THE NUMBERIST

The trash can had been empty for almost thirty minutes when the next load came hurtling down the chute - warm and wet, the soft pink colour of mulched carnival treats with grey fibrous chunks mixed in. It flooded down for a good ten seconds, filling the can to its brim. Eric wrapped his arms around the bin - pressing stenching fluids into his shirt - and lifted deeply from his knees, bringing the rim to his mouth. As he drank it down the adulation rushed from the stinking hole above him.

"We love you Numberist," the residents bellowed down. "We would all surely melt without you".

And they would, he supposed, melt that is, if he wasn't there to digest their toxic sludge. To drink down their refuge and swallow their sins.

THE NUMBERIST

Eric's hands are tiny - half the size of a normal man's - and the bites his nails down to their nubs. He shakes hands like a timid child, cold and limp, sweat rising from his palms at even the sight of a stranger. His voice cracks and crumbles as he introduces himself, and he audibly whispers your name after you've said it in an effort not to forget. His breath stinks of a rotting breadbox, rich and yeasty, and warmer than one might expect. His teeth are big white squares that are almost more off-putting than anything else once you juxtapose them against his brittle, tearing lips and heinously acned complexion. His hair (what's left of it) is a greasy rag, placed upon his head, black as the night, and reeking of the many food scraps clinging to his shiny bald pate. He looks like a tiny, winded circus dwarf, breaking under the weight of his own self-doubt.

Keys jangle in the lock and the door swings open.

"You're done for the day Eric, go home and get some sleep".

"It's fine, I'm good for another load or two, I'll be home before midnight".

"I swear Eric, sometimes you act like this is all you have in life".

Eric mumbles under his paint-peeling breath, as Gary takes his seat by the can.

A Thirty Year-Old Cookbook

Well Done Brookie!

Poster Boy

A lot of the time, instead of typing anything on my blog I feel like just beating the keyboard. Smashing the good shit out of it and leaving it in a little pile of r's and d's. Then shoveling the broken wires and plastic shards into the waste-paper basket, sweeping my desk clean with the mouse, studying the surface with the infrared ray to make sure I haven't missed a stray comma or ampersand.

Then the mouse itself gets swung around by its charcoal cord, its USB plug clenched firmly in my upraised fist. It glances off the desk before hammering the monitor, spraying glass across the carpet as the final flickers spring up and down the LCD.

The mouse pops out and crumples beneath my descending foot. The monitor comes up over my head and crashes down, down, down through the window and 9 fleeting stories before finding the rough concrete of the parking-lot below.

The tower gets gutted, CD tray first, followed by drivers and inputs, fibers and wires and the mighty motherboard, all breaking easily under my tearing fingers, ripping and scraping the insides out.

I stop for a second to study my hands.

And then I punch preview, and then I pound post.



LOL ADMIN>

Ears, Please!

Blogs, Bloggies, and Bloghs,

I write to you today not in jest or jester-rector, nein mystic nor whimsy shall call my attention from the grave and danger-fridden caution I have come to dispel.

It is a danger of:


Ewwwww!

Wherever you sleep you don't think you can be safe from this obtrusive and clandestine:


Ewwwww!

Danger! That's right Danger. It lurks under your pillow-case and in the recent filling your dentist implanted in your cavity hole.

But-But-But-B-B-B-B-Butt, whyyyyyyyyyyyyy? Like a moaning baby shouting and squealing out the terrible sound: Whhhhyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?

SHUT UP BABY! I DON'T GIVE YOU ANSWER BABY! NO!

-------

Have a great weekend gang!

LOL ADMIN.

Kudos

LOL!!!

Karn on the Cob

This man needs an Emmy!


Whose Karn is it Anyway?

Yesterday, the 20th of April 2006, Rich Karn delivered about three minutes of the most excellent television since a certain robotic girl graced the screen.


