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Wednesday, August 16, 2017

Total Eclipse of the Spleen

With only five days left until the "Eclipse of the Century," Holden continues to wonder if he should make the trip up to Idaho to witness it. Is it worth it? Is it worth driving 16 hours to witness an event that will take roughly 2 minutes, an event that will also happen here on a SLIGHTLY LESS grand scale, seeing as how the sun will only be about 70-80% eclipsed here compared to 100% in Idaho? Should he do it? Will he do it? Does it even matter? Does anyone actually care what Holden will do?

I sit here, transfixed, upon my computer screen, and ponder upon the great mysteries of the universe, such as... why did Mrs. Hafen, a substitute teacher in my 2nd grade class, write my name down on the blackboard "naughty" list when I did absolutely nothing to deserve it? Nothing. Nothing at all. Did not even say a word. Or the great mystery of why I have to change so many poopy diapers at work, when this responsibility is clearly not mine. Or the great mystery of what those last two blogs mean. What, you thought there was some sort of super secret hidden meaning? No. There's not. I was seriously just writing down crap that popped in my head. That's all it is. "Crap That Popped In My Head." That's the name of my next album. Which I guess would be my first album. What were we discussing? Oh. Mysteries. How about the mystery of whether or not I really danced with Shari Richey at an after-school dance in 9th grade? I don't think I danced with her. Pretty sure I didn't. Although I told people I did, because I thought that would make me look cool. Right? Isn't that what made you cool in junior high? Then I formed a false memory, wherein I actually did dance with her. For the longest time, I thought I actually had danced with her. Then I read my journal, where I wrote about it after the dance, and the truth was revealed. But was it really the truth? Does it even matter? Does anyone actually care if Holden did or didn't dance with Shari Richey? And if he didn't, why did he pick Shari Richey as the person that he "danced" with? Why not, say, Sammi Parr? Huh? WHY NOT?

Would you like to hear about any other mysteries? There are plenty, for sure. Here's another one. Or two. Or three. Or a billion. Whatever happened to my bike that disappeared in 3rd grade? Who has it? Where is it? Whatever happened to my wedding ring that disappeared two months ago? Whatever happened to my toy rifle I received for my birthday when I turned 4? Whatever happened to my family's copy of the video game "Super Mario All-Stars?" or the video game "Super Mario 3?" How come every kid I hung out with in elementary school is now gay? Am I gay? Why does everybody on online comment threads think that their opinion is going to change the world in some way? Why does everybody on online comment threads think that somebody cares about their opinion? How come we can land a man on the moon but we can't land a man on the moon, plant a large explosive device, and then explode the device so that the moon's orbit is shifted downward so that the eclipse actually happens in, say, southern Utah instead of Idaho? And you know what, that wouldn't even work, because we'd have to make the sun move down too. So don't even think about exploding things on the moon unless you've got a plan to explode things on the sun as well. Why does our favorite music spark emotion in us? Why do I cough up a lung when I stick a Q-Tip in my right ear? Why is the lemonade served at kids lemonade stands always the worst? Is it actually the worst? Or is it actually the best, and I'm the worst? "The worst at what?" you ask. At tasting lemonade, of course.

Now go take a potty break. And remember these wise words from an old man, long dead and covered with maggots - "Maggots. Aren't they great?"

They sure are, old man!

Bungling the Carpet Bombs That Fall Upon my Dead Horse Ancestors

Get a job.
Get a car.
Get a spaceship.
Get a girlfriend.
Get a gun.
Get some patio furniture.
Get more patio furniture.
Get out.
Get in.
Get loud.
Get not as loud.
Get a spoon and feast on this dying bird.
Get the dying bird and kiss it back to life.
Now it's time for a potty break.
Potty break! Potty break! Potty break!
Good luck.

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

Hepatitis As a Means to Achieve Victory For Our Comrades in Siberia

All we are is little pin-pricks.
Little crumbs.
Little dust mites.
Little baby taco shells.
Little miniature basketballs, so miniature even the smallest of younglings can wield them and throw down a vicious windmill jam.
Little bugs that hide out in the rocks and the dead leaves and come out at night to skitter around and to eat dinner.
Little soups and little breads for little mouths.
I'm going to take my little things and I'm leaving. And I'm not going to come back for awhile. But when I do come back, you'll see me coming from afar off. I'll be making a lot of noise and I'll be kicking up a little dust trail so you can't miss me. And then when I get back, I'll be covered in dust and you can lick it off me if you want. And then we shall feast on the fatted calf and the fatted Subway sandwich and the fatted fish taco from Del Taco. Then we shall slumber, slumber, slumber, forever in our little beds with little smiles on our faces. Because... we have gone to battle and we have won the day. And no one else will get the day. It's our day. And no one will ever take it from you. Good night.

