Give Me Liberty
Give me liberty or give me death. Ooh, or an ice cream sandwich. I’d much rather have that than death.
Here’s the question, though: Would I rather have an ice cream sandwich or liberty? Because, liberty is super important. I totally realize liberty is important. Thousands have fought and died for my liberty. But, it’s crazy hot today. An ice cream sandwich would be sooooo good.
It was an easy choice between death and ice cream. Ice cream sandwich all the way. But, liberty—without liberty, what do you have left? Oppression, that’s what. Without ice cream, what do you have? Cake. Pudding. Popsicles. Tons of stuff.
I’ve changed my mind. Give me liberty. I’m for sure going with liberty. Ooh, and a popsicle.
Your Eyes Are Like…
Your eyes are like deep azure pools reflecting a thousand, glittering fireflies. Your lips are like delicate rose petals, damp from the morning dew. Your hair is like if spaghetti and a spider web had a baby—in a good way—long like spaghetti but soft like a cobweb. So, like silk, I guess.
Your back is like a rolling sand dune made out of marshmallow fluff. Your neck is long and sexy, like a sexy swan neck. But, not that long, because a swan neck would be too long for a lady.
Your arms are like a sculpture—a sculpture of beautiful arms. Your teeth are very much like ivory. Your breasts are like … uh, like … what was I talking about? I’m sorry, I got distracted thinking about your breasts. Oh yeah, I was saying what your stuff is like.
Your hands are like delicate, wooden puppet hands. Your nose is like a tiny ski jump. Your butt is like a goddamn miracle.
Your knees—I could give or take your knees. There’s nothing wrong with them. I’m just not a knee guy. Never really had a thing for knees. But, going back to your butt for a second, it’s just amazing. Really, congrats.
Your feet are like—
Oh, this is your train stop? You’re getting off? Well, it was nice meeting you. Enjoy the rest of your commute. Bye.
My Amazing Mural
I’ve moved to a new apartment, and it’s the first one that I’ve been allowed to paint. So, I’ve gone all out and painted an apartment-wide mural. Let me describe it for you.
When you enter the front door, you see a swirling, paisley, Mandelbrot fractal pattern, and it confuses you. Your senses are assaulted, and you wonder, “Wait, did I just walk into an apartment or into the mind of a genius?” Well, in a way you did both.
The paisley pattern flows left towards the living room, where it smoothly and skillfully transitions into a forest scene. The forest is so amazingly photorealistic, it seems real, like a photo.
Then you look closer, and you see the trees are made up of a million little dots. And, each dot is a little face. And, each face is mouthing a different syllable, which if placed all in a row and played as a film would sing the complete Harry Belafonte song catalogue. That’s how many trees there are in my living room.
What’s that in the corner? Why it’s a little, painted porcupine pointing toward the kitchen. I think he wants you to go into the kitchen.
The kitchen is painted like a 1950’s diner, all red and white checkers. The cabinets look like rows of soda fountain glasses. The fridge is painted to look like a milkshake machine. The milkshake machine is painted to look like a cash register.
Finally, after pie, we move into the bedroom—the pièce de résistance. The entire back wall is a self-portrait of me and Heidi Klum riding dolphins into the sunset. But, the dolphins are robot dolphins. What does that mean? Is it the future where dolphins are extinct? It can’t be; Heidi looks so young and pert, like from her first Sports Illustrated shoot. Even I’m not sure when the painting takes place. Great art challenges you.
In the painting, Heidi and I are holding hands. Our cheeks are flushed and our eyes sleepy. It looks as though we’ve just been through some sort of intense physical activity together. She looks like she’s had multiple activities. I’m winking. (In the painting, I’m winking too.)
I can’t wait until my wife comes back from her conference. I think she’s really going to like the mural I painted while she’s been gone.
Favorite Dog Breeds
A list of my favorite breeds of dog, along with quick descriptions of their temperament:
Golden Retriever
– loving, loyal, goofy
Scottish Terrier
– sweet, silly, rambunctious
Highland Goathound
– bullish, strong-willed, observant
Royal Dutch Pompadour
– elitist, flippant, obfuscating
Flat-Faced Dimplepinscher
– jaundiced, jittery, hyperglycemic
Italian Petite Bangs Terrier
– pointy, grateful, lilac-scented
Belgian Grundler
– impish, avuncular, annotated
Silky Chuptopper
– distractible, randy, semi-formal
Taiwanese Shin Shin
– ovular, prescient, newfangled
Mottled Chestermeyer
– narcissistic, reciprocating, perspicacious
Irish Bogie Whiner
– symptomatic, encrusted, stringent
Mustachioed Bugli
– pedantic, impromptu, rabble-rousing
Austrian Corbinbersen
– garrulous, blubbery, extemporaneous
Manchester Tonguehound
– tangential, hackneyed, rough-hewn
Friggen Yaws Terrier
– mollycoddled, querulous, milquetoast
The Purplest Nurple
The following is an excerpt from my tween murder mystery novel, The Purplest Nurple, about a kid who dies from a titty twister:
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“What are we even doing in here?” begged Smitts. “There might be a ga-ga-ga-ghost.”
