so, i'm getting married in a week. one of the many caveats of our arrangement is that i'm not allowed to mention her name in print. so from now on i will refer to my fiance as "my predilection for speed." i'm going to write it with three exlamation points (!!!) just to imbue her name with meaning it might otherwise lack.
this all reminds me of a story. by my first sophomore year in college, i hadn't quite gotten over an aversion to dating friends, not since high school did i even try, because i once had a passing fancy for a girl i'd been best friends with. i'll call her mr. hooper, because he was one of my favorite sesame street characters but after awhile i noticed that he wasn't in his shop anymore i asked my mom why mr. hooper wasn't in his shop anymore and she said "Mr. Hooper died, sweetheart. He's not on the show anymore." mr. hooper and i were best friends in the fullest highschool sense of the word, so i didn't have realistic intention of dating her per se, but then she got wind of my passing fancy because i'd mentioned it in passing to a passing friend, so quite naturally she reacted by never speaking to me again.
not wasting time with me also freed her up to pursue other interests, like theatre and talking her friends out of dating me. good for mr. hooper, i thought. it's always nice to see people turn a new leaf. i've always tended to surround myself with a certain kind of person, and it's one thing making new friends but it's another thing entirely to change the crowd you run with, so to prevent this kind of thing from happening again, for several years once a girl considered me a friend, even in the loosest sense of the word, i wouldn't try to date her.
friendships develop willy-nilly if you're not careful, and the idea of dating certainly retained some of its appeal for me, so i compensated by being an asshole to girls i met, lest they start thinking of me as a friend. this astonishingly vicious cycle consumed a few years that might have been put to more productive uses, datingwise.
after a few years i resolved that things would be different. somehow. years and years and years after high school when i was almost a junior i started hanging out with a girl named maude, and we ended up making out in her room on my nineteenth bithday after she bought me a cake. this isn't so bad, is what i remember thinkng to myself as my insides about burst with joy. as soon as we stopped kissing, maude looked lovingly into my eyes and purred "None of our friends can know about this." she told me i was too young and a bunch of other stuff i don't remember.
it all seemed perfectly reasonable, the way she explained it. also, she was almost thirty.
after what happened in high school, i still felt like it was somehow my responsibility to make sense of all the insane shit girls told me. we surreptitiously sneaked around for a few weeks, but then she somewhat abrubtly stopped talking to me, started back up with the hard drugs, and notified me that we wouldn't be dating any longer by making out with some other dude at a party, right in front of me. i couldn't even get mad about it, because all of my friends were so surprised to learn that we'd been dating in the first place that the shock of having her hook up with somebody else in the hallway in front of my room didn't really register with them.
so yeah, getting married's like that. sort of.
i haven't touched base with my predilection for speed (!!!) today, but tomorrow we're supposed to go buy ourselves some costumes for the wedding. i'm looking forward to it, which is a good thing because once i start living in seattle with my predilection for speed (!!!) we're going to be seeing a lot of each other, i imagine.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 20, 2014
helpmonkey
despite the lies your mother has poured into your head over the years, planning a wedding is a straight-up bitch. for every five things i think of that need doing, i can think of six that i don't feel like doing. my predilection for speed (!!!) helps out where she can, but she's ambivalent about having the party in the first place so i don't want to overburden her. i was thinking about all this today while i was taking a cigarette break, from my job curing cancer. i decided to buy a helper monkey from the helper monkey surplus store. she's a cute little bonobo, but i named her "Major Blood" because i remember that guy from the GI Joe cartoons and i always thought nobody would fuck with anybody named with a name like Major Blood, not if they knew what was good for them.
whenever the subject came up, my neighbor--i'll call her shortbus, because she's really smart--always used to tell me that the mere notion of taking in a helper monkey was immoral on such a profound level that my even considering it confirmed her worst suspicions about me. and shortbus has many suspicions about me. i went to the college of chemistry graduation this year, and the guest speaker exhorted the new graduates to delve into the development of genetically modified foodstuffs. "Some people have reservations," he reported. "Some people think there might be horrific consequences down the road. Some people are little crybabies. They don't understand what progress is all about. Or something. In the words of somebody really important talking about something else entirely, 'Don't let your sense of morality get in the way of doing what's Right.'" switch around some of the words, and that's pretty much how i feel about my helper monkey. shortbus has never had to plan a wedding and i don't see her volunteering to run off and buy cases of two-dollar wine or entertain all the people i know are going to show up and slur things at me in embarrassing drunken stupors. i know they're out there, waiting. Major Blood entertains children of all ages, i'm sure she can amuse a handful of degenerate alcoholics for a few hours. i'd like to see shortbus even try that, just for my sake.
