freak up your day

Rigatoni Awards Show

I get extra points, because it's still thursday for me, sort of.

So again i am going home for a week. I can almost guarantee you frequent posts this time, though, because... i'm into that sort of thing now.

Hey, here's a question i bet you haven't asked yourselves lately. We all learned to print around the time of first grade, and then moved on to bigger and more cursive things in third, right? So why are we still shelling out hundreds of dollars for machines that function, at best, at a second grade level, calligraphically speaking? That's right. Sitting right next to your very computer is, instead of a Cursifier - in all its gothically macabre-sounding sweetness - a mere Printer. Why would you pay perfectly good kindling-money for a big clunky machine like that when you or a younger sibling/cousin/grandchild/next-of-kin can realize a higher level of handwriting than these Printers have ever imagined? Hasn't this ever popped up in dinner conversation?

*fade into Britain*
"I say, old Hewlett's quite the chap, now isn't he?"
"Well, he is pleasant enough company... but I've begun to suspect he's something less than civilised."
"You don't say!"
"Oh, rather... it's his handwriting. I don't believe I've ever even seen him sign his name! I'm beginning to think he's only... you know... semi-literate."
*hushed British silences*

Now, by no means am I advocating discrimination in personal scribeship. To judge an individual based on his skills when considering him for a job is simply unforgivable. All I am saying is that perhaps Printers would be better suited for other professions, such as Golf Tee, or Concert Pianist, or Part-Time Bacon Ignorer. We're not doing them any favors, you know, by lying to them to boost their egos. One day the Cursifiers will come, and the Printers will recognize their own inferiority and weep bitterly that they never knew better. Would, rather, that they should find out now, from the people who love them, and be free to find their own niche while there is yet spirit in their toner cartridges. If you truly love your Printer (and deep down, beneath all the screams and hammer blows, I know you do), set it free. Once the initial heartbreak is through, and you've dried the saline from your cheek, you will both be happier for it.

Now all that remains is to find a third grader who's USB compatible.

Hermit Crabs and other redundancies

The internet is like a cow. A big, motherly cow. You go up to it and you say "Hello, mother. I am your calf. Here I am between your knee and your ankle. Care for me. Pour me a glass of milk. Soy, please. I'm vegan." Then you look up at it with those adorable huge eyes that baby animals all have and exploit so effortlessly, and you blink once, your eyelashes taking twelve seconds to make the trip. She turns her head toward you for a moment, chews, and kicks you in the face. So you become an outcast, making your way through life looking over your shoulder with despair and ugliness. Oranges go out of their way to fall on your head. Traffic lights turn red with embarrassment when they see you. Something about your vibe makes all your fleas commit suicide. Finally, you end up in a seedy grain shop making puns like that. And just when you think you've hit rock bottom, in walks the intercow, sidles up to you, and says, "I'm sorry... was that your face i kicked back there? My fault. You look just like the 'get the party started' button." So then the two of you go back to the barn and find the real button, and just to be safe, she lets you kick it yourself. In a mere two-cents worth of time, the party gets started.

But they make you leave, because you're vegan.

Sometimes they are near the nucleus; sometimes they are far.
And we can, on an average, determine where they are.
-the most poetic science video ever

I wish i could say that this was a rare occurrence. Fact is, it's become more and more common lately. Hungry-mouthed shoes trying to eat me alive. I glance down in the middle of eating my lunch or a snack or my taxes, and there, nibbling in much the same way as I, is some ragtag gang of disreputable footwear. I never notice them until they have engulfed my foot up to the ankle and commenced digestion. Heaven help me if they should ever get farther than that. With the strength of a million smallish migratory insects or a low-powered reverse vacuum cleaner, i kick the monsters clear across the room, stunning them momentarily. Then i stuff their mouths with grapefruits or another convenient citrus gagging device, and i lock them up in a small cardboard box i found that happens to be the perfect size for keeping the clomping criminals locked up. (I call it my "shoe box" because i impound shoes in it. maybe it'll catch on.) Anyway, i haven't slept for seven weeks now, except for short naps during lunch when there are plenty of people around to wake me if anything should happen. Even then, i'm unsettled by the general oblivion to the ravenous shoe problem - people walk around all day on the verge of digestion! No one is safe. And no one will be safe until the entire worldwide shoe population has its fill to eat and leaves us alone. I suggest stuffing tacos into each shoe you see throughout the day, or better yet, send tons and tons of tacos to me and i'll do it personally. It's the only solution to the overpowering hunger of me. I mean, the shoes. I mean... yeah, the shoes.

Total Tote Bag

I bring you news from ancient times. The network has been down for a bit here at school, and i've had a bunch of homework, so i haven't posted in a couple days. Not to mention i passed out for a full ten hours after recording that epic song. Baring your soul like that... it takes a lot out of a guy. Anyway, if you haven't read Carlene's latest series of posts of a horticultural nature, you simply must. They are brilliant.

