Hmm. Is this thing working?

How long is it supposed to take for my stupid posts to appear on my blog?

 

I don't even like any of them so far. But I can't retract them. THIS SUCKS!

 

I've cast some idiocy into the ether, and now all I can do is wait for it to show up on the blog, where I can revisit just how stupid the stuff I wrote is.

 

This feeding tube is chafing my cheek. And the donuts are barely working their way through the tube! This was a stupid idea.

---

NOTICE: If received in error, please destroy and notify sender. Sender does not waive confidentiality or privilege, and use is prohibited.

FOUR

I wonder.

---

NOTICE: If received in error, please destroy and notify sender. Sender does not waive confidentiality or privilege, and use is prohibited.

Mmm!

Pope paste.

---

NOTICE: If received in error, please destroy and notify sender. Sender does not waive confidentiality or privilege, and use is prohibited.

This document looks like my boss strapped a pen to a squirrel and let it loose in a room full of legal pads.

And now I've got to type up the resulting crud.

---

NOTICE: If received in error, please destroy and notify sender. Sender does not waive confidentiality or privilege, and use is prohibited.

Ahhhh. Whew! Ooooooh. (suck air in through teeth) Eeeeehaaaaaoooh. Heh.

I try to go to the gym often enough to balance out my tremendous beer intake, thereby maintaining this sort-of pleasingly husky build, and every time I return to the locker room after one of my WORKOUTS!!! I always find myself puzzled by the noises the other men are making. Breathy noises, staccato or drawn-out, sharp and through the teeth or low, bordering on subliminal. It's hard to convey through writing. Just imagine the sound you'd make after taking a gulp of cold lemonade on a 100 degree day. Or the sound you'd make as blood is being drawn from your arm. Or the sound you'd make as you stand naked at your locker in the Men's locker room.

 

"Ahhhhhh. Sssst. Wheeeew.Uh."

 

And that's just taking off a sock.

 

Exaggerated, breathy, masculine noises that are clearly not the same noises men make when they do simple things such as apply deoderant, open a locker or dab talc in the privacy of their own Action Headquarters (I'm assuming that's what all men have, since that's where I reside - du Bouchet Action Headquarters, Sargasso Base 12! what? I dunno. blow me.),

 

"Mmmmph. Graaaah. Heeooooooooh. Eh. Aaaaaaah."

 

And that's just tapping in his voicemail code on his cell.

 

The workout's over, right? Ostensibly, these guys have already cooled off a bit, maybe even taken a shower, and their bodies are in relaxation mode, not APPLY X NUMBER OF FOOTPOUNDS OF TORQUE TO DUMBBELL mode, right?

 

So here's my theory. The sounds are meant to let other men know - "Hello, I too am a man and I am here in your vicinity, you man."

 

Because frankly, standing side-by-side with another naked or semi-dressed man is not the natural state of things. For thousands of years, I would wager our (giant)fore(head)fathers took great pains to avoid situations in which two or more of them were standing naked side-by-side, staring at small storage compartments. Maybe hewn into a cliff face, for example. With tools such as an Elk Chisel. I'm just guessing.

 

END OF FIRST MEANDERING POST OF THE DAY SUCK IT!

---

NOTICE: If received in error, please destroy and notify sender. Sender does not waive confidentiality or privilege, and use is prohibited.

All Aboard!

Our story takes place aboard a train. Mr. Guthrie flips through an L.L. Bean catalogue as he settles into his seat. Passengers are still filling the train around him. A ticket collector approaches.

TICKET COLLECTOR
Hello Sir! Ticket please.

MR. GUTHRIE
Here you go.

TICKET COLLECTOR
Thank you! Okay, now then, I am required by law to remind you that you can't stop the pussy train.

MR. GUTHRIE
Hmm?

TICKET COLLECTOR
Can't stop it. Hold onta yo dick lest ya drop it. PussyTRAIN! hee.

MR. GUTHRIE
I don't understand.

TICKET COLLECTOR
I know, I know, it seems a bit odd, but I am required by law. Okay, have a safe trip. And what can't you stop?

MR. GUTHRIE
Um. The pussy train?