Smitty could be a real dork sometimes. I flicked him in the junk. Hard. That shut him up. “Shhh, we’re getting evidence, stupid,” I told him, because that’s what we were doing.
Smitts kept tugging at his shorts, trying to get his nuts to not ache. “But, the school said it was anophalastical shock. ‘Cause he ate a peanut.” He meant antapolapstic shock. Duh.
“You saw those bruises around his nips. That was no accidental death, Smitts. It was murder by titty twister.” I was right, of course. I’m right a ton of the time.
I had just set down the victim’s Lego Deathstar when his mom came in with a tray. “I thought you boys might like some Rice Crispy treats and juice,” she said, all chipper and stuff. Smitts is a lard-ass, so he snatched ‘em up right away.
“Thanks, Mrs. Flannery. Hey! These are real good. Do they got M&Ms in ‘em?” Smitty asked with his fat mouth.
“They sure do, Riley. Peanut M&Ms.”
“Peanut M&Ms?” I said, “I thought Josh was allergic to peanuts.” Josh’s mom’s face got all sad, and I realized I was coming on too strong, Batman-style.
“He was, poor thing. We haven’t been able to have peanuts in the house since he was born.” She was kind of sniffling, but then she got real happy again. “But, now we can have all the peanuts we want!”
Right then’s when I noticed the locket she was wearing. It was the same locket I had saw on coach Meyerson’s desk in the locker room where Josh was found. No, it couldn’t be--Josh’s mom and Coach Meyerson? Were they boyfriend and girlfriend, even though she was married?
And, could that have something to do with the titty twister? Holy balls! We had to get out of there …
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Postcards from the News
I made more Postcards from the News today for Indecision Forever. See one here.
Other than that, what else? I went to work. I had lunch. I saved a baby from a runaway bus. I worked on my robot that looks like me. I got a haircut. I picked up some printer ink. I shaved my beard and grew it back. I caught some squirrels for my squirrel circus. I made dinner. I watched a YouTube video about something; I forget what. I took out the recycling. Then I started a blog post, which I am finishing right ... now.
Jumble Ball
The rules of Jumble Ball are simple:
The person with the ball is called the Jumbler. He or she approaches the Jumble Line and calls for a Jumble Quorum. This means that each Jumble team votes five of its members into play. (Jumble Teams can be anywhere between 12 and 43 Jumble Players depending on the season and continent.)
When ten players have been voted upon and confirmed into Jumble Play by the Grand Ref Jumble Judge, play is almost ready to begin. Before that can happen though, the Jumble Field must be raked by the official Jumble Raker. He or she uses a regulation Jumble Rake, at least four feet long but never longer than six feet. Jumble Raking is an honor bestowed upon retired Jumble Players who have shown years of sportsmanship in their Jumbling. The Grand Ref Jumble Judge okays the Jumble Raking, and play is ready to begin--just as soon as the Jumble Paint is applied.
Each Jumble Team chooses two colors to paint their faces. If both teams choose the same colors, each team must re-vote. Spirit animals are chosen to represent that particular day's Jumble Teams' unique group attitude. Those animals' faces are then painted over the players' faces.
The Jumble Ball is blessed.
Names of fallen Jumble Players are read aloud by the Jumble Raker. Each name is inscribed into the handle of his or her rake. Then, there is the ceremonial Jumble Dance representing the Great Jumble of life. All Jumble Team members are included.
The Grand Ref Jumble Judge asks permission of the spectators to start the game. Paper ballots are used and counted. If given permission the GRJJ calls the game into play. The Jumble Clock is set at one twelfth of a Jumble Day. Play begins.
After that, it's pretty much just Smear the Queer.
My Deepest Sympathies
Dear Barry,
I wanted let me know that I am deeply saddened over your recent news. When I heard, I was heartbroken about what had happened. Marie told me about it before you sent out an email confirming, but I simply couldn’t believe that you got a six-figure book deal. Now, I see it’s true. It just goes to show that life is random and unfair.
It’s hard to imagine someone so young (younger than me even) going through something like this—a bidding war over his first book. It doesn’t make any sense. I can remember just last year seeing your book when you sent it to me for notes. It seemed so young and innocent—undeveloped and naïve, if you will. It’s hard to imagine a book like that ending up where it did. It makes me very sad.
And to add insult to injury, I hear it’s been optioned as a movie, with you slated to adapt the screenplay. With Ryan Gosling slated to play you, even though he looks exactly like me. Fate can be a cruel thing.
If it puts things into perspective for you, the world is a fucked up place sometimes. Please send my deepest sympathies along to you family for having to deal with this tragedy and your huge ego, which I can only assume will get worse as you fully process these events.
It’s hard to believe in a God, when things like this happen. But, please take solace in the fact that you are a conniving prick. I know that knowledge helps me.
With regret,
Andy