Saturday, August 30, 2003

Dog Walk Inquiries Part Two

Another Day, another walk about the neighborhood with the bulldog leading the way.

We happen upon a yard sale--HUGE YARD SALE proclaims the signs stapled to telephone poles around the block--with many folk milling about, sifting through the useless junk and piles of questionable articles of clothing, seeking the 'Grail' in this family's discarded-yet-seemingly-worth-something-to-Somebody items.*

Roger immediately notes the presence of others, clamps down on his lead and starts gnawing away at it.** This occurs just in time for the little 'uns at the Yard Sale to notice us and scamper over in the hope that they will have the great joy to pet the slobbering mawed beast at the end of my tether.

Oddly enough, these kids skip the ASKING part and go right in for the pet pet. Fortunately for them he was busy with his chewing or their aggressive behavior could have ended with a display of Roger's unparallelled Rutting Abilities. The partriarch of the little 'uns (and apparently the King of the Yard Sale***) sidled over in his untucked dingy oxford and Erik Estrada-circa-CHiPs shades to take in the spectacle in his own patented 'regal' manner (arms akimbo, legs slightly apart in a pre-urinal-stop fashion). After a moment of observing the kids having fun with the oblivious dog he looks to me and asks:

'You don't feed him people-food, do yuh?'


(inner dialogue time again)
Who the fuck are you, Shirt-Guy? Mister King-of-the-Yard-Sale has a side-gig in Pet food sales? What the Flip? People-Food? Soylent Green? Should I mention that Chuck Heston is a Jackass? Is this a joke? Roger gets scraps all the he calling MY DOG fat? Fuck him and his ugly fucking kids. They probably got Cheeze Puff debris on his back from petting him, dammit. My dog is the exact weight that he is supposed to be according to the Vet. I should let Roger hump the ground-in dirt off those Kris Kristofferson-style jeans he's stuffed into...if only Rog knew voice commands...shit.
(inner dialogue ends)

I responded, 'Why? Are you serving weiners at this Yard Sale as sales incentives?'

And left.

I sure hope the Sale was a sign that this Family is moving soon. I don't think the sausage-comment went over very well and I certainly hope not to find keilbasas and/or other linked meat products filling my mailbox in retaliation any time soon.

When will I learn?

(That's Our Tony!!!)

*The most Grail-like thing I witnessed there on my brief stop was a tarnished and chipped trophy with the inscription '3rd Place, North Dale Rec-Center's Great Glut-Off, 5 Packages of Cap'n Swag's Fish-Sticks.

**Really just one of his 'Show-Off' actions and not a sign that he is desperately trying to flee the Loonies we encounter on our daily constitutionals...seriously.

***An unofficial title on-par with the Earl of Lawn-Edgers, the Pontiff of Playgrounds, Sir Meat Raffle and The-Thing-That-Should-Not-Be, et cetera, bequeathed upon individuals of the Highest Stock in these

Thursday, August 28, 2003


Overheard Monologues of recent vintage:

On Marriage:

'If ya share an underpass with a fella for two or more consecutive weeks you're considered common-law spouses with all the benefits implied by this type-o-union.

On War:

'What have they done since LOWRIDER came out?'

On Public Restrooms:

'Any Port-O in a storm, now what I'm saying?'


*should be read 'vag' like 'rag' and not 'badge' which would make this column more a Vagina Monologue of which I am ill-prepared to write at this moment in my life**

**I have no idea what that last bit means. I'm familiar with vaginas and have even read some exposes on them (thank you, Better Homes and Gardens) but I am by no means an EXPERT and should leave female anantomy-related scribblings to the professionals and select Penthouse Forum contributors.***

***Which I've never attempted as I'm sure my writings are not 'spoogey' enough for the readers of said Men's magazine.

Wednesday, August 27, 2003

I still think you're going to use this money for booze

'Nah...seer-leezly...thereza kindly ol' warshlady I knows that'll beat me slacks clean oveh an ash-can fera dollah-ten and I's just so happen tah be a damn dime short. Be a pal and front me 10 coppers.'


'I'm THIS close tah clean-living...if ya catch me whiff.'

damn pan(nts)handlers

Tuesday, August 26, 2003

...not a Phone Booth in Sight

'You gotcher self any o' them super-hero-y-like powers?'
'Damn straight. I can make my right fist stink.'
'That's it?'

(up Up and AWAY!)

