Archive for the Inanimate Objects of Note Category


Posted in Inanimate Objects of Note on August 7, 2009 by butthorn

Boy, I have absolutely nothing to write about right now.  It’s never a good idea for me to just hit “New Post” and start typing whatever, but what good did a good idea ever do anybody?  You still die penniless and alone.  That’s the bottom line. 

How about we talk about my shitty bed?  Yes, the riotously uncomfortable rectangle of agony that my wife and I find ourselves struggling to balance our bodies upon each and every evening.  Our bed sucks maggot-riddled dung out of the weathered rectum of William S. Burroughs’ putrid corpse.  This doesn’t make trying to sleep on it any easier, believe you me.  How our bed managed to rob William S. Burroughs’ grave is mind-boggling in and of itself, but you try relaxing on a rickety boxspring that’s constantly in the act of administering analingus to a decaying beatnik.  I’m trying to tell you that I don’t have a nice bed. 

Buying a bed is a big deal, and we’ve been putting it off for a long time.  We actually slept on the floor for upwards of two years before “lucking” into the ramshackle nightmare we currently retire to when hay-hitting time draws nigh, and part of me would like to throw our current bed out the window and go back to that stage of life.  I don’t wanna go to the bed store.  I don’t wanna talk to a bed salesman.  I don’t wanna pay hundreds or thousands of dollars for something that doesn’t emit interactive computerized images.  Plus what do we do with the old bed when the bed store guys bring the new bed?  Are the bed store guys gonna take it for us?  And what of these bed store guys?  Do I have to say stuff to them?  Do I have to give them ten dollars?  Is that enough?  Will they want twenty dollars?  I don’t want them to have twenty dollars.  I want that money for me.  Are they gonna say bad stuff about our apartment when they get back in the truck?   I don’t want them to do that.  That hurts my feelings.  And what if we spend eight googolplex dollars on a bed that turns out to suck even grosser shit out of an even deader person’s asshole?  At least when you sleep on the floor you don’t have all these frightening quandries to deal with.  No money needs to change hands, no strangers need to be contacted.  It’s just you and the floor. 

Why do so many facets of life improvement require that you speak and surrender income to people you’ve never met before and have no reason to trust?  The bed salesman only wants to take my money.  Whether or not I get a good night’s sleep is immaterial to the expansion of his bank account.  I worked hard for that money.  All the bed salesman did was happen to gain access to a building with a bunch of beds in it.  I would be comfortable paying twenty-five dollars for a bed, and iffy but begrudgingly agreeable about forking over fifty.  I understand that beds cost more than twenty-five dollars and this is befuddling and unacceptable to me. 

I am also worried about having to dispose of our current bed once and if we get a new one.  If the terrifying bed laborers don’t elect to carry it out of our apartment, what then?  We cannot have two beds; that is insane.  We cannot lift the mattress and boxspring ourselves and carry them downstairs to the car, then transport them to a suitable disposal site; that is hard.  The only thing I can think of to do is make some kind of art out of it, like chop it up with an axe and maybe pour some paint all over it and call it “Consumerism” or something.  That could take up space in that area of the room in front of the closet currently occupied by dirty clothes, and then we could squash all the dirty clothes under the new bed, which is nice because then you just wake up, reach your arm underneath the bed, and pull out your outfit for the day.  All right, now that I have a plan, it’s probably time to take the bed-buying plunge.  After all, beds don’t buy themselves.  They don’t have any money because no one will hire them in this economy. 

Well, what beds are there for me to buy?  Let’s Google some beds!

rolly bed

Say, that’s a pip of a bed!  And if you get thirsty for orange juice in the middle of the night as I tend to do, you can just convince your partner to help you rock the thing back and forth until you’re rolling down the hall into the kitchen, slick as you please!  That featureless endtable isn’t doing anyone any favors, though.  Also plants don’t belong in the bedroom, or for that matter in the house.  They require assistance to continue living.  You think I need that shit on my conscience 24-7?  I’m trying to relax on my bed!


