Humourous posts made for the sole purpose of fun.
Humourous posts made for the sole purpose of fun.
Hey kids! This is Billy. Billy is 16, the captain of his highschool football team, and the lead singer of his church choir. Say hi to the people, Billy! Oh, you can’t hear him out there, but he says hello.
Today, Billy is going to pick up his number one girl, Jezebel. Jezebel is also 16, the lead cheerleader for Billy’s team, and inferior, because she is a girl. Say hi to the people, Jezebel! You can’t hear it, but that’s okay, because we don’t care what women say.
Billy and Jezebel are going for a picnic in the park. Then they’re gonna watch a movie and go back to Billy’s place for bible study. But be careful, Billy! She’s pretty and does your homework for you, but she’s also a vessel of sin. And you know what sin leads to? Quiet, Jezebel, the men are talking. That’s right, Billy, even though you didn’t say anything. Sin leads to TEEN PREGNANCY.
Teen pregnancy is a problem sweeping the nation. You see, when a man and a woman love each other very much, they get married and, once a month, they do something boring and unpleasant until the woman gets pregnant. Then they sleep in seperate rooms and, nine months later, a baby is born!
But sometimes, a foul woman convinces a man to do this thing outside of marriage. As Satan inspired her to do this, she can use foul magic to cloud a man’s mind and make him agree. (Sometimes she’ll try to put an evil ward on the man which she purchased at the drugstore, but this is so evil that most men can resist.) When this happens, the woman gets pregnant with sin. We call this TEEN PREGNANCY.
Women who get teen pregnant are outcasts, wandering the earth in search of good Christians to feed on. They are shunned by their loved ones and spat on in the street, assuming it isn’t a Sunday, when it isn’t right to spit. Their unholy lust can only be sated by cruel acts of debauchery and sin, or removed by marrying a man and being purified by God’s love. God’s love can also be obtained for a nominal fee at any participating church, but it should be noted that most women spend all their money on shoes and weird bottles that turn up in the bathroom, so this is usually not an option.
Uh oh, it looks like Jezebel is trying to fill Billy’s head with lies. Don’t listen to her, Billy, she’s trying to- my word, young lady, such language! You see what Satan’s influence does, Billy? Run! Run away from the harlot! Hah, I’m just the narrator, what’re you going to do, throw that at the fourth wall? Wait a second, that camera’s expensive, don’t do it you little-
We here at Bob’s Educational Corner would like to sincerely apologize for this. Good night everyone!
It was a warm spring day in 1935 when a meteorite crashed into the square of a small Norwegian farming village. Eyewitnesses described the event as “dramatic” and “delicious”. A local newspaper ran the following headline: “Errant Goose Strikes Jgsrdnklstgn, Transforms Into Fireball”. Three days later, everyone in a 50 mile radius with a vowel in their name was dead.
While one would assume the loss of 34% of the area’s population would cause a panic, or at least a musical montage, the townsfolk remained resolute. Residents soon discovered that the errant space rock produced a mysterious substance. When rubbed on the skin, it produced a pleasant numbness, and when ingested, it produced a pleasant hallucination, most often involving Matt Lauer, who was at that time Prime Minister of Florida.
Within a year, Jgsrdnklstgn began exporting an ointment made of the space cream, which they called “Icy Hot”, after a Scandinavian word for “Prime Minister of Florida.” Ever since, Icy Hot has been a mainstay of medicine cabinets world wide. But what is it really? Where did the meteorite come from? And why does it whisper in our ears at night, telling us to kill?
We began our search for answers in Anaheim, California, home of the world’s second largest bowl of pudding. There, we located Herbert Gaurklestinkglktarg, who served as Icy Hot’s head of R&D from 1977 to 1998, when he was forced to retire and join the witness protection program. He agreed to answer our questions, under the condition that his identity remain anonymous.
Bob’s Educational Corner: Thank you for meeting with us.
