Archive for the ‘Todd’ Category
I haven’t been in touch with for a while, so I thought I’d send out this message to say hey, and give you a pointer in seasonal etiquette.
We’re getting ready to celebrate another 365 around the sun, and that means party invitations are coming your way. It’s important to let people know you’re coming, and this is how I responded today to such a query.
Hey Americans, it’s 2010. That means there’s another form to fill out in addition to your tax extension– the Census.
If you think a Census is just an inconvenience that wasn’t in the Founding Fathers’ vision for this great land of ours, think again! The first Congress established a process for counting every American to determine a states’ number of representatives, figure budgets and score digits from any hot chick gullible enough to put them on the form. The first census was taken in 1790 and has followed every 10 years since. Its methods have never been above controversy, as seen in these transcripts of the Congressional record in the year 1787.
I’m starting my career as an advice columnist on Craigslist. See what you think….
Does time of day matter when dropping a note through someone’s mail slot? 01/04 21:15:06
I wrote 2 notes for my noisy neighbors. At first I considered talking to them, and almost drummed up the courage tonight. But I was tired and not in the mood to be friendly. With the other neighbors, I see the family sporadically and they seem friendly face to face so I don’t want to tarnish the respect. That’s why I’d rather use the note method of communication.
Here in Texas, drugs they have a rule called the Castle Doctrine, viagra buy which says if someone tries to break into your house, order you don’t have to run away. You can just kill them. It looks good on paper, but I wonder if it doesn’t make it too easy to just call up somebody you don’t like and invite them over.
“Hey man, yeah. Look, we’ve had our differences over the years and I’d like to settle things once and for all. So come on over. I’ll put on a pot of coffee and we’ll talk things out. Oh hey, just so you know, the place is a little messy and the front door lock is stuck, so don’t bother knocking. I’ll leave a window open for you. You can just climb on in. What’s that? Should you bring anything? Well, how considerate! Yeah, bring an axe. You know, so we can bury it.”
If you ever need to get rid of a body, just drive to a stranger’s house and tell them you’re with the phone company. This little white lie will buy you an hour of undisturbed digging in their back yard. Plus, if you go to an old lady’s house, she’ll invite you in for lemonade when you’re done.
With only three weeks until the presidential election, herbal I want to urge all my readers to choose wisely on November 4, because the next president we choose will be our last one. The world is going to end.
As one reader commented recently, the Mayan calendar calls out the date for our doom — Dec. 23, 2012. I know some people who are worried, because, carved in stone, the Mayans had the most accurate calendar of any in the ancient world.
I myself am holding out hope there’s a second rock they haven’t found yet — a rock that picks up on Dec. 24 and continues. Maybe the sculptor ran out of room on rock one. He was just chiseling away.
“What’s the matter now?”
“I wanted to finish this our through 2012, and I thought I had room for eight more days.”
“Well, start over.”
“Start over? Are you crazy? This thing is due tomorrow!”
“That’s what you get for waiting until the last minute to complete your projects.”
“That’s really unhelpful right now, thank you.”
“Maybe you can make another one, like part two?”
“Are you kidding? I’m not about to chisel out another thousand years’ worth of days. My arms are tired.”
“Maybe in the future you’ll carve your ideas out on scratch rocks first.”
And now we’re all panicked over a spatial relations error.
I understand some people aren’t that interested in discussing the Mayans, so I’ll change the subject.
The most famous Aztec emperor was Montezuma, and he left us the legacy of his name as a euphemism for diarrhea– Montezuma’s Revenge.
That is really immature. How’d that guy get to be emperor?
“Your majesty, the Conquistadors have arrived. They bring guns, germs and steel. It appears they mean business.”
“Well then, we shall send them a little peace offering. Hector, prepare the special brownies. We shall give them the shits!”
And they didn’t accept the peace offering, so Montezuma had to give his big Braveheart-style pre-battle speech.
“Men, we prepare today for a battle that we cannot win. We are outgunned, outgermed, out steeled. Our language, our culture, our homes will in all likelihood be wiped off the map. Our children killed, our wives raped. All future generations will know of us is how much we liked gold because that’s all the Spaniards are keeping. Still, we must fight with the ferocity of the jaguar, because if there is one thing they cannot destroy it is our honor… But first, let’s all go take a dump in the river. They will suck of our turdwater for a thousand years!”
Like I said, I can’t stand the way the media portrays us vampires. Oh sure, pure evil — that doesn’t bother me. I’d think that about anything that might eat me, and thus viewed me with the same contemptible objectification one holds for a plate of fish. I don’t mind that. It’s just — have some god damn consistency, will you?
