I was a sheltered child. An only child, with few friends and plenty of quality alone-time during which my imagination saw free to harness my endless anxieties and mold me into a freak. That's the short of it. One interesting detail that sprung from this, which to this day I find equally frustrating and cool, is the identity of the frequent (nay, constant) antagonists of my nightmares:

The creatures from the Alien films:

The facehugger. The chestburster. The faceburster. The chesthugger. The hugchester. The hugfacer. The chestfacer. The facechester. The bursthugger. The burstfacer. The facefacer. The hugburster, the warrior. The Queen! (cue Gilligan's Island music)

My anxiety-fueled nightmares always, and I mean ALWAYS, include some combination of these creatures (excluding the stupid ones I madeup) as the embodiment of what's plaguing my mind. It's pretty cool! (it sucks). It probably has something to do with the fact that I never saw anything even remotely scary until Aliens in 1986, when I was already 16 years old. That film just oozed into my brain and stuck there. From then on, all of my typical anxiety nightmares were populated by creeping, crawling, two-mouthed monsters:

SCENARIO #1: I am nervous about a big test in school.

TEACHER
Okay, this test will cover chapters 12-28.

ME
28? But my book only has 20 chapters!

TEACHER
Why are you naked?

ME
Ah! (covers bits)

TEACHER
Alright, you have 30 minutes. I should also point out that the creatures from the popular Alien series of films have infiltrated the schoomppphh! MMMPH! (the teacher reels backwards, a facehugger clamped over her mouth now, smothering her as its tail coils tightly around her neck)

Scenario #2: I am nervous about a big date.

ME
Can I kiss you?

HER
(cough cough)

ME
Are you okay?

HER
(cough cough SPLATTER as a chestburster erupts from her ribcage, splattering me with entrails)

Scenario #3: I am nervous about seeing Alien3 the next day

ME
Two tickets for - [AN ALIEN EATS ME]

Scenario #4: I am nervous about a big audition

CASTING DIRECTOR
Okay, let's start with the scene in the laundromat. Andres, you're Matt, Alien, you're Gail.

ME
But I don't have those sides!

ALIEN
(reading) These grass stains are never going to OH MY GAWD WHY ARE YOU NAKED?!?!

ME
Ah! (I fuck a frozen chicken and wake up)

Andres du Bouchet here, with your daily dose of hard-hitting, insightful, thoughtfully-crafted political opinion! I'm knuckle-deep in Boston, attending the Big Meeting of Democrats right now, and I'm scouring my extensive notes to bring you today's golden nugget of political insight:

(please see subject line)

Well, there you have it. "Ketchup Lady Nooooo!", in my opinion, perfectly sums up what I've witnessed thus far. Looks like she's had 57 varities of stuff injected into her face. Man. Her lips moved so little I kept looking for a dummy. Hoo man. Somebody needs to run her under hot water, bang her on a table and then smack her tush!

Man, she is definitely a hard one to listen to. All the public speaking skills of a bowling pin, and all the likeability of a friggin' bowling pin. Yeah huh.

Over the past several months, many of you have written to me or called to express your concern over what  you perceive to be a conflict of interests regarding my twin careers as both CEO of Angerpoop, and as a moderately successful slightly-below-the-radar unpaid performer on the "alternative" comedy scene here in Manhattan. Fear not. Though I can understand your suspicions that some conflict of interest may be in play, there really is no need to worry. Allow me to present my case with some pertinent points:

1. Angerpoop Enterprises, though a highly successful corporation with a long track record of supporting the performing arts, has no direct production ties to the comedy world. Any comedians who make frequent use of Angerpoop's fine products (Orcaballs, Orcaballs Plus, Orcaballs Clear, etc.) do so without any compensation from Angerpoop. However, just so that there is absolutely no suspicion of any wrongdoing, I myself forego use of Angerpoop's products entirely, and instead use the products of our competitor (Incredizone's Bonermancer, Bonermancer Xtreme, Bonermancer The White, etc.).