Sunday, August 13, 2017

Area Man Shows Resilience In Using Last Remaining Sauce-Free Finger To Scroll Through Facebook Feed

PADUCAH, KY -- Area man Peter Gifford, currently devouring a Jim's BBQ pulled pork sandwich smothered in barbecue sauce while scrolling through Facebook on his phone, reportedly showed admirable resilience after four of his five fingers became covered in barbecue sauce.

One by one, starting from his thumbs, each of his fingers became coated in sauce, each one essentially becoming incapacitated and unable to perform the functions required to scroll down a social media feed without covering the phone in sauce. However, Gifford was determined to see his Facebook feed scrolling through to the end. 

"One finger left," said Gifford, who looked at his left pinkie with a determined look, before returning to his phone scrolling. 

Gifford then attempted to tap a link with his pinkie, missing several times. "I would have just given up right then and wiped my hands," reported an onlooker at the next table. "But this guy, he never gave up. If only we all had that kind of tenacity, that kind of drive to succeed." Gifford then reportedly succeeded at tapping the link.

Also made difficult was Gifford's method of eating, which had to be adapted to avoid getting sauce on his pinkie. He reportedly held his sandwich with his left pinkie held away from the sandwich. "This guy was a lesson in adapting to what life throws at you," said Katie Miller, shift supervisor working behind the counter at Jim's BBQ. "It was very inspiring for everyone."

At press time, Gifford had accidentally gotten sauce all over his phone when he tried to do a pinch-zoom. He reportedly put his head down in shame and sat in silence for several minutes, like one who had failed his loved ones and lost their trust forever.

The Adventures of Henry H. Pottermore As He Attends School at Hogdeath School of Witchcraft and Wizardry




