Apparently, my mommy and General Yammy Hammy's unborn baby is at risk for 11 different undesirable conditions

Because of my mommy's advanced age and because General Yammy Hammy's DNA strands more resemble slip knots than double helixes, their unborn baby is, according to their doula, at high risk for the following 11 different undesirable conditions:

Cranial Indentia
Chronic Hyper Flatuputresence
Bucktoothitis
von Flabflauchflisen's disease
Inverted kneecap lymphoma
Googly Eye Syndrome (or GES, pronounced Jees!)
Accute Hirsute Arthritis (commonly known as Hairy Joints)
Puss Scab Smell Fart Disease
Emotional Cancer
Rectal Squirtspew
British teeth

Hopefully, she'll avoid most of these, but we're bracing ourselves for the worst. But, God, in case you're reading this blog, please, please spare her the Puss Scab Smell Fart Disease. We can tolerate a bucktooth, head indented, rectal squirtspewer, but I'm not sure we're ready for that.

Quifi MaMa really hurt my feelings, I think

I saw Quifi MaMa walking on the street the other day. (In case you don't recall, Quifi MaMa was my "masseuse" at Madame Shu's Massage parlor before I was banned for screaming out, in the middle of an orgasm, the phrase "That's what I'm talking about!" in a high-pitched, rapid-paced manner that, apparently, formed the same sounds that would be used in Mandarin to describe a dirty peasant whore.) "Hi, Quifi MaMa," I said to her optimistically.
"Why don't you go buy cookies at supermarket!" she barked back at me.
"Well, maybe I will, Quifi MaMa! Maybe I will" I yelled back at her as she walked away.
God, I thought to myself later, that really hurt my feelings. Why did she have to say that to me? And then a few minutes later, after I had some time to digest her insult, I was like, "What the fuck did she mean by that, anyway? Go buy cookies at supermarket?" Let me know if you have any ideas.

The Outpatients' Daily Bridge Club Column

Daily Question
You hold: Hearts Q 7, Diamonds A 8 7 5, Spades J 9, Clubs A K 10 6 3. Your partner opens one spade, you respond two clubs, he bids two hearts and you try three diamonds. Partner next bids three spades. What do you say?

Answer
Partner suggests a six-card spade suit with extra strength. You counter by telling him that you didn't appreciate the way he ogled your wife at the country club pool on Saturday. He responds by claiming that he doesn't know what you're talking about. You bid six spades and inform him that, just because he was wearing sunglasses that doesn't mean you couldn't tell where he was looking. He holds and tells you you're crazy, that he's not interested in women who look like Danny Devito. You try three diamonds and flick a lit cigarette toward his fat, stupid face. He bids three clubs, flips the card table over and storms off. Great, you scream after him, we were just about to run a major suit.

I don't look like a woman, do I?

Things with Sally Shutesanladders were really heating up. We were back on her couch last night and going at it pretty good. She was starting to talk dirty, which was cool until she said something that totally took me off-guard. I'm not sure of the exact wording, but it went something kind of like this:
"I want to kiss your vagina."
I pulled back. "What did you just say?"
She looked unsure of herself and a little panicky. "I want to kiss your vagina?" she said, almost posing it as a question.
"Do you think I'm a woman?" I asked her.
"You're not?"
"No, I'm not a fucking woman. What gave you the impression I was?"
"Well," she said, giving this some thought, "I guess it was your general lack of musculature, your high voice, big boobs, complete lack of masculine qualities; you're kind of short; you don't seem to have any body hair; you appear to be wearing make-up ..."
"Okay, okay," I interrupted her, "that's enough ..."
"... You have a perm," she continued; "you smell like you're on the rag; you carry a purse ..."
"That's not a purse!" I shot back. "It's a big wallet!"
"... You wear tight jeans and clogs," she went on without breaking stride; "you appear to have a Bobby pin holding your bangs back; you drive a Mini Cooper ..."
Holy crap, I thought to myself as I put my pants back on, this might go on all night.

I do not belong in a freak show, thank you very much

I was riding up an elevator the other day to see my therapist. It was one of those unexpectedly hot fall days, and I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. I was joined on the second floor by a FedEx man making deliveries. He pointed down to my shin.
"That's quite a bump you have down there," he said. "How did you do that?"
"That's not a bump," I responded. "That's one of my testicles."
"Daaamn!" he replied. "What the hell's one of your balls doing down there, man?"
"A slow orbit around my shin bone, I believe."
"Ever had a doctor check that shit out?" he asked. "Because, frankly, that ain't where your balls supposed to be at."
"I have von Flabflauchflisen's disease," I told him.
"Oh, von Flabflauchflisen's disease, huh? That shit ain't too good."
"No," I said, "it isn't too good at all."
"I think you got another one floating up here," he noted, pointing to my throat.
"No, that's just my double Adam's apple."
"Damn, that shit's crazy," he marvelled. "Someone should sell tickets."
"Are you implying that I belong in a freak show!" I screamed at him. "Because I don't!"
"Take it easy, man," he said. "Take it easy. I'm not trying to say nothing."
We traveled in silence for a few moments.
"I'm just saying, you know, if you were interested in some carnie work, you know, I might know a guy," he said.
"You have a card?" I asked after a moment of thought.
"You know I do, freakie-freakie!" he said, handing me his business card. "I'm gonna make you rich, you old Shin Nuts!"
"Don't call me that, okay?"
"Whatever you say, Necky Neck Neck."

