Friday, July 06, 2007

Baby Is In Love With Fire

Baby, baby, please put down the cello. It never did anything to hurt you. Yes, that's a cello. You've never seen a cello? Is that why you want to hurt it?

Some rock stars who end up owning curvy bulging instrumentals cannot help by sticking stickers on them. This is probably an incorrect response to the curviness or bulgiation of the instrument. Unless it doesn't matter. But flautists never put stickers on their flutes. Or do they?

Why focus, then, on how fire destroys things that are flat as well as things that are round? Why not focus instead on fire's tendency to taper itself around the top of the flame? Why not talk about fire as a solid thing with an edge? Or even think about it? It might take your mind off of being burned alive.

All this talk makes the model blue. Do you know Blue the model? She's skinny, foreign & addicted to model airplane glue. She looks at the world in a weird way, & prefers you bring her leaves rather than flowers, as if she's playing the odds. Then she's stick the stem in some glue & snort until her eyes bleed.

Do you even know the difference between gangrene & distemper? Like me, you're confused with the word "gangrene" - why isn't it called "ganyellow"? Fuck Latin roots, I want to be able to trust medical terms again. Like we did when we were children.

When I finally meet your parents, please do not tell them I was not proud of us on this day. Please don't mention the blood-soaked tablecloth or the high cheekbones I made for you to wear. Tell them instead that we came to an impasse & all it took was a burning cello & thirteen stitches for us to know that love is impernanet & difficult.

Thursday, July 05, 2007

Whither Worms?

I can't remember why I decided to do a show about worms. I wrote it down one day & it became a reality. That's right, I'm a follower & practicioner of Scribbling Your Dreams, the powerful spiritual system which helps you bring all that you desire to reality. Consider:

- Alma Tetragon of Oneida, Wisconsin made it a habit to write down the things she needed when she would go "shopping." Once at a suitable market or store, she would look to the list & get the things she wanted. Coincidence? Only a fool would think so!

- Martin "The Herbie" Textile would often write home when he was in college at Brown Shirt University, & he would always make it a point to let his mother & father know in not-very-subtle language when he needed twenty bucks here, fifty bucks there. His parents would send him the money! Luck? Not hardly!

- Don Apachepants was a moderately successful Herbivore who was often too busy to communicate verbally with people at his business. He would therefore write & send memos to his workers. An example: if he sent a note to his secretary which read, "I'll have my usual lunch of potatos & pills at one," he would find his afternoon repast on his desk at one pm. Was this magic? Are you some kind of crazy fuck?

What did all of these things have in common? The person desired something, & then they wrote it down. The power of the written word has been well known ever since Santa Claus began keeping his famous "lists" two thousand years ago, & the children who found themselves on the "naughty" side developed painful, incurable, terminal diseases, but it was long suspected you had to be an immortal like Santa Claus to make such things happen. But no! It's within the realm of mortals like you - & like me.

So now, when I want something, I write it down. Please note: email doesn't count. Nor does blogging. It has to be a written note. Whether the handwriting needs to be legible is subject of intense scientific scrutiny. Also, it does not appear to work in any language other than English, unless you're an immortal like Santa Claus. Sorry!

More & more people are putting all their eggs in the basket called Scribbling Your Dreams, & why not? It seems to be true. It feels right. I can cite anecdotal evidence to support it. Why shouldn't it be true?

Let me know if you can make some money off this, & cut me in, wouldya?

Tuesday, July 03, 2007

Monday, July 02, 2007

O What A Whiff It Is

Dear Snoots,

Did you get the wet hair I sent you in the mail? It was sent through this wacky gift site/online fart-noise-making organization called Self Help Radio. Why hadn't I heard of them before?

Much love,

Dear Dumbass,

I am happy to learn you've added 2.0 to your name to reflect your current state of plastic surgery. How do I know this? Because I've discovered a web site, Self Help Radio, in which I can find out personal information about people I hate. (For people I love, it costs money.)

Ha ha,
Vinny Dictive

Dear Prestidigitator,

Your combination microwave oven/drum kit has arrived from Self Help Radio. Did you want me to put it in the den, the kitchen, or in the back of my mind?

Please advise,

Dear Tacks,

I was listening to a radio show the other day & it hurt me to listen to it. I think it was called Self Help Radio. It hurt it hurt it hurt. Do you know it's archived? Even the show I heard on Friday! Oh I am nauseous from all the pain.


Dear College Graduate,

I am sorry, but your qualifications make it impossible for us to hire you. Pardon me, that sentence should have read "lack of qualifications." Perhaps you should work somewhere else. Might we suggest Self Help Radio?

High Paying Job

Dear Moby D,

I am writing you out of sheerest desperation. Our next port of call is the tropical dive called Self Help Radio. It's the place where the slave kids make gummy bears. Please say you'll forgive me so I can stop this aimless wandering.


My friends,

We take as our text today the third chapter & sixth verse of Self Help Radio. Please remember, clean your hymnals afterwards. Your soul will take a little longer. Now: pray! Pray God Damn It! PRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!

Pastor Douche