Proverbs 16:18

Oh why did I agree to do a show about PRIDE? It's making me look bad! It's the worst of the Seven Deadly Sins! I am so fucked!

Wait a second. I don't believe in that "sin" shit. Plus, I am a child of the last three decades of the 20th century. Pride was never a bad thing. Pride was the one thing you had when you had nothing else. Fuck you Bible! I am proud to be the person I am.

Oh wait. I'm a white dude. White Pride is what racists call their hatred. I don't have any of that. I barely have a heritage, let alone some kind of "culture" about which I can be proud of. Now I'm fucked again.

But I am kinda proud of my radio station, which recently had its license renewed. Fuck yeah! Community radio pride! I am totally down with that.

So if you're proud of yourself for non-icky or fucked-up reasons, or if you're proud that there's a radio station like KOOP around, or if you're just glad there's only seven deadly sins, because you've counted at least twenty, then you will enjoy Self Help Radio today at 4:30pm. That's Central time. You can hear it on 91.7 fm or you can go to the KOOP website to listen online.

If you do, I'll be proud of you.

Partner Faking Her Orgasm?

I love love love the Urban Dictionary.

When I have to do a show where there's not a whole lot to talk about & I don't really want to make things up (well, I never really don't want to make things up), I'll go see what the kids are defining.

Sometimes, though, there are things I could never say on the air. Like this definition of pride meat. I have no doubt young men have used this phrase before. It certainly sounds like something a twenty-year-old would talk about. That, & a pride swing. Kids today! So free & easy with their naughty bits!

I could probably get away with talking about the "lewd" act called the Pride of Montpelier, but it's only funny because of the second part of the definition.

In Austin there are a lot of pride rides. Did they call cars in the 70's with Black Power stickers on them "pride rides"? Were there Black Power stickers? Why not?

But, in any case, tomorrow's Self Help Radio will at the very least increase the amount of prideons you have. Isn't that worth it?

Whither Pride?

Dear Communists,

Look! It's a naked guy with a bird's head! No, really!

Have you had problems with pride? I guess I've had my highs & lows. We always think we're better than we are until we're laid low.

That girl's dangerous! She must be on some powerful stuff!

A show about pride should not be construed as me having pride in my show. I know how embarrassing it is. Like being pantsed every Friday from 4:30 to 6:00 by the nerdiest bullies in the world. Which you will of course find on KOOP.

We'll have to face the fact that we're not alone in the universe.

I operate almost entirely like a stuffed iPod on random. Pride just came up. But not that U2 song. I'm not talking about individual songs - I mean themes. My iPod is stuffed with themes.

The whole fucking universe is split in two!

You know what I hate? When people attempt to pat themselves on the back by saying, "You'd be proud of me..." & then telling me something they are proud of. Hell, I'm amazed anyone gets up in the morning. My pride in you is already at its lowest possible point.

Unit 1-7 respond. Unit 1-7! I'm missed you so!

Listen Friday. You'll see. Pride goeth before a weekend.

Preface To Pride: Insomnia Is My Shame

Other people named "me." A late-night study in failure.

This Gary Dickerson makes more money than I'll ever see. & wow! Check out those stock options! He seems to be working with semiconductors.

This Gary Dickerson seems to live in Phoenix & takes nice pictures. (I like that it says "Gary Dickerson's Favorite Photos.")

This Gary Dickerson has written a helpful article called "Fluke Facts," & he should know, since he's "a member of the Manasquan Fishing Club, past president and vice president of JCAA, chairman of the Fluke Committee and a JCAA Trustee." Good for him!

This Gary Dickerson (with a picture) owns Dickerson Mechanical in & was elected President of the Flint Plumbing & Mechanical Contractors in 2005. Such accomplishments!

Yikes! If you scroll down on this page, you'll see two generations of Gary Dickersons involved in a lawsuit at the West Virginia Supreme Court of Appeals. I can only dream of what it might be all about.

There's a douchebag named Gary Dickerson apparently really involved at this radio station. Oh wait. That's me.