TICKET COLLECTOR
Righto! (goes off whistling)

MR. GUTHRIE
Hmm, I am thinking to myself that perhaps I have gotten on the wrong train. I wanted to go to East Westsouth, not some sort of pu-

PASSENGER NUMBER TWO
(sitting next to Mr. Guthrie) No sir, this is the train to East Westsouth indeed. Can't stop it. Hold onta yo dick, my friend! Lest ya drop it. Pussy train.

MR. GUTHRIE
Right. I am perplexed.

PASSENGER NUMBER THREE
(leaning back from the seat in front of Mr. Guthrie) Pussy train!

PASSENGER NUMBER TWO
Right, that's what I told him!

MR. GUTHRIE
This is the train from Berton to East Westsouth?

PASSENGER NUMBER TWO
Yes, yes it is! HOO!

MR. GUTHRIE
What?

PASSENGER NUMBER THREE
(leaning back again) Hold onta yo dick!

MR. GUTHRIE
You have each done nothing to alleviate my concern and confusion. I'm afraid that -

CONDUCTOR V.O.
All aboard the 1231 local from Berton to East Westsouth, all aboooaaard.

MR. GUTHRIE
Well. Alright as long as I get to where I'm going.

(the train begins to move)


(Passenger Number Two calmly begins perusing a Wall Street Journal)



(Mr. Guthrie goes back to flipping through his L.L. Bean catalog)




(times passes uneventfully)







(for a while)









(no, there is no panda at the end of this)









(finally...)

CONDUCTOR V.O.
First stop, Larchfield Circle, first stop, Larchfield Circle, please disembark only through the first three cars of the train.

PASSENGER NUMBER TWO (leans forward to passenger number three)
Psst. How's your dick holding up?

PASSENGER NUMBER THREE
Not too bad, all things considered!

MR. GUTHRIE
Oh please. Would you stop -

TICKET COLLECTOR
Hello sir, how is your dick holding up?

MR. GUTHRIE
I beg your pardon?

TICKET COLLECTOR
Your dick. How's the trip so far?

MR. GUTHRIE
My. I'm. Um. My dick is fine. It's fine. Thank you.

TICKET COLLECTOR
(moving down the train car) Everyone's dicks in order? Good! GOOD! Alright, let's get this P to the T to M-O-V-E!

ALL PASSENGERS
(shouting) Pussy train!

(the train begins to move again)


(everyone goes back to calmly reading or listening to their iPods, except for Mr. Guthrie, who is now looking around the train cautiously, and down at his own crotch periodically - still, it all just seems like a normal train ride)











(more time passes)






































































panda'd (yawn)


























(still more time passes)





























CONDUCTOR
Next stop, Heightstown Bluffs, Heightstown Bluffs is the next stop!

PASSENGER NUMBER TWO
Wooo wheee! My dick!

PASSENGER NUMBER THREE
I hear ya! My dick too! (leaning back to Mr. Guthrie) How about you?

MR. GUTHRIE
(won't look up from his L.L. Bean catalog) Um. Yes, yes. Hoo my dick.

PASSENGER NUMBER THREE
Aw c'mon, don't say it just to make me happy.

PASSENGER NUMBER TWO
Yes, please. If you're not really all "hoo my dick" then don't say it.

MR. GUTHRIE
(finally looking up) Well, to be honest, I don't know what I'm supposed to be experiencing. To me, this seems like a normal train ride that -

PASSENGER NUMBER TWO
Pussy train.

MR. GUTHRIE
Um. A normal train ride during which everyone keeps making dick and pussy references.

PASSENGER NUMBER THREE
(whistles, throws his arms up and turns back to facing forward, shaking his head)

PASSENGER NUMBER TWO
You are so not even on board the pussy train. Well, fine. Don't try to stop it, because you can't. And my advice to you?

MR. GUTHRIE
Yes?

PASSENGER NUMBER TWO
Hold onta yo dick lest ya drop it. Hee.

MR. GUTHRIE
What the hell are -

PASSENGER NUMBER TWO
Hee! HEE! Shhh. (goes back to his Wall Street Journal)



(the train starts moving again)












(and Andres gets bored of this post)

















(and goes back to his admin job)






















(Happy Easter!)