That's all i have for you today; expect resumed day-freaking schedule tomorrow. Don't take naps at ten in the morning.

Pronouncing It Still Wronger Every Day
This one's dedicated to my aunt Lynn.

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Strumming Sickness

Have you ever thought about all the places where it would be totally inappropriate to sit down on a little stool with a guitar and play happy folk songs for money? Once you start thinking about it, you'll be surprised at how many there are. But I've saved you the trouble and written them all down myself. There's...
Monasteries
Aisles of opera houses
Abandoned tree houses
The barren surface of Mercury
A meeting of the United Nations
The wing of an airplane
A prison bathroom
Anywhere near a bunch of Nazis
Under a car
The stage of a Shakespearean play
Up somebody's nose
SAT testing rooms
Here
Right next to another guy who's already doing the same thing
The ladies' bathroom of a crowded restaurant
Quiet nurseries
Boxing rings
Rifle ranges
Parallel universes where they don't like folk songs
The deep end of a swimming pool
Active volcanoes
Greasy kitchens of seedy diners
The inside of a refrigerator
At a secret meeting of the resistance in which the slightest noise will alert the guards to your presence and bring a hail of bullets and rotten food raining down on your marked head
Your wedding
Strangers' cars
Atop charging bulls
The bottom of a well
and most importantly,
My room.

Because I won't give you any money.

Gimme your fish sauce, i just want your fish sauce

That's a long 'a' in Apricot, by the way.

Skyrockets and Hot Pockets

Prepare to be griped at.

So the cafeteria used to serve pineapple. I love pineapple. It's the best. But recently, in some sort of misguided enviromentalist tropical-fruit-rights gesture, pineapple was stricken from the menu and instated in the decoration department, where whole, unviolated pineapples now adorn the area of their former repression. Thanks to the efforts of some unsung Apricot Lincoln, pineapples are now free to carry out their natural function; which, apparently, is to sit in ice. A rather striking gesture, this, and I fear it is only a sign of things to come. How long, I hear the activists shout, will it be until peaches and plums can live their lives and provide for their families without fear of ingestion? How long until someone stands up for the helpless, homeless, skinless mandarin oranges? How long, for that matter, until the animal rights movement joins forces with the plant rights movement to strive toward that magnificent day when the species of the earth will break free from mankind's tyrranical grip and the human race will no longer be allowed to eat anything?

The struggle for existence. It's enough to drive an animal crackers.

Are you gonna ethos pretzels?

Lazy? Me? Noo... well, yes. But coming soon, hopefully this week, is a post that will blow your very minds. Unless it turns out not to be possible, in which case this post and your memories will be erased. Blam-o, or some other sound effect.

So what did the pirate museum curator discuss with the tour group?

The stylistic and symbolic implications of shifting ethical and socioeconomic paradigms on subject matter and general themes in contemporary ARRRRRRRT.

Ha. I'm a loser.

When a man loves a scissor...

In paper doll society, are paper clips hair accessories or ammunition?

Is it all right if I talk to you about celery for a while? Good. Long ago, in the time before history, known to many historians as Prehistory, celery was unrestricted by human dietary whims and vicious razor-toothed furballs. It grew taller than the trees, stronger than steel, and wider than.. also the trees. It was the material of choice for construction of buildings of every sort, from the towering majesty of the Edible Skyscrapers of the West to the mystic Celeryhenge in the British Isles. Not to mention sluices. It was a glorious time to be a vegetable. But terror soon struck the stringy monoliths of green: hordes of wild second graders were let loose on the countryside. They ran around pouring red food coloring on the roots of the celery stalks, causing leaves some 200 feet above to eventually turn a ghastly blood color. The horror! They also, curiously, spread a sticky solution known to modern biologists as "peanut butter" along the length of each plant, suffocating not only the poor celery stalks but millions of ants who were attracted by the sweet sticky substance. In time, the second graders were driven out by the shrill whistle of their natural predator, Superviso playgroundicus, but the damage had been done. Today, salad plates everywhere bear witness to what might have been, but the hourglass of time is like bolted to the table or something, and I swear i could flip it over if i could just.. move the.. rr.. uhh.. wedge.. a.. screw.. drive.. NO! it broke!! Okay, forget it. We can't go back to those golden days. Salad days. *sniff*

Banana?

So this is gonna be another short one, because i can't think of anything. Snap.

Someone tell me why "Eye of the Tiger" is supposed to be such an inspirational thing, more so than, say, "Thigh of the Spider" or something.

Modernism in the Ancient World

Never mind. That was retarded.

Much to my sorrow it's Vladimir Horowitz...
--a song in an old piano lesson book i used to use. for some reason this line came to my mind today.

