my conscience is on vacation in acute degeneration, willpower has sunk to an all-time low

It won’t be after I put my dick in it.

Here’s something you may not know, Internet: sitting around all week while on jury duty, waiting for hours upon hours to be called in and told to spit out your gum and asked how much you hate the blacks and also the jews, is a lot like an all-day trip to the DMV, possibly to have your car’s title and registration placed solely in your name after you get divorced.

Except with jury duty, you’re able to pass the time daydreaming that maybe, just maybe, you’ll get to send someone to the chair by week’s end. Fingers crossed!

Here’s a haiku I wrote about an experience I had outside city hall:

It’s not that I can’t
spare the thirty-three cents, hobo;
I just choose not to.

I know I ended that last line with a preposition, but haiku is a Japanese art form, and Engrish is far less grammatically rigid.

i see a child! now i’m blind! where did she go? oh no!

Hey hobos! Now you too can take a leak in the comfort and privacy of your own home!

So, happy belated Father’s Day, internet. I twittered yesterday that I was celebrating it because I’m your daddy, but I’ve given it some thought and I take that back, since you’ve stopped answering my “who’s your daddy?” calls (and accompanying slaps to the ass) now that we’ve incorporated the ball-gag into the mix.

Still, spending Father’s Day alone, looking at photos of a baby some friends had on Friday, gave me some time to reflect on my life, and how I really hope that, some day, I have someone to share holidays like this with.

I want to have a baby.

I want to have a baby in the worst way.

Up the butt.

I also spent the weekend setting up not one, not two, but three Topsy Turvy planters. It’s a vegetable wonderland!

Vegunderland.

I was excited about it and admit to getting a little carried away with the thought of fresh tomatoes and cucumbers and jalapenos growing right in my backyard. But after I got everything set up, cracked open a beer and sat down for a second to admire my day’s accomplishment, I realized that I hadn’t thought things through and had a bit of a problem:

What’s the use of growing fresh tomatoes right outside my back door if I don’t have any Mexicans around to pick them?

That’s how they get you: the up-sale.

And finally, I couldn’t help but notice your lack of comments on my previous blog entry, Internet. At first I thought I might have offended you with my “ironing is women’s work” crack, but since we both know it really kind of is, I figured you were just too busy doing other woman things — like watching Oprah, or driving poorly, or sucking cock — so I forgive you.

it’s green and itchy but i don’t mind; when it’s swishing in the breeze it feels so fine

I hate to be the one to have to tell you this, On the Run convenience stores, but a gas station hot dog technically only qualifies as a “vacation from your day” if you mean that you’ll be spending the better part of the afternoon away from your desk, on the toilet.

Don’t forget to reserve a seat in the spacious handicap stall!

Or maybe if this daycation of yours also includes plans for a side-trip to the Rite Aid to pick up some Imodium, but I’m not 100% sure that qualifies so I’ll have to check the handbook and get back to you.

I did a bunch of ironing last night and wrote you a haiku about it:

Hey you! Kenneth Cole!
That “wrinkle-free” tag of yours
is a crock of shit.

The funny thing about me ironing my own shirts is that I’m not even a woman!

I’m a rebel like that, the kind you always wished you could bring home to piss off your dad, and your mom would say things like “he’s bad news” but at night she secretly longed for his gentle touch, but keep dreaming because you were a little too chubby and, seriously, what would everyone say?

take off your drawers, throw ’em in the corner, i can’t see why you can’t stay a little longer

No matter how much you beg and plead, Internet, I just cannot seem to force myself to refer to midgets as “little people.” Because I find it’s only half-true.

So I went to the Babies’r’us this weekend to buy a gift for a friend, and after printing their registry list and walking around the store, looking at tiny little shoes and tiny little hats and tiny little blankets with teddy bears on them, something came over me and I never thought it would but I’ll be damned if it didn’t.

I want a baby.

So I bought one.

And I know you’re thinking that’s a pretty major purchase for me to have made so nonchalantly and all spur-of-the-moment like. But don’t you go worrying your pretty little head, Internet.

It was on clearance.

