Laundry

Bullshit. I'm calling bullshit. I just went to use some fabric softener and was scraping the bottom of the barrel to get enough. I stopped shaking the container and thought to myself "clothes are already soft, fuck this". I don't know about you but I think just about everything I wear is cotton. Have you ever seen a cotton field? That shit looks like someone put a giant mirror on the ground and it's reflecting fucking clouds. It's god damn beautiful. Fabric always plenty soft and I refuse to believe there's any product, treatment, concoction or cult ritual that can break down it's chemical form and somehow make it softer. They don't make clothing out of Klingon foreheads for a reason.

If you take a bunch of paint and mix it all together you're going to get some crappy mud bullshit color every time. Forever. Where does this grey-blue dryer lint come from? There's also so much of it that I'm surprised there's anything left of our clothes by the time that bastard is done drying them. You basically earn a scarf every couple loads. Ever see the back of a laundromat? It's like a cotton field mixed with a scene from the Crow. Maybe the only clothes that produce lint are the blue ones. Someone needs to put an arctic research team together and get on this.

Puppy Room

I present to you a business idea with no downside that's guaranteed to produce results and income. A room where people pay money to enter and play with hordes of puppies. The perfect room.

A small addition is built onto an SPCA building and consists of a front lobby and a separate room. A customer walks up, pays ten bucks for an hour or something then enters the empty room and sits down on a beanbag chair. The door is shut behind them then one on each other wall opens and in comes a flood of puppies to play with. Just a buttload of friggin puppies. You would pay for this and you know it.

All the puppies are from the SPCA and since customers get the chance to play with them there's a good chance they'll grow attached and as a result more animals find homes through adoption. The puppies all become more socialized and get some play time out of it. As for the customer, you could put the most depressed individual in that room and there's no way they don't leave it feeling better. Everyone wins.

If a place like this existed I would go there all the god damned time.

Ode à L'odeur

Today I had a dream described to me in which someone had used my bathroom and I played them a song I had written about shittin. Now, It may come as no surprise to some of you, but shit is actually the main subject of two poems I've written which I plan to publish and distribute in a zine of similar terrible things and the like. The following is a new poem which I dedicate to Emily.


Sometime when I see your turd
I lose my breath and fall short for words
It's porcelain nest, it's hue of brown
I barely achieve it's flushing down

You can sit on my lap while we both do our duty
Even the largest log couldn't rival your beauty
These lovely feelings and smells we procure
Surely could hold a match to manure

It's practically like we share an ass
Since your butt first touched where my butt has
We may as well, we share a heart
You smell of the sweetest fart

I want you here, perched upon my love seat
Time's never wasted when waste we excrete
Someday we'll build a home of poo
And I'll spend my days growing old with you

The tally is now three. I have three poop poems. This is my mind. This is my life.

Eggnog

Eggnog sucks but it only sucks seasonally and even then it's not that serious of a snag. Me and eggnog have an understanding, you see. It doesn't get in my mouth and then I don't have to deal with it's bullshit and vice versa. Some music could learn a thing or two from eggnog.

Sometimes when two people get together they turn into one large annoying entity that consumes conversations and at times entire rooms. You may like one of these people but as soon as that second asshole turns up you've got a Voltron made out of bullshit and want nothing more than to tightly bundle a bindle of needles and jam it into their everywhere. In this one instance everyone but you is the first person and the second asshole is The Joker by the Steve Miller Band. As soon as that song comes on you know for a fact that every dickcock around you is going to perch on the edge of their seat and wait with catlike reflexes until they hear the word "Maurice" and then pounce at that guitar string bend with all the agility of a wet turd loosely wrapped in tinfoil. It's bad enough that if you're alone and you hear the song you know that if someone was present they would do it right in front of you even if they knew you hated it. George Zimmer can guarantee that. This happens far too often and neither I nor anybody else should be needlessly subjected to it. It should follow eggnog's lead and fuck off for a whole year.

