Where Do I Come Up With This Shit?

Some guys at work were talking about a new Riding Mower that someone bought. As I walked by, I heard one guy say, "He Paid $8,000 for that thing." Another guy said, "Shit! How big is it? Does it have a bunch of attachments and extras and stuff?"

That's when I walked by and said, "If it doesn't make you a fucking cup of coffee and jerk you off, it ain't worth $8,000."

So Where've I Been Lately?

From the local Argus:

Local Man Sentenced in Bizarre Trial

Ohio: Trent Elliott, otherwise known as the "Flanders Pigeon Murderer," "KOTWF," and "Oh God Here He Comes," was found guilty today on charges of public lewdness, attempted suicide by scotch consumption, wantonly performing "Johnny B. Goode" and "Zuit Suit Riot" at shady karaoke bars, and endangering countless innocent marriages through his astounding good looks and charm.

Counsel for Mr. Elliott responded to the trial results: "Well, we fought the good fight, and we tried to get a fair trial for the KOTWF. Things probably would have gone better if we could have restrained him from bringing his hip-flask to the trial. And I don't think his constant winking at the Judge's wife helped. In the end, though, justice won out. I mean, let's face it, the little S.O.B. is guilty as sin!"

We managed to speak with Mr. Elliott for a few moments before the sentencing, and he had this to say: "I gotsa lotsa reasons t'be *$^#*ing &*^$ed off! Who th' %$&# do those #$%holes think I am? It wasn'nt 'tempted sewerside, I kin drink ten times asmuch scotch. Hand me tha' bawdle!"

The sentence that Mr. Elliott now faces is 50 lashes from a supermodel's tongue. When asked for comment on Mr. Elliott's sentence, Warden Claudia Schiffer said this: "Us girls are really excited about being able to bring someone like that to justice. We'll give him exactly what he deserves. In fact, I've already promised to extend his sentence for good behavior."

Ms. Schiffer went on to explain that the sentence would also be extended for naughty behavior, or "if the rumors are true."

Mr. Elliott has received a work release, and will be serving his sentence for two hours per night, over the next 50 nights.

Where Did That Come From?

Last night, I dreamed that I was on another planet, and I was learning about the alien race that lived there. I learned about their society, their way of life, and their physical and mental capabilities. All of this was run of the mill alien stuff.

Then I started to study their religion.

They were polytheistic, with a different god for everything. They had gods of the harvest, gods of war, gods of fertility, etc. All of these were no different than you'd expect to read in any book of Roman, Greek, or Norse Myths. But they had an "All Father" god. This was the god of gods, and he lived with god of the sun, inside the star that this planet orbited. If they behaved and lived their lives morally, then when they died, the All Father would let them "come on down" to paradise.

The All Father God, living inside their sun, was Rod Roddy.

I'm Still Not Funny

I was in Chicago's Midway Airport this week, on my way home from Saint Louis, and as I was walking through the terminal, I saw something that I just had to mention to my traveling companion.

"Look!" I said, "A nun! In an airport! Do you know what that makes her?"

He didn't even laugh....

Anyway, I saw some cool shit in Saint Louis (believe me, this is a feat. There is NOTHING in Saint Louis), which I will tell you about later.

Love to the kids,
KOTWF

Victorious!

Red and I just got back from a costume party. She and I won the "Most Original" category. Neither of us had a costume that was very original on it's own, but together we were great.

You see, Red went as the tiger, and I was Roy...

Poetry

This morning, I actually had to scrape the ice off of my car windows. In honor of the coming onslaught of winter, I'm posting a poem I wrote for Red last December, a few weeks before she moved in with me.

Snow Dream

I wake up in the morning,
To a blanched landscape of crystalline shards,
To a dreamscape of frozen wonder.
The trees bear their burden, groaning with the added weight,
As I slog through the waste to my inhumed car.

I wait for the ice to turn to water and run down my windshield,
And wish that she were here.
She’d be beautiful right now,
Her blue eyes flashing from beneath her toboggan,
Bits of water in a world of ice.
Her hair would dance across her shoulders as she ducked and dodged,
A slushball held tight in her mittened hand while she sought her target.
SMACK!
Cold water runs down my collar as I turn to stare at her.
She screams and we tumble head over heels into a snow bank
Where we land, arm in arm, lip to lip
And somehow,
We aren’t cold.