Monday, August 25, 2003

State Fair Memory Part One: Bbllrrgghing

'That woman is so fat her sandals have fault-lines.'

(a response to the appearance of the largest woman ever witnessed at the 'Great Minnesota Get Together')


Friday, August 22, 2003

Lamenting over a Thermos on the Side of the Road

How'd you get there, little multi-colored Thermos?

Were you lost by a child on his way to school?
Will the lil'un go hungry now that he/she's soupless and be teased mercilessly by classmates at the noises emanating from his/her empty stomach?


Did an older gentleman on his way to his second shift at the rendering plant forgetfully leave you on the tailgate of his 1978 Chevrolet C20? Will he have to go without java during his break whilst his co-workers sip casually on their caffeinated beverages and opine over their work-related porcine gossip?


Perhaps a Small Animal Breeder, frustrated at the dwindling purebred Poodle market, turned his Semen Transportation Container into a projectile and tossed you angrily away after deciding to get into a new line of work?

So many questions are raised by your presence there in the gutter.

What were the circumstances that led to you being abandoned?

We may never know.


Thursday, August 21, 2003

An Incoherent Rant involving Two Willard Moments and a Hundred Years of Me

Did you know that Willard Scott-- the former Today Show 'Roker'-- was the original Ronald McDonald? For whatever reason*
this crossed my mind yesterday during a particularly slow stretch at work.**

This morning as I was preparing to leave for work he was on The Today Show doing his 'Happy-100-Birthday-to-You' schtick. Since he is no longer a regular fixture on this morning program I found this particularly strange that I was thinking of him and his former 'claim to fame/shame' just the day before.

Which brought up another thought:

What if I make it to 100 and appear on The Today Show Smucker's Jelly sponsered spot?***

Let's see..Willard's not getting any younger and I am (as of this writing) 66 years away from the Century mark. He's probably not going to be around to host my b-day spot; unless he acquired some type of Immortality from his time as the Original Ronald McDonald. I seem to remember reading an expose that explored the possibility that those who supped on the flesh of McDonald's founder, Ray Kroc, were endowed with long lives. As the original Ronald McDonald, Ol' Willy certainly MUST have had the option to feast on some Kroc-cass. I guess I'll have to take a 'Wait and See' approach on this.

If Willard isn't still upon this plane of existence then there is a chance that Al Roker will be. Even though he hasn't the Immortality-via-Cannibalizing-Kroc possibility that Scott has I have read in a Medical Journal that the shortening of one's gullet can can lead to an extended life span since one is no longer such a fat fuck (kaff); in which case Al could be there to wish me a Happy Happy 100th.


Whoever it is I need to prepare myself for the possibility that I will glean a bit of Televised 'Fame' if I reach the centenarian mark.****

Normally they'll recite some of the oldster's 'Secrets' to longevity; so I should prepare some comments NOW that run contrary to the usual responses heard on the program.

Commonly heard responses to 'How'd you live so long' usually involve:

God, Jesus Christ and/or a Deity of similar 'Heavenly' Attributes
A Daily Booze Intake Regimen
Not being a Commie

Y'know...crazy Old People Statements.

So I think Mine will go something like this (and eventhough I have 66 years to go they will probably still be UTTER LIES):

'My secret tah long life? I was neveh an Anthropophaginian McMascot and kept me gut as-is...Unlike a cuppla folk that SHALL REMAIN NAMELESS! No deals with the Devil for me!!! It's all about genes, baby...GEE-EEE-netics!!! Genes, robust boinking, the total disregard for lawn care, 250 burpies everystinkin' day, a fudgicle before bedtime and pants so damn tight I can feel me own pulse! Kiss my ancient ass, ya lily-white pantywaist scalawags!'

Or something like that.

*Errant Clown Thoughts are a sad side effect to having been hit in the face with a pie at the circus when I was a lad. The seltzer in the short pants didn't help either. Stupid Clown. Stupid Trauma.

**How pathetic is that? During lulls most folk will entertain themselves with all sorts of different activities and MINE at that moment happened to involve Willard Scott in pancake and a nose. Great. Just flippin' great.

***A thought that surely beats considering a future in the clown profession...unless I decide to become a clown on my 100th birthday. Ooo, I know! A 100 year old clown with his own Jelly line!!!

****Without considering the potential Long Life 'cheats' employed by both Willard and Al. Eating the 'Dean' of Hamburger University's corpse or the Snip-Snip of my stomach are not options. I want to do it the (ha) old-fashion way.

