Chug a Lung

I've had it, that's the last straw hat I'll ever wear.

It's not like it would break the bank for them to put some kind of cheap, flame-retardant coating on these things. A small price to pay to save some serious embarrassment at tiki-torch parties, that's all I'm saying.

I've generally been having clothing problems all day. I swear, if I spill one more thing on these pants, people are going to think I work at a pet store. Toothpaste, frosting, and now pure distilled hemoglobin. Where the hell did that come from? And I know what you're thinking, God forbid I should have to wash my pants, right? Well, maybe where you live you don't find a dead hamster in the lint filter of the apartment dryer, tiny eyes locked in frozen terror as it stares up at you from its fuzzy grave. Maybe you do, maybe you don't, but I'm not going near that laundry room again until the nightmares stop. I think in about four years I might chance it.

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. In practice, I find that you get pretty attached to a scale-model house after you're done making all of the little trees out of pipe cleaners and have spent a few weeks on the whole thing. It ends up being a lot harder to light the fuse than you'd imagined when you started out, and before you know it your shitty little apartment is crammed full of these scale-model houses and there's nowhere to set a plate of hot biscuits. When it comes to the therapy I guess I'll have to settle for leaving angry voicemails from Ramrod Hurley's phone when he's not here. I think that'll be pretty healing.

According to this book I'm reading, the first sign that you may have a serious problem with schizophrenia is that you're constantly being followed around by a little three-foot tall companion named Jeffy. No kidding. Of course, Mr. Oh-So-Helpful Field Guide to Common Schizophrenia doesn't bother to let us in on exactly what this little Jeffy looks like. Thanks a lot, guys. For nothing. How in the world are we supposed to know if the little Jeffy that's following us around is the Jeffy, or just some little kid we met playing hopscotch down in the barrio who coincidentally happens to also be named Jeffy. Real helpful.

Anybody else out there see a trailer for the upcoming movie Ghost Ship? I'm hoping the answer to that is a resounding "Uh… think so." because otherwise I'm going to be worried. I'm just really not in the mood right now to find out that I'm being haunted by the ghost of a bad movie, like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. That is, I'm like Jack, The Shining isn't the bad movie I'm talking about. It's actually pretty sharp, in it Jack plays some landlord kind of guy who's seeing a bunch of ghosts and perverted rabbits and stuffs on a big abandoned tanker ship. Or is that Ghost Ship? Now I'm starting to get worried. If it turns out the rest of the theater was watching a trailer for Sweet Home Alabama when I saw that, I'm going to have to call in sick and go see a Ouiji therapist or something. Whatever it takes, I just don't want to wake up in the pantry kissing my dead grandmother or anything, that's all I know.

Column at you again later, I need to go see what Time-Life has to say about this whole situation.

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