In this court case (another court case!), the issue is the state of Texas vs. William Speer, a prisoner who killed his fellow inmate, whose name was Gary Dickerson. That sucks.

This youngster named Gary Dickerson is located in "Glorius Gloucester."

About this Gary Dickerson, we discover "Gary Dickerson has been in the commercial furniture industry since 1992." Don't I know!

This Gary Dickerson is a sergeant in the DeKalb (Georgia) Police Department’s Vice Squad. There's a picture, too!

This Gary Dickerson teaches a class on glass bead making. No shit.

I could go on for hours but I should try to sleep. There are so many Gary Dickersons in the world! We should be in a club.

Zzzzzzz.

My Lover, My Vice Principal

- What do you think of my teeth?
- What about your teeth?
- They were just cleaned.
- Yeah?
- So?
- So what?
- Do they look clean?
- I guess so.
- Take a good look.
- You want me to inspect your teeth?
- Sure.
- Why?
- What if the hygienist did a shitty job?
- How am I supposed to know if the dental hygienist did a shitty job or not?
- Look, I picked up this pamphlet, & it says here: "Dental hygienists remove soft & hard deposits from teeth, teach patients how to practice good oral hygiene, & provide other preventive dental care." My hygienist didn't say dick about practicing good oral hygiene, but instead talked about American Idol for a half hour with her hands in my mouth. So I'm curious, did she in fact remove soft & hard deposits from my teeth, or even provide other preventive dental care? I can't look myself!
- Not even in a mirror?
- Can't you just take a look?
- I'm not a dentist! I'm not a dental hygienist!
- Have you ever seen like plague or other gunk on teeth?
- Sure, but...
- Then just be a pal & take a look.
- I don't know...
- If you do, I'll give you a treat.
- A treat?
- A treat.
- What kind of treat?
- You'll have to inspect my teeth to find out.
- Oh, what the hell.
- I'll open my mouth big & wide.
- Uh, as far as I can tell, OW! Motherfucker! You fucking bit me!
- That's the treat!
- Jesus Christ! What a fucking psycho! I didn't even tell you how your teeth were!
- I couldn't wait to give you the treat!

Downsides/Regression

Thanks for nice calls during Self Help Radio today. It's nice to be on the radio. You're nice to listen.

I am drinking whiskey late into a Friday evening watching "WKRP In Cincinatti" on DVD. Three thoughts come to mind.

1) Even though they don't feature the original music (as explained here), I'm not as disappointed by that as I should be - something about the generic music they use seems appropriate. Maybe because, having been a deejay for over a decade, I could never be so distracted & lackadaisical behind the board. The station must have had a LOT of dead air. But I am sad they cut clips from the aired shows because of the music. That sucks.

2) I loved radio as a kid, but this show probably fanned the flames of my desire to be a deejay more than anything else. But I can't tell you why. Nothing about the station, Johnny Fever, or Venus Flytrap resembles any kind of deejay I ever wanted to be.

3) I am sad to say that another childhood crush is dead. I don't find Jan Smithers anywhere near as Bailey Quarters as cute as I remember her. That's sad. Luckily, I still think Loni Anderson is hideous. Also, I never noticed Andy Travis' accent. Is it because I was raised in Texas?

That's all. Some thoughts. Gonna watch the ridiculous & crazy turkey episode now.

Rent Is Due

I am asked in the privacy of my own head what this blog has to do with a radio show called Self Help Radio. I answer on this blog HOW DARE YOU.

Playlists are everywhere. Recordings of the show abound. Pieces of fragments of segments of me are all over your interweb. But where are the concepts, the conceptualizations, the computations or conception which make up what little radio show I can offer. Here. I keep them here. You would maybe like a tour?

My weariness is only surpassed by my exhaustion. I wouldn't notice either except I am so bone tired. I will go into the hibernation kiddie pool & soak myself into a Friday, when I can Self Help the Radio. All that's required of you is to listen & enjoy, not judge. HOW DARE YOU.

HOW DARE I. I feel like a seedless pumpkin, I am sorry. You have & always will be the paw for my thorn. It's good we occasionally yell. One of us might be dead. Once the other looks startled, we know the squabbling will continue.

