New Name Needed, Apply Within

“Usually, when a man quits writing in his journal, it is either because things are happening to him that he doesn’t want to commit to paper or because he has lost interest in life. I don’t know which of these reasons applies in my case, but I rather think neither does.”
        E. B. White, One Man’s Meat

SITUATION: Changing the morning diaper of a child between 18 months and two years old.
ADULT SAYS: “Stop kicking while I’m changing your diaper.”
CHILD HEARS: “Kick me in the crotch as hard as you possibly can, like you’re Charlie Brown finally getting a shot at that football while Lucy isn’t paying attention because she’s staring at a pack of wolverines attacking a bunny, and laugh like a hyena full of nitrous oxide when I collapse on the floor praying to every diety throughout human history to end the pain and return to me the gift of sight.”
NOTE: Depending on age of child and angle of attack, you may fail to hear actual laughter due to your state of unconsciousness.

I imagine the best part about being bisexual is not that you enlarge your potential dating pool to include everyone over the age of consent in liberated societies, but that you qualify for a free hat and large soda whenever your local minor league baseball team has Bisexual Hat Night.

• Jonathan Milwaukee


• Loren Baltimore


• Zachary San Antonio


• Nathan Detroit

When the Restaurant Wars finally come, pitting cuisine against cuisine in epicureal combat, I hope you’ve prepared yourself to live with the winner. Some people think that a superior officer corps will win the day, and have placed their bets with the Generals Tso, Zso, and Gau of the Chinese — or on the Colonel of the Kentucky Fried division. Others feel the Burger Armies will prevail, with the Burger King issuing forth decrees from his White Castle. Some believe naval power will make the difference, and have cast their fortunes behind the pirate hordes of Long John Silver and the various regional Captains that dominate regional fast-fried seafood.
But they’re all tragically, inexorably wrong. The true winner will be the little canteen here on the campus where I work, especially if the battlefield is my large intestine.

Eddie Money!!

EDDIE MONEY!!!!

For the first time in a long, long, long period, the family and I have managed to experience a summer without anyone injured, hospitalized, or pregnant. It’s like high school all over again, except now I’m ancient. But summer draws near an end, and the Interblognet shall reap the benefits as I return to posting.
UPDATE: Server problems cropped up as soon as I posted this. Smart! More to say tonight.

I think it would be great if all the cast members from Beat Street and Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo got together and held a bake sale or raffle to raise money that would benefit aging breakdancers who suffer from old breakdancing injuries, and afterwards they could hold some sort of competition to see which cast was the better cast, but they could do something like play chess or try to make the biggest omelette instead of having a breakdancing battle, which would just be playing to stereotype, and then round the whole day up with a Kid ‘n’ Play Lookalike Contest, which should really showcase some creativity because what sort of things could you put on your head to make it look like you had Kid’s crazy tall high top fade? Some sort of industrial air filter, maybe, or a hunk of coral if you lived close to the ocean.

Today is like cleaning out your closet and finding your eighth grade algebra book, in which you answered all the end-of-chapter questions right on the pages with a pencil, and pulling out two pieces of paper, one being a note from Linda Franken that asks if you’re going to Sandra Thurber’s party tomorrow and if you’d like to walk over with her if you are going and might you know why Bonnie Sanders is being such a bitch today, and the other being a receipt from Crown Books for a paperback you bought with some birthday money from your grandmother in Wisconsin who you haven’t seen in over ten years because of the divorce, which no one in the family really feels comfortable talking about, and the title of that paperback was The Parsifal Mosaic.