Tuesday, April 19, 2005

Hey, campers!

Well, I'm staying up late on a Tuesday night to reactivate this mess. For a quick look into my little brain, check previous rantings, and I will try to get more out there. If you want to catch some who's actually been actively updating their blog, check out my buddy Schuyler at: http://americanwaste.blogspot.com/

Since we last spoke, I have moved to Chicago and gotten a crappy job in a brand new field (yay, me!), along with restarting school. Yeah, like many mental adolescents, that is my answer to my fast-approaching midlife crisis. I have too much hair for a combover, and I wouldn't know what to do with a sports car if it ran over me, so this will have to do for now.

OK, well, part of the idea behind this clutch of bits was to entertain you, the non-existant reader. In the spirit of my approaching middle age, here's a list of possible new conditions I have to look forward to:

back spurts
arterial specks
Drummer's Kneecap
toe flange
regurgitative encephelitis
inflamed mole sweats
lip cramps
aphid posture
"heavy" warts
Tennyson's Sweatsock Fungus
nose-and-scrotum rash
The Dolge

Any and all of the above are available as band names for a nominal fee. Have fun.

Hey, campers!

Well, I'm staying up late on a Tuesday night to reactivate this mess. For a quick look into my little brain, check previous rantings, and I will try to get more out there. If you want to catch some who's actually been actively updating their blog, check out my buddy Schuyler at: http://americanwaste.blogspot.com/

Since we last spoke, I have moved to Chicago and gotten a crappy job in a brand new field (yay, me!), along with restarting school. Yeah, like many mental adolescents, that is my answer to my fast-approaching midlife crisis. I have too much hair for a combover, and I wouldn't know what to do with a sports car if it ran over me, so this will have to do for now.

OK, well, part of the idea behind this clutch of bits was to entertain you, the non-existant reader. In the spirit of my approaching middle age, here's a list of possible new conditions I have to look forward to:

back spurts
arterial specks
Drummer's Kneecap
toe flange
regurgitative encephelitis
inflamed mole sweats
lip cramps
aphid posture
"heavy" warts
Tennyson's Sweatsock Fungus
nose-and-scrotum rash
The Dolge

Any and all of the above are available as band names for a nominal fee. Have fun.

Hey, campers!

Well, I'm staying up late on a Tuesday night to reactivate this mess. For a quick look into my little brain, check previous rantings, and I will try to get more out there. If you want to catch some who's actually been actively updating their blog, check out my buddy Schuyler at: http://americanwaste.blogspot.com/

Since we last spoke, I have moved to Chicago and gotten a crappy job in a brand new field (yay, me!), along with restarting school. Yeah, like many mental adolescents, that is my answer to my fast-approaching midlife crisis. I have too much hair for a combover, and I wouldn't know what to do with a sports car if it ran over me, so this will have to do for now.

OK, well, part of the idea behind this clutch of bits was to entertain you, the non-existant reader. In the spirit of my approaching middle age, here's a list of possible new conditions I have to look forward to:

back spurts
arterial specks
Drummer's Kneecap
toe flange
regurgitative encephelitis
inflamed mole sweats
lip cramps
aphid posture
"heavy" warts
Tennyson's Sweatsock Fungus
nose-and-scrotum rash
The Dolge

Any and all of the above are available as band names for a nominal fee. Have fun.

Monday, December 23, 2002

Of Beatles, Digitalis, and Detached Italians



There's nothing we like better here at OLPM than bad English translations (except, of course, ice cream and blowjobs, but stay with me for the sake of the piece). With that in mind, I was dicking around on the web looking for rare Beatles crap, and came across a review of the Beatles compilation "1" in Italian. Using Google's handy "translate this page" feature, I was delighted to read the following (my comments in parentheses):

"We are sincere (Who isn't? Nice opening). Often sure CD are acquired for the graphical garment and the substantial booklets. If they are rintracciabili pure in disc, the result improves because the dimensions increase (not everything improves because the dimensions increase. Check out my sister-in-law for proof). And then, if still conserved your record player, you give the lussuosa confection of " Beatles 1 " in vinile, rich of a manifesto where you will be able lustrarvi the various eyes with the wonderful ones cover originates them of " fab four ". Between these, they detach those Italians (Ouch! Did anyone consult the Italians on this?), to our modest judgment beautifulst and searched in absolute.
Sure: who possesses originates them to it singles of the Beatles manifactures to you from the Carish of Milan is indeed fortunate. The sounds - checché the lovers of the digitalis (apparently the Italian CD is packaged with a hearty supply of medicinal rub) say some them - are compact, moving, shining in their garment "mono". And the places setting some, boys, a true one sballo in the colors and the solutions. To the yield of the accounts they surpass for beauty and variety - at least until " Yellow Submarine " - those realized in other countries. Therefore one of the large ones libidini that they justify the purchase of "Beatles 1" consists in confronting various the confection beatlesiane for the single ones publishes to you."