But your retinue is paging you. You never really cared what I did here. You were hoping I'd have images of Starlet McNewPerson around so you could download. Make into a wallpaper. For your friends. Like it was 1996.

Oh shit, gotta go. Rent's due.

Whither Boots?

Did you ever wonder, have you ever did? Had you never thought of, if so why? What would happen if you every so often why? These are questions I ask yourself nearly any time, yet unbeknownst to the Captains Of Industry & the Lieutentants On The Mountains, these queries remain unqualified in daily life. So too I begin alone a difficulty with insecure series based on real or actual eventful, called "Boots!"

Mr. Boots, he is prototagonist. Mrs Boots, she is but a window to the wind. The little Boots never came to pass, & therefore thus is monster an unhappiness for folks like these. Sit down or the theme music may overwhelm!

Mr Boots is accessible his assets all in a roadster. Mrs Boot is not necessarily unfaithful in the classic sense. What installation of time-sensitive documentation haven't we once or twice felt obligation in & around the rush hour daytime? Protection is the end of jealousy, is sadness with aging punk rocket helpless in her ultimately lamed desperation.

Mr Boots never did ever, but Mrs Boots understood only in her blood clots. The little Boots might wail, When does Daddy come from? but it's the stern police matron who will shake a finger of disgusting to the archaeology on the second floor. Did you see this as an end or as a mean end? Rubbing soreness is like unto smarter wounds.

Mr Boots is last onscreen in a driving rainbow. Mrs Boots has been alimonily summarized. Since never did the little Boots cry in the night or ever more, it's only lawyers & priestly who make chump change into rhyme. If morality is expected, especially in preproduction, it's the "new blogosphere" here, where art's for art's forsaken, & never you mind it's edutainment.

Didn't talk fastly enough? Perhaps moreover the underlying thematically went over the shoulder of the head, or under the against & metaphor. You're welcome for taking only hours a day to wander; it's more than basic, to prevent an anguish where previously there was only pain. But there's more!

Preface To Boots: I Own Only Two Pairs Of Shoes

I want to ask you about your boots. What happened to you that you value boots so little? What if I told you that, when you were a baby, we called you "Boots"? & that, at your work, your co-workers say, when you're coming toward them, "Here comes Mr Boots!" Is that why you don't take care of your boots?

Boots may seem bulky & inconsiderate, but sometimes to protect your ankles & allow you to stay out of shin-deep muck & water, you have to sacrifice the breathing space of the skin beneath your ankles. Your grandfather knew that. Your grandmother knew your grandfather knew that. We don't know what went wrong with you.

Really? Boots have a bad reputation among the literati? Who are the literati anyway? Not you, surely. You got a poem published once in the back of Maxim. & it was a dirty poem besides. You rhymed "wussy" with "pussy." Ooo, move over Wallace Stevens. Don't you know self-importance looks cooler in boots?

What, me? No, I don't own any boots. But I am not talking about me. I'm talking about you. Your antipathy toward boots boggles the mind. I sentence you to three years as a shoe salesman! Now get out of my court! Bailiff! Boot him out of here! Ha ha, get it? My bailiff has boots! & he's giving you the boot! On your booty!

I stole that joke from Clarence Thomas. Now, what else is on the docket! This fellow? Sir! What happened to your boots? Oh, it's going to be a long night.

Thou Canvasback!

Here are fifteen words (one for each letter of the alphabet you can remember when you're very drunk) which have been decreed by the United States Word Authority to be used sparingly if at all during this week. Please make sure that, if you find yourself about to utter, mutter, write or "text" any of these words, that you exhaust all possibility of synonymic word or phrase. For example, if one of the words on the list (alas, it is not) were "president," you could use a word like "douchebag," which means approximately the same thing, & is never on the Sparing Words List.