SW = LOL

The Killinger family (returning champs) reached fast money for their second time and sent up the mom (brutal choice) and the super-creepy dad, Neil, who had gone second the day before and responded to being told he had his work cut out for him by telling Richard 'Don't worry, I've got very broad shoulders'. So the mom proceeds to bomb it, gets like 31 points, and then Neil comes out and looks surprisingly shaken by the situation, considering how broad his shoulders are and all.


Wide-load-bearing.

So the first question comes up, 'What part of a chihuahua is very small?', which mom got a fat zero on by saying 'face', which was creepy enough on its own. Neil would not be outdone, however, and proudly stated 'Its Peter!'. Well the place just goes bonkers, crowd flipping out, grandma looking like she's going to faint, Karn barely keeping his own shit together, though he does manage to get through it.


Consummate Pro.

So the time runs out, and there is a long awkward pause while the judges are trying to decide what they can get away with putting on the board, before they finally screw it and just go with 'Peter'. This, of coarse, sends the place on it's head all over again, and is followed by 'Peter' actually getting two points.

And then, Karn drops this bomb, which as far as I'm concerned should cement his legacy in the TV game-show host hall of fame:



"The number one answer was 'feet', but you know what they say about dogs with small feet".

Richard Karn - 2006.

There Goes The Neighborhood...

Looks like the Cook-Book
is finally on-line... Welcome to the Web Mr. Henny!

Portland Rocks!

Q: Why'd the lush move to Portland?
A: Cause he couldn't afford a place in Cognacopolis!

Serious though. I joke because I love.

I PORTLAND!

Portland is located in the proud state of Oregon (not just a delicious spaghetti sauce flavouring anymore folks, oh no! Now it's a full-blown state, and that's one bill away from a being a COUNTRY! Gad-Zooks!) and has a population of 37 million. Oregon is on the south-western tip of the USA, and is the home of such famous people as:


Whammo!


Wazzaaap!

and

Beverly Cleary, beloved children’s novelist and author of the Ramona Quimby books.

Moreover and heretofore, if it wasn't for Portland we wouldn't have such things as the Fosbury Flop, which looks like this:



The Fosbury shattered the record book and all but reinvented the sport of high-jump in 1968.

'And that's it', you say? 'Portland doesn't seem that awesome'...

Well no, I guess it wouldn't, considering you have yet to consider the fact that a little company called NIKE started not too far away in Beaverton, Oregon.

Yeah, that's right. That Nike. With the:



and the:



and the:



Yeah I know, Portland is seeming kind of amazing now isn't it? Thinking you spoke too soon? Portland agrees.

Portland doesn't even want me to tell you about:


The Captain William Clark Monument

Which just so happens to be sculpted by the same artist who created the Martin Luther King Jr. Monument, and depicts a Native American, Clark and his black slave York, who accompanied the Lewis & Clark Expedition.

Portland doesn't want you to know about the CWC Monument because Portland doesn't really want you to like it at this point. Portland thinks you're smug.

PORTLAND: Yeah, fuck you.
LEO: Whoah whoah there tough guy! Watch what you're saying to the Leo fanbase there Portland.
PORTLAND: Fuck you too bub, what have you done for me lately? I am a bloody state capital! I have been compared favorably to such world renowned cities as:


Houston!

and:


Nashville!

LEO: Oh please, this is getting pathetic.

LOL ADMIN: STOP IT! BOTH OF YOU! I have made it clear that I love you both, so you are just going to have to find a way to get along.

LEO: Like what do you suggest?
PORTLAND: I don't know, it's your site Mr Movie Star.

LOL ADMIN: That's it!

Mi Casa, Su Casa

'B' is for Brain
'L' is for Address
'O' is for
'G' is for Grimy
'A' is for Assured
'S' is for Subway
'S' is for

I thought I would open today's blog with an unfinished acrostic I call 'BlogAss'. It's hard when there are two S's.


Rock Hard.