This von Flabflauchflisen's disease is killing me, literally

Before I was diagnosed with von Flabflauchflisen's disease last year, I was convinced I'd live forever. Now, I'm not so sure. As most of you know, von Flabflauchflisen's is a disease that attacks one's central adrenocortical circulatory membrane auto nodules, or CACMANs. Before the diagnosis, I was a happy 35-year-old unemployed man living with his mommy without a care in the world. Today, I'm a 36-year-old unemployed man living with his mommy with diseased CACMANs and a bleak future. What are the symptoms of von Flabflauchflisen's disease? Well, for starters, it causes me to profusely perspire a sweat that reaks of mold. I now excrete solid waste out of my penis and liquid waste out of my ass. I now speak in numbers instead of words. My hair grows inside my head instead of out of it, causing a cramping of the subcranial membrane. My testicles float freely throughout my body. One day I can feel them roaming around my windpipe, the next they're orbiting my shins. My teeth have become alarmingly white and straight. Like a hot stock, my Adam's apple doubled in size and then split into two. My bellybutton is now located on my back, between my shoulder blades. I can now sing like a pre-pubescent English choir boy.

If you haven't guessed it already, I'm writing to ask for your help in the upcoming Walk for von Flabflauchflisen's Disease this weekend. Please make checks payable to me. I'll make sure they find their way to the right people. God bless you all.

Other than the loss of vision and trip to the ER, our first date was a smashing success

Sally Shutesanladders, the woman I met at the bar the other night, and I had our first date last night. We ended up on the couch in her apartment. My memory of what happened next is a bit hazy, but this is how I documented it in my diary several hours after I returned home from the hospital last night. It reads in real time:

I'm kissing her; I'm kissing her; I'm kissing her; I'm feeling her up; I'm feeling her up; she's slapping me; she's slapping me again; I'm kissing her; I'm kissing her; I'm feeling her up; I'm feeling her up again; she's slapping me; she's slapping me; I'm kissing her; I'm kissing her; I'm feeling and rubbing her; she's spraying my open eyeballs with mace; she's spraying my open eyeballs with mace; I'm screaming; I'm crying; I'm sreaming for Jesus to save me; she's throwing water in my face; I'm kissing her; I'm kissing her; I'm feeling her; she's hitting me over the head with a collapsable baton; I'm bleeding everywhere; I'm crying; I'm screaming; she's dialing 9-1-1; I'm vomiting from the pain; I'm trying to kiss her again; she's kneeing me in the esophagus; I'm passing out.

That's all I remember. I woke up in a hospital bed with my wrist handcuffed to the railing. What a night! I can't wait to see her again.

I met a girl

I'm on Cloud 9, I tell you, dancing on air. I met a girl -- a terrific, sexy, not-too-too-obese girl. She was sitting at the bar the other night eating a ton of potato chips. I sat next to her. "Do you like potato chips?" I asked her. "Yef," she mumbled through a mouthful of deep-fried goodness. What a coincidence, I told her, I love potato chips, too. And that was just the beginning of the list of things we had in common. Like I, she enjoys running really fast and erratically at unexpected and impractical times -- not for exercise, mind you, but for fun. We both look at airplanes in the sky and try to will them to crash. We both are allergic to green vegetables, goose dander, and hard work. We both have been diagnosed with von Flabflauchflisen's disease; we both were rejected from eHarmony; we both pretend to like the outdoors, but secretly hate it; we both loathe Scandanavians; we both were polevaulters on our high school track teams; and we both really love cutting our own hair. This meeting was set up by the Gods. I'll have more on this later.

You know what else is "unusual"? (cont.)

My wrestling match with General Yammy Hammy over my right to dress up like Tom Jones and dance around the house continued well into the night.
"You want to know what else is "unusual"?" General Yammy Hammy asked me as he pulled my hair with one hand and slapped me with the other. "Your complete lack of musculature."
"You want to know what's "unusual"?" I responded as I kicked his shins and pinched the fat at the back of his neck. "The fact that you claim to be a straight guy, but that I can clearly feel your boner right now."
"You want to know what's "unusual"?" the Hammy asked me as he elbowed my nose and bit down on the flesh below my underarms. "That your mommy still buys your underpants for you."
"You want to know what's really "unusual"?" I asked Hammy while I scratched at his eyeballs with my uncut nails and punched his kidneys. "That you have a combover even though you're not bald. You just like the way it looks."
"You want to know what's "unusual"?" General Hammy asked meekly as his body went limp. "I think you just broke my fucking neck."
Oh, shit, I thought. My mommy is going to slap my face so hard for this.

It's not unusual to dress up like Tom Jones (it happens all the time)

I like to dress up like Tom Jones and dance in front of the mirror. So what? Who cares if a 36-year-old man who lives with his mommy likes to put on tight pants and a short afro wig and crazy sunglasses and gyrate around his room while listening to Tom Jones music? General Yammy Hammy, that's who. He burst into my room last night in the middle of one of my numbers.
"Hell, no!" he yelled. "I don't think so!"
"You ever heard of knocking, General Yammy Hammy?" I asked him.
"I don't need to knock. This is my house."
"Your house?!" I couldn't believe it. "General, the only things in this world that you own are two pit-stained t-shirts, a pair of yellow underwear, and a pair of pants that smell of urine no matter how many times you wash them."
I turned away from him and continued my dancing, but caught a glimpse of him in the mirror fast approaching me from behind.
"You wanna know what's "unusual"?" he asked as he grabbed me in a bear hug. "A grown man dancing around his room like a fruit."
"You want to know what's "unusual"?" I asked him as I turned around so that we were giving each other bear hugs, face-to-face. "The stench that's coming out of your mouth."
We fell to the ground and rolled around while maintaining our mutual bear hugs.
"You want to know what's really "unusual"?" said my mommy, who was watching from the doorway. "Watching you two gay boys roll around the ground like a couple of humping animals."