Wednesday, August 20, 2003

The DK Kid

The youngster in line in front of me at Half-Price Books was proudly wearing a vintage Dead Kennedys shirt; a formerly black but now faded to grey number with their emblem emblazoned upon the front...cracked but still recognizable. The clerk--a gentleman slightly older than I-- took note of this and asked:

'So, you like the Dead Kennedys?'

The kid nods.

'The only reason I ask is whenever I see one of those shirts the person wearing it doesn't really even know who the band was and is just wearing the shirt cuz his girlfriend gave to him or something like that.'

The kid shrugs.

I snigger.

From here (and while keying in the Kid's book purchases*) the clerk started dropping a bunch of DK song titles seeking the kid's opinion of them.

'Holiday in Cambodia? Stealing People's Mail? The Prey? California Uber Alles?'

No reaction from the Kid as he stares down at the countertop that seperates him from his new-found music-inquisitor.

I jump in as the-- thus-far-- one-sided 'conversation' had jogged loose some old DK memories from my teen years.

'Too Drunk to (whistle noise**)? Let's Lynch the Landlord? Their cover of 'Viva Las Vegas'?'

The double-whammy of questioning fails to elicit a reaction from the Kid.

The clerk bags up the Kid's books and the silent fellow departs without ever saying a word.

I move up to the counter, lean over and say:

'I think his girlfriend bought him that shirt.'

The clerk replies:

'I think you're right. Did ya ever like The Fall?'

'Erm...yeah...there was a Fall record that Gavin Friday from the Virgin Prunes sang on...'

And so on.

(s'troo story)

*sure wish I had been paying attention to what books he was buying. Probably titles like 'Yeah...I'm Punk Rock' and the ever popular 'None of Your Damn Business, Clerk-Guy'

**Since I was in a store that caters to reader's young and old I found it necessary to self-censor the FUCK out of the title 'Too Drunk to Fuck'

Tuesday, August 19, 2003

A Splat from the Past

Little did I know that--for a time in my youth--I was known by the locals as the Henry David Thoreau of Como Park.

Surprising to me as I have never been an outdoorsy Tree-Clinching type. The neighbors differed in this opinion from their sightings of me on or about Como Lake, frolicking around as only a tuddley lil' poly-wobble can and christening me with this aforementioned title.

I found out about this old-school nickname when I received a letter from the prestigious Walden Woods Society informing me that my many years as the 'Thoreau of Como' was being recognized with a plaque-- to be delivered to me personally by representatives of Don Henley and Edward Begley Junior.

Well...shiver me Timbers, eh?

Whipping snails at vehicles circling the lake finally paid off!

(I was also a skilled Stump-Sitter--no shit)

Monday, August 18, 2003

Little White Lies been around fo' years*

One source of Fun at the homestead is seeing what sort of 'Tall Tales' I can get the Boss to believe (which is often never...but what the heck).

On Friday she was watching a network broadcast of the Bond film, THE SPY WHO LOVED ME. The opening sequence has Roger-Moore-as-Bond escaping down the side of a mountain on skies. At this point I threw this nugget out there to see how it would go down:

'Roger Moore was a professional down-hill skier before he signed on to be The Saint on TV.'


Utter Silence.

The second Chestnut came about after an inside-a-submarine scene. Trying to keep a straight face I inform the Power-That-Is of the following nonsense:

'I've been on a submarine.'



' the marina.'

'What marina?'

'...the one on the Mississippi.'

Which pretty much blew that 'tale' right out of the water.



*Holy Crap...a lyrical quote from Sammy Hager

Sunday, August 17, 2003

Chew on this one


You are enjoying a sandwich* and there is a knock on your door.

Do you bring the sandwich with you to answer the door OR do you set it down on your plate/napkin/newspaper/sandwich doily before responding to the knock?

For me it would all depend on the quality of the sandwich. If it is one that I find so delicious that I hate to bear the thought of it leaving my sight (as my suspicious mind and conspiratorial gustatory senses would suspect its theft whilst I was away) than SURELY it will accompany me to the door (and assist in the Greeting of our unexpected guest).

'Why, Mister Spleenstein! What a surprise! Come on in. Have you met my sandwich, Mister Yum-Yum?'

On the other hand** if I was eating a regular everyday run-of-the-mill sandwich I would gladly abandon it before embarking on my journey to the door.

'Stay where you are, barely adequate sustenance. I will return shortly to muscle you down 'though my gullet doth protest thine digestion.'

