I dunno how I got to waxing nostalgic about all the pets I've had over the years, but I did. Perhaps I'll bore you poor fuckers with some of my recollections, should you not have the sense to get the fuck outta here.

For those who've remained, you are now my hostages.

OK. I got those fuckers outta here. Now we can get down to business.

Whew!

Anyway, I won't relate these anecdotes in chronological order cos I don't fuckin feel like it. As a matter of fact, the only thing I was gonna originally pipe up with is this:

I had this cat named Sarge. "Sarge" is a regrettable name, but what're you gonna fuckin do? I'm reasonably certain that the cat didn't care. It's kinda like when they put red #5 in the dog's kibble. The dog's not paying any attention. It's just plain ol Cheerios. But if it's red, you feel like the dog gets to eat red bullshit that he doesn't like very much as opposed to brown bullshit that he doesn't like very much. I credit dogs with much intelligence, including their not caring what color the goddam kibble is.

That, and I've seen dogs eat some extremely repulsive terribleness that makes me assume that the fuckin dog doesn't pay attention to the aesthetic value of his food.

Anyway, I wanted a dog and my mom only let me have a cat. The cat got named "Sarge". The cat was orange and white. Like a Creamsicle. I don't remember much from high school biology class, but I rembember enough to know that there was no such feline species as "Creamsicle". You know the type, so I won't pretend to know what the hell kinda cat Sarge was.

Now that I think about it, at least the poor bastard's name wasn't "Creamsicle".

If I had a daughter, that chick'd be mowing the lawn and changing the oil in my car. If I had a son, the fucker'd be washing my clothes and baking me some brownies.

Fortunately for my children, they're non-existent.

But I had a fuckin cat and I wanted a dog, so Sarge learned how to wrestle. He'd fuckin try to get you, too: I'd throw him at the wall while he was biting the piss outta my forearm, purring the whole time. He'd come back for more. You couldn't pet him cos he'd fuckin bite you, but he'd bite you with a grin. I think. Now that I think about it, maybe that cat hated my guts. Nah, this is my story and me and the fuckin cat were buddies.

I was 14 and/or 15 when Sarge was hangin out. I was in the process of teaching myself how to play the electric guitar. It was an extremely loud trial and error thing that normally resulted in error. I played all the time, and I played really really fuckin loud. I wasn't very good and I didn't care. I'd scream my head off into a microphone while I bashed Sex Pistols and Ramones tunes on my guitar.

Sarge loved it. He'd bask on my amplifier,seemingly purring, as if he were laying in a sunlit windowsill. He was a cool cat. I forget what happened to him, though I know he didn't just run outta batteries....

Wet Dreams

Jeeze, it's hard to think of shit to yammer about when I'm in a bad mood. I guess I could just start complaining about stuff, but that's about as interesting as relating my dreams to you. Of course, some of my dreams are really really fuckin captivating. I've heard that hearing about others' dreams is about the most boring and uninteresting activity that one can have the misfortune of getting involved in. I've been to jail a bunch of times and I've been to church thrice, and I can say with all honesty that I'd rather listen to some fool tell me about the storyline that his subconcious had concocted to keep him busy with while he was sleeping.

Still, your dreams are fuckin stupid. Unless I'm in them. And then I only wanna hear about what I was doing. And half the time I don't even wanna hear about that, cos it turns out that all I was doing was cooking scrambled eggs in the dog food dish or some goddam thing. And really, what kinda cameo appearance is that?

I recently had a dream that I lost my golf clubs and that my hammer was all floppy. I mentioned it to some asshole and he brought Freud into the conversation. So I shut up, most certainly to the relief of everybody within earshot. Then I had a dream that I had a fuckin nail sticking through my finger and I was trying to pry it out with a claw hammer... It hurt, too. Who knows what was actually going on to make my finger hurt in real life...

Now that I think about it, what the hell's up with wet dreams? Has anybody ever actually had one of these things? I'm always just about to get laid and then the lady turns into some monster or something and I never get the opportunity to knock it out. And I'm pretty sure that you're not allowed to have sex and/or masturbate 6 or 7 times a day if you expect to have a wet dream. So I guess I'm fucked. Not in my dreams, though.