i took Major Blood home and rousted my "friend"--i'll call him chowder, because he used to review pornography for me when i edited a slick newsweekly in new york that i'm not allowed to mention per our lawsuit agreement--from his slumber. i had to roust him because he's been unemployed since he graduated with honors in english three years ago and lives in my closet. "Chowder, wake up," i barked. "This is Major Blood. She's going to be helping me out around here from now on." chowder wiped the sleep from his eyes and mumbled something about Major Blood being a stupid name for a girl monkey. i grabbed him around where i imagine his lapels would be if he ever wore anything besides a ratty oakland athletics t-shirt that he superstitiously won't change until they stop choking in the first round of the playoffs. "Blood is gender neutral, but she earned the rank of Major by serving her country WITH HONOR you degenerate sack of shit," i shouted into his characteristically vacant face, flecking it with my angry saliva. i threw in a bunch of racial slurs for good measure, hoping i'd hit upon whatever the hell race chowder is. "Do you even know what honor is? She sent boys better than you to horrific and pointless deaths, over and over again, until the public turned against the stupid war and the politicians sued for peace. Peace without honor. That's sacrifice, Chowder. You can sit around in your underwear scratching yourself and pretend you're an esteeemed and respected sportswriter like the late Ralph Wiley while you shamelessly name-drop all you want, God knows I'm used to it and I don't expect any better from you, but you show Major Blood some goddamned respect because she's earned it." chowder, being a total fucking whore, mumbled something about checking to see if one of two-hundred fifty friendsters had left him a message. he had terrible morning breath despite it being six in the afternoon.
meanwhile, Major Blood and i had work to do. have work to do, rather. i'm not entirely sure what it is i'm supposed to do since i've never planned a wedding before. mostly i figure it should take care of itself. for now Major Blood just keeps pacing the room and chainsmoking impatiently. she picks things up seemingly at random and gesticulates wildly with them but i tell her to chill the fuck out and work on her novel or something. i'm not sure she can even write but she insists on telling everyone about her novel whenever there's a lull in the conversation. it's a little embarrassing when your insubordinate helper monkey buttonholes your guests but i need her to maintain the illusion of aspiring to some lofty and worthwhile goal in the midst of her existential despair, otherwise she loses her mind and starts flinging poo at me. the novel calms her nerves a little. just a little, because she's a monkey and naturally high-strung. that's why they're such efficient killers i think. Major Blood still craves action; i can tell she misses being in the shit with the other grunts. maybe i'll get her checked for PTSD tomorrow when we go to get her treatment for advanced monkey meningitis. for now i have to keep pilling her up with tranquilizers. they keep her frosty. i'm scared she'll start dipping into my stash if i'm not hyper-vigilent about it. it's like having a four year-old around, only worse because chowder still lives in my closet, so it's like living with a four year-old and a retard. i didn't start hiding my drugs until last year, because at a party at my house this guy--i'll call him renton, because that was ewan mcgregor's character in trainspotting--took a handful of pills he found laying around my room. the rest of the night didn't go particularly well. when he finally came to, renton couldn't remember anything but swore up and down that he thought he'd found some tic-tacs. i haven't really trusted myself since then, which is why i'm trying not to get too involved with this whole wedding planning thing. i figure between Major Blood and my predilection for speed (!!!), everything should work out just fine without me messing with it too much.
