Archive | July, 2011

The arsonist has oddly-shaped feet.

Random thoughts which peppered my head today:

I didn’t know it was possible to injure one’s cleavage but have discovered that, yes. If red-hot coffee is poured upon it … it will scream in pain like a thwarted gnome.

Humanity seems like a numbers game to me. Like it doesn’t matter how many of us are picked off, provided there’s someone left to procreate.

Casual Friday and my boss shows up to our management meeting in a pajama top. That, or he killed a Wiggle and is wearing its flannel flay in Hannibal homage.

Sometimes I go deaf but for an electric hum, like a radio momentarily tuned in to another frequency – the kind only dogs or aliens can hear.

I’d rather be hog-tied to William Hurt, in Puff Diddy’s crib, listening to Kelly Osbourne sing country, than visit another fucken port-a-loo in my lifetime.

Do you ever feel like someone else is a better representation of you? Maybe that’s what celebrity is.

If I was rich, I’d design a fleet of robots to clean my house and teeth, thereby alleviating the guilt of asking another human to do so. (And I could unabashedly undie-strut in front of a robot.) Result.

Coffee Guy was dancing to the Blues Brothers this morn, epilepsy style. Little Lord Fauntleroy meets Elaine Benes, yo.

Let me hold your crown, babe.

How am I special needs? Let me count the ways. I’ve listened to the same song for weeks now. We’re talkin’, hour after hour. Day after day. Week after Lindsay Lohan week.

And in seemingly unrelated news (to be said in the dulcet tones of a newsreader whose balls have most definitely dropped) … when I was a kid, I ate Muesli Flakes every day for months; until my Pop, like a cowboy galloping furiously to get ahead of this crazy train, bought twenty boxes to stock up for a special needs winter. I stopped the next day.

His defeat was more palpable than Pope Benedict on rye.

In joining these compulsively-aligned dots, it’s my weak (probably oughta strive for convoluted) theory that I’m mildly autistic. Not in a ‘star with Bruce Willis in a shite movie of Mercury Rising proportions’ way … but in a ‘if you smack your gums once more, I’ll hang you by a wedgie so atomic, it’ll set off ground alerts in Hiroshima’ kinda way.

I often find myself on sensory overload (making Cult Boy – with his slurps, hums, taps, smiles that assault my eyes like a novelty apron with inbuilt airbags – the gift that keeps on giving).

Cut to: listening to King of Anything so many times, my neighbours are now rocking back and forth in an extended foetal, sobbing uncontrollably, their ears bleeding at being assaulted by a song they once cherished like their first puppy (aka Robert Reed) (ergo Mike Brady).

I’m not without Repeaters Guilt (sometimes I’ll crowbar another track in), but I also can’t bear to turn it down. I dance, I sway, I clench my buttocks in an ecstasy not seen since We Are The World. (Except on this occasion, I’m the charity case.) I now understand that which my little brother always knew, as he’d grab his 20-cent cheeks to fuel an adolescent rage – one’s buttocks are the source of all ground swell (metaphorically speak-ing).

So! In addition to forming a girl-crush on Sara Bareilles for most enchanting of lyricals, it was on this autistic path that I found a pebble of thought; and here I pick it up and turn it over.

It’s possible that in listening to this glorious tune 10,001 times, I may be brainwashing myself. As in, behavioural modification, motherfuckers. We’re talkin’, Jason Bourne programmed to become a snub-nosed spy of “Red bag. Red bag. Stop right there!” magnitude.

Could my Bareilles bromance lead me down Assassin Avenue in the township of Treadstone, wherein David Webb resides as Mayor? After spending time longer than legs of Geena Davis harking this puppy, I gotta ask – what’s it doin’ to my cranium mush, yo?

Will I live in fear of equine, afraid someone’ll expect me to jump up on board with them, to ride off into their delusional sunset? Will I randomly karate chop those I suspect of making maps with my name on them (in all caps)? I mean. Fuck, man.

I could be programmed to kill the Mattress King or Sofa King. The kings of anything.

the wuc bytes – high anxiety

I love this movie like the most dogeared page of a well-travelled passport.

