Speaking of The Man With Two Brains...

and for no good reason:

What was your situation when you first noticed your symptoms?

I dumb, but I'm not stupid. Well, that's not true. I'm pretty fucking stupid, but I not completely brain dead. That may not be true either. But I still know some of their tricks. I know the kinds of questions they ask and what they're looking for. I've seen it. I've heard it. I've read it. I know how to give them what they want, which is what they think I want. Or what they think I don't know that I want yet. They think I'll discover what they think I want by accident. By coming at it from an unexpected angle. Gradual epiphany. If that's possible. Reeducation. Retraining the brain. Learning about myself, as if I haven't asked myself every question ever created. They think the burden is on me to be honest and to trust them and be comfortable in their environment. But I'm only comfortable in my environment. And they're not welcome in my environment. If I can lie to myself and believe it, I can lie to them and not give a fuck. What good does that do? How am I helping myself if that's my attitude? Am I my own worst enemy? Everyone is. But do I scheme diabolically against myself? Or is that just on the surface, and I'm really joining forces with me behind my back to self-destruct? I'd launch an internal investigation, but all of me is on my payroll. None of me can be trusted. Bubbling under my pale, pathetic skin is a pool of pure scalding evil. Unfortunately, I don't think I'm crazy. Crazy can produce greatness.

See?

I'm going all the way

Your millions of dollars would be appreciated.

C'mon, baby, finish what you started

Say you wanted to order a pizza, but you've never had a pizza before. And you don't know if it would be better to eat pizza on your lunch break or eat it close to your home either on your way to or from work. Luckily, your job gets pizza discounts and you can go to a site on their Intranet and do a search. So you look up several pizzerias and jot down the numbers, hoping to call and price their pies and maybe get a feel for the quality. Then you happen to come home early and decide to make the calls. But you can't find the slip of paper with all the numbers even though you just pulled it out of your pocket when you stopped off at the grocery store. But you put it back in your pocket. You can't remember if you took it out when you got home, but you can't find it anywhere, even after digging through the trash. You put your brain to work on remembering some of the names of the restaurants, and you come up with a couple. You go to the trusty Internet and Google the names. But some of the phone numbers don't work. And some of them have recordings that want you to call other numbers. At some point, you start to feel like you never wanted to try this fucking pizza horseshit anyway, and you punch a hole in your wall.

This, of course, is a silly hypothetical because no one ever gives up on pizza.

See, Mr. Lawler, you don't have any brains

"Metallica lyrics?" you ask. "I don't come to this site for Metallica references."

And to that I say, "Please don't tell them about that last post because they're not very nice and they like to bully nobodies like me with their lawyers and James Hetfield crunches and gargles with human bones to keep his voice rough and gruff and I need my bones to keep my organs from collapsing on themselves and making me look all melty and the unrelated video below is pure genius and after all these years still makes me laugh in that way that I do where it's all muted and you don't think I think something's funny but I'm just not a good laugher and I don't laugh much unless really really stoned but I've given that up because I think it gives me heart palpitations and in fact don't tell Metallica anything I've said here."

The healing hand held back by the deepened nail

He woke up confused in a hotel room, forgetting briefly where he was and why. It all came flooding back too soon. He wished he hadn't woken up. The night before, he was awash in greatness and bliss and beauty when out of nowhere he had a disturbing vision of himself. Stomach being pumped too late in a sickly green emergency room with flickering fluorescent lights. Dying by his own hand. When he saw this, he thought nothing of it. But lying in the hotel room alone 12 hours later, he felt fear. Fear of what he saw. Fear of his lack of fear the night before. He glanced at the night stand beside him and reached to open the drawer. The Gideons were on top of things. Was this going to be one of those moments? A moment of weakness and desperation? Of kneeling and weeping? Of white lights and Christ's blood and euphoria? He opened the book randomly. He looked to the ceiling and said something along the lines of "This is your last chance, man. What do you got?" He let his finger fall on the page.

1 Chronicles 27:30

Obil the Ishmaelite was over the camels, Jehdeiah the Meronothite was over the donkeys.

Without looking up, he extended his middle finger and offered it to the ceiling. "Thanks. The italics really drive home the message." He tossed the book back in the drawer and began his day.

G-rated

The Christmas stocking convulsed on the floor as if alive. The little girl's eyes grew as wide as saucers. Soon, a fuzzy head with pointy ears poked out of the open end of the stocking. The green cat-like eyes gazed up cautiously at the little girl. Wait. It was a cat. A kitten to be precise. The little girl squealed with delight and gently scooped up the kitten like she was taught at her friend Abbey's house with Abbey's puppy. The bewildered kitten didn't move until the little girl put him down on a patch of floor not covered with presents and rumpled wrapping paper. Then he jumped around enthusiastically like the floor was electrified, and the whole family laughed merrily as they welcomed this new fuzzball into the family.


There. Is that the kind of shit you people would rather read?

The final post on sex

I'm ending this week's series on sex prematurely. I think I was too nervous or maybe a little too excited to be writing about it, and I shot my word-wad way early.

I've tried to write about sex many times before, and don't get me wrong, I enjoy it. But sometimes I have to write four or five blogs a night on one subject before I get used to it and can write about it long enough to satisfy the howling demands of my readers. And frankly, I just don't have that kind of stamina anymore. Maybe when I was 21.

Basically, if I stay healthy and hydrated, I can rub out maybe one, two blogs a night. But if I'm not feeling my best, some people may find the stuff I churn out a little stale and hard to swallow. And that just leaves people with a bad taste in their mouths. The last thing you want is for someone to make you swallow your own words.

So if I'm not on top of my game, I may never hit my rhythm, and the next thing I know, my audience is getting their blogs somewhere else. Then I have to find other ways to compensate. Sometimes, I can please my readers orally, but I'm really not much of a talker. And when they try to ease my awkwardness by reciprocating, it just makes me feel inadequate because I know I've got nothing left for them.

I think the answer is to take a little time for myself. Spend some time reading other blogs on the Internet, imagining myself as those writers and trying to write like they do. I'll have to use a little self control to keep from writing to quickly. I need to work on long, sustained blogging. The kind that, when put into actual practice, will have my readers coming back for more.



And while I'm on the Internet, I might as well jerkoff to some porn.

There's one thing I don't understand about sex

When is the right age to start having it? Because if it's 35, I just don't think I can wait that long.




There's another thing I don't understand about sex

How do you know which chick is the one for you? Because they all make my mouth water and my nether regions sticky.




There's just one more thing I don't understand about sex

Is it OK to do it in public, like dogs and monkeys? I hope women are open to doing it monkey-style.

Last night on Earth

I don't mean to alarm you, but there's a tiny lizard in my apartment. He's no bigger than the head of a disposable razor, but he has a murderous glint in his too-small-too-see-eyes. I've tried everything. I've stood on a chair. I've hot-stepped into my room and waited to hear the front door open and close as he left. But nothing. Undoubtedly, I will wake up in the middle of the night as he feasts on my throat flesh.

I feel like I just received this pre-bedtime advice from Homer [NOTE: Best Buy neither sponsors nor is happy to be associated with this blog]: