Archive for April, 2009


Posted in Food Where's My Car, Inanimate Objects of Note, The Drink Dranther on April 16, 2009 by butthorn

Que pasa, turkeys?  I have not one item of interest to discuss with you, but I’m not sleepy, so you’re gonna listen to me and my puerile gobbledygook.

So the new giant Cheetos: your thoughts?  Somehow I haven’t eaten them yet.  But I HAVE eaten the new Burger King French Toast flavored Cheetos.  They’re not actually called that (they go by “French Toast flavored snacks”, I believe; catchy!) but it’s totally what they are.  Burger King has made French toast flavored Cheetos, and I have spent some of Daddy’s hard-earned to procure and consume a bag of them.  In fact, I have done this twice, as I thought they were actually pretty good.  In fact, I would go so far as to say I have enjoyed all of the Burger King brand crunchy bagged snacks.


The Ketchup & Fries one tastes like the discolored crud that collects around the ketchup hole, and the Flame Broiled one tastes like walking into a Burger King and inhaling sharply and deeply through both your nose and mouth, but a lot crunchier.  Highly recommended!!!!!

I will try any new snack that comes out.  At the store the other day I saw honey barbecue flavored Cheetos, and rest assured that I will be putting those into my mouth soon.  Barring once-edible items that a human body has converted into something far less salubrious, if you want me to eat something, just let me know and I’ll give it a try!  How’s that for a deal and a half? 

Here’s some stuff I’ve been into lately.


Back when I worked in a video store, while shelving flickaroonies one day I overheard some goofily dressed young gentlemen discussing what they should rent for a movie, and one of the young men, who apparently had seen more films than the other two, kept enthusiastically insisting “That’s a goodass movie, dude!” whenever either of the other  guys picked up a DVD to look at.  That really stuck with me for some reason.  Anyway, if I may paraphrase whoever the fuck that was, slippers are a goodass garment, dude.  They’re comfy, warm, and easy to don and doff.  I am heartbroken to report that I do not own these Mario and Luigi ones, but apparently they’re only $10.99 so I might soon. 


Yeah, these really aren’t as cool as the Mario and Luigi ones, but frig it, they’re cozy and I like ’em so if you don’t like it you can take a hike.  Right now I have two nice homemade pairs of slippers, one from my mom and one from my mom in law, and I have been wearing them constantly while galumphing around the house, picking objects off of surfaces, dumbfoundedly gaping at them, and placing them uncertainly on different surfaces.  I’m also getting back into bathrobes, and I have a pair of unflattering, vibrantly blue sweatpant cutoff shorts that I’ve been steadily working back into my favored apparel rotation.  These are the salad days, friends.


What else do I like?  Why, tea!  Yes, tea!  Hot water with a bag of fragrant sediment in it, that’s for 2009-era me!  I only want tea-likers in my posse henceforth.  When making someone’s acquaintance now, I’ve replaced the handshake with the tea opinion query.  Cut out the middleman, am I right?  We have several different kinds of tea to choose from at our house.  I am going to go take a picture of them.


This is an attractively structured little wall of tea, I should think.  Tonight we drank quite a bit of that “Chief’s Delight” in the lower left-hand quadrant of the tea bulwark.  It contains strawberry leaf, myrtle leaf, blackberry leaf, rose hips, and juniper berry.  It is very nice!  By all rights it should probably be in the upper left-hand quadrant of the tea bulwark, but what’s done is done.  I entreat you to patronize the hippie aisle of your local market and seek out “Chief’s Delight”.  You will be soothed, you will be satisfied, and you will repeatedly strike your open mouth with the flat of your hand and make offensive “waw waw waw” noises.  That’s right, YOU will do this.  You.  Atop “Chief’s Delight” is a perfectly good minty type of tea that’ll give you a nice little refreshing kick if you’re of a mind to receive it, and continuing clockwise we find dependable standby “Lemon Zinger”, a beverage that is rarely not a good idea, unless, I don’t know, you have a citrus aversion or a big old mouthful of sores.  I don’t know the deal with your respective current mouth statuses, so I can’t reasonably be called upon to accurately speculate on your reaction to “Lemon Zinger”.  It’s a good tea, bottom line.  Below that is Sleepytime tea, which I actually received as a stocking present for Christmas this year, a fact I am equally pleased and ashamed to report.  Really, though, why make fun?  You’re really gonna tell me that you wouldn’t be happy to extract an attractively wrapped box of comforting tea from a festively decorated sock?  Stop trying to be cool and enjoy life, you elitist swine!  Last and quite possibly least is “Morning Thunder”.  I believe this has taken the place of gone but not forgotten “Fast Lane” tea, something we used to toss back a lot in college when we wanted to feel the extremes of relaxation and delirium simultaneously.  In my mind I’m picturing there being a drawing on the “Fast Lane” box of a guy running down the street while laughing and drilling a hole into his head; I’m almost positive that wasn’t the case, but it would have been appropriate enough.  A great and interesting source of caffeine, sorely missed.  “Morning Thunder” has not proven to be a viable substitute, but points for trying. 