On This Day in History

August 21, 1959: President Dwight D. Eisenhower signed an executive order proclaiming Pennsylvania the 50th state of the union. When told Pennsylvania was, regrettably, already a U.S. state, Eisenhower belched loudly and replied, "Better make it Hawaii, then."

Our band is starting to sound pretty good

Our band is starting to sound pretty good. There's a chance we may be playing at the Comfort Inn's Margaritaville Lounge next Tuesday night. I front the band, of course, and play the clarinet. Because I have six fingers on each hand, I'm able to play an insanely large amount of notes at one time. General Yammy Hammy plays the glockenspiel and sings back-up. My mommy dances on stage in wooden clogs. Bucky Finger plays a homemade guitar, kind of like the one played by Rudy from Fat Albert's gang. Harvey Corkplower scratches records and does some freestyle, hip-hop dancing. Hockey-helmet Kid chimes in with some mad rapping once in a while, occasionally emphasizing my lyrics with, "All the ladies in the house say, 'Hey!'" or "Yeah, Yeah!" or "Uh-huh, Uh-huh!" Joey Coconut cranks it on the didjeridoo like it's nobody's business. Shirley LaFoiegras keeps it real on the Aeolian Wind Harp. And Paddie McLongjohn's Freak-Show Fat Mother brings everything together with her haunting Shakuhachi flute.

The only thing keeping us from making it big is finding a way to harnass all of the talent assembled here. Otherwise, the sound will send you into an epileptic seizure.

Joey Coconut got elephantitis in his ass

"I heard Joey Coconut got elephantitis in his ass."
"In his what?"
"In his ass."
"In his ass?"
"Right."
"Joey Coconut got elephantitis in his ass?"
"That's what I heard."
"Jesus. How did he get that?"
"I think a mosquito bit him."
"Holy smokes. How does he get around?"
"I don't think he does. I heard he lies in bed all day. His ass is huge."
"How big is it?"
"I heard it was like 125 pounds and too fat to fit in pants. He has to wear a mumu."
"Are you trying to tell me that Joey Coconut got elephantitis in his ass?"
"That's what I'm telling you."
"Really?"
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"Then why did you say he did?"
"I didn't."
"Yes, you did."
"No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did."
"Fuck you."

Taking sitz baths does not make me a woman

General Yammy Hammy walked into the bathroom while I was soothing my hemorrhoids in a sitz bath last night. He seemed disturbed by the scene.
"Is your cooter sore?" he asked.
"Do I look like a woman to you, General Yammy Hammy?"
"You do sitting in that sitz bath," he replied.
"There are lots of reasons for taking a sitz bath," I said.
"Yeah, like when your cooter is sore," he said, approaching me. "Get out. No step-son of mine is going to spend his evening sitting in no sitz bath."
We wrestled, me naked and him clothed, until finally he fell into the tub with me.
"You've brought great shame to this house," he said to me, which was funny coming from a man with no teeth or hair who gets beaten up regularly by his 64-year-old wife and who, until recently, lived on the top floor of the local Y.
"And you, General Yammy Hammy, have brought great shame to this sitz bath," I retorted as I reached for my towel.

My step father and I are trying to figure out what I should call him

I never would have believed that my mother, at 64, was still capable of dropping eggs, but based on the news I heard this weekend, she is. My mommy and the old timer from the Y are going to have a baby together and, if that wasn't enough, they ran off last night and got married. So, the old timer from the Y and I had an awkward conversation at the breakfast table this morning about what name I would now call him.
"How about 'Dad'?" he started off.
"No fucking way," I replied.
"How about 'Pops'?"
"No."
"'Papi'?"
"No."
""Floppy Poppy'?"
"What?! No."
"'Uncle Clock Face'?"
"That doesn't make any sense."
"How about 'Old Man Sag Bag'?"
"No."
"How about 'Rock Hard'? That's what your mommy calls me."
"So help me, old man, I will cut your fingers off if you keep that shit up."
"How about 'Steve McQueer'?"
"No."
"Rikki-Tikki-Avacado'?"
"No."
"How about General Yammy Hammy, Commander of the 24th Infantry Division in My Pants'?"
"Yeah, okay," I agreed reluctantly. "I guess that sounds fine."

On this date in history

August 4, 1898: Packard goes for a test drive
On a visit to the Winton automobile plant with his brother James, William D. Packard test drives one of the company's vehicles, accompanied by George L. Weiss, a Winton executive. When Weiss won't stop playing with the vehicle's choke knob, Packard exacts revenge by double-parking on Weiss's Benz Patent Motorwagen, then proceeds to bang Weiss's wife for the next 2 years.