However, if there was any knockwurst involved in the sandwich there'd be no question; the sandwich would answer the door itself.

'Yeah Yeah Yeah...I'll get the goddamn door. Think you so damn funny makin' the KNOCKwurst answer the door? Hope you starve while I'm gone.'


*Feel free to define 'enjoying a sandwich' any which way you'd like; whether it be eating it, sexing it, displaying it, et cetera.

**Say...there could be TWO sandwiches; one for Each Hand!

Saturday, August 16, 2003

Weekend Morning Coffee Dilemma

Do you drink the coffee called 'Woods and Water' if it is the only java in the house or would you be put off by the name?

What sort of flavor is implied by 'Woods and Water'?

'A lush blend of arboreal debris with a brackish pond aftertaste suitable for any post-Voyagueristic activities. Pull up a log and soak your taste buds in this unique beverage experience.'

From the folk that brought you 'Dugout Sluice' and 'Dutch Elm Delight'.


Friday, August 15, 2003

Late Night/Early Morning 'Snack'

Imagine my surprise when I took the dog out around 1:30 AM today and saw the neighbor's kid, Cheeto*, leaning into an idling vehicle's open door and obviously discussing some topic of great importance** (with an accompanying modern urban soundtrack) with the driver.

Roger's bladder is on an odd schedule and I can expect to loose him upon Mother Nature's majesty at any time of the day.

He does not take kindly to folk parking in front of HIS home--just like his old man (we share lots of common traits...although my outdoor urination has been on the wane as I learn to properly operate these crazy waterclosets found in most homes these days and I still have a proper three-piece set as far as I can tell).


I was disturbed and irritated by this tuddly 19 year old's indifference to the late hour and our respective neighbors slumber (other than my own...I'm a Night Owl...but I'm still working on the costume and utility belt; my secret hide-out--The Underground Aerie--was completed thanks to a charitable contribution from the Geeks-With-Aliases-Foundation within the last fortnight) due to the booming volume of the music reverberating from the idling car's stereo system.

You damn shits, I thought.

Roger was in agreement as he made an attempt to charge them, barking all the way.

I quickly (who, me?) restrained the galumphing bulldog and shot a bevy of dirty looks in their general direction; to no avail as the both of us were ignored completely. With a certain amount of effort I was able to wrangle Roger into the backyard in order for him to complete the task we originally had set out to accomplish (watering the flowerbed in highly nutritious canine whiz).

A moment or so later Cheeto pried herself into the vehicle and it pulled away with the music cranked up even louder (to eleven?) complimented by the obviously not-in-working-order exhaust system. today.

It was with all of this in mind that I have decided to set a trap to ensnare Cheeto and send her off to work in in the stockyards down by the river and give our community the peace and quiet we deserve.

First I'll need to get myself a Restaurant-Sized vat of Kool Whip (Sam's Club here I come), a bendy straw, and a porto-bamboo cage. Once assembled I will don my aforementioned nearly completed Nocturnal Vigilante ensemble and serve Justice to her with a plentiful Dollop of Whoop-Ass-Cream.

You'll see.***

(again...curmudgeon-y faux-oldster with some sorto superhero delusion)

*Cheeto gained this moniker the day I witnessed her walking down the street with an open Family-Sized bag of said cheese snacks, stuffin' and munchin' all along the way.

**Potential topics (probably) Included:
-What time do convenience stores shut-down the weiner-roller machines?
-Canadian Bacon: Over-rated?
-Licorice Preference: Nibs or whips?
-Which rapper really speaks to you? MC Jabberjaw or Skoal Mo' Wee?
-Should I get my hair dyed the color of seal steaks?

***Ahem. It does appear that this True Story quickly derailed. I never claimed to be an Engineer of any Casey-Jones-ian skills. Oh well.

Thursday, August 14, 2003

Ladles as Humor Prop

I was perusing the archives here and took note (and was mightily alarmed) at the sheer number of times that I have used a ladle as some sort of humorous device. Please do not think that I am singling out this particular kitchen utensil and elevating/demoting it to a position of derision; quite the contrary.

The ladle is our friend.

The ladle is of great assistance.

The ladle will lead us into the light.

Imagine the old days...pre-Tool-using Old Days...and you (and your clan of mouth-breathing knuckledraggers) espy a tasty pile of mashed tubers that look mighty appetizing.

Can you see this potential delightful feast in your mind's eye?



