A Piss Of Shakespearian Proportion

Waiting in line for the port-a-potty's outside a performance of "Pericles", I stood behind a group of strangers. Smarting a few up-and-downs, I suspected these folks -a straw hat here, overalls there, Crocs everywhere- are now, or were at one time, involved in The Theater. An overwrought response to a flowery 'yes or no' validated my hunch:

"Will you join Alex next summer when he hikes the mountains of Austria?"

"Oh, Roger, you know not my woe. Within my breast, great conflict wages! As I would much cherish traversing those exalted peaks, I have fiduciary responsibilities to consider. You see, next year I intend to purchase my first domicile. Under such constraints, I fear cannot partake. Nay, I know I cannot.

Please forgive the paraphrased dialogue; it is but singed wings. Forthwith, I plummet: earthbound. At the time, I had not quill, nor scroll, nor mind; only bladder, and piss. Believe me, dearest reader: to stand aside such creatures is to momentarily glance a world of endless wonder. As I stood there, squirming, I thought, "were my mind equipped as these, how easily it would transform the mundane into the profound! The piss I endeavor to take? No longer a mere biological imperative. Now, an epic journey in (quas)iambic pentameter!"

Scene 1: William enters the portable rest facility.

William: To pee or not to pee is not the question
for it is nigh, and now the task in hand.
To issue forth in multiple courses.
Spray, in this way, I pray to not offend.

Champagne, mimosa, wine, and beer combine,
intoxicating me for quite some time.
But now nature, run afoul of this list.
Like a racehorse, I piss and piss... and miss!

The Diceman within says, "keep goin'!", but I think it wise to leave it at that.

Introducing: RySco

I introduce to you, fellow reader, the inimitable stylings of one Ryan Scott. A close personal friend of some years, Ryan brings to this blog a tenacity and earnestness to writing heretofore unseen. Ryan knows more about writing code, building a bar in his apartment, installing a blue-tooth enabled MP3 player in his car, and Meshuggah than you. Much to the relief of his lovely girlfriend, he is not a registered a sex offender. Without further ado, I give you RySco's "Rock Guy".

Dearest Rock Guy,

Surely you are correct that I can do better than that, I am sorry for this. I had a very long week at work and, well, to be completely honest, and I apologize for burdening you with this, but my grandfather's Parkinson's disease is advancing to a very difficult point now... things have been very crazy for us. Please know that I, at the very center of my soul, wanted very badly participate. Under every other circumstance I would have been right there with my hands in the air, clapping and trying to do better each time at your request. Under every other circumstance I would have sung along the infectious hook of your chorus with zeal and fervor. Speaking of your performance, can I just say “Wow”. I am wowed, I was wowed, and I will continue to be wowed until your next concert when I will certainly and undoubtedly be wowed again. You are so powerful on stage. You seem to know that the key to being good is acting like you are good. You were so committed to your perception of excellence. I found it refreshing that you have ostensibly not listened to a radio or seen a TV in the last decade. The way that you endeavored to be different... That's the way rock and roll ought to be. Your breaking from conventional musical “Wisdom” was so bold. The end of your closing number (can I say “Wow” again without forfeiting any sort of editorial credibility?) with the droning guitar line and the repeated refrain “Love is like a river” would have been long winded at nine minutes in anyone else's hands, but you... my hat is off to you sir. You really make that Stratocaster sing man! Mark my words Rock Guy, at your next show, you won't have to put the progression of your song on hold and ask me to clap to the rhythm fifteen times in a row... because I'ma be right there on the first one, just, just fucking bringing it.Love,

-That Guy In The Crowd That Wasn't Clapping When You Asked Him To Clap

I say Vet, You Say Due Diligence.

Alongside the clamor surrounding John McCain choosing Sarah Palin for Vice President comes the emergence of a positively sexy word; 'vet'. A transitive verb, 'vet' means, "to subject to thorough examination or evaluation"; as in, before selecting Palin, McCain's staff scrutinized (i.e. googled, and called her mother) every detail of Palin's personal and public life, "[they] vetted [the shit out of] her".

For those of you sick-to-death of political jibber-jabber, let me assure you: this has nothing to do with the '08 election. I reference McCain/Palin only to provide a context for the popularization of this word. This, as you already know, is a smart-free zone.