The list, then, with notes from Gerald Pork, the Lexicographer-In-Chief:

1) "armed" (Note: "carrying" would be acceptable; "packing heat" might be embarrassing.)
2) "berth" (Note: all sailors feeling compelled to use this word will be keelhauled.)
3) "cure" (Note: If you're talking about the band The Cure, it's fine.)
4) "fear" (Note: Unless you're a chicken.)
5) "groin" (Note: Of course! Why didn't we think of it before! The word should be onomatopoeia!)
6) "impulse" (Note: this includes impulsive, but not "I'm pulsing!", which is for some reason a very popular phrase among the youth of Altoona.)
7) "jabroni" (Note: Unless you're in Italy.)
8) "louse" (Note: Nor is the plural okay.)
9) "menthol" (Note: The government recommends that menthol smokers ask for "the minty cigarettes.")
10) "oops" (Note: This might not be disallowed; it might just be a penciled-in error by the committee.)
11) "privy" (Note: Or even "privvy." We just don't like the way it sounds. Even with a British accent.)
12) "Q" (Note: Just saying the letter is not allowed. Pronouncing it is fine, since it's not really a sound & it's pronounced "kw." Or just "k.")
13) "taint" (Note: snicker, snicker.)
14) "ulgerfunkel" (Note: we swear, it's a real word. Look it up. Just don't use it.)
15) "word" (Note: Which will make next week's report an ass pain.)

We thank you for your attention.

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.

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?

Preface To Worms: The Nature Of Things

This is what we drink on Self Help Radio:



Made from tears, not from worms. So there.

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,
Dad

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,
Guileless

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.

Ouch,
Muggsy

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?

Sincerely,
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.

Please!
Ahab

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!

Amen,
Pastor Douche

Undead Blogging

Weird. I am writing this as my show has just begun. I apologize for it already. If you keep listening, it might not get any better, but at least you'll get used to it, like a daily beating or lead poisoning. Oh boy! My first airbreak!

Ha! I just told people who might have been listening that I am blogging! Uh oh. One of my apprentices has said she'll be showing up. I guess I don't want to be blogging while she's here. So I won't.

You're not listening to Self Help Radio right now on KOOP radio? Well, I applaud your taste, but I am a self-deprecating sort & the show might actually be good. Wouldn't you hate to miss that?

Me too.

Heart Of Hearts

Question! Did you really fall off a log on your back in the muddy rain?
Answer! Where did I put that bad attitude!

Question! What happens to all the hugs & kisses when we run out of x's & o's?
Answer! Which one of you mothers belongs to this garage sale!

Query! How does a friend stop being a friend & becoming a psycho poseur?
Response! Why are you so blind, you feckless fuck!

Ringtone! Did I catch you with who-know-you at the you-where-you know-when-know?
Texting! Which computer language am I speaking: bleddle deddle bleddle beddle!

Observation! Who worries about ice cubes until it's too late?
Misapprehension! Who drinks gin at room temperature who isn't British & sickly!

Question! Does how much you hate make how little you care seem too much to deal with?
Answer! What movie is that from why won't you tell me!

Relativity! What do you call someone who can't tell the difference between frogs & rats?
Certainty! Shall we try to replace the context of the "so & so walks into a bar" joke!

Offensive! Are those new shoes?
Defensive! Are those new tits!

Dominant! What are you going to do about your stupid life!
Submissive! What would Sam Beckett do!

Pre-op! Can someone tell me that name of that mean & ugly nurse?
Post-op! Why would any hospital hire such an obviously hateful person!

Question! What do you think my kitten says when she says "meeow"?
Answer! What does your blood taste like!

Science! Aren't you afraid of getting caught?
Religion! Do you think they'll put me back in the happy place with the happy pills!

Open! Do you double space the text so it's easier for the average person to read?
Closed! What does any of this have to do with a radio show!

Simple! Why can't I get to sleep even when I'm really really tired?
Complicated! Why can't I wake up even when I have nothing to do!

Question! Don't you hate that you didn't pay enough attention to Nikki Sudden when he was alive?
Answer! Do you really want a list of my regrets!

Whither Indiepop A To Z # 9?

Isn't it enough I love the music I love? Do I give a shit whether you listen to the unbearable nonsense you listen to? Do I come over to your house & weed-whack without permission? Why do you feel the need to charge me for all the oxygen I breathe around you? You're mean.

