Archive for June, 2008


Posted in Food Where's My Car, Inanimate Objects of Note on June 18, 2008 by butthorn

I think ultimately one has to write through the problems. Some people say you shouldn’t force it, and after a look at the usual result, it’s hard not to agree. But that’s a good way for nothing to get done, and I do nothing all the time, and it gets old. The deal is I have nothing here I want to write about right now, as I’m tired, and uninspired, and wary of being crappy and uninteresting, especially to myself. Uninteresting crap is fine for you guys, but it simply won’t do for me! I want to be delighted by myself!

So this isn’t going to be about very much, this post, but I feel I must do it anyway, to get to the next step, hopefully a step of effortless entertainment. I have no silly photos to include, as the camera currently has no batteries and buying batteries is boring. Maybe I’ll just sit here for a moment and wait for a topic to come to me, and then expound upon that topic. Yes, I will do that. The topic that I think of will be in bold, and my thoughts regarding the topic will be in the colors of normal words.

Everlasting Gobstoppers

I like these. Every now and then I buy a box of them, and they tend to remain in the apartment for a very long time. Gobstoppers aren’t the kind of thing one tends to scarf. By which I mean eat rapidly, not outfit with wintertime neck apparel. You won’t be confused now that I’ve explained that. I always forget to take the Gobstopper out of my mouth to note that it has changed color. I guess it’s really not that important to me. In the Willy Wonka movie, they change flavor as well. But in real life, candies can only change color. Life will never be as good as movies. They should stop making movies, because it’s too sad in comparison to our everyday thing. Movies are basically drugs. When they’re on, it’s like “hey, this is great!” and then they’re over and it’s like “oh wait, no it isn’t”. Gobstoppers last a long time if you suck ’em, but I can’t handle the tension of hard candies. I just crunch ’em after like 10-15 seconds. Psychologically this probably means I want to bite off my dad’s penis or something weird like that. I like the red ones best!


At my new job I have to use folders a lot. It’s been awhile since folders have been an important part of my life, and I’m glad to see them return. I’m fond of folders. Ironically, however, I am not fold of fonders. I like to put papers in folders, and I like to discuss them. Folders have always been funny to me. Not as funny as wigs, but close. One thing I don’t like about folders is when you get a folder cut. Papers cuts have nothing on folder cuts. The other day I got a Tony’s frozen pizza box cut. That was the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone. It made me want to renounce pizza, God, and fingers. I renounce God almost daily, but pizza and fingers are usually pretty safe from my wrath. Not anymore. I got my eye on you, pizza and fingers. Anyway, folders. Let’s hear it for them. Let’s hear it for the folders. Maybe they’re no Romeo, but they’re my lovin’ one-folder show. That picture of folders above this idiotic paragraph is something I actually nicked from the State of Maryland Department of Public Safety and Correctional Services website, ridiculously enough. Wouldn’t it be great if I were incarcerated for stealing a picture of folders from the State of Maryland Department of Public Safety and Correctional Services website? I’ll be drinking fermented fruit cocktail brine out of a toilet and unsuccessfully muffling bloodcurdling shrieks of pain and humiliation with a filthy pillowcase in no time! And it’s all thanks to folders!


They’re okay.

That show “The Dog Whisperer”

As with most of my lifelong interests, I watched this show just to be stupid and to make fun of it, and ended up wanting to watch as many episodes as possible. That guy doesn’t take any mess from dogs. They bark at him, and he tells them to can it! And they do! Leadership like this is always very striking to me, as I exhibit not one, nay not one, quality that would impel someone to say “Hey, that Jeremy should be looking after children or perhaps running a small business with a modest staff of 8-12”. If I had a show like this, it’d be called “The Dog Mistruster” or “The Dog Fleer”. One thing I hate about dogs is that they always know exactly what they want, and it’s usually something that’s relatively easy to obtain. I hate people like that. It takes me approximately two months of constant contact for me to be able to feel comfortable around a person, but for most dogs I need at least a couple years. Being informed that dogs can “smell fear” certainly didn’t help my feelings toward them. I’ve no doubt that I positively reek of fear. Hopefully, humans will never develop the ability to smell fear, although that’s more for my sake than for the sake of humankind, as I’m told that fear smells like freshly mowed lawns.

