Archive for October, 2010


Posted in Uncle Nutsy! on October 25, 2010 by butthorn

I fell asleep for a distressingly long stretch of time while driving to work today.  Like I opened my eyes and suddenly I was in a different town.  These are not exclusively straight roads I drive on.  Why am I not dead?  Why haven’t other motorists been harmed?  Why hasn’t somebody offered to pay me to stay home and make uproarious blogs, so I don’t have to risk countless lives each morning on my way to work?  Questions aplenty!

So if you see the above scene while on your way to work tomorrow, stop by and say hello!  We could have been carpooling this whole time and didn’t even know it!  Could have saved some money.  In this economy, every penny counts.

Seriously, though, this isn’t a good habit.  My body and brain could not be picking a worse time in my day to shut down.  That’s the one part of my day where falling asleep could result in some sort of death.  Very little of my day – depressingly little, really – requires even a modicum of concentration.  There are many points during my day at which sleep would be fine – nay, welcome!  But not while operating a 3500-lb rusted-out monstrosity down a winding, mildly trafficky, none-too-well-maintained road dotted with domiciles and the odd hopeless hitchhiker.

Being in a car is relaxing!  I fall asleep in them all the time.  Why, just look how cozy Remington Steele and Stephanie Zimbalist are in their automotive slumber.

If Stephanie Zimbalist can’t remain awake within the confines of an automobile, I ask you, what chance have I got?  WHAT CHANCE?!?!?!

Sometimes loudly interviewing myself helps, because I love talking about myself so it’s compelling enough that I don’t nod off, which is more than I can say for local radio, where eight out of ten songs are by the Steve Miller Band and the other two are Bob Seger.  I actually enjoy both of those artists, but I’ve heard so much of them that they’re impossible not to disregard at this point.  They cannot hope to keep me awake.  No, not even “Kathmandu”.

It just occurred to me that I don’t know what Steve Miller looks like so I Googled him.  He is every bit as hip and happenin’-lookin’ as I imagined.

That is the uncoolest man I have ever seen in my life.  He looks like he is singing the most boring song ever recorded by man, perhaps entitled “I’m On the Market for a Used Ford Taurus”, or “The Finest Bean Supper I Have Ever Attended”, or “Baby, Let’s Go to the Dump”.  He doesn’t even look comfortable; did he know he was playing at a rock and roll concert that day?  Long sleeved black dress shirt and heavy, groin-enhancing dungarees – possibly Rustlers – that’s more of a Wednesday night prayer meeting kind of outfit, where you can dress down a little since it’s not Sunday, but you still want to wear a half decent shirt.  Good thing there was a Rite-Aid on the way to the show; ya can’t rock their socks off without a slammin’ pair of shades!  I think I’ll get that photo tattooed on my chest to show people how much I love rock and roll.

Is it any wonder I fall asleep in the car all the time when that’s the guy in charge of keeping me awake?  I’m doomed!  I need to go buy a Scorpions CD or something.  Or hire them to live in my car.

What a silly blog!  I just need to go to bed and get some sleep, that’s my prob!  Maligning The Steve Miller Band won’t rejuvenate my immune, nervous, skeletal, and muscular systems!  Good night!


Posted in Bad Craziness on October 24, 2010 by butthorn

There are things in my brain that make themselves known to me on a daily basis, and in some cases have been doing so for as long as I can remember. They are dumb things. Dumb, dumb things. They are not humorous in any traditional sense, and can be downright repellent, often basely sexual in nature. They may have initially amused me, however feebly, when they were first presented to me by my brain, but whatever faint charm these abstract concepts may have once possessed has long, long since been sapped bone dry by brutal, groundless, unrelenting repetition. They are something like brief, recurring, completely uninspirational waking dreams, and they strike when I least suspect or want them. More still are based on extremely unmonumentous real-life occurrences that inanely refuse to vacate my malfunctioning memory. I think about a lot of these things every day, and it’s high time I got a few of them out of my system.