One thing that I just plain don't need to have around is an overgrown homosexual suffering from head trauma that makes him believe he's become some kind of Shakespearian marvel. And that's exactly the human form Bohemian Rhapsody would take on and you know it. You wouldn't let that man anywhere near your home. It's uncalled for and the frequency that's it's played on the radio is probably detrimental to our physical health.

If druids were resurrected and due to an unfortunate result of culture shock started wearing shirts like Ricky from the Trailer Park Boys and playing frisbee then they would listen to Rush. Everyone would hate them. I already do. Just like I hate Rush.

The only way I can make it through Journey's Don't Stop Believing is to change the lyrics in my head to "Don't stop conceiving, hold onto that semen". Coincidentally the third ingredient to eggnog is semen. Don't put it near your cooch.

How long the beast has to be chained up.

Being immortal would inevitably be the worst thing in the world. My reasoning is that if you're around forever then you will do everything eventually. It'd be awesome for a while but that's only temporary and since immortality is infinite then you got a whole lotta suck coming your way. You would literally do everything. Do you know how much stuff sucks? Most of it, that's how much. You're at the mercy of everything because no matter what you do everything is gonna happen. There is no way you could possibly not get herpes. It's gonna happen. Enjoy that for eternity, Prometheus. Ever been on swing set and go over the bar then get turned inside out? No? Just wait. It's gonna happen. Probably twice.

You're gonna get around too. When people travel they usually go to awesome places and are all like "Fuck yeah, Honey, get the camera and we're going to pretend we're holding up the leaning tower of Pisa because we're fucking assholes". Since you're going to live forever and do everything then you'll probably also travel everywhere as well. Nobody would ever want to go to the desert. There's a reason the word "deserted" is what it is. Don't wanna go? Too bad. You're somehow going to get there whether you want to or not. You're gonna walk around and get lost and tired. You'll lay down and give up eventually then sand is gonna blow over and bury you and you'll be there for a bazillion years only to emerge when the dune blows past you. Then you'll stand up and walk around, still lost, only to get buried again and then it just perpetuates and you're the sandiest son of a bitch in the world for the rest of your life. Oh, and you're immortal so that's for a fucking while too.

Living forever is like sharing a prison cell with geography and you're the bitch.

Here's some kind of friggin riddle for ya.

Knock knock. Someone's at your door. You answer it and there's three dudes standing there. One of them tells you to not to count your chickens before they hatch, another tells you not to keep all your eggs in one basket and the third makes some other bullshit insight involving poultry then they all hand over some cheap crap they got from Avon. You think it's over but then they all whip it out and jizz on your shoes. Who are you?

You're Jesus. The three wise men came bearing gifts.

Crêpes and craps

I was on a snowboarding trip to Quebec years ago and was staying in a hotel right in Quebec City. Some friends who took a train there booked some kind of lodge at the base of Mount St. Anne and I had taken a bus over from my hotel to meet up with them. After a day of snowboarding we went back to their place and ate some terrible crêpes. I had never had them before, I guess we ate them because they were French.

Now, I usually have extremely average shits and take pride in that fact. They aren't stinky or huge and don't even take long. I don't know if it was the crêpes or all the sex on the beaches that I drank the night before but some kind of happenings happened inside me and it resulted in the weirdest poop that ever happened. Like I mentioned, most of my shits are average as hell but then of course theres the odd time that they're absolutely terrible. It's just how it works. I'm not sure if this has ever happened to anyone else, I know it hasn't happened to me since, but I had a great shit. Just plain awesome. Not even the kind you're just glad it's over with but an all around awesome turd. It was extremely quick and clean and it actually smelled good. Great actually, it smelled great. I know it sounds disgusting but they could bottle that shit. It doesn't make any sense.

I was amazed that I just encountered poop that smelled good and even more so because it came from me. I walked out of the bathroom and proclaimed with the hubris of Caesar himself, "Guys, I just had the biggest shit ever and it smelled like something I would want to eat." Turns out my friends traveled up with one of their mothers who had just walked in the door behind me and hear my announcement. It was a little awkward when she tried to ignore it and asked if we ate yet, offering to make some crêpes.

I don't eat those anymore.