    Henry H. Pottermore... the boy who loved! And all loved him! At last, he was on his way to school. But this was no ordinary school. Oh no. This was Hogdeath School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! The most famous school in town! For you see, Henry H. Pottermore was a wizard of sorts. How did he become a wizard, you ask? Well, it's a very long story. And a very boring one too. So that's all that will be said about it. But it came to pass in the year 199999 AD that Henry H. Pottermore, beloved of all who loved, was aboard a high speed train, headed straight for Hogdeath. Headed straight for the front door. This train was not stopping. And it was going like, 300 miles an hour. The children aboard the train screamed.
     Henry H. Pottermore, one of those very children, screamed as loud as he could. He shattered the window of his compartment with his bare hand and screamed out the window. "HEEEEELP!!!" he cried, as blood dripped from his now severed hand. It was chaos. The train bore down on Hogdeath, now only a few miles off. "HEEEEELP!" he cried again, but it was in vain, for the only creatures to hear his cries were a few sheep, grazing amidst the fields of gold.
     "Wait Henry," said his hot witch girlfriend Hortense. "Didn't you used to be a high-speed train operator?"
     Suddenly, Henry H. Pottermore remembered his training.
     "Henry, you can stop this train!" Hortense said, staring deep into his cold dead eyes. "You can stop it!"
     Henry's friend Rob Schadenfreude nodded in agreement. "Only you can stop it Henry!"
     Henry H. Pottermore took courage at this. He had a job to do. One that would save lives.
     Just then, the train slammed into Hogdeath, crashing through the lobby, with the screeching metal and the screaming children and the exploding everything and killer debris flying everywhere.
     "What a mess," said Headmaster Donny Trump as the train eventually came to a rest in a giant pile of twisted metal wreckage. There would be few survivors, he guessed, and he would be right.
     "5000 POINTS FROM SNUGGLEBUM!" cried Headmistress Madonna, in her typical scolding manner. Fortunately, Henry H. Pottermore, Rob Schadenfreude, and Hortense all survived with just third degree burns and post-traumatic stress disorder. "Aw, come on Headmistress!" whined Rob.
     "Enough Mr. Schadenfreude!" she said. "I don't know who re-arranged the train tracks to lead right into Hogdeath, but I've been here long enough to know the pranks of the Schadenfreude boys! And detention for all of you!" And she walked off in her snooty headmistressy manner.
     "I hate her," said Henry H. Pottermore. "I'm gonna kill her."
     "Henry H. Pottermore!" said Hortense. "You want us to lose the house cup?"
     "I'm going to wingardium leviosa her head and put it in the house cup."
     "Yeah!" cheered Rob, and he high-fived Henry.
      Just then, Henry's arch-nemesis Chuck McChucklin walked on the scene, with his two bodyguards, Agents Snow and Laughlin. No, they were actual bodyguards. No one knew why he had bodyguards. They were dressed in fine suits and wore sunglasses. They also had guns.
    "Well well well, if it isn't Mr. Henry H. Pottermore," he said, with that typical evil sneer in which evil kids sneer at things. "Been crashing high-speed bullet trains through the Hogdeath lobby again, I see?
     "Shut up McChucklin," said Rob.
     "Well well well," said McChucklin, turning toward Rob. "If it isn't Mr. Rob Schadenfreude. Been... being an... idiot lately?"
     "Shut up McChucklin," said Hortense.
     "Well well well," said McChucklin. "If it isn't Mrs. Hortense... what's your last name?"
     "We get it McChucklin," said Henry. "It is us. It's all of us."
     Just then, Rob lunged for McChucklin, the bloodlust in his eyes. "I'LL KILL YOU JERK!" he cried, and threw a punch to McChucklin's face, before Agents Snow and Laughlin managed to pull him off and hit him with a stun gun.
    "700 POINTS FROM CHUCKLEFLUB!" shouted Headmistress Madonna, striding back onto the scene. Henry H. Pottermore was pretty sure there was no such house, but he held his tongue.
     "I have never, in all my days, beheld such tomfoolery!" she cried. "You are all hereby banned from playing Squimmitch! Forever! A total kickban on Squimmitch!"
     Henry H. Pottermore felt his stomach drop. "No," he said, in total disbelief. "No, you can't do that. No way. Not Squimmitch."
     "Don't make it worse Pottermore," said McChucklin, sneering. "You were always the worst at Squimmitch anyway." He really was. Pottermore was only in his second year at Hogdeath and had already been labeled the worst Squimmitch player ever to Squimmitch a Squimmitch ball. Would you like to understand how Squimmitch works?

Squimmitch: A sport that is popular with the children at Hogdeath. The premise is, you have a bunch of kids on riding lawnmowers in a room with a big ceiling fan. One person on each team holds up a tall stick with a basket on top. Players on each team attempt to toss the "Squimmitch" ball (similar to a golf ball) into the ceiling fan and have the fan knock the ball into that team's basket. A couple players on each team are given spiked baseball bats and are allowed to beat the players on the opposite team. The game ends when a team has scored 100 points from knocking the ball into the basket, or when one team has been beaten to death by the other team.

Pottermore's job was to hold up the basket. A daunting task for sure, because, by George Custer, you never knew where that Squimmitch ball was gonna fly when it hit the fan. Usually the Squimmitch ball just hit him in the face. He would then hold the basket in front of his face, hoping this would alleviate the problem, but then the ball would just fly down and smack him in the crotch. They called it a "crotch-smacker" and the opposing team would get 50 points.
     That night, after the wreckage had been cleared and the bodies of the dead wingardium leviosa’d into a mass grave, the children retired to their beds. Pottermore had a dream that night. A dream of love. A dream of passion. A dream of murder, betrayal, and deceit. A dream of fire and fury the likes of which the world had never known. A dream where Hortense was there and he was about to kiss her, but then she like, turned into his mom for some reason, and then he was in this elevator that was going up and down over and over again, and then Chuck McChucklin was there, and he like, brought him dinner in the elevator but it was really hard to eat because of all the constant up/down motions, and McChucklin was like, “I’ve got to get me one of these elevators,” and Pottermore was like, “Get outta my elevator!” And then all of a sudden, the elevator door opened, and there stood his dear Uncle Bob, saying to him,”What have I told you about eating your supper on this elevator?” And Pottermore begged for forgiveness, and Uncle Bob gave it to him because he was a great uncle. And then suddenly, he was in the Squimmitch room zooming around on his John Deere 5000 mower, with one hand wielding his basket stick and the other hand steering the wheel. Then without warning, the basket caught on the fan, and then his arm was ripped from its socket, and the fan flung it across the room, and all the children laughed at him, including McChucklin, who, as the name implies, enjoys a good chuckle at the expense of others, especially Pottermore, and then suddenly, he was...
     “AAAAHHHH!” screamed Pottermore as he sat up in the bed, wiping sweat from his brow. What a nightmare. He had had this dream several times, but he was still unsure of what to make of it. But it confirmed to him what he had really feared all along. That he really was the worst at Squimmitch.