When I was about five or six, I was riding my bike down the hill that led to our family home, an activity I engaged in quite often at the time, and I happened to look up at the phone wires that slopingly connected the poles, and for no reason I will ever be able to point to, I imagined myself seated, pantsless, atop the phone wires in a cheerleader split position, being slickly propelled by some unseen force across the wires. My facial expression belies unashamed pleasure and profound inner peace. I also, again for not any good reasons that I can provide, imagined that my aunt and mother were driving down the hill alongside me, monitoring my “progress” with pride and waving at me with supportive excitement. This all struck me as only slightly weird then; having only been alive for five years at the time, I had no reason to believe that such things were either impossible or disturbing. Now whenever I take any notice of telephone wires, which is pretty easy to do given the fact that they’re everywhere, I have to imagine my five-year-old self scooting nudely and serenely across them, all thank to my gross, weird brain.


I was sitting around the living room one lazy afternoon (again I believe I was about five years old at the time), and out of nowhere the thought of a forlorn, hairy creature of indeterminate species going trick-or-treating and receiving nothing for his troubles but a single candy corn occurred to me, and it made me so sad that I cried. The sorry scene even had a suitably despondent song playing in the background that hollowly intoned “No-thing Hall-o-wee-een but a can-dee coo-ooorn.”, sung in a plaintive alto that brought to mind the kind of intense, hopeless, grainy grief that normally only PG-rated animated dramas of the late seventies and early eighties can conjure. Something about the fact that no article connected “nothing” to “Halloween” made the soundtrack all the more crushing. I can hear that song clear as a bell, every day. I don’t even really think it was Halloween when I thought of this. That guy was so excited to go trick or treating, running out into the neighborhood with a big ol’ sack and an eager, carefree grin, but no one would give him any candy, even though he wanted it so badly, and asked politely at every door for just a little something, a Dum-Dum maybe, or a tiny individually wrapped Tootsie Roll. But when the night was over, all he got was a tiny, hard, stick-in-your-teeth candy corn, which probably fell on the floor and rolled under the stove. God, it STILL gets to me.

I remember the day after I first thought of it, it was still bothering me, and I tried to force my brain to envision a sequel wherein the poor mistreated creature had a really great birthday that more than made up for the soul-destroying All Hallows Eve that preceded it, but I knew deep down that I was only fooling myself.

I really feel like I could take my own life right now. It really feels that that would be a seamless and beneficial process.


In an earlier blog entry, I told you about a tape my uncle rented once called “Dirty Dirty Jokes” that he wouldn’t let me watch due to excessive dirtiness, and how my own imagination strove mightily to fill in the blanks via a sadly uninformed frame of reference. Well, back in 1982 or so the whole CB lingo craze was still enjoying the indian summer of its popularity, and a slightly older neighborhood friend bragged to me that he had recently been allowed to see the movie “Convoy”, loosely based on the hit novelty tune by the underrated C.W. McCall. According to my friend, the movie had a lot of swears and fighting in it, so he was (correctly) quite certain that my parents would not let me watch it. He even confided that they changed some of the words to the “Convoy” song to make them dirtier. Being that I owned a walkie-talkie and held swears and fighting in as much regard as the next kid, it followed that my desire to see “Convoy” – a movie I’d previously never even heard of and knew virtually nothing about – became an unquenchable fire, an unruly specter I had no means of satisfying. So I was once again forced to rely on my imagination, particularly in regards to the newly salty title track lyrics. Hence, 7-12 times a day even still, apropos of nothing, my brain will see fit to blast a spirited chorus of “We got a great big convoy!/Poop shit fuck fart piss!”. Truly, what better rally cry for the protest-minded transportation technician?

I really do think C.W. McCall is underrated. I get the song in this video stuck in my head at least half as often as “poop shit fuck fart piss”.


Like most in my age bracket, Jim Henson’s Muppets had an impact on my upbringing that is impossible to overstate. They explained everything. They made sure everything made sense to me. They told me this was okay and that was not, but only when they weren’t making me laugh or singing me a song. The Muppets, moreso than anything I was being told in Kindergarten or on network sitcoms, were my key to the world, and I honestly think I would be a much stupider and angrier person without their having intervened on my, and countless others, behalf. Henson’s legacy does not want for praise, but I will happily heap more onto the pile any chance I get. So it’s all the more disappointing, then, that I have to think about Kermit the Frog being gang raped every few days.

Over the past decade, it’s become fashionable to convert the most tragic circumstances possible into callous, throwaway jokes, with the expectation that your lucky audience will break into hysterics over the fact that you had the audacity to “go there”, and the act of rape, be it of the anal prison variety or regular old Lifetime movie rape, has seen its fair share of funsters mining it for yuks. Had an 80’s-era comic tried to fashion even a mildly suggestive bit involving rape in even a roundabout way, the majority of audiences probably would have gasped them off the stage, but now people trade rape japes at the drop of a hat. Hell, some time ago I heard a rape joke on “My Name is Earl”, for Pete’s sake.