whenever the subject came up, my neighbor--i'll call her shortbus, because she's really smart--always used to tell me that the mere notion of taking in a helper monkey was immoral on such a profound level that my even considering it confirmed her worst suspicions about me. and shortbus has many suspicions about me. i went to the college of chemistry graduation this year, and the guest speaker exhorted the new graduates to delve into the development of genetically modified foodstuffs. "Some people have reservations," he reported. "Some people think there might be horrific consequences down the road. Some people are little crybabies. They don't understand what progress is all about. Or something. In the words of somebody really important talking about something else entirely, 'Don't let your sense of morality get in the way of doing what's Right.'" switch around some of the words, and that's pretty much how i feel about my helper monkey. shortbus has never had to plan a wedding and i don't see her volunteering to run off and buy cases of two-dollar wine or entertain all the people i know are going to show up and slur things at me in embarrassing drunken stupors. i know they're out there, waiting. Major Blood entertains children of all ages, i'm sure she can amuse a handful of degenerate alcoholics for a few hours. i'd like to see shortbus even try that, just for my sake.
i took Major Blood home and rousted my "friend"--i'll call him chowder, because he used to review pornography for me when i edited a slick newsweekly in new york that i'm not allowed to mention per our lawsuit agreement--from his slumber. i had to roust him because he's been unemployed since he graduated with honors in english three years ago and lives in my closet. "Chowder, wake up," i barked. "This is Major Blood. She's going to be helping me out around here from now on." chowder wiped the sleep from his eyes and mumbled something about Major Blood being a stupid name for a girl monkey. i grabbed him around where i imagine his lapels would be if he ever wore anything besides a ratty oakland athletics t-shirt that he superstitiously won't change until they stop choking in the first round of the playoffs. "Blood is gender neutral, but she earned the rank of Major by serving her country WITH HONOR you degenerate sack of shit," i shouted into his characteristically vacant face, flecking it with my angry saliva. i threw in a bunch of racial slurs for good measure, hoping i'd hit upon whatever the hell race chowder is. "Do you even know what honor is? She sent boys better than you to horrific and pointless deaths, over and over again, until the public turned against the stupid war and the politicians sued for peace. Peace without honor. That's sacrifice, Chowder. You can sit around in your underwear scratching yourself and pretend you're an esteeemed and respected sportswriter like the late Ralph Wiley while you shamelessly name-drop all you want, God knows I'm used to it and I don't expect any better from you, but you show Major Blood some goddamned respect because she's earned it." chowder, being a total fucking whore, mumbled something about checking to see if one of two-hundred fifty friendsters had left him a message. he had terrible morning breath despite it being six in the afternoon.
meanwhile, Major Blood and i had work to do. have work to do, rather. i'm not entirely sure what it is i'm supposed to do since i've never planned a wedding before. mostly i figure it should take care of itself. for now Major Blood just keeps pacing the room and chainsmoking impatiently. she picks things up seemingly at random and gesticulates wildly with them but i tell her to chill the fuck out and work on her novel or something. i'm not sure she can even write but she insists on telling everyone about her novel whenever there's a lull in the conversation. it's a little embarrassing when your insubordinate helper monkey buttonholes your guests but i need her to maintain the illusion of aspiring to some lofty and worthwhile goal in the midst of her existential despair, otherwise she loses her mind and starts flinging poo at me. the novel calms her nerves a little. just a little, because she's a monkey and naturally high-strung. that's why they're such efficient killers i think. Major Blood still craves action; i can tell she misses being in the shit with the other grunts. maybe i'll get her checked for PTSD tomorrow when we go to get her treatment for advanced monkey meningitis. for now i have to keep pilling her up with tranquilizers. they keep her frosty. i'm scared she'll start dipping into my stash if i'm not hyper-vigilent about it. it's like having a four year-old around, only worse because chowder still lives in my closet, so it's like living with a four year-old and a retard. i didn't start hiding my drugs until last year, because at a party at my house this guy--i'll call him renton, because that was ewan mcgregor's character in trainspotting--took a handful of pills he found laying around my room. the rest of the night didn't go particularly well. when he finally came to, renton couldn't remember anything but swore up and down that he thought he'd found some tic-tacs. i haven't really trusted myself since then, which is why i'm trying not to get too involved with this whole wedding planning thing. i figure between Major Blood and my predilection for speed (!!!), everything should work out just fine without me messing with it too much.