Herbert Gaurldestinkglktarg, now William Streiss of 753 E. Terrace Lane: Let’s make this quick. It’s time someone knew the truth.
BEB: The truth?
HGnWSo753E.TL: Yes. Icy Hot isn’t from space at all. You see, it’s actually made out of people.
BEB: What, really?
HGnWSo753E.TL: Yes. I remember the day I found out. A lone man was running down the street, screaming at the top of his lungs, revealing the awful secret.
BEB: Are you sure that’s Icy Hot? It kind of sounds like Soylent Green.
HGnWSo753E.TL: This interview is over!
Armed with this new information, we obtained a tube of Icy Hot from a shady fellow in a dark alley, and analysed its chemical structure in the lab. While the bulk of the cream is common heroin, like that available at any grocery store, over 9% was a compound unknown to modern science.
We quickly took our findings to a local witch doctor. After consulting with the spirits, as well as reading tea leaves and conducting a credit check, he informed us that the mystery substance was indeed not of this world. In fact, he added, it was so foreign to our planet that it did not even exist. Visibly shaken, he grabbed a nearby bottle of absinthe and locked his office door, refusing to answer any questions until our investigators got bored and left.
The secret of Icy Hot remains elusive. Repeated calls to Icy Hot’s CEO, his wife, and his children have gone unanswered. All written requests for information have been met with automated responses thanking us for our interest in the product and offering fabulous coupons worth over 20 dollars in savings. Rest assured, however; despite these setbacks, we here at Bob’s Educational Corner are dedicated to finding the truth. Thank you for joining us tonight, and remember to tip your wait staff.
As I drove my sweet silver baby down to the hospital (UNMC) this afternoon to bring my friend a few comfort items, I began to worry about the parking situation, as this is apparently one of THE places to be in Omaha on any given day. I quickly gave a thought to valet parking, but decided against it since you were right on my first left turn. Yes you, mister large concrete structure.
You seemed so friendly, open, and easy to use. There were signs hung all over you that said things like, “Green Parking”, “Do Not Enter”, and I’m pretty sure there were even a few that told me my right from my left. My car was pulled into your direction completely attracted to you because of this ‘easy to use’ face you pulled off. You also attracted me because you seemed to promise that I would not lose my way while driving in you, or lose my car when trying to leave the hospital.
Lies, they were all lies. I should’ve known better. You’re just a big concrete object full of lies and confusing directions after you’ve sucked numerous helpless cars in. I made my way in slowly, I looked for the closest spot, and I knew it would turn out to be a failure, but I figure it’s always worth a try. After realizing this was my first defeat, I continued on only to realize that I about turned the wrong way on your nice little “one way” track. Thankfully I went to this thing called school, and thankfully my family believed in literacy, so I quickly avoided making my mistake. I drove up one more track and found a comfy little spot not too far off from the entrance doors on that floor. I thought to myself that this would be easy, because nestled in your little large self were quite a few things I used as markers to remember where I parked. Things like the set of brown chairs sitting outside the glass doors, and the sight of this ugly shade of green chipped paint on your elevator doors and trim. The only thing that was going to be hard from here was finding my friend’s hospital room and the University Tower right?
Oh no, that stuff was simple. The signs and arrows were simple, and I made it about two doors away from her room before I double checked with a nurse on where my friend was at. I spent a few hours there, and didn’t leave until I knew she wouldn’t be alone. I even found my way back out of the unfamiliar side of the hospital easily, but then came the hallway where I had to pick a door to go through to get back to you. It was like I was on some sort of game show, and if I didn’t pick the right door, I wasn’t going to be rewarded with my car. I was tricked and I went straight out door one which was completely wrong, and I could tell the second I stepped outside because even though I didn’t see your brown chairs, the scenery also didn’t seem right. I tried a whole three times more in each floor on the elevator trying to figure out why the hell I wasn’t coming across the right floors again.