I would submit that simply mentioning rape is not funny, no more than would be discussing the act of murder. It’s a miserable, life-ruining crime, and if it happened to you or someone you cared about, I daresay you’d be none too eager to make or hear a joke about it. But nor can I state that rape cannot be rendered amusing with a little wit and effort. Humor is at least 75% context. If I went outside for a walk and got raped, that wouldn’t be funny, except perhaps to a few close friends. But if I went outside in a French maid costume for Halloween because I lost some kind of silly bet, and then got raped, I would be forced to admit, even while lying in the dirt being penetrated by a filthy stranger, that the whole thing was at least passingly funny. Bottom line: rape jokes are more offensive for their cavalier ubiquitousness than for their subject matter. If you’re gonna co-opt a horrific, dehumanizing atrocity to entertain your little pals, at the very least be original about it.

I don’t really think it’s that funny to rape Kermit the Frog. I love Kermit the Frog. But one day while watching “Sesame Street” in college, I started envisioning a musical sequence in which thieves began breaking into Kermit’s home and making off with his various belongings, and in response Kermit would furiously sing, for example, “Ba ba ba ba ba ba, BEE BEE BEEE! Give my toaster back to ME-ME-MEEEEE!” and as they stole more things, he would sing the same line over and over but would insert “TV” or “slippers” depending on what he observed the thieves absconding with. Finally, as if looting his home wasn’t enough, the dastardly villains pile onto poor Kermie and defile him en masse, leading their victim to sing, in a choked tenor, “Ba ba ba ba ba ba, BEE BEE BEEEEE! Give my virginity back to ME-ME-MEEEEE!” followed by several long seconds of muffled cries of pain and humiliation, grunts of pleasure, and needlessly exaggerated sounds of wet entering.

The first time that little “sketch” came to mind, it predated the funny rape boom of the aughts, and it bothered me, made me doubt my own self-worth (though, curiously, my diet at the time, which consisted of nothing but soft tacos with sour cream, Doritos, Jolt cola, and Hostess fruit pies, did not. Mmm, that just made me hungry!). By the 37th time my brain replayed the stupid thing for me, I felt nothing but irritation, and maybe some confusion, in that if I did not enjoy this thought one way or the other, why did I think about it all the time. It is a gross hangnail of a thought, and an endless cycle. It’s the thing I think about when I don’t want to think about something that I don’t want to think about. Like when you’re sitting around minding your own business and trying to read a nice book, and all of a sudden your brain shows you footage of what it thinks your grandparents having sex looks like.

Sorry, Kermit old buddy. Ba ba ba ba ba ba BEE BEE BEEEEE, I hope you accept my a-pol-o-GEEEEEE.


I haven’t the foggiest where this comes from, but at least once a day I hear the voice of an overjoyed, childlike redneck man declare, in between guffaws and victorious hooting, “Maynard in your will!”. I have been hearing this in my head since middle school, thousands upon thousands of times for sure. I don’t know if it’s from a show or an overheard real life conversation or what. If anyone recognizes this phrase from anything, please please please please please please please please please please please please please PLEASE let me know what it’s from. PLEASE. When I Google it, I only get pictures of the guy from Tool and this drawing of two canoeing young men.

This doesn’t help me.


This is one of my least favorites. Shortly after I graduated from college, I got a none-too-lucrative but fairly enjoyable job at Borders, which mostly consisted of wandering around the store making a mental list of things I wanted to buy with my employee discount. One day I thought about how awful it would be if I went to the middle of the store, started clapping my hands to a beat heard only by me, and began rapping “Here’s a number that’s really fine!/We call this special number ‘dine’!” Not nine, but “dine”. In my head everyone thought the rap was awesome except for this one fellow employee with dreadlocks named Corey, who, keenly observing the Emperor’s nudity, muttered “That’s not even a number”. Now loudly rapping about the number nine in a crowded bookstore is fairly embarrassing in and of itself, but dine? The worst part about the whole sad affair is that whenever I think of this nonsense, which is often, I feel a shame that I don’t think would differ markedly from what I would feel if I actually HAD rapped about the fucking number “dine” at Border’s. So I didn’t even do it, but for no reason I’ve spent a considerable amount of time over the years making myself feel like I did. Feeling shame about rapping about a nonexistent number in a meaningless daydream is really not a very good use of my time.  Dine!

