Vernon Hooper's Fifth Syphilis

It's another day on the bunny trail. Let's hop this motherfucker onward.

Have you listened to this new grunge music? It's all the rage. It's more real than heavy metal, because these kids are singing about the real pain they are in. It mixes together the noise of punk with the melody of pop. And it commercializes fantastic.

For my money, if you're going to buy a melting cheese, Velveeta is the only choice. There may be others, but I don't care enough to do any research about it.

Has anyone ever thought about how to make peace between the Muslims and the Israelites? Am I the first to think of it?

If there's one thing I'm famous for, it's my colossal temper. I get angry two, even up to three times a year, and can say quite ornery things. Of course, all this is moot, since I'm famous for nothing. But if I were, that would be it.

There is some brand of lunchmeat that makes all the pain of the world go away. I can never remember the name. I want to say Hormel, but that may have just been something I saw on the shelf. A shame. Good lunchmeat.

I have played pool before, believe it or not, and cracked a ball. It's a shame, because I would have won that game, had it not been for my injury.

Have you ever worn contacts? I never have. I tell you now, if they make your eyes bleed tears, I will never wear them. I will not be convinced otherwise of this.

Just a minute—I have left my car running outside. Wait—too late. It hit a telephone pole. I must remember to put the car in park.

Do you believe all these Russian women that want to come to America? They contact American men by email and even marry some of them, just to get a plane flight to the U.S. And yet, they all refuse to talk to me. This is why they lost the cold war. Their standards are way too high.

If I were to receive a prominent role in a Hollywood blockbuster, I would be quite surprised. Not as surprised as the rest of the world, I'm sure.

Mexican food—where's that from again? I want to say Mexico, but that sounds too easy.

Hold on—my car's being towed. That's really quite unnecessary. The telephone pole stopped it well enough.

I wrote to another major market magazine about my attempted UFO abduction, but they have also rejected me. What is so hard to believe about a man fighting off a crew of extra-terrestrials, crashing a UFO into the sea, and swimming the hundred and fifty-mile distance back to shore? I have pictures, but they are foggy.

It turns out Napoleon was quite a short man. Stop me if this sounds crazy—I reason that his diminutive posture is responsible for his mad dash to take over the world. Yes, it may sound a little crazy, but just consider it for a while.

I have never had an out-of-body experience, but I have been caught naked on the neighbor's lawn quite a few times. And I don't plan on stopping. Do you hear me, country sheriff? You don't scare me.

It's my car! Look out!

Sorry. Apparently the tow truck failed to hook it up correctly to the tow bar. On the bright side, the car is now in my living room, so they can't take it away without a warrant. I watch TV.

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