I finally got a little frustrated with you, so I decided I would just walk to where I felt my car was. This actually caused me to walk in a full circle around your dark unfamiliar land. Suddenly you didn’t seem so friendly anymore. You just seemed creepy, and really really confusing. I began wondering if I maybe trusted you too much with my baby, because I just wasn’t finding her anywhere. I even thought for a bit that you had let her get towed away for whatever dumb reason, even though I knew I wasn’t doing anything illegal by where I parked. I finally got REALLY frustrated with you , and aftering landing on the same (wrong) floor yet again, I just exited your entire intimidating structure. I completely walked around your outsides, back to where my poor hatchback was sucked into you originally, and walked myself into your now poorly lit entrances. I walked up the way I remembered driving my car (without the one way near mistake) , and finally I was reunited with her. I love that car, and I’m not sure I’ll ever trust you or one of your kind again with it.
So I guess what I just wanted to get at is, I hate you. I really do. You are not the first parking garage I have lost my car, or a friends car in, and you probably won’t be my last. I think you’ll take great pleasure in the fact that you won again. You caused me to have a near freak out, because I had no other way of getting myself back home. You caused me to freak out because there is no way in the world I can afford to lose my car right now. You also caused me to feel like a complete and total idiot due to the whole walking around in circles thing, which is really what you wanted to do isn’t it? Well, congratulations. I hope you’re happy, and now I’ll have to make sure to be extra careful with you lying piles of confusing ramps and signs. That’s all for now, bye.
Everyone is wrong. Wrong is the default state of the universe. It’s the default of any idea, it’s the starting place of every rationalization, and it’s every step along the journey towards either greater or lesser wrong.
I know, it seems an exaggeration. It’s not.
Do you remember physics and chemistry? My textbooks had a few pages about the various models for atomic structure that have been proposed throughout the ages. In order from quite wrong to less wrong. And the implication is that our current understanding is wrong too, and we haven’t figured out how yet.
Every science, every art, every discipline… perfection is not attained. We strive not to be perfect, but to be less wrong than we start. It’s a process, and every one of us demands improvement from ourselves in some aspects of our lives. Lest we succumb to depression.
You don’t think it applies to you? How about sex? You like sex? Gets better with practice, doesn’t it? Anyone who hasn’t repressed (or not experienced) their first sexual experience knows for damned certain that virgins are not good lovers.
Or maybe you’re a bit of a puritan? Finding sex offensive, you spend your evenings in Bible study… trying to improve or maintain your spiritual purity… or just to deepen and improve your understanding. Because you are imperfect, and therefore wrong in some way.
It’s easy to spot wrongness in others, isn’t it? Laws passed that clearly didn’t have the best of brains behind them, or have wording so poor that every armchair lawyer is thinking how bad the loopholes are. That grumpy sourpuss in line ahead of you that’s getting fed up with everything not being 100% perfect in their life and letting the whole world know… that they’re wrong in their expectations.
But the only way that we improve as human beings is to say that there’s something wrong about ourselves… and then fix it.
I am fed up with my life. It’s not living up to my expectations. The problem is, what I want is a way to get from here to… self-supporting, and having a family. I don’t have that. I lack the education, the job market sucks, and I have a shitty work ethic when it comes to begging for a job I really don’t want. I don’t even have half a clue what I want to do with my life from here.
Nothing in my life suggests I’m actually going to be any good with starting my own family. That’s an expectation that I had for life when I was 6. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. I barely stay in touch with the loving family I have now. We’re generally aloof people and even wanting a family, I’d have to learn how to be a real part of one.
I’m wrong about hating just about every sort of retail job… that’s bullcrap. I liked work that involved a lot of moving around. Was great for my metabolism in high school. Once my weight shifts to where it’s less strain, I’ll like that again. It’s not even the physical pain of menial labor that bothers me. It’s putting up with corporate bullshit… but… most low-end jobs have pretty obvious common-sense rules. Sure, some of it’s BS layout from corporate, or obviously bad legal compromises… but there’s stories there, and you can respect them. At the end of the day, your job is to move things to where they must go so people can find them, and money can be made. I’d probably hate management there, but that’s not what I’d be applying for.
