Ok guys, getting ready to go into town to go through the old house one last time. If you want to see the carnage for yourselves you'd better come today because it'll be torn down soon afterward.

Going into town tomorrow to try and get my car legal and go through the old house to salvage whatever didn't burn. So if you want to see the place call me on my cell or just come on by sometime after noon.

If you can't make it I'll be taking lots of pictures.

I'm thinking about organizing a little get-together/barbecue sometime this summer before we tear the rest of it down, but I may have to do it somewhere else for the same reason I never had one when I lived there: the nieghborhood SUCKS.

So it's been a strange day.

Damn. I say that a lot, don't I?

I woke up this afternoon and washed the mixture of blood and Crazy Glue from the night before off my fingers. I got it on my fingers when gluing shut a relatively minor little flesh wound. I tried to stitch it, but that just made it worse, so I used the glue in what I like to refer to as the 'Rich-Fucking-Sanders Maneuver'.

So I come downstairs, go into the kitchen, get some underwear from the dryer, put it on and head for the living room. Then I hear this rustling noise. I look around, well, listen around and I notice it's coming from the large stock pot I use when I make popcorn, which I'd left on the couch the night before. I look in it and discover this:





You might not be able to tell from the pictures, but he's definitely not fully mature. He's a little one, which is probably why he couldn't get back out of the pot. God knows how many mice I have in this house that could and probably did get in and out of what is one of my most used pieces of kitchenware. This is but one of the many reasons I'm working on getting the hell out of here.


Anyhow, I got the little fucker by the tail and put him in an empty, one gallon, octagonal fish tank I had sitting around and pondered what to do with his tiny ass. Then I remembered I needed to go to my brother's place for dinner. So I just put the tank on the back porch rail (where the neighborhood cats like to hang out) with the lid off and left it for Darwin to sort out.

Darwin and the cats.

Actually that sounds like a cool band name...

Or an Elton John song.






Where was I? Oh yeah, I went to my brother's (put pants on first), had a good time, noticed he still had one of his cats left. They had three, I've mentioned them before, Sugar (Shugie), Spice (Spicy) and Evey (for 'every' one presumes). It seems to suggest they were planning on getting at least one more, but they became a pain in the ass, so Shugie went out to Mom's, Evey ran away, leaving only Spicy whom they also wanted rid of. So I 'borrowed' the cat to try to handle the mouse problem.








I say 'borrowed' because I'm about to move, so I can't take her with me, but I need her for the time being because I have vermin fucking with my popcorn and I can't tolerate that. My brother and sister-in-law however insist that they're not taking her back, so it should make for something of an interesting post when a week from now I leave the cat and all her stuff on their doorstep in the dead of night..

Besides, even if I did find an apartment that would allow a cat (and wouldn't charge me an extra $20 a week for the privilege of owning said beast) I'm a fat guy with a tendency to order a lot of Chinese food with a cat named Spicy. If that's not an open invitation for an investigation by the ASPCA I don't know what fucking is.

Personally I always wondered at the wisdom of naming cats anyway. I never thought it necessary for the same reason I never thought it was necessary to name any of my fish, that being any animal that won't come when you call them by name doesn't need a goddamn name.

The cat does have a name though and now, thanks to Zombie, so does the mouse. I totally forget what is was though. Mortimer or somesuch. Doesn't really matter since, as mentioned previously, calling his name will do a grand total of diddly-fucking-squat.

Plus, I still haven't completely ruled out murdering him and if he has a name that makes it personal.

On a side note, another reason for not naming fish is they tend to die a lot. I've had somewhat better luck with cats. In fact, cats have been responsible for the deaths of some of the fish and let me tell you, when you catch them at it yelling “Get outta there you furry bastard!” works better than calling them by name.

Anyhow, I get back home with the cat in the pet taxi with the food and the big, encased, littler-box dealie and the fucking little bastard mouse is still in the fish tank.

Dammit.

By the way, if you think leaving him on the porch was cruel I had briefly considered tying a string around it's tail and tying the other end to the back porch, but that seemed a tad sick and unusual. You know, as opposed to leaving him for dead in a fish tank.