Asian female. Overstock, I suppose, but I don’t care because hey, free mani/pedis for life. And hopefully some day, she’ll grow to love me.

For a long time.

Right? Right.

Know what else I love about late Spring? How for a few weeks around this time each year, the three or four of you who aren’t degenerate gamblers pretend you actually give a rat’s ass about horseracing.

OMFG that one jockey was going for the triple crown which I guess would have made him head jockey and he might have even gotten to have sex with a full-sized woman as a prize but probably not because gross. I just don’t care, and I’m pretty sure you don’t either.

Know what “Preakness” means in French?

Meat sandwich.

Here’s an example usage for you to practice and practice and then try to impress the locals with on your next trip abroad:

Oh mon dieu! La viande de cheval en ce preakness goûte comme la colle! J’ajouterai du beurre! Viva la Bastille!

And I was married to a French girl for a few years, so I should know.

min is mine, not thine; it’s kitten time at the great crystal shrine

I’ve been traveling a lot lately, and you know as well as I do that once you’ve taken your seat and are drinking a complimentary Leinenkugel’s (it tastes like orange candy!) while the poor people board, that you can only make fun of the fires of jealousy burning in their eyes as they shuffle back to coach for so long before you get bored of them and start to think.

I personally like to use this post-making-fun-of-the-poor time to brainstorm new million-dollar ideas, and let me just say that yesterday I came up with a doozy:

A brand-new social networking/micro-blogging site, just for women.

Called Twatter.

I also took some time to reflect on why it takes you poor people so long to board the plane, because that’s been a mystery to me for so long and I even asked a poor person one time what gives but I couldn’t take the smell so I had to leave before he could answer.

Anyway, so yesterday I realized that it takes you longer to board because you bring all your luggage on the aircraft instead of checking it, likely because you can’t afford the $15 fee. And I realized this and I laughed out loud, right there in my over-sized cushy seat I laughed, because if only you’d have flown first class instead, you would have gotten free baggage checking and could have saved that $15.

Silly poor people.

Here’s something else that came up last week of which I think you ought to be made aware: pooping while drunk isn’t nearly as fun as you might think, primarily because of the less-then-thorough wiping.

And lastly, if you’ve ever successfully completed a hot wing eating challenge in a certain Appalachian state and have recently discovered your polaroid has gone missing from the wall of shame fame, it’s probably because I took it. No hard feelings.

i’ll take you off the boat, put you under my wings and you could pull my leg or anything

I know you’d never say as much in public or with mixed company, Internet, but deep down we all know you agree with me entirely and 100% on this (as you do on most everything I say (even the baby head haiku (which I wrote in jest, and you should be ashamed of yourself for agreeing with it because pedophilia is so wrong and gross and what are you, Catholic?))), and since you’re too afraid to speak up, I’ll say it for you.

Like always.

I just don’t understand how our country can be too homophobic for a gay American Idol winner, when the fact that you even watch American Idol is so completely gay, gayer in fact than that gay guy you wouldn’t let win because of your homophobia.

Regardless, the results are in. America voted. And you’re a hypocrite.

You kind of remind me of what happened on that American Beauty movie where that army guy beat up his son because he thought the kid was blowing Kevin Spacey but then he got drunk and went and made out with Kevin Spacey in the rain himself.

You could see Thora Birch’s boobs in that movie. Not that you care, what with your being gay and watching the American Idol and all that.

internalized conflict, externalized as war

I know you’ve been waiting for this, so let me go ahead and get it out of the way:

Yes, I watched the finale of the Big Fat Loser show. No, I don’t think it’s fair that the old woman won, what with her cheating by way of osteoporosis lessening her bone density.

Here’s a haiku I wrote about divorce:

Being able to
jack off whenever you want
is overrated.

And here’s a funny joke I just wrote:

You:

Is your refrigerator running?

Me:

No! It quit working yesterday, so now I have to throw all the food away! And then I have to buy a new fridge!! OMFGLMAO!!!!!

Also, I watched those Alzheimer’s documentaries on the HBO, Internet, and I’ve never felt more confident that, for one thing, Maria Shriver looks like the Crypt Keeper, and for another thing, once I hit 55, I’m so getting the Alzheimer’s. Whether I’ve got it or not. It’s just going to make life easier, I think, with the being waited on all the time and especially the not having to talk to people.