I couldn't think of a subject line for this post that wasn't offensive.

As far as the Schiavo case goes, I think that keeping that feeding tube in her is akin to throwing a glass of scotch at a cat, everyday.

It's just a waste of good scotch, and you know the cat will never look at you with loving recognition.

REWORDING: It's akin to wasting an expensive liquid on something that will never ever look at you with any love or recognition.

Ramblings While It Sleets Outside

Is a hand-rolled cigarette the only thing for which it is considered appropriate for one person to LICK prior to handing it to another person that they know full well is about to put that thing in their mouth?

I could have phrased that better. Right? You wouldn't do it with a lollipop or a boner. Well. Depends on your lifestyle.

---

Pimp My Pimp would be a cool show.

"This Pimp isn't PIMPED OUT enough!"

"Yeah yeah yo, now when Darnelle 5000 sneezes, Sprite comes out. We pimped him out yo."

---

A movie that starts thusly: a man's father passes away, and one of the few things left to him in the will is a key to a safety deposit box. What does the son find in the safety deposit box? 11 women's drivers licenses.

CREEEEEPY.

The son does some research, and of course finds that all 11 of the women had been reported missing and never found. Was his father a serial killer? He must seek out the truth, while re-assessing all of his memories of his father. Lots of flashbacks.

Somebody pay me to write this.

---

I delight in your fingers. I crave your neck. To nibble your lips is nip to me.

---

Shouldn't have put the romantic fiddle faddle after a film idea about a serial killer.

---

"Timmy The Nicest Piranha" is a children's book idea I have. Well. An idea for a title. He lives in the Amazon. He befriends:

a good-natured, giant catfish named Laird who is inexplicably Scandinavian

a barfbag named Barfbag who is brimming with tourist spew - they meet when Barfbag is tossed overboard a glass-bottomed boat (this is Timmy's best friend)

an electric eel named Hopscotch. Hopscotch is boooooring and mellow, which is ironic since he is coursing with high voltage electricity

a skittish goldfish named Ms. Pringles who was tossed in the Amazon by a kid who didn't want a pet goldfish anymore. Somehow Ms. Pringles has managed to survive in this harsh environment through being hyper cautious and neurotic. She pops Klonopin tablets that were tossed in the Amazon by some pharmaceutical company

the skull of a skeletonized cow is Timmy's home base - in one eye socket is a Coke bottlecap, and in the other eyesocket is Snoopy pez dispenser

And of course the whole book is plush and pop-up.

Oh, there should be a bunch of bad guy piranha in it too

---

Butt.

---

"Hi, this is Pat O'brien. When I get back to the table, give me a smile if you're up for Scrabble later."

---

TESTICULAR CANCER OF THE FACE!

---

I googled images for "Bouchet" and this came up:



"Welcome to Alluricon-8. I am your unitard seamstress, Njasja. Please step over my corrugated, prehensile monopendage."

(her lower half is a giant worm-like looking thing)

or maybe just "Mmmm...Gyros."

---

Roger Clemen's prized Hummer was stolen. For his sake, I hope it wasn't my wife who stole it, because if there's one thing SHE won't give, it's a blowjob! Wait. Um.

---

Whatever. These have been some ramblings, you cockwads!

"We fight for mentally disabled children!"

I saw an ad for a law firm on the subway with the above slogan, and it made me feel good. After all, mentally disabled children deserve quality entertainment just like the rest of us, and what's more entertaining that watching lawyers fight each other?

I got it.

I finally came up with a punchy ending to the "Monday? More like Mond..." joke from earlier. Tell me what you think of this:

Ahem.

Monday? More like Mond...





















































































































































BLOW ME!

Monday? More like Mond...like...um...

Mond.

Ah crap. WRITER'S BLOCK!

Seriously, what?

Sunday? More like Sund-YAY!

What?

Friday? More like Frid-YAY!

