Following up from yesterday, it has come to my attention that I seriously shorted the comedy goldmine that is Heifer International. You can give a llama. How great is that? Imagine one of your friends opening the front door on her birthday to an oddly shaped box and a card that says “You’ve received a Llamagram!”

I can send ducks. When’s Mother’s Day? “Two dozen mallards, please, yes. The card should say ‘ To the woman who yelled at me about homework every night for twelve years.’ ”

Bees. When’s Employer’s Day?

Pigs. Rabbits. A whole fucking water buffalo. This is the drunk dialing destination of the year.

See my wishlist!

Or I Could Watch Ellen Degeneres On The TV

So I went to the doctor today. Now, I understand that it’s a cliche to make fun of the reading material in a doctor’s waiting room, but this was a new record.

This is a doctor known for his lengthy wait times, mind you, so I checked in and went to scope the magazine table.

There were two: The holiday catalog of a charitable organization and CAT FANCY.

CAT FANCY offered articles on allergies, urinary health, and introducing your cats – plurality is assumed – to your new baby. There were numerous pictures of cats submitted by their owners, which called to mind the “Reader Photos” section of a seedier pornographic publication (“Here’s my pussy in the kitchen sink!”); an article describing approvingly the efforts of a California town to reclassify declawing as criminal animal mutilation; and breed reviews. This month covered “Ragdolls”, which looked to me like Siamese cats that left home to follow the Dead. The magazine exists for the classified sections, which covered eighteen pages and was mostly devoted to breeders of breeds I’d never heard of, though there were also quarter-page ads for amazingly elaborate cat entertainment centers, a kit to cat-proof your fence that was nearly as elaborate as the fencing at the federal prison in Marion, and a full-page ad for little claw condoms – my term – that were pitched as “the humane alternative to declawing”. The “Next Month” teaser promised a full article on how you could help your cat cope with terrorism. I wish I was kidding.

The catalog offered me the opportunity to buy a brace of goats for poor people in other countries. (Including Canada, which pleased me.) I may consider this next time I have need for a charitable donation, as it seems much more fun – on both the giving and receiving end – to give goats than to send some previously happy child off to school.

Now With Shorter Items!

Another successful Halloween party Saturday night with the usual suspects. Lotsa nice cleavage, but not nearly enough partial nudity. Everyone’s still in drinking shape, though I must register my objection to mixing Kahlua & Whiskey.

We really ought to have these events monthly.


Still on mailing list sabbatical. It’s very odd — like breaking up with someone, almost, except without the sudden and unwelcome realization that you don’t know where your next blowjob is coming from. So it could be way worse.


Oh, speaking of fucked, I am now emanating an audible and ominous “tick tick tick tick tick…” noise at work.


Princess Fix IT gave me a very kind plug nearly a month ago, which I didn’t notice ’til last week and didn’t recipro-plug until just now, because I tend towards gross irresponsibility.


Got to run. Champagne Night at Sam’s. I’m not much of a shopper — most Fat Guys aren’t — but the day I get out of Sam’s without dropping $50 will be the day after my liver transplant. (The over/under is 2008.)

Strained Groin

I try to get over to the gym in lieu of lunch most days, except when my scientifically defined workout regimen dictates that I sit on my ass and eat KitKats.

I don’t know why I wasn’t notified in advance, Crunch, that today was Scorching Hot Chicks Get In Free Day. Great scott! The usual crowd — constantly posing gay men, backslapping executives not actually exercising, and hopefully slogging fat guys — was well-outnumbered, for once, by wave after wave of adorable disheveledness. My concentration curls suffered, though the “curls” part was fine. (Workout pants worn below the hips must be the Fad That Never Dies. Who do I see about this?)

I spent way longer than usual in there today. This setup needs to be made permanent — I would even pay an eye candy surcharge.

(Did I just invent Crazy Horse Total Health? I may become a millionaire.)

Flame War

To: All Employees
From: Office of the Building

With the recent tragic fire in a downtown office building, we feel it is important at this time to review the proper procedures in the event of a fire.

-If you hear the fire alarm, you must leave the building immediately. The ONLY employees exempt from this rule are those who are:

  • Floor fire captains
  • Engineering staff
  • Interns
  • Actual firemen
  • In meetings
  • On the phone
  • Wearing heels
  • Eating
  • Tired
  • Sales
  • (Union members should defer to the building departure requirements outlined in their collective bargaining agreement.)

    -Should you encounter smoke in the stairwells, DO NOT PANIC. Lie down for a bit and wait to be rescued. Under no circumstances should you try another route.

    -Once safely outside, all employees are expected to cooperate fully with the news media’s requirement for armwaving background jackasses. Should you find yourself being interviewed, remember that you are representing the company. It is inappropriate to look pleased at the inevitable time off to follow the fire, and totally unacceptable to actually allude to it.

    -Upon returning to work, please be certain that your ass is properly covered. Hands are inappropriate and inadequate for this purpose. Use a memo. Those who have not yet taken the mandatory class on falsifying memo dates, please see your floor fire captain.

    -Please do not close barn doors until after you have ensured that all horses have safely departed.