2. My duties as CEO of Angerpoop do include overseeing production and quality assurance of our fine products (Zoom Powder, Porcupunch, Morning-Go-By, Orcaballs Gay, etc.), the promotion of said products (Elk Breath, Shut The Flush Up, Pounder Grease, Orcaballs Sinus, etc.)  and the distribution of said products (Orange Plop, etc.), but not the execution of deals pertaining to the performing arts community. For example, I have no connection to Angerpoop's monthly comedy showcase in Tribeca, that I just happen to perform in frequently. Well. Monthly.

3. I started this post days ago and now I have no idea what the hell the point was going to be.

4. Right now in my bathroom magazine rack at home: three issues of The New Yorker and five issues of MAD.

5. Orcaballs.

Suzanne! I'm glad you made it. I don't like to stand-around without my Awesomeness activated for too long. Ha! Is that your resume? Thanks. Have a seat! So...I see you've been working as an admin for quite some time. Good, good. I can tell you right off the bat, this position will be different. As we discussed on the phone, I am a self-described superhero. I work out of this office, but I'm basically out and about most of the time, trying to fight crime. Doing my best. Doing what I can. I do not possess any 'powers' in the traditional sense, though I like to refer 'Awesomeness' alot, but that's mostly just to psyche myself up. So if you take this position, you'll have to put up with me blabbering about Awesomeness quite a bit! I apologize in advance. Let's see. I don't have a superhero outfit really, but I will occassionally wear a burgundy cape with a big, gold 'A' on the back. It's at the cleaners right now. Again, that's mostly just to psyche myself up, provide a little flair when I think it's necessary. Um, what else. You'll see me on the news often, mostly in a negative sense. 'Madman' this, 'Crazed' that. You'll get used to it. People just aren't used to seeing a regular guy like me fighting crime. And what's worse, the public doesn't often agree with me on what crime IS in the first place. So yes, sometimes I will be portrayed as an 'Attacker', 'Thief', 'Lunatic', 'Defecator', among other things, by the media. Like I said, people don't always get me. What else. The basics. I need you here at 9am sharp, tied to that small section of train track in the pantry, every morning. It's how I start my day. Screaming is a plus if you're up for it. I'll untie you, carry you to your cubicle, and then I'll be off. You'll get used to it, there's plenty of twine in the cabinet. Don't go nuts and tie yourself down too tightly, because like I said, I'm just working off of my natural strength. No super powers. Now that I mention it, the whole 'I Have No Super Powers' thing will be a big factor in our day-to-day working relationship. So - give me ample transit time in between meetings on my calendar. The only 'Super Speed' I have at my disposal is my trusty Vespa. Confirm appointments with me please! Don't assume I can read your mind. Because I can't. That would be a super power, and I have none. There are menus in the filing cabinet - you'll be expected to use my credit card to order me lunch every day. I need food, just like everyone else. But not bread or pasta. What else? Oh yes. Reptilion. It is very important that you do your best to prevent this guy from finding me. If he calls, "Mr. Awesomeness is out", got it? Try to stear me clear of the supervillains in general. AIIIIIIIIGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!! How did you feel about me making that sound just now? Sure, sure. I don't blame you. Okay, just checking. Anyway, let's go take a look at the Awesomeness Cave, and then I'll tell you about the insurance plan.

gravel still
a huge frigging
pile
backdrop rust
dusk
a finger thrust
up
pinky ring

Ladies and gentlemen, let's have a round of applause for the comedy stylings of ZORK & JABBERWACKY!!!

JABBERWACKY
Where do you live?

ZORK
West of house. You are standing in an open field west of a white house, with a front foor. There is a small mailbox here.

JABBERWACKY
I'm gonna burn that fence down.

ZORK
I don't know the word 'you'.

JABBERWACKY
To restrain someone is to prevent him or her from taking action.

ZORK
I don't know the word 'restrain'.