That's all I got. It's a busy morning.

goddamnyeah

Alright, some friends have asked for the return of these links, but instead of putting them back in the sidebar, I'm going to relegate them to just this one post. Here they are again:

My impression of Italian pornstar Rocco Siffredi repeatedly trying to recite the entire McDonald's Big Mac jingle without ejaculating.

and

My impression of Italian pornstar Rocco Siffredi repeatedly trying to recite the entire Oscar Meyer Bologna jingle without ejaculating.

Where'd the ball go?

I'm serious. Where'd the ball go? You were holding it right in front of my face a second ago. Where is it now? And why are you laughing? Where's the OH there it is! Yay! For a second there I was worried that HEY WHERE'S THE BALL? And you're laughing again!

I am cute with perplexedness!

I am listening and looking very hard. I do not sense the ball's presence. Is your laughing somehow connected to all of this? You look very entertained and I'm beginning YAY THE BALL IS BACK! I guess that answers my okay the ball is gone again.

Maybe perking my ears up and tilting my head slightly will help.

Nope. Still no ball. And you REALLY seem to be enjoying yourself.

Where is the ball.

Where is the ball.

You know what? I forgot what I was wondering about. I feel very perkily curious right now, but I have absolutely no recollecTHE BALL IS BACK NOW I REMEMBER WHAT I WAS WORRYING ABOUT IT WAS ABOUT WHERE THE BALL HAD GONE BUT NOW IT'S BACK YAY HOORAY CAN I PLEASE HAVE IT WAG WAG?!?!?

Alright, where'd it go?

This sucks.

And you're reeeaaallly laughing your ass off now. WHERE'S THE FUCKING oh there it is. Whew. I was about to lose my temper. Give it. Thanks. Gnaw gnaw wag gnaw wag wag gnaw...

Project: Soupcatcher!

MY BEARD
You wanted to see me?

ANDRES
Yeah, yeah. Have a seat. And um. Thanks for coming.

MY BEARD
Sure.

ANDRES
Before I say anything else, I just want you to know that I've always respected your work.

MY BEARD
Right.

ANDRES
Seriously.

MY BEARD
Okay.

ANDRES
And any um...well I'll just come right out and say the word...shaving has been out of necessity. Not uh, not um. You know, not because I don't like you. I like it when -

MY BEARD
I know I know, don't -

ANDRES
I LIKE IT WHEN YOU'RE AROUND, OKAY?

MY BEARD
Thanks. I like it when you let me hang around.

ANDRES
That's good to hear, because I've been given the go ahead.

MY BEARD
The go ahead?

ANDRES
I'm giving you the green light.

MY BEARD
Holy shit.

ANDRES
Welcome back.

MY BEARD
You won't regret this.

ANDRES
I know. Now start growing.

MY BEARD
I'm way ahead of you!

Seriously everyone, get ready for some bad-ass scruff.

Good morning and other completely uninteresting tappity-tappings.

Rarely do I find myself awake at 9am on a Sunday. I think this occasion warrants a special GOOD MORNING post!

So good morning.

I am rarely funny this early.

I'm scrunched over my Dad's steam-powered laptop, mauling the tiny keyboard with my mitts, guzzling coffee and trying to wake-up.

I watched 'The Office' for the first time last night - the entire first season. Now I see why my friends were making such a big deal about it. It was truly sobering to watch David Spade host SNL right afterwards, as the entire cast smirked their way through what now amounts to a fraternity/sorority mixer talent show. Save us the agony and retire, Lorne. I'll take the memories of the Christopher Guest season back in '84 or '85, whenever that was. Made me feel better about just doing my own thing. Oooh, I know. I can clue you all in to some really geeky stuff. Here are some of the various things I scribble in my notebook(s) in order to convince myself that I'm on the right path. I should probably lay off the personal insights after this, as it will most certainly shatter the illusion that I am not batshit:

KEEP ON DOING WHAT YOU'RE DOING

THERE IS NO PLAN-B (I have this one engraved on the back of my iPod)

RIDE TO RUIN AND THE WORLD'S ENDING (Tolkien)

ROCK OUT WITH YOUR COCK OUT (Proust)

There you go. Sometimes I'll even e-mail this kind of crap from my work e-mail to my personal e-mail, or vice versa. For some reason it's more inspirational to stumble upon one of these things on a slip of paper or in an e-mail than it is to just mumble it to myself. Which I do as well. Oh dear do I mumble.

batshit.