“I broke your television!”

My wife and I have really been enjoying “Futurama” lately.  It goes well with slippers and Native American tea.  I had always been aware of this show but for one reason or another never gave it much of a chance, and I’m not going to go on too much about it as I believe most of you are probably quite familiar with it.  If not, turn on Comedy Central.  It’s probably on right now.  If you don’t like it, I’ll eat my hat!  In fact, I’ll go you one further: I’ll eat the old man who lives next door alive.  Please like it; that old man did nothing wrong, and I’ll probably go to prison if I eat him.  Pictured above is Dr. Zoidberg, a cross between a Borscht Belt comedian, an inept physician, and a lobster.  I laugh uproariously at virtually everything he says.  He lost his medical degree in a volcano.  Anyway, if you’re like me and you’re a nincompoop who hasn’t given this fantastic cartoon the time of day, do your funnybone a solid and check it out!


In other news, this past weekend I conquered the Ugli fruit.  I’d never had one.  I went the whole nine yards and got out the cutting board for the occasion.  I don’t just whip that out willy-nilly.  This was an undertaking and I was going to give the formidable fruit its due. 


I wasn’t prepared for the sheer volume of inedible white crap, or “pith”, especially when one reflects on the >$2.00 asking price, but I remained abuzz with anticipation all the same. 


Here’s what you’re getting into, should you attempt to chow down on one of these babies.  It isn’t as terrifying as it looks.  In fact, I came away quite pleased with the overall experience.  The hardest part of eating an Ugli fruit is taking pictures of yourself while consuming it so you can post said pictures on your blog for the benefit of none.  Without further ado, then, those pictures:




There we go!  Say, that’s not half bad!


Down the hatch!  GLORF MFLUGG GLUMMPP!


Oh please more oh suckle suckle suckle!


I realize it looks like I’m digging into a Gremlin pod there, but truth be told overall it’s an inoffensive and pleasurable fruit.  I’d compare it to eating a mild orange out of a grapefruit’s shell.  Plus there’s lot of juice left over when you’re done, for which the fruit’s natural container makes for an ideal receptacle, and you don’t get that lingering stickiness on your face and hands like I find you do with an orange.  Only problem is you have to cash out your 401k to buy one.  They’re good but I don’t know if they’re two-bucks-and-change-apiece good.  It’s exciting to get a wacky fruit every now and then, though, I find.  I’ve got my eye on some plantains for next time!  If you thought this blog was exciting, just wait till you get a load of me and these plantains!  Good night!


Posted in Inarguable Smartness on April 7, 2009 by butthorn

So I do a blog on bologna-puking, and suddenly I’m pulling record (for me) numbers of hits on this thing.  It’s nice to finally know what my public is looking for.  What vile byproduct will I intentionally besmirch my digestive system and subsequently my toilet with next?  I have it on good faith that the people who want to know number in the triple digits!  I picked up a package of something the local supermarket made that they seem to think is sushi, so chances are I’ll be crankin’ out another winner in short order.  I’ve been calling poops “winners” lately. 

Unfortunately not a lot has taken place in the few days that have passed since I last spoke to you people.  Writing about work is not an option; I retain nothing that happens there.  It’s all a blur, a head-hurting smudge that I occasionally seem to have some sort of indistinguishable effect on.  I am not uncomfortable there (high praise from me where the concept of work and jobs are concerned) but I am always overjoyed to leave.  I think it would be great to have a job you could blog about.  I really like writing about my day, and if you take a look at my old  (and in some respects superior) blog, you’ll see that used to be mostly what I did.  All there is is what happens to you during a day.  You should pay attention to it.  Isn’t that meaningful?  Write that down on something.  That’s a direct quote from the author of “Bolog?  Na!: An Exorcism” so you know it’s intelligent and worthwhile.