It remains one of my favourite holidays. A place my parents took me as a kid, intrinsically tied to my rapscallion youth and favourite laughs with my sibs. A place we’d revisit time and again, in person or phrenic photo, quoting the lines until they became ours first.

It was on this trip that I first met Madeline Kahn (who made me happy in my comedo bone, long before there was any Tina of blessed Fey); and the vested-uncle to my levity, Mel Brooks (aka dude who put farts on the map). And Brophy. My buddy Bro-phy. Good times.

Damn the man. Save the Empire!

I feel weary. We’re talking, hiking up a pair of concrete undies with spindly Mr Burns arms, weary. Battle commander for the Alliance, stuck on a decimated planet ravaged by a decade of war, fighting for the mining rights to a source that’ll end the world’s energy crisis, weary.

You get the drill bit. Motherfucken weary, yo.

Such is the collected effect of working in an office eternally. Like anthracosis, except I inhale an abundance of bullshit instead of coal dust. Cue high-pitched Zoolander cough.

“I think I’m getting the black lung, Pop.”

This joint’s shrinking my life force like the head of Beetlejuice. And this being the day I resemble Peter Weller (my left cheekbone an ashtray for radioactive cigarettes and my right, a shelf for my alarm clock), who materializes like Jiminy-convivial-Cricket?

Like an old man sensing the coming rain via gift of gammy leg, I’ve become adept at predicting when Gay Prince will appear. The truth lies in the crotch of early morn, when I wrestle myself for ten minutes of extra sleep (the strife between a good and bad hair day). Sleep wins, ev-ery time. And, as sure as the dilapidated coif sitting atop my head (more defeated than any wife of Tom Cruise), the debonair dignitary will saunter through my door.

Right on cue, you mincing bastard.

I’m in no mood. Not when I have Cult Boy sitting next to me, singing under his breath and tapping his left foot like Daniel Dolt Lewis. Not when I have Schwarzenegger calling me to wipe his ass in Dubai, via the magic of go-go-Gadget arm. Not when the gunslingers are hovering over our dying friendship, like a couple of hyenas waiting to feed on its carcass.

Not today. Not on Rex Manning day.

I feel I must prepare you (or is it, me?) for the inevitable failure of the crippled rom-com that is The Gay Prince and Me. Like a father revealing the santa suit he keeps in the closet (alongside Oprah, Honest Republican and other fantastical creatures), I must now reveal that we may not be in a romantic comedy after all, dear friends. I fear he aint the Lange to my Tootsie roll, the Tango to my Cash, nor the Lucas to my Empire.

More like the Bergman to my Bogart (yes, that’s right. I’m Bogie, baby). At least then I can coolly exit: my collar up, Homburg tipped into the wind, my cigar miraculously alight.

“Where I’m going, you can’t follow. What I’ve got to do, you can’t be any part of. Not for any good reason, but because Warner Bros says so. Now get outta here, kid.”

The human torch was denied a bank loan.

Random thoughts which peppered my head today:

Being a wannabe Snoop Dogg, I once said to my dad: “word to your muther, yo.” To which he replied, “come to think of it, I do need to have a word to my mother.”

Today in the lift, I missed my floor due to pondering Ryan Reynolds’ undies.

I hate food courts. It’s like McDonalds made rampant love to a retirement home and we’re expected to raise the mongrel offspring as our own. I aint down with a place where sinking waistlines and rising undies are synonymous.

Meanwhile, if you’re gonna sit beside me, how about you don’t rub your foot up against me like a mutt stacking a rubber tree?

I think my neighbour is stalking me through the wall. He always watches the same movies, one day later. I hear you, Kaczynski.

My bus driver ranted like Nick Nolte the entire trip to work today. Props for holding down a job amidst the crazy, Grandpa; and crusty congrats on finding a literally captive audience (Tony fucking Robbins of the asylum circuit, yo).

Do you ever get sick of your face? It’s like having your furniture in the same formation for a decade. I just wanna say, let’s see how my nose looks there.

Coffee Guy has cut his hair in a tragedy of running-with-scissors proportions. He looks like Little Lord Fauntleroy (which, if you’re wondering, aint a turn-on).

I fear that aging might be like going from a Rembrandt to a Monet.

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