My Visit To The HeadacheLand Artists In Residency Compound, My Hard Hitting SkinHead Exposé & Job Schmob Corn Cob

I visited an old friend of mine last weekend. He is an accomplished illustrator and consequently he has taken up residency at a log cabin ranch way out in the woods. They aren't regular log cabins as the logs are made out of metal and painted to look like wood, like trailers made to look like cabins. I could hardly see the point with so many real logs all over the place.

He was busy painting away, so not to be outdid, I drew a big intricate drawing of a tree with brand new buds forming on the branches all springtimey except the buds were all skinhead's heads.

I associate springtime with Hitler just like all of you guys.

Anyway, the skinheads were all buck toothed and cross eyed, which is totally funny cuz it's unexpected because skinheads are usually handsome geniuses with great vision.

The other residents of the fake cabin complex kept wild animals as pets and behaved in distinctly carnivalishy ways 24/7 which was way too burning man for me.

Hang out too long with artists in residency and you'll end up wearing the jester hat acting whimsical..

WHIMSICAL SUCKS.

ALWAYS.

I did however enjoy the wide smiled monkey dog created in the crossbreeding workshop.

Round about quittin time, the director of the compound put out the word that they were looking to hire more artists and my friend wasted more energy than needed trying to convince me to apply.

I was tempted for minus ten seconds.

Apparently he didn't remember the last time he vouched for me and got me an art job. I spent the most of the workday conducting personal business on the company phone or sleeping under my desk.

True story.

Summary:
Skinheads are like pussy willows minus the willows.
EmploYEe, not ME.

That's all for now.
Don't get caught making conceptual circumcision doodles of skinheads in high pink turtlenecks.
Your Race War Instigation Precinct Captain,
Charlie Brown

Violated By The Church of BBQ Tentants, Billy Ray Looked Better With a Mullet & You'll Find Me in a Tub in Jersey

While I wasn't looking, my tenants started a new church in my back yard. They built a massive stadium style deck to host their church meetings/BBQs. I haven't really looked over the lease for a while but I'm pretty sure they are in violation.

Speaking of violations, pretending to be cool with religion makes me feel like I've been violationed in my pooper.

Nonetheless, I spent a few hours spying on their sermons. I rolled my eyes so much, I barfed up a whole bag of quarters.

On of the attendees, Billy Ray Cyrus, came to me talking about his new idea for an "electric avocado". I got the impression that he went though all my photos and saw all the crap I do with groceries and figured an electric avocado would be the ticket to my friendship.

Anyway, becoming his "best bud" was a big mistake, now I have to help him with his adoption papers. Apparently he has a douchebag son in New Jersey who wants emancipation.

I'm not even a lawyer.

Don't get me started.

I saw one of my best friends from high school. He is so fat now that he requires two movie seats for his giant pooper. Good thing they have those lifty arm rests now, although his crack seems deep enough to accommodate an old school sitch.

That's two times for the word pooper.

I also saw an ex half girlfriend -- she really was trying super hard to play aloof but I out aloofed her times a billion.

I'm aloofer than a dead cat.

Later I found a box with all my clothes from junior high school. Every single item had a Pittsburgh Steelers logo on it. Boy was I ever trying to fit in. Truth is I just really like black and yellow.

Holy bumblefag.

Summary:
Religion is for renters.
I'm aloofer not a fighter.

That's all for now.
Don't get caught saying pooper just one more time to adhere to a fictitious OCD comedy rule of threes.
Your Favorite Excuse To Stay Depressed,
Mylie

Shin Meat Sandwiches With George Bush, Pillow Talk with The Jerk and Nancy Reagan & Plumbic Enemy #1

Yesterday I ate baloney sandwiches with George Bush and I asked him if he was worried that Jihadists in the middle east were trying to acquire uranium for nuclear weapons.

He said:
"Truss me, ain't nobody gunna "obtain" MY "anium" for no nukular bombs."

Then he cinched up his belt and went on for a half an hour about how NASA was using telescopes to study his butthole.

Later on I interviewed Steve Martin on The Bed Show. If you haven't seen it, it's not that great, the whole set is a giant bed and the guests are all old wrinkled cartoons.

Accordingly, Nancy Reagan was my second guest. She was STILL all yappy about "Just say NO" as if it was a brand new public service announcement we hadn't heard yet -- but I was the host so I put a stop to it.

"Don't be so Bum-outy, Nancy. Don't just say NO, say IF."

"What if someone offers me DRUGS and I don't want to eat them?" She wheezed.