     Classes began bright and early the next day! The children awoke to a fine breakfast of puddings! Just puddings, as far as the eye could see! White pudding, black pudding, yellow pudding, blood pudding, green pudding, pudding with bacon in it, pudding with more pudding in it, pudding inside bowls, pudding inside glasses, pudding all over the floor, pudding floating around in the air, pudding pudding pudding! Henry H. Pottermore gazed upon the scene with the utmost delight! How magical! How wonderful! Henry spotted his friend Larry, a very fat child, across the room, screaming as pudding poured out his nose and ears. How wondrous!
     Suddenly, Chuck McChucklin approached, Agents Snow and Laughlin in tow.
     “Well well well,” he started, the usual sneering routine. “If it isn’t Mr. Henry H. Pottermore. At it again, I see?”
     “At what again?” asked Henry.
     “You know. Just… standing there. Looking around at things. Looking at pudding. You always were a pudding looker, Pottermore.”
     That last statement was the last straw for Rob Schadenfreude.
    “I’LL KILL YOU YOU PIECE OF GARBAGE!” he yelled, and lunged for McChucklin’s throat, but Agents Snow and Laughlin restrained him. McChucklin laughed.
    “See you in class, losers,” he said, and wandered off.
    “He just tries to egg you on, Rob,” said Hortense, caressing him very seductively. “You can’t let him get to you like that.”
    “He just… he just makes me so mad,” said Rob.
    Once they had had their fill of pudding, they walked to their first class, which was called PE, or Physical Education. Yes, just like PE classes of old! What, you think these gifted children should be deprived of the magical experience of PE? Well I never!
     The professor, a very pale cold man named Horrocks, was the worst teacher Henry had ever had at Hogdeath. He was, in the words of Rob Schadenfreude, “the biggest jerk that ever jerked.”
     “Hello children,” he muttered after they were all seated. “Welcome to Physical Education. To become a powerful wizard and battle the forces of pure evil, it is imperative that you keep yourself in tip-top shape. Unlike Larry over here, who is just so fat.” He pointed at Larry, Henry’s fat friend, who began to cry. “What’s wrong Larry?” Horrocks asked. “Too much pudding this morning?” Many of the children laughed. They were terrible terrible people. And this school taught them to be that way.
     “Leave him alone!” yelled Henry from the back of the class.
     “Well well well,” said Horrocks, slowly advancing towards Henry. “Henry H. Pottermore. The boy who loved. Loved what, Pottermore? His mommy?” The children giggled.
     “Uh yes, I do love her, is there something wrong with that?” he asked, confused.
     “Oh, little Pottermore loves his mommy! Little mommy’s boy Pottermore!” Horrocks cooed.
     “AVADA KEDAVRA!” yelled Henry, raising his wand, and shot Horrocks with the killing curse, right in the groin. Horrocks flew backwards and slammed into a wall. Then his body hit the floor, unmoving. And… he was dead? Yeah. Wow. Did Henry just… wow.
     The other children stared at Henry in stunned silence.
     “You… you just murdered him,” said Hortense. “You just murdered a professor.”
     “Well,” Henry said. “I didn’t think that would really work. I don’t know how…”
     “Henry,” said Rob. “That was… insane. I mean, look at him. He’s dead.”
     Sure enough, Horrocks lay on the floor, dead as a dead person.
    Just seconds later, Headmistress Madonna burst into the room. “What has happened here?” she yelled. “Why is Professor Horrocks dead on the floor? Pottermore? Is this your doing?”
    He slunk low in his seat, then, with his hand over his mouth, subtly pointed his finger at Rob.
    “ONE THOUSAND POINTS FROM SNUGGLEBUM!” she cried. “Both of you come with me!” And she grabbed Rob and Henry by the scruffs of their necks and hauled them out.
    “Explain yourselves!” she said, once they were in the hall.
     “Well,” said Rob. “Henry just murdered him.”
     “It was an accident!” cried Henry.
     “No accident,” said Rob. “He performed the killing curse.”
     “I didn’t know it would do that!”
     “Do what? Kill?” said Rob, rolling his eyes.
     “Enough of this!” she said. “Pottermore, how did you even learn the killing curse? Only dark wizards fiddle around with powerful magic like that!”
     “Well,” he said. “Pretty easy. I just found it on the internets.”
     “And pray, Henry H. Pottermore, what did the internets tell you?” she asked.
     “The internets said, raise your wand and say AVADA KEDAVRA. It’s not like it’s hard or anything. Just raise your wand and say crap.”
      “Don’t forget the little flick of the wand,” said Rob.
      “Yeah, the wand flick or whatever,” said Henry.
      Headmistress Madonna nodded. “Hmmm. Well I guess that’s true,” she said. “But you’re going to be getting some pretty severe detention for this, Pottermore. In fact, murdering a professor is usually grounds for life in detention.”
      “Life in detention…? Gee whiz,” said Henry.
      “Unfortunately, we can’t have police involved with this or there’d be a full-on investigation into all the other terrible things that happen here. And then no more Hogdeath. And why deprive the world’s gifted wizards and witches of an experience at Hogdeath?”
      “Makes sense,” said Rob. “Right Henry?”
      “Yeah, I guess,” he said, and he looked pretty dejected at having to spend life in detention. But he really did deserve it. He just murdered a professor.
     “Well then, come with me Pottermore,” said Headmistress Madonna. “Back to class with you, Schadenfreude. Tut tut!” And she slapped the handcuffs on Pottermore.
      Suddenly, there was McChucklin. Just out of the blue. How did he do that?
      “Well well well,” said McChucklin. “If it isn’t Mr. Henry H. Pottermore. Been murdering professors again, I see? Well, you’ll have a good time in detention. I’ll even come visit you once in awhile.”
      “That’d be nice,” said Pottermore. “I actually would really appreciate that.”
      “No problem,” said McChucklin. “You see, I’m really not a bad guy.”
      “I know,” said Pottermore. “Everyone thinks you’re my arch-nemesis, but you’re actually really friendly.” And they did a little bro hug.
And thus Henry H. Pottermore was led into the dungeons to live out the rest of his life in detention.

