Mechanically Separated Chicken.

Wednesday, July 31, 2002

A Musical Tribute.

If people can grow to look like their pets, I'm gonna get me a giant squid tomorrow. Gonna go scoop one right up off the beach. Oh yes indeed.

But if people grow to sound like their pets, I'm getting one of these maltese for sure.(Turn on your speakers, kids, and brace yourself for some transcendent web design. I particularly recommend the doggy vortex - or colonoscopy video - two thirds of the way down the page. Whee! )

Tuesday, July 30, 2002

Senor Hernandez.

Have you seen Senor Hernandez?

If so, please call our 24-hour Hernandez Hotline.

Saturday, July 27, 2002

This post has been removed while being considered for publication elsewhere.

Monday, July 22, 2002

Things to do today.

1. Spend some quality time with my family.
2. Eat a hotdog.
3. Bug out to some fun pop music.
4. Fill out the application forms for my new ham licence.

Sunday, July 21, 2002

True Porn Clerk Stories.

"Nobody's thought of an answer yet, and we're not really sure we want to toss him for loitering. He is, after all, just putting on makeup.

But why in our porn section? It has such harsh fluorescent lighting."

Anecdotes from Ali Davis' journal about working in an adult video library.

Friday, July 12, 2002

How to Purge.

You know how sometimes, you get a song stuck in your head that you just can't shake? Some ridiculously catchy Top 40 pop-slut chorus, or the telephone number melody from a vaccum cleaner company ad on TV? Or, fucking "Greensleeves' or whatever the fuck that is from the icecream truck that just drove past your office block a minute ago? And you know how that song - that muzak piece of shit version of 'Sussudio' you can't get rid of even thirteen hours after you've left the supermarket - makes you want to trepan yourself with a melon-baller just to make it stop, stop, oh please sweet jesus make it stop?

Well, me too.

During a recent discussion about this affliction, I was reminded of a sure-fire remedy which I feel duty bound to pass on to you. A close friend gave me this advice a while ago, and swears by its efficacy.

You will doubt me. You will think me some kind of crazy voodoo witch-doctor. But you should trust me on this one - it'll save you someday.

Apparently, the best way to delete offending tunes from one's internal playlist is to conduct a mental sing-a-long of not less than three Roy Orbison songs in a row. A cleansing medley, if you will.

The disturbing thing is that this actually works. Go on, try it sometime. I usually go with 'Pretty Woman,' then 'Only the Lonely' and finish up with 'Crying.' Once you're done, there's nothing in your head at all: no cat food jingle, no beach boys' harmony, no single intelligible thought, nada. Not even the 'Big O' song you finished with.

It's like magic. Like sorbet for the mind. Or, colonic irrigation for the mind. Pick your metaphor.

Sunday, July 07, 2002

Love Stories.

Me, amphibious land mammal with impressive lung capacity. You, empty parking space next to busy hat factory. Our eyes met at netball practice. Please call me.

You, pre-programmable chess robot with penchant for ASCII art. Me, Serengeti carnivore with more antelope meat that I can eat by myself. Want some?

Saw you at the front bar on Thursday night. You asked about my parasites, I pretended not to hear you. Please call, I've changed my mind. You're cute.

Me, rare seventeenth century walnut sideboard with brass mounts on tripod feet, top decorated in pie-shaped marquetry design with scalloped border. You, cream of celery soup. I just don't want to be alone any more.

You, a high pressure weather system moving in from the East. Me, porcelain figurine of a seated cat. I think we can make this work.

Met in the carpark in 1972, gave you information for some Washington Post article or something. I miss you. Can I see you again? I'd like that.

Saw you through a microscope at the lab on Monday afternoon. You were wearing flagella and the sexiest little pseudopod I've ever seen. Let's get together for dinner and dysentry; I forgot to wash my hands.

Me, salty old seadog. You, waterproof transistor radio tuned to pirate talkback. My crew doesn't understand me, but you do.

Me, seeks similar. Are you similar?

I was wearing clingfilm. You were decapitating a manatee. Your brother was only five centimetres tall and bore a striking resemblance to Roy Orbison. What was happening?

You, eleven-foot-tall shambling mass of matted hair and glistening slime. Please stop calling. It's true, I loved you once. But it's over.

[This story appears on the Visible Ink 'Soundtrack' CD.]

Monday, July 01, 2002

Hat Surplus.

Today, via the New York City Blogger Map, I came upon Giant Genius, a blog located, apparently, on subway line 6, Lexington Avenue Local, in NYC.

I am particularly partial to the author's Five Unnecessary Anthropomorphic Pictures Using a Single Pair of Googly Eyes and Different Hats, which includes photographs of various objects (a tractor and a giant ball of tinfoil, for example) which have undergone this procedure with understandably hilarious results.

Of special note is the last picture, right down the bottom, of a hat wearing a hat. Bravo.