Alright, I'm closing the crazy window.

"Andway, Yo Weewd!"

So said one of my campers many years ago. A little girl with diabetes, whom (or is it who? somebody go fuck a dictionary) I needed to take for her afternoon sugar-free snack every day one particular summer. She claimed, and rightly so, that I was "weewd". She meant "weird". And she was right. Or so I've been told. Repeatedly. Throughout my life. I am weird. If a 9-year old was able to tell, it must be a pronounced weirdness indeed. I've determined that when people call me "weird", they are mostly referring to my almost complete absence of a filter. My internal monologue and my external means of expressing myself are often intertwined. I say what's on my mind, and often times it's nonsensical or stupid or too honest or too eager or too...weird. Anyway, sometimes I take great pride in my weirdness, as I feel it's part of my imagination - part of what I think makes me special, talented, creative, whatever. But it's also frustrating. I would like to be able to not say what I'm thinking. Sometimes.

Anyway, I forget that little girl's name, but I hope she's well. I would imagine that with the way sugar-free technology has developed over the past decade, she has many snacks at her disposal.

Actually, I have a picture of myself from those summer camp counselor years, and it's just a little further down...


Seriously. A picture of me. Further down. Trust me.













No! I would NOT do that again. Pleeeasse? Just a little further.





































What? Oh c'mon. You think I would resort to the same joke TWICE? Please!























I look really cute in this old summer camp picture - I was quite the hunk! Check it out! A little further down...





























BLAM!



YOU'VE BEEN PANDA'D AGAIN MOFOS! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Ha.

Eh.

ohjesus

Tonight is MAN NIGHT

Every so often, a man like me needs to have a night to himself. To do things the way a man should. I think you hear the tune I'm playin', NYC.

Here's how we're going to rock it:

FIRST, I'm going to get a haircut. I don't partcularly need a haircut, but guess what? MAN NIGHT is about WANT, not NEED. Bam. Streamline that big skull of mine. Someone's going to look damn handsome, and that someone is this someone.

SECOND, I'm going to go home and 'take care of business'. It usually costs about 30 bucks for one month's worth of business-taking-care-of, and let me tell you. It's night's like MAN NIGHT that I thank God for secured connections and Fantastik.

THIRD, I'm going to heave myself through some basic exercises. Push-ups. Dumbbell curls. You know. The things a man needs to do in order for his manparts to remain manly. Maybe I should make THIS one second. Hmm. Drowsy push-ups?

FOURTH, I am going to head into the bathroom, lather up my face, pause, and then give the finger to my razor and rinse my face. Damn straight. MAN NIGHT is the kind of night when a man's beard is his friend, not his enemy. I like to think of it as a fuzzy shield between my face and not-my-face. (actually, I ended up shaving tonight)

FIFTH, I am going to shower and then put some clean clothes on. This is something that is not exclusive to night's like MAN NIGHT, but I had to include it here in order to make it clear that I wasn't heading out onto the town all stinky.

SIXTH, I am going to stroll manlily down the street while listening to my iPod. I will choose a song that matches my lurching with its rhythm.

This post is unfinished and sucky. But will I post it? Sure!

my slapshot sucks!

Today is one of those days at work when I just click around the web hoping for an Orbitz pop-up ad. I wish real life had fun little games that would just spring up once in a while:

GAP SALESPERSON
Alright, you wanted to hang onto these khakis and this sweater, but you didn't like the T-shirt, right?

ME
Yep, thanks.

GAP SALESPERSON
Okay. Hey, before we complete this transaction, what do you say to a quick game of hand-eye coordination? Here, take this hockey stick.

---

MTA EMPLOYEE V.O.
Ladies and gentlemen we are being held in the station due to a train ahead of us we will be moving shortly but for now see how many times you can hit the cartoon duck.