That old timer from the Y is dating my mommy

Do you remember that old timer from the Y who peppered me with his toenail clippings? The one who kept calling me "Curlie-Girlie" because of my perm? Well, that old bitch has apparently started dating my mommy. I walked into my livingroom yesterday and found them arguing, toe to toe. She slapped him so hard that his fake teeth went flying across the room. They stared at each other for a few moments - both teethless now, as my mommy never wears falsies - and then they clutched each other and started ferociously tongue kissing. Their hands were pawing, grabbing, scratching, slapping at each other. Hair was being pulled, mid sections were pumping wildly. "What the fuck?" I asked increduously. My mommy pulled away from the old timer for a brief moment. "Honey," she said as she dragged him toward the couch, "mommy's gonna do some lovin' here, so why don't you be a sweatheart and go sit on the stoop for a few minutes, okay?" I went outside and sat on the front step, trying to block out the unmistakable sounds of lovemaking taking place behind the door. After about 15 minutes, the old timer screams, "THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!" That son of a bitch stole my line, I thought. "That's my line," I screamed as I pounded on the door. "My line, God damn it!"

My life's most embarrassing moments have a single common denominator: my ass

My ass seems to be involved in just about every one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. For instance, there was the time I was toasting my former boss at his retirement party when I inadvertantly let one fly. The noise was unmistable and there was no way out other than to pretend like it never happened, which everyone knew it had. People in my office started referring to me as the Toot Master, instead of, you know, the Toast Master. "Hey, Toot Master!" someone called to me across the office diningroom the next day. "Nice speech last night. It really blew me away!" I pretended like I didn't hear him. "Yeah," said Shirley LaFoiegras, who was sitting at my table, "it was a real gas!" Shirley laughed at her own lame, predictable joke louder than a typical person can scream, with bits of food and spittle flying out of her cow-like mouth. I broke my old-school glass Coke bottle over her head and stormed out. A man can only be so tolerant.

Some other slaps to the face my mommy has made famous

Here are just a few of the other slap to the face moves my mommy has made famous over the years:

The High-Low. She approaches you with her arms outstretched, as if she's coming in for a hug. Then she slaps you in the face with both hands simultaneously, one hand striking high - around the temple - and the other striking low - around the jaw, causing your head to rotate violently on its vertical axis, like a ferris wheel (opposed to its horizontal axis, which would be more like a helicopter).

The Rednecker. She approaches you with her hand in a slap-ready position, but right before she launches it, she kicks you in the shins. When you reach down to soothe the pain, she uses all of her weight to slap down on the back of your neck, leaving a deep, deep welt that makes you look like an Alabama farmer in the middle of August. Also, if she catches you just right, your hair will probably fall out on impact.

The Deuce. This one involves my mommy sneaking up on you and slapping you flush in the mouth in such a way that a large air pocket is forced down into your intestines, leaving you with a strange, but very real, sensation that you need to make a bowel movement.

Who would win in a fight between my mommy and Paddie McLongjohn's freak-show fat mother?

I've been thinking about this for a while: Who would win in a fight between my mommy and Paddie McLongjohn's freak-show fat mother? Paddie McLongjohn's freak-show fat mother is, obviously, a lot bigger than my mommy and tends to favor the bear hug, which, in her case, is a virtual life ender. My mommy, however, is much quicker and is incredibly skilled at slapping people in the face. She's like a Mexican boxer. You can try to protect yourself any way you want, but she'll find a way to slap your face over and over again. She has this one move where she makes as if she going to uppercut slap your face with her right, but when you move your hands to deflect the blow, she comes over the top with her left and slaps your face so hard that you lose the ability to reason and, sometimes, to see. Other times, she'll fake a roundhouse slap to the face with her right, pretend like she's coming in with the left, and then finish off the previously aborted roundhouse with a thunderous slap to your face. I couldn't hear for a week after she first nailed me with that one.

After careful thought, I think my mommy would probably take down Paddie McLongjohn's freak-show fat mother, but it would be an epic battle.

My cellmate hates that I was showing off so much skin in public

As I said before, I'm a master improviser. I was able to fix the nudity issue by fashioning a diaper out of a discarded newspaper. The lack of money, however, was a problem I couldn't overcome, so I simply stole the cigarettes and sped out of the convenience store. Unfortunately, a half-naked man wearing nothing but a newspaper diaper and riding an adult trike is quite conspicuous, so I was quickly apprehended by the police. When my cellmate saw what I was wearing, he became rather testy.
"You didn't go out in public like that, did you?" he asked.
"It's no business of yours what I wear," I responded.
"It certainly is when you're living in my cell," he said.
"Your cell?" I was incredulous. "This cell belongs to both of us!" His expression changed.
"You're right. I'm sorry. I just don't like the idea of all those dirty men out there undressing your newspaper diaper with their eyes," he said. "Look at us; we just had our first fight."
"I guess so," I responded, "if you don't count the time you repeatedly slammed my head against the wall while you sodomized me last week."
"Well, by fight, I meant argument, silly," he said pulling me closer. "Now, let's get a fresh newspaper diaper on you. I don't want you to chafe."

I woke up this morning sitting on top of a bicycle

You'll never believe where I found myself this morning when I woke up. That's right, sitting atop my mommy's bicycle in the garage with both hands on the handlebars. It's actually more of a tricycle, the kind made for really old people who no longer have the faculties to balance on two wheels. I awoke because my mommy was screaming at me from the other room. "Hey, skin-head fur-face, I need cigarettes, now!" It's not the way anyone wants to be woken up in the morning, but seeing that I was already mounted on a mode of transportation, my trip to the store to get my mommy her Newports was conveniently made quicker and easier. I hit the automatic garage door opener and off I rolled. I'll deal with my complete nakedness and lack of money later, I thought as I pedaled down the driveway. I'm an improviser.