"Then just say "I'll eat drugs IF they are made out of lasers and IF they come shooting out of Vladimr Putin's nipples. Since that's not likely to happen you get the same results without being a little ol' Negative Nancy."

"You don't know Vladimr." She said.

When I got home after the hosting gig I discovered that everything in my garage had been stolen because I left the effing door open. The weird part is that whoever jacked all my stuff installed about ten super skinny shower stalls before they left. They were too skinny for me and I'm not even 400lbs anymore.

Be on the look out for a half guilt ridden plumber.

Summary:
My "anium" is apparently radioactive.
Nancy Reagan Self-Rufies.

That's all for now.
Don't get caught staining your six pack just because the president thinks pre-karate sex is un-American.
Your Secretary of Defense,
Link Cheney

Soggy Snoring Sleeping Bag Sopranos, The Inside Out Pants Trick & Yelling While Sprinting Full Speed Through The Park

My friend who owns the art gallery where I did my 111 book show had a sleep over at his house which also happens to be one of SF's premiere opera houses. He doesn't really have it set up like a normal house with bedrooms and the likes so we all just slept in the lobby which is where he usually sleeps anyway.

Some of the opera stars slept over too.

The roof was really leaky so it was chinese water torture time up the wazoo all night long and forever and ever until I ran yelling into the park. Not screaming, yelling. It's different.

The line for the bathroom was extremely long and crowded so in order to divert attention away from my cutting in line I took off my pants and turned them inside out. It totally worked, you should try it, of course if you're like me you'll want to match so you'll have to turn your jacket inside out and if you left your jacket back at the opera house as I did, you'll have to sprint back at full speed to get it before some fat ass opera singer tries it on and stretches it all to hell.

Feel free to yell your head off as you are sprinting.

It's ok to copy me. I'm totally used to it by now.

Anyway, in other news...

Nobody reminds me of my dad more than George Carlin.

It's always sad when a funny person dies.

Summary:
Tenors snore loudly and with vibrato.
Screaming is gay, yelling isn't.


That's all for now.
Don't get caught saying it's ok to copy and then silently resenting those who do all passive aggressive steeze for the next five decades.
Your Silent Resentful Copycat,
Flavor Flav

Blogtrotting To Up My Geek Cred , Complaints Look Funny With Your Junk Flopped Out & Carol Channing Lays Some Cable

In an attempt to raise my level on the geek pole I took a trip up north to hang out with an internet friend I had never met in true life. She likes to go on and on about her blog fame and what not which is why I assumed she was like way up there on the geek pole.

But apparently she ain't.

Everywhere we went I got spotted and she didn't.

She was pissed.

It was Naked Night at the Hotel bar where she always hangs out with her friends. I normally don't like Naked Night anywhere but her friends were so complainy about everything that had they not been naked it would have sucked like ten times as much.

Complaints look funny on naked people.

My shoes got really dirty.

There were animals in the street.

One of the worst things about hanging out with a group of someone else's friends is the crapping situation. I had to take a giant crap but didn't know how to go about accomplishing it. To make things worse, she had a friend who had a pink poodle that had to poop every ten steps.

The fancier your haircut, the dumber you look taking a crap.

I just held it.

Felt like I had a bowling ball in my anus.

Still I was happy to be spotted more than her in her own home town.

So if you were one of the people who said hi to me, now you know why I had gruntface.

Summary:
Internet friends should stay there.
Strange groups inhibit easy dumps.

That's all for now.
Don't get caught waiting till the last second to tell everyone it's your birthday.
Your Favorite Kind of Birthday Cake,
Willard Scott

A Salute To Minimalism, The Fastest Acting Class & Convertible Stunt Drooling With Strokey at Spring Break 2008

A good friend announced to me the other day that he was "becoming" a Minimalist.

I raised my arm showing him the back of my hand, fingers extended and said:

"Well then let me just get rid of some of this clutter."

I curled back three unnecessary fingers and a useless thumb;

"To minimalism!"

Then I released a long silent fart, not as further salute to minimalism, but because our friend was conducting business on the phone. I'm not RUDE.

At the park I met a douchehag woman who was prattling on and on about her "actor skills".

"Gimme any emotion and I will act it." She squinted.

So I elbowed her really hard in the boob.

"Act like that doesn't hurt."

