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Random Monday Madness

Man, this is the hardest I’ve worked on a ‘holiday Monday’ in a long time. All I’ve done today is write, write, write. And even something that you’ll soon see — on another web site.

(Heh? Heh? How’s that grab you, eh? Folks, if that doesn’t get you all lubed up and itchy, then… well, frankly, that’s not terribly surprising.

But it gets me lubed up and itchy, so just be happy for me about that. And if you like, you can live vicariously through my, erm, lubed up and itchy bits. If you want. ‘Cause we tight like that.)

Anyway, more on that news in a few days, when the piece actually goes into virtual print. Or when I get a message back from the site owner, saying he’s had a change of heart… and I should have a change of meds. Either way, it’s new material, so that’s cool.

Everything else today is going to be ‘quick hit’ and random, I’m afraid — my brain is half-fried from overuse, and I’ve got a show in a couple of hours, so it’ll have to do.

(And the show is at some previously unheard-of location south of the city somewhere, in uncharted territory. MapQuest says that it’ll take me thirty to forty minutes to get there.

I call ‘hogwash’! Those bastards have never seen me navigate — I could spend thirty minutes finding my way into the place from the parking lot. Come to think of it, I really should have left this morning. Dammit.)

Hey, speaking of ‘quick hits’, there’s one I just noticed: It’s okay to call ‘hogwash’, and it’s fine to call ‘poppycock’. You can even call ‘poppywash’, if you like.

But don’t try calling ‘hogcock’. That’s a paddlin’, right there. Sicko.

Here’s an ‘only child’ line you can use, if you like:

‘Yeah, I’m an only child — I scared my parents out of having more kids. To this day, my father introduces me as ‘when good sperm go bad’.‘

I lied, just a little, way up there — I’ve mostly been writing all day, but I spent ten minutes watching ESPN this afternoon. Any idea what was on? Try the World Unified Arm Wrestling Championships.

Which brings up a couple of questions, frankly: first of all, was there ever really a need for competing arm wrestling federations? ‘Unified’ sounds impressive and all, but how serious a problem was this, really? We’re not talking about East and West Germany here. Was a simple merger of the six people in each group really out of the question?

Also, I wondered what the winner would receive for the title. In boxing and wrestling, you get a belt. In football and baseball, you get a ring. What’s the prize for arm wrestling? A wristwatch? A gold sleeve? A tennis bracelet, maybe? I’m just asking.

Oh, and by the way — ESPN is going down the shitter. Arm wrestling? What’s next — international tiddlywinks? The quarter-bounce quarterfinals, Midwest fraternity division? The national bingo qualifiers? Dammit, if you don’t have any real sports to put on, just loop highlights of Jeanette Lee playing pool for eight hours between SportsCenter and prime time. At least that has some entertainment value. Sheesh.

Finally, another story of my poor eyesight and addled brain, much like this one, from a few days ago:

I was having breakfast this weekend, and saw that my wife bought a new, healthier kind of maple syrup. I glanced at the bottle, and thought I saw the following claim:

‘One-half the crabs of Mrs. Buttersworth!’

Damn. Who knew Mrs. B. was such a slut? And how do they measure such things, too — who knows for sure if it’s exactly half?

One thing’s for sure — I have been way misinformed about how they make syrup. But damned if I don’t want to visit the factory now. That’s a field trip that’ll stick to your ribs! Woo hoo!