Peckishness overcomes your assembled meandering neanders and--after a group huddle--it is decided that it is in the best interest of the tribe to devour the taters immediately after Bbllrrgg's special gravy is liberally applied to them.

You cup your hand and shove it into Bbllrrgg's travelling Gravy sack...severely burning your entire arm (which will eventually distract you from the delicious spud fete the others have).

A lesson is learned.

And the ladle was born.

So keep this cautionary tale in mind the next time you utilize the mightiest of utensils.


Wednesday, August 13, 2003

KB Toys will be releasing a Presidential action figure this Fall called Elite Force Aviator: George W. Bush. The 'doll' comes bedecked in a flight suit and helmet ensemble identical to the outfit he wore when recently landing on an aircraft carrier.

Elite Force Aviator?

Uhm...he was a passenger.

Not to only quibble is that I do hope that this toy line will be expanded to include ALL of our country's Presidents because I--for one-- desperately NEED a William Howard Taft figure (packaged to include a plastic hambone replica and Presidential-Seal Ladle for all his State-Dinner-Gravy-Distribution-Situations). 15 pounds of molded plastic that would easily 'dignify' the mantle by its mere presence aside the other tchotkes displayed upon its surface AND subsequently raise my own station in life.

'Look it that!!! There on the mantle! Taft!!! Holy Shit, are one reverent bastard! Recognizing the heaviest of all the Presidents like that. The Pearly Gates will part the moment you hit the Heavenly Cloud bank. any chance do you have anything to nosh? That hambone has made me hungry.'


Friday, August 08, 2003

Meanwhile, at a seaside watering hole

Heh Heh heh.

Say there, little lady.

Call me Ishmael, if you know what I mean?

(prod prod)

S'right; I once knew a fella that carved his own peg-leg outta whale bone.

Looked aiight and all...aside from the distinct plankton aromatic 'fog' that seemed to follow him around when he hobbled about deck. It was sumpin' ya got usedtah after a spell. By the way, you smell great. What is that scent? 'You Smell Melville-ous,' eh? Outstanding!!!

So...heh...wanna come back to my place and see my scrimshaw? I'm a scrimshander from WAY back. Come from a long line o' BONE manipulators...Get it?


(prod prod)


No...that would be RICKshaws. SCRIMSHAW is the art of carving in ivory or bone...

(and so on)

(Whale Timer)

Thursday, August 07, 2003


Definition (thanks to Webster's):\Pot"luck`\, n.
Whatever may chance to be in the pot, or may be provided for
a meal.

In other words, a Planned potluck is not actually a potluck.

The reason this comes to my mind is that the folk at my job recently threw a potluck for a co-worker that was leaving. There was a sign-up sheet so that everyone could jot down what sort of edible crap they were going to supply; y'know...the Usual 'potluck' noshes...casseroles, pasta salads, cookies, jello, meatballs, et cetera.

My rule of thumb for 'potlucks' is:
'I'm not bringing anything...the fact that you HAD a job and were getting paid to do it and now are choosing to leave does not mean that a faux-feast should be in the offing to celebrate your damn departure.'

Like that.

However, I could REALLY get behind a potluck IF folk meant POTLUCK per its actual meaning (see above definition).

'Hey, Steve!!! We're throwing an impromptu potluck* for you! It just so happens that Marjorie, Ted and I had some leftovers in the company fridge and some other places and we figured that table scraps truly extol the qualities and work ethic you brought to our company during your many years toiling in your 'veal-fattening-pen.' Join us in the staff lounge for a half bag of Chee-tos, a plethora of hard candies, two day old Buffalo Wings from Swee' Earl's Pork Palace, carrot sticks and some other non-perishables confiscated from Husky Wally's 'Snack Cache.' We could even throw it in a big kettle and call it Booya if you prefer having it soup-ified.'

People gathering and eating whatever is on-hand...NOT prepared in advance.

Now that's a potluck.

After a few of this variety of potluck the practice would cease and--instead of a gaggle of co-workers standing around with steaming piles of fat on paperplates, gnawing and jawing--some actual work might get done.

I mean...that IS what were being paid for, yes?
(old curmudgeon)

*by definition ALL potlucks would be Impromptu.

Wednesday, August 06, 2003

Dog Walk Inquiries

'Can I pet your Frankie?'

