Friday, March 09, 2007

Hooray for Polytheism

My elk brethren are godless souls who graze greenery and suckle fresh air with nary a thank-you to the mighty heavens above. I, myself, was a selfish parasite living off the glory of the woods. But now, here in the non-woods, I’ve discovered there are many glorious gods to kneel before. My ignorance has been enlightened by the exclamations of reverence I hear from those all around me. The gods, holy be thee, are the following:

Oh My God, who appears to be among the most powerful of the band of almighty. I suspect Oh My God is a matriarch, as I most often hear Her name called by young women masked in makeup and expensive outerwear, either giving thanks for wondrous things, like handsome shoes, or in prayer to save them from evil perils, like mud and broken fingernails.

God Damn It, who seems to be the omnipotent patriarch of the heavens. God Damn It is prayed to by both men and women, and appears to be the one whose mercy is called upon most often. I’ve subscribed to the Church of God Damn It, often calling His name for help when the line at the place where food is purchased is too long, or when a foul-smelling creature approaches me on the street in search of a quarter. Also, I once invoked His name when a bird pilfered one of my twig antlers. If I should ever find that bird, I pray he too has a god to cry out to. May his wings carry him to a fiery nest in hell. To date, God Damn It has yet to answer my prayers, but I keep the faith.

God Speed, clearly one of the lesser gods, as I only rarely hear His name. However, his speed intrigues me, and I’ve often pondered whether he is the god responsible for creating cheetahs. I recall one of the spotted demons who ran down an elk cousin and feasted on his entrails without saying grace first. This is a god wearing the devil’s horns.

God Bless, who is apparently going through divine hazing. I most often hear His name in regards to the release of gooey nose matter, which seems to be some sort of cruel joke, like when I neutered that gazelle. Though I am uncertain why anyone would thank this god for nasal slime. I hypothesize this a young god working his way up, and prone to having his lunch money stolen.

In my learnings I have also discovered the lord’s name shall not be uttered in vain. He hath commanded it. Praise God Damn It!

Monday, July 17, 2006

An Open Letter to the Inventor of Glue

Dear person who made glue:

As a youth, the only adhesives I had access to were natural. There were many times I wished to leave a message for my elk family and sought a better option than what I discovered in my nose. But whatever my finger found in the northern region of my nostrils was the best I could do.

Here, in the city, I’ve been enjoying wondrous alternatives, like glue. Glue is similar to what I produce in my nose and penis (I only discovered that option after my voice got deep), but it comes in a bottle and requires little work to extract it, even though squeezing the bottle is less pleasurable than making it myself. Still, when you’re in a pinch, glue is quick and very handy. Do you make glue the same way I do?

I’ve made many fantastic pieces of art using macaroni, colorful paper, and glitter. I was able to mail some of the art home to the woods, though my elk family doesn’t really appreciate art of any sort. Still, it spruces up the place. I’ve also amused myself by pouring the super version of glue on subway car seats and on the ears of loud cell phone talkers (they got mad though).

In my research, I’ve found that glue enables creativity amongst children, holds posters up on construction sites, keeps stamps on letters, and keeps filthy mouths shut.

I wish to thank for making such adhesives adventures possible. Thank you for the glory of glue.

Also, how do you make so much of it?

Friday, May 12, 2006

A Plea: Stop Eating the Spam and Leave My Penis Alone

Recently I got an electronic mail account on a computer machine. However, you can only send electronic stuff through this mail. I had hoped to electronically mail cabbage and berries to my elk friends. They would have enjoyed that, unless a grizzly found it first.

So far, I have received a lot of mail, but most of it concerns my penis. It seems there are many companies vying for the opportunity to enlarge my urine thing. Some promise me better sex with pills like V I A GR A and Ci aLi S, but they offer no help finding an Elk Girl for me to have better sex with. Others wish to make my penis really, really big. Like an antler. But I probably couldn’t use it to fight, unless I used the V I A GR A to make it strong and hard. Then I could attack up high with my antlers, and down low with my penis. I would be an unstoppable juggernaut, except against a gun.

I never respond to these messages—they’re called “spam”—yet they keep sending them. I suspect there’s only one reason: someone is answering. Lots of someones—lots of poor someones who need help with their penises. If no one said, “Dear V I A GR A, Thank you for contacting me, I would love your product,” then the companies would stop sending them. Who are these people and why do they trust this mail? If I had trouble with my penis, I would prefer not to seek help from electronic spam, but from a nice moist chunk of food spam. Or better yet, from a female with boobs.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Chirping Gets the Bird

Back home, the sound of chirping was the song of birds. Mother Nature’s house band. Here, in this place that’s not the woods, people have little chirping devices they hold up to their mouths. They say things like, “Where you at?” Then it chirps. Then there’s some form of garbled language I cannot decipher, but I doubt it’s meaning is of importance. Unlike my elk brethren, I don’t have super hearing, yet I can hear this chirp from a block away. I don’t like it.

