapidly, mostly because I typically write them on my phone and scratching tick marks on my phone makes looking through strangers Facebook profiles seem odd. 

Common thought: 'why did she get a tick for THAT, oh no, that's right, that was the tick I scratched for finally scientifically proving that seven is too many ferrets to keep in ones pants'. 

Now while there is nothing typical about my to do lists, the only things I do regularly are eat gnats and bathe in zebra sweat, and I don't need reminders to remember to do those, I still thought it might be interesting to share a typical one of my personal to do lists so that you can get a better understanding of some of things I planned to achieve over the following twenty focus hours. Here is yesterday's...

Things To Do: 

- Remind my uncle Sven that I've always found him annoying, and creepy to have stick fights with. I get it, if your hold a stick to your crotch it looks like you have a big, wooden, knotty dick, you do that joke every time, just get on with smacking me in the face with it please. 

- Put on seventeen kilos of pure muscle and lose seventeen kilos of pure fat, then realize that was way too much of both of those, so lose seventeen kilos of muscle and gain seventeen kilos of fat, then think 'wow I'm awesome at weight manipulation, if I could somehow get a good body I could teach a class'!

- Convince the US senate to have a 'dress as your favorite señor day'. It'll be enlightening to see who they choose, and endlessly fun to hear them say 'can you repeat that Señor Senator Steve'.

- Convince the US congress to make a law requiring every senator to legally change their name to 'Steve'.

- Convince the UN to hold a new Geneva convention and make it a basic fact of human rights that if you're a senator you have to listen to what your congress decides. This may have some ramifications for other law making procedures, but if we can't trust congress to not exploit loopholes, then we should stop teaching Boy Scouts how to knot them.

- Convince the galactic organization of galactic law to make it so UN decisions actually affect various countries domestic policies. 

- Buy milk. 

- Make sure my To Do list is ordered right, I'd hate to get laws passed only to find out that I wasted my opportunity because I'd needed other laws to pass before those laws were passed. I think this is what people mean when they say 'I got wasted last night and passed out'. 

- Take a break from politics for long enough to break a politicians nose.

- Switch DNAs with a homeless person so I can't get convicted for the assault.

- Think of a funny pun using 'assault' in the place of 'salt'.

- Apologize to Pepper for never including it in my dastardly deeds.

- Eat a watch.

- Tell someone 'yeah I've got the time, time to improve my diet, am I right'? 

- Explain to them how hilarious they'd have found that if they knew I'd eaten a watch.

- Take a nap.

- Give a nap.

- Nap a taker and give them to my uncle Sven as a stick fighting slave. 

- Figure out why I ticked that guys selfie of him with a frog? 

This was yesterday's list and I'm sorry to say looking back on it that I failed to get it all done, I totally forgot to buy milk or figure out why I'd ticked that selfie, but I'm still glad I write to do lists. Now I'm off to visit my uncle in hospital, he somehow got himself something called 'stick wounds'. 

Very comfortable - A Poem

Luke dressed his windmill in the prettiest dress he could find. 

It still made her a bad choice for a wedding date.

At least if you ask me.

Or the decapitated groomsman.

Or the poor flower girl who delivered flowers devoid of petals.

Although the windmill did provide free electricity for the DJ.

Who did not forget his Huey Lewis.

Nor his And The News. 

So I'm comfortable saying best wedding ever. 

Very comfortable. 

Inside me

Sometimes I can't help but panic; panic like a domesticated hedgehog who's cage is kept next to a collection of dirty jars on a day when the home owner is preparing various fruits for some sort of jamming, and with the sponges all mysteriously absent, and I'm not suggesting for a moment that something sinister has taken place, there's no great sponge conspiracy, and I've faced and overcome my fair share of sinister absent sponge conspiracies (for the record, in my opinion at least, four is fair, it's enough that you're still learning techniques to find and grasp justice, but not so many that future justices would feel cold and absent of rage erasing ecstasy), and I'm not even suggesting that the hedgehog will end up in those jars as a handy substitute for the missing sponges, not all, I'm blatantly implying it, because of course that will happen, she's making jam, those jars MUST be cleaned, that's why the hedgehog is panicking, well also because the household also has a pet snake that's allowed out of its terrarium for an hour every Tuesday afternoon, I mean this hedgehog has it tough. So yeah, I panic. 