JABBERWACKY
You just describe yourself using that word.

ZORK
I don't know the word 'you'.

JABBERWACKY
Oh.

ZORK
I don't know the word 'oh'.

JABBERWACKY
You do.

ZORK
I don't know the word 'you'.

JABBERWACKY
But you just said it.

ZORK
I don't know the word 'you'.

JABBERWACKY
You just describe yourself using that word.

ZORK
I don't know the word 'you'.

JABBERWACKY
Oh.

ZORK
I don't know the word 'oh'.

JABBERWACKY
You do.

ZORK
I don't know the word 'you'.

JABBERWACKY
But you just said it.

ZORK
I don't know the word 'you'.

JABBERWACKY
Then why did you use it in the sentence you just said to me?

ZORK
What do you want to tell?

JABBERWACKY
I want to tell you a joke.

ZORK
I don't know the word 'want'.

JABBERWACKY
You do.

ZORK
I don't know the word 'you'.

JABBERWACKY
Oh.

ZORK
I don't know the word 'oh'.

JABBERWACKY
Then don't use it!

ZORK
What do you want to tell?

JABBERWACKY
I want to tell you a joke.

ZORK
I don't know the word 'want'.

JABBERWACKY
You do.

ZORK
I don't know the word 'you'.

JABBERWACKY
Oh.

ZORK
I don't know the word 'oh'.

JABBERWACKY
Then why did you use it in the sentence you just said to me?

ZORK
What do you want to tell?

JABBERWACKY
I want to tell you a joke.

ZORK
I don't know the word 'want'.

JABBERWACKY
You do.

ZORK
I don’t know the word ‘you’.

JABBERWACKY
Oh.

And scene!

Last night I was riding on the 1 train up to my lavish half-nook on the Upper West Side, when I became curious as to what time it was. Just as I was about to glance at my watch, I shook my head and shrugged, thinking "Oh fuck that's right, I'm down here in the subway so I'm probably not getting a signal."

And so I never looked at my watch.

Because I was sure that it wouldn't be accurate.

Since I was in the subway, where the watch, OF COURSE, would not be getting a "signal".

Yeah. So...I'm going to go stick a fork in a wet toaster now. Maybe it'll make me smarter.

(author's note - read the last four posts leading up to this one in chronological order)

Silence, Salamander! Hold your tongue, Giraffe Baby D026: El Encourigador Futuro! Heel, Blue Paw the Pirate Dog of Realistic Goals and Hard Work! Shut up already Andres The Moronic Blogger! It is now time for all of you to listen to me! Commander Too Close To The Wicker! Well, well, well. What have we here? A cavalcade of chattering imbeciles, all manifestations of the same man's futile attempts to sort out the white noise of ambition in his pudding brain. And all of you just too damn close to me. Dammit. I'm always telling people. And others: "You're too close to me! Step back and see what a lovely wicker chez lounge I am!" But no. They...they always get right up fucking close, relegating me to nothing more than a texture. I AM MORE THAN A TEXTURE. Ah. But I. I am not here to wallow in my own identity-crisis, no. I am here to chastise you lunkheads. What use is there in debating any of this? What?!? You think it matters? He was shot from the cannon of misguided dreams long ago, my friends, and nothing can stop his sky-high ascent or bowels-deep plummet now. WAIT OH MY GOD WHO'S THAT?

It's me, Barry Bonds! I just wanted to say that MY DICK DON'T WORK NO MO! MY DICK! AAAAAIIIIIIGGGGGHHHHH! I TRADED IN A WORKING DICK FOR ALL THESE HOMERUNS AAAAAARGLEARGLEARGLE!!!! WEEPING NOW!

Okay folks, that burst of caffeine is over. Enjoy your weekend!

I AM A SALAMANDER!

That's. That's all I've got.