I'll say it again. I don't have enough noodles in my life. Let me rephrase. I am uncomfortable around naked people. However, I have been known to discard clothing in my time. This is not much in way of an explanation. But you keep your glasses too tightly pressed to your face. You know how that makes my teeth weep.

Someone the other day was making plans for tomorrow, & no I wasn't invited along nor did I want to be. Still she said, "How far in advance do you plan your shows?" I began to explain how a heterosexual Celtic mage does a dance on my forehead exactly fourteen seconds after I enter rem sleep if I am sober & it's not later than 4am, & how I then commune with a round table (if you will) of slightly incorrect copies of minor characters in post-war American novels, & we drink a bit of a mildly alcoholic concoction that tastes like a warm bloody mary that's fallen asleep next to a flat plastic bottle of RC Cola, & after a couple of hands of canasta (which I can only play in my dreams; I don't know how to in an awake state), we discuss what's going to happen on Self Help Radio in the next few weeks...

But she stopped me there. She said, "Not your radio shows. The shows you put on for the neighborhood when you get drunk, turn the stereo on, dance around the room like a burglar struggling with an attack dog, all the time forgetting to close your drapes. How far in advance do you plan for those shows?"

I guess when I buy the booze, the idea's put in my head. That's not helpful, though. I want to talk about the heterosexual Celtic mage!

Still, indiepop is vibrant & fun, & there's more & more. & this week we will begin the Cs! You can listen to old episodes of the Indiepop A To Z OCD Radio Experiment at the Self Help Radio archive page. If you're able to make it there before Friday, you might win a prize.

Or you might you be the same judgmental jerk you were the last time we talked about music. Gah!

Preface To Indiepop A To Z # 9 (I Think): Oh No Not This Again!

Indiepop is nice music. I first encountered it in a closet (that's where I meet all my music, now that I think about it). It was actually afraid of the funk. Who isn't? But I cajoled it out & we've been pals ever since.

Agh! I keep scratching a scab on my knee & it keeps bleeding. I have a bleeding knee! I sound like a place where white people slaughtered Native Americans. I will confess though, that I've always liked the way blood tastes. Well, my blood. I've never tasted anyone else's blood. I could very well be the pickiest vampire ever.

When I write things like that ("the pickiest vampire ever"), I wish I were a songwriter, because I could then write a song called "The Pickiest Vampire Ever." Then I would probably twee it up a bit, & it'd become an INDIEPOP song called "The Pickiest Vampire Ever." It would have lines like, "He doesn't like the taste of blood/Unless he is in love in love." I would need to be a lot more cute, however. I've never been cute enough for indiepop.

When I say that, by the way, I don't mean that indiepoppers are cute. Ack, no! Some of the homeliest people love indiepop. They definitely think they are cute, but more than anything, they act cute. I don't act cute enough for indiepop. I am a dork. But I'm not self-consciously dorky enough for nerdcore. Not to disrespect nerdcore. Any genre that has a "star" called MC Plus+ is all right by me.

When indiepop gets that self-consciously cute, it's hard to stomach. Something much easier to stomach is indiepop's cleverness. That's what drew me to it in the first place. I heard it punning in my closet. Rats! Another indiepop song I'll never be able to write!

Anyway, indiepop is nice music. So I say.

Oh Ye Of Little Fates!

Perhaps a few introductory remarks might be in order. For those of us joining you overseas. In case your ship, which shall sail, sails alas! I am happy to brief the settlement & offer the customary light fare that recruits expect in every buffet & bar on this side of the world. Alas!