Plus I was out of string.

So I take the cat AND the mouse back in the house along with all the extras that my brother was only too happy to give me so long as I was taking the cat with me. I set up all the cat's stuff, put the lidless fish/mouse tank on the floor, turn the cat loose and go into the living room.

I can't bring myself to just outright kill the little bastard, but I can use my powers of obliviousness to set up the cat to murder my nemesis for me...

I hear the sound of the tank falling over, quickly move to the kitchen to see the tank on it's side with the mouse still in it and he's staring right into the eyes of the cat. Their noses are practically touching. And they just sit there. It's like neither of them knows what to do next.

Thoroughly disgusted after about ten minutes I flip the tank upright with the mouse still in it, pick him up by the tail and dangle him in front of the cat like a catnip toy.

The cat just stares at him.

I actually drape the mouse over the face of the cat like a Bangkok tea-bag video.

The cat doesn't do anything.

And by the way, yes, I do see the incongruity in not wanting to kill the mouse myself, but doing everything short of putting the mouse in the cat's mouth and working her jaw up and down for her so as to blame it on the bloody cat. I see that incongruity and I choose to ignore it, thank you.

But yeah, despite my best neglect and direct help the damn mouse is still alive. In fact, I even fed him.

On an ironic note, I fed the mouse cat food, The very same cat food that I didn't feed to the cat so she'd be hungry and therefore more likely to kill mice.

The ultimate logic here is that if the cat won't kill it when I want it killed then the only sure way to get the mouse killed is to make it a pet and protect it

There's really something wrong with me isn't there?


PS: Anyone reading this that isn't a fan of horrific cartoon-animal on cartoon-animal violence won't want to click on this video.

The rest of you will laugh your asses off.



UPDATE: Apparently the cat knocked over the tank in the dark and failed to kill the mouse. So he's returned to wherever he's been hiding after having eaten his fill of cat food.

The score is now officially Mouse: 1 Cat: -1

UPDATE: 6:10 PM Mice: -3 Cat:3

Seems she didn't want the easy kill as the second dead mouse I found today appears to be the one that escaped last night. For that reason I've deducted the point awarded the mouse team for the escape and added it to the cat kill count.

Ok, so here's the thing. Remember a short while ago when I mentioned that things are happening in my life right now that may be changing my life considerably? Well they're happening again.

Quite a bit of what's going on I'm still not at liberty to talk about, but the gist of it is I'm getting the fuck out of here as soon as fucking possible.

This is not a new plan. I had this plan back in 2001 when I couldn't find a decent job in this fucking town, but then I did the one thing that living in this town is actually good for. I died. And I'm here to tell you that dying will really fuck your life up completely and as I general rule I don't recommend it.

Actually that's not true. I'm sure if I kept a list by the end of each day there's be six people on it that I could heartily recommend a sudden, painful death to, but I don't have the kind of time to stay on top of lists like that which is why I go days at a time without going outside.

So I'm here, working a job I hate because I can't find one I hate somewhat less, then I die and things get considerably worse. I move into my Grandmother's old house to save money and be less of a burden on my family while I wait for the best medical science that the 1800's can provide to patch me back up and send me back to the job I couldn't stand that was probably, in at least SOME small way, contributory to my lower intestine exploding.

It seemed the prudent move at the time.

Except that I hadn't taken into account that the house was right in the middle of all the groups of people that I most hate and try to avoid. Now I'm not going to say that somewhere, on a purely masochistic level, that it hasn't been entertaining. It has been very entertaining. Mostly to you people, but entertaining nonetheless.

But I've come to realize that ever since I died I've been spending my time waiting on the next thing that's supposed to fix everything and all the while awaiting the inevitable failure of said solution.

It only took seven years.

I never said I was smart.

But when I finally got up to Morgantown to get my surgery done, the one that was supposed to be the final solution to everything, and it catastrophically failed I started thinking. The realization was that My life isn't going to move forward here.