Oh jeez!  Oh, ah ha haaah!  Oh no!  This guy’s bed is a cheeseburger!  That’s certifiable.  Makes you wonder if he goes to McDonald’s and orders tiny beds to eat!  That thing is probably pretty cozy for people who don’t have any women.  Like being eaten by a giant bottom with cheese in it every night.  Can you take the pickle slice out and use that for a pillow, I’m wondering right now?  It’s a little fun to think about the day this guy moved into his new apartment, and one of his new roommates walks by his room on the way to the bathroom and happens to see through the slightly ajar door that the new guy is setting up a giant cheeseburger bed, whistling with homey contentment.  I bet that guy peed really fast so he could run back to the living room and tell the other roomie about the cheeseburger bed.  And that was only the beginning!  Man, that Andy certainly was a character.  Whatever happened to him? 


Hey, I like this!  Putting aside the yucky fake wood look of the exterior, I could sleep nicely in a shallow padded box with a staircase.  Plus apparently there’s speakers in this thing so you can mellow out to soothing tunes which course through your prone body while you set about taking the A-train to Snoozetown.  That “Tonight I Need Your Sweet Caress” song would feel sexily relaxing in this bed, I bet.  (Jesus, I think about that song all the time.  Why?  It doesn’t benefit me.)  Dude, you could totally get baked and put some Pink Floyd in this bed and lie down and be like awwwwwwwwwww shit dude. 


I’m not even completely sure what’s happening in this picture, but I laugh every time I look at it.  The look on that gentleman’s face tells me that is exactly what he’s always wanted in a bed, and now that he finally has it he will live out the remainder of his days in pure, unkillable bliss.  We can learn a lot from this man if only we could open our hearts, souls, minds, and other openable things we probably have that only this guy with the fucked up tree bed seems to know about.


This is a snazzy, space-saving concept in theory, but what happens when you’re tippity-typing away at your laptop, putting the finishing touches on a “tweet” that succintly manages to both inform and entertain, and something unhooks on your fancy ceiling bed and crashes down and FUCKING KILLS YOU?  What then, Mr. Bed Version of Frank Lloyd Wright?  I still think this is pretty cool, but I couldn’t get any real computing done under that thing while in such constant awareness of my own mortality. 

death bed

Heh.  I guess I can understand the desire to want to make a badass bed, but that is the most approachable skull and crossbones I’ve ever seen.  That skull is genuinely happy to make your acquaintance.  “How are you doing today?” asks that skull.  “I hope your day is going as swimmingly as my own.  Would you like to come to my house and play a fun board game and have some good-tasting snacks?”  That’s the skull of someone who just found out that a package they’ve been waiting for from Amazon came in the mail.  There is no death or danger in that emblem, just contentment and goodwill, and those are superb qualities to have in a bed, I should think.  Yes, I think this is the bed for me.  Wrap it up, bed peddler (beddler?), I’ll take it. 

There you go.  Six pictures and 15-20 lame bed jokes.  Don’t ever say I never gave you nothin’.



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 Inanimate Objects of Note, Uncle Nutsy! on December 5, 2008 by butthorn


We put the Christmas tree up the other night.  I may as well show you a picture of it.


Isn’t that fine?  Doesn’t that make you wanna whip up a hearty batch of figgy pudding?  