correction
God, what a fucking mess. once she found this, the thing where you go after you click on the thing, Major Blood insisted i call her by her full name. let's face it, Major Sebastian Bludd isn't a badass name at all. maybe it had some cachet back when johann sebastian bach cut up all those hookers in london in the 1800s, but now you hear sebastian and think about some whiny bitch hanging out with belle. this isn't the adorable disney cartoon beauty and the fucking beast, i've got a wedding to plan, and i need an intimidating helper monkey to make things happen. i tried to explain all this to Major Sebastian Bludd, she doesn't care. Major Sebastian Bludd is out of her mind and i guess that makes her a little dangerous, but when people find out that my helper monkey is a fancypants poet they're not going to bend to my will. not even a little bit.
Jan 15, 2014
chores
my good friend the Q, who lives in boston these days, just applied for a job to be one of those people who stands in front of other people whose lives have been deemed more precious, in case somebody else decides to start shooting at that person. as part of the application process, they screened her for mental defects. "It was weird. They asked me if I'd been starting any big projects lately. Like if I'd started writing a novel," she reported.
what in the world does that have to do with your willingness to take a bullet for somebody else, I wondered. "Oh. They were trying to figure out if I was manic-depressive. It's one of the symptoms," she answered, because I'd been talking out loud without realizing it. again.
shit! that's serious stuff!! didn't the exact same thing just kill beloved character actor ronald reagan? and hadn't my helper monkey Major Blood just start writing a novel? and if we're sharing the same toilet, does that put me at risk? i figured it just might, but the only way to know for sure would be to have chowder get tested, since he actually drinks from the toilet.
"Chowder, would you willingly take a bullet meant for somebody more important than you?" i asked him. he mumbled something that sounded like a yes, so i sent him to apply for a job with those people. he came back two hours later, and he mumbled something that sounded like they'd given him a job protecting the mayor of japan's wife. in Japan. he's going to be shipping out to Tokyo at the end of July. this set my mind at ease for a moment, because he'd passed their little test.
my relief proved short-lived once i did a little research on japan. christ, they're probably deporting him because he failed the psych exam. i decided that keeping Major Blood occupied with menial tasks would slow the mad cow that was probably eating her brain, so i made her responsible for all the chores that chowder'd been doing. or was supposed to do. Major Blood threw on her cowboy bebop apron and laced up her rubber gloves to clean the fridge, but then she slammed the door shut immediately and ran away, babbling imprecations in her native tongue. i went to see what had spooked her.
a mold has been growing in there for awhile, but everytime i told chowder to clean it out he said he'd get to it, then play another game of Madden on the rookie level after trading both pro bowl teams onto the 49ers and turning down all the difficulty sliders. that's not so bad in and of itself, but Major Blood swore off killing after her honorable discharge from the Army, and i certainly can't kill the mold. it has grown strong, and become sentient.
the mold knows.
we've crossed a bridge today. a bridge too far, to my thinking. not only do i not have anywhere to keep my leftover chinese food, but by inadvertently striking the spark of life, chowder has rendered either evolutionary theory or creationism moot. what's worse, i'm sure there isn't even a branch of metaphysics capable of dealing with this situation, so all the religious studies majors i know have wasted their lives. chowder's ineptitude has officially become dangerous, if it wasn't already. God save the mayor of Japan's wife.
what in the world does that have to do with your willingness to take a bullet for somebody else, I wondered. "Oh. They were trying to figure out if I was manic-depressive. It's one of the symptoms," she answered, because I'd been talking out loud without realizing it. again.
shit! that's serious stuff!! didn't the exact same thing just kill beloved character actor ronald reagan? and hadn't my helper monkey Major Blood just start writing a novel? and if we're sharing the same toilet, does that put me at risk? i figured it just might, but the only way to know for sure would be to have chowder get tested, since he actually drinks from the toilet.