Living in Parkersburg is like treading water in the middle of the Atlantic. It'll keep you alive, but what's the use? The rescue party isn't going to find you. Your only hope for a quick end comes with an Oscar award winning score by John Williams.

What the fuck was I talking about? Oh yeah. I suddenly find myself with no next thing that's supposed to fix everything and this depresses me, so I decide to start seeing a therapist again.

I'd managed to put together that when I'm here I feel bad and when I go away I feel good and you don't have to be Sigmund-fucking-Freud to figure that the fuck out, but I felt trapped by the whole “Just a few more months and everything will be ok” phenomenon which I've now COMPLETELY abandoned, which feels fucking GREAT!

The other thing that kinda kept me here, apart from believing that if I went elsewhere I'd never get my body fixed (which is ironic in that waiting for my body to get fixed has been steadily killing my mind) is that I'm afraid that if I spend enough time in any one place then I'll come to hate it too. That it's not the place, it's me, so why not stay in a place that really DESERVES my contempt, you know?

Well I'm now preparing to move to the next place that I'll surely come to hate in time. A lovely place that will quickly become the target of my undeserved wrath and you ungrateful bastards had better enjoy it.

Where was I? Right, the therapist. I'd been seeing one before and I liked her well enough, but after like the first visit when she assured me that I wasn't insane I really only kept going because the government was paying for it and she had really nice tits.

Fuck you people. I built this little corner of the interweb from which to say whatever the fuck I'm feeling. Not my fault you come here and read it.

But after the most recent medical fuck-up I was feeling kinda down, so I got a new therapist. I only stopped seeing the other one because she moved to Richie County and FUCK THAT PLACE.

In addition to having a nice rack my last therapist really didn't contribute much to what was going on. I'd go in, talk for an hour, stare at her chest, she'd take notes, probably ABOUT me staring at her chest and then I'd go home and engage in a bit of self-therapy and that was that.

One hour once a month for me to bitch about my problems to someone that doesn't know me. Some people say they can't talk about personal stuff to someone they don't know and I don't get that. I'm the other way. If I'm with someone that I don't know, they don't know me, we're probably never going to interact socially EVER there's is virtually nothing I can't tell them. The two reasons for this being that A: they have no preconceived notions about the things I'm saying based on having known me in the past and B: it's not like they're going to tell my friends.

It also kinda strikes me that I talk about a lot of shit on here too and most of you people have never and will never meet me and there's a lot more of you coming here than I ever expected., so, you know, thanks for contributing I guess.

And if I move to a place that I don't hate every minute of every day can I still be funny? It's like when my new therapist suggested anti-depressants, as have virtually all the medical professionals I've seen in the last ten years, (including, it's interesting to note, my DENTIST) I pointed out the following. I am a writer and an artist. I work primarily in the field of comedy and the heart of comedy, it's very soul, is Tragedy. More specifically, tragedy happening to SOMEONE ELSE.

Think about it. You get kicked in the balls, it's a tragedy. Guy across the street gets kicked in the balls, fucking HILARIOUS. So if I start taking drugs that distract me from the pain in my nuts then can I still entertain you fuckers? Most likely not. So my pain fuels my writing which entertains you guys which makes me happy, but drives me to continue being depressed.

So see, it's all YOUR fault.

Assholes.

So ASAFP I'm moving to Columbus Ohio.

I'm doing this for a variety of reasons. The biggest one being that they have good hospitals there. It's also not too far from home (but far enough that the Mid-Ohio-Valley air and water can't poison me anymore) and I know people there.

I know people here too, I know, and I encourage them to take my example and move to a place where the local economy isn't based on poisoning them.

I'm serious about that too, I've had a near-constant sinus infection for like the last year, spent two weekends out of town and it cleared up. Back home and after just a few hours my lungs hurt. Next morning, you guessed it, sinus infection. It's either this town or this house or both and since my only real option for getting out of this house is going back to my Mom's I'm going to Ohio.

I've got a lot of other stuff going on right now, but it'll have to wait. Got to get up early, hit the bank and drive up there to go apartment hunting. With luck I'll be up there before the first of next month.