After an eternity that seems like minutes,
The cold has finally permeated our nest enough to freeze our toes.
“Let’s go home,” I say.
Inside, the smells of hot cocoa and woodsmoke fill the air,
Points of light glow off our coniferous houseguest,
And Bing fills our ears with a song about the first snowfall of the winter.
We strip our shoes and socks and sit before the fire,
Content to just hold hands and sip.

I can see out the windows of my car.
I slip into gear and begin the long, treacherous, snowy journey to work.

M I A

Sorry I've been a little out of touch lately. I've been having a few minor problems.

You see, it all started with my spleen. I've been drinking a lot lately, and I was beginning to feel bad for my liver. Trooper that he is, he never complained once, but nonetheless I felt like maybe it was time for some of those worthless vestigial organs to take up the slack. Because I had my appendix removed in a freak yachting accident a few years back, and because Red still hasn't convinced me that my brain is vestigial, it fell to my spleen.

A few shots of Bombay Sapphire later, my spleen started to be a real dick. He hadn't been exposed to ethanol before, and, quite frankly, he's a sloppy drunk. One minute, he's got delusions of grandeur about how important he is now that he processes the liquor, the next minute he's vomiting bile everywhere and ruining my shoes.

So I had him removed. "Goodbye Mr. Spleen! You lazy, good-for-nothing freeloader!"

Then it dawned on me! I hate dieting, but I need to lose about 10 pounds. I figured, "Hey! I could probably lose ten pounds of organ meat and not even miss it!" This was the best idea I'd ever had. I spent the next 3 days lying in a hospital bed having portions of my organs removed so I could get back down to my fighting weight. It wasn't until the infection set in that I realized something: organs aren't just dead weight. Do you have any idea what your spleen does? It filters out foreign organisms that infect your blood, removes your old or damaged platelets and red blood cells, stores extra blood and releases it as needed, and forms some types of white blood cells. And that's just your spleen! I mean, imagine how much some other organ like your heart or your stomach or your green squiggly thing does!

There was only one thing for it. I had to call up all those nice people that were using my organs and get them back. That wasn't too tough though, because the doctor said that my organs were in such a sad shape that they just threw them in the dumpster out back anyway.

Anyway, I've spent the last few days working double-overtime to try and cover my hospital bill, and sucking up to all my organs and apologizing for being so mean to them.

Now each of them gets a turn as the liver once a month.

And that's why I haven't been posting lately.

Wedding Day

Saturday was a turning point in my life. I woke up, threw down a few cocktails, and put on a tux. I then stood in front of many friends and family members as a beautiful woman dressed all in white walked down the aisle towards me. I stood there silently, sweating, as she said her vows. I smiled at her, then my friend said his vows and we all went to the reception.

The groom’s younger brother, Bill, was the Best Man, but I was assigned to give the Best Man’s Speech, so when the DJ announced, “And now our Best Man, KOTWF, would like to give a toast” I felt like I had to say something to make Bill feel better. The speech went like this:

Thank you, Jeff, although, just like at that nudist wedding I attended last week, I’m an inch away from being best man.

I’d like to start by making a brief announcement: I just saved 15% on car insurance!

When I was asked to give this speech tonight, I was honored. You see, I’ve known John for 24 years. I was there in fourth grade when he kissed his first girlfriend. I was there a few weeks later when she broke up with him using that classic line: “You look like a big red apple.” I was there the night he left for Army Boot Camp (My body was there anyway. My mind was at the bottom of a bottle of scotch). And I was there the night that John and Trisha met. In fact, I had been friends with Trisha for a number of years at that point as well, and I introduced the two, so, in a since, I’m the reason you are all here tonight.

In all those years, I’ve taken care of John. Even when we were babies, I had to show him which part of his mother was serving the drinks. I’ve given him countless hours of advice (which he hasn’t followed). And I can’t even count how many times I’ve bailed him out of—never mind.

The point is this: I am glad that John found Trisha, because I think that Trisha is the only person in the world who is beautiful enough, smart enough, and understanding enough to replace me. At this time, I’d like to officially retire from my position as John’s babysitter, and hand the title over to his beautiful, soon to be overworked, bride.

