I would like a sculpture. However, I would like the sculpture to be pleasing to the touch, furry maybe. And I don’t want the sculpture to just sit there, I would like it to also slowly creep around my apartment, sometimes visible, sometimes not – you know, it might go under the bed for awhile, that kind of thing. But that’s not all – I would also like the sculpture to defecate in a special box several times a day. Do you have any slow moving furry sculptures that periodically defecate, and limit said defecation to a specific, stinky gravel area that I might keep in say, I don’t know, my bathtub or closet? Oh, and I would like to put a thick, chunky brown pudding made of fish and liver into it once a day. That’s the kind of sculpture I want. If I wanted a pet I’d get a dog.
is my favorite medieval football porn mag.
Finally, this brings closure to 9/11. Today is a great day!
I couldn’t help but notice that the words printed on a letter I recently received from you re: my kid included a word comprised of two letters starting with an N and ending with an O. And that is unacceptable. No pun intended, since you didn’t accept my son. Heh. Wow, sometimes I surprise myself with these little bit of wordplay. Anyway, I didn’t even have to read the full contents of the letter, I’ve got one of those what do you call it – FIND ALL functions in my fucking eyes. FIND ALL ‘NO’. Boom. There it was. From this cursory search I can only conclude that you have decided that, for some head-up-your-butt type reason, my kid ain’t up to Daisy Place snuff. Well listen up. He is. Here’s why you’re going to let my kid into your pre-school:
One. Brains. My kid’s got brains in spades. See this New York Times crossword? My kid colored in the whole thing, and stayed in all the lines to boot.
Two. Potty trained. My kid knows when to hold ‘em, and knows when to fold ‘em. I guarantee no accidents unless one of your staff makes a point of scaring the shit out of him, with like, a…skeleton mask or something.
Three. Stacking skills. My kid can stack up to four items no problem, regardless of the items. But no heavy appliances. My kid ain’t no X-man. HA! Um. But listen. If that IS the kind of school you run, you know, for like, genetic misfits with powers and stuff, then I don’t blame you for not wanting my kid. He’s a…a muggle, or whatever you superpeople call us. Do not harm me with your weatherkenesis, oh storm wrangler!
Four. Here’s a hundred dollars.
Five. Macaroni sculptor extraordinaire! Dammit if I didn’t come home one time to find a macaroni solar system in my kitchen. And the detail! Volcanic activity on Europa? SURE! With a dab of ketchup. I’ll be.
Six. You ever see that episode of Lost where the Chinese guy can stop time and then Keifer Sutherland kills those terrorists? Was that not the best half hour of television you’ve ever seen? Man, I love Lifetime.
Seven. Hey, let’s be honest, my sixth reason wasn’t a reason at all, and was fraught with inaccuracies. My son would’ve called me on it, and caught all of the mistakes. Think about it.
Eight. My kid will be President. Wouldn’t you like to have an alum become President? Think of the perks! Extra gym mats and shit.
Nine. I saw the one with John Stamos. I don’t know, it’s like he was fine, but he has no presence! You know? You tell me this guy is schtuping all those hot women, then he better make me believe he’s an irresistible sunnabitch, you know? Cock of the planet. Alpha rooster, you know. Eh, he could sing decent but no presence.
Ten. Bo Derrick’s tits in that movie. Holy shit.
So there you have it. Let my kid into your pre-school or I’ll punch you in the neck.
As I passed through the turnstile at the 49th street subway station this morning on the way to my cubicle, I noticed a magazine cover at the newstand. It jumped out at me. A glistening, nubile young woman in a tiny bikini, straddling a massive telescope. Yes, ‘Modern Astronomer’ magazine had finally stooped to new lows. Even ‘Ancient Astronomer’ magazine had followed suit, featuring a sexy woman lying among massive stone obelisks that had been arranged to chart the progress of The Night’s Pale Eye and its warmth-bringing sister, The Big Juicy Sky Orange. Anyhow, if there’s a point to be made, here, and a more lucid person probably could make one, it’s that the concept of “the hot chick” as a means of grabbing attention is rapidly going the way of the Beakless Nutcraver (an extinct finch woefully underequipped to consume the one thing it could subsist on). I would hate to be a 20-something hot young actress in Hollywood. No matter how talented I was, I would inevitably be coaxed into a bikini and onto the cover of some shitty manrag in order to glean a moment’s publicity. However, said covershot would undoubtedly knock me down a peg in terms of being regarded as a serious actress. Oh dilemma. I can’t wait for ‘Oscar Winner DP Shots’ magazine.
*A Genesis song from 1974! YEAH!