So it's been an interesting few days.

Spent the latter half of last week franticly cleaning the house for a date on Monday. I'm not prepared to say a whole lot about that just yet only that I had a great time and thank whatever benevolent spirits are looking over me that she didn't see either the kitchen or my now legendarily disgusting bathroom, neither of which I had the time to clean.

Though I don't know what I'm worried about. I mean, she's read my work and now met me in person so she obviously doesn't frighten easily.

So I was in a particularly good mood the following evening when an occasional neighborhood acquaintance of mine stopped me in the alley on the way to the corner bodega.

For those of you not up on the parlance (or haven't seen Half Baked),

Bodega
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

A Spanish term meaning a warehouse; especially for the storing of wine usually located on the premises of a winery. Bodegas can also store other alcoholic beverages and spirits. Bodega also means (at least loosely) wine bar or winery.

A bodeguita, a general store in Latin America

A term used in the United States, especially in the New York dialect, to refer to a convenience store.

A term used in Poland to refer to a brothel.

A shoe store in Boston

A term used to refer to the clip on the top of a pen cap to attach to your pocket.

A town in California near Bodega Bay

Bodegas are also often fronts that make most of their money selling drugs. We commonly refer to the 13th street corner store as 'The Bodega' because it's a convenience store and it has cheap beer, not for any drug peddling that we have any knowledge of.

It would explain how they stay in business though...

I'm fairly certain they're not running a brothel and given the neighborhood they're located in the very prospect is truly terrifying.

Anyways, this guy that I'd met a few days prior talking to my asshole neighbor, was just standing in the dark alley, almost as though he'd been waiting for me.

Paranoia, right?

We chatted politely for a few minutes. Not out of any particular fondness for the guy, but one thing my Dad taught me is that it only takes a second to be polite and cordial to possibly keep your shit from getting vandalized or stolen in the night by shitheads that won't show their true colors while you're looking.

Smart guy, my Dad. On the 8th it'll be ten years he's been gone.

On the 31st it'll be six years since I almost joined him.

Time flies.

So I talked politely to this guy, we'll call him Mr. S, when I definitely wanted to be anywhere else but there. I wasn't too worried, as I certainly had every advantage over the guy and he wasn't displaying any kind of threat behavior, but it was cold and dark and I just wanted to buy some Diet Pepsi and go back the fuck home.

We talked mostly about my car, which he's taken a particular shine to and which I'm glad is now locked in my steel box of a garage.

Well Mr. S wants to be pals. He talked about how interesting and polite and nice to talk to I was (and I really am). So just as I'm expecting him to hit me with whatever favor he was so blatantly buttering me up for he bade me goodnight (explaining that he heard police sirens), finished off his tallboy and pedaled his bike down the alley.

“Huh.” I thought. Just an interesting little bit of neighborhood theater witnessed in person rather than from the windows as I usually prefer. I try to avoid the interactive neighborhood experience as much as I possibly can.

Anyways, I buy my soda and go home.

Now, a week ago Brian's Dad Chuck came by to check out my outdoor fuse box which also happens to be my ONLY fusebox as the electricity was put in this house back when electricity was still something of a novelty.

The house was originally built as a general store in about 1918, wherein a man was allegedly shot to death in an argument over the proper way to shoe a horse. Right in my living room.

Colorful, ain't it?

Well Chuck discovered that rain has been freely flowing through the back of my fusebox for about the last 30 years or so. The back is completely rusted out and the wire connections are buried in rust flakes which Chuck was afraid to blow away for fear that they were the only thing conducting power to the one remaining circuit we have functioning.

The time Mr. S first saw me he was talking to my neighbor (the one that bitches about me not mowing my lawn enough) as I was heading out the door to pick up the permits to rewire the house.

That brings us to this morning.

I'm upstairs, lying in bed. It's about 2 in the afternoon and I've been awake for a bit, but it's fucking cold and I have no reason to go leaping out of bed any sooner than I fucking have to.