---

and so on. You know. Those little Orbitz games. They rock.

voot.

notebookdumptime

Hi there. Like most men, I carry around a tiny notebook in which I scribble poetry about made-up animals. Here are two quickies:

LAMENT OF THE ANTLER-SNAKE
draped
on myself
I have
a fucking
headache

LAMENT OF THE TARGET-BACKED TURTLE
Damn
paint-ball
dickwads

voot. voot voot voot voot. sniff. WOOF! vootvootvootvoot

Woof! Woof I say! Good afternoon. You are perplexed by me, I can see that. You are not used to a talking dog, much less one with a corduroy coat. Yes, that's right, my fur is 100% corduroy. Wanna pet me? Here, let me come closer...

voot voot voot voot voot

Here I am. Pet away. Ahh nice. Scritch behind my ears please. Thanks. Yes, I am what is known as a CORDUROY RETRIEVER. Wide wale variety. Would you like to see what I look like? Scroll down!

























































a little further!

























































I'm cute, keep scrolling!









































I'm a CORDUROY RETRIEVER! A little further!
























BLAM! SUCKER!



Ah ha ha ha ha ha! You've been panda'd.

andres_dubouchet@dmail.com

I would like to propose a new system of electronic communications: D-mail.

D-mail, which is short for "Drunken E-mail", would be just like regular e-mail, but with the understanding that every single message would be written while severely intoxicated. Therefore, messages such as the following:

"Hey PAm
you're like how many tqeruile and im like FOUR teqguila AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH WANNA FUCK aghjndres"

would not need to be followed-up with apologetic messages the next day, explaining that the author was drunk. With D-mail, it's assumed that the author was drunk.

With D-mail, it would also no longer be necessary to preface or conclude electronic messages with any mention of alcohol, so no more:

"irst of all I'm wastedso sorry in advgance but I WANNA FU-"

or

"anywy i'm sorry srry sorry about this message bu damn soo drunk but IMEAN IT YOU WANNA F-"

And so forth. In fact, d-mail users might feel compelled to apologize if they accidentally sent a message that WASN'T drunken.

"HeyopmA I'm sorry about liast night's e0mauil in which I broke down our budget for the fourth quewater but I wasn;t wadeted, Wasted. WASTED. fck! AH HA HA YOU WANNA FUCKK?"

Anyway. That's something I thought of for no reason. Certainly not for any reason pertaining to my life. Of mine. Ohdeargod.

XOXO!

It took me a while to figure out that when a woman signs an e-mail XOXO, she doesn't literally mean that she wants to hug and kiss you. I used to think that somehow, communicating over the internet had suddenly made all of the females I was corresponding with all hot and heavy. I'd catch myself thinking "Holy cow, all I did was ask her for the number of that headshot dude, and she wants to kiss, hug, then kiss, then hug, then kiss me again! And then hug! Amazing!"

I got into fairly frequent trouble by misconstruing their intentions. Here are some real* exchanges from the past few years that I refer to every time I need to remind myself not to take the XOXOXO stuff so literally. I've changed all of the names to ‘Pam’ in order to protect the fictionally innocent:

ONE

Andres,

Thanks for putting me up in your show last night, it was fun! Seeya around.

XOXOXO,
Pam

--

Pam,

No problem, you were very funny! I’ll get you back up in a couple of months. Be well.

XO and I am cupping your left breast,
Andres

TWO

Andres,

Have you ever rented theater space from The Hewitt Theater Group? I’m trying to find a room for my one woman show, and I think someone mentioned that you’d done a show there once. Any info would be appreciated!

XOXO,
Pam

--

Pam,

Yes indeed, I did my first one man show there a few years back. They’re good people. I have their contact info at my office and I’ll forward it to you tomorrow!

Gonna stick it in ya,
Andres

THREE

Andres,

Your father and I are looking forward to your visit this weekend! Give him a call at the office when you know what bus you’re going to be on.

XOXO,
Pam

--

Pam,

Me too! Can we have lasagna? I think the bus should get there at 7ish, but I’ll give Dad a call like you said.

Two in the pink and one in the stink,
Andres

*not real

These are for...not you ha ha ha.

My favorite part about walking down the street with flowers are the expressions of wistful loneliness on the faces of the women I pass. I figure they must have turned down a guy like me at some point, so fuck 'em.

Too cynical?

