Losing my Mind Online

Because you could be a Veteran and this could be your day...Easily... This post is for YOU!

The homeless man who fell off the cliff by my house when he was drunk (and sleeping on the edge of a cliff!) just walked by wearing new hip-hop gear. His limp (from the fall) seems to be healing quite nicely and is almost gone. The clothes look good on him, nevermind the fact that he's a 40-50 year old Mexican-American homeless person as thin as the rails of a train-track, with a giant moustache curling around the sides of his permanently drunken and malnourished face.

Sometimes he kicks and yells at invisible people standing beside him--Today, veterans day, I could see them for the first time: They are all the annoyingly blase and loitering ghosts of Dead (undead?) Civil War Soldiers. They hang around like pigeons and take ghostly dumps on homeless people and their things.

I'd like to add this thought to the mix:

http://www.mcphee.com/shop/products/Handerpants.html

Can we get these in boxes by the hundreds (like hospital gloves) and distribute them to the homeless, as a token of our gratitude for their anticipated attempts at cleanliness if we ask them really, really nicely to stay clean, with sugar on top...???

And now I'll close on these words:

Fucking Hell.

Femmebots Am Good

Here's where I admit I sometimes linger at the end of listening to my voicemail, just waiting in silence for a short pause after the point where the robot seductress says, "press seven to delete the message; press nine to save it."

I wait for maybe five seconds max--doing nothing, filing my mental fingernails--so I can hear my personal-voicemail-femmebot ask me, with no trace of sadness or real concern, "Are you still there?......Are you still there?.....Are you still there?"

Mmmmm...

Rien, Merci

Nothing. This post is about nothing.

Hubba Hubba, Our New PA!

The first thing about our new PA on Sunday was that she showed up in a "Sexy Police Lady" get-up: Motorcycle Cop glasses hid beneath enormous tufts of wavy, dark hair. A well equipped utility belt was slung low on super-duper, short-shorts and on the top, piles of cleavage exploded out the front of a tightly buttoned-down shirt.

When she opened her mouth, the voice was so low and dryly deadpan that you couldn't guess it came from a woman. And as she began speaking it was all we could do not to stare in amazement--She flatly stated in strict monotone-run-on-sentence, robot-speak:

"I just got off a week of shooting sixteen hour days for television where we were all walking zombies and nobody had any kind of revolution or revolt because they were all making BANK, like the PAs were getting over 800 a week and the DP made 5,000 and everybody was getting SO MUCH OVERTIME PAY that no one would open their mouth or say anything..."

"I don't have a business card, people, I have a RES-UM-MAY. I can email it to you...I have your email address...It's on the callsheet...I think I'll eat a banana."

And when she ate a banana we all followed her around to watch. It was like that.

The crew in complete thrall spent all day trying to figure out if she was into men or women...We finally decided both, she certainly must be into both--There was just no other answer.

So yeah. That happened.

The Zoo

My Housemate, Mister Wifi is taking his kindergarten class to the Los Angeles Zoo today for a field trip. I suspect they're going to watch hot little monkeys lilting in the heat and falling off their poles.

And speaking of poles, another friend was telling us that she took a class-full of first graders to the zoo and there was a Zebra with a giant hard-on that the kids were pointing at and asking about...Ugh.

And it was just RIDICULOUS in size. Double ugh.

I hate when that Zebra comes over and asks to use my email, as if he doesn't have his own, and I go to the store or something and come back and he's sitting all shirtless and nervous-looking.

Then, I see that my Spam Folder is WIDE open and all my secret stash of Penile Enlargement emails rifled through, my credit card by my phone, my phone dialed to some crazy 800 number and the earbud in that goddamned Zebra's giant, dirty ear. And he's all "ummm...I was just making a few phone calls..."

Apparently also at our fine local zoo, it IS NOT advisable to look the gorilla in the eye, or he'll fling his poo at you.

Apeshitz, meet Lipshitz, my close friend and attorney for years...

Next show at 3:00.

The Ghost of Dom Deluise

It was about six years ago, almost to this very day, when after a night of dinner and wine and lovely company, we decided to make a weiji board and get down to some strange business.

After having written out all the letters, written in little squares that said "Yes" and "No", we realized there were two letter "P"s on the weiji board, which might have been what got our summoning off to such a rocky start.

The overhead lights crackled with electricity as my friends and I fought to put our hands on an old jelly jar lid, which was moving around the board in a hunt for Red October, or a friendly peanut butter lid to pal around with--whichever came first.

"Whose spirit are we going to conjure?" someone asked, "And what shall we ask them?"

Almost as if possessed, and in a low and haunting whisper, I answered for us all, "We would like to speak to the ghost of Dom Deluise...and we are going to ask him which was his favorite Cannonball Run...We are going to ask him what it was like to work with Burt Reynolds...We are going to question, 'Are Lonnie Anderson's breasts real, Dom?--Tell us, for we MUST KNOW!' We are going to see if he still gets hungry from the Great Beyond, and we are going to try to find out what his favorite kind of sandwich is....Now hush!"

As the jelly lid whizzed around from one letter to another, spelling out crazy bullshit things we cried, "What are you trying to tell us Dom? What is it that you're struggling to say?"

Suddenly, in a dazzling feat of magic and pseudo-science, The Ghost of Dom Deluise began to speak through me...And out of my mouth, Dom said in a painful, droning wail, "Givvve meee a sandwiccchhhh... Givvve MEEE A SANDWICHHHH! GIMME A SANDWICH!!!! GIMME A SANDWICH!"

To make things easier on the poor fella we made another short-answer box next to the ones saying "Yes" and "No" that simply said, "Gimme a Sammich". The lid kept moving over to this spot--Eerie stuff!

We figured out all sorts of things that night. We moved through time and space to solve ancient riddles, etcetera.

CUT TO:

Having forgotten all about that night's dark work, I was sitting at my office desk maybe two or three days later, probably typing up a memo to the Board of Trustees or some such thing...Out of nowhere every one of the people who had been at the seance for The Ghost of Dom Deluise began calling and emailing me--all within the course of about five minutes.

Apparently some one had realized that Dom Deluise wasn't actually dead and had called or emailed the rest of the party to alert them to my 'fraud'.

I'm not sure why, but everyone decided that they felt a little gypped, a little cheated--they had seen the man behind the curtain and it was me. They all wanted to know why? Why had I done it? Had I known he wasn't dead yet? What was I thinking?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I told everyone. Right. Dom Deluise is not fucking dead, but I had some serious questions for him, we all did, and I didn't have his phone number.

Then I sang a teary-eyed and slowed-down rendition of That's Entertainment.

Dom Deluise, You Big Happy Fella, You'll be missed!
Happy Cinco De Mayo, Dom. Valla Con Huevos.

Rare Gems

One more for the day; a gift from me to you:

http://www.earwormmp3.com/brazilian_diamonds.mp3
You can download it for free. It's just sweet and, well, there you go.

DJ Earworm is awesome, FYI and has mashups available to download on his website:
http://www.djearworm.com/