"Chowder, would you willingly take a bullet meant for somebody more important than you?" i asked him. he mumbled something that sounded like a yes, so i sent him to apply for a job with those people. he came back two hours later, and he mumbled something that sounded like they'd given him a job protecting the mayor of japan's wife. in Japan. he's going to be shipping out to Tokyo at the end of July. this set my mind at ease for a moment, because he'd passed their little test.
my relief proved short-lived once i did a little research on japan. christ, they're probably deporting him because he failed the psych exam. i decided that keeping Major Blood occupied with menial tasks would slow the mad cow that was probably eating her brain, so i made her responsible for all the chores that chowder'd been doing. or was supposed to do. Major Blood threw on her cowboy bebop apron and laced up her rubber gloves to clean the fridge, but then she slammed the door shut immediately and ran away, babbling imprecations in her native tongue. i went to see what had spooked her.
a mold has been growing in there for awhile, but everytime i told chowder to clean it out he said he'd get to it, then play another game of Madden on the rookie level after trading both pro bowl teams onto the 49ers and turning down all the difficulty sliders. that's not so bad in and of itself, but Major Blood swore off killing after her honorable discharge from the Army, and i certainly can't kill the mold. it has grown strong, and become sentient.
the mold knows.
we've crossed a bridge today. a bridge too far, to my thinking. not only do i not have anywhere to keep my leftover chinese food, but by inadvertently striking the spark of life, chowder has rendered either evolutionary theory or creationism moot. what's worse, i'm sure there isn't even a branch of metaphysics capable of dealing with this situation, so all the religious studies majors i know have wasted their lives. chowder's ineptitude has officially become dangerous, if it wasn't already. God save the mayor of Japan's wife.
Jan 12, 2014
incognito
i got busy with the wedding, and then since i'm moving to seattle at the end of august with my predilection for speed (!!!), i've decided that in exchange for years of selfless public service, the grateful taxpayers should cover my relocation costs. i decided to step up my public service this past month, so i took a leave of absence from my rather unfulfilling job curing cancer and concentrated on infiltrating the russian mafia on behalf of the department of homeland security. needless to say, my work as a deep mole precluded me from updating this blog for awhile, lest i blow my cover. i know this has caused many of you some distress, especially all the ladies, but everything's back in order for the time being.
today was my last day of sworn testimony before the grand jury, so the russian mafia's pretty much out of business thanks to me. the Witness Protection people will pay for me to relocate to seattle, but we've had some arguements as to what behaviors are and are not permissible for an undercover operative to engage in while in the field, so while i'm immune from future prosecution i must never use a computer or date john ashcroft's daughter again. that guy totally hates me now. should i fail to comply, an anonymous informant will tip off the BMG music people as to my current whereabouts. i can't let those bastards find me. they cannot be bargained with, they cannot be reasoned with, they don't feel remorse, or pity, or fear. and they absolutely wil not stop, ever, until i'm dead. or pay my bill for that hootie & the blowfish cd. whatever. i've been on the running for years now, and i'm tired. someday i'd like to wake up from the unrelenting nightmare that my life has become ever since i bought those twelve CDs for 1 cent (And didn't there used to be a cent symbol on keyboards? I mean, seriously, what the fuck.). for now i'm sort of like forrest gump, just a renegade cop curing cancer and living on adrenaline, dispensing frontier justice from a post-apocalyptic dune buggy.
since i'm not allowed to use a computer, i have to type all this up on a manual Smith-Corona typewriter. i hired a Secretary-type girl to do the transcribing for me, and that's where the trouble started. she'd been leafing through The Late Major Sebastian Bludd's novel, and commented that my blog "is so much better than that novel." chowder momentarily snapped out of the alcoholic haze he's been content to pass his life in the last few years and helpfully chirped: "You never insult a man's penis. Or a novel written by a notoriously high-strung monkey."
precisely.
first, i had to give the Secretary-type girl her walking papers and, let me tell you, i'm never using that temp agency again. of infinitely more consequence to my adoring readers, however, The Late Major Sebastian Bludd went predictably apeshit upon hearing the Secretary-type girl's criticism and took over the Smith-Corona. i mean, totally monopolized it. didn't help that Silent J, the serbo-croatian down the hall, started selling amphetamines to my helpmonkey so i could hardly infiltrate the russian mafia with all that racket. anyway, i can use the typewriter again now because The Late Major Sebastian Bludd is dead now, killed by chowder's stupidity. now i need to go clean the mess in the parking lot.
oh, yeah: the marriage is fucking on.