And, for what I want? I do know. I want to help people. I want to see justice. I want to get paid… and I’d like to be creative and occasionally even underhanded when someone deserves it.
I’m not quick. I keep a level head under pressure… I think I’m describing police work. Bit of a surprise, I was expecting counseling. Something to look into either way. I just have to keep in mind that, with any expectations… I’m wrong about reality.
But we all start being wrong. So it’s all right.
Over the past several weeks/months I’ve been writing down anything I hallucinate while on the come-down of any sort of psychoactive drug. If you require a re-cap, you can check out part 1 here. Most of these current sentences were heard mainly during the come-down after tramadol, promethazine, or heavy doses of caffeine, whereas the last few are due to dextroamphetamine.
Here are 15 more.
1. “There’s like, a carpet sledgehammer that comes in rolls.”
2. “You guys planning to do? Not have a Christmas party.”
3. “Bit big is it? During the month?”
4. (Male) “We’re getting in touch with our clone soon” (Female) “HAHA! Cannae go local”
5. “We’ve been inspiring the hippies for…hundreds of years”
6. “What about 1…1….1:30. 1:30?”
7. “Fuck off cunt, you think they’re mine to limit?”
8. “You’ve gotta time it, then you’ve gotta mount their heads.”
9. “Fishy crab bath celery soup”
10. “No wonder I can’t pick up now, I feel seedy as”
11. (Robocop) “Somebody TURNED MY COMPUTER OFF” *gunfire*
12. ”Cut the goat out, man. Seriously whack”
13. “So like when did you lose your license and stuff, mate? You were going so good, and we’re glad you kicked him out. He’s a terrorist; wears a suit when he comes out for a walk around the back yard”
14 “I have no idea how that idea gives me other ideas.”
15. “Water pipe rock ‘n’ roll”
Another 15 down, another unlimited supply to go. Until then,
Everybody needs help at one point or another right? You start off life as this confused deformed looking form of life, but now you’re no longer a fetus safe from the outside world anymore. It’s time to start learning things on your own once you come out of that dark gaping hole crying, covered in blood, and other things you’d rather not think about. Of course you receive assistance while all this going on , much more than you will later in life (hopefully) because you are too young to fend for yourself and you’re probably about the size of a large house cat at this point.
This is all perfectly acceptable right now. You can’t even lift more than a hair yet, you have no idea what’s going on, people are constantly fussing at you, you can’t speak yet, and the only things you know how to do are things that are based off instincts. If you take a shit, you can’t tell anybody you feel like you need to drop a deuce, you don’t know how to change your own disgusting piss and shit filled diaper, you can’t feed your hungry happy ass whenever you please, and so on. I’m sure you guys get the point now.
Life goes on , you grow into a young budding child (who’s still a little bratty snotty nosed shit), but you still get help from the people around you when you need it. There’s so much left to learn, and you can’t fit it all in that screaming hyper child sized head of yours. Many mistakes are made by you, but at this point it’s for the most part forgivable because you’re not ‘old enough to know better’ yet. Enough time goes by, and soon you learn not to use your little smart mouth with your mother, lie about the fact that you just beat the shit out of your sibling (even though they are in tears on the ground beside you), or whine and bitch about a toy you weren’t bought at the store.
You also learn one very important concept of life. Showing up on time matters, and will matter much more when you get older. In order to do this ‘being on time’ thing you are also taught that getting a proper nights sleep is essential, because it usually allows you to wake up on time for any appointments, interviews, or important matters you may need to handle the next day in your adult life.