But I wonder what the hell's goin on in real life while a guy's experiencing a wet dream? Is it the kinda thing that you really hope nobody was paying attention to? Alright, this has been completely fuckin stupid, I apologize for posting it, but I'm posting it anyway cos I was bored enough to write it. Sayonara.

The Humming Pee-Pee Sloth

I scurried up to the restroom to wait my turn. I had to go pretty badly, but I think I was keeping my composure: I wasn't squirming around and doubling over or jumping from foot to foot. I wasn't spinning around in circles. And I wasn't declaring to anybody within earshot, "HOLY CHRIST, I GOTTA PISS LIKE YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE!" Nor was I clutching my crotch, which is always a bad idea because you have to unclinch it order to get your thing out. You're no longer relying on your internal don't-piss-yourself defenses. You've put all your trust in your thumb and forefinger. You've become one-handed. Then, when it comes time to release your grip in order to unzip your pants, you unleash an embarrassing torrent of urine all over your hand, your pants, your shirt, the floor, and any other object that happens to be at ground zero.

Nope. I was being pretty cool for a guy who was about ready to run outside and take a leak on the crowded sidewalk. Still, considering that I was waiting outside a restroom, you wouldn't have to be Sherlock Homes to notice that I probably had to pee pretty bad.

And I had another problem. I was standing behind another guy who was already waiting when I had arrived. He didn't look to be in a big rush, and I considered asking him if I could go ahead of him. I'm pretty quick on the draw. But I figured, how long can he take? I'll just wait. No big deal. Just then, the door opened and a seemingly satisfied customer exited the bathroom. Cool. One down, one to go.

The fat guy in front of me disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door. Sweat was beginning to break out on my forehead. I waited. And I waited. It seemed as if being so incredibly full of urine had heightened my sense of hearing. I could hear the sink running. I heard the humming of a non-tune. I wasn't hearing any toilet-flushing. What the fuck was this dingleberry doin in there?

I did something that I almost never do. I knocked. I hate it when people knock while I'm doing my business. Once is okay, but not when they knock repeatedly. I mean, I'm going as fast as I can. Knocking on the goddam door the whole time I'm in there isn't gonna make me poop any faster. So I don't like to knock if the person who's using the restroom is aware that I'm waiting. But this asshole didn't seem to realize that there was a crisis situation going on out in the hallway, so I figured I'd sound the alarm by tapping gently.

The knock didn't seem to have any effect. More humming. Sink still running. The blowing of a nose. So I gave the door a not-so-gentle kick, hinting that the next time I had to touch that locked door it would be when I was kicking the motherfucker down. About a minute later, the guy finally opened the door and casually walked out, giving me the hairy eyeball as he did. I don't know what kind of glare I gave him. Probably not much of one. I had my eye on the prize. I slammed the door and ran over to the toilet.

The seat was down and there was fresh, dark yellow liquid all over it. No, I didn't taste it or anything, smartass. It just looked fresh, so I assumed it was. I'm not gonna engage in the timeless seat up/seat down debate right now. I've talked too long as it is. But I always put the fuckin seat up. I might not put it back down when I'm done, but at least I'm not gonna piss all over the seat. So I lifted the seat with my foot, though the damage had already been done. Plus, a crowd had gathered outside while I had been waiting, and I wanted the next person to know that I wasn't guilty of toilet seat-befoulment.

To further claim my innocence, once I had done my thing and washed my hands in a timely fashion, I reported to the folks out in the hallway as I walked past them that it had taken that fat guy 10 minutes to piss all over a toilet seat. Most of them looked amused at that, as one will when a the solution to a mystery has been revealed.

Be Vewy Caweful, I'm Hunting Fudd

Okay. The serious matter about which I am to discuss is, as far as I know, confined to Central Missouri. I'd conduct a survey to find out if anybody who's reading who lives outside of Missouri can identify with my social/anthropoligical observations, but I don't think that very many people are reading this. I'd probably only recieve an answer from one person that says either "Yep" or, conversely, "Nope". And one can hardly arrive at any solid conclusions based on meager results such as those. If anybody is reading this nonsense, they're certainly not admitting to it. Which leads me to believe that these sneaky fuckers are masturbating to my blogs....