Joey Coconut thinks he's all that

I saw Joey Coconut coming up my walkway this morning and met him at my front door. "Why you coming to my crib and trying to get all up in my grille?" I asked him all tough like. "I'm not trying to start anything, William, I just wanted to let you know that I've dropped the charges against you and plan to cover the cost of the repairs to the house myself." I didn't back down. "Oh, Massah, thankee. Thankee, Massah." He looked at me funny. "Is that supposed to be an Irish accent?" he asked. "No, it's a slave accent, on account of the fact that you're trying to make me feel like one." He replied: "I'm doing no such thing, you stupid turd, I'm trying to give you a break so that you can make something of your pathetic life." He turned and walked away.

Who'll be the stupid turd when I steal his identity and run him into the poor farm? I thought to myself. You, Joey Coconut. You will be the stupid turd! I laughed and turned back inside.
"Hey, Fatty Beardo," screamed a voice from inside the house, "close the door, you pathetic hippo, before you let all the warm air out!"
"Yes, mommy," I replied. "Sorry about that, mommy."

I think I might throw up

I'm not feeling particularly well today. I think I might throw up. Wait a minute, wait a minute ... No, false alarm. I thought I was just about to throw up, but I didn't. Uh-oh, here it comes again; it's coming this time, it's coming, here it comes ... Nope, another close call. Phew, I was sure I was ... Hold on! Hold on! This is the real deal. This is the real deal ... Huh. Nothing again. I thought for sure I was ... Nobody move! Nobody move! This is not a test! ... Well, there was a bit of a dry heave there, but not much else. Honestly, I'm starting to feel a little better. Maybe I won't ... Red alert! Red alert! Grab your underpants, everybody, the floodgates are about to open! Stand back ... Well, ain't that the darndest? Nothing again, although I have a sneaking suspicion I may have just shit my pants.

Things are a bit awkward between me and my cellmate

Apparently, it's against the law to leave the scene of an accident, so, since I was out on probation for hitting Les LaFoiegras in the face with a hammer last week, I've been placed back in jail in the same cell I was in before. Things are a bit awkward between me and my cellmate because of what happened the last time I saw him.
"Oh, hi," he said when he realized I was back. "I was, you know, meaning to, uh, call you, but, you know, I've been real busy in here."
"Yeah, right," I replied, with a hint of sarcasm in my tone.
"And, uh, I only, you know, get one phone call, uh, a day, and, uh, I didn't, you know, have your number or anything."
"It's scratched right here on the wall," I said. "I told you that, so don't pretend like you didn't know."
"Oh, right," he said. "I, uh, lost my, uh, phone privileges last week, so, you know, I, uh, couldn't call."
"Don't fucking lie to me!" I screamed. "Just stop lying! Okay?"
"Okay," he replied quietly.
We sat in silence for a few minutes. Then we both reached for the newspaper that sat between us at the same time and our hands brushed against each other. We looked into each other's eyes.
"I'm sorry I didn't call," he whispered.
"I know you are," I said. "I know you are."

Ooops! I rammed my car through Joey Coconut's house again

Lightning may never strike the same spot twice, but, apparently, my car can. That old lady/stop sign jumped out at me again this afternoon, causing me to jump the curb, criss-cross through oncoming traffic, and plow through Joey Coconut's livingroom, where he was watching daytime television. I took out two bicyclists, a dogwalker and his dog, and three saplings recently planted by the city in its recent beautification campaign on the way. All, save for the saplings, are expected to recover. Joey Coconut's livingroom, however, will need to be repaired yet again. "That cost me $40,000 to fix the first time, you retard!" Joey Coconut yelled at me. "Who's going to pay for this?" I thought about it for a moment. "That old lady out there should probably pay. It's her fault." When Joey stuck his head out the hole to see who I was referring to, I slipped out his back door and ran all the way home. That'll teach that asshole for calling me poor the last time I reamed a hole through his house.

That old-timer from the Y keeps calling me "Curly-Girlie"

I was at the Y again this morning shaving after my workout when I noticed a small crowd of those old Y residents in their stained underpants and yellowed shirts. They were in the shadows of the locker area, gigling and pointing at me. Finally, the one who had tried to snap my ass the other day stepped into the light and said this to me: "Loooooking gooooood, Curly-Girlie. Why don't you come over here and give gramps a kiss?" I took a run at them but they all dispersed, giggling like school girls, before I could grab any. That old bitch is going to have some regrets about his recent behavior, I can promise you that. (But, seriously, how does my perm look? Good, right? I don't look like a Curly-Girlie, do I?)

Why's everybody laughing at my perm?

Why's everybody laughing at my perm? It looks good, right? I mean, I think it looks good. It's all wavey and full-bodied. Yeah, it looks good. I'm pretty sure it looks good. Seriously, how does it look? Only your honest opinion will help. Do I look like an ass? I look like an ass, don't I? What the fuck was I thinking? What self-respecting man gets his hair permed? Well, what the hell do I do now? I paid $250 to look like a douche bag. What? You don't think it looks that bad? Do you think I should keep it? Really? No, seriously, how does it really look?