I’ve decided this atrocity is an insult to birds, and moreover an insult to nature herself. This calls for retaliation. Now, whenever I see a person using a chirping device, in the good name of all birds, I thrust my middle finger at them.

Unfortunately, it seems “the bird” has not been effective in quieting the chirp. Apparently, these sinners are used to getting the finger and have grown accustomed to it. Therefore, I must find a new form of vigilantism. I will consult my local police person to learn whether or not impalement with pointy antlers is legal.

Friday, April 29, 2005

On the Qualifications to be Called an Expert

Having been raised by elk since my wee years, I consider myself somewhat of an expert in elk behavior. I know the ins and outs of mating season and I know when and how often they poop like the back of my hand. I’ve got diagrams drawn if you’re interested. I also know lots about berries and ticks.

I think when one spends a lot of time studying and experiencing something, one’s earned the label of “expert.”

Earlier this week I was watching a morning television show with experts on things like weather and traffic. But the most intriguing expert was featured in a segment on women’s hair brushes. The “expert” was a bald man (though he talked like a woman).

Now I’m no expert on experts, but isn’t that like an elk being an expert on the intricacies of astrophysics?

Interview With an Enraged Youth in an XXXXXL Shirt

Society is full of people wearing shirts and pants. The former cover the top parts and the latter the bottom parts. Both serve a dual purpose of keeping the body warm and expressing a fashion sense. Very clever.

But one fashion sense I’m perplexed by is the XXXXXL shirt. I’ve noticed many male youths wearing them, but none stand tall enough to require such a size. The shirts go down to the knees, almost like a dress. I thought perhaps this was the boys’ way of showing their feminine side, because they were embarrassed to wear a pretty dress. I remember when I first tried on a slinky black dress (that showed off more than a little leg). I was mocked and stared at repeatedly throughout the day. I soon learned the sexy garments were only for women.

To test my dress theory, I stopped a hooligan wearing a long, red shirt and baggy pants to ask him about his choice of clothing. Our conversation went something like this:

ME: Hello. I was raised by elk in the woods and I don’t understand why your shirt is so long. Is it meant to be like a dress?

HIM: What happened? Whatchoo want bitch?!?

ME: What happened was I asked if your shirt was meant to be like a dress. Do you want to look like a pretty girl?

HIM: (Waving his arms around like the wings of a startled bird) Aw shit! This freaky muthafucka’s ‘bout to get his ass kicked yo!

ME: Pardon?

HIM: A’ight, lissen you antler-wearin’ muthafucka, I ain’t tryin’ to look like no girl, you punk-ass bitch. I be wearin’ this long shirt because it covers my ass so I can wear my pants down low. That okay with you “elk boy”?

ME: Yes, it’s perfectly fine with me. I’m used to being around a bunch of naked elk, so this is all new to me.

HIM: Da fuck you talkin’ about?!?

ME: But why do you wear your pants so low? I wear mine at my waist. That way my pants cover my butt and my shirt doesn’t necessarily have to.

HIM: You about to have a foot up yo’ ass. How’s that for coverin’ yo butt?

ME: The pants do just fine, thank you.

HIM: See, it’s like this, I wear the pants low because, uh, shit. Man, fuck you!

Then he walked off looking angry and shoved an old man who was slowly walking nearby. I still don’t understand the long shirt. Strangely enough, I don’t think the people wearing them understand it either.

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

Why Are My Boogers Blessed?

Yesterday I was trotting down the street when I suddenly sneezed. A handsome woman nearby heard the burst from my nose and said, “Bless you!” I asked her if she was a clergywoman in a church or synagogue and she said she wasn’t. Then she crossed the street. I was left pondering why I had been blessed for my sneeze. Elk seldom bless each other.

With the woman long gone, I turned to a man standing against the wall with a sign about not having a home or something and asked him about the blessing. He muttered an unintelligible response which was of no help and he smelled foul, like a day-old carcass in the sun. So I left to seek my answer elsewhere.

I stumbled upon an elementary school and entered their computer machine lab so I could ask a computer machine my question. A class was in session and several children asked me why I was wearing antlers. I answered them and then asked the teacher if she knew about the blessing. The teacher, who looked old and feeble, explained that in ancient times the phrase was intended to protect the soul from demons entering the body or to protect the soul from leaving the body. The security man escorting me out said that was probably true.

Today I wondered if the same theory held true when gases and air were blown through other orifices. So I returned to the same spot of the sneeze yesterday and farted loudly. It was certainly heard by the many people nearby, but no one blessed me. I did get a few dirty looks though. Very puzzling. I guess hellish creatures never came out of the ass.