School bells ring in the morning to tell you school is starting, and you better get the fuck into the classroom. There are also bells that ring to signify your next class is about to start, so you better hurry and end your conversation with your sticky, dirty, and dumb little friends about who has cooties and who doesn’t. Then there’s the lovely bells that ring to tell you that you’re late to class, because somehow your dumb ass apparently hasn’t figured this out yet even though you’ve been in school for a few years now. This is supposed to condition you to learn to manage your time in order to be on time, appear reliable to your current teachers, and appear professional to possible future bosses when you’re older.
When you’re still in these young years, you thankfully have your mother, father, maybe grandparents, or some family member/guardian who gives you a bedtime and expects you to follow it religiously. Some parents or guardians are better at reinforcing this than others, but for the most part most kids who don’t get into bed when told to can expect to see a belt or some other form of punishment coming for them. At least in our years this was true. Now you can’t spank kids, so that creates a problem…no wonder they are all little shits, you can’t even so much as lay a hand on your kid to give them a high five anymore without someone jumping on you claiming you’re abusing the child. Anyway, that’s a different topic for another day.
Finally you hit your adult life, and hopefully you’ve learned how to set your alarm clock, wake yourself up, and drag yourself into whatever lame routine of life you may have set for yourself. Mommy is no longer waking you up saying, “It’s time for school sweetie, get the hell out of bed!” Mommy is no longer beating your ass when you refuse to get into bed the night before, and she’s no longer beating your ass for oversleeping in order to get you where you need to go on time. You’ve HOPEFULLY by this point trained yourself into being able to handle this basic part of life on your own. You can go to the bathroom on your own now, feed your own overweight hairy ass, dress yourself in your own horrendous outfits, and speak for yourself. Hopefully, at this point you aren’t crying for no apparent reason, crying to let people know you’re hungry, need to use the restroom, or need to play.
Here’s what inspired me to write this story. I love to help others, and I love to help my friends. However, I’m beginning to wonder if this is all getting to the point where it’s just detrimental to certain people in my life. I wouldn’t be overly concerned except for the fact that a majority of my friends are older than I am by several years, and I thought that with those years came something called “experience”. At least that’s what I was lead to believe…
I am finding it difficult to process that my 30 something year old friends can’t manage to get themselves up in time for work , or in some cases class (I know a few people going back to school). I often wake up to last minute text messages about how they woke up late and if there’s any way I could possibly give them a ride (I have a few friends who are unable to access cars at the moment as well). It doesn’t, or I should at least say it DIDN’T, used to bother me before because for the past 3 months I’ve been out of work with nothing better to do. In fact, I was the one who offered rides many times even though I know these people are fully capable of finding ways to get themselves where they need to go as well as arriving there on time. However, I’ve noticed a trend in some of these people becoming more and more reliant on me.
Maybe I’m weird, but I never found it difficult to get up and get to work or school on time. I follow a basic rule: If I have somewhere to be or someone to meet the next day, I go to bed at a time I know that I will be able to still make a timely appearance. If I made the mistake of staying out too late and partying the night before, I mentally kick my ass into gear. Why doesn’t anybody else seem to have this in them?
What I guess I’m trying to really get at is the fact that I’m realizing my help seems to be more damaging than actually helpful. I seem to be sending these people straight back into reverse, and quite honestly I feel like a mother trying to wean my 30 something year old children off breastfeeding. They have teeth which really fucking hurt first of all, and don’t forget they can talk back in a way that doesn’t send me crying for my mommy, but rather trying to collect the bits of my brain they’ve exploded with their words as well.
It’s time to fly free birdies, I won’t be off work much longer, and if you don’t make it to where you’re going to be on time, I won’t be found anywhere within reach. I’ll most likely be stuck behind a register arguing with some numbnut about why the coupons they brought with them aren’t valid, because they refuse to read, and refuse to believe that coupons have dates, fine print, and restrictions. No more help from me at the drop of a hat . It may be what I love to do , but I also hate hurting people, and in this sense I am hurting you by stifling the growth you apparently still have to do. It’s time for me to move on, and all I can do is hope that you figure it out.