The Y stinks of failure

I dislike going to the Y in the morning because that's when the old losers who live upstairs come down to use the locker room to shower and clean up after a night in the gutter. I was shaving after working out this morning when two old guys in stained underwear and yellowed t-shirts took up spots at the sinks on either side of me. They both put one foot on their respective sinks and began clipping their yellow/grey petrified toe nails. The pace became fast and soon clippings were flying all over the place. The sound was obnoxious, like the inside of an arcade. I think, at one point, they were battling, with me in the middle, like two armies launching mortars at each other. Finally, a clipping hit me on the face, less than an inch from my eye. "Enough!" I yelled. The two old-timers slunk away from the sinks and into the locker area. A few minutes later I saw one of them sneaking up on me, twisting a towel, preparing to snap me in the ass. He was giddy, his toothless mouth flapping all over the place. "Don't even think about it, you old bitch!" I yelled at his reflection in the mirror. "I will snap your neck faster than a fart disappears in the wind!" He looked stung, as if he'd just fallen and broken his hip for the fourth time. This is how you have to deal with these old Y residents. Otherwise, they'll shit all over you.

Please, I'd rather not talk about it

As it turns out, Shirley LaFioegras really did screw Lenny Chookoo standing up in the toilet stall in the women's bathroom at work. What are the chances of that? When Les found out, he felt badly for pressing charges against me for hitting him in the face with a hammer and dropped the charge down to a misdemeanor. I was released from jail this morning. But, please, about last night, I'd really rather not talk about it, okay? I have some healing to do, internally and externally, and internally again. I'll talk to you again on Monday.

My cellmate doesn't strike me as the kind of guy who bluffs about sodomy

Getting back to my previous posting about bail money, has anyone been able to scratch some together? My cellmate has vowed to plow me tonight if I don't come up with bail money for both of us and, quite frankly, he doesn't strike me as someone who bluffs about sodomy. So, if you were considering helping me with bail, I'd really, really, REALLY appreciate it if you could try to post it before nightfall. Thanks for your consideration.

Les's face had the funniest expression on it right before I hit it with my hammer

In hindsight, I probably should have realized that hitting someone in the face with a hammer was a felony before I cocked Les LeFoiegras right on his cheekbone with the ballpeen I keep in my desk. But, boy, did he ever have a funny expression when he came out of the bathroom and realized he was about to get hit in the face with a hammer. I'll never forget it. It was as if his expression was saying, "Oh my God, I'm about to get hit in the face with a hammer. Why? Why would someone want to go and do a thing like hitting me in the face with a hammer for? William's going to hit me in the face with a hammer? That's total bullshit! I should be hitting him in the face with a hammer for the lies he told about my wife screwing Lenny Chookoo standing up in the toilet stall in the women's bathroom!" Then, whammo! Anyway, I'm in jail right now, so if you know any lawyers or could spare any money for bail, I'd appreciate the help.

Les LaFoiegras has threatened to punch me in the temple

After a fight that lasted throughout the night and included two visits from the police and one from their parish priest, Shirley LaFoiegras was able to convince her husband, Les LaFoiegras, that she had not, in fact, screwed Lenny Chookoo standing up in the toilet stall in the women's bathroom like I said she had during our public argument yesterday. Well, apparently, Les is now directing his fury toward me, for some reason, and has made several public threats to punch me in one or both of my temples. For those who know me, my temples are two of my best features, so I'll be damned if I'm going to let Les LaFoiegras punch me there. I'm thinking about making a pre-emptive strike and hitting him in the face with a hammer when he comes out of the bathroom. I'll let you know how that turns out.

My hair turned white overnight

I woke up this morning to discover that my hair had turned as white as snow while I had been sleeping. I went to bed with brown hair and woke up an albini. I don't think this is going to play out well, I thought to myself as I drove to work. Sure enough, I was met at the office by Johnny Newpants, who called me "Powder." Next, I saw the new guy with Tourette's, who called me "Swanny-Swanny-Swan-Swan!" JoJo Rucksack started calling me "Grandpa Joe." But Shirley Lafoiegras really pissed me off the most. "You just keep getting weirder and weirder," she said to me when we passed in the hall. I told her to go sit on a cupcake, she yelled something back at me, and before you knew it, we were having at it. A crowd formed and, for effect, I barked this at her: "Oh, yeah, well at least I didn't screw Lenny Chookoo standing up in the toilet stall in the women's bathroom like you did!" and walked away. Of course, it wasn't true, but they didn't know that, including Shirley's husband, Les, who was part of the assembled crowd and with whom she'd been married for 20 years, nor their two teenaged children, who were there as part of Take Your Teenager to Work Day. Let them sort it out, I thought. It's not my problem.

Did JoJo Rucksack say "bugging" or "buggering"?

JoJo Rucksack came into my cubicle the other day to see if I'd be willing to deliver a package to our boss's office. Why, I asked JoJo, couldn't he do it himself? "Ah, that jerk's been buggering me ever since I started working here," he replied before walking down the hall. After a moment, I thought to myself, Did he say 'bugging me' or 'buggering me'? Because, honestly, they mean two entirely different things. And, quite frankly, one of them isn't too nice.

Why did that kid have to kick me in the nuts?

I'd had it up to here with that paper boy of mine, who's always late with my Sunday newspaper. Last Sunday, I waited for him on my doorstep and started tapping my watch in an exaggerrated fashion as he approached me on his bike. Before I could say, "You're late!" he got off his bike, walked over to me and kicked me right in my balls. "Why?" I thought to myself as I writhed on the ground, "Why did that kid have to go and kick me in the nuts?"