Later The World's Biggest Midget friend of mine who had a massive stroke asked in a mumbled slur if I wanted to drive with him to spring break and even though his arms and giant head flop around somewhat uncontrollably due to the stroke I said sure why not. We jumped in his convertible VW Cabriolet and he looked no different than the other drunken spring breakers swerving hither and yon, showing their boobs and acting all MTV.

He's an excellent drooler!

Minimalism is for quitters.
Safety is for pussies.

That's all for now.
Don't get caught quoting yourself as if nobody heard you the first ten thousand times.
Your Favorite Broke Ass Cripple Who Cain't Neven 'Ford The House Payment,
Ed McMahon

Sleeping Underwater With Electric Farts, Potty Training Using The Peed On Refried Beans Method & The Trailer Park What Is My Heart

I have learned how to sleep underwater. The secret is that you have to plug yourself in to a wall socket so that your farts light automatically. It takes a minute to get used to the constant buzzing sound of the electricity but once you do it's really soothing and adds to the feeling of inhaling water.

Bet you didn't even know a fart could light on fire underwater.

Take a science class. Sheesh.

My brother stayed over in the guest room and he got so drunk he peed the bed. To teach him a lesson I peed in some refried beans.

I always think it's best to lead by example.

Some religious asshole was blabbing on about how Jesus lives in his heart and I said:

"Yeah well Jesus lives in my heart too but he has cancer and it doesn't look so good."

Then I went on and on about how Kurt Cobain and a bunch of other dead dudes also live in my heart and they party constantly doing all kinds of drugs, they never take out the trash or mow the lawn and I'd really like to evict them but I can't because I'm not about to serve an eviction notice as I'm not in the mood to have a fucking thumbtack stabbing into any of my various ventricles or aortas etc.. I'll leave the heart attacks to Grampa thanks.

Then I thought about Jesus lighting his farts on fire at a party in my left atrium with Kurt Cobain and how Kurt Cobain would get all pissed at Jesus for playing with fire in the atrium cuz that's where Kurt grows pot.

I often take jokes ten miles past the last exit.

There is a great rest area out there.

You know about rest area bathrooms right?

Google.

Anyway, I also sat up on the roof and threw hot dogs at passers by. Fun times.

That's all for now.
Don't get caught singing "Champagne Super Vena Cava In The Skyeee" To flunkee Brit-o-phile heart surgeons.
Your Most Recently Available Leather For Purse Making,
Yves Saint Laurent

London's Reddish Blimp Filled Night Sky, Park Bench Nappytime Bike Thief City & Something Fancy For Your Finger

My favorite part about visiting London are the reddish blimp filled night skies. While the rest of the world moved on to aircraft that are actually speedy, the UK stuck with giant lumbering wartime balloons and parachutes. But what choice did they really have? Regular airplanes don't match a curly mustache and monocle which everyone knows is the national uniform.

Anyway I was so busy blimp gazing on my bench hang out spot at the park that I ended up in Nap City which, when visited via park bench is AKA Stolen Bike City so when I woke up --- aw -- poor me, no more bike.

I got up and looked for it but that only resulted in a quick trip to Lose Your Park Benchville. Luckily, upon my return, the new inhabitant of my bench was having craft day so we sat around and made jewelry using the lost wax casting method. His equipment was exactly the same as the stuff I keep in my kitchen pantry at the house so I totally looked like a pro.

I made a ring that looked like a tiny old vagina, you know for laughs.

The only people laughing were creeps.

Can't win'em all.

That's all for now.
Don't get caught going for the more identifiable vagina ring even though a wormy butthole ring is way more universally relatable on account of 100% of living creatures having one.
Your Other Most Popular Finger Adornment,
A Common Nostril

100 Wrong Rung Doorbells, My Italian Neighbor's Stinky Second Bases & Sulking To End Global Warming

There was a big house party at my house last night. All my friends showed up and rang the doorbells.

Yes that's plural.

I had a separate doorbell installed for each of my 100 top friends, they each have a distinctive ring so I know who is at the door, except

A) Nobody ever rings their own bell and

B) How the fuck am I supposed to memorize 100 different rings?

Stupid cell phones gave me the idea.

But yeah, I wasn't invited so I just stayed in my room watching all my friends having a great time in my house without me. I had a knot in my throat like I wanted to cry exactly like when I left my lunch money home in middle school and I thought I looked so stupid just sitting in the lunch room not eating while everyone else gorged themselves on Jello and sloppy joes.

My friend who had a massive stroke a few years ago was there dancing faggily as if nothing ever happened. He still looks like the worlds largest midget. I tried to be happy for him but I was too busy feeling sorry for myself and choking back tears. Holy gay.

