You won’t often find me mourning, but today is not a normal day.
I know that I come off as a complete cynic, and that my humor tends towards the darker reaches of the human condition, but I do believe in many things, and some of those beliefs were shaped, in part, by a man who died today.
Fred Rogers was a passionate believer in the inherent goodness inside every human being, and in the simplicity of our deepest souls.
Goodbye Mr. Rogers, you will be missed… you made THIS neighborhood a better place.
Once upon a time there lived a man in a cabin at the edge of a dark wood. He liked living. It was his favoritest thing to do. Even more than sleeping, or eating, or walking in the grass… Even more than wildly humping the woman who lived with him. He would wake in the morning and thank his lucky stars that he was still alive. He would eat his breakfast and revel in the joy of being able to taste the food due to the life coursing through his veins. He would walk outside and breathe the fresh air of the forest into his living lungs. He would go back inside and get into bed and wildly hump the woman who lived with him. All of this made him happy.
One day the man started to question just why he was alive, so he decided to take a journey to discover just what it was that made life possible. He gathered his belongings in a little sack, he put on his warmest pair of pants, he put on his comfortablest pair of softest boots made from finest goatskin. He ate a hearty lunch, and gathered a few flowers to brighten his journey. He wildly humped the woman who lived with him just one more time, for good measure, and then set out on his journey through the deep dark forest.
After traveling for just a bit, or a while depending on the time, the man encountered a big black bear, who rose up on his haunches and growled… “who is it that dares to pass through my forest while I sleep?” The man answered “I do.” So the bear killed him, in a horrible manner that took a very long time and included much suffering, ate him and he wasn’t alive anymore… The woman who lived with him began to wildly hump the pool boy in her sorrow.
The moral of this story is: If you’re lucky enough to have a cabin in the woods with a pool, and someone to hump, don’t go asking stupid fucking questions.
I have to confess... I have become a corporate morning coffee addict. With the dawn of every new day I try to pass my local Starbuck/Tea Leaf/ Megabuck Caffeine pit and I find myself slowing to a crawl... the aroma of espresso in my nostrils... the burning desire for that hot cup of black gold... my fix. I have tried, really tried to stop myself, to tame my dark desires with numerous containers of office -brew... I had hoped that it would stop this yearning, my senses dulled by the horridity of the vile liquid. But it has not... Ashamed, I frequently enter the corporate coffee hellhole in disguise... a Hindu buying fourteen venti lattes shouldn't attract too much attention, right? But of course this fools no one... the overly pierced coffee jockey behind the counter knows me... and he giggles at my predicament. He knows that he has job security, he knows that I have sold out my soul, my beliefs to his evil masters in Seattle. He is well aware that I have a monkey on my back, a monkey with a cattle prod whose only desire is to make me buy more coffe, more coffee, more coffee, and maybe a croissant. Or, maybe he's just stoned... who knows? But, I have finally resolved to be better, I am going back to my anti-corporate beliefs... I will stand up to these mega conglomerates who are the only ones with enough cash to import the very finest beans, I will say no to the temptations of pre-packaged corporate delight... I will fight back. Tomorrow I switch back to Coca-Cola.
Leon finished what he had to do… and then he left the hotel room as swiftly and as silently as he had come in. This was his job, it didn’t matter to him who these people were… this wasn’t personal, this was business. This one had been relatively easy, but people didn’t always understand. They got nasty with him and then when they saw that that wasn’t going to help them they begged, begged for more time, begged for him to go away, but he couldn’t do that… he wasn’t paid to do that. This one however, had been easy.
She was in the shower when he came in, that wasn’t unusual oddly enough, he often caught them like that. She would have no idea…
He did a quick inventory to make sure he had everything he needed… he always hated it when he inadvertently forgot some little detail… he was a professional. Everything was there… she was still in the shower.
He went first to the bed; stripping it quickly… he tossed the sheets on the floor near the door to the bathroom. He heard the squeak of the knobs as the shower was turned off… she would be out here soon, and he had to be ready. He gripped the handle of his favorite tool of the trade, he had searched for years to find one like it, and this was the one he always brought with when he had a job to do. It was lightweight, portable and relatively silent… in his line of work, that was all that mattered.
