The India fuckers had no help for me. They aren’t authorized to send me a free twinkie.

The contents of the mouse drawer.

Teeth let the air out of my meat balloon.

     Sometimes I like to pronounce “enigmatic” so that it rhymes with “arithmetic”.
     Twist your metre and enjoy the results, people.
     I’ve tried to make that my motto three times in a row, and each time I was accused of trying to impose a logical French measuring system upon a god-fearing populace happy with their arbitrary system of weights and measures.

     Screw them with a two meter pole, that’s what I say. Their response is blank stares, because they have no idea what a meter is; I suppose they reckon that it might be a pleasurable experience. Especially if “meter” means “electric; vibrating”.

     Well, it doesn’t.

     I saw a very attractive bumper sticker on a car the other day. It was gold, metallic, with what looked like red porcelain or enamel highlights. It read, in a tight little circle you can only read from dangerously close quarters, “Proud Parent of an American Marine.” Very nice sentiments, even if you invite a collision each time you seek to share them with others.
     For some reason, I immediately wished it instead read,

     I passed that test the other day. The first of 5 (or is it six) required. I scored 850 out of a possible 900. Congratulations are in order, and those congratulations should take the form of an encephalitic hampster. (I want to nurse it back to health over and over again so that I never lose that sense of satisfaction I get from helping the less fortunate)

Well?

     SPAM: By now, I’ve gotten used to offers for viagra, vi-a-Gr@, CHEAP MEDS FROM CANADA, and offers to enter into fantastically lucrative relationships with mid-level bureaucrats and exiled nobility from third-world countries.
     I’ve even, from time to time, been tempted with opportunities to borrow moneys on account of my excellent credit, or despite my wretched credit, or, what the heck, just ‘cuz they like me. (Funny how they know so much about me without being able to successfully spell my last name. I am not JoH Whittled)
     Sometimes I hear from inexperienced-young or bored-married women who tell me they are just now learning how to use a web cam; of course, the first use they could think of for this new technology was to transmit nekkid pictures of themselves in various compromising positions to me…yes, ME! (This is on account of my being a stone-cold stud)
     But I’ve finally beheld a SPAM with an offer too amazing to pass up. Folks, I present to you SPUR-M:

SPUR-M is the only site to offer an all natural male enhancement
formula that is proven to increase your sperm volume by up to 500%.
Our highly potent, volume enhancing formula will give our results
in days and comes with an impressive 100% guarantee.

Imagine the difference (look and feel) between dribbling your cum
compared to shooting out burst after burst. Try SPUR-M now! and
with our money back guarantee you have absolutely nothing to lose!

     My Lord, a %500 increase in volume?
     I felt bad enough trying to compete based on size. I didn’t even realize we were supposed to be keeping track of how many cubic centimeters we gush out at climax.
     People, I honestly don’t want to be involved in the clean-up effort following “burst after burst”, and something tells me Heather wouldn’t agree to include it in her share of the domestic workload.
     ”Okay, Heather. I’ll vacuum if you do dishes. Oh, and I’ll change the waste-bins in the upstairs bath if you swab up my regularly occurring two-liter semen-slick off the bed-spread.”
     Truly, this is an idea whose time simply will never come… Pun intended.

     Poocha, Samantha’s pet bunny of unknown age, died in his sleep last night.
     There will be no funeral or memorial service.
     The family of the deceased is planning on using a previously-owned Meijer’s plastic shopping bag to respectfully insert his miniature furry corpse into the normal stream of trash leaving the Whited household.
     Sources close to the family state that Poocha is likely to be included in a trash bag along with the result of an impending reorganization of the refridgerator.
     ”I think Poocha would like to know,” said Samantha Whited’s heartbroken father, SafeTinspector, “that he’s going off to that big bunny patch in the sky next to some rotten carrots and a pork chop from last month.”
     Condolances can be sent to Samantha care of her mother, Heather via electronic mail: heather@indaso.com

     I had to write it down. When could I ever count on chancing upon another recipe for Frito’s Al’Orange?
     I had no pen. So I grabbed a crayon, and with my frighteningly sharp pocket knife I whittled it down to a razor-sharp point.
     I plunged the ersatz waxen spear into the tip of my right index finger, causing a modest gout of blood to burst forth like a bloody font.
     Pleased with my ingenuity, I then finger-painted, like a happy savage, the recipe for that amazing French take on American cornchips onto the inside of my car windshield. Guess what I’m having for dinner!
     So…what have YOU done today?

     How many? In the last month I have had four separate Palm Treo 600 phones.
     At first, I had legitimate reasons for the replacement. My initial unit could neither make nor receive calls unless connected to an external power source, even though the PDA functions continued unabated. Won’t anything stop the PDA functions?!? (PDA stands for Partially Domesticated Antilles)
     Anyway, the replacement for that Treo worked for one day and, after coming to terms with the contents of my address book, the screen expired in quiet desperation.
     Upon powering the third Treo up, even prior to programming its tiny, tiny brain to recognize Verizon Wireless as its mommy, it told me I had a voicemail.
     Neat trick, that. The phone didn’t even know its own phone number, nonetheless it claimed a certain un-named someone had left me a message.
     Perhaps it was that damn doppelganger of mine. …frickin’ doppelganger.
     After activation, I gamely tapped upon the “Message Waiting” icon on the wee tiny screen. The phone, in a fit of masturbatory aplomb, attempted to dial its own phone number with predictable results. (If, by predictable, you mean that a disembodied, sepulchral voice intoned, “Cretin!”–I think it was James Earl Jones!)
     I asked Verizon for advice in the matter, and was told it was a “ghost voicemail.”
     Creepy, and I’m not in the habit of playing phone tag with the deceased. The previous owner of the phone screened a call from beyond the grave, and now I am the unintended recipient of his or her spiritual equivalent of “bring home a gallon of milk, Henry. I know you’re there, why don’tcha ever answer your phone? Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, you should be ashamed.”
     I’ll never know, because Verizon ducked the tricky metaphysical issue by drop-shipping me yet another Treo.
     This one seemed fine at first, and I’ve had it a day. It, however, is not without problems of its own. It buzzes unpleasantly whenever the other party talks. Rather like a kazoo. I guess I’ve got to call Verizon and tell them….

• On hold again!
  I can’t wait to get on hold again!
  The phone I love is making buzzing sounds and then,
  I’m gonna call and get me on hold again.

     I’m going to tell them I’m receiving calls from myself, only I keep telling me that it’s the year 2006 and I’m a primitive piece of crap past-self that can’t stand up to me. That’ll be a wee bit more convincing than, “My Treo sounds like a kazoo”

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