Quifi MaMa acted like she didn't even know me

My heart beat faster yesterday when I spotted Quifi MaMa in the supermarket. "Quifi MaMa!" I called out as she approached me. "Let me explain .." I started, but she walked right past me like we were total strangers. "Quifi MaMa!" I called after her. "Quifi MaMa!" But she was already gone, vanishing into the frozen food section. I dropped to my knees and screamed at the heavens, "Quuiiiiiiiiiifi MaaaaaaaaaaaaMaaaaaa!! Why?!"
"What you want?" came a shrill voice from the next aisle. "You talk so much, you hurt ears!"

I've been banned from Madame Shu's Massage Parlor

Never again will I take advice from Johnny Newpants. I'll never feel the gentle touch of Quifi MaMa's hands again because I've been officially banned from Madame Shu's Massage Parlor. How was I supposed to know that screaming "thatswhatimtalkingabout!" in a high-pitched voice would distinctly sound like a derogatory phrase for a Chinese peasant whore? What are the chances of that, for Christ's sake? They can't be very good. Oh, Quifi MaMa, I will never forget you, my sweet love.

I think I'm going to start yelling, "That's what I'm talking about!" every time I have an orgasm

Whether I'm alone in the shower, or at Madame Shu's Massage Parlor, or in the toilet stall at work, or with my favorite lady, I think I'm going to start yelling out, "That's what I'm talking about!" every time I have an orgasm. Johnny Newpants from work swears the ladies love it when you do that, and while I've been burned a few times by Johnny's advice in the past, I think I'm going to give this one a try. Stay tuned.

I'm just thinking out loud, but maybe I should introduce the new guy with Tourette's to Hockey Helmet Kid

I had this conversation with the new guy from work with Tourette's. It didn't go very well:

"Why 'Cupcakes!'?" I asked the new guy with Tourette's.
"What?" he said.
"Why do you always yell, 'Cupcakes!' in the middle of staff meetings?"
"Does it really matter?" he replied.
"No, I guess not... Hey, would you like to meet a kid on my street who wears a hockey helmet all day long? I think he may be retarded."
"William," he said, a bit perturbed, "I have Tourette's; I'm not retarded."
"Well," I responded, "let's not split hairs, okay?"

Joey Coconut must think I'm poor

My eyesight has been getting progressively worse lately. Just the other day while driving to work I mistook a stop sign for an old woman and swerved violently out of its way. I crossed over in front of oncoming traffic, went up on two wheels, jumped the curb, smashed through a mailbox and came to a rest in Joey Coconut's livingroom, where he was watching daytime television. When I explained to Joey Coconut that I didn't see so well anymore, he suggested I take the bus to work from now on. "The bus?!" I exclaimed incredulously. "Do I look like a poor person to you, Joey Coconut?"

The more fingers, the better

"Son," my mommy used to say to me when I was young, "don't listen to the other kids. They're just jealous that they don't have 12 fingers and toes, too." Her attempts to reassure me would have been more effective if she hadn't always looked like she was going to cry when she said this. "Can they palm a basketball like you?" she'd ask. "Can they pluck all six strings of a guitar at the same time like you? Can they make shadows on the wall of 12-point bucks like you? No, I didn't think so." She always knew how to make me feel better. "Now," she'd say, "put your mittens on, we're about to go out in public."

I think my psychologist hates me

I'm not certain, but I think my therapist hates me. For one, he responds to most of the insights I provide about my life with, "Well, you don't have to whine about it," or "Did you ever think about how having to listen to this drivel might make ME feel?" Then there was the time when he screamed out, "What a LOSER!" when I told him about how Bucky Finger made me kiss Paddie McLongjohns on the lips. He tried to cover it up by quietly asking, "Oh my God, did I just say that out loud?" I told him that, yes, he had in fact said that out loud and that I was not a loser, thank you very much. "You might want to leave that up to the experts," he responded under his breath.

Lenny Chookoo tried to resurrect my high school nickname: Mr. Big'uns

My nickname in high school was Mr. Big'uns, on account of the size of my boobs. Lenny Chookoo had learned of this from his niece, who had been in my class, and tried to resurrect the nickname at work. "Here comes Mr. Big'uns," he'd call out as I approached the lunch table. "Remember fellas," he'd say, pointing toward my head, "his eyes are up here." I got the last laugh, though, with Lenny being dead and all.

I have a perfectly good explanation for why I was touching Shirley LaFoiegras's ass

I had dropped a piece of a cupcake on the seat next to me at lunch the other day just before Shirley LaFoiegras sat in it. When she stood, I tried to swipe it off before she noticed it and blamed me. She felt my hand on her ass, spun around and yelled, "You better have a perfectly good explanation for touching my ass!" Before I could tell her that, yes, indeed, I did have a perfectly good explanation for touching her ass, she slapped me, hard. The entire lunchroom grew silent. I was furious. "Well, guess what, Shirley," I yelled at her as she was walking away, "sometimes it rains, sometimes it's sunny, sometimes there are clouds, and other times it snows. It's the weather, for Christ's sake. Who gives a shit?" Nobody had any idea what I was talking about, but Shirley knew. Oh, she knew.