Heres an article I’ve been thinking of random bits and pieces for over the week, so I’ve decided to compile them and post them. So here it is – 15 things to teach your kid as young as possible – the 15 kinds of things that should never go untaught. Ever.
1) If it ends up in the toilet, its gone forever. FOR. EVER.
2) Don’t touch anything that doesn’t belong to you. Assume everything that isn’t yours is full of spiders and KEEP YOUR GODDAMNED HANDS OFF IT.
3) Walking barefoot in sand will get you hosed the fuck down. With ice cold water.
4) Throwing your food on the floor at home, or the bin at school will get you 1: belted and 2: starved in your room until the next day.
5) Touching a dog and then touching food/other people warrants a hosing down also.
6) The computer is more valuable than you are. Remember this forever.
7) Drinking daddy/mummy’s beer/wine/bourbon while they’re not looking will get you 5 across the eyes.
8 ) Assume every adult you see is a paedophile (except your family, of course).
9) Playing in the kitchen will get you belted. Hard.
10) Playing with the telephone, or a mobile phone will get you double-belted, especially if either of them suddenly disappear.
11) Touching a toilet in any way warrants instant hand washing – with SOAP. NO EXCUSES.
12) Trying to get daddy’s attention while he’s playing videogames/watching a movie will see you locked in your bedroom until the following day.
13) Liars always get found out. Being dishonest will eventually get you belted really hard. It’s much better to tell the truth and accept a small belting up front, than getting found out in the future and being belted until sitting down brings tears to your eyes.
14) Hitting your mother will result in your father hitting you in a way that will teach you not to try that again.
15) Running amok in a shopping centre, or out in public where running amok is generally not acceptable, will result in you having the belting of a lifetime, which doubles in intensity per public outing you misbehave in. Wooden spoons may snap over your arse if belting intensity reaches certain heights.
Print these out and stick them on your fridge, or laminate them and give them to your kids. Make sure you follow through with the epic beltings though, or you’ll look soft, and everybody knows soft parents breed thugs, drug addicts, murderers and general scum!
If there is anything I am well-known for in most of the communities I frequent, it is the bloodthirst of both my dad and me for small animals. More particularly, the small animals that dare to wander within the relatively broad boundaries of our yard. And recently there has been a wave of brash animals challenging Dad’s territorial claims, and he just won’t stand for it.
First, a bit of explanation. Having acquired our land when the area we live in was fairly undeveloped, we were able to seize a particularly large space of land. That means there is quite a bit of yard to take care of/guard against the forces of evil (animals). And this being rural southern Georgia, you bet your sweet lily ass there are animals waiting to snatch our land out from under our grasp with their filthy claws/hooves.
From the very get-go, Dad waged a campaign against Mother Nature and her furry bastard children. The first to feel the wrath of Angry Middle-Aged White Man were the squirrels; the furred freaks enraged Dad by climbing up the bird feeder and stealing the seeds meant for the adorable cardinals, robins, blue jays, and finches that frequented our birdfeeders. Dad set out wire traps, and like moths to the flame the squirrels practically barreled into the cages to get at the concoction of peanut butter and something else (I don’t recall) placed inside the trap. Once trapped, Dad would proceed to put the squirrel, trap and all, in a plastic garbage bag, attach the opening to the exhaust pipe of his truck, and rev the engine. My brother and I would stand in fascination, as the squirrel’s death scene played out unscene behind plastic bags. It was hauntingly beautiful, listening to the frantic scrabbles slow and then stop, much like a play, as the garbage bag was then dramatically removed to reveal the corpse of the squirrel, frozen in death. Dad would then take the body and throw it in the ditch behind our house. Our next-door neighbor observed the phenomenon with horror and dubbed our house the “Gas Chamber”.