And I shudder, shudder like a park bench in a park that's got trees that drop nuts, on a day when the park bench just got diagnosed with a nut allergy, and no one cares, people don't even believe it, they think it's just jumping in on a trend, and while I am no doctor, I'm pretty sure I could diagnose a kid with a nut allergy, just shove piles of nuts in its mouth, and maybe cut his skin a little and rub some peanut butter into the wound, and if he complains or cries he has a nut allergy, but benches don't have mouths, and their skin is notoriously bad at soaking up buttered spreads. So yeah, I shudder.

And I'll cry, I'll cry sobbing tears of sadness, which are the sobberingest tears, and those are full and rich tears, some of them are so salty that they have potato chips hanging off them, which of course reminds me that I'm trying to cut back on chips, and have been ever since I discovered the seventeen family sized bags a day I've been eating are literally taken out of the hands of families, and I'm like, what? They're taking chips out of the hands of families, and I'm eating the chips, but I don't get a god damn invite to be part of the taking ceremonies? Oh so now I don't like making children cry? I don't like seeing people suffer? I don't like hearing dads say to their broods 'everything will be alright' knowing full well that we ALL know full well that this is a lie, and that now that the thread of the first lie has been picked at its only a matter it time that the entire scarf has been stuffed in his mistresses vagina? I apparently don't want to be there for that? Because of COURSE I do. So now I'm crying even harder, the chips are getting fuller and in a wider variety of fun and delicious flavors, and this is attracting birds which are pecking at my face, and some of those chips have artificial bird flavoring, like chicken, turkey, and endangered cavern hawks! So yeah, I sob. 

Oh and I tremble, I don't know, like a leaf or some shit. So yeah, I tremble. 

And I definitely wolf whistle, wolf whistle as a nervous tick to cover up my astute nervousness, at being nervous at people finding out that I wolf whistle when I'm nervous, which isn't that bad all together, I don't get in trouble from the ladies, because I only wolf whistle at hedgehogs, who frankly could use the positive attention. So yeah, I wolf whistle.

In fact at least once or twice a DAY, you'll find me panicking, shuddering, crying, trembling and wolf whistling, and for a very good reason, there's been something on my mind, a horrifying thought, a terrifying thought, and a devastating thought: 

Where would the world be right now if there had never been a Sweden?

Oh my god, just writing that has set off an attack of symptoms so bad that there are three crows currently chewing New York Cheddar and Icelandic Fjord Based Goose Feather Flavored Kettle chips off my face. 

Because the answer to the question is devastatingly clear: 

The world would be in the exact same place physically, but our overall enjoyment of it would be slightly diminished. 

DIMINISHED! 

I mean the only meatballs we'd have would be Italian meatballs, that's not enough meatball variety, it just isn't. 

Plus the World Cup Handball Championships would be slightly less competitive. 

It's pretty hard thought to swallow. 

I guess I just have the type of dark mind that can't help but ponder such horrific possibilities. It is my curse, it is my shackles, it's the reason I don't think I'm capable of true happiness. 

Meh, then again, I have survived four massive sponge absence conspiracies, maybe I'm just being a tad hard on myself. 

Why not mauve?

One day Sam found a face on the ground...

'I knew it was strange' she'd tell me later 'for one I wasn't even looking for a face, I was pre-occupied with pondering whether the sky wants to turn teal but feels pressure to remain blue to satisfy everyone's expectations, and if so why teal? Why not mauve, or coffee teeth yellow? Plus what color even IS teal? Isn't that just a different shade of blue? What have we DONE to the sky so that even in its wildest fantasies of change it can still only contemplate a subtle alteration? And shouldn't we be ashamed of that? I'm ashamed of many things, stuffing my bra in high school, stuffing full envelopes into mailboxes that were already full, stuffing up my first go at tennis by being not naturally gifted at it, not wearing a bra to tennis and distracting a postman who crashed his bike into a telephone booth and broke his pelvis, stuffing up my weekdays for three weeks to do his job for him, using the word 'stuff' too often, and loads more stuff, but I'm not ashamed of the sky feeling trapped to stay the same? That's shameful. Also I'm hardly ever looking to find a face. I feel like if that was a goal you'd be disappointed a lot, and disappointment can really stuff with your brain.' 

'So how did you feel when you saw the face?' I asked, wanting to know more, and feeling I had the skills to acquire this information using the beautiful art of question asking. 