But so help me god, if one of the grandkids calls it “Alltimers” I’m going to smack him or her upside and about the head, repeatedly, until they learn to pronounce it correctly. It makes you violent sometimes, the Alltimers does.

you had my picture on your bedroom wall, next to gary glitter

I spent a bunch of time on airplanes last week — in coach, with the poor people and the swine flu, because I wanted to feel closer to you and your poor, swine fluey ass — and after looking at it over and over again, debating the pros and cons and ins and outs and ups and downs of it, changing my mind and then changing my mind about changing my mind, I decided that, you know what? I’m going for it. I deserve it. It’s been a shitty few weeks and goddamnit, I’m going to treat myself.

So I just ordered that fake rock to cover my ugly sewer-cleanout pipes or utility boxes from the SkyMall. And if the delivery is timely and I’m satisfied with my purchase, I’m thinking I just may order from them again, because there’s something else I’ve got my eye on.

Maybe I’ll invite you over to look at it someday. But only if you’ll promise to look at it and leave. No gawking, and no loitering. And no, you cannot go inside to use the restroom. Go before you come, Internet. And who calls it a “restroom” when it’s in a house? It’s a bathroom. Stop trying to sound fancy, because I see right through you.

Here’s a haiku I wrote about pedophilia:

Stop crying, baby!
I’ll keep it out of your mouth
once you start teething.

I’ve been saying it for a while now, and I know you never listen so I’ll say it again, but I really think pedophilia is the new midget joke. Speaking of which, here’s a haiku I wrote about midget babies:

Relax, midget child.
I swear I draw the line at
Bestiality.

I would apologize about the bestiality crack, midgets, but you and I both know you’ll never find out I said it because you’re too short to see the screen and your little sausage fingers are too deformed to type on the keyboard and besides, you probably can’t even get the Internet down there anyway.

and the thought came to me, just sweet sixteen and full of night: who will deliver me from myself?

So I’m in the Frisco (because that’s what we locals call it (even though we deny it to you (because we hate you and don’t want you to have any part of our cool “calling it Frisco” club))), and I think I’ve come down with a case of the Whine Flu. And OMG, you guys, it hurts so goddamned bad that I can’t stand it!!!

That was a joke.

But since you’re stupid, here’s the gist: I used “whine flu” instead of the currently topical “swine flu,” because whine rhymes with swine. And then I whined about it. OMFGLOL!

Get it?

I didn’t figure. But trust me, it’s funny.

And I should probably mention that, just in case you’re reading this in six months when we’ve all forgotten about the swine flu just like we forgot about the AIDS and the SARS and the SIDS and the Lance Armstrong bracelets, “swine flu” was some bullshit that no one cared about but the news kept forcing it down our throats even though it was a Mexican issue and, really? We’re going to concern ourselves with the Mexicans now?

No offense Mexicans, but you’ll have to take the word of whoever told you I said that because you’re too busy roofing houses and cleaning hotel rooms and boxing and eating cats to blog hop. And the illiteracy puts a damper on things as well but, again, not apologizing because you’ll never know I said it.

But I digress.

I’m going to make some changes in my life. And I’m going to write a book or two. In your face.

and you’re a prima ballerina on a spring afternoon

Hey there, Internet. I haven’t been around too much because I’ve been busy rounding up the local homeless and tricking them into doing my yard work in exchange for some Canadian change I got at a McDonald’s one time and a snack-sized ziplock of flour I told them was cocaine. I wouldn’t have even mentioned the part about the flour to you if it weren’t for the fact that they’re homeless and they don’t get the Internet at the corner of Hammond Aire Plaza and Airline so it’s not like they’ll find out or anything.

Here:

i think your feelings
regarding anilingus
are pretty crappy.

a clitoral kiss
my tongue slides down your thigh, then
oops! up the poop shoot.

you know, i could swear
that before we got freaky
my tongue wasn’t brown.

Those were some haiku.

(for you)

(tastes like poo)

(it’s true!)

(doo doo)