So I probably won't gain any response from anybody, much less anything resembling any kind of enlightenment. This comes as no surprise. It's totally normal. Therefore, I'll just keep on blabberin.

As far as I know, the Brothers Warner never explained just where the hell Elmer Fudd was from. I mean, Bugs Bunny sounded like he was from Brooklyn or something and he'd often travel through Albuquerque. But he'd wind up in the North Pole and Camelot and everywhere else. He'd always be hangin out in some unnamed forest whenever Elmer Fudd would show up and try to fuck with him. This forest could've been anywhere. I have reason to believe that it was located somewhere near Columbia, Missouri.

For one thing, my sources indicate that Columbia is nearly equidistant from Albuquerque and Brooklyn.

The other evidence that I have is this: There are a few motherfuckers around here who talk like Elmer Fudd. They may not have the same voice, but they definitely have the accent. I've encountered them a number of times. I've never heard anybody talk like Elmer Fudd before I arrived in Missouri unless they were doing so in jest. Personally, I like singing "I Wanna Rock N Roll All Night" in Fudd-Speak. But that's as far as I generally take it.

I worked at a burger joint a while back and one of our semi-regular customers would order a "Cheesebuwguw and Fwies". We'd act like we didn't hear her so she'd have to repeat it. I was recently seated near a not-very-menacing gang of Halo nerds at a restaurant. One of them spoke with this accent, his friends all somehow maintaining straight faces as he expwained how he took down a hewicoptuh wit a wecoilless wifle. I pointed his Fuddist accent out to my friend whom I was sitting with. Our food got cold as we ignored our sandwiches in order to eavesdrop on our neighbor's lunchtime conversation.

These are only 2 examples. I have more, but hopefully you get the idea. Now, I've toyed with the theory that maybe these folks are suffering from some kinda syndrome or something, but if they are then it seems to be one that's exclusive to Missouri. I've been all over the place and have never met any Fudds til just recently. Not that I have any problem with Fuddites. Dey bwighten up de wuld, and deaw's nuting wong wit dat.

Froot Loops, Frat Boys, and Filosofie

I'm not sure what the fuck's wrong with me sometimes. Other times, I think I probably have a pretty good idea as to what the hell my problem is. Sometimes, I'm absolutely certain about the screwed up conclusions at which I've arrived. If all else fails, there seems to be no shortage of inciteful pricks to point out to me what kind of dumbass I happen to be being in any given situation. Hooray for them!

In case you're planning on blackmailing me, I don't have any money. Unless you just wanna get me to wash your car or something, in which case I will tell you that you'd better make sure to remove all your valuables from your vehicle. Hell, I worked at a car wash when I was 16. Stealing change and weed and whatever else outta the cars was how we all supplemented our incomes. And we ALL did it. Keep this in mind next time you take your car to Buff 'N' Shine. Or as my uncle likes to call it, the Scratch 'N' Dent.

O.K. So I used to semi-legally burglarize cars when I was a kid. I think that this is about the only dark admission that I'll make for the duration of this little blurb of bullshit that you've somehow had the misfortune of clicking yourselves into reading. The shortcoming that I was alluding to when I first acted upon the bad idea of writing this blog is this:

I somehow had the idea that rich white boys were neat and tidy.

This is a little bit racist and very, very classist. And I know better. I might not be the sharpest bulb in the turnip patch, but I've been around long enough to not be shocked to find out that rich white boys have as much potential as anybody else to be disgusting slobs. I guess I let myself be duped. I mean, if you invest very much time into looking all clean-cut, then your dwelling must surely look nicer than the abandoned buildings that I used to live in when I was in my late teens and early 20's, right?

The answer to this sweetly posed question is: Fuck no.

I just recently spent far too long refinishing the floors in a fraternity house. I don't know what the name of the fraternity is. I almost made up something stupid like "Krappa Zappa Pu", but I decided that I'd sound like an idiot if I actually posted those words on the internet. Hell, for all I know, if you utter those words aloud a fuckin genie'll pop outta your computer and punch you in the nose. Don't believe me? Go ahead and try it!