The squirrels took the hint and stopped coming back, for the most part. Then the moles moved in. They were much trickier than the squirrels, for moles are much much harder to trap or even catch. This is when Dad became almost frightingly dedicated to eliminating the Mole Threat. He started tracking the moles; whenever he caught sight of an extremely fresh ‘mole trail’ (dug up ground), he would fetch a golf club and stand by the hole. And he waited. And waited. Sometimes he would be waiting for hours, but he was determined. When one is waiting out a mole, it is imperative that one try to move as little as possible, lest the mole sense the vibrations and veer away. Dad was very good at waiting motionlessly. Eventually he would feel the vibration of the mole returning and as soon as he could discern movement below the earth his golf club would come crashing down. I only glimpsed this almost epic clash twice, not having the patience to wait with Dad. It was an exciting thing; to see Dad, motionless, poised, then suddenly leap into action with a terrifying force. Without fail the mole would pop up, dazed, and Dad would take a chop that would put Tiger Woods to shame. The frail, small body would spiral almost gracefully through the air, blood sprinkling the earth, and land with a gentle thud, only to be picked up and thrown unceremoniously into the ditch to join the cooling bodies of the squirrels.
The moles never really went away, but their numbers dwindled enough so that Dad was not enraged every time he stepped out into the yard. Then the armadillos stepped up to bat. THEY have been Dad’s most infuriating opponent yet. For while moles are largely nocturnal, moles actually pop up rather frequently during the day. Armadillos, on the other hand, absolutely refuse to come out during the day, so Dad had to stalk them at night. They are also extremely fast, so one shot is all you get. Their skin (armor?) is also apparently rather tough, as Dad was forced to cast aside his pellet gun in disgust and take up his shotgun after the pellet merely bounced off the blind fucker. They are supposed to be extremely blind, but they are paranoid little bastards; when Dad sat in the yard just waiting for them to come out, they did not linger long enough for him to get a good shot. They probably smelled him, I guess. This frustrated Dad even further; now he had to stand by the door that opened to the area the armadillos seemed to favor, looking out the window, watching for the motion-sensor light to snap on and reveal the armadillo snuffling about. It was a long, laborious effort; oftentimes there would be nights were the armadillo didn’t come out at all, or came out but only long enough for Dad to rush down the hallway to grab his gun. Then there were the times Dad missed or didn’t hit a vital organ; then Dad had to watch in frustration as the armadillo shot up in the air and then hauled ass back into the forest next to our house. The only aspect in his favor is that armadillos are extremely territorial, so he was only dealing with one or two armadillos. It took two weeks for Dad to get the first armadillo, then its mate the next week. Fortunately it didn’t seem to have reproduced–a very good thing since armadillos have four babies at a time.
The armadillos stayed away until recently; Dad has noticed to his fury the beginnings of another armadillo settling in. I have also noticed the motion-sensor light snapping on during the night, so there is definitely something out there. Squirrels have also been starting to swarm the birdfeeder recently established right in front of the house; these squirrels won’t fall for the traps, so Dad has resorted to killing them face to face. As soon as he sees a squirrel through the window, he goes barreling down the hallway, loads his gun, and creeps out the door and around the corner, usually catching the squirrel unawares. I will often follow, for the thrill of seeing Dad have a classic Gregory Peck moment from To Kill a Mockingbird. The moles have also been making a comeback, moreso than the armadillos, and Dad has already stalked two.
If I ever wrote a memoir, I can bet that there will be at least five chapters dedicated to Dad’s sheer insanity, obnoxiousness (he once called me ‘a bigger faggot than your brother, and given how your brother hasn’t gotten any, that’s saying something. Why don’t you stop eating so much fucking ice cream, goddamn, that’s my ice cream, you’re already fat.’) and bloodlust. I can guarantee there will probably be more posts similar to this one; this Thanksgiving, Dad lamented the fact that he had never opened a morgue/crematorium and made it a family business. “Can’t you see us working together, Edith? Just shoveling in the bodies and making statues out of corpses to put in the bathroom? We could learn taxidermy and make the dogs into statues and put them in your mom’s bedroom. Wouldn’t that be awesome.” My dad is batshit insane and it is fucking awesome.
