Monday, August 19, 2002
What kind of noise does your brain make when you think? A hum? A whir? I’ve come to believe that mine’s more of a rattle and frankly, this week that’s got me concerned.

What could be rattling around up there? Loose juices? Snot? Who can say? For all I know there could even be a little matchbox car up there from when I was a kid. I’m not saying I remember ever sticking one up there, but like most people of my generation, I took a lassaiez-faire attitude toward toddlerdom that I’ve since come to regret. Who kept records of that kind of thing back then? Shit, I could have a juice cup up there.

You ever get tired of arguing with someone who’s already made their mind up about something? I do. Take my friend Dave, for example. Gay as a floral-patterned thong. Only he doesn’t think so. Dude just doesn’t want to listen to reason, while even Kansas housewives know that only gay guys part their hair like that. Some people just like to argue for the sake of being assholes, but you mark my words. One day he’ll out-gay us all.

Another thing: as far as I’m concerned, we won the Revolutionary war. America. Hands down, forget about it. Some people may like to waste your time with their nit-picking and armchair quarterbacking of the situation, but tell ‘em to go piss up their hipwaders. America 1, New England, 0. End of discussion.

You ever notice how, in a noisy environment, the number 406 sounds just like “oral sex”? In other news, I think the drive-up ATM is going to have to satisfy all of my banking needs for a while. At least until a certain prudish bank teller who never heard the story of “Judge Not, Lest Ye Be Open-Hand Slapped in Public” gets transferred to Siberia or wherever they send the girls who turn down the promotion-for-sex deals you’re always hearing about in men’s magazines.

Which is a bummer, since I’ve never been totally comfortable with the whole ATM concept. You just know there’s some sick shmo out there running around in the middle of the night, wiping his ass on ATM keypads. There are just too many people out there for it not to be true. It may sound like something I’m just making up to fill column space, but it really is true, I actually shared a cab with the guy. Longest six blocks of my life, we had to keep stopping every time he saw an ATM or a pay phone.

I’m thinking of pitching NBC a sitcom idea I had based on a joke I heard in a bar one time. In the joke, this taxi cab driver picks up two naked guys and a naked girl at the airport. When they get to their destination, the cabbie turns around and, with a glance, realizes that obviously none of them could be carrying any money. The woman cups her breasts in her hands and arches her eyebrow, asking “Will these do?” The cabbie nods and she climbs in the front seat and they do the deed. The woman gets out of the cab, and then the cabbie turns to the two naked guys in the back seat and says the punchline, which I can never remember.

But I think it would be a funny show to have these three naked people traveling all over the world, doing funny things to get by without any money. There wouldn’t be any explanation of why they were naked, of course, since that would probably get complicated and make it less funny.

Crapping Out Like a Vegas Fat Man
Summertime is the number one time for partaking in America’s favorite pastime: collecting mosquito larvae in the wild and using it to make homemade jam and preserves. With us today are two people who should need no introduction, so piss on introducing them.

If Pigs Could Fly I’d Wear a Tin Sombrero
Carson made it work on the Tonight Show, which revealed the show’s roots: him and McMahon sitting in Johnny’s basement, smashed on Absolut and babbling incoherently about current events and Ed’s supernaturally large goiter. But damnit, it worked.

Riboflavin Sounds Like a Brand of Edible Condoms
I hope to escape the inevitable police dragnet when the AM-PM down the street realizes they’re short three packets of creamer. I tried to stop the guy but he had some kind of backyard-wrestling ninjitsu going on that I wasn’t adequately prepared to deal with.

Yours Truly For Four Easy Payments of $39.95
First off, do you know the names of those damn Umpa Lumpas who released their wreath on me? I think I might have winged one of them with an empty whiskey bottle, but those buggers do scurry off rather fast.

Bouncing My Thoughts to You Off the Shimmering Moon
Five years from now, I’d like to be, for all intents and purposes, Bjork. There you go. That is my five-year plan, though Dad tells me it shouldn't have taken five years just to come up with that.