Trisha: Through the years, John has placed me in many awkward positions, but each one has been an exciting experience, and each one has helped strengthen our friendship. In the future, may you and John find yourselves in many enjoyable positions.

John: What can I say? I love you like the brother I never had (Shut-up, Tanner, you were adopted!). May your new life bring you happiness and joy. From now on, I promise that whenever I’m out, I’ll have a hooker for you.

Ladies and Gentlemen: To John and Trisha, and the amazing future that awaits them! (Drinks entire glass, heads straight to bar to refill it)

I think it went pretty well…

My Dog Is Dead!

You know that scene in The Man Who Knew Too Little where Bill Murray is trying to figure out how actors can make themselves cry on cue? And he says “What do you do? Do you poke yourself in the eye like this? Or do you think something really sad like ‘My dog is dead!’?” Then he proceeds to poke himself in the eye repeatedly and scream “My dog is dead!” over and over and over again until he finally stops and says, “Nope, nothing.”

You know that scene?

Well it’s kind of like that, but not as funny.

My dog, Acacia, had to be put to sleep Tuesday evening.

She was a Chow-Shepherd mix, which made her an extremely loyal, very protective, surprisingly gentle, overly stubborn, quite pretty, fuzzy German Shepherd with a black-spotted tongue.

She left hair everywhere, scared away the paper-boy, ate entire plates of steak off the counter when you weren’t looking, and woke you up at 5:00am to go out and pee. She was arthritic, had started to lose control of her bladder, and was horribly loud whenever anyone came to the door.

And these were her good qualities.*

Fucking dog.

She will be missed.

*Actually, she was one of the best pets. Ever. She would protect my baby brother from anyone and anything. She would follow you loyally wherever you went and wait patiently outside until you came out, no matter how long it took. She would let you rest your head on her and use her as a pillow. She never complained about anything. She was smart enough that she could understand and respond to human speech. And she was more a part of the family than my sister, who still doesn’t know she was adopted from a Vietnamese crack-whore that used to do this great act where she got DP’ed by two live donkeys. We love and miss you, Acacia.

Don’t You Hate That

You know, when you have a great dream in which you see something, or experience something, or go somewhere, and you think, “Damn that’s cool!” Then, when you wake up in the middle of the night you realize that whatever you dreamed about doesn’t exist, but it is so cool that you think, “Hey! If I build it, then it will exist and it would be so cool that I know it would succeed and make mad cash!”

And so you lie awake from 2:30 to 5:00 on the living room floor (that’s where you passed out last night) thinking through the whole thing, how it will work, how to build it, how to market it, etc. Finally, you get to sleep and tell yourself that you will put some more finishing touches on it in the morning, maybe draw a schematic of it, write up a projected earnings statement, and start your business plan.

6:45 rolls around, and you crawl through the painful mist in your head and begin to get ready for work. As the aspirin and the hair-of-the-dog take effect, you have a sudden, startling realization: You wasted two and a half hours of sleep last night. That was the stupidest fucking idea in the world.

What do you mean that never happens to you?

Hell Week

A haiku about my week:

Customer Complaints
For five days now without pause
Dirty Martini

A Bona-Fide Film Review!

My friend John came over to visit Red and I the other night. He walked into the apartment, sidled up to the bar, and quickly poured himself a tall scotch, which he downed. As he poured another, he said, “Help yourself. You’re going to need a drink.”

I found this odd, as it is my bar, but John is not one to question when he is visibly shaken, so I simply muttered, “Thanks,” and filled my glass. “What’s up?” I asked, dreading the answer like a 16 year old virgin dreads prom-night.

“This,” he said as he slid a DVD across the bar.

I glanced down, fearful that I was, once again, about to be exposed to homosexual otter porn. I was pleasantly surprised, however, when the cover of the DVD did not reveal photographs of colossal and hirsute members, but was flat black with a title written in white letters.

Rejected

I put it in, pressed play, and the following words flashed across my screen:

In the spring of 1999, the Family Learning Channel commissioned animator Don Hertzfeldt to produce promotional segments for their network. The cartoons were completed in five weeks. The Family Learning Channel rejected all of them upon review, and they were never aired...