Long story short, Cesar Milan has gained a new fan, although truth be told I’ve watched 6 or 7 episodes over a fairly short timespan and I’m already getting kinda sick of it. I’m waiting for him to get really mauled one of these times, but so far it’s just been a LOT of barking and little nips here and there. Another bad thing about the show is that it’s on the National Geographic channel, which wouldn’t be a problem if they weren’t insistent on you calling them “Nat Geo” of late. I am not going to call you “Nat Geo”, National Geographic. Perhaps that’s helpful for people who want to discuss you via text messaging (a multitudinous demographic, no doubt), but for people who just want to watch leisurely paced programs about weird stuff that happens outside, it’s embarrassing and crappy-sounding. You are not hip, National Geographic, and you should be proud of that fact.

Iced Tea Spoons

Annie’s relatives are really good about keeping us stocked with antiquated silverware hand-me-downs. A few months ago, the estimable Auntie Mary bequeathed to us a giant Ziplock bag full of fancy old silverware, and among this lot were a good number of spoons with wonderful long, thin handles. We adored them immediately. I think we like them better than our Wii. Ours are much cooler looking than the spoons pictured above, but even so, I would recommend picking up a set regardless of brand. Whatever meal you deign to take with them becomes daintier for their inclusion, be it a tiny bowl of Cocoa Krispies or a blissfully drawn-out serving of tomato soup. Above all, however, their purpose is stirring, and at this important act they are matchless. The reassuring ting of an iced tea spoon against glass is an invigorating promulgation of forthcoming refreshment.


I cannot have garlic anymore. I have to stop.

It’s too bad, cause I love garlic, and I want to eat it all the time. But here’s the thing: last night we got Papa John’s pizza. With this pizza we also got an order of breadsticks. These breadsticks come with three dipping sauces, of which the only one worth bothering with is the garlic sauce. It’s delicious, and so good on the breadsticks. Not having enjoyed Papa John’s breadsticks and sauce for some time, and knowing full well the disastrous effects garlic has on my digestive system, I recklessly and liberally applied the garlic pastewaster to my breadsticks and happily chowed down. Within minutes, I felt an unusually warm fart happening in my pants, following by another. Unpleasant, to be sure, but as the consumption of virtually any food results in my body producing one form of instantaneous rankness or another, I paid it little heed and continued to enjoy my meal.

Ten to fifteen minutes later, I was full and decided to put the rest of the pizza in the refrigerator, where it could gradually become even more delicious in its firm coldness. As I trudged down the hallway, pizza box in hand, I detected a distinctly sludgy sensation in the inner thigh area. Worry surfaced. I deposited the leftovers in the fridge and gingerly tiptoed back to the bedroom to find that, yes, a dark brown stain, mysteriously shaped like my ass, had formed on the bed, on the very spot where I’d formerly been consuming pizza and contentedly sitting in my own waste. Within seconds of consuming a small (but concentrated) amount of garlic, this had happened. The power of garlic had caused me to unknowingly shit on my own bed. It was a very sad evening overall, with a lot of unexpected laundry and awkward moments.

I’ve long had problems of this type with garlic. Once upon a time, an occasionally vegan friend of mine was kind enough to treat me to a tasty meal she had cooked featuring garlic as a key component, and the ensuing farts were so frequent and terrible that after awhile she actually started crying. When it comes to me and garlic, upsetting moisture is seemingly an unavoidable result, and after last night, much as I love how it tastes, I think I’m going to have to abandon it for good. You know what, that’s not true. If I go to someone’s house and they make garlic bread, I’m gonna eat five pieces and shit all over their couch. It’s too good to pass up. Also, has anyone ever eaten so much garlic that you actually felt kind of oddly high afterwards? Annie and I made some kind of crock pot thing once that was loaded with the stuff, and after a couple bowls of that we felt legitimately altered. I don’t think I could ever consider garlic as a viable alternative to recreational drugs (nothing brings down a rave like spastic defecation), but the effects were surprising and slightly interesting in a bloated and smelly kind of way.

