Local Crackpot Lobbies For Unisex Restrooms

April 25, 2001

New Orleans, LA

Shakie Stairs

Abenheimer Sludd galvanizes passersby

owing to take his crusade all the way to the Michigan Militia if necessary, local crackpot Abenheimer Sludd announced his plans today for a countrywide switch to unisex restrooms in all public buildings. Lavatory reformers from all points along the political spectrum were galvanized by Sludd's proposal, and his lighted trousers which flashed in sequence, apparently powered by a large car battery strapped to his hip.

"The time has come for America to lead the Europeans out of the dark ages of puritanical shithouse politics," said Sludd, wiping his brow with a rubber snake.

"In an age where your neighbor in the next stall over could be..." Sludd paused as a crow worked its way out of his coat pocket and flew away. "Anyone from Maryann Manson to Hillary Rodman Clinton, it's time to let arbitrary distinctions such as 'sex' fall by the wayside. The uncounted abundance of different sexual orientations making themselves known in society today, in addition to the unprecedented fashion sense of our young people, makes it nearly impossible for restroom segregation to fulfill its intended purpose!"

Sludd grabbed his leg like a machine gun and farted before continuing.

"In the days of our four fathers, one could be reasonably sure that the gent standing at the next urinal over wasn't contemplating asking you out on a date while casting a sly glance at your Ben Johnson. Or that the 'lass' in the next stall down wouldn't mosey on in and take a drippey-doo standing up! We live in some baffling times, and it's time to acknowledge this in the area by which any civilization is judged, its water closets. It's time to tell the world that America knows what's up! Therefore I propose simple, unisex restrooms uniformly placed across the land. Restroom construction, which hampered America's growth in the last fiscal year and caused much of the deficit, will be cut in half.

"Now I'm no restroom architect, not by far. Or at least the state licensing board doesn't think so. But I don't see how we could go wrong with a classic restroom design consisting of a simple round trough in the middle of the room, where everybody can just get it all out in the open and say 'This is who I am! Live with it!' I'd even go so far as to say this might solve some of our greater social ills, you never can tell. Vote Gypsy!" Sludd shouted as a finale, before climbing onto a tricycle with an enormous front wheel and very slowly and unsteadily riding away.

Ted Ted lives in the cabinet where we keep the xerox paper and will do most anything for a Wheat Thin.

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December 6, 2004

I Promised to Stop Smoking Crack

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It's just like you to twist my words around. I think I'd remember, in the midst of all that automobile wreckage, whilst the paramedics were sweeping the windshield glass out of your eyes and the neighborhood was awash in a sea of swirling lights and sirens, if I had promised to stop using crack entirely. Please, that doesn't even sound like me.

Perhaps in the heat of the moment, when we weren't sure if you were going to walk again, or if there was anybody home inside that house the Rolls ended up cart-wheeling into, in the passion of that lucid moment I may very well have breathlessly gushed something romantic about not smoking crack any more. And though I do, in the privacy of my own thoughts, think it to be a bit tacky that you'd hold me to a vow uttered under such extreme circumstances, I am nevertheless honor-bound to fulfill that promise, and I verily intend to. No matter how much willpower it takes, and no matter how inconvenient it may be, now and forevermore I shall find other ways to enjoy my crack, other than smoking it. For you, my dear.

And frankly, after I've made such a heady promise, and laid such a monumental burden willingly across my own shoulders, I find it a little insulting to have to explain myself to you. Not after all I've done to appease your sensitive palette and allay your bourgeois concerns about the health effects of second-hand cracksmoke. Some uncouth individuals might go so far as to suggest that you're being a bitch. Not that I'd hear a word of it, but rest assured that it has been said.

Surely you didn't expect me to give up crack entirely. If so, it's clear that your gains in physical therapy have made you greedy. My crack habit hurts no-one, and if they made car windshields out of candy glass like I've been suggesting for years, we wouldn't have to keep making these inconvenient trips to the hospital every time you forget to wear a seatbelt or are slow climbing into the car. It would also help if you weren't too impatient to wait for the airbag to inflate. But women will be women.

Or perhaps I'm merely misreading your response, and you're actually just curious as to how I plan on going about my whimsical crack habit without the aid of my good friend Prometheus, the God of Fire. Perhaps this logistical difficulty has left you dubious as to my sincerity in this endeavor. If this is the case, then we shall have a good laugh over this whole affair, after I fire all the servants that have been calling you a bitch.

My dear, you should know enough to trust my resourcefulness by now! Remember when that police officer wanted to haul me off to jail after that "crack-up" at the courthouse, when I rolled the Benz into city hall? Remember how I bought up all his gambling debts and blackmailed him into gathering his family and leaving town in the dead of night? A man capable of that kind of quick-thinking under fire should be laudably capable of getting by without the same, I say.