Taking this question out of context can offer someone hours of euphemistic fun.
In its ACTUAL context comes off

I'll give the whole tale (or TAIL...depending on the swing on your porch):

As a proud English Bulldog owner (5 1/2 years of trundling, salivacious shits and giggles) I can tell you that I have long ago become accustomed to the typical questions thrown our way whilst out on Roger's walkies;

What kind of dog is that?
Is that a Pit Bull?
What's his name?
How much does he weigh?
What are doing on my front porch in a grass skirt holding a blazing ladle over your head like some sort of sad mockery of Lady Liberty?

Stuff like that.

The other day I added a new question to the mix while the pair of us were doing a circuit of our block...the aforementioned:

'Can I pet your Frankie?'

I spun towards the voice--the voice of a lad no more than 10 years of age--while considering what exactly he meant by my 'Frankie.'*

My mind's 'Translation' mechanism kicked into gear:
(start of Internal Dialogue)
'Frankie?...the hell does he mean by that? Some sort of new slang that I am unaware of? Does he want to pet my ding-dong? Jesus Christ...leave my Hostess Treat alone!!!'
'Or maybe he means my is kinda Zappa-esque...would a boy this young even KNOW about Frank Zappa? Even so...would he then refer to a jazz spot as a 'Frankie?'
'Maybe he means the dog...let's try that one first before we panic further...freakin' weird ass way to solicit THAT sort of thing if you ask me.'
(end of Internal Dialogue)

I asked the kid, 'Do you mean my dog?'

'Yeah. Your dog, Frankie.'

(whew) ' dog's name is Roger and you can pet him if he doesn't mind.'

We both look down to witness Roger chewing away at his leash completely unaware of the negotiations going on.

A quick pet on Roger's hindquarters (the area furthest away from his slobbering maw), a quick THANKS and the lad was on his way.

I never did figure out where the 'Frankie' came from. If I see him again I think I'll ask him about HIS Frankie, eh?
*I also noted that my hearing must be getting worse with age since this boy** managed to get within a few feet of me without any of my 'perimeter-breach-alerts' going off; normally this happens when Anyone comes up on me on my Lazy-Eye-side...
**This kid was also sporting what appeared to be a half-Kool-Aid-Van-Dyke (y'know...a more full-bodied punch-mustache that young'ns get after gulping their juice too fast). I was GOING to make mention of this when I recalled a similar situation many years ago when I pointed out to another lad that he had a piece of chocolate--a Hershey Kiss Sized piece of chocalate--stuck on his face. It turned out to be an overly large mole. Erp!!! The possibility that this was Port Wine and NOT Kool-Aid made me hold my tongue...I wasn't going to make the same mistake twice, eh?

Tuesday, August 05, 2003

An 89 Ford Taurus, eh?
Trick it out with a spoiler and a 'fart pipe' and I think you may just have yourself a deal.

(a wheeler-dealer-style negotiation I may someday find myself having with a Used Car Dealer)

Saturday, August 02, 2003

Fashion Tips

See that Sweet Hot Lass at the end of the bar?

Want to draw her into your web of desire? Get to 'know' her better?

Bedeck yourself in surefire 'Casanova' attire...which may not be what you expect, as I learned the other night when I watched a potential coupling unfold.

Clothing promoting Movies.

This young fellow I know was wearing a red short-sleeved button-up-shirt with THE EVIL DEAD printed in large letters over his left breast and a GIGLI baseball cap.

Instant Babe Magnet...I am not kidding.

Before you could say 'Where the Hell's my GREMLINS painter cap' this gorgeous gal in her early twenties was in his space inquiring on how she might ACQUIRE his shirt.*

That's it...I'm going to go dig up my ancient RETURN OF THE JEDI cap and either my MEGAFORCE or KRULL oxfords and hit the gigolo-trail.


* had everything to do with the fact that the shirt read THE EVIL DEAD and NOT the Garanimals-style collision of It and the Ben-Jen-topper; she was obviously a big fan of the film. If she really had any taste she would have been repulsed by the lid and moved on to the married gentleman sitting nearby in a lovely non-movie-related shirt and shorts ensemble (kaff kaff kaff wink)

Friday, August 01, 2003

TV DayDreams

"So, y'see, I's ridin' shotgun (y'know...Deputy-Dawg-style) with Sheriff Lobo and he's pissed off!!!
So much so that he ain't even had his 'nooner-snooter,' if you know what I mean. Seems some trucker and his co-pilot chimp done him some mighty-big Wrongin' and he's out fer blood!"