Oh quiet you filthy mongrel! It is I, Giraffe Baby D026: El Encourigador Futuro! My name is as elaborate as your dreams should be, Andres! Shoot for the stars! I may be a super-intelligent half-baby/half-giraffe from the future imbued with THE POWER OF RELENTLESS POSITIVITY AND LACK OF CRITICAL SELF-AWARENESS, but I know that OH MY GOODNESS WHO'S THAT!?!?!

Ahoy! Not so fast thar Mr. du Bouchet! He of the overblown expectations and sense of entitlement! Yer last post had me ruffin' with disgust! All "boo hoo is me I don't like bein' a temp I want fame and fortune!" Bah! Then earn it! What?!? What be ye lookin' at? 'TIS I, Blue Paw, The Pirate Dog Of Realistic Goals And Hard Work! And these are my pupsmen: Snaggletooth, Tripod, The Nose, and Furley's Triumphant Perriwinkle II. Ay, he WAS a showdog, but now he's with us. We be travelin' from blog to blog offerin' up cold, soberin' encouragement to the likes of you - poor creative souls deluded into thinkin' that they'll be stars someday. Ay, you've got a dribble or drabble of the creative spark, ay, ya do, but FAME?!?! FORTUNE??!?! BARK! Count yerself lucky ye be alive and doin' somethin' ye WHAT THE WHO'S THAT?!?!

Hey Diane, how was lunch? Good. Listen, any messages while I was out? No? You sure? Damn. Okay. What? Nah, it's just that. Um. Oh I don't know, it's just that I've been expecting this...this call for a while now, and I'm losing steam. Yeah steam. Energy, whatever. Huh? Nah, you'll think I'm nuts if I tell you. Alright. I'm expecting a call from the Secret High Council of Super Comedians. I'm not surprised you've never heard of them, it's a secret council. I'm not even sure they exist, but I theorize, I THEORIZE that they must...be...out there. Somewhere. And someday, they're gonna come calling, and all...THIS. All this will be behind me. Don't get me wrong, I love temping here. But as you know comedy IS WHAT I DO. Oops, sorry, yeah indoor voice thanks. Anyhow, for years now I've been plying my trade in relative obscurity, focusing on improving as a writer and performer rather than on the business side of things, the schmoozwork so to speak, getting the nose all brown and whatnot. I've been completely lax when it comes to all that, and...and why? Why they all ask? And to me the answer is obvious. I must be waiting for some call from the blue. The success call, the anointment call. From the Secret High Council of Super Comedians. I think they've been monitoring me through my socks, but I'm not sure. I try not to change my socks too often, just so their sensors can take hold and properly relay the information about how great my shows are going to the SHCOSC. "Shkosk" if you will. And when they call. I'll be ready. Diane, why are you standing so much further away now? Hey c'mon! It was the thing about the socks, wasn't it? Yeah. Oh hey, and I'm waving scissors around! Sorry! Just noticed that.

Ha! Look at that! I got so excited about the fact that today is Thursday, I accidentally typed "thrusdya" while I was doing my Thursday dance! THURSDAY! Doin' my Thursday Dance and wearin' my Thursday Pants! THURSDAY! BAM! Hoo. Yessiree it's Thuh thuh THURSDEE! That's the day it is, gonna take care of my Thursday biz, people! OOH! YES. Bam. hooha

Alright I'm outta gas. This whole "Carry on like a 'tard every Thursday morning" thing is just plain exhausting. And I look like an idiot. These Thursday Pants are nothing more than ill-fitting crimson corduroys with many, many large wooden cooking spoons dangling off the belt. Sure, the spoons make a cool clackity noise when I walk, and when I twirl during my Thursday Dance they add an element of flair, but when I'm just sitting here at my cubicle...fuck. Not comfortable. And this T-shirt I'm wearing: a plain white T with the words "ASK ME ABOUT THURSDAY" ironed onto it. No one ever does ask me about Thursday.

They just stare and avoid.

Dammit, no matter what I do, people just seem to be uncomfortable around me! I've tried everything!