I bet a cop would have a lot to blog about.  I follow this guy on Twitter who goes by the name “philthethrill”.  He’s a cop who updates whenever he encounters something interesting.  It’s very compelling.  Can you even imagine being a cop, though?  I can’t.  It’s like you’re the boss of the entire town.  Everyone has to do what you say, except you’re just this guy.  Or gal, purportedly.  Women can work jobs, too, I guess.  Whenever I pass a cop, and my heart rate has returned to normal once it’s become clear that he either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care that I have a tail light out (I don’t know and can’t be bothered to learn how to replace it but I don’t want to give someone else some of my money to fix it; this is a problem I seem to be having with quite a few things at the moment), I get to thinking about the concept of cops, and the kind of person you would have to be to want to have that for your job.  Because that’s not a job you just bumble into.  Me, I go to school for awhile, then when that’s over I freak out and work for the first place that’ll hire me.  A cop’s one of those jobs you have to have in mind from the getgo.  You have to tell yourself that’s what you want to do, be a cop, and you have to do a lot of hard stuff to become one, and once you’re the cop you have to continue to do hard stuff until you retire or get killed.  You would need equal parts nobility and insanity, or, failing that happily dual-toned pie graph, 100% of one or the other, either of whom would make for a potentiallly annoying policeman.  Mr Goody Two Shoes or Mr Baddy Shoot Kids. 

Other than the dudes (or dudettes, sorry again, fairer sex whom I never take into consideration in matters not directly involving boobs) whose cop dads (or moms) made them be cops (or coptresses) as well, you have to figure that something extremely significant and upsetting needs to have happened to this individual in question who suddenly feels strongly enough about the behavior of the entire community that they find themselves walking to a police academy and taking tests and obeying orders that if all goes well will result in their being able to walk around in public with a device at the ready and in full view of onlookers that can cause the death of anyone they choose to point it at.  Same with the folks who want to be doctors.  All I can wonder is what organ do they have that I’m missing, or vice-versa maybe. 

Circumstance and conscious decision are not sufficient explanations for why anyone would ever want to be a cop or a doctor.  I find both professions terrifying.  If I were introduced to a cop and a doctor at a party, the first thing that popped into my mind would immediately be “Ah, I see!  You want to kill people, and you want to molest people and play with their guts, yet neither of you want to be imprisoned for these actions.  A pleasure meeting you both.  Honey, do you have the keys?  Our lives are in jeopardy.  Good night, everyone!  You’re in good hands!” 

The most extreme example of this prejudiced but (I feel) difficult to argue viewpoint is best applied to the male gynecologist.  This is a man who wants to stick things up vaginas all day and get paid for it.  If this is not true, then kindly explain to me why else a red-blooded male would study and apply for this sort of work?  I realize “it takes all kinds”, but I just have a hard time envisioning a guy sitting around thinking “You know, women really have a difficult time with their vaginas.  Always some sort of discharge or embarrassing itch, and then there’s all that period stuff.  Dammit, it’s about time someone did something about this.  I’m going to become a doctor so I can help all the women in the entire world with their vagina problems.”  Far easier to imagine a guy thinking: “You mean women will pay me to fist them?  Scholarship here I come!”  This isn’t even me being paranoid.  This is as cut and dry as it gets.  I mean, after awhile they all probably start looking about the same, so I guess maybe if your male gynecologist is somewhat elderly, you can at least be comforted in the tenuous knowledge that he probably isn’t getting as much of a rise out of your Pap smear as he might have back when he was just a little gynecologist.  At any rate, my guess and my hope is that male gynecologists are probably more and more becoming a thing of the past, which is as it should be, and we can heretofore leave the profession in the capable hands of the lesbian community. 

I’m saying that doctors and cops freak me out!  They’re crazy! 

My current job has pretty good medical benefits, so I’ve actually put them to use once or twice.  In the past I’ve hardly been to see a doctor at all, unless it was some sort of emergency (strictly gastrointestinal; a lifetime of remaining seated has rendered my odds for any type of physical injury virtually nonexistent), but when I do go, I expect molestation.  It feels inevitable.  Have I ever been molested by a doctor?  Certainly: In the past they have groped my testicles and inserted their finger into my anus.  If that’s not molestation, than pray, what is molestation?  Maybe I’ve been misunderstanding the term all these years. 