1) There will be no fondling of hallowed topics on this radio show. It's either fuck them or get out of the way.
2) When I say "sit still," I mean "sit still." When I say "look away," I mean, "panic!"
3) The importance of yard work - or the fretting about thereof - shall not be undersold.
4) Recently it has come to my attention that you require prerecorded cues to determine when you need to laugh. This is unacceptable.
5) However, subliminal sounds (which sound a lot like goats weeping) have been inserted into archived radio shows to help you know when you are supposed to be amused. Don't thank me all at once.
6) Fire breathing may seem hokey but it can totally mess your throat up.
7) Even metaphorically.
8) I was thinking about it, though, when you have fantasy movies or books or whatever & the graceful gallant knight is battling the wild, evil dragon, & the dragon roars & flame comes out of its mouth, that flame is basically the dragon's flammable spit. Am I right? Like, the spit has a chemical reaction to oxygen & turns to flame. If so, that's just gross.
9) Because, you know, human fire breathers have to put liquid into their mouths in order to blow fire. Human spit is not flammable. Not ever. Not even for people with Butt Breath.
10) Butt Breath cannot be detected on the radio, which may explain why so many people at KOOP have Butt Breath.
11) They know who they are.
12) It's getting so that your average meeting at KOOP, even when held at a fancy downtown eatery, smells like it's being held in the front restroom of the United States Diarrhea Club.
13) If you know what I mean.
14) On this radio show, we don't talk about body parts much.
15) On this blog, it's all butts & balls.
16) & saliva & blood.
17) & recalcitrance & woe.
18) Do not operate heavy machinery for a few hours after my show. This isn't because of something my show does to your brain - this is because it's Friday & you're supposed to be off work. & when you're off work, you drink. A lot. So don't operate heavy machinery when you're drunk. Duh.
19) Light machinery is fine.
20) Light machinery is machinery an eight-year-old girl can pick up & carry around for seven minutes.
21) Singing along is fine.
22) Sexing along is weird.
23) There is only one other thing to mention.
24) Why must you constantly change record labels?
25) I can't keep up with your reissues!

For more in an active sense, you can as of right now go to the selfhelpradio.net archive page & listen to last Friday's exciting & exacting episode. I will be over at your house later today to ask you how it made you feel. Make me scones.

Head Up The Ass & Away

Oops. I didn't write anything yesterday! What will the Yagfijhi Tribe of Outer Greentopula do without my nonsense to fete their prophecies? Too late! They've all returned en masse to Tony Danza.

When we last left out this discussion, we were discussing how digusting it is that, the older people get, the shallower they become. But then the Grey Goose said, "Are we only talking about people who talk about rock & roll as if it's a way of life?" "No, no," said Jonathan Swift, trying valiantly to pass a kidney stone. "Shallowness," he continued, "is as common as pimples on the butt of existence." The audience cheered. I managed to ask the prestigious panel, "Well, can we choose not to be shallow?" There was hearty laughter all around.

"You can no more choose how shallow you are," said the dish who ran away with the spoon, "than you can pick the consistency of the viscous membrane that coats all of those inner tissues which are regularly exposed to outside sources." "That's a lie!" said Emmy-award-winning actress Desiree Fluke. "I am the product of the sum of all my parts." "All your parties," former Soviet Ambassador Ted Danson quipped, to a smattering of titterings in the solarium.

In spirited philosophical discussions such as these, it's not uncommon for commoners to feel they need to inject some common sense. "Come on," said Peasant Hobo, "you're acting like people understand what the fuck they think. They don't. They're stupid, they're shallow. Especially if they pretend that some art form defines them like a religion or an ethnic group. Also, panties are gross. Why can't women wear boxer shorts like men? & don't get me stared on thongs. How can a dude who has to wear cast off clothing enjoy his day in a thong? Anyway, I want to ask you all as I wander around the room if you can spare a dollar for a man who's really hungry & who lost his virginity for his country."

The evening got late, but since it was the longest day of the year, no one noticed. Everyone thought we were in some fucked-up Northern English city like Newcastle or the Bronx, where the sun doesn't so much as set in the summer as lie low. Presently the Four Horsemen Of The Apocalypse went on a beer run & three drama critics drank WD-40 & convulsed quietly to themselves on the bathroom floor. Bob Dylan came to the door & he was beat up. Time ceased to feel timely. A discussion about the properties of sleepy metals seemed about to wake up the room, but then the concierge brought us all chocolates & ginger ale & we knew it was nearing the end.

Your homework assignment today is to tune in to a radio show online (might I request koop.org at 4:30pm today central standard time) & regurgitate its highlights in a blue book on Monday. Ta!