Monday, September 30, 2002
According to the free calendar I got with my last tank of gas, October is Get to Know a Bug Month. Who knew? Personally, I think you should take this as your invitation to crack open a weevil and see what the juicy little bugger has got going on inside. I mean, really, what better time?

You ever stop to think for a minute about what sausage really is? I know, I barfed too. So to answer your question, just the eggs and toast will be fine.

And nothing at all against the nasty little things, but what exactly goes into making a dumpling? Several heaping spoonfuls of dump? That can’t be FDA approved.

Speaking of such, you ever wonder about the fragments of chicken that come in a can of chicken noodle soup? To me, these things seem more accidental than anything. Like every once in a while a chicken gets loose at the plant and like a big idiot it runs right into the fan, and some leathery-lipped rube up in the watchtower turns to his buddy Earl and says “Yeeep. Looks like we got us a soup chicken.” Personally, I don’t eat anything that looks like the remnants from an explosion. McDonalds at least has the good taste to compact the miscellaneous chicken shrapnel they buy at wholesale from the minefields of Bosnia down into nugget form.

Few people know this, but you can get around quite a few sticky FDA regulations by slapping a McPrefix onto the names of food items that don’t strictly conform to the guidelines set for their namesakes. It’s like when you read on a package that something is “beef flavored.” Give me a break, you hit a kangaroo with your jeep and a couple of bullion cubes rubbed on its ass qualify the whole damn thing as “beef flavored” as far as the law is concerned. It’s a shady business to the core.

Who doesn’t love a good musical? Me, for one.

I mean, has anyone actually ever seen Grease? What a nightmare. If I wanted to look at John Travolta that long I’d fly down to Hawaii and marry the guy, I swear. If TBS had any heart at all they’d help us out with some censoring blocks or something. Or at least they could cut out some of the singing parts.

Flipping through a Highlights for Children at the doctor’s office the other day, I learned an interesting fact. Did you know that bats can hold their breath for up to an hour? Forgive me if I never sleep again, but that’s creepy. How are we supposed to stop these things if they ever overrun the earth? Flame throwers? I’ve always said that if there was some kind of bat apocalypse you’d find me at the bottom of the pool at the Y, but that contingency plan is all shot to hell now.

I’m not sure what I’m going to pick as my new safe spot, but if the bat apocalypse comes and you haven’t heard more from me on the subject, I’d check at the local Chuck E. Cheese’s. This isn’t really based on anything scientific but I’m guessing bats would find that place just as annoying as anybody else. Unless there’s some weird bat religion that happens where they come to pray to the giant singing rat. I hadn’t even thought of that, it might be the last place I’d want to be hiding out. Though I suppose in a pinch I could strap on a guitar and play it like I was in tight with the big, mechanical bat deity.

Thinking fast. If you ask me, that’s the key to surviving any variety of bat apocalypse.

Chug a Lung
They say that writing angry letters to people and them burning them is good therapy. Now, if I understand that line of reasoning, then blowing up a scale-model of someone’s house has got to be even better. Hypothetically, anyway.

Lube the Tuber
Few things are more unsettling than waking up in the middle of the night and finding yourself floating naked in the middle of outer space, like the baby at the end of 2001. The movie, not the year.

Herman’s Hermits: Your Dad’s Got Crabs, Eddie
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.

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.