Helpful, point-proving example: Say you have a problem, and you hear that Mr. Willigans is excellent at helping people get rid of their problems.  You go to Mr. Willigans and ask him for help.  He says “Sure thing”, then pulls down your pants, grabs your balls, and sticks his finger up your butt.  Would you not feel used, outraged, broken?  Would you not think about this terrible moment every day for the rest of your life, fighting back tears, trying to ignore the roiling fireball of shame in your guts?  Would you not seek help from the police, who are insane, and would shoot you with their guns?  “I need to check your prostate” and “This is to check for hernias” sounds an awful lot like “Don’t tell anyone or your mommy and daddy won’t love you anymore” to me.  I have seen no physical evidence of the existence of “prostates” and “hernias”, ergo the only conclusion to derive from all of this is that doctors find me sexy and want to touch me naked. 

Really, though, all “joking” aside, these are terrifying professions, and it would be so hard for me to make friends with someone who had either of these jobs, no matter how much I might theoretically like their personality.  One can’t help but respect cops and doctors, and “respect” is typically a word with nothing but positive connotations, but isn’t it just polite terror?

You start thinking about it and you can’t stop.  These people, these cops and doctors, these psychos and molesters, if they’re doing their jobs properly, are here to keep us from dying.  That’s their job.  That’s NUTS.  Our lives are all in each other’s hands,  nobody really knows anyone, and everything we have to do is terrifying. 

Hey, the cookies are done!  Yay!  Goodnight!


Posted in Food Where's My Car on April 5, 2009 by butthorn

As of yesterday I am no longer going to be able to eat bologna.  Not because I’m concerned about my health, not because I’ve been looking over our budget and in these tight economic times bologna is simply not an expense we can afford, and not even because I don’t like it.  My chief reason is because last night I found myself with a hankering for a good old-fashioned bologna sandwich, made the effort to drive to my local supermarket and purchase the necessary ingredients, came home and ate part of it, began to feel slightly off, and proceeded to spend the remainder of the evening vomiting a total of nine times into the toilet.  I also crapped twice, which smelled not at all of earthy human fecal matter but like 100% pure bologna, which could only lead to more vomiting.  Eventually I became delirious and began crying.  It was a truly repugnant evening, one that I wouldn’t wish on anyone, except for perhaps the inventor of bologna. 

I’m a pretty reckless guy when it comes to food, and I readily accept most bodily consequences when it comes to my “diet”.  Recently I viewed a Louis C.K. stand-up routine that literally caused me to fall onto the floor with helpless, skull-clenching laughter, and I’d like to co-opt his description of his eating habits for my own: “I fill myself to capacity, and I blow it out my asshole”.  Spastic defecation doesn’t bother me all that much.  I can sit on the toilet and grunt my guts out all day.  No problemo.  Just give a magazine or the Nintendo DS, and I’m good for the duration.  All right, there was one instance where I ate chicken fettucini alfredo at the Macaroni Grill and ending up having diarrhea for three days straight before actually going to the ER and undergoing a haphazard butt irrigation courtesy of a commendably calm Chinese man.  That wasn’t cool.  Both chicken fettucini and Macaroni Grill in general are on my Do Not Eat list due to that.  But what I’m saying to you, foods, is that you have to do something really bad to me to get me to stop eating you, provided I think you taste good in the first place.  I’m a reasonable man.  I’m no stranger to the forgive and forget train of thought.  I think Gandhi was a heck of a nice guy.  All I ask, foods, is that you, I don’t know, not send me to the emergency room?  Not make me puke NINE TIMES?  Nine times, bologna!  I counted that shit! 


I really, really do not enjoy throwing up. 

My hatred for throwing up far exceeds my fondness for bologna, though I must admit the lowly sandwich meat was good to me in youth.  My brother Justin and I delighted in lending our otherwise pedestrian sandwiches a classy air by fashioning ersatz crudites of them, cutting one whitebread bologna or PB&J sandwich into eight little triangles and daintily consuming them, no doubt with extended pinkies.  Justin dubbed them “fingers and thumbs”.  For several years, well into high school, this was the only way I would eat a sandwich, fingers and thumbs style, and bologna was a frequent component of this dependable snack. 