Ugh, that’s all I can handle for one session. We’ll pick this up later, unless it just makes things worse, which remains to be seen. Good night!


Posted in Uncategorized on October 17, 2010 by butthorn

Even just logging onto this thing is hard sometimes.  Because I don’t know why I do it.  I don’t know why I do most things (or at least if I do know, I’m not very good at expressing it), but this blog does need to exist for me and I for the life of me couldn’t tell you why.  It’s important to me to write some stuff on a thing that anyone in the world could look at if they wanted to.  Blogs are nothing but a drop in the ocean, yet there’s always that feeling, that juvenile hope that, hey, maybe Quentin Tarantino will happen upon my blog and be like, “Hey, this guy sure has some insightful and amusing things to say about pooping!  I better call him on my cellphone!’  Beep boop beep, beep beep boop, boop beep boop beep.  Errrrrrrrrrnt.  Errrrrrrrrrrrrrnt.  “Oh man, I hope I don’t get his voicemail.  That’d be lame.  Oh heeeeey, is this…uh…Butthorn?  Ha ha ha!  That’s not your real name!  What’s your real name?  I wanna know whose name to write on all these fat checks I gotta sign over to you pretty soon when you help me make the greatest film known to mankind!”  And then he drives to your house and picks you up in his Lamborghini, and you stop at a McDonald’s (McDonald’s!  With Quentin Tarantino, can you even IMAGINE it?!) and he starts asking you things like “So where do you get all your ideas?” and “Who are some of your influences?” and “How many hot girls do you want when we get to my mansion?  I own hundreds.”

Then you look around the McDonald’s and notice that all of your old high school teachers, a motorcycle gang, a table full of tough but cool-looking black dudes, and a cheerleading squad are all watching you eat a McDonald’s lunch with Quentin Tarantino.  The cheerleaders giggle self-consciously.  One of the black dudes says “Right on” and gives you a meaningful nod you can take to your grave.  Quentin Tarantino stands up and says “What the fuck are you all staring at?  Don’t look at me.  Look at this guy right here.  I’m gonna be nothin’ in five years, but this guy’s gonna be wiping his ass with a diamond necklace the next time you seen him!” except he says something much cooler than that, and also something that makes sense, because what about hard-won wealth would make one want to injure oneself in such a horrific fashion, and to what end?  Who, rich or poor, would be impressed by it?  Who would wish they could be that guy?  Who would bemoan the quality of their own existence in comparison to that of the man raking a sharp and notoriously hard, if undeniably extravagant and appealing to behold, object over the hypersensitive exterior wall of his rectum?  Certainly not Quentin Tarantino.  He’d take one look at such a thing and declare “Hey, man, why you wipin’ your ass with that necklace?”  He would never say “Wow, you must be successful!” or “My life is horrible!” after witnessing such an act, of that you can be assured.  Point being, in the above scenario at McDonald’s Quentin Tarantino would say something complimentary about you in public, and he would do so in a cockily clever fashion that people would quote later in bars.  It would make you feel really special and you would believe that you can now tell people that you’re friends with him and it won’t just be showing off.  You’d just be saying something that was true, and no one thinks you’re showing off if you tell them the sky’s blue, right?

You leave McDonald’s without taking your trays and burger wrappers to the trash can and jump back into QT’s Lamborghini, which can go up to 700 mph and says a variety of different, brashly vulgar phrases, such as “English, motherfucker, do you speak it?!” and “I bet you’re a big Lee Marvin fan, aren’t ya?”  You clap your hands and laugh whenever the car says one of these things, and QT looks over at you and smiles with pride and excitement.  The wind whips through your hair, and you realize that it was all just leading up to this.  All the boring nonsense you just sleptwalked through and all the self-fulfilling disappointments you let slide off your back because you weren’t really trying anyway are culminating in this one car ride, and you’ve finally found the point at which it’s all worth it.  That point is real.  You just found it.  Or it just found you, and it is driving you to Hollywood, where you are going to be a star.