I am trying to exemplify one magazine-like quality every month in my blog. In December it was the "one-issue-per-month" quality. This month, and i know you've all guessed it already, it's going to be quizzes. Ridiculous quizzes that claim to help you determine some unknown information like Are You a Princess or Does Your Crush Have Fleas, but end up advising you to "trust your heart and renew your subscription." That's the theme of this month, and what a month it will be. First quiz begins in five pages.


*AD*
good-looking guy. good-looking girl. other good-looking girl. maybe a bottle of perfume somewhere illogical. underwear.
*AD 2*
replace 'bottle of perfume' with 'trendy malt beverage.' more underwear.
*AD 3*
soft dark-grey background. single wayfaring adjective, stranded forever in the harsh night of space. no one around to hear adjective scream. on the following page, the logo and name of the product who embodies the nomadic adjective. barely audible self-applause from makers of product.
*AD 4*
lots more good-looking girls. underwear. maybe.
*QUIZ*

Does your love life need a swift kick in the pants? Can it, for that matter, be anthropomorphized? Find out next time. Today: Are You Satan? (no cheating if you are. i know your reputation for honesty.)

Question 1: First thing in the morning, what do you do?
a) Invert sentences.
b) Watch 'The Late Show.'
c) Vicarious breakfast. Yum, I would think.
d) Prowl like a roaring lion, seeking whom I may devour.

Question 2: Your tail: what does it look like? Do you have one?
a) Not much. No.
b) I don't know, but i'm this close to catching it. Yes, I think.
c) Pink and curly. Oink.
d) Pointy, evil, red, and dishonest. No, I don't.

Question 3: What will you give me for my soul?
a) Err.. do you like raisins?
b) A claim ticket. Next, please.
c) White boy, you ain't got soul.
d) Your every desire, practically.

Question 4: When did you last go down to Georgia, and under what circumstances?
a) Midnight. On a train. For love. My world. His world. I got to go.
b) The time they had the Olympics there. I was the limbo-stick holder. That's an Olympic event, you know. Limbo-stick holding.
c) Never, but for some reason it's always on my mind. Crap was that predictable.
d) Once when I was looking for a soul to steal. I was in a bind, 'cause I was way behind, so I was willing to make a deal.

Question 5: You are a liar and the father of all lies. True or false?
a) False.
b) False.
c) Truish?
d) False. Mua ha ha.

Now tally up your scores. If you answered mostly 'a' or 'b' responses, you are not Satan, though in all likelihood you could be Stan. If you answered mostly 'c' responses, give yourself half a dumpling. If you answered mostly 'd' responses, you've got a lot of 'splaining to do, Luci. Congratulations on your newly discovered Satanhood. Tune in - er, sign on - er, wait around at your mailbox for the next beauty-tip-brimming issue of Freak Up Your Day Magazine. You ol' devil you.

Candied Vertebrae: November 2003 Archives: "If some girl has a sugar daddy, but he dies and is cremated, does she then refer to him as her powdered sugar daddy?"

morbid puns: does life get any better? thank you CV. i owe a lot of happiness to you and your archives.

Freak du jour

Pogee's page has been taken off the links because he hasn't updated it in half a bronze age.

Ryan's site may follow, but i have faith in him. He'll update sooner or later.

To make up for the loss, and because 9 out of 10 experts agree she's cool, Grace's blog has been added to the links. Read and enjoy, but not until all your chores are done.

That's... um... that's it. I've got a big paper to write today. A very merry unbirthday to you.

No more pencils, five more books.

I took a walk outside of town to inspect my fields of artificial sweetener cane, accompanied by His Sketchiness the Emperor of A Soda Machine. "Everybody needs a can of happiness," he said. As we walked, His Sketchiness mused about the true meaning of Skee-ball, and I wore hand-made knee socks with flair. Snowballs, birds, and exploding pens dotted the sky. In the air was a feeling somewhere between magnanimity and spleen. My elbows wouldn't leave me alone, and I was vaguely aware of Tunisia. Our walk stretched across seven and a half miles, two of which we traveled via potato sack. I couldn't be sure, but I had a nagging feeling that mine was the former abode of at least one carp. I turned to His Sketchiness and he started to speak, but before the words could come out, an ominous foreshadow fell on our path. Luckily, the Emperor was an acclaimed former champion shadow boxer, so he gave the foreshadow a boxing like it had never seen before. I started drawing a shadow portrait to turn over to the police, but then a thought hit me: what if the foreshadow was working for some other, much more sinister force? What if it was a mere shadow puppet? I took a few steps toward the foreshadow, and when it started to block the light from my vision, I began to have a definite premonition that something far worse was still to come.

Nothing else of interest happened on our walk, which is weird, considering how excellent and suspenseful an introduction to a story that would have made.