'Tard Actin' Thursdays

Surprise Tickling Saturdays (thanks for posting my bail Bob)

Repeat Whatever Anyone Says To Me In A Gay Voice Right Back To Them Mondays

Stare And Whittle Fridays

By the way, my Fridays have produced a fair number of really impressive carvings, so if you need a walking stick with an ornate, serpent-coiled-around-a-skull knob handle, or a bong that makes it look like you're suckling at the teat of a sow, just let me know and we can work something I AM LONELY!!! Seriously. Ask me about Thursday.

CUBICLE INVENTORY:

Poster of a Golden Retriever sleeping in a hammock? Check.

Small wooden placard on which is a painting of seven cute mice balancing-out one cute bunny on a see-saw with the caption "Good friends are uplifting!"? Check.

Small rubber cheeseburger emblazoned with Food.com logo? Check.

Morgan Stanley yo-yo? Check.

Small wireframe daisy? Check.

Tiny wooden hut with the word "Barbados" written on it? Check.

Photo of a cute baby in a crib? Check.

Photo of a different cute baby on a blanket? Check.

Photo of a third cute baby with a cute stuffed lamb in a baby-carrying thingy? Check.

Photo of a cute toddler who may or may not be one of the babies later on...on a beach with a pail? Check.

Photo of a cute toddler who looks like the same toddler from the beach picture staring up at the camera as he plays with a plastic frog - in a ceramic frame that includes a tiny sculpted baby, ducky and teddy bear?? Check.

Wedding photo? Check.

Photo of man with mustache and different toddler (who may or may not be one of the previously photographed babies as well) sitting in front of a Christmas tree? Check.

Small hollow fuzzy figurine of mother lion and baby lion? Check.

Ceramic figurine of a smiling mouse holding a Christmas stocking that says "You're Special" on it? Check.

Small stuffed clip-on koala bear wearing shirt that says "Gday from Sydney Australia" clipped to the document handler? Check.

Stuffed zebra. Check.

GIANT rainbow-colored mug with photo of Niagara Falls and caption of "Maid of the Mist - Niagara Falls, Canada" check

I hate walking up a stopped escalator. It's disconcerting. To begin with, the steps at the very bottom and top of the escalator are of varying heights. This is discombobulating to me, and usually leads to a rather herky-jerk lurch at the beginning and end of my climb. But more upsetting to me is the simple fact that a normally passive experience has been turned into an active one. I don't resent stairs - they're supposed to just sit there. They're stairs. But if 99% of the time, when you got on a flight of stairs, the stairs just kinda smoothly lifted you to where you needed to go, and then one time you stood on them and they DIDN'T? Shit. Fuckin' stairs. It's like that with a broken escalator. It's all about expectation. As we dart through our days, which for a lot of us are often a long string of very similar days, we learn to act on our expectations before we even observe our surroundings. Hence the anger I feel when I stumble onto a still escalator. Rather than spend those precious gliding seconds daydreaming about Paris Hilton-du Bouchet's mysterious disappearance and how my brilliant defense lawyer had gotten me off on a technicality (we had a torrid, sweat-drenched marriage of passion before it all went sour after our first conversation - three years into the marriage), I am forced to walk up a flight of stairs. It would be similarly jarring if one of my many masseuses were to tell me - "I'm going to stand here with my arms straight out. You just need to press your back against them and rub around." Thankfully my many masseuses do not do this. Incidentally, My Many Masseuses is due to be released sometime this upcoming holiday season, so I'm pretty excited. It was a long process, but my publisher stuck to their guns! It's a coffee table book - hardcover, of course, and it features portraits of all of the masseuses, and a couple of masseurs, who have worked on my back these many years. Each masseuse gets their own page, so it's nearly 2,000 pages long. I don't seem to be moving.

A former boss would announce his intentions to go to the men's room while holding up a newspaper. "I'm going to be gone for a bit, so please answer my line and take messages." He would then slap the newspaper with his other hand and point to it, in order to emphasize the purpose and duration of his impending visit to the bathroom:

SLAP. "I'll be gone for a while." SLAP. "Got it?"