You get to QT’s mansion and a robot butler takes your duffel bag.  QT jumps on the robot butler piggyback style and rides it into the kitchen.  The robot butler struggles but bears QTs weight, wobbly but working, and you laugh at the antics.  The kitchen is full of candy, and the living room is full of video games, and the basement is full of comics, and the bathroom is full of cocaine, and the bedroom is full of ladies.  You roll in a big pile of all these things.  You hear someone laughing and it sounds like you.  You and Quentin Tarantino listen to a lot of the same music, and he excitedly voices thoughts about Pearl Jam that you’ve once had yourself, to the letter almost.  The ladies get bored because you guys are talking about shows that were cancelled before they were born.  You catch a fleeting glimpse of your reflection in the hot tub water and it is hideous but blurry and easy to put out of your mind.

Being outside in a hot tub is amazing.

The guest house is a scale model of the Millennium Falcon, but with a strip club in it, and your bed is composed of a gelatinous but not adherent substance that conforms to the contours of your prone body with otherworldly precision and comfort.  You lie down and feel it cling to you.  It dawns on you that, before now, home had been a foreign concept.  You thought you knew what it was before, but you didn’t.  Now you do, and you don’t wonder that people seem to love it so much.  You close your eyes and see nothing but breasts and fluttering green bills.

The next day Quentin Tarantino’s robot butler wakes you by gliding into your room, emitting a muted beep, and intoning MR. TARANTINO HAS PREPARED BREAKFAST FOR YOU IN THE KITCHEN AND REQUESTS THAT YOU JOIN HIM.  THERE ARE SLIPPERS IN THE CLOSET.  You thank the robot butler and try to shake some life into your head.  Something clatters to the floor as you fling the gelatin blankets aside.  You scan the floor.  Colorful dots…Skittles!

You follow the scent of bacon and eggs and find QT in an apron emblazoned with a photorealistic nude female body, replete with pubic hair, and an oversized chef’s hat, which flops about amusingly as he places what look to be well-prepared breakfasts – pancakes, too, it turns out – around the table.  Three plates of breakfast.  One of the ladies must be joining you.

But no – it’s a breakfast for Brad Pitt!

“So this is the famous Butthorn,” drawls Brad, sliding into his seat and wryly tearing the fatty end from a dripping slice of fine-quality bacon.  “Nice to meet ya, I’m Brad.”

You wonder if you should try to be funny or interesting, or perhaps even polite and “just folks”.  Nothing seems right, including remaining silent.  Too much time elapses, and you laugh and apologize.

“That’s all right, Butthorn,” says Brad, looking around the table for something.  “You puttin’ out some OJ or are we drinking Mrs. Butterworth’s today?”

“Keep your fuckin’ dick on, I got toast burnin’ over here!” snaps QT from the kitchen.

“He can singlehandedly rejuvenate modern day cinema, but put him in front of a toaster, and suddenly the walls are closing in,” says Brad.  “Good bacon, though.  Pull up a chair, eat some of this.”

You obey, eager to eat but wary of looking slovenly or sounding foolish.  You want ketchup on your eggs but wonder how this will be interpreted by Brad Pitt.  You decide to start with bacon.  It’s very good.

“People talk a lot about bacon these days,” says Brad.  “Why do you think that is, Butthorn?”

You look at the bacon in your hand and it suddenly looks like a horror prop.  You say that you don’t know.

“Oh come on, Butthorn,” says Brad.  “You’re the Internet guy, right?  Isn’t bacon a big Internet thing, or was that awhile ago?  I’m a little behind on these sorts of things.”

“I’m not really the Internet guy,” you say.  “I like to use it, but…”

“Hey Quentin, I thought you said this guy was all about the Internet!”

“That’s…where my blog is, but…”

“Oh, that’s what it is!” says Brad, nodding steadily with an implacable squint while fashioning a tiny gordita of sort from a pancake fragment, bacon, hash brown, and syrup.  “I’ve been thinking of making me one of those.  Get on there, talk about my feelings.  Opinions on various topics.  That what you do?”

“A little,” you say.

“You should come over and help me do mine,” says Brad, trying to balance his creation on his fork.  “You can meet Angelina and the kids.  Angelina loves the Internet.  You guys could probably talk all day about it.”

You drop your knife and make it so much worse by trying to stop it from happening.  Your hand, no control a thing you can control, bats it into the living room, where it lands on the rug, sticky with syrup.