He heard her moving around in the bathroom, and the thought ran through his head that he should act quickly, before he startled her and she let out a scream… it was awful when they screamed. The worst were the men, the women screamed, cursed and maybe threatened, but the men… they actually tried to confront him at times. It was almost as if the fact that he had made them scream, somehow caused them to suddenly decide that a macho posture would make a difference… it never did… it never would… business was business, and it wasn’t as if his presence should be a total shock… surely they must have known… if they didn’t it wasn’t his problem.
He knew her name, Miss Shelby Marsden… nice name; he’d have to remember that one. Shelby Marsden, room 212… that’s what the hotel register said. 212… 214 right next door was an older couple, “a scream would probably give one of them a heart attack,” he thought to himself. Wouldn’t want that…
210 was another couple, younger, but with two little kids… kids… oh well, sometimes they got in way, if they did he dealt with them… he didn’t like doing it, but he did his job… and nothing, not even a kid was going to stop that.
The waiting felt like an eternity, he began to wonder whether or not he should just get it over with… no… patience…
The door began to open, his finger squeezed down on the trigger… the sound startled her… but she didn’t scream. That shocked him, she didn’t scream, she just stared… stared with crystal blue eyes. It was over in a second… she simply said, “oh, I didn’t know you were here. “ “Of course not, my apologies.” he said, “I just have to…” she cut him short, she wasn’t mad or scared, just annoyed. “I know why you’re here… just do what you have to… I understand.”
He smiled, “well, that makes things easy” he thought to himself… oh well…
He fingered the trigger lightly and the sound erupted from the machine, not loud, but still enough to make you aware of it. He whirled it around the room and finished it off. He then replaced the bedclothes… then into the bathroom, a quick once over, replace the soaps… and he was out.
He hoped that the old couple weren’t screamers… he knocked lightly, and then said as loud and clear as he could… “Housekeeping!”
Another wonderful epic movie idea by your's truly...
A strip club impresario wakes up, only to find that it is 1620, and that he is a pilgrim. Though the puritan community resists strongly at first, he eventually manages to introduce his fellow pilgrims to the joys of bikini mud wrestling. The pilgrims take to this new activity with gusto, due to the fact that there isn't really much else to do, and there is a great abundance of mud. With their newfound love of adult entertainment, the pilgrims now introduce the local Indians to this practice and thus begin to change the fabric of our nation. Gone is the agrarian economy that brought about the slave trade, gone is the idea of manifest destiny that robbed the Indians of their lands, gone is the stifling religious dogma that hindered so many. The country is now an economic superpower by 1750 with a booming sex industry. Through six generations we see how the family of our original strip club operator grow in stature and in power... until 1776 when a rare form of VD wipes out the nation and the Canadians invade and take over.
I wish that I didn't, but I do. (For those of you who don't know, an origin story is the tale that reveals the genesis of a superhero's powers... Batman's parents dying, Superman's Kryptonian heritage and Peter Parker's radioactive spider bite, all origin stories.) I mean, I know that Jack and Alicia got together and I was born, but there is nothing in my later years which would provide me with some super powers, while driving me to further some cause. (Be it justice, revenge etc.) I have no extraterrestrial lineage on which to draw, I have no nemesis with which to engage in witty repartee whilst we do epic battle in the skies above, I have only been bitten once and that was by a grumpy chihuahua who was to my best knowledge merely anti-social and not radioactive. I have no ability to fly, and although I have been known to bring in many bags of groceries at one time, it can be said in a true and honest manner that I am indeed without super strength. I have no X-Ray vision, believe me I've spent hours trying... I do not become a large green avenger when I get angry, which in any case is probably a good thing due to the fact that I tend to lose my temper frequently and for minor offenses. Destroying a city block due to the line at the post office just wouldn't do, no it just wouldn't... I have no cool nomme de guerre, like Wolverine, or even Thing... (Although Skunkman was once suggested, but that was due in large part to an uncooperative burrito whose consumption had been ill advised and had nothing whatsoever to do with the aforementioned chihuahua) I have no super senses to warn me of impending danger, or to let me know when a villain is nearby. (Although, I am able to to sense the presence of one of the writers in my office long before she appears, this is not due to any power on my count, but to the fact that she is in fact pure evil.) (SHE must have an origin story somewhere...) I lack all of these things, I am simply a guy... a regular guy with no super attributes and no real nemesis... but I do swear to all who read this... one of these days I'll find that damn chihuahua.
