Up next, the Octopus man!

Welcome to Monday. The longest possible time before you get work off again. This week I’m going to Florida. It’s going to be a gas. Interestingly, I farted right as I wrote the word ‘gas’ back there. It was a sublime moment that I’m sure doesn’t translate well to print, but just know that somewhere out there a man is smiling at the way the universe comes together sometimes, and sitting in the putrescent yellow fog of his farts.
I don’t have anything good to say this morning. I’m aggravated. I have band practice in a few minutes and we’re going to have to figure out how to get our stupid t shirts and shit down to stupid Florida. Yay!
My baby and I spent the weekend alone and it was fun. It was a little like Weekend at Bernies, with the baby playing Bernie. Not that he’s dead, but more because he just kind of sits there with a smug look on his face all the time, and if you want him to wave, you pretty much have to do it for him. I guess the metaphor really falls apart after that, except for that I’m pretty much the spitting image of what Andrew McCarthy and Johnathan Silverman’s baby would look like, just to take it all the way through the looking glass.

Last night these two old chicks came into the bar. They were pretty hot and they’d just been to the Madonna show and they were starving for wangs. The one girl came in, looked down the bar at the four guys sitting there and said “Hey! You boys want some Patron shots?!” It was great. More women need to be upfront like that. Dudes do that kind of crap all the time. It’s really not odd to think of, say, James Gandolfini coming into a bar and seeing four chicks sitting together and just buying them all shots. Ladies, the ball’s in your court now. You want the schlongs? Buy the next round.

Okay, so what’s really going on today? No…I don’t know. I’m just distracted. I was going to tell the story of this guy I used to play hockey with who sold mushrooms out of the locker room, but it just kind of fell flat as I was re-telling it to myself. Fuck, I pretty much just told you guys the whole thing right there, except for that one time, he mistakenly thought one of the members of Poison was a hot chick. Honest mistake, although, we still mocked his gayness. It was a hockey locker room, people.
Drug dealers in general are funny. I like the idea of a black market economy. It’s kind of the same reason that I like graffiti. Illegal art? How cool is that? Fuck, I should move to China. I hear all sorts of art is illegal there. Good one. Anyway, you know what I mean? There’s something great about a whole infrastructure of economy that operates in the shadows. That’s why people like ninjas right? They’re super organized and disciplined but it’s all shrouded in mystery. Okay, so I think, as per the laws of ninth grade geometry, I’ve proved the theorem that drug dealers=ninjas. Nice.
At the risk of sounding like I’m coked up or something (since I seem to be switching topics every two sentences) I’m gonna go ahead and throw this out there. Ninjas aren’t real. Man, does this ever piss people off. Mostly because they want ninjas to be real so fucking bad. I know, I know, I watch Sasuke as often as you do, and yes, there are some very compelling films out there. But seriously? Man, back in ancient times it had to be fucking EXPENSIVE to make a throwing star. I mean, they cost like nineteen bucks these days. There’s no way those fuckers just tossed those things out, never to be seen again while they hopped from roof to roof. The whole thing just doesn’t add up to me. All the vanishing and the masks and silence and all that. It’s cool, don’t get me wrong. But you’re telling me that people actually did that shit? Nope. Don’t buy it. ALSO, it seems a little odd to me that ninjas are kind of new in the west. I mean, my dad probably knew what a samurai was when he was a kid, but he sure as hell wasn’t playing ninja. That’s shit from my generation. Why’s that? The existence of ninjas only recently got declassified? All the Japanese people in the world kept ninjas under wraps until the seventies when they got together and decided “man, we’ve been keeping this ninja shit to ourselves for a while now. Those white people could probably make some pretty cool movies and toys and plastic crap. Let’s let ‘em in on it.” Okay, whatever. I don’t need to convince you people. They’re all a marketing scheme. That’s the end of it. Oh, look. You’re all pissed off and googling and shit. Seriously, it’s the best. I don’t know why that makes people so angry. Ninjas are fake! They’re like Santa and Jesus! They’re not real. They’re not real. Haahahahahahahaha. Nerds.
In Chicago, there’s this thing where you’re not supposed to put ketchup on a hotdog. The whole idea of ketchup on a hotdog is so frowned upon in Chicago, you’d be better off smearing bloody dog shit on your hotdog than ketchup. You’d get less snide comments and offended looks. Why is this? Who knows. I will say though, it’s probably in some small way connected to the same part of the brain that gets pissed about ninjas not existing. It all kind of seems the same to me. Yikes. Whatever. I’m out.