today was my last day of sworn testimony before the grand jury, so the russian mafia's pretty much out of business thanks to me. the Witness Protection people will pay for me to relocate to seattle, but we've had some arguements as to what behaviors are and are not permissible for an undercover operative to engage in while in the field, so while i'm immune from future prosecution i must never use a computer or date john ashcroft's daughter again. that guy totally hates me now. should i fail to comply, an anonymous informant will tip off the BMG music people as to my current whereabouts. i can't let those bastards find me. they cannot be bargained with, they cannot be reasoned with, they don't feel remorse, or pity, or fear. and they absolutely wil not stop, ever, until i'm dead. or pay my bill for that hootie & the blowfish cd. whatever. i've been on the running for years now, and i'm tired. someday i'd like to wake up from the unrelenting nightmare that my life has become ever since i bought those twelve CDs for 1 cent (And didn't there used to be a cent symbol on keyboards? I mean, seriously, what the fuck.). for now i'm sort of like forrest gump, just a renegade cop curing cancer and living on adrenaline, dispensing frontier justice from a post-apocalyptic dune buggy.
since i'm not allowed to use a computer, i have to type all this up on a manual Smith-Corona typewriter. i hired a Secretary-type girl to do the transcribing for me, and that's where the trouble started. she'd been leafing through The Late Major Sebastian Bludd's novel, and commented that my blog "is so much better than that novel." chowder momentarily snapped out of the alcoholic haze he's been content to pass his life in the last few years and helpfully chirped: "You never insult a man's penis. Or a novel written by a notoriously high-strung monkey."
precisely.
first, i had to give the Secretary-type girl her walking papers and, let me tell you, i'm never using that temp agency again. of infinitely more consequence to my adoring readers, however, The Late Major Sebastian Bludd went predictably apeshit upon hearing the Secretary-type girl's criticism and took over the Smith-Corona. i mean, totally monopolized it. didn't help that Silent J, the serbo-croatian down the hall, started selling amphetamines to my helpmonkey so i could hardly infiltrate the russian mafia with all that racket. anyway, i can use the typewriter again now because The Late Major Sebastian Bludd is dead now, killed by chowder's stupidity. now i need to go clean the mess in the parking lot.
oh, yeah: the marriage is fucking on.
Jan 5, 2014
memorium
oh. about that last post. i should elaborate.
the Late Major Sebastian Bludd has passed on, i'm afraid. the day had started promisingly enough when i decided to get serious at my job, where i cure cancer, so i came in for the first time in over a month. "Where have you been?" they asked. "Stomping out the russian mafia," i responded, then scheduled an afternoon presentation on my latest research grant proposal. it's very technical and there's a lot of tricky math involved, but it mostly involves further desecration of the late Ted Williams' body, specifically his decapitated, frozen head.
i propose taking the late Ted Williams' headsickle and building a newer, better Ted Williams body out of stem cells, then plugging the old Ted Williams brain into the new Ted Williams Monster Body, which leaves new england with an unstoppable outfield featuring an unfrozen Teddy Ballgame, the Unfrozen Caveman Centerfielder, and Rainman Ramirez in right (he won't notice; put manny at catcher, and the man would still hit the snot out of the ball). Sulkypants at short and maybe the now expendable Trot Nixon could be packaged for pitching, although i can't imagine anybody getting past El Diva, the Shill, and Knuckles in a best of seven. you can imagine the excitement a pennant would bring New England, which in turn would generate silly money for The Jimmy Fund. and thusly would cancer be cured.
of course, stem cell research is illegal, so i proposed unveiling the Ted Williams Monster at the DNC, where his appearance would propel native son John Kerry to the white house, at which time he'd lift the stem cell research ban and we'd escape prosecution. the guys at the office were so impressed by my presentation that they told me i could take the rest of the day off, so i did.