An italian neighbor woman fell asleep in my bed.

She stunk.

Since most of my friends are famous folks like Tom Brokaw, paparazzi were trying to take pictures through my windows but I could hear them through the walls so I had a grand old time startling them and making them pee.

I was still sad though so don't go getting all overly happy for my one sliver of joy in a woodshed of dread.

Also there was a dog shaped like a fish and a peacock that looked like Ed Begley Jr. at the party.

I should have kicked them all out of my house but of course I was hoping they'd come find me sulking in my room and I could guilt them all into a deep dark freezing cold depression.

FREEZE!

RAH!

ahhhhh........aaaaaahhhhh aaaaaaaahhhhh.... AHHHHH

FREE BASE.

Speaking of ice and free and bases, I wanted to rub the neighbor woman's naked second bases but she really did stink,

Like goat cheese.

AKA vomit.

That's all for now.
Don't get caught second basing the lunch ladies.
Your Cutest Sounding Disease,
Rabies

The Saddest Boobs On Earth, The Cheech and Chong Treatment of AC/DC and Maury Povich & You Hate This Story Because You Don't "Get It"

I met a woman who lactates out of her tear ducts. I wanted to ask her if she had to be sad for her kid to get any lunch but I didn't want to hurt her feelings because it's not like I was gonna start licking her face if the milk turned on. Her kid wasn't anywhere around.

Anyway she started lactating anyway, maybe she sensed my insensitive puzzlement.

It all reminded me of a poem a hippie might write.

Later on I kept calling the band members of AC/DC Cheech and Chong which prompted an hours worth of them begging me to join their band. Famous rockstars like to be called Cheech and/or Chong.

Later still I met Maury Povich and kept calling him Cheech mainly to see how long it would take before he realized I was referencing his wife. Her name is Connie Chung for all you dipshits who don't keep up with important shit about America's most inspirational broadcasters.

Anyway, he didn't get the joke.

Dipshit.

I presented an award at the local version of the Oscars for San Francisco artists. I kept saying:

"My warehouse is bigger than your hard drive lady."

I said it like 50 times, not in a row though.

They all giggled and nodded pretending to "get it" even though I was saying it to make no sense. Artists all have to pretend to "get" everything because they are always running around accusing people that hate their crappy art of not "getting it".

Try it, it's a great joke to play on artists.

Any gibberish will do. The worse they are as artists, the more they will nod with glee and fake understanding.

Dipshits.

That's all for now.
Don't get caught calling your mom a dipshit because you're hungry.
Your Second Favorite Dipshit,
Harvey "Cheech" Korman

I Lost My Shoes AGAIN, I Got Arrested AGAIN & I Killed a Cop AGAIN

It all started when I lost my shoes AGAIN. This time it was at the park in this little town up north. There was a lost and found through which I rummaged looking for them but they weren't anywhere to be found so instead I just decided to adopt some of the orphaned bastard shoes that some other drunk lost. Nobody was ever gonna claim them. They were ugly and gay.

Anyway, I got caught, and get this, they called the cops.

The cop was an evil little weight lifting bastard, the more I was nice and reasonable the more he saw it as an opportunity to fuck with me and be violent. He handcuffed me and put me in the back of his car which didn't even seem like an official police vehicle. I was like a mid eighties Cadillac with fast food garbage all over in the ripped up back seat. When I asked him about it he pistol whipped me and kicked me in the gut like 20 times. Yeah, unreasonable.

I coughed up gallons of goopy blood.

He was an AWFUL driver, we side swiped at least ten cars on the way to jail.

It didn't take me long to determine that he probably wasn't even a real cop and by the time I was standing before the fake judge I could see that I was right. Fake you ask? What judges do you know that hold court by candle light? Exactly. I was obviously doomed if I didn't do something to save myself.

Long, totally awesome story with lots of great details and plot twists short, I got loose from my handcuffs and killed the cop in the hallway. As he was laying there dying, gurgling blood still acting like an asshole, I maneuvered my butthole within an inch of his nose and farted. He deserved to die with a fart in his nose and so he did.

That's gonna be my move in the movie about my bad assery.

I doubt anyone will miss him, as I walked out of town everyone was trying to bloody high five me.

That wasn't me trying to sound british, my hands were actually bloody. DUH.

Anyway, small towns are nerdy.