OK, I've got a soft spot in my head for this kind of semi-sensical crap, I admit. But this one's good; I'm glad Google has such a wonderful feature that will allow us to laugh at the work of others for a long time to come...

BTW, later on in the piece, the translator posits "Love Me Do" as "Love Me I Give", which sounds curiously Onanistic. Oh, well, happy holidays!

Monday, December 16, 2002

We've Got Mail!


Of course, I'm using "we" as if there was more than one guy writing this crap.

Hey, I got some feedback on the last piece:

> Dear sir,
>
> I recently discovered new entries on your weblog, the most recent of
> which was something called "The Only Five Places That are Colder Than
> Southern Wisconsin in December". As number 3, you put "The inside of a
> Republican's heart". While I understand the intention was to be
> humorous, I cannot abide such a distortion of the attributes of the
> fine people who make up the membership of the Republican party.
>
> Republicans don't actually have a heart.
>
> Thank you for this opportunity to comment on your writing. See you at
> the annual "Fuck The Poor And Brown People Banquet" this year. By the
> way, I hear S&L embezzlement is coming back into fashion.
>
> Sincerely,
>
> Chester Chadsworth Worthington IX, Esq.
> Snob Hills, Connecticut

Well, thanks, "Chester". Hope your wife's most recent face lift went well (seventh time's the charm!); see you on the ninth hole...or maybe we'll just play golf.

Monday, December 09, 2002

The Only Five Places That are Colder Than Southern Wisconsin in December


Yes, it's a list. And a rant. Gesundheit.

5) Outer Space (barely)
4) Northern Wisconsin in December
3) The inside of a Republican's heart
2) Southern Wisconsin in February

And, finally...a drumroll, please...

1) There is no place colder than Southern Wisconsin in December.

Sunday, December 08, 2002

Trains



"Trains," said the man, staring off into the distance. "I like trains."

Josh looked around to see who the dishevled, dirty, crazy looking bum in the ratty overcoat with the stringy unwashed hair was talking to. Fear began to knaw at him as he realized that the bum was talking to him. Or at least he was the only one around to be the recipient of the pearls of wisdom being cast out before him. "Um," he countered eloquently, "uh...trains?"

The bum seemed to be staring at a point far away from either of them, but seemed to take Josh's reply as a stimulus for further talking. "The mighty sinews of our nation's railway system fill me with awe and wonder. 'Whoosh!' go the trains, as they speed off into the night. 'Whoosh!" goes my heart as they speed away at 1/5 the speed of sound! My heart swoons as my mind rides with them. I ride! I ride!"

Josh was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable. He checked his watch with elaborate carefulness. "Is that the time? Wow, speaking of trains, I've gotta catch mine. Have a nice..."

The bum snapped his head around and seemed to notice Josh for the first time. "What train are you on?"

"Uh, this one over here. Goodb..."

"Which one?" The bum snarled with growing intensity. "The Southwest Chief?"

Josh began to get nervous. "Uh, yes, I've got to go..."

The bum relaxed and pulled a conductor's cap out of his coat, popping it onto his head. "Sounds good. Let's go. I've got to get her going in about 15 minutes..."

Well, I'm Back...Hello? Anyone There?...



For those of you following our story, I'm now back in Chicago. Yes, I just moved here last month, just in time for winter. "Ha, ha!" you say, "Ha ha! You certainly are a foolish fellow. Do you not understand that it gets (ha, ha!) very cold in Chicago in the winter? Very, very cold? Oh, so very very very cold? Ha ha!"

Yes, I know it's fucking cold. Now shut the fuck up.

I have left my friends and my job in sunny California to move back here. Why, you may ask? Well...I forget at just this moment. It's not easy to think when you're living at your mother's house (Agian! After 15 years! Hi, mom!) and your kids are screaming in your ears every minute of the day, even when you're trying to sleep, because you're all sleeping in the same room...it had something to do with quality of life and the joy of family, but I forget exactly right at the moment...

So, anyway, sit back and enjoy the fun as I fill in random drivel in between soul-crushing bouts of job hunting and child appeasement! Ha, ha!

Al

Monday, April 22, 2002

My Bluff Is Called



Well, I'm not exactly sure if I should be flattered, uneasy, or what, but our good buddy Bill from Viking Funeral (rejected motto: putting the "fun" back into "funeral") has responded to the challenge I never made in my previous post and extended my ramblings further into the fully-developed story category, i.e. he continued writing the stories I said I never would. I have yet to decide whether I should continue further with them myself, or let you, "good" reader, send me your submissions, but feel free to crank up your thinking caps and spew some literature at me. For the nonce, please enjoy the fun (original text in italics, Billwork in regular lettering):

Wingate opened up his satchel and let the pungent vapors contained therein waft slowly across the room and into the waiting nostrils of Mrs. Teasdale and Frau Beckenridge.