I hear knocking at the back door. People that know the house and my habits know that I'm usually in bed at that hour and I can't hear a knock at the front door so rather than call me on their cell phone, which would definitely wake me up, they'll usually just knock on the back door which works, just not as well.

Well I put pants on and head down the stairs figuring it's Chuck about working on the house. Through the blind I see a Carhart hunting jacket, beard and ball cap leading me to believe that it was Brian's uncle Virgil who works with Chuck.

I open the door.

It's not Virgil.

It's Mr. S.

Fuck.

See, even though I'm polite to my neighbors I really don't like most of them and I make an effort to keep them out of my house. I've often said my best security system is that the people on the outside of the house don't know what's on the INSIDE of the house.

Well Mr. S wants to talk and asks if he can step inside as in-between my bouts of consciousness we'd gotten four inches of snow and the teperature had dropped to about 20 degrees.

I let him one step in the back door.

Looking back, that would have been a good time to kill him.

Anyways, he explains that he and his old lady have no place to stay and he asks if they can rent my spare bedroom. And it clicks. That's the favor he was laying the groundwork for, that's what he was talking to my rat-bastard neighbor about, and it was the rat-bastard neighbor that told him that I had an empty fucking room.

He didn't want to deal with him, so he pawned his ass off on me.

There will be repercussions for this.

Stay tuned.

Well I explain that it's not my decision alone to make about taking on more people (which is true), the empty room is crammed full of shit that would take a day to clean out (also true) and the house could burn down at any moment (more true that I'm comfortable with).

Of course he doesn't want to hear 'no' as Jr. (the asshole next door) has probably filled his head full of god knows what regarding my housing situation. It was Socrates that said “The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing”. It's a philosophy that I'm rather fond of and believe in. Jr. pisses me off, not because he's an idiot, I can suffer idiots to a degree, but because he's an idiot that thinks he fucking knows everything. And now, apparently, he's reporting on my household activities and encouraging people that I don't want to fucking talk to to come fucking talk to me.

It's rather telling that he knew to go to the back door. I hardly use the front door. My car and the Bodega are out the back.

Again, there will be repercussions.

Well Mr. S gets all the way up to offering $300 cash up front to move in immediately, which I turn down and he eventually leaves.

That cuts to this evening.

I'm not losing you guys am I?

Good.

I get a knock at the door at 9PM. This is not unusual. The knock is “Shave and a Haircut” which I take note of because the last person to knock that way tried to sell Ryan a TV at 2 AM. I didn't see that guy's face. Peeking through the window in the door I see the face of Mr. S, who, in turn, catches me looking.

FUCK.

Most of you are asking me at this point why I was stupid enough to open the door. It's something I've asked myself. I can only chalk it up to my postmortem philosophy making me too nice for my own fucking good.

That and it'd probably make for an interesting story to tell you fuckers.

Because I do think about that when all this weird shit is going on, just so you all know.

I hope you appreciate it.

Well I figure he just wants to try to talk me into letting him stay here again, to which I was just going to refuse and threaten to call the cops if necessary, but no, they'd found a place. He just wanted to use the phone to order a pizza as they didn't have one at their new place having just moved in.

I made the call. I ordered the pizzas. I had them sent to HIS new address because I knew it would mean he'd be leaving shortly thereafter, which he did. Not before offering me prescription painkillers and pot (half a joint of which he smoked on my porch) to return the favor. He insists that he's coming back today to give me $5 to return the favor, even though I assured him it was unnecessary.

Consequently (getting to the point FINALLY) is why I won't be answering the door today, or for the foreseeable future. If you're coming over, call first and be aware that the “Shave and a Haircut” knock may be met with gunfire.



And on a side note, for everyone that liked that fake Mario Trailer on my last post, here's the trailer for the actual movie they put out several years ago. I had the misfortune of actually seeing this cinematic turd box in the fucking theater. Looking back, it's probably got a lot to do with why my intestines eventually exploded.

Enjoy! I've gotta go restring my crossbow...