The truth of the matter is, that I feel somehow insignificant due to the fact that I do not yet possess my own network talk/variety show. I want to live the life illustrated on THE LARRY SANDERS SHOW, I want to have the self importance of having a theater and or studio named after me. The Carlos Larkin Theater would be open to all celebrities regardless of race, creed or last performance at the box-office.
This is my promise, should I get my own talk show, I will feature midget sketches and mayhem, I will bring back the danger that was the early David Letterman Show. I will be relentless, I will be daring, I will be bold and break new ground. I will take chances and thumb my nose at my network bosses, I will break the constraints of the talk show format and risk failure in pursuit of sublime comedy that will be remembered and impact television in the way Ernie Kovacs did. And then when I have done all this, I will sell it all out to do a mediocre show in an earlier time slot for more money.
In this world with so much pain, it is almost incumbent upon us to create a little levity. We should strive to keep the world a happy place. Thus, I propose a new form of radically different entertainment... let's put some babies in a box and shake it to see if we can get them to fight.
Yet another day passes without my having become a multi-billionare pseudo-celebrity. Another day that I haven't controlled the fate of the world in my hands. Yet another day where I have not risen above Joe Average to be something better than this world expects. And, I still haven't met a big Korean named Oddjob.
Apparently I hurl epithets... this is what I have been told by my car-mate in the morning who shall remain nameless. I guess the morning commute is laced with invective to the point that it makes me seem like somewhat of an aggressive psychotic. A typical exchange would be thus:
"(Expletive deleted) you (Expletive deleted)!!!! Can't you learn how to (Expletive deleted) drive? What the (Expletive deleted) is wrong with you? I wish you had never been (Expletive deleted) born you (Expletive deleted) (Expletive deleted) (Expletive deleted)... In fact, if I could go back in time I would seek out your (Expletive deleted) grandparents and insure your (Expletive deleted) parents were never born so that you wouldn't be in my (Expletive deleted)(Expletive deleted) way right now you sorry(Expletive deleted) piece of (Expletive deleted) (Expletive deleted)!!!!!"
Okay, so maybe she has a point... and George should've told Lenny about the rabbits more often, then all of that unpleasantness could have been avoided.
The field of dream analysis is a relatively new one in the history of mankind, (although Voltaire is known to have once dreamt that he was up to his neck in a vat of custard, custard being the one thing he refused to eat, upon waking he demanded to know what the dream meant and why his socks were missing) therefore in an attempt to make it more accessible to the general public Dr. Hans Frung the noted German Psychiatrist whose work in the field of both human and animal psychosis is well documented, (It was Frung who first put forth the theory of the Oedipal complex and how it relates to antisocial behavior in Midwesterners and Pandas) has agreed to analyze the dreams of some of his patients for us.
Ms. M of Danbury Connecticut
I dream that I am lying on a beach listening to the sound of my heart beating, then I realize that it is not my heart but the sound of my neighbor Mr. Cohen making a beating heart noise in his throat. I rise and slap Mr. Cohen who turns into a spider monkey and begins reading Plato’s Republic while humming a medley of ragtime tunes on a kazoo; suddenly, the dream changes and I am a little girl again, I am at my grandmother’s house eating a fresh strawberry tart, hot from the oven while being serenaded by a gypsy band. My grandmother rushes in and shoos the gypsies away, which annoys me. I slap my grandmother and she turns into a spider monkey and begins reading Plato’s Republic while humming a medley of ragtime tunes on a kazoo. The dream changes yet again and I watch myself debating with President Wilson. The debate is a lively one for awhile, he stating his reasons for keeping the U.S. out of World War I, and me stating that his breath stinks and that his mother is something less than slim; however, after a comment of mine about how the League of Nations is nothing more than a third rate rumba band, Wilson slaps me and I turn into a spider monkey, I immediately begin reading a book of ragtime sheet music while humming Plato’s Republic on a kazoo.
Dr. Frung’s Analysis
The patient’s dream is an interesting one in the sense that it is obvious even to the passive observer that Mrs. M. suffers from a deep seated hostility towards her own sexual desires. The fact that she slaps Mr. Cohen after mistaking his pleasure in making the heartbeat noise for her own pleasure in hearing it is probably due to the fact that she has never been able to achieve orgasm, and the repeated use of authority figures in the personages of her grandmother, and the late president suggest that she in some way wishes she were a short blonde named Trixie. As for the use of ragtime and Plato’s Republic this can be attributed to either a guilt complex at her lack of education and culture, or the overindulgence in pepperoncini shortly before bedtime.
