:Chloroform in Print
I want to go to the top of a really tall building, take a leak, finish, zip up, and then have my pee hit the ground. I want my entire pee to be airborne. Man I love beer.
Thursday, July 22, 2004
Designer Coffee
Now, I enjoy a good, high quality cup of coffee as much as the next person who enjoys a good, high quality cup of coffee. But I think the marketing for this stuff has gotten out of control:

Bold, yet fruity, with a complex aftertaste reminiscent of saddle leather, pomegranate, and cedar, this coffee confers status upon the drinker. Each individual bean is gummed from the coffee bush by a Guatemalan infant, certified to be no older than 18 months, and carried by the mother in an organic cotton, hand-woven baby sling. Quantities are limited.

Monday, July 19, 2004
I'm stuck behind a woman, an old
woman, no, make that an elderly
woman driving a 1978 Buick Skylark and
navigating through the space between
the steering wheel and the dashboard. The speed
limit is fifty-five but she's going forty
three, and I'm late for work
again, too much opposing traffic
to pass and we come to a stop
sign, her, and me, and the asshole
tailgater who boxes me in,
wedged behind her gigantic bumper,
and the old lady dies, slumping
forward on to the
horn. The sound is joined by wailing
sirens when the police come,
and they give me a ticket for
expired tabs.

There is no waking from this
nightmare, except for the part
about having a job.

Thanks for Sequimming
Not too many people know this, but on the western outskirts of Sequim, next to the sign that informs that you are leaving the Sequim city limits, there is a sign that reads:

"Thanks for Sequimming!"

Besides being inherently ridiculous, it's also kind of frightening. I've seen more than one man shakily pull over to the side of the road just outside of town, clasp his head in his hands, and moan piteously as he realizes he had been Sequimming without knowing it. This is followed by a desperate, pathetically doomed attempt to manufacture some kind of plausible excuse for the wife, who will already be suspicious of the unmistakable scent of lavender.

Worse, there is no antidote. At least, not in the direction of Port Angeles, unless you happen to find your salvation in being gang-raped by a pack of underemployed loggers. Don't bother trying the drugstore for help; no amount of ointment will cure you of having Sequimmed.

At this point, the sensible person will realize there is no profit in trying to turn back. Get it over with, I say. Dosewallips and Chimacum await you, sinner.

Thursday, July 15, 2004
Reviews: the all new Seattle Public Library
I have to say that I am thoroughly enjoying publishing items that other people have sent me without their permission. Any complaints may be sent to my lawyer, the Hon. Robert Q. Gofuckyourself.

Let's all just jump on the amorphic glob trend!

It's like having a cool giant skylight in your ugly ass cement basement. Cement floors, steel ceilings, glass walls, just like a big warehouse of the future - I'm guessing it's really loud.

the red hallway reminds me of a 'walk through the lungs' type science exhibit. Or something out of the death star.

So how much did this "masterpiece" cost? Seems to me that if an architect gets to go off on as building he should pay us. On the other hand if there is no fucking fish art then maybe it's worth it.

What's the budget to clean all the glass? In 20 years it's gonna look like shit. in 30 they tear it down.

They don't call it Mt. Baker for nothing
Several people have left our company lately. Some will be missed more than others.

The other person who is supposed to be contributing to this blog wrote this about one of the people who will be missed, upon the occasion of her going missing:

This is sad for me because
1) she's from Montana, and
b) I saw her and her husband in Fred Meyer once laughing themselves sick in the cracker section. I snuck up behind them and surprised them, and they turned around almost in tears (and with very red eyes, if you know what I mean) and showed me a box of crackers called Baked Socialites.

Born....in the PNW
I remember that back in my college anthropology courses, I learned that the so-called "primitive" cultures only work an average of 4-6 hours a day. The rest of their time is spent getting drunk, laying around, making up songs, et cetera. How is it that in our country, the puritanical workhorse assholes have taken over our society and convinced everyone that free time is an EVIL SIN to be avoided at ALL COSTS or else COMMUNISTS and other GODLESS BOHEMIANS will take over and RUIN EVERYTHING?