People today aren’t concerned with soul or demons, this blessing tradition is merely a way to acknowledge others in a polite manner. But the same does not hold true for a fart. A fart is regarded as a lesser bodily function I suppose. Yet the fart only makes noise and smells. A sneeze also makes noise and can actually spurt yucky nose stuff onto others, endangering them with horrific germs. A fart does not emit such gooey matter. All things considered, it’s much more friendly toward others.

I’ve decided I don’t care about not being blessed after a fart. I think I ought to be thanked.

Thursday, April 14, 2005

Sports Fans and Nonsensical Fashion

Sports are something I didn’t have growing up. Sure, I ran a lot with the elk, but there was no prize for getting to the stream first. Although I suppose staying alive was a prize for getting away from the cougars. And the only balls I ever played with were between my legs.

Here in society, what’s been more striking to me than the actual sporting games are the fans. I can understand rooting for a particular team to play well, but I’ve been confused by fans who root for all the teams. Many young, fickle fellows wear hats or jackets or even pants featuring logos from every one of these basketball, football, or baseball teams. The logos seem to be thrown on the garment in a haphazard fashion, perhaps designed by a plucky squirrel. I think it looks like the entire league vomited in a sweatshop.

What’s the fun in liking every team? Aren’t rivalries what make games interesting? Who cares who wins if you like both teams equally? These fans appear to either be wishy-washy or they actually enjoy the look of logo vomit.

As for me, I haven’t gotten into balls with baskets, feet, or bases. I’m just a fan of my own balls. And no one else’s.

Friday, March 18, 2005

In Search of Mr. Busboy

When I was growing up with the elk we had no family name. We were simply known as "That Group of Elk Over There" or "Those Elk Up Yonder." But here in society everyone has a family name. Some examples I've noticed are Smith, Johnson and Wiggins.

I understand that hundreds of years ago these names came about due to a person’s occupation, such as a blacksmith for Smith, or as a descriptor, such as the son of John for Johnson. I don't know what a Wiggins is.

I wonder when people decided to start using these kind of names. And once they did, at what point did they simply stick? In other words, at what point did Johnson stay Johnson, instead of changing with John's son's son? If John's son was Mike (Mike Johnson), shouldn't his son's last name be Mikeson? The same question applies to occupational names. Where's Mr. Livery and Mr. Busboy?

Back home we didn't need names. After all, we didn't get paychecks or monograms or jury duty. But now that I'm here I wish to adopt a family name. Maybe a first name, too.

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

Hygiene and the Surprising Survival of the Human Race

One thing that’s nice about people is that they smell good. I didn’t realize how wonderful a thing this was until I came across someone who didn’t smell good. He was a disheveled creature who smelled worse than fresh droppings.

Modern innovations in soap and deodorant are largely responsible for people’s pleasant aromas. Without them, places like armpits begin to stink within hours. Particularly on men. But any person who doesn’t bathe for an extended period of time smells worse than leftovers from a carcass after a cougar makes a kill.

This got me thinking, before luxuries like the aforementioned deodorant, how dreadful did people smell? I drew a timeline of humankind’s existence and noticed that these good-smelling things are fairly new to civilization. So for the majority of time, people stunk.

Today, when bad odor surrounds a male or female, it’s hard to attract the opposite sex. Men prefer women who smell good, and vice versa. Was this true a few hundred years ago? If a wretched stench were emanating from a man’s armpits and groin, what women would go near him? And if this were the case for the majority of people, how did they overcome the stink’s force to get close enough for mating?

Perhaps this is a testament to the power of human libido. For if the libido were unable to overcome the stink, I very much doubt the human race would’ve survived more than a generation or two.

Thursday, March 03, 2005

The Fork’s Mighty Rule in the Kingdom of Etiquette

While eating lunch the other day I marveled at how civilized civilization is. Until leaving the woods, I had never seen the metal thing called a “fork.” I always used my fingers to grasp food and put it in my mouth. Among the elk, who ate directly with their mouths, I was the most “civilized.”

This fork is quite curious. For some reason the use of one became an etiquette standard. The absence of a fork can immediately alter one’s opinion of another. For instance, if a brilliant scientist were caught eating a steak with his fingers, his status as “brilliant” would immediately plummet to “heathen.” The fork truly has power beyond its tines.

However, I’ve also noted that there are exceptions to the fork’s rule. Such immunity is given to designated “finger food” like fries and pizza. Both foods could be eaten with a fork, but seldom are. Isn’t this hypocritical? A teenager at the mall mocked me as I ate my fries with a fork. I returned the mocking by pointing out his acne and insulting his mother.