Herr. S of Erfurt Germany
I am eating dinner in my home with Lenin, and we are having an animated discussion over the pros and cons of the workers control of industry and of the pros and cons of eighteen year old girls in bikinis. In time I realize that I am not eating with Lenin, but in fact I am eating with a cardboard cutout of him, I also realize to my dismay… that I am losing the debate. Trotsky shows up at the door and demands to be shown the door, but to his chagrin I show him the mantle instead, he is distressed at this and begins remarking about my failure to invite his cutout to dine. “A fine thing”, he says, “you invite Lenin’s cutout and leave mine to fend for himself, and did he even bring cake or a bottle of wine?” I confess that he did not whereupon Trotsky produces a silver coin from my ear. Not one to be outdone Lenin’s cutout produces an Eskimo from my mouth, this enrages Trotsky who slams his fist into the victrola in the corner which begins playing “Ring Around the Rosie”, while we dance and sing the door opens and several cardboard cutouts of eighteen year old girls in bikinis enter, they sit and start a rousing game of The Minister’s Cat, until, in a vain attempt to seduce them, Lenin’s cutout bites off the end of my nose. The cutout girls then leave with Trotsky as I wake up screaming.
Dr. Frung’s Analysis
This patient poses a great many problems that are inherent in his psyche and manifest themselves with alarming clarity upon review of his dream. Firstly, he is having dinner, when we all know that lunch would be far more suited to entertaining the leader of a communist state, thus he has already in his subconscious allowed himself to blunder, making him an obvious target for delusions and pranks on the order of the “wedgie”. Secondly the continued cardboard cutout imagery suggests that the patient suffered the traumatic loss of either his identity, a favorite aunt or his lucky pen. The appearance of eighteen year old females in bikinis however is indicative of a normal mind functioning in a rational state, as I myself often have dreams featuring this image I feel that this diagnosis is correct. My greatest concern for this patient lies in the image of Trotsky, for it is he that brings up the subject of cake, and, as most students of Freud know it is an image rife with meaning. “Show me a man who dreams of dropping his neighbor down a laundry chute,” wrote Freud, “and I’ll show you a healthy man; however, if that same man dreams of bringing cake to his neighbor, then I will show you a neighbor who would be wise to move and live among the topless eighteen year old girls of Tahiti, in fact almost everyone should do that.”
Monsieur V. of Zurich
In my dream, I am walking with a camel in a bright sunny field of flowers. I see several nuns in the distance singing the entire score of “Pippin” backwards, they beckon me and I follow. They lead me to a man on a hillside dressed in last year’s fashions, he tells me that all of life’s meaning can be found in the Omaha Public Library. I take the camel to the Omaha Public Library but they won’t let him in the reference section due to the fact that he cannot successfully disprove the existence of anyone named Bertha and because he is wearing spats. This exasperates the camel who begins quoting Kafka, while eating kasha. In a corner I see the floating head of my first wife, who tells me that it is much more enjoyable to eat pudding while nude. I explain to her that I am already aware of this, but would she please tell me where she hid my wooden leg, as I need it. She laughs and tells me that she is very sorry she hid it, and that she would love to tell me where it is, but she hasn’t the time due to the fact that she and the camel have a lunch appointment. This upsets me, obviously, and when I confront the camel he flies away, leaving me talking to the platypus librarian and with a fine of $23,434,234,534.02 for bringing “De Sade’s 101 Dirty Pictures Pop Up Book” back four years late.
Man, all I can say after watching that Michael Jackson thing last night is, THAT GUY IS STRANGE. I can't even imagine what he was thinking... I have done a lot of weird things in my life, but I have NEVER spent eight months with Michael Jackson.
Whenever I get the urge to slap a policeman in the head, I try to remember the fact that they have a difficult job protecting society from people who would eat the last Twinkie in the box without any remorse. I reflect upon the danger they put themselves in. I ponder the idea that they are the "thin blue line" that keeps us safe at night. I make my peace with the idea that in a civilized society some form of authoritarian control must have dominion due to the fact that most of us, if given the chance, would eat the last Twinkie in the box with no remorse. I weigh the fairness of my desire to slap said policeman in the head against all these things. And then I usually decide not to. Because a lot of those guys have guns.