Like, I saw this movie preview the other night. It’s about vampires that move about in the light of day, and they don’t like to drink human blood. The prefer to hunt animals in the woods because they’re too busy falling in love with the humans. I’m like, “Who’s leading that vampire clan, Count Chocula?”
The only story I’ve seen that came close to getting it right is “Dracula.” Sure, Stoker took some licenses with the idea, but he was dead on when it came to moving, banking, all the crushing bureaucracy of daily life. Bankers keep banker’s hours. They’ve long left the office by the time I’m up and about, so a vampire needs some agent just to run his errands for him. And considering the fortune one can build up over several lifetimes, old money, you might call it, it’s best to enslave a lawyer, which brings me to why I’m putting my stuff in storage in the first place. I got evicted!
I’ve moved around occasionally, and for various reasons. Sometimes, a nosy clergyman will learn too much. One time, a bunch of angry peasants burned my house down. I left India just because I didn’t like the way the people tasted. Call me a racist, but they eat too much curry.
Anyhow, I’ve done my fair share of moving, but this is the first time I’ve had to move because I was evicted.
I’m not even sure why I was renting. Everyone knows that if you can afford to buy a house, you buy a house so you can build equity. Renting is just flushing your money down the toilet.
I’m certain this is all the fault of my attorney, who’s gone missing.
That’s what I get for enslaving a public defender.
The Vampire Rants, Part I
One of the biggest pains in the ass about being immortal is moving.
Every time you move, it seems like you have more crap that you never use than ever before. Every year you just accumulate more junk. You think you’d stop buying stuff. You think you’d learn not to pop the trunk every time you see a piece of furniture out by the dumpster that “could be fixed up.” And perish the thought of telling a birthday well-wisher bearing a gag gift to fuck themselves. You just plaster on a fake smile and give them insincere thanks, and pile the shit in your closet.
Lucky for you, one day you’ll die and all that worthless junk will turn into someone else’s problem. But what if you don’t die?
Over the many lifetimes I’ve lived, I’ve had many aliases. For right now, my name is Wayne. I’m a vampire. And I have too much shit.
Imagine having crap you just can’t bear to part with because, even though it’s crap, it’s 500-year-old crap, so there’s a good chance it’s valuable. For example, I have a musket I picked up off one of my prey at an English settlement in Virginia — a blunderbuss, I think it’s called.
I don’t even remember why I kept it. I don’t use guns to hunt. I guess I thought it was neat or something. Anyhow, I know it’s worth a lot of money now. I’ve spent a few centuries poor. I don’t intend to repeat that experience. I like having assets I can turn over into cash when I need it. Oh sure, my needs don’t really cost anything, but I find undeath to go much easier when you’ve got a little cash on hand.
So here I am, talking to the guy at Pak-It-In Storage, setting up shelter for said musket and countless other antiquities I can’t just throw away.
He fills out the date on the lease.
“Wow, can you believe it’s almost December already? Where does the time go, huh?”
So I sign the form and the putz points out I missed a spot shaving. I guess he thinks he’s being helpful. I know I always look like shit. I just never know exactly to what degree, because I have no reflection. I’m fine with how I look, but I always hate seeing how vampires are portrayed in movies. They always hire some clean-shaven pretty boy actor with good hair to play the undead. It’s ridiculous. Vampires have awful hygiene and grooming.
Think of it this way: if you couldn’t see your reflection in the mirror, how do you think you would look?
Hollywood acts like we’re a bunch of slicked-back, sexy seducers, but that’s only sometimes. The requisite shape-shifting to be one of those is a pain in the ass. Sure, sometimes it’s funny, changing into a guy whose socks match and who didn’t miss a button when he was putting his shirt on and going out into the public to hunt; finding some drunk girl and asking her if she wants to ride on my motorcycle. After a few minutes of riding, I might say, “You want to take the handlebars?”
“Sure,” she giggles. Then I get on behind her and urge her, “Open it up. See what this baby can do.”
Before she knows it, we’re tearing down the freeway at 110 miles per hour, the police on our tail. She wants to pull over, but I remind her she’s drunk and she doesn’t want that kind of trouble. I have control of her mind.
She revs the throttle and I wrap my arms tighter around her. She purrs at my touch. There’s a hairpin curve ahead. I sink in my fangs and drain her, change into a bat and fly off before the bike smashes into a tree, leaving little behind but a twisted mass of metal and flesh, not to mention a very confusing dashcam video for the authorities.
That’s fun a couple of times, but it loses its charm as quickly as you run out of places that will rent you a motorcycle.
No, nowadays I like to spend my Saturday nights at home reading. Besides, where I’m from, it’s considered ill-mannered to play with your food.