Amphibious Pop Culture

Here is a poem that I wrote three or four years ago about my favorite stuffed frog, Fujifrog. (Yes, I had a stuffed animal-friend in high school. He was the coolest. And he could have killed you with his little toe, so don't mess.) Anyway, I came across it the other day and thought it was pretty funny, so I decided to share the yummy verse cake with everyone. Mmmm.

--
The Ballad of Fujifrog

Fujifrog, o Fujifrog
He's better looking than a log.
Don't mistake him for a toad
Or else he'll probably explode.

You want panache? This frog's got lots.
Skin of blue with jet-black spots.
His front legs are extremely long
I'll tell you why they look so wrong.

Three frogs named Bud and Er and Wise
Went spying with their bulgy eyes.
They spotted Fuji from a mile
And envied him his froggish style.

They found a moving semi truck
Whereon poor Fuji's hands they stuck.
And to his legs they held on tight
Until the truck was out of sight.

Finally, they let him go.
Of course, by this time, as you know
His limbs were disproportionate
But Fujifrog could handle it.

I asked him why his arms weren't sore;
He told me what he'd use them for.
"When next I meet those bullies three,
I'll strangle them quite easily."
--

Man, i wish i could still come up with stuff like that.

Prominent Noses and the Insignificant Grains of Ground Pepper Who Defied Them

Once, while falling off a tall building, I began to hum a little tune. The wind that day was unusually strong, and unbeknownst to me, my tune began to drift along the seashore with a lilt. It reached the ears of two butterflies on the brink of bitter divorce. Something deep inside of them suddenly called out, suddenly yearned to be heard -- they knew in a heartbeat what they had to do. They turned and fluttered toward the business district, to a place on the corner they both knew well - a place where they could satisfy their hunger at any time, day or night. Dead Hippo Burger was a fantasy playground of tastes and smells brought to life. A butterfly could lose herself for hours in the intoxicating swirl of powerful aromas. And that's just what the two of them did.

Meanwhile, tall vines were crawling up a short tree somewhere. Another plastic bag of hydrogen punctured and ignited just below the clouds. Pretzels hung from fishing wire for the better part of the Iron Age. Millions of continents were lost.

Revelling in their rediscovered romance, the butterflies were unaware of the traffic outside the diner. They left in such a frivolously enamored haze that they ran into the side of a diesel tyrannosaurus. Heedless, they went on whistling the little tune the wind had brought them, which soon stuck in the dinosaur's jaded head and set his muscular feet a-tapping. He tapped on down the shore, endangering entire plant species on his way. I had reached a critical point in my descent by now, but a sweep of a large reptilian tail presented itself an alternative to the pavement. I grabbed hold and was saved.

Several glorious, fleeting seconds later, I was flung by the tail's momentum far out across the water and into the depths of the sea, where I became a successful proprietor of a small fruit stand before drowning.

da na na
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daaaaa na na na na na na
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da, da na na, da na na.

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daaaaa na na na na na na
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da, da na na, da na na.

it's way too hard to just say i love you.

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Dear Diary,

Day thirteen of the pudding diet has been the worst one yet. I look horrible, I feel grotesque, and I smell like Armageddon three weeks later. I'm not sure exactly what health benefits Dr. Blobb expects me to get from this diet, but there don't seem to be any at all. I've seen myself go from near-supermodel physique to sloppy bowl of semiliquid dessert. It's like I am what I eat. And if it weren't bad enough looking like a bad special effects monster blob from the 70's, I've suddenly become a spoon magnet as well. I've never been so popular. Hungry? Have some left arm! Don't feel bad, there's enough for everybody! I tell you, Diary, you really find out who your friends are when you're warm delicious butterscotch goo. I'm getting off this diet and going back to being a scavenger.

Lovingly,
Bensaki

The freak is back?

Okay, okay. So i posted twice over the entire Christmas break. So what? You probably took a vacation too. Anyway, the computer at home has lots of problems, and it's almost easier not to deal with it at all. But now that i'm back at school, you should be able to expect a brand new ultrabrilliant post just about every day. Sweet.

So to make up for so many freakless days and freakless nights, i'm going to tell you something that's super-secret, hidden even from my frog. Never repeat this, especially not over and over to yourself in a hushed voice while sitting alone in a dark room in a deserted corridor in an old creaky abandoned Victorian house gazing into the intense flame of a single black candle. I mean, that could really freak you out. So promise me that. The secret is threefold: There is a magical world where the rivers flow with root beer and the livers glow with foot beer. (There are rumors that the shivers grow with soot beer, but i checked, and they don't.) This magical world is inhabited by living, breathing paper clips, and it can be reached via magical doors at the bottom of most cereal boxes. So what does this knowledge do for you? Well, not much, except that there is a very trendy taco bar there, in case you ever want to check it out.

Not much of a first freakup of the new year, really, but you must understand that a thing like this has to be eased back into, not rushed right away. The same is true of live alligator pants.

Interesting.