Manys the time I would open my parents’ fridge and, due to sloth or a lack of more pleasing alternatives, would simply extract a slice of bologna from its packaging and eat it sans bread or condiments, often folding the meat and biting holes in it to make a functional and genuinely frightening, if acne-providing, Friday the 13th Jason mask.  I ate cold pieces of bologna all the time, and never came away disappointed, let alone dazed and caterwauling bile into a toilet. 

If there happened to be shredded mozzarella cheese in the fridge, and quite often there was for some reason, I would get fancy and sprinkle some of that cheese in a line along the center of the bologna slice, apply a line of mustard atop the cheese, and roll it up into a nice little enchilada.  Muy caliente!  Makes me wanna dance the lambada, senoritas!  I ate that garbage all the time and I damn well liked it.  Never again. 


Bologna that actually came from the deli and not prepackaged by Oscar Meyer was always preferable, because you got the privilege of peeling that outer layer of casing from around the bologna with your teeth, and then you had a pink stringy pig cord suitable for forming a gross bracelet out of or whipping your dining companion with before popping it in your mouth and whisking it away to its intended destination. 

I’d remembered deli bologna as being the height of cold cut tastiness, and it was from the deli that I purchased my ill-fated compressed hog swimsuit areas last night.  It didn’t taste how I remembered it, yet not in any way I could be called upon to describe.  At once different and same, right and wrong.  The remainder of the evening, blissfully, remains a blur.  All that remains is a general sense of not enjoying my weekend, then shuddering in bed while my wife comforted me while simultaneously watching DVR’ed episodes of “The Bonnie Hunt Show”, which proved a relaxing background to lapse into a bologna-barf coma with.  I feel confident had she been privy to last night’s discomfort, Bonnie Hunt would have considerately applied a cold cloth to my forehead and the back of my neck while cooing motherly sounds of sympathy and encouragement. 

So it remains to be seen how this will affect my ability to eat hot dogs, let alone Vienna sausages (another occasional childhood snack I used to like sometimes), and pork products in general.  Bologna, when you get down to brass tacks, is just a big flat circle of hot dog, though unlike franks bologna is rarely eaten hot, and never as far as I know with ketchup, mustard, and relish.  But it shares with hot dogs that dank snap, that lazy zest, an irresistible stink of a taste that well complements the always pleasant act of  eating outdoors.  My feeling is that hot dogs and bologna are just different enough beasts that I think I’ll be able to suck down a dog or three before long, although I can tell you that I’m not going to want one anytime soon.  My relationship with bacon or sausage shouldn’t be affected; despite hailing from the same source, neither taste like bologna, and stake their roots in an entirely different (and, let’s face it, superior) meal.  Bologna is one of those foods that belongs squarely on your lunchtime plate.  It is a lunchmeat.  Perhaps the fact that I was attempting to eat it for supper was what caused all the problems.  No, I’ve had it for supper before.  This was a belated loss of innocence, or in any event a reminder that there are once-comforting experiences that can never, and should never, be reaccessed. 

If and when I father one or more children, will I permit them to eat bologna?  That’s a really good question, and one I’ve been wrestling with ever since I finished that last paragraph.  I can only imagine that I will, mainly because I foresee myself being walked all over by even the least demanding of offspring, but it won’t be easy to keep my mouth shut about the inevitable eventual aftereffects.  Is it better to devise a clear-cut bologna timeline for my child in the interest of sparing him or her from a similar ordeal, or to let the chips fall where they may and hope for my child either a lifetime of bologna-eating uninterupted by puking or an outright distaste for the cold cut?  Neither potential outcome seems likely, given my genetic makeup. 

I have a lot to learn, and the road to knowledge is long and strewn with unappealing obstacles.  But something I now know for a fact is that I am never going to eat bologna again. 

Adieu, old friend.  And fuck off.



Posted in Mundane Events on April 1, 2009 by butthorn

My wife is watching “Lost” and I don’t wanna do the dishes or take down the Christmas tree so my only recourse is to wring a limp blog out of an all-but-empty brain.  I did end up taking a few asinine pictures during my uneventful mall trip a week ago.  Let’s regard them.


Before we even went to the mall, I had some time to kill so through the Oriental art of origami I decided to fashion a cool gun out of the smooth paper strip thingy that you peel off the Netflix envelope when you’re ready to send your movie back.  I put very little thought into it but as you can see the results are breathtaking.  Look how threatening it looks when laid alongside the knife I use to cut cheese.  In hindsight I should have taken these along with me on my mall trip so I could mug old people for their Social Security pittances.  