'Well nothing at first, I'm a cute girl so I often see faces pointing at me, but then after I saw this face I thought about it for a while and realized something that I hadn't previously realized that I'd one day realize, when I realized that "lawns don't normally have faces", but then I thought "WHY don't they? What have we done to lawns to make them feel ashamed to not grow faces if they want to?" I've done a lot of things I feel shame for, stuffing Jenny at school into a locker, and then stuffing a rat in there, then saying "I bet you stuff your bra" and then crying "me toooo" and then going to hug her and getting bitten on the vagina by a rat, and then having to have a doctor look at it, but when he said he had to look saying "stuff you, stuff your job, and stuff my whole stuffing life", but I'm not ashamed of not letting lawns feel shameless about growing faces, and then I thought "why did it grow a Caucasian face?" And then I thought "why does it matter what race face it has, I don't care if anyone is black, white or green" and then I thought "oh THAT's why people say that, the third category is lawns" and then I felt ashamed for not knowing that earlier'.

More information was flowing, my delicate balance of using my voice to get her to use her voice to tell me more through the delicate skill of asking questions was working, I now just had to summon up every ounce of my question asking expertise to pose the PERFECT next question to keep this rolling, and I nailed it, 'and then what happened?' I asked.

'Then I called my mom, and I said "mom, have lawns always grown faces?" And she said "you know what, I don't know, I don't think I've ever looked at a lawn, I'm always staring at the sky and wondering if it's ever considered turning teal, but won't because it doesn't want to scare people" then I called her an idiot, I mean the sky shoots lightening at people's heads, even if they are wearing protective metal hats, it is NOT scared of scaring people. Then I thought "Oooh danger, that's sexy". Then I thought "I wonder if lawns are good kissers", you know because I've never kissed   a lawn, and I've kissed a lot of people and things, so I'd probably be a good judge, so I began kissing it, and the answer is YES, lawns kiss VERY well, perhaps it's tongue was a bit grassy, but I smoked a cigarette once so who am I to complain. Soon enough the kissing got hot and heavy, and we were rolling around just going for it, and that's when I realized...'

I knew this next period of time in our conversation would be crucial in my attempt to gather more information and so I engaged the timelessly beautiful technique of question asking, and I nailed the PERFECT next question, 'what?' 

'That the face was on top of me, I was on the bottom, and the rest of the lawn was still under me'.

I needed to continue mining my rich vein of great information collecting, and the beautiful dance that is flawlessly engendered question formulating helped me again, 'so?' I asked. 

'So the face wasn't attached to the lawn. The lawn hadn't grown a face at all! So I pulled it away from me. And then I saw the sky through its mouth and I thought "I wonder if the sky would like to turn teal but doesn't because it's afraid that it'll have to get new ID because it won't look like the picture of itself on its license" and then I thought "focus on the face please" and then I wondered why I had said "please" to myself, I'm not normally that polite, like I've stuffed up many job interviews by saying "just give me the stuffing job", when saying "just give me the stuffing job, please" would gave GOT me the stuffing job. So I'm like I should be as polite to strangers as I am to myself, and then I thought "stuff that, I dont even stuff my bra anymore and boys STILL want to touch, I'm awesome, stuff being polite". And then I went back to making out with the lawn. And then I remembered realizing that the face was not attached to the lawn. Then I was like "eww, this isn't the lawn's face, this is just a face some grub had on his head but mustn't of liked so just dumped it, and then I was like "eww, I just kissed the face of a dude who doesn't even like his own face, eww" and then I vowed to kiss it for three minutes more TOPS!' 

I needed to know even more, and I just knew that the blemishless poetry of the question could be my aid, and I formulated the best question I can imagine posed for many a sun drenched millennia, 'what did you do then?' I requested. 

'What do you think you idiot, there was a fucking loose face in my hands, I handed it into lost and found, I'm not a complete jerk'.

She now stormed out. And that was it. I was devastated. There was so much more I wanted to know:

- How big was the faces nose?

- Was it a round face?

- Which lost and found?

- Was this yesterday?

- Was it REALLY a good kisser or was it a really good kisser but just not real?

- What other art forms can I make a question metaphor or simile with? 

- You saw sky though it's mouth, oh right cause you're looking up, and it's just a face, not a whole head.

- If the nose was big then so what, why the hell are you judging a randomly found face's nose?

- Does that make you feel good about yourself? 

I'm not nosey normally. And although it may seem like I'm a talented and renown journalist that's not true at all,  or why I was asking her to tell me more. 

You see, I'd accidentally dropped my face on a lawn the day before, and I was hoping to find out if this one could possibly be mine. But I just didn't ask the right questions I guess. Regardless of my delicate and intricate fingering of the strings attached to the cello that is the beautiful concept - the question.  