Then I found myself face to face with a cute little guy, unblinkingly holding a spoon twice his size and standing in front of a very small bowl of something. Just as I started to think, "Poor guy, his spoon is too big!” he announced to the world at large, “My spoon is too big!”

I took a drink of scotch.

After a giant banana walked on-screen and, just to make sure I knew, said “I am a banana!” I finished my glass and had to pause the film in order to get a refill.

Just to recap, we’re now 30 seconds into the film and I am halfway to getting sauced simply through drinking as a means of escape and self-preservation. I imagine that the urge to drink generated by this cartoon is strong enough that, if I had been unlucky enough to be holding a bottle of liquid Drain-o when the film started, I would not be with you here today.

I don’t want to ruin the cartoon for you, gentle reader, so I will stop telling you anything more about the, for lack of a better word, plot and simply give you the statistics that I calculated upon the films completion:

Running time: Less than 10 minutes
Number of laughs: 97
Number of wide-eyed stares where I had no idea how to react: 4,230,911
Volume of scotch consumed while viewing: 32 oz.
Number of times I laughed so hard that scotch came out my nose: 1 (once is enough)
Number of times I have repeated lines from the film since I saw it Monday night: 208
Number of times Red has said “Quit saying that” after I’ve repeated a line: 207
Number of times I have looked at her like she had maggots crawling out of her eyeballs and said the line again: 1 (once is enough on this one, too)
Number of times I have watched the film since the original viewing: 4
Number of times I have pleasured myself while watching the film: 0
What you should do RIGHT NOW: Go buy it, rent it, borrow it, steal it, anything you have to in order to watch it. NOW!

I am a consumer whore.

You Know That Feeling?

The one where you feel like you have no control over anything? Yeah, that one. I'm like that all the time. Yet another day at work where I don't get anything I need to do done, and instead I spend my entire day trying to fix other people's fuck-ups.

At least I had a couple of minutes to have lunch with Oarah, who just started a blog. Check it out. It's bloggy.

Now, gentle reader, let's get back on subject. I--oh Jesus! What now. Don't do that. Put that down. Shit. Back to work.

Isaiah 57:21

Update: Finally got around to it. Added both Oarah and Keith to my sidebar. Enjoy.

So Where Have I Been?

Truth be told, gentle reader, I have spent the last week on a faith journey. I have traveled the inner recesses of my soul in an attempt to discover the TRUTH. I stand before you today a changed man. No longer am I an infamous (note the dripping sarcasm on that word), agnostic internet personality, I am now a man of God.

These websites will help you understand my new dogma:

I believe that alien abductions can be prevented by oscillating fans, crow bars, and salt.

I believe that Jesus Christ has tried to return to us, riding in a UFO, and the government has covered it up to avoid the destruction of capitalism.

I believe that invisible CIA agents are the #1 cause of car accidents

I believe the lesbian mafia is bent on taking over the government.

I believe that the moon is populated by hundreds of Friedrich Nietzsches.

I believe I am a god with amnesia who is currently suffering a migraine because according to the ancient religion of the Mayans I am shifting from 2 stranded DNA to 12 stranded DNA.

I believe that mankind's selfishness is killing off the last living dinosaurs: Amazing Prehistoric Dogs! (They're practically invisible!)

I believe exorcisms can be performed with nothing but a "no demon allowed" graphic.

I believe that if I help this guy he'll give me a free ring that will make me immortal.

I believe children are the future.

I believe that many of the people on the internet belong here...

I've Been A Bad Boy

But the warden says he'll let me have a whole hour of internet access tomorrow! See you then.

Oldie But Goody

In honor of Talk Like A Pirate Day, I give you the best pirate joke, ever:

I was sitting in a bar last night, drinking my Captain Morgan on the rocks, when an old man walked in. Well, walked is a bad description. He more like hobbled in. He sat down and I began to look him over.

His hobble was caused by the fact that his right leg was in fact made out of a wooden peg. He ordered a drink and had to clasp it in his left hand, because his right had been replaced with a steel hook, and he looked around the room with his one eye, the other having been covered with a black patch bearing a skull and cross bones.

I had to ask, "Excuse me, sir. Sorry to bother you, but, well, are you a pirate?"

"Aye!" he responded, "That I be."