“HEY, ROBOT!” calls Brad, and you jump.  “Don’t worry, that robot’ll take care of it.  His left arm is a Shop-Vac.”

“Oh wow,” you say, mentally slitting your own throat.

“Angelina’s been wanting to make a movie about the Internet,” says Brad, chewing with his mouth open.  “It’s about she’s get shrunk down real small and gets sucked into a laptop, and then as a result she’s running around all these websites, so when people are trying to use the Internet, they see my wife jumping around on all the words and interacting with all the pictures, and getting caught in YouTube movies and all that stuff.”

“Oh wow,” you say again, imprisoned in a foul and stupid carcass.

“It’s just in the idea stage right now, though,” says Brad, mopping up the remaining syrup in his plate with his last pancake and folding the entire affair into his mouth.  “Maybe when you’re done making your little movie with Ugly over there, you can sit down with Angelina and help her come up with stuff for it.  You know all the websites and e-mail jokes and everything, and she could take care of all the technical stuff.”

“Oh my God, that would be…I’d be…”

You wait because you don’t want to say honored but you end up saying it anyway and it both feels and sounds even worse than you’d imagined, but Brad is choking on something anyway so the inexplicable shame is yours to keep.  QT finally shows up with some burnt toast and joins you both at the table.

“Where’s the OJ?” asks Brad between sputters.

“Can I fucking eat this shit I busted my fucking hump to fucking cook for you assholes, please, before waiting on your prima donna ass fucking hand and fucking foot?”

“I’m choking!” Brad says, now also laughing and inventing an entirely new type of audible spasm for a human throat to make.  “I gotta wash this down!”

“Really?  You’re choking?  Awww, well that is a shame,” says QT, pouting with mock sympathy and concern.  He then turns to you and says, “See, now this is exciting.  Not only are you gonna be a world-renowned multimillionaire when this is all said and done, but you can tell people that you were there when Brad Pitt choked to death on a pancake.”

Brad laughs harder and tries to hit himself in the back, which looks insane.

“It’ll be bigger than JFK, the Space Shuttle, and 9/11 combined in terms of ‘where were you when’ moments, and when people ask you where you were when Brad Pitt choked on that pancake, you can say you were passing him the fucking butter.”

Brad walks into the living room, sticks his finger down his throat, and pukes breakfast all over the carpet.

“OH, YOU FUCKING COCKSUCKING PIECE OF FUCKING SHIT!” QT barks, watching with incredulous rage as Brad Pitt crumples to the floor in a laughing, bile-flecked heap.  “MUFFIT THREE!  MUFFITT THREE, CAN YOU COME CLEAN UP THE RUG, PLEASE?”

You hear the robot butler gliding its way in from the next room.

“His left arm’s a Shop-Vac,” explains QT.  “But still, that’s just fucking ridiculous.  Are the eggs okay?  You haven’t touched them.  Do you need ketchup?”

You nod and restrain yourself from kissing him on the mouth.  Muffit III sucks regurgitated carbs up into a compartment in its chest while Brad stomps towards the nearest bathroom and QT rummages through the fridge for some ketchup for your eggs.

Jeez, I didn’t come here to write this!  To be continued, maybe???  It’s out of my hands at this point.


Posted in Marvy Movies, Mundane Events on October 5, 2010 by butthorn

I am doing some laundry, making a very small dent in a self-replicating pile of regurgitated-formula-encrusted tee-shirts, pungent undies (“Ladies and Gentlemen, The Pungent Undies!”), socks that have given up all hope, jeans that no longer conform to the lower halves of anyone currently residing here, and a shirt advertising some type of annual event that takes place in Millinocket and involves softball and Jagermeister.  I don’t mind doing the laundry too much once I get going, nor washing the dishes, nor removing objects from surfaces where they look bad and relocating them to surfaces where they look bad out of eyeshot.  Cleaning doesn’t use up a lot of brain space, leaving one free to go to ones happy place, and no matter how half-assed a job you do, there is always a result.  It’s a little better when things are clean.

We have never been clean people.  Over to the right there if you click on “Thursday Night Squalor” under Categories, you’ll see that I once devoted each Thursday night to taking photographs of designated areas of the house, for the purposes of monitoring how the detritus changed from week to week, and for making funnies about how we’re pigs.  I had to stop after awhile because it was getting depressing, and rather than impelling me to maybe pick up once in awhile given that I was essentially showing everyone in the world I was gross on a weekly basis, it just made me sad, which made me tired, and thus more messy.  It really worked out excellently.

