maleficentmoi

My rubber duckie is from China. Explains why I can't understand a fucking thing he says. I'm thinking about getting a laminated Chinese dictionary since we mostly talk in the tub (don't worry, we're both straight!), but I failed in my first attempt. I called China (long-distance) and got a hold of some guy named Manny who said he was watering his lawn when I called. Curious of why he was speaking English, Manny went on to explain to me that China is, actually, not very big. He said it could fit in my kitchen. Amazed, I asked how China made all those products like shoes and orphans at such a rapid rate so as to never be out of stock. He said they don't. He said they just write "China" on everything other places make. Interesting, I thought and hung up. When I remembered the original inspiration in calling China in the first place I called back again and no one picked up. I looked up the area code (thinking I may have dialed wrong) and discovered that I had been right, but that the number is listed in a place called New Mexico. Amazing, huh? Someone should tell Texas. So much for the Alamo, huh? Well, anyway, me and my rubber duckie have hammered out a form of communication involving blinking eyes. You know, one blink, then three rapid blinks then two slow ones mean 'Shark!' It's not working to good. All the duckie says, all the time (no, really) is 'Whoa!' That's opening your eyes as wide as you can and not closing them for awhile. So, this rubber duckie is still (last I checked) saying one big fucking 'Whoa!'

What's with the anger? I'm not sure. But, I'm suddenly reminded of a picture I saw in a textbook from an environmental studies class I had in junior college (no relation to Canada). In it, a man, full bearded and old, is furiously yelling at... well, I can't see around the picture's edge. Well, I couldn't then. I don't have that book anymore, people. This guy was pissed and an environmentalist. He was wearing a flannel shirt which led me to believe that he was attacking lumberjacks in their break room. I suspect he was trying to blend in with the lumber jacks by wearing the flannel shirt. It must've worked, eh? Anyway, the whole picture just struck me as sad. What good is anger? Especially when it makes you dress funny and look weird in photographs.

This person (probably my mom) once told me that I could make a difference in the world and that I could make it a better place to live in. How stupid. Now, if that person (my dad, probably) had said that, realistically, I could change a square yard and make it a better place for two people, or twenty or, what? A billion? How big is a yard? Well, if they had been more realistic in their bullshit, then maybe I would've swallowed the lure right down and gone off to change that square yard. I mean, God couldn't make the world a better fucking place and he made the fucking thing! You know, I read somewhere (a porn mag, to be honest) that said that God was responsible for considerably more deaths in the bible than Satan. Satan killed, like, nine or so. God? A square yard or two. At least! Scary, huh? It's cool, God! It's cool. Put your Death Stick down. I still love you, ya galoot! Back to the point, Jesus couldn't change the world for the better either! Look at all the shit his love stirred up! Someone (probably my dad, again) told me that Jesus was sent down to fail. What? What a crap lot that must've been. No wonder he never smiled in all those photographs.

I'm convinced I have a tapeworm. Let me rephrase that: I am hopeful I have a tapeworm. Why? Duh! Free tape, suckers! I just haven't figured out where the tape would come out. I think my asshole. I keep looking! Everyday!

I had a dream that God gave me just one wish that he would grant. I asked for cats to talk normal. You know, non-Chinese? So, they did. I woke up and thought of how swell that would be. Just once I'd like to hear 'thank you' when I clean those fucker's cat litter all up. Sometimes I suspect that they're grateful, but that's my interpretation of their blinks whenever they're watching me. And, according to the code me and my rubber duckie set up, they're either saying 'Thanks' or 'Shark!' They only say 'Whoa!' when I step on their tails.

You know that part in "Beverly Hills Cop" where Eddie Murphy puts the banana in the tail pipe? Me neither...

Of the three women I've had the privilege to see naked in the flesh (not counting my mom; unless you want to...), two of them had great big, beautiful breasts. So, funny, considering I love breasts, that I marry the one who brought up the rear in the breast department. Funny, huh? Yeah, I hear you chuckling. It's okay though. I've been massaging my wife's tits with wads of toilet paper while she sleeps at night. Why? Well, duh. They get bigger that way. That reminds me of a joke a preacher told me once: A lady with small tits went to a doctor and asked how she could make her breasts grow without the risks of any sort of surgery or pills. The doctor recommended that she take a bundle of toilet paper and wipe it between her breasts once or twice a day for several years. Confused, the lady asked if this would really work. The doctor said it should since it worked for her ass. Then the lady cried and took her Death Stick and beat the fucking shit out of that smart-ass fucking dick sucking doctor until he said, "You killed me, bitch!" and she took all the tongue depressors that she pleased (her tongue having been a little too uppity for her taste-- ha-ha!-- taste!). Big breasts, as you see, aren't everything. Not by a long shot. Oh, and the doctor was lying. See: my wife.

Tyler: How's that working out for you?

Narrator: What?

Tyler: Being clever.

Narrator: Fine...