needless to say, i felt pretty good about myself, until i remembered that the remains of my faithful helper monkey, The Late Major Sebastian Bludd, lay splashed about the parking lot. i spent most of the day picking bits of monkey fur and giblets off the hot asphalt of the parking lot adjacent to the residential hotel i live in, cursing chowder under my breath for being such a moron and murdering my helpmonkey. chowder didn't help me, because he threw himself a going away bowling party that i wasn't invited to. our friend The Love Doctor is an astronomer, so to impress her, chowder had been secretly training The Late Major Sebastian Bludd to repair the hubble space telescope. his impending departure for japan sped up the timetable and, as with the real NASA, this led to tragedy. instead of seeking private funding, chowder decided to send the doomed monkey into space wrapped in aluminum foil, strapped to a thousand bottle rockets. since i was working long hours bringing down the russian mafia and spending all my spare time in the Science Room on my research grant proposal, this all happened without my knowledge.
i was inconsolable when i realized that the mess in the parking lot had been my trusted companion, and i was inconsolable until refridgerator monster told said "Such a thing was bound to happen, with stupid friends such as yours." as i dropped the garbage bag with most of her remains by the curbside to be picked up later this week, i shed a tear for The Late Major Sebastian Bludd, and cursed the day i met chowder.
he leaves for japan tomorrow morning. good riddance, i say. now i need some new friends.
the Late Major Sebastian Bludd has passed on, i'm afraid. the day had started promisingly enough when i decided to get serious at my job, where i cure cancer, so i came in for the first time in over a month. "Where have you been?" they asked. "Stomping out the russian mafia," i responded, then scheduled an afternoon presentation on my latest research grant proposal. it's very technical and there's a lot of tricky math involved, but it mostly involves further desecration of the late Ted Williams' body, specifically his decapitated, frozen head.
i propose taking the late Ted Williams' headsickle and building a newer, better Ted Williams body out of stem cells, then plugging the old Ted Williams brain into the new Ted Williams Monster Body, which leaves new england with an unstoppable outfield featuring an unfrozen Teddy Ballgame, the Unfrozen Caveman Centerfielder, and Rainman Ramirez in right (he won't notice; put manny at catcher, and the man would still hit the snot out of the ball). Sulkypants at short and maybe the now expendable Trot Nixon could be packaged for pitching, although i can't imagine anybody getting past El Diva, the Shill, and Knuckles in a best of seven. you can imagine the excitement a pennant would bring New England, which in turn would generate silly money for The Jimmy Fund. and thusly would cancer be cured.
of course, stem cell research is illegal, so i proposed unveiling the Ted Williams Monster at the DNC, where his appearance would propel native son John Kerry to the white house, at which time he'd lift the stem cell research ban and we'd escape prosecution. the guys at the office were so impressed by my presentation that they told me i could take the rest of the day off, so i did.
needless to say, i felt pretty good about myself, until i remembered that the remains of my faithful helper monkey, The Late Major Sebastian Bludd, lay splashed about the parking lot. i spent most of the day picking bits of monkey fur and giblets off the hot asphalt of the parking lot adjacent to the residential hotel i live in, cursing chowder under my breath for being such a moron and murdering my helpmonkey. chowder didn't help me, because he threw himself a going away bowling party that i wasn't invited to. our friend The Love Doctor is an astronomer, so to impress her, chowder had been secretly training The Late Major Sebastian Bludd to repair the hubble space telescope. his impending departure for japan sped up the timetable and, as with the real NASA, this led to tragedy. instead of seeking private funding, chowder decided to send the doomed monkey into space wrapped in aluminum foil, strapped to a thousand bottle rockets. since i was working long hours bringing down the russian mafia and spending all my spare time in the Science Room on my research grant proposal, this all happened without my knowledge.
i was inconsolable when i realized that the mess in the parking lot had been my trusted companion, and i was inconsolable until refridgerator monster told said "Such a thing was bound to happen, with stupid friends such as yours." as i dropped the garbage bag with most of her remains by the curbside to be picked up later this week, i shed a tear for The Late Major Sebastian Bludd, and cursed the day i met chowder.
he leaves for japan tomorrow morning. good riddance, i say. now i need some new friends.