After the passing of several minutes, as marked by the polite ticking of Lord Feathering's massive cherrywood grandfather clock, Mrs. Teasdale turned to her Bavarian companion and whispered "Jesus H. Christ, Eva, do all krauts smell like sun-baked bear shit, or is it just you?"


******
Cletus scratched at the base of his medulla and frowned slightly. It seemed like the water was rising around his ankles, but he wasn?t quite sure. Suddenly, he had a taste for pudding.


But it wasn't his Aunt Lucy's homemade butterscotch pudding he craved. No, his inner thighs still bore the scars from the hot, sticky, just-boiled butterscotch that Lucy had cruelly applied to his puffy white flesh as punishment for what he had done to the neighbor's nanny goat.


What Cletus really wanted was some cold, nearly tasteless national brand vanilla pudding from the Piggly Wiggly down on Main. Licking his harelip, he sloshed out of the wet basement and headed for his trusty Ford pickup, the one he called "Momma".


******
"Desist!" shouted the angry vicar at the milling throng. "Hasn't this boy had ENOUGH?!"


Captain Enderberry shifted slightly and pulled nervously at his mustache. "We didn?t mean any harm, sir," he mumbled. "It's just that you don't normally get a chance to see that much hair in one place..." his voice trailed off as he clumsily dropped the pruning device into the ravine.



Danny the cabin boy exhaled slowly, trying to hold in the tears of pain building up behind his reddening eyelids. His prized five-foot braid of belly button hair may have been gone, but he still had his pride, and he damn well wasn't going to let these scabrous sea-dogs see him blubber if he could help it. If only his beloved Nellie, the trained California seal, hadn't had to bear witness to this humiliating episode!


******
Tess smiled to herself and leaned back in her seat. First class! She thought excitedly. There was just something...opulent about traveling so luxuriously on a train bound for Paris. She giggled. Nothing could break her mood, now, nothing! Except...she frowned slightly as she remembered the boy with the ham sandwich. There was something about him...where had she seen that bulge before?


It was about the size of a tennis ball, and located in the small of his back, under the silky fabric of his French-cut beach shirt. She could have sworn she had heard it whistling the tune from an old laundry soap commercial, but then, she had taken three times the recommended dosage of her pain killers just before boarding at Calais.


Momentarily forgetting about the boy, Tess watched as a cardinal swooped out of the clouds and smashed itself against the train window, its spraying blood coagulating into tiny dancing gremlins in multicolored robes. "Oh my," she thought. "Isn't France a wonderful place!"


Suddenly, a shadow fell across her. She looked up, seeing the boy with the bulge standing in the aisle.


"Ou est mon sandwich de jambon?" he demanded.


******
Stanley realized that the hounds were gaining on him. He struggled to increase the speed of his frenzied running; if only he could make it to a clearing he might have a chance. But there was nothing but dense jungle as far as he could see. Damn, where were Professor Russell and the Machete Seven when you needed them?


Leaping over a man-eating Narcissus, Stanley caught the leg of his trousers on one of the plant's deadly six-inch thorns, and tumbled head-over-heels into a muddy tributary of the Gambia. Already held together by patches and packing tape, the pants disintegrated completely, leaving Stanley to swim wearily to the opposite shore wearing only his ball-tight orange Speedo and the remains of his green fishnet muscle shirt. He shuddered to think what conclusions Professor Russell might jump to if he could see him now, especially considering that the old man had, just two days ago, caught him gently fellating young Nubungo the machete-bearer.

Thursday, March 14, 2002

Some Random Opening Sentences to Stories I Will Probably Never Write


Wingate opened up his stachel and let the pungent vapors contained therein waft slowly across the room and into the waiting nostrils of Mrs. Teasdale and Frau Beckenridge.

Cletus scratched at the base of his medulla and frowned slightly. It seemed like the water was rising around his ankles, but he wasn’t quite sure. Suddenly, he had a taste for pudding.

“Desist!” shouted the angry vicar at the milling throng. “Hasn’t this boy had ENOUGH?!”
Captain Enderberry shifted slightly and pulled nervously at his mustache. “We didn’t mean any harm, sir,” he mumbled. “It’s just that you don’t normally get a chance to see that much hair in one place…” his voice trailed off as he clumsily dropped the pruning device into the ravine.

Tess smiled to herself and leaned back in her seat. First class! She thought excitedly. There was just something…opulent about travelling so luxuriously on a train bound for Paris. She giggled. Nothing could break her mood, now, nothing! Except…she frowned slightly as she remembered the boy with the ham sandwich. There was something about him…where had she seen that bulge before?

Stanley realized that the hounds were gaining on him. He struggled to increase the speed of his frenzied running; if only he could make it to a clearing he might have a chance. But there was nothing but dense jungle as far as he could see. Damn, where were Professor Russell and the Machete Seven when you needed them?