    500 Times

    I will not go Columbine at the office. I will not go Columbine at the office.
    I will not go Columbine at the office. I will not go Columbine at the office.
    I will not go Columbine at the office. I will not go Columbine at the office.
    I will not go Columbine at the office. I will not go Columbine at the office.
    I will not go Columbine at the office. I will not go Columbine at the office.
    I will not go Columbine at the office. I will not go Columbine at the office.
    I will not go Columbine at the office. I will not go Columbine at the office.
    I will not go Columbine at the office. I will not go Columbine at the office.
    I will not go Columbine at the office. I will not go Columbine at the office.
    I will not go Columbine at the office. I will not go Columbine at the office.

    Cheer me up. Send me a note of sympathy.

    What Goes Up Also Goes Down And Looks Like A Duck Besides

    (AP) – Thirty years after his death, the surrealist M.C. Escher has landed squarely among the ranks of the great Dutch masters such as van Gogh and Rembrandt, with the recent opening of a museum dedicated exclusively to his work.

    “Excuse me, do you work here?”

    “Yes, I do. Can I help you?”

    “Could you direct me to the restrooms?”

    “Certainly. Go through that doorway — the one shaped like a pelican? — turn left and walk down the hall. The men’s room is at the end, on your left.”

    “Thanks very much!” . . . “OW!”

    “Are you all right, sir? I’m sorry, I should have been clearer — the black pelican is the doorway. The white pelican is, as you’ve found, solid. I’m very sorry.”

    …”Excuse me, again. You said to turn left and walk down the hall? There seems to be a large hole in the floor, and then there’s something covering the wall. Are you having some work done?”

    “No, sir, that is the hall. Just walk straight ahead.”

    “Into the hole?”


    “But it’s a hole.”

    “No, it’s a hall. Some of our guests do find that closing their eyes helps guard against the possible mild vertigo.”

    “Mild vertigo? I’m just trying to find the damn men’s room. This place is too weird for me — can you point me to the exit?”

    “Certainly, sir. Just go up the down stairs right there behind us…..”

    Kleibold & Harris in '04!

    Imagine, for a moment, that you went to a really strict school for second grade, the kind where the only decorations on the walls are multiplication flashcards and stern warnings about gum and running and talking. After the first week of first grade, you didn’t learn anything, you just spent every day filling out math worksheets. Not the good kind where if you know the answer to the riddle already you can work backwards and have it done in about fourteen seconds, but the kind that have fifty problems and a line at the top for your name. Didn’t pick nothing up after that first week, but you stuck around, and that seems to have been the graduation criteria.

    Then you had summer vacation, with all kinds of freedom and fooling around. Nothing but clear skies, ’cause no one cared what you did at all. Pickup baseball and dirty jokes and riding your bike in the street and not coming in until it was way late, like nine! Sometimes the bully from a couple streets over would beat you up, but still, summer ruled.

    When it gets dark at five, though, and it’s too cold to go outside much, you have to do something. So you move up to third grade. Third grade is cool. It’s interesting, it’s challenging, and they read books a lot more than they do math. A LOT more. The teacher’s cool, and if you learn stuff, he doesn’t care that much if your desk is messy or you’re not always paying attention. Things are OK. Not as good a summer, but you know somewhere in your mind, that someday you’ll probably need to know how fractions work. Plus, fourth grade, you hear, stone fucking rocks.

    Then you come back to third grade after Spring Break, and there’s a new third-grade teacher.

    The old one did a flit — got tired of the School Board, you hear, though of course all the kids have darker theories — and now you’ve got this new dude. Not good. He introduces himself, the shock slowly wears off, and you start slipping back into the school routine. After a week, he announces that you won’t be moving on to fourth grade at the end of the year. You’re not shocked, but you’re mad. You start thinking about other schools. But all your friends go to this one, and besides, the girl who sits next to you is awful cute. Lot to give up. You stick.

    Come June, you get your end of year reviews. As promised, you’re not moving up to fourth grade. Not only are you not moving up, you’re being failed back to second grade. Busted back a grade! You demand an explanation. You kick. You scream. You hold your breath until you turn blue.

    You start thinking about other schools again.

    Hail To Thee, Fat Person!

    I cannot believe I haven’t talked about food yet. My bad. I plan to rectify that.

    Step One: Advocate fresh turkey for Thanksgiving. Last couple years, I’ve watched the thing die at the Live Poultry place at Fullerton and Austin. This year, I’m hoping to go to the source. (Ask Rob about last year’s leash humor. We had to stop the car.)

    The things I do for Thanksgiving sometimes astonish even me. More on this theme later. A lot more. Remember, you’re talking to a guy who visits five or six different stores every week — in addition to having another six or eight in the rotation — in the sacred name of Groceries. Just doing my part to boost the economy.


    “I wonder if Cubs fans, deep in their heart of hearts, really love this.”

    King Kaufman rules.


    Are there rules of etiquette to quitting one’s job? I have to get my ducks in a row.

    The Curse Of The Scapegoat


    Let he among you who brings me video of any fan in the history of baseball who backs off to allow a foul ball in the stands to be caught cast the first opposing-team home run stone.

    Also acceptable: Anyone who explains to me Rule 1984, Section 45, Clause 08 — “If a fan messes with a ball hit directly to him, eight runs shall be awarded the opposing team”.

    The Fan isn’t at fault, really. Bernie Mac isn’t to blame, either. Nor Prior, Baker, Farnsworth, the goat, the black cat, Ron Santo, Paul Bako, Alex Gonzales, the wind, or even Rod Beck.

    Snowflakes can’t be blamed for an avalanche.