That’s it. I have no more thoughts about anything.


Posted in Mundane Events on June 2, 2008 by butthorn

Thank you for asking!

Well, I got me a flashy new job, thanks in part to my good friend Mike, who was kind enough to alert my references to the fact that they should answer their voicemails and call my potential employers to let them know that I’m awesome at absolutely everything and heart-stoppingly handsome to boot. Thanks, Mike!

I have to dress nicely when I go to this job. I have to wear things called “ties” and “undies”. Here I am getting all gussied up! I’m so proud of myself!

Let’s see, rabbit goes up through the hole, around the tree, bypassing the kwanset hut entirely, stopping briefly to check the mail, nothing but a Rite Aid advertising supplement, around a completely different tree (hemlock this time)…

And voila! Lookin’ good, fatass! Ready to take on the day! Or, more likely, fall dead asleep in traffic, run over eleven children, and drive into a lake! Whatevs!

There really isn’t much I can reveal about the job itself that would be of any remote interest to anyone who thinks words ought to be entertaining, so let’s just say I have a full-time job now, I’m able to pay bills and buy food on occasion, and flibbidy ding-dong a dootily dunt funt.

A couple weeks ago we went on this huge yard saling quest with our friends Dan and Tori, and neglected to really take any pictures or document anything that happened. I’ll show you the few pictures we did take anyway.

There’s Dan, holding a document of some sort and taking an inexplicable interest in a speed limit sign, and Tori, carrying the 812 items she’d purchased in the past half hour to the car.

And here’s me and the swell AM radio I bought at an estate sale that otherwise had a very distinct owl/bear/Christian theme. It’s the Sears Silvertone, and it’s a beaut. The only things that come in on it are local sports commentary, Anne Murray and Carpenters songs, and French dudes going “wee wee poo poo blee blee bloo bloo”. It is a source of instant relaxation. If I dropped it on your head, you would die. Incidentally, if you ever get the chance to go to an estate sale, by all means do it. You basically go through a recently deceased person’s house and loot it. Quite something.

Wowie! We are going to have so many tiny ice cubes once I wash all the crud off these ridiculous things!

Among other things, we also ended up with a rather nice wooden magazine rack, several silly mugs, a hardcover copy of “Barbapapa”, a nice if odd-smelling blanket, and a tee-shirt that an old man informed me he won several years ago at a jitterbugging contest. I asked him if he could still jitterbug and he sadly waggled a nearby walker in response. I soundly berated him for his lethargy, threw a handful of change on the floor at his feet, and returned to the car, overturning a table laden with tacky housewares en route.

Once we were done value-hunting, we got what appeared to be barbecued horse penis at an otherwise perfectly good purveyor of sauced pork. We went to see the new Indiana Jones movie, about which the less said the better. I’d rant and rave about it, but truth be told, you could go to any random overgrown nerd’s widdle bloggy-woggy and read pretty much exactly what I’d be saying about it, so why waste more bandwidth on a shoddy, insulting waste of the world’s time? If I could fill George Lucas’ mouth with ass blood right now, I would. I mean it, I’d drop what I was doing, gore my rectum with a steak knife, staple him to the carpet, and let ‘er rip. Talk is cheap, you know what I mean?