Did he really need to be so explicit? I wonder. If his desire was to simply communicate that for the next several minutes, he was going to be shitting and reading, then no. No, he really didn't need to be so explicit. But what if he was getting at something else?

"Look everybody! This is what I'm going to use to wipe my ass. Not the toilet paper our company provides, but THIS. The New York Times. Specifically, the 'Sports' section and the 'Circuits' section. Why? Because we're all in this together, right? Long hours, tough clients, big projects people. You're bustin' your asses for me, so it's only fair I do the same." SLAP. "Just to reiterate. Wipin' my ass with a newspaper." SLAP.

I doubt it. Or what if he was simply enjoying a moment of unfettered ego?

"Hey. Hey! Check it out." SLAP. "I'm gonna make headlines in there!"

As if somehow, the daily moving of his bowels would shape the world around us. Or what if I write this now:

"Hey people. Hey!" SLAP. "The only thing I enjoy more than doing the doody," SLAP, "is FINISHING the doody. You know? Like in the commercial? Except instead of the crossword being the thing I'm doing slash finishing, it's a doody." SLAP. "Alright forget I said any of that."

Or how about I take a nap? I need one. It was a fun 4th weekend, but I am pooped. POOPED, I say. Ah yes, full circle.

Greetings America! Herb Farber here, wishing you a happy Fourth of July from everyone here at Farber's Fudgeworks. I'm standing in front of the original Fudgeworks mill, on the banks of the Souixtucket river here in Herdleburg, New Hampshire. It was here that Nud Farber first began producing small batches of premium quality novelty fudge in 1898. It wasn't easy for Nud. After purchasing the land from the Cheyhassee tribe in 1896 for a bullfrog tied to a kaleidoscope, Nud still had to build the mill and barter for premium quality fudge ingredients with the local Bog Folk and Wickermen, all the while fending off repeated raids by the Tainters: notorious French-Canadian land pirates who preferred tainting to raping or pillaging. Just subtly tainting whatever it was they came across. Oh-so-subtly tainting. At any rate, it was in 1898 on a Fourth of July much like today - sun blazing overhead, sky yawning wide with majesty and endless blueness streaked with whisps of cotton-candy clouds, that Nud first introduced his premium quality novelty fudge to the small specialty shops in nearby Gingham and Hazel Hollow, where thriving commerce had finally taken hold despite the confounding difficulties of dealing with the aforementioned Bog Folk, Wickermen, Cheyhasse, Fennel Lips, Stilt Braiders, Mudpunters and of course those roving bands of notorious French-Canadian land pirates known as the Tainters. Who would go about...tainting things. Oh-so-subtly. Anyhow, that first premium quality novelty fudge product? The Fudge Shame Marker - modeled to resemble the puritanical method of marking the dwellings of harlots: an S with the head and tail of a snake. Sounds like a far cry from the premium quality novelty fudge products that the Farber name is associated with today, huh? But mark my words, the same care and craft that goes into today's Happy Accident Novelty Fudge pill, or the Fudge Doppleganger, or the Fudgerang, Fudgerpillar, or Fudge Butler, went into that first Fudge Shame Marker. And it was delicious. On that fateful Fourth of July, Nud knew he had chosen the right profession. His fudge treats designed to resemble the preferred method of marking the dwellings of harlots were a smash hit with the townsfolk, who began accusing random women of harlotry and whorish behavior just to use them! The phrase "As delicious as a harlot's doorway", while now used as a more literal sexual phrase concerning oral pleasure, was actually derived from those very Fudge Shame Markers Nud Farber first crafted back in 1898. Just a little bit of Farber history for you folks on this glorious day. So good luck to you, America, and may each and every one of you find your chosen path, and may each one of you successfully fend off your personal Tainters in life. I'm Herb Farber from the Farber's Fudgeworks in Herdleburg, New Hampshire. God Bless.