"You mean 'Yes I am'," I said, "Nevermind. If you don't mind my asking, how did you lose your leg?"

"Well, lad," he snarled, "I was on me ship, the Saucy Sue when I was tossed inta Davie Jones's Locker by a wave. A'fore I could even make it back aboard, this great beast come out of the deep and had me leg fer dinner. Aye!"

"Wow," I said, "And how did you lose your hand?"

"Aah," he replied, "I was so angry at losin' me leg, that I spent a year searchin' fer the beast what done it. I got 'im, too. But when me crew pulled him aboard ship, he freed himself and with one snap of his mighty jaws he had me hand ta foller me leg. Aye."

"Jeez! One last question. What happened to your eye?"

"You see lad," he smiled, "I was in the crows nest watchin' the horizon, when a great seagull flew by and took a shite. I got a great heap o' seagull shite right in me eye."

"And the seagull shit blinded you?" I asked incredulously.

"Well," he said sheepishly as he looked around the bar, "it was me first day with the hook."

I'm Still Really Broken Up

I still can't believe he's really gone*. His music has touched so many for so long, that, when he passed away, I wasn't sure what I was going to do.

Then I found it.

The Wesley Willis Song Generator (Scroll to the bottom). Now his powerful music and lyrics can live on even though he's dead. Here's a little song he wrote posthumously for me.

KOTWF
by Wesley Willis

KOTWF is excellent.
You can really jam harder like a magicist.
I like KOTWF a lot.
KOTWF is excellent.

KOTWF!!!
KOTWF!!!
KOTWF!!!
KOTWF!!!

You really whoop the horse's ass.
You are a kick-ass star.
KOTWF is excellent.
You are the kick-ass king.

KOTWF!!!
KOTWF!!!
KOTWF!!!
KOTWF!!!

KOTWF really whoops a camel's ass.
KOTWF really whoops a camel's ass.
You can really rock your ass off.
You really whoop the horse's ass.

Rock over London,
Rock on Chicago.

Carquest - you're welcome.

*Yes, I am also sad that Johnny Cash died, but that's not nearly as funny.

Mourning

Can't believe the news today. I could close my eyes and make it go away.

Johnny Cash, Dead at 71.

John Ritter, Dead at 54.

They will be missed.

Would it be in bad taste to play "Ring of Fire" at the memorial service?

Math Sux

I spent all day today tracking down 1 (one) little mathematically glitch in an Excel spreadsheet. Well actually, it was one (1) little mathematically glitch in 4 (four) Excel spreadsheets. And each spreadsheet contains approximately (carry the two(2)) 8000 (eight-thousand) individual pieces of information for a whopping total of 32,000 (thirty-two-thousand) pieces of data that had to be compared and contrasted across four (4) worksheets to try and find one (I) little error.

Nine (IX) hours later, I have honed in on the issue, but I still have not actually discovered the glitch itself. The prospect of spending tomorrow in much the same vein as today leads me to ask the eternal question:

"Who's going to miss 368 tons (seven-hundred-thirty-six-thousand pounds) of material anyway?"

My Boss

I share an office with my boss.

My boss is a 64 year old man whose mind climbed on a bus back in 1967 and only occasionally sends postcards with witty phrases on them like "The Weather is Here, Wish You Were Beautiful" and "Having a Great Time in Amsterdam. Signed, Your Brain on Drugs."

My boss thinks that I am the best thing since sliced bread, but also thinks that sliced bread was invented last Thursday.

My boss is slightly senile, but thinks he is the wittiest person this side of the Mason-Dixon line.

My boss feels that it is his duty to impart all of his knowledge to me before he retires next year.

My boss is soft-spoken and mumbles, but still imparts his knowledge to me in the form of a rambling story whenever the mood strikes him regardless of how busy I seem to be. In fact, I have been working my ass off nonstop for 8 hours now, and he has been flapping his ancient jowls nonstop for just as long. The worst part is that his stories are at least partially audience participation so I have to lend half an ear to him the whole time that he talks so that I know what he is saying.

My boss has caused me to get approximately 1/4 of the work done today that I should have.

My boss has me hotter than a freshly fucked fox in a forest fire right now.

My boss is still talking while I type this.

My boss won't shut up.