I was all set to blog you today about the 10,000th hit this delicious web-haven just received (more than twice as many as Pete Rose, BTW), when I realized there is something far more pressing I need to address. Did I find this new information on the computer? NO! How about on the web? NO! How about on ESPN.com? Hell, NO!

Where then, could I have found it?

Well friends, it was tucked inside...

The folds of my own brain!

I used something called 'Critical Thinking Skills' to facilitate this new information. I started with a thought:


I Love Ninja Turtles.

I then, and this is the part that uses Critical Thinking, let that thought turn into another thought:

I Want to Live With Them.

This second though then blossomed like a hot-house flower into a million micro-thoughts that settled in and around the folds of my brain, and formed a question:

WTF* Do Those Guys Live?

(*WTF stands for 'Where The Fuck', I'm in touch with the youth culture).

Really though, when they go down that hole where do they end up?



Do they sleep on the subway tracks? Keeping one ear on the rail so they might warn their fellow Turtles at the first sign of an approaching train? Does the hole teleport them in some fashion? Perhaps to somewhere in the desert? No, no , no and no!

When they dive down the hole they go to: CASA-BUNGA!



Casa Bunga is a place where the Turtles can relax and get away from the stress of battling thugs, goons and henchmen.

There is no hate at Casa Bunga. In fact, last time it was tested it was completely free of negativity, sarcasm, snideness, and mean. It is filled with only one emotional oxygen-substitute (Turtles breathe feelings): LOVE!



Casa Bunga is so pleasant that it actually floats 3 inches off the ground most days, and makes the Turtles feel so loved that they smile even when they are fighting (bad guys, never each other!)



So even though the Turtles may be out of the spotlight (for now) rest assured that they are not lying with their cute green faces pressed against grimy subway tracks in the underbelly of NYC.

Instead, they are laying out at Casa Bunga, soaking up the rays and laughing about their old crime-fighting days. And that is where you will find them, until they are called on again, which, I might mention, will be sooner than you think (believe me, I'm in touch with the youth culture).

--------------------------------

LOL ADMIN>

ANOTHER

Hello Helios!

'Where you been?' humans always ask me. 'Why don't you blog anymore?'. 'Blog you don't blog anymore' they say to me. The nerve!

Well helio-blogs, after wrapping the Olympics earlier this week, the truth is that I am a little tapped out. If I was a cashew nut I would be skinless and half digested by the roasting juices of your deep and unclean bowels. Or something.

But I wanted to write a blog today because it has been far too long, and if I didn't write something soon, I feared you might start visiting sites like this one, this one and this one instead of the mighty Salad Army, and we can't have that. Maybe the last one, but definitely not the first two. Fuck the first two!!!

LEO: So what is this post about Marto?

Good question Leonard. Fine question, the better question, however, is what isn't this blog about.

LEO: Oh fuck, here we go...

Chill, I'm only kidding. I wouldn't do that at such a critical and fragile time in my relationship with the helio-blogs. That would be unresponsible. What is unresponsible you say? Well chipmunks, I am glad you asked...

LEO: That's it, I'm leaving you.

Okay, no seriously, I'm kidding, relax. Someone is strung up pretty tight today. The real answer to your question is that this post is about:


HANDSHAKES!

LEO: What about them?

Well that's precisely my point Leo, what about them?

LEO: You're pushing it.

I'm serious, people shake hands every day, to close deals, be sporting, or say hello. But what do all those handshakes do. Or rather, what do they mean?

LEO: You've lost me.

Well consider this, friend. A shake is just a shake, and yet it is always more than a shake. For example, you can shake like this:



But that shake might mean something like this:



Or even this:



Kind of makes you think, doesn't it?

LEO: No, it doesn't.

Yeah, well, what about this shake?



And this one?



And this one!



And this one!



And this one!



LEO: What are you trying to prove?

Fine, forget it. There goes another.

---------------------

LOL ADMIN>