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.