Holy shit, do I ever hope you just said "Krappa Zappa Pu" out loud just now!

Anyhow, I've lived in a lot of fucked up houses. I don't feel like going into the weirder shit that's gone on in those houses right here on blogspot.com, but let me assure you that dogs have been eaten, as well as human embryos. Rigor mortised cats have been skinned, fires have been doused with piss buckets. Robitussin vomit has been eaten by the dog. Aw, fuck. I was totally trying not to say any of that crap, and there I went and started saying it anyway....

The aforementioned terrors weren't the norm, but the abandoned houses that I lived in as a young man were definitely nasty. We were drunk bums, taking up residence in abandoned houses with no running water. Use your imagination to explore all the implications of that (if you've never experienced it yourself), cos I don't feel like expounding on it. The frat house that I just found myself in might've been less nauseating in some ways. But the house that these rich boys' parents pay for them to live in is one horrible motherfucker.

I cleaned a daycare center as a side job a few years back. One a week, they'd feed the little fuckers Froot Loops and I'd have to figure out how to get those goddam things off the floor with a mop. Jesus, that sucked. But those kids were 4 years old or something. I was sanding Froot Loops and Spaghetti-O's and chewed up gum off of these people's floors, and they're all between the ages of 18 and 22. If I was living with somebody who decided to just spit a wad of Bubbalicious out in the middle of the living room floor, I swear I'd fuckin break his ribs.

I hate that shit. Irresponsible gum chewers are why anarchy doesn't work.

Okay. Well, this whole blog is just trailing off into some annoying corner of the basement of my boredom, so I might as well turn around and get the fuck outta here. I apologize if you've followed me this far.

Not Being A Fuckin Idiot 101

I was in a bit of a hurry to get to my truck last night after dinner. That's cos I had just dine n dashed! Nah. I didn't dine n dash. I've only done that twice, and both times it was spontaneous. One of the times, the restaurant people were bastards, the food sucked, and nobody seemed all that interested in bringing me a check. The other time was pretty much the same deal except for that the food didn't suck. And it would've been better if I would've known beforehand that I was getting a free meal. Then I would've gotten the fuckin lobster.

But that's the thing. Or one of the many, many things that there are: There's no way I could enjoy my dinner while my adrenal glands were preparing me to leave without paying. Plus, I think they usually stick it to the waitress if you don't pay, and that's bullshit. Same with trashing the place cos the manager's a cocksucker. The manager isn't likely to be the poor sucker who's wiping graffiti off the table and milkshake off the wall.

Anyway, none of this has anything to do with anything. The reason why I was in a hurry to get to my truck is because I was in danger of freezing my nuts off. It wasn't the kinda weather you write home to Mom about, but it was fuckin cold. Now I'm thinking about a story by Jack London called "To Build A Fire" that was about a guy who freezes to death in the Yukon. Jack London did a far better job of describing cold weather than I just did. If Jack London would've simply wrote, "Some guy froze his nuts off in the Yukon, THE END", Mr. London might have remained unknown. So I'm not Jack London. One of the crosses I must bear....

Anyway, it's fuckin cold, I'm goin to my truck, I gotta styrofoam container full of leftover delishables, it's New Year's Eve, I don't care, I'm fixin to head home. I'm not much of a multi-tasker, but all these things are happening simultaneously. Then I hear screeching. When I look to the source of all the racket, it turns out to be a couple of stupid college chicks. They're hobbling around on the ice in high-heeled shoes and mini-skirts. I like mini-skirts. Hell, who doesn't? They're especially cool come around April, on the first really nice day of Spring. All the women have been bundled up like the fuckin Michelin Man for the last 4 or 5 months. For anybody who enjoys the sight of pretty women, their eyes have been starving all this time. In April, there's a visual feast of boobs and butts to try not to gawk at.

In January, scantily clad college girls don't look hot. They look cold. They look fuckin stupid. And they are fuckin stupid. Perhaps these folks should enroll in Not Being A Goddam Idot 101 before they die of existence. Whatever that means.

Whatever any of this means.....