Jan 1, 2014
going to the chapel
so i got married this weekend. it went pretty well. we rented a boat because our wedding license wasn't technically valid anywhere save International Waters, plus everything else went to shit when The Late Major Sebastian Bludd shuffled off this mortal coil and onto the asphalt.
when the moment finally arrived, The Late Major Sebastian Bludd's inability to bend people to my will didn't help. well, not the kind of people i know, quality people with taste and refinement. also the thing in the refridgerator, who is the wisest of all the friends i have. i thought we were going to have problems with the boat, because i'd taken the trouble to rent out a luxury yacht and we'd booked UB40 for the week, so the potential for egg on my face was high. on our way out the harbor, my best friend--i'll call her chinchilla because she looks really skinny, soaking wet--got drunk and the swell rose up to knock her into the bay.
"I'm still mad at you," she called out, because she always is, but i've never been able to figure out the why of it exactly. on the one hand, i looked forward to having a wedding that didn't feature chinchillla heckling me and squeezing my nipples, but on the other hand seeing her get swept out to sea didn't do anything good for morale.
"Tis awful bad luck, having a lass swept to sea," said the crusty sailerman, and i wasn't inclined to disagree with him, although i understand he got into it with the cruise's naturalist, who doesn't believe in luck.
not even a little.
you can imagine the dawning sense of panic i was feeling, having this yacht that would only go as far as i could push the crew before breaking them, and yet being unable to bend their will to my design. as we wheeled out the cupcake mountain that passed for a wedding cake, i was excited to hear the familiar sound of rotor blades cutting the already crisp morning air. it was my old business associate vlade divac, his helocopter sent Mount Cupcake tunbling in the drink along with my friend chinchilla, who i noticed just then was being dragged behind the yacht by a towing cable and had been yelling at me the entire time.
vlade divac walked across the helipad as hundreds of paparazzi bulbs flashed all around him, and signed some autographs. i can't really say what he does, i mean except play basketball for the sacramento kings, but once he arrived i knew everything would be alright. i extended my hand in greeting, and pulled me close to say something meant for my ears only. "If you ever disobey me again I will break you," he hissed. i didn't know what the hell vlade divac meant, but i felt it, inside, in a secret place. i understood.
and that's what i whispered to my predilection for speed (!!!) when we tied the knot. we're going to live forever and so happiness isn't really a concern when there's no after, ever.
when the moment finally arrived, The Late Major Sebastian Bludd's inability to bend people to my will didn't help. well, not the kind of people i know, quality people with taste and refinement. also the thing in the refridgerator, who is the wisest of all the friends i have. i thought we were going to have problems with the boat, because i'd taken the trouble to rent out a luxury yacht and we'd booked UB40 for the week, so the potential for egg on my face was high. on our way out the harbor, my best friend--i'll call her chinchilla because she looks really skinny, soaking wet--got drunk and the swell rose up to knock her into the bay.
"I'm still mad at you," she called out, because she always is, but i've never been able to figure out the why of it exactly. on the one hand, i looked forward to having a wedding that didn't feature chinchillla heckling me and squeezing my nipples, but on the other hand seeing her get swept out to sea didn't do anything good for morale.
"Tis awful bad luck, having a lass swept to sea," said the crusty sailerman, and i wasn't inclined to disagree with him, although i understand he got into it with the cruise's naturalist, who doesn't believe in luck.
not even a little.
you can imagine the dawning sense of panic i was feeling, having this yacht that would only go as far as i could push the crew before breaking them, and yet being unable to bend their will to my design. as we wheeled out the cupcake mountain that passed for a wedding cake, i was excited to hear the familiar sound of rotor blades cutting the already crisp morning air. it was my old business associate vlade divac, his helocopter sent Mount Cupcake tunbling in the drink along with my friend chinchilla, who i noticed just then was being dragged behind the yacht by a towing cable and had been yelling at me the entire time.
vlade divac walked across the helipad as hundreds of paparazzi bulbs flashed all around him, and signed some autographs. i can't really say what he does, i mean except play basketball for the sacramento kings, but once he arrived i knew everything would be alright. i extended my hand in greeting, and pulled me close to say something meant for my ears only. "If you ever disobey me again I will break you," he hissed. i didn't know what the hell vlade divac meant, but i felt it, inside, in a secret place. i understood.
and that's what i whispered to my predilection for speed (!!!) when we tied the knot. we're going to live forever and so happiness isn't really a concern when there's no after, ever.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)