That kid with the hockey helmet is whacking that pine tree with a 2 x 4 again

Christ, that neighborhood kid who wears the hockey helmet all day long was out in front of his house all morning whacking that pine tree with a 2 x 4 again. I went down to ask him to stop, but, before I could, he jumped on his BMX and started riding around in tight little circles. Then he started hootin' and hollering' and ripped off his t-shirt and was waving it around over his head. "Are you some kind of retard?" I asked him. "Would a retard be able to do this?" he asked. It appeared as if he was preparing to pull a one-handed wheely or some shit when a brick came flying through the air and hit him right in the nose. No one owned up to throwing it, but my money's on Bucky Finger. That's just something he'd do - hit a retarded kid in the face with a brick.

Paddie McLongjohns' freak-show fat mother is always threatening to shoot me in the face

Paddie McLongjohns' freak-show fat mother is possibly the meanest woman I have ever met. Just about every time I see her, she threatens to shoot me, usually in the face. This is a typical exchange between us: "Hey, Big Dummy," she'd call me. "How's you like it if'n I shots you in the face?" To which I reply: "I don't think I'd like that too much, Ms. McLongjohns, if you don't mind me saying." "I do mind," she'd respond. "I do mind, because I wants to shoot you in the face somethin' terrible." How do you tell a woman like her that you ran over her cat a few weeks ago? Should I just blame it on the deaf kid who lives down the street? How do you think that would play out?

Don't tell anyone, but the cat I ran over belongs to my friend Paddie McLongjohns' freak-show fat mother

It turns out that the cat I ran over a few weeks ago belongs to my friend Paddie McLongjohns' freak-show fat mother. The cat survived my hit-and-run, but, apparently, it's not been the same since. When he approaches you, his back legs swing out to the side, like a truck that’s lost control of its trailer. If he swings them out too quickly, the centrifugal force can knock him off balance or spin him in a circle. The former is sad, but the latter can be quite funny.

Holy crap! The next time I see Shirley LaFoiegras at work, I should just keep walking

The next time I see Shirley LaFoiegras at work, I should really keep walking. She loves to talk and talk about the weather. "Not too nice out there today, huh?" she asked me when I entered the kitchen this morning. "Tomorrow's supposed to be nicer though, with more sun than clouds, then it will get cloudier with a chance of rain again on Friday. They say it's going to last right through the weekend, so forget about cooking out. You enjoy cooking out, don'tchya?" she asked, but before I could answer, she said, "Then Monday's going to be hot, hot, hot; I never thought we'd complain about the heat after that long winter we just had. Tuesday's going to be cooler, though, with mixed clouds on both Wednesday and Thursday. Now Friday," she continued, "Friday's a whole different story. Sunny, with winds out of the north. Just beautiful. Then Saturday ..." Holy crap, I thought, this might go on forever.

My shaman healer is a total jackass

I went to the local shaman healer to have my forearms drained yesterday. He pulled out a huge needle that appeared to have rust on it. I asked him if that was rust on the needle, and he replied, "What's it to you?" Just as I was about to say, "Nothing, I guess," he stabbed that giant thing in my arm. After I yelled out in pain, he coughed in a way people do when they are trying to cover up a comment. "Did you just say 'A-pussy-says-'what?'' just now," I asked him. He looked confused. "What?" he asked. "Exactly," I said. "Exactly." Then I turned to his assistant and offered her my raised hand in a position ready to receive a high five, but, alas, none was forthcoming.

Lenny Chookoo was a real cheap bastard

I just got back from Lenny Chookoo's funeral, where everyone was telling their favorite Lenny stories. All I could think about was how cheap he was. Every time I'd ask him to buy me a sandwich, he'd be like, "I'm still paying off bills from my throat cancer surgery" this, or "I have to support my adult retarded brother in the group home" that. Man, he always had an excuse to get out of buying me stuff. I'd be like, "Lenny, it's $7 for Christ's sake - $8.50 with a soda. Do you really think that's going to put your retarded brother on the street or keep you from getting your synthesized voice box?" Jesus, he was cheap.

My eyes are bleeding! My eyes are bleeding!

I woke up one morning and noticed that the whites of my eyes had turned red. When I got in to see the doctor, he said, "Whoa! It's as if you're bleeding out your eyes." And I said, "Is that a legitimate medical opinion, because it doesn't really sound like one." And he said, "What, just because I'm a doctor, does that mean I'm not allowed to use descriptive language?" And I said, "I'm aware of what it looks like, but I was hoping to get a clinical diagnosis. That's why I came here." "Fine," he said in a bit of a huff, "you're having a massive stroke. Happy now?" I wasn't. I would have preferred the bloody eyes, truth be told.

How Lenny Chookoo lost his arm

A bunch of us at work were having lunch together when I asked Lenny Chookoo how he lost his arm. He told me that it got caught in a subway train door and wrenched off when the train dragged him into the tunnel. I laughed because I thought he was joking, but stopped when I noticed no one else was laughing. When I stopped, they all started laughing at me, because, apparently, it was funny to see me in discomfort. Then Lenny Chookoo had a heart attack and died and everyone stopped laughing - except for me. I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. "Who's uncomfortable now?" I asked the group. True story.

Shooting for 20,000

I've driven over 15,000 miles since last changing the oil in my car. I'm trying to reach 20,000 before changing it, but my car's starting to make this awful grinding noise and emitting a powerful, death-like stench. I think it's related, although it may also have something to do with the cat I ran over last week.