I guess I really stuffed that up. Sam's right, being a stuff up super sucks. This is the worst thing to happen to me since 2007 when for some reason my postman randomly over stuffed my mailbox. And take it from a faceless man, have your bills wrinkled is totally STUFFED! 

I mean, some people!

'I'm the kind of guy who often likes to jump through hoops' I said.

'If there is a hoop I'm jumping through it.

Even if it's on fire.

Now I'm not saying I want it to be on fire.

Why would I?

I'm a rational human being. 

Why on earth would I WANT a hoop I'm jumping through to be on fire?' I asked.

'Ok, sure maybe there is water on the other side of the hoop.

Maybe it's a cold day.

Perhaps I'm not wearing a wetsuit.

As I often am not.

At least three days a week I go completely wetsuit free.

Or naked as I call it.

It can get me in trouble...

"Oh I was naked by the playground last night?" May be something I say.

To a cop.

If he asks me why I'm in a park alone at night.

"I'm trying to relive fond memories'". I'll add.

But he doesn't know that when I am naked I mean I am fully dressed.

And therefore not in a wetsuit.

As those can be uncomfortable and cumbersome. 

Plus if he could give me an effin' break for a moment.

I could explain to him that when I say playground I mean my underground wolf pit.

Which is where I fight wolves to the death.

Something I normally only do in a wetsuit.

Because if I flood the pit an hour or two before the fight the wolves are WAY easier to defeat.

So of COURSE I'm going to go to a park at night and sit and fondly remember my first naked victory' I answered.

'Also, obviously, at a park I'm going to get a way better chance to big-note in front of other woodland creatures, bushland creatures, forrestland creatures and even domesticated animals on the lamb, than say staying in my recently fumigate house.

Now aren't I? 

And of course I fumigate everyday. 

Who wants fucking spiders eating all your bowls of flies? 

NO ONE!' I added. 

'So yeah, in this scenario I can see how I may want the hoop to be on fire.

So that I'm nice and toasty when I land in the water on the other side. 

But when I say I like to jump through hoops I'm not necessarily saying that I want to do it during a water park themed circus act. 

That's just not a leap you should automatically make.

Although I understand where you are coming from and why you're coming from there.

It a good place.

A fun place.

I bet there are Dolphins there.

But I have to tell you, and I hope this doesn't hurt your feelings, but I don't do a water park circus act.

At least not anymore.

I gave it up after the legendary napkin incident.

When I slid on some soap, hurtled into the audience, head butted an old man, and when I looked up at the Jumbatron and saw that my face was covered in mostly old man blood (you could tell it was his because it was almost translucent with lack of life), I then casually turned to the old man's young granddaughter and said, "excuse me miss, may I please borrow a napkin" I blew the house down' I boasted.

'I mean people were BLOWN AWAY by my calmness and wit, in what was an otherwise slightly tense moment.

Obviously because I'd messed up my trick when I slipped in soap.

And instead I'd turned it into a triumph.

Laughter rained, cheers exploded, sirens sang!

Of course they were mostly ambulances for the old man, who by this stage seemed certain to die, but in the moment they felt more likely to be for my grand moment.

If I had not stood and asked to be literally blown back to the stage from overwhelming applause then the ambulance may have even reached the old man in time.

So I don't do water park based circus acts anymore.

I already reached he peak of that field' I gloated. 

'Nope I'm a hoop jumper now. 

But not hoop earrings. 

Because they remind me of ears.

Which remind me of ear canals.

Which remind me of the canals of Venice, Italy.

Which remind me of the canals of Amsterdam, The Netherlands.

Which remind of the people of the never lands.

Which is my fun little nickname for people who live in Venice, California. 

Because they hardly ever become property barons. 

Which reminds me of the legendary moonshine barons of the South African apartheid era copiers of the legendary moonshine barons of prohibition. 

Which remind me of rivers of spilt booze. 

Which remind me of the canals of Venice, California. 

Which is where I first lost an ear in a water fight with a wolf.

Also I struggle to fit through most hoop earrings' I explained.

'And trust me, the girls wearing them prefer if you get through WITHOUT a violent struggle.

I think that's why most girls prefer date fit guys than morbidly obese sperm whales. 

Poor sperm whales. 

Can't even get a gig at the water park.

Plus they have that awful word in their name

"Perm" which reminds people of greasy guys in the 80s who were always jerking off.

Which reminds people of sperm' I concluded.

 

'So NO, I do NOT want to substitute my fries for onion rings! Do I look like I fucking brought my wetsuit and a pack of rabid wolves?' I answered! 

I mean, some people, am I right?