I felt the knife was hogging the spotlight in that last photo, so here’s one of just the gun.  Even still, you really had to experience the Netflix gun in real life to fully grasp its magnitude.  My wife is going to be nonplussed that I posted not one but two pictures of this.  For one reason or another I couldn’t seem to get her very excited about the Netflix gun.  Man, I need a new camera; why have none of you purchased me one?


These dogs live across the street from us.  They’re awesome and I wish they belonged to us.  They pretty much just stay in their own yard and don’t hassle anyone.  We got to pat them once and their fur was luxuriant to the touch.  


All right, now we’re at the mall.  This is some picture I took of an advertisement that didn’t make a whole lot of sense.  This kid has some mighty lofty plans!  I advise that we stay out of her way and let her do what she needs to do!


Here is something for children to sit on while being mechanically jerked forward in a vague approximation of a circle for three minutes to the accompaniment of a tinny rendition of “I Went to the Animal Fair”.  I don’t know how to turn the picture right side up; don’t you think I tried?  


So remember that “Movies America” store I was looking forward to browsing in?  Yeah, well, here it is.  Either they’re experimenting with a new redecorating motif that, I have to say, looks to be pretty goshdarn underwhelming, or they’ve closed, no doubt due to the overzealous and downright threatening store manager whose sales technique more or less consisted of running around the store jamming VHS copies of “Jo Jo Dancer, Your Life Is Calling” up people’s butts and shrieking “BUY THIS OR I’LL KILL YOU!”  Oh well, easy come easy go.  Wonder what they did with all those tapes.  😦


One thing I did learn during this otherwise knowledge-free mall trip was that old people aren’t screwing around when they go to the mall during non-peak hours to exercise.  They’re there to get in shape!  You got to get the fuck out of their way!  This couple passed me many, many times, briskly, and would no doubt have shoved me to the floor or into Bath & Body Works had I presented more of an obstruction to them.  I would guess that these folks are there every morning, clopping down the aisles without a care in the world.  Unfortunately I didn’t snap a picture of him in action, but whenever the old guy would pass a kiosk manned by someone he knew, which was often, he would snap his fingers at them and say “Yoo-hoo”, and the kiosk employee would animatedly reply “Hey Mr. Whateverhisnamewas”.  I found it charming.  The mall in the morning is the place to be for old codgers.  A ton of them were in the food court, eating McDonald’s and shootin’ the shit.  It looked like a pretty good deal.  I eavesdropped a little on one of the tables in passing, and I swear to you they were heatedly discussing Norman Schwarzkopf.


We made spaghetti a few days ago and evidently Annie photographed it.  It was good, better than this picture would suggest.  Looking at that spaghetti is making me a little queasy now.  I think the green beans come off well, though.  We very rarely take it upon ourselves to cook a meal but we made this one together and it was enjoyable and rewarding.  Who knows what responsibility we’ll tackle next?  Why, perhaps we’ll even pay a bill.  

That’s it for the mall pictures.  I know, pretty slim pickings, but they’re better than a finger in the eye, ain’t they?  Annie was able to find glasses that look exactly like her old ones did, and the glasses place made them fairly quickly, so I went back to work for a couple hours, which of course sucked but they were busy so I was happy to provide some much needed assistance for a few hours, and what little remained of the workday blew by.  

I remember virtually nothing about what might have happened on Thursday or Friday (it really is as if the days never showed up at all), but on Saturday we decided to get out of the apartment and gad about the town.  Went to the library and took out seven or eight books (all of which sucked within seconds of opening them), had some mediocre Chinese food (not a complaint, mind you; mediocre Chinese food is still delicious), and took in a matinee of “I Love You, Man”.  For once the audience, by and large, did not flap their yaps during the movie or check their despicable cellphones every two seconds, and we were all able to enjoy a harmless and funny film.  

But when we got home and prepared to ascend the death-defying staircase that leads to our apartment, we had THIS waiting for us:


Who made it, and what could it mean?  It’s unnerving, is what it is!  As if we don’t have enough problems, now Andy Goldsworthy is stalking us?  It’s no doubt some form of hex, and we can only await the dire misfortune that is sure to befall us at any moment.  Despite its not uninteresting structure, I’ve knocked it apart and scattered the rocks.  If a new “sculpture” appears in its place my plan is to jump into the river and drown myself.  Stay tuned!