Or was he...?

Wednesday, August 9, 2017

Delusions of Grandeur!

      I think Jared from my Dixie Nutrition 2006 days was a figment of my imagination. Dost thou remember? Scary bodybuilder guy? I've concluded that my mind created him as some sort of symbol of fear of my upcoming mission to Tennessee. There are holes with the theory. Like how he was always having yelling matches with Marge's daughter Janelle. But... was it just me yelling at her? Was it my "dark self?" JARED. If that's all true, maybe I can bring him back. But there's two problems with that. #1: Jared is scary and can probably bench press your house. #2: I don't remember #2. JARED. Have you heard enough about Jared? Okay I'm done. JARED <--- been="" have="" in="" jare-ed.="" jared.="" just="" like...="" not="" one="" p="" pronounced="" syllable.="" you="">      What is life all about anyway? REALLY? What is it all about? To me, it is... bizarre. Really, it's lots of things. It is beautiful. It is ugly. To some, it's tragedy. To me, it's mostly just bizarre. That's my word to describe it. It can be bizarre in terrible ways, for sure, like, why would anybody have the desire to strap bombs to themselves and go blow up a bunch of people they don't even know. Or it can be bizarre in less terrible ways, like, for example, me having an epiphany this morning while scrubbing dishes that Jared possibly wasn't real. Or that one guy here in town who broke into a business, cleaned the building, then wrote a bunch of riddles on a white board, apparently due to suffering from some sort of weird schizophrenic delusions. Apparently, all the "less terrible" things I think of involve delusions. I don't really know where I'm going with all this, so I will just leave you with these wise words of wisdom: Never trust that which is incapable of being trusted. Robert E. Lee. Or was it John D. Lee? I forget. JOHN D. LEE, MURDERED SOME FOLKS, DIED AT THE AGE OF ONE HUNDRED AND THREE. Is that how the little song goes?
      That's all for now.