The perennial star on our holiday tree is Stinky.  Stinky is all that remains of an old doll my mother used to have as a child.  Originally named “Kenny”, my brother took a liking to the doll when our grandmother found it in her attic, and we took him home and rechristened him.  He’s been through a lot.  My brother and I used to like to record tapes of us making dumb radio shows which usually consisted of us talking about pooping and penises followed by several minutes of unsuccessfully concealed laughter, and quite often these recordings “starred” Stinky, or me pretending to be Stinky.  I gave Stinky a very high-pitched, horribly loud, and profoundly irritating voice, and he had several odd obsessions (including buttered green beans and Francois Clemens from “Mr. Rogers”) that he discussed at length, inappropriately interjecting them into conversations that didn’t necessarily concern them.  He also had a notably poor short-term memory, and a favorite gag of ours would be to have Stinky interview a “guest” (usually one of our stuffed animals) and in mid-discussion I would have Stinky innocently and cheerfully ask the guest “When did you arrive?”.  That bit killed us, for one reason or another.  I’m sure there are a few of those tapes kicking around my parents’ basement, no doubt drenched in mouse urine.  Anyway, please meet Stinky.  He’s sort of an important part of my life, sad to say.  I really identify with him.

Aren’t those lion pictures in the first photo fantastic?   They’re embroidered!  Why don’t I share with you the rest of the artwork adorning our humble apartment?  Here is all of it, or at least as much of it as I could photograph before my battery-decimating dinosaur of a camera became tired of performing the sole function expected of it.  


Like Stinky, these fruit heads came from my Grammie’s house in Monson, which is now depressingly deserted.  They used to hang in the dining room, and they always commanded my attention whenever I went in there.  They continue to do so.  I love how resigned they are.  If these were manufactured today, they’d be smiling to beat the band.  These two are happy enough with their lot in life, but they’re not gonna be freaks about it or anything.  They’re just trying to get through their day, and I can appreciate that.  On an unrelated note, I wish I got the opportunity to begin more paragraphs with the phrase “Like Stinky”.


Like Stinky, we often find ourselves compelled to purchase low-cost decorations bearing images of goofy cartoon owls.  This striking ceramic owl plaque came from the Goodwill in Brewer.  I like the Goodwill in Brewer.  It’s terribly organized but I’ve never gone in there without finding something at least somewhat incredible.  It’s one of the few Goodwills left that doesn’t feel like it’s pretending to be a real store, and I applaud that. The Brewer Goodwill looks like the Broken Shit Plane crashed and no one felt like cleaning it up so they slapped price tags on everything and called it good.  Actually, the entire city of Brewer is pretty much like that, and I mean that to be complimentary, for the most part.  Anyway, yeah, the yellow owl plaque was love at first sight.  It really pops against the soul-crushing paint job (I believe this particular shade is known as “Smoker Teeth”) in our kitchen.  


It’s not as though we’re obsessed with owls or anything.  They’re just featured in so many weird, inexpensive decorations.  And that one on the left is an oven mitt, so he’s a multitasker.  Bought that cat picture at an otherwise disappointing Methodist church rummage sale that smelled like Bangor water.  I didn’t really know why I was buying it then and am still unable to shed any further light on that. There’s just something about it.  The only other thing I can remember purchasing at that church rummage sale was, shockingly enough, the mug pictured below:


It magically transforms coffee into wrung Speedo sweat.  


Annie has a rarely exhibited fetish for caricatures of food service employees.  If we come across a portrait of a jolly rotund chef offering a tray of muffins in Target, you can bet your bottom dollar that Annie will be excitedly cooing over it in a matter of seconds.  I’ve grown quite fond of these guys myself, although looking them directly in the eye is not recommended.



For half of 2005 we lived in the Seattle area, and while it was far too citified for the likes of us, they sure did have some good thrift stores.  Especially enjoyable was pawing through the “framed pictures of weird things” section, which resulted in keen finds like the above.  I haven’t had the same luck in Maine-area second-hand shops when it comes to hangings.  It’s hard to see due as usual to my dungy camera, but in the second photo that picture on the left is a pineapple with watermelon innards.  As inanimate objects go, it’s definitely one of my faves.


On the left is a slightly damaged ceramic oblong panda-based oddity I picked up at a yard sale and beside it is a neat picture of a station wagon driving through a psychedelic storm of wavy blue lines that our friend Jared made.  


A former neighbor painted these and gave them to us.  Their creator turned out to be off-puttingly insane, but the paintings themselves are undeniably fun.