And is it weird that I always walk around carrying a bouquet of flowers? They're not FOR anyone, I just walk around with them so I can illicit the aforementioned expressions of pain. Delightful.

Welcome, dudes!

Or people looking for dudes. If you've arrived here courtesy of dudesgalore.com, I apologize for misleading you. I just bought the domain name on a whim while carousing with some friends at a party. You won't really find a galore of dudes here. Well, unless you count me. I'm a dude. And I tend to approach life with a certain amount of galore. A little, I guess. Anyway. Mexican Brownies were also consumed at last night's party, and I think they're about to CROSS THE BORDER DAMN NO HE DI'N'T YES HE DID HOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

Stall Tactics

Hello. I've just arrived back from my office Men's Room, and I feel compelled to relate what I have just witnessed:

We see feet through the gaps at the bases of bathroom stalls all the time, right? And those feet are usually pointed in one of two directions: towards the stall door or away from the stall door. Right? Position 2 and Position 1, respectively, so to speak.

Well, the feet I just spied were parallel to the door. Completely parallel. Pointing at one side of the stall. For a good long while. Not that I normally stare at other men's shoes in bathrooms for long periods of time, but my eyes lingered on this particular guy's shoes just long enough to intrigue me as to why his feet were pointed that way for such a long duration.

Maybe he was using one wall of the stall as a writing surface.

Maybe he had a hipdick.

Maybe I should get a life.

BTK (w/ extra cheese please!)

I have something to confess. Every time I hear any news about BTK, all I can think is:

"Mmmm. Flame-broiled Whopper."

Does that make me a bad person? No, what would probably make me a bad person is if I preyed on innocent people by binding, torturing and killing them. Whew.

This BTK (which does indeed stand for Bind, Torture, Kill - mmmm char grilled) guy apparently taunted the police by sending them word puzzles. Now, I know that those NYTimes commercials have got to be some of the single most mocked things ever in the history of things that are mocked, but when I heard this I just imagined BTK saying:

"I don't know what I like more - doing the crossword puzzle, or finishing it. Then, jerking off onto it, and mailing it to the police along with a swatch of the whore's dress."

Anyway, it's a relief, I'm sure, to the people of Wichita that BTK was caught. However, let's not forget that the following nefarious acronym serial killers are STILL on the loose:

KFC - Kill, Fuck, Cook

KKK - Kill, Kill, Kill (he's got OCD)

JFK – Jerry Francis Kirkland (they know his name, they just can’t catch him)

FKF - Fondle, Kill, Fondle

MGPK - Marry, Get Pregnant, Kill - no wait, he's in jail

BKTSFIKFTTTF - Bind, Kill, Then Scream "Fuck I Keep Forgetting To Torture Them First"

You know, I bet you commenters can do better than me...(that's an invitation)...

Guards, release the woo!

This missive is extended out of pure courtesy, milady.

Prepare to be wooed.

I have surveyed my sprawling Dorkdom, from The Sea of Insecurity to Mt. Doubt. From Anxiety Wood to that large bluff which I have yet to name. You know. The one with the spruce patch. Wait. No, that's Spruce Bluff. AT ANY RATE, I have dispatched wolves into the wilderness and falcons into the sky. I have urged prairie dogs into the ground and dolphins into the vast deep and all have returned to me bearing the same tidings:

"That chick seems pretty fucking cool."

Therefore, I must advise you, said pretty fucking cool chick, that wooing is imminent. The force of my woo gathers like a storm. A big, wooey storm. Or something.

You are standing at the foot of the mountain of my admiration and desire, and down that slope is rumbling an AVALANCHE OF WOO! A...woovalanche, if you will.

There is a phrase that people use to express enthusiasm. That phrase is "woo-hoo". Well, I see that phrase as a question, and you as the answer!

John Woo is not a good film director. However, his last name is Woo, and that is why I just mentioned him.

Woo.

Alright, I couldn't think of anything else to write for a second, so I just wrote the word "Woo" all by itself. Still, can you blame me? I am woozy with woo.

Or maybe I'm just tired. Anyway, it's nice to be preoccupied by someone who's woo-worthy. Hypothetically. In the world of this blog. I don't write about personal stuff here ever.