No, my dear wife, it's actually quite simple to powder a crack rock with a razor blade and snort it like common nose candy. Granted, it's grossly wasteful and expensive to partake of crack in this form, but a promise is a promise. Try to remember that the next time you're lecturing me about the cost of having one of our Bentleys fished out of the lagoon, would you dear?º more columns

May 26, 2003

The Doctor is Out

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I don't like my doctor. He laughs too much when I describe my symptoms and plus he smells Greek. Also I don't think the prick knows what he's doing. You tell me how you're supposed to get a yeast infection when you don't even cook.

My main problem with doctors is that they're all dildos. Every last one of them. Except for radio personality Dr. Laura, now she's more of a heartless ubercunt. I tried to choose her as my doctor at the clinic, but they said I had to choose between Dr. Blintz or the highway, and the highway was booked up that day. That nurse thought she was pretty funny until I asked her why they didn't give us bigger sample cups to crap in for the tests, that seemed to hit some kind of nerve. She's probably had to try and squat over one of those tiny things herself.

I'm not sure if Dr. Laura even counts as a real doctor, to tell you the truth. It may be one of those honorary titles like what Dr. Seuss had.

Whenever your star vehicle is cancelled and replaced by reruns of a show about some kid who talks to his dead grandma on a toy cell phone, it kind of makes you think. Soul Searching, they call it. Though I may be thinking of that dance show with Ed McMahon. And that's not what I've been doing, though when I was a kid I did play-act like I was the host whenever that show was on TV. I didn't really like dancing, but I loved gonging the neighborhood kids when they tried to act like they had talent. I probably would have liked grade school more if they had let you wheel a gong into the talent shows like I wanted to. As it stands it was the worst two weeks of my life. Before the last two.

Whatever it's called, I've been up to my nipple rings in this thinking lately. You should try it some time, it's like a vacation for your eyes. Actually that's a bald assed lie. Thinking sucks, there's a reason it only comes up when your life has pinched a loaf. But I like to think I'm not the only one tugging on the peter of misfortune lately. Like they say, misery enjoys company picnics.

I suppose the whole doctor thing is a moot point anyway, since it looks like UPN's money tit is drying up and I won't have medical coverage after Thursday. Then it'll be back to consulting the copy of Captain Pickle's Big Book of Sick that I've had since I was five, which was probably a better idea all along. At least it has pictures and doesn't stick any silverware in your skin pantry, unlike certain doctors I could name or at least vaguely describe.

I'm not sure if the commune's advertisers have a problem with terms like "skin pantry," they seem to be a pretty mellow. All I know is the one douche commercial I did was like playing charades with a bunch of Nazis, everything was on their "no no" list. I couldn't even say "afro clam."

Until I get some offers for legit commercials (and no, I don't believe they really film commercials for having sex with a pony. Once bitten, twice shy on that one guys, but thanks for playing) I'm thinking of supplementing my income by opening an advice booth here at my desk at the commune, like the scam that Lucy girl was running in the old Peanuts comics. She seemed to do alright.

I don't really have her background in psychiatry, but I think I could do well with a Blunt Honesty booth. People would sit down, pay me first (if I learned one thing from Dr. Kevorkian's Biography, it's get the money upfront) and I'd tell them they had a face only an undertaker could love or something helpful like that. I'd probably have to charge more than a nickel because of inflation and all, I haven't really worked out the pricing structure yet. But I think it could work. One thing I know for sure, no way am I letting this thing degrade into a kissing booth like the last time I had this idea. A girl's got to look out for her reputation.

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Quote of the Day

“May those who love us, love us, and those who don't love us, may God turn their hearts, and if he doesn't turn their hearts, may he fuck them up so I'll know not to trust cripples.”

-Old Irish Proverb, Jr.

Fortune 500 Cookie

That weird smell in the office: It's you, dude. Stay out of the sun this week at your doctor's request; he's tired of seeing you shirtless. This week's lucky prom dates: Mom's hot friend "Aunt" Chyniqua, Baseball Commissioner Bud Selig, a randomly selected pro wrestler, entire cast of Revenge of the Nerds, or six of the seven dwarves: Sneezy's got cancer.

Try again later.

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BY Southern Elvis Brandon

6/10/2002

The Negative Sum of Numbers

There was something disappointing about going home from New York Art College. A depression set in as soon as Smythe drove his middle-class luxury car across the borders of his old California hometown, Burnt Pines. He was here to spend a few weeks of his summer vacation before flying first class to Europe to live life as a starving artist, where he would make a killing.

Mom and dad couldn't meet Smythe at the airport because he wanted it to be a surprise. Also, they were emotionally distant and mom was haunted by the sexual abuse of Smythe by an uncle that she couldn't prevent; but mostly because it was supposed to be a surprise.

Only one person knew about Smythe coming in, his best friend Eddie "Big Fucking Junkie" Joneser. Eddie was supposed to meet Smythe at...