I just overheard a commercial for some product or other that featured the singing of Andreas Bocelli. For those of you who have no idea who this is, he is the blind opera singing guy. The commercial got me thinking, why is it that musical talent seems to be the consolation prize for not being able to see? I mean Bocelli, Stevie Wonder, Ray Charles, and do I even need to mention how many blues singers are called Blind Lemon Somethingorother? (In the case of the blues singers blindness cannot always be verified. It may have just been a fad to call yourself Blind Lemon Somethingorother, and it follows that they may have just been following that fad. I mean, it does make your case for having the blues stronger if you are Blind Lemon Somethingorother, rather than Slightly Balding Lemon Somethingorother, or Gassy Lemon Somethingorother. Of course, if you live with a "fo-hunnert" pound woman who shot your mama in Memphis before she done you wrong... well then maybe being blind is the least of your worries.) But is it really fair? Sure, you can wail a great song... but a Pinto and a Rolls Royce are pretty much the same thing as long as they've been sprayed with air freshener. Think about it, you piss off your personal assistant, he dresses you up the next day like one of the Village People... you have no idea. The magnitude of the trials that those who cannot see face on a daily basis, is overwhelming. It really makes you think. I mean, imagine not being able to see naked people... God, the horror...
Note to Self: I must remember that making me wait in line is no justification for accusing the pharmacist of fascism... I will apologize to him as soon as my hair grows back.
I often wonder if my dogs have a name for me in their own language. And more especially, do both of them use the same name? Because I know they seem to understand each other... did they agonize over what to call me when I got them like I did with their names? The reason I wonder is because, to my knowledge, I have never really sat down and told them what my real name is... so if they heard you tell a story about me, they might not know who you were talking about.
So... my exile gave way to thoughts that have plagued me for many years... namely, if I had to choose and could not reverse my decision, which would I rather be Batman or Superman? When I was a child, it was no contest... Batman had the series in color. Then I grew older and Superman just seemed cooler... you know, not as gay. But now, as an adult, their are more factors to consider... Batman, cool outfit, babes love newer Batmobile, gadgets, Batcave etc. On the other hand, Superman, decent outfit, chicks love him, AMAZING powers.
And after much internal debate, I have come to a decision... (First let me say that I do not wish to hear the requisite whining from the Marvel crowd. Yes, Stan is a genius. Yes, he has created some of the greatest characters of all time. But, Batman would have dropped Spidey from a building a long time ago.)
And my decision is... I would only be able to accept being Batman with all of Superman's powers and none of the weaknesses. The reason being, if I were Superman, I would have to work for a living, and be nice to EVERYBODY, even criminals. And I'm sorry I just can't accept that. Superpowers... and a job? What's the point? I would have to commit some Super Crime to become independently wealthy so as not to have to work. (Of course, I would only steal from some rich prick who could afford it and didn't have any money tied up in anything that would affect any nice little old ladies.) No, I would definitely have to Batman... then I could drop people from buildings with impunity... MWAHAHAHAHAHA... but only the bad ones... obviously... and not just anyone who pissed me off... obviously.
Plus just as a side note: Aquaman could so kick Flash's ass.
Have been remanded to computer due to television onslaught of Tuesday night estrogenfest. Gilmore Girls now infesting television one, to great and unending delight of girlfriend who finds their banter much too amusing. TV two is currently taping Buffy estrogenfest, thus rendering said entertainment vessel unuseable for male televisual entertainment. (Though Buffy HIGHLY entertaining, have been banned from watching lest male lets slip how many times Spike seen without shirt thus spoiling great and unending delight of girlfriend who finds his rippling muscles much too arousing. As if male would have noticed this on a show containing a vampire slaying blonde and a lesbian... indeed.)
Must find all wrestling channel featuring Texas-Caged-Midget Deathmatch to counter effects of Gilmore presentation.
Sometimes, when I am in my bed... in that place between this world, and the world of dreams... I hear the voice of a Shriner with a lisp, and he says "Excuse me, but how do you get to Pizmo Beach?" and I wake up screaming... because I have never been to Pizmo Beach. And, I have no idea how to get there...
Believe it or not...
The words to the Island nation of Haiti's national anthem actually include "gonna build a raft out of inner-tubes and get the hell out of here..."