Quite often when I find myself taking an excessive amount of drugs, of any kinda, usually opiate based as I come down, I seem to experience some quite random auditory hallucinations. Nothing malicious, just random crap. Oddly enough, I usually hear these hallucinations in a female voice rather than a male, or my own voice. Sometimes the voice is high pitched like a young girl, and sometimes its deeper and more sincere like a middle aged woman. Its quite strange. But I still hear the very odd male voice every now and then.
So in this blog post i will list 20 of the sentences I have heard while hallucinating. Some are funny, some are bizarre and some are just plain fucking stupid. But its always fun to listen to them and write down what they are, so here it goes:
1. “Aww SWIMMING, SWIMMING! HOW ABOUT SWIMMING? Well, FISHING FISHING TOO”
2. “Terry can I buy you a drink?”
3. “Louise, Whats the number in a prime set?”
4. “I heard vegemite paste hit the window”
5. “Were the politics centre in the middle of the universe?”
6. “Smells like chicken *giggle*”
7. “Well then get rid of the eye, I hate it”
8. “Haircuts use Wonka cheese”
9. “I’m just terrified of old grey ladies”
10. “Wall decks, did you apply the wall decks? You’re quite silly”
11. “I couldn’t take your mum flowers, I just couldn’t. They’re made by Gypsies”
12. “What do you think? Sugar cube or sweetner?”
13. “*blabber*..and a few things come down to his surgical operation”
14. “You’re up early. Its 9pm and you’re up early. I’m drinking this wine”
15. “Just do it, go, take the high jump”
16. “Caffeine and coffee are the same thing bro, fentanyl is different by far”
17. “The shirt needs more colour in it, the shirt, needs more colour in it, it needs to be stabilised by a molecule”
18. “Princess Margaret might be driving a Rav 4 if she was still alive”
19. “The bed spreads on, I hope the pole doesnt collapse and crush the crinkle”
20. “If I set a date with a camera man….huh…uh….Spaghetti bolognaise”
And thats todays 20, stay tuned for another time in the next couple of days/weeks when I’m hallucinating again and decide to blog post about it.
Off into the wild blue yonder of drug fueled mental madness I go.
In honor of Thanksgiving, tonight’s edition of “Bob’s Educational Corner” will be a musical history of the holiday. Unfortunately, Bono had to cancel at the last minute, but we were able to hire a local musical group called “Zombies for Tofu”, who I’m told will sing an original composition they call “Happy Thanksgiving!”. Let’s see if they’re ready.
*Lights dim, spotlight illuminates stage. A greasy mass of hair, tattoos, and piercings takes the mic.* “Hi, we’re ‘Zombies for Tofu.’ Tonight, we’re gonna sing you a song from our new album, ‘Eating Babies For Breakfast’, available now from the trunk of Steve’s mom’s station wagon. Here’s ‘Happy Thanksgiving!’”
Thanksgiving is a time
When the Pilgrims and the Indian people
Got together to kill turkeys
And serve small animals with pie
Satan likes pie
Nobody said that
But everyone there knew it
And then the Indians got smallpox
Given to them by Satan
And also blankets full of smallpox
but mostly Satan
Cause Satan loves pie
Does a lot of shit for pie
He’d kill you for a pie
And then he’d eat your soul
Cause it tastes just like a pie
Though without the creamy toppings
And more soul aftertaste
And I see you baked a pie
Full of pumpkin I presume
Cause you do that for Thanksgiving
So I’m giving thanks to Satan
And now he ate your pie!
That you worked so hard to make!
And he killed off all your house plants!
Cause he’s Satan and he does that!
Bob’s Educational Corner would like to remind everyone that the views expressed by our guests do not necessarily represent the views of this show or this website. Goodnight!