Now I'm all fired up to go drive my truck full of old tires out into the woods, shoot up some virgin timber with my 30.06, drink some COMMUNIST CANADIAN WHISKEY and sleep until Monday morning. GOD BLESS AMERICA!

Wednesday, July 14, 2004
The Chicken Vampire of Cloverdale
The following is a paid advertisement

Remember when I use to supply rooster blood to the B.C. hospitals in Vancouver for Rubella testing. Well I kept my chickens out on a farm near White Rock and after work I would drive out there and bleed out (exsanguinate) 6 -7 huge broiler breeder roosters (a good 15# each) I would develop a powerful hunger (mainly because it was about 7-8 o'clock at night when I finished and that was when we lived in Kitsilano in Vancouver.) So immediately following the big chicken bleed out and carrying these huge dead roosters in the front of my Karmann Ghia I would pull into Kentucky Fried in Cloverdale and order up a huge 9 piece box of KFC and devour the whole thing during the trip into the city. Ha!

If that wasn't bad enough, one night I got arrested for speeding! In the front seat was my Col. Sander's box of chicken with half eaten pieces and bones and soiled napkins lying all around all over the place. In the back seat was an open box of 10 big 250 ml bottles of chicken blood and in the trunk was the biggest pile of dead roosters you can imagine (could hardy get the hood down). So when the cop comes up to my car he sees that I've been chowing down and he starts lecturing me about the dangers of dining and driving at the same time and then suddenly he notices these bottles of red liquid in the back seat. Immediately suspicious but with hesitation he asks me what these are. I say "Rooster blood" and with that a look of frightened horror spreads over his face which turns into a countenance of total revulsion and terror. ....and right now he demands to know what I was going to do with it! He looked like he was getting ready to draw his service revolver!! At this point I'm sure he thought I was some sort of perverted avian satanic cult member that sacrificed chickens and used their blood to wash down KFC chicken and biscuits. Ha! I really thought my goose was cooked (so to speak) and I was praying he would not search my car to confirm his suspicions because if he would of discovered that big dead pile of blood-stained roosters I would of been in the Canadian equivalent of Steilacoom for life and definitely been prosecuted as Cloverdales only known Chicken Vampire in the Annals of Canadian Crime..............

I have decided that all future projects I am associated with need to feature the Shriners. This is primarily because I really like: a) fezzes and b) elderly men careening haphazardly through crowds of parade-goers in go karts.

Have you ever been to a normal wedding?
Here is an eyewitness report from a recent local wedding. It has been edited to restore the cuss words that were originally censored.

Besides having a hot to trot DJ (the look he gave me, when I asked him, why should I give him my number was a hoot...he looked like he was just hit with a missile), the three legged greyhound, the ugly woman that looked like Queen Victoria looking for her pig leg, having the stepdad tell me that the he has to walk the spoiled bitch down the aisle because her father decided to off himself last month, probably due to the goddamn stress of the fucking wedding. I spent the time wondering if the couple were truly married due to the fact the guy that married the couple looked like a cross between Dracula going to a prom and george washington, and he didn't do any vows but just had them tie their hands together with a silk cloth and have each of the parents go up and do a blessing on them and add a knot to the cloth that tied their hands together. Needless to say the stepfather had a quick blessing...something along the lines, with "I hope you can deal with her".

I casually asked someone if they were officially married and nearly got my head bit off due to the fact "of course they are married, this is Hovander Park"...I don't know how the Park played into making their marriage legal, but I didn't want to rock the boat.

I guess as long as one of the three knots stay in the cloth, they are married. Which could be a very cheap divorce.

Blah, blah, blog
In the future everyone who doesn't flunk out of English class will be issued a blog so they have a place to complain about not making money. I would have my own blog, but then I would feel pressure to produce columns, and then I would start resenting my boss (which would be me), and start doing things to undermine the column. Finally I would have to fire myself, and then be totally relieved because I hated that damn job anyway but couldn't admit it to myself because I thought I needed the paycheck, but then realize that no paycheck (not even a nonexistent one) is worth it when you have to work for an asshole like that.

On second thought maybe I should start a blog. It sounds like fun.


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Location: The PNW

I like brown liquor, strong beer, barbeque, and brunettes. Also, you suck.

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