With the exception of myself, everyone is either vetting or not vetting somebody or something. Having not vetted anything, I feel left behind. Like the last abductee on the spaceship to receive an anal probe; now, I want mine.

Below, I am compiling a list of things I have vetted (some without even realizing it!), am currently vetting, and plan to vet. Feel free to make your own list, or add to this one. Join the club.

This morning, I vetted a carton of half & half to determine whether it would enhance or ruin my coffee/morning .

Last night, I vetted a pimple to determine whether it would yield its seed. Update (9/9/08): success.

The vetting process for determining whether I am "fresh" involves raising my arm, lowering my head, and sniffing.

Let's see if you're getting this...

Pop Quiz (hotshot)

Match the adjective to its corresponding noun, and verb:

"I vetted the_______of _________by ________ it."

radness, hash, stroking
tastiness, pornography, smoking
potency, steak, pettting
silliness, a baby seal, reading
cuteness, fish, eating
freshness, puppies, smelling
deadness, The Bible, clubbing



more to come...

Footprints In The Sand '08

One night I was walking along the beach with the Lord.
Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky.
In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand.
Sometimes there were two sets of footprints,
other times there were one set of footprints.

This bothered me because I realized
a lot of those times, I totally blacked out.
when I was super high, in a K-hole,
or one particular night in Ibiza
I could see only one set of footprints.

So I said to the Lord,
"Lord, you remember that
one night in Ibiza,
you turned that bottle of Advil into Ecstasy?
I have noticed that during
the most intoxicated periods of my life
there have only been one
set of footprints in the sand.
Especially that one night.
Why, whenever we party,
do you always wait until I'm totally wasted
and then bail on me?"

The Lord cleared his throat,
"You don't remember what happened that night?
You'd better sit down a sec.
Okay, you remember the Advil into Exstasy?
Well, we were walking down the beach, suuuuper fucked up,
both kinda horny, kinda feelin' it,
and there were no girls in site.
I was like, "you ever mess around with a male diety before?"
and you were all, "No, but I figure, I'm in college, that's
when people experiment, right?"
I took that as my cue.
So I lifted you up, turned you upside down,
and we performed fellatio on each other
while I walked on the beach."

When Things Go Terribly Wrong: A True Story Of Failure & Immasculation

On the evening of September 6, 2006, 51 year old Portland nurse Susan Kuhnhausan came home from her shift wanting nothing more than to relax. Her right arm cradled a grocery bag. Her right hand clasped a stack of bills. Her left hand removed the keys from her purse. She unlocked the door, nudged it, and entered. Her right foot shut the door behind her. She set the mail and the groceries on the antique by the entry. She got hit over the head with a claw hammmer.

The stranger wielding the weapon, Edward Dalton Haffey, intended to kill Mrs. Kuhnhausan. He believed his strength combined with the mechanical advantage of a claw hammer would quickly dispatch his victim, a woman more than 20 years his senior. "A few cracks and she's a goner." he quipped to himself in the aisle at Ace Hardware. "A hammer's cheaper than a handgun. Anything more than five bucks is a waste."

Michael James Kuhnhausen Sr., Mrs. Kuhnhausen's estranged husband, the owner of a local adult video store, Mr. Haffey's boss, and the man hiring Mr. Haffey to murder his wife, didn't think to inform Mr. Haffey - a man of slight physique- that his wife was not a "garden-variety" 51 year old nurse; that his $5 purchase was not only a poor choice of murder implement, but that it would offer Mr. Haffey no protection from Mrs. Kuhnhausen.

Soon after the initial blow, a struggle ensued between Mrs. Kuhnhausen and Mr. Haffey.

With minimal effort, Mrs Kuhhausen managed to wrest the clawhammer from Mr. Haffey, and overtake him. Without a weapon, Mr Haffey resorted to biting. This method proved useless against Mrs. Kuhhausen's superior strength. She wrapped her relatively large hands around Mr Haffey's relatively thin neck, and proceeded choking him.

The autopsy confirmed that Mr Haffey succumbed to asphyixiation brought on by being a "complete pansy dumbshit who got his wimpy ass choked to death by someones grandma".

His name, and the name of her husband have both made the short list for this year's "World's Biggest Loser/Pussy" competition.

Nice one, guys.