This is hanging in our bathroom.  It’s kind of gross.  As such, it is not at all out of place in our bathroom.


Finally, we close out our tour with arguably our favorite wedding photo, taken by my brother-in-law, Peter.  My best man told me I resemble George W. Bush in this picture.  I would be surprised to learn that he intended that as a compliment.  Annie looks very much like her dad here.  So needless to say this loving portrait did wonders for our self-esteem.  It sure was sunny that day.  


That’s it!  I’m gonna go eat two Manwiches!


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 Inanimate Objects of Note, Mugs of the Week on April 20, 2008 by butthorn

Look at these goofy chuckleheads!

Annie’s mom gave us these for Christmas. I’m pretty sure she got them at Rite Aid, because one time we went to the Rite Aid near her house to get deodorant, and they were there. Little did I know they would one day become part of my life. I really hated them at first, but they’ve grown on me. They’re just so stupid. The caffeine’s just kicking in for the blue guy, but I’m guessing the yellow guy finished his approximately 45 minutes ago.

This is a total lost cause, as you can’t remotely read what it says in these cups, but inside the blue mug there’s a little cartoon balloon that says “Time for coffee!”, which I guess is the exciting treat you get for finishing 1/5 of your coffee. If I’m not mistaken, the yellow guy’s balloon says “Crazy for coffee!”. In the end, they’re probably among the top five best Christmas gifts we’ve received from Annie’s mom. Rest assured that I am not exaggerating when I tell you that.

They’re sturdy, the handles leave plenty of wiggle room for my porky digits, and they hold a manly amount of bean sluice. There’s also something to be said for flatware that has a nose. My new favorite aspect of these mugs, however, is the newly discovered fact that they’ve proven to be ideal stars for my new exciting amateur gay mug porn franchise!


Humpa in the dumpa!

No female hot beverage receptacles allowed!

Whew, what a workout! So what are some of your favorite movies? I’ve really been liking early 90’s era Woody Allen lately. I know, isn’t that weird? Everybody’s always all “Annie Hall” this and “Manhattan” that, but I’ll take “Bullets Over Broadway” over those yakfests anyday. I know, I’m just a big weirdo! I can’t help it, I like what I like. I don’t see any reason to pretend otherwise. You gotta be yourself. It’s the most important thing in the world.

MUG OF THE WEEK 03/25/08!

Posted in Inanimate Objects of Note on March 25, 2008 by butthorn

Because “Mug of the Infrequent Whim” just isn’t that catchy.

Here it is:

It’s Don of the Rockies, everyone! See ya next time!


Posted in Inanimate Objects of Note on February 14, 2008 by butthorn

As a Valentine’s Day present to my wife, I am going to refrain from posting pictures of our messy apartment on the Internet tonight. I know this renders your week essentially pointless, but what can ya do? Why not pay some attention to your spouse/significant other? You’ve been ignoring them for weeks now! It’s like your entire relationship is a sham!

So no TNS for you this week, wanny wanny wah wah, but that doesn’t mean we can’t take a look at the…


This is it. The mug of the week. Phil. The Colt Peacemaker.

This is a beautiful mug, in both style and function. Perfectly shaped handle. Ideal volume. Handsomely painted gun, with pleasing burnt orange etchings of cowboy and cattle in the background. This mug has no story behind it. I don’t remember where we got it. I will state that it never remains clean for long. Once its apparent that the cup is clean, and coffee has been brewed, one of us will always make an immediate grab for Phil. And there’s never any malice on the part of the grabber, or jealousy on the part of the grabee. We both know that this is an excellent mug, and with Phil washed and ready for action, it would make no sense whatsoever to spurn it in favor of a lesser mug.

Don’t let the Colt Peacemaker pass you by. If Phil’s clean, fill him with bean. Seize the day, to quote Saul Bellow. And Newsies.

Now go give your succulent lover a sensuous smooch!