And this to cleanse the palete,

Awright, I started working on a new, revised version of the day that started all the medical shit I've been bitching about for the last four years or so, but something happened today that was so conveniently timed that I have to spill it.

See, we got a new postman a while back and he fucking sucks. One of the reasons we're so behind on our bills is because we're not recieving a lot of our bills.

The other, bigger, reason is that I don't have any money, but still I don't think it's unreasonable to expect to get the bills so that I know exactly how much I can't aford to pay this month.

Anyhow, I make an effort to pin the mail that's come to my house bearing the names and addresses of people who do not and never will live in this house to the outside of the mailbox for the incompetent mailman to take away and try again. I do this hoping that those same people, upon recieving the mail I'm not getting, will do the same. So far that doesn't seem to be happening, but hey, I do it anyway, cause I'm just that kind of guy.

So I pinned some AAA Newsletter (junk mail) to the box a few days ago. It came back today with a sticker that said:

UNABLE TO FORWARD

NO FORWARD ORDER ON FILE

RETURN TO POSTMASTER
OF ADDRESSEE FOR REVIEW

So it's not just the meth-junkies that don't believe me when I tell them they have the wrong house. It's the fucking mailman too.

Of course, I've never actually seen the mailman since he comes at around 10 AM and that's like 2 AM for you people, (Prime sleeping hours here at the Graveyard) they could be the same guy...

More on this later. I need sleep.

I've been posting here for some time now about my near death experience thing a while back and how, while on the other side I met God. More than one person has doubted me on that. I myself even wondered if perhaps my vision may have been more influenced by morphine than by the divine beyond, but despite my moments of doubt God has seen fit to reward me by proving his existence.

March 09, 2006
Paris Hilton probably has herpes

Full Article on The Superficial

If you happened to just scan over the E! Online story about Paris Hilton's latest restraining order, you might have missed this particularly interesting tidbit:

Quintana testified last month that his relationship with Hilton turned nasty after she overheard him informing her beau, Stavros Niarchos, that she might have a sexually transmitted disease.
"I wanted him to be aware of it--that she had herpes. To make sure he didn't catch anything. He informed me that he was [aware]," Quintana said.

Yeah, yeah, I know what you're saying. "Like we didn't kinda already strongly suspect that." But this is more than suspicion people. Something I prayed for has come to pass!

AH-HA-HA-HA!!! STUPID FUCKING CUNT!!!

Expect Puff Daddy to step in front of a bullet train any day now.

On an unrelated note, I forgot to mention that the night before Brian and Andrea came in I was sitting at my computer at about 4 in the morning when there came a rapping at my chamber door.

That's not too unusual, my friends stop by at all hours, but I was caught off guard to find it was someone I didn't know.

ME: "Hello?"

GUY: "Yeah, they told me up the street to come here and you'd give me something."

ME: "Huh?"

GUY: "They told me to come here and pick something up."

ME: "Who are 'they' and what are you supposed to be picking up?"

GUY: "The guys three houses up (Indicating the direction in which the cops raid a house once a week) said to come here and you'd have something for me."

ME: "Something?"

GUY: *Mumble, mumble* "Fifty" *Mumble".

ME: "Well I don't know anyone down that direction and I don't have anything for anyone. You have the wrong house."

GUY: "Well this is where they told me to go."

ME: "Be that as it may, it's still the wrong house."

GUY: "You don't know anyone around here?"

ME: "Not that it's any business of yours, but no, I don't associate with the people around here. I do, however, have the city police on speed-dial."

And with that the mysterious stranger left.

God I love it when people come here looking for people and things and argue with me when I tell them they've got the wrong house. They always say the same thing: "Well this is where they told me to go". And it's always in an accusing tone too. Like I'm lying to them. I mean, I can understand if it's a place you've been before, but to go to a house you've never been to and accuse the person living there of trying to keep you from your meth fix is a little out of line.

I need to find out who the fuck 'they' are.

Maybe God can help me out with that one. I can't complain if he doesn't though. He gave Paris Hilton herpes and that's so cool that we really can't ask any more from him.