What else? This past weekend we had the pleasure of spending several hours with my dad, as he had to stay overnight at my house. He talked exclusively and nonstop about his bakery job and Warren Buffet. We took him to Johnny’s restaurant, where Annie had mac and cheese with hot dogs in it and I had beans and franks and bacon. We like restaurants that offer things with cut up hot dogs in them. Dad got a burger and onion rings and by way of informing the waitress that we wanted separate checks (to clarify, I would have happily purchased his meal, but I hate it when people get into check-paying arguments at restaurants. It’s one of the few [all right, maybe not few…] things that makes me think that killing people is an fantastic idea as opposed to not very nice. As such, if people want to exchange their own monies for meals, they will receive virtually no argument from me. The fact that I am generally impoverished and not at all generous is only part of a bigger picture, a very unexciting picture as it turns out and one I intend to stop discussing by the end of this sentence), he stated “I’m on my own” to which the waitress replied “Oh honey, I just got married a few months ago”, which was delightful to all of us and assured her as least a fifteen-cent hike in her potential tip. As it turned out, Dad’s insistence on being listed on a separate check probably directly added to the subsequent misplacement of said check, and by the time the waitress figured this out Annie and I were pretty much done, not to mention bloated and gassy. So we had to sit there and groggily watch Dad eat a burger in between blurted factoids about Warren Buffet and packing cupcakes. Bacon is good crumbled up and stirred into beans and franks. Throughout the remainder of the evening I repeatedly broke boiling wind that scalded my inner thighs to the point of bruise-hued translucence, but it’s all in the name of value-conscious dining, and I intend to explain that to the lucky doctor who gets to perform my inevitable colonoscopy.

The following day, after Dad had gone to work, I met my mother at the Old Town High track, where she was finishing up the tail end of a benefit for breast cancer she’d participated in, which entailed staying up all night with a bunch of people and taking turns walking around the track, which by this time was a sneaker-suckling mudhole thanks to the rain which had seen fit to assail the selfless walkathoners for the majority of the event. The weather didn’t seem to have greatly affected anyone’s mood, however, and I was struck, as I often am around people who like things such as “effort” and “helping others”, by the bewildering aura of goodwill and lack of bitching about wet pants and whatnot. Myself, I’d be hard pressed to walk across the street in the interest of curing my own cancer, so needless to say I was impressed. I don’t have cancer. I’m lazy and selfish, is what I’m saying. When that was over, I opted to purchase a chicken salad wrap for my mom and treated myself to a 12 pack of PBR in the bottle. You don’t come across PBR in the bottle for purchase every day, and upon noticing it in the store I tackled the box, hissing and slashing the air whenever anyone approached me until I was sure I could make my purchase and leave the store without being bested in a cheap beer tug-of-war with a no doubt wilier redneck. I was victorious, for the moment, but soon realized that carrying a box of 12 beers, a chicken salad wrap, an order of popcorn chicken, two things of Rolos (another thing you don’t come across in stores every day. Tim’s Little Big Store rules! I got gummi tarantulas there the other day!), and a bag of new Cape Cod buttermilk ranch flavored chips up a hill on a rainy day is really tiring and awful and sad (Annie had taken the car to a friend’s bridal shower, or otherwise no way would I have been walking to get things). I actually ached the following morning from carrying beer outside. It would have been a decent workout, or certainly better than I’m used to, had I not completely obliterated any good the exercise might have done by briskly pouring six of the beers into my mouth once Dad had picked my mom up to go home. I then spent the remainder of my afternoon alone trying to teach myself how to play “Every Which Way But Loose” by Eddie Rabbit on guitar, with middling success.

Anyway, now that I’ve had a couple weeks to get my head around my new responsibilities, drink a bunch of bad beer, and practice my late-70’s Clint Eastwood monkey movie soundtrack playing abilities, I can get back to this foolishness.

And what have all of you been up to? I suppose I could just go read your blogs, but I’m a busy man!

Some YouTubes in closing!

Here is something I laughed at:

…something I cried at! Wah! (it was pretty late at the time, so i was tired, but still…):

…and something that sort of blew my mind (starting at :43):

Talk to you fancy folks later!