I guarantee you that crock pot to the left was positively caked with moldy corn chowder, and likely remained in that condition for upwards of a fortnight, if not considerably longer.  I remember one time taking the crock pot out of the fridge after it had been in there for at least a month and a half, then smelled the contents, I guess to be “funny”, then began involuntarily shouting “WAH!  OH NO!  OH WAAAAAAH!  WAAAAAAAAAAH!”.  I then put it back in the fridge.  It has since been cleansed, and is used sparingly.

Adding a child to an environment of pre-established disarray and filth is a terribly counterproductive plan.  It’s like wiping your butt with a poop.  As much garbage and clutter and smelliness that my wife and I are capable of creating simply by going through the motions of an average day, Freddy can triple our combined output without even possessing the capability to walk, or to prepare food, or to purchase six books at Border’s because they were on sale and then leave them on the kitchen table in an unruly pile atop a coffee-stained cardigan, four pay stubs, a Devil Dog wrapper, and a mysterious remote that doesn’t seem to control anything we own.  So when we’re not funneling pablum or decimated legumes down his little throat, pulling down his pants to verify the presence of urine and/or feces, or pleading with him to stop squalling like a banshee with a bladder infection for no discernible reason, we’re frantically tidying up, racing to combat the encroaching landmass of sticky bottles, foul bibs, piss-plumped Pampers, socks so tiny they look like sight gags, clunky and barely acknowledged playthings, cloudy “suck-sucks”, cloth “wipeys” in varying stages of damp stinkiness…all manner of once-foreign-now-commonplace paraphernalia.  And this on top of our own mainstay contributions of unwatched bargain bin $5 Walmart DVDs, well-worn PJ pants, thrift store paperback adaptations of dumb 80’s movies, self-burned but unlabeled CDs, grocery store receipts, controllers to outmoded video game systems, bills both paid and less so, sticky bottles of our own, take-out menus, etc.  Where we once lied around and let crap accumulate, we now clean constantly to maintain roughly the same level of perceived accumulated crap.  It’s a constant process and the place never looks anywhere near as good as I want it to or envision it will.

My dream is to take a weekend during which I will evaluate every single object in our home, giving everything fair and equal consideration, from the tiniest screw to the most dependable appliance, and make a decision as to whether or not to keep or discard it.  It’s something I’ve only done while in the act of moving to another location (something we unfortunately do fairly often and will need to do yet again in about another year, unless David Blaine stops by and magically pulls a house out of my ass before then), but it would certainly help us to better appreciate and utilize our limited space.  Why, just think of how many useful objects I could cram in the space once reserved for a VHS copy of “Freebie and the Bean”!

What the fuck am I thinking?  I can’t get rid of “Freebie and the Bean”!  That’s top shelf buddy cop!  Did you watch the whole thing?  You didn’t, obviously, it’s over six minutes long.  Go back and finish it!  They run over a marching band at one point!  Such gleeful racism (in the title of the film, no less)!  Such unforced banter!  Stuntmen and extras all in clear peril!  James Caan back when he had that funny high-pitched voice (“Dirty bastard!  Dirty bastard!”)!  Alan Arkin doing anything at all!  I love “Freebie and the Bean”.  You can get it on a weird bootleggish DVD from the Warner Archive (along with tons of other old hard-to-find stuff, including a lot of great grimy 70’s TV movies like “Bad Ronald” and “Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark” , both of which I want you to buy me for Christmas, please), but in the end I much prefer to have the hefty old videocassette in the shiny, smooth, outsized Warner Brothers snapcase.  Because the poorer the quality, the cozier I feel.

Speaking of “Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark”, it stars Kim Darby, whom you very well may not recognize by name.  I knew her as the spunky little girl in “True Grit”…

…but I was unaccountably thrilled to discover that she also, much later, played the delightful weirdo mom in “Better Off Dead”!

File that under Exciting Exclusively to Me, if you like, but I thought I’d share my newfound wealth of Kim Darby knowledge.

So to sum up, cleaning is hard, “Freebie and the Bean” is good, and Kim Darby plays the mother in “Better Off Dead”.  I think I touched on everything here, and the clothes have just finished drying besides!  Another successful evening for winner me!  Mail me a fiver!