I called the fork company and inquired about its domination over the eating industry, but was told to talk to the spoon people. So I did some investigating of my own and uncovered some historical facts on the fork. For instance, until the 1700s, the fork was looked down upon. Rather, proper etiquette demanded food be eaten using only three fingers (this kept two clean!). Only savages ate with all five. Religion was also a force behind the damnation of forks. Clergymen believed that God had provided men with natural forks—fingers—and to use metal instruments and substitutes was an insult to the Almighty. One such Italian clergyman backed up his argument after a woman in his presence refused to eat with her fingers and died shortly after.

These religious concerns soon faded. Had they been true, we’d all surely be dead by now (except us elk and our four-legged brethren). Or, maybe they were right and we forkers are all on a silver platter to hell.

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

Appreciation and Puzzlement at the Urinal

I’ve been temping at a turtle breeding company for the past few weeks and have had the opportunity to enjoy the men’s room urinal. It’s a lovely contraption that whisks my urine away from me, to some place I can only imagine is a like a giant yellowish sea plagued with a foul stench. I wonder what sort of creatures could thrive there.

When I was with my elk family, we would pee and then leave the area immediately. With the urinal, I can stay put.

But what I’ve found most interesting is the little puddle that accumulates beneath the receptacle. How does this tiny pond get there? Last Tuesday I sat there for 15 minutes watching the urinal to see if it leaked. It did not. I had to leave when a co-worker entered the bathroom and informed me that he was uncomfortable with my watching him urinate. I believe his words were, “What the hell are you looking at Twig Head?”

After a few minutes, I felt it was safe to enter the bathroom once again. The puddle had grown! The leaking came not from the urinal, but from my co-worker. I was sure of it and felt no need to confirm with a sniff. How could this be? The urinal is designed so that your thingy can be very close to it and is wide enough to catch urine even if you shake around a bit. How could anyone miss? Clearly he wasn’t the only one contributing to the puddle. Is it laziness? A complete lack of penis-eye coordination? Puzzling.

But perhaps the puddle needs to be there. It serves as a constant reminder of the urinal’s value, a microcosm of what might be if our urine wasn’t flushed far away. And it keeps the janitor busy.

The Unnecessary Confusion from Simple Questions

To wear my prosthetic antlers, I glue two pen caps to the side of my hat, then I place a twig in each one. Today the caps broke off my hat, so I went to a drugstore and asked an employee where the super glue was. The dull-witted girl responded, “What happened?” I explained to her that I had just asked her a question regarding the store’s placement of super glue. She smacked her gum and pointed to the back of aisle 3.

This was not the first time someone had asked me what happened after an inquiry. Had I startled them? Were they simply inexperienced in answering questions? I grew up speaking Elk (which is fairly easy if your lungs allow for loud shrieking) yet I understand when I’m being asked a question and do not need the situation explained to me. It seems that these people say, “What happened?” when they mean to say, “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand what you just said.”

During a recent junket down south (I was temping at a turtle breeding company) I noticed a similar communication complication. When asking a slack-jawed youth which way the boiled peanut stand was, he replied, “Do wha-?” Puzzled, I said, “No my friend, I didn’t ask you to do anything, except tell me a direction.” He pointed up yonder.

English appears to have regional difficulties with simple clarification responses. Yet, if I’ve mastered the art of talking after being raised by elk, it makes me wonder what excuse these poor, confused people have. What happened, indeed.

Sunday, February 27, 2005

The True Genius of Bottled Streams

Out in the woods, we elk quenched our thirst from the cool, running stream waters. In this society place people have bottled the streams to take it with them. Initially, this seemed like a grand plan. People carry their bottles of water, large and small, everywhere, providing constant refreshment. What a time saver to not have to run to a stream whenever a tongue gets parched!

Eventually I discovered these bottles for sale, which I found alarming. Stream water was always free, and these portable streams cost more than other beverages. Perhaps the cost was to due the heavy labor of removing bugs and dirt from the water, though it never really bothered me back home.

I considered purchasing a bottle with the $2 I earned from posing with a tourist, but then I noticed something even more ingenious. According to a mall security guard I asked, it was called a water fountain. At the push of a button this fountain provided bug- and dirt-free water, for free! These fountains appeared to be everywhere.

So why do people pay for water? I scanned through an archive of microfiche on the subject and discovered that prior to the 1980s very few people paid to drink water from bottles (some may have put their own free water in bottles themselves). Perhaps there was a serious health advantage to this “special” expensive water. Yet, I noticed that there was a healthy population of octogenarians even in the 1970s. For that matter, even a hundred years ago people lived to ripe old ages. So apparently free water wasn’t a mass murderer.

It seems to me that bottling a stream isn’t genius at all. Convincing people to pay for it, now that’s brilliant.

An Observation for the Obese

Trampolines should be avoided.