Now Dominique:

That's all for now.
Don't get caught bragging about killing cops on the blog.
Your Anti-Hero,
Death Farter

Mr. Furley Was REALLY On Top of His Game, My Invisible Motorhome & The UnWangable Window Fog

I got really excited because I thought the people in the third basement moved out but it turns out they just sneak moved in to the penthouse. I really need to pay more attention to what my tenants are doing. Mr. Furley I ain't.

I bought a smallish Toyota motorhome and no sooner did I cram it with sleeping bags than somebody stole it. Everyone had an opinion about where it might have gone, as if it WENT somewhere, half of the people thought I just forgot where I parked it, the other half thought I might have sold it and forgot about it, and the other half thought I was just imagining that I bought it in the first place. All I wanted to do was take it to the beach so I could sit inside of it and still be inside but closer to the beach than normal. I like INSIDE.

Anyway, driving the other car home the windows got super foggy, couldn't see a damn thing. I kept wiping the windows but it would just fog right back up. They fogged up so fast that I couldn't even draw a window fog wang, by the time I would draw the second ball, the shaft was all fogged over. Record breaking window fog man, can't even draw a weenie.

I made sure I took off my shirt before going in the house to meet my new roommates. I figure if they meet me shirtless they won't be surprised when they find out I don't wear pants around the house.

Now Ally:

That's all for now.
Don't get caught drawing fog wangs on your grandma's medicine cabinet.
Your Resident DJ,
DJ Fog Wang Poo

That's It I'm Becoming a Stunt Dude, Everything's Funny Til Dad Breaks His Leg & Awkward Charity Boners 2008

I jumped out of a moving cab yesterday. It was doing 30 mph or so. I stumbled, tumbled and rolled a bit but didn't break any bones or bleed or anything gay like that. I definitely have stuntman potential.

Strangely, later on, my dad and I were joking about not having our cell phones with us for whatever reason, I mean talk about a humorous topic CELL PHONES? Get. Out. Anyway it was all fine and good until my dad climbed up the jungle gym to pretend that he was a cell phone tower. He lost his footing and came crashing down breaking his 70 year old leg all over the universe. He tried to keep the jokes going and good for him for that but shit, his leg was fucked.

In the waiting room at the hospital I accidentally took some dude's seat, when he returned from the bathroom all teary eyed he insisted that I keep the seat. But there was a catch, he got to use my lap as a pillow which wasn't awkward AT ALL. I fake nurtured him by stroking his hair because he was all crying and sad and I was trying to be understanding as if I'm actually a good person but really I kept thinking, I hope this isn't some creep who fakes sadness in hospital waiting rooms so he can get his face next to straight beardy wang. Then I checked to see if he had a boner because that would be the answer to that question and then I worried about how ironic it would be if I got a random completely unrelated boner and how then if he was legit and actually sad it would seem like it was ME who was the hospital room lap bandit.

Being charitable and kind is complicated when you factor in random boners.

Oh yeah, the waiting room was FILLED with cases and cases of booze and I helped myself. THANKS SICK PEOPLE :)

That's all for now.
Don't get caught thinking about awkward boner scenarios when dear old dad's leg is busted to shit.
Your Biggest Piece of Crap Waiting Room Magazine,
Better Homes & Gardens

Negroes Side With Me in Race Wars, Why You Never See Me & A Garbage Bag Full of Peanut Butter's Like a Constant Blow

As you know, cab drivers are either my best friend (95% of them) or my worst enemy (the other 5%). Last night I got a 5%er. I called him short and stinky and made fun of his race and shirt and my big giant black friend backed me up. It's good to have a huge neeg on hand when making racial trouble with the cabbies. Anyway, he was a wuss, best thing he came up with was threatening to drive us off a bridge. Course he didn't. LAME.

I saw an old friend on the street, he moved away years ago and it was the best thing that ever happened to me. Anyway, I saw him first so he didn't see me AT ALL. I do that to most of you guys too so don't get all acting like I don't. Felt good though, always does. Yay.

I looked all over the place for peanut butter in 5 gallon drums but it isn't as easy to find as you might think, especially if you care about what kind of container it is in, a big garbage bag of peanut butter is too hard to manage and seems too much like poo. I guess it always seems a little pooish but when it guacs against your leg as you carry it, the point is glued home.

Also I found a hair dryer that I couldn't turn off even though it was unplugged and didn't have any batteries. Haunted hair dryer probably.

HAPPY VICTORIA DAY CANADA!

That's all for now.
Don't get caught acting all Canadian just because you ARE Canadian even though you bailed that parking lot at 19 days old.
Your Queen,
The Queen What Lives in England