 |
|
Dear Diary, To maintain a managable head of hair without pissing away my hard earned American francs on styling products, I employ an age old technique you won't hear ballyhooed in any glossy commercial: I keep my hair in a state of absolute, total filth. By going weeks, months, and sometimes years without letting anything more than soap residue hit my mane, I'm enabled to live in a vast world of stylistic opportunity that standard mousse and hair gel simply cannot match. People on the street (at least those that can endure the hearty musk I've built up long enough to talk to me) agree unanimously: nobody does hair quite like poor hygiene. Last night, though, the summer heat got to be too much, and feeling particularly grimy because of it I decided to shampoo my hair for the first time since August '04. It was strange feeling running water rush over my head again, and hearing the death cry of a million friendly parasites as they met their soapy doom has left a burden on my heart I would wish on no other. Who knows what kind of advanced civilizations they would have bred had I left my hair unwashed for another year? It will forever be a mystery now. After a dedicated half hour of some truly impressive lathering, I finally felt my hair was grit free, so I wrapped a towel around it and began the painful wait to see how things dried. Sometimes I get lucky and it remains quite cooperative afterwards, but most of the time it poofs and frizzes in such a way that even the staunchest optimist might remark "There's nothing that can be done."
 I woke up to find my charming little rat's nest had transformed into something that could only be described as "Prince Valiant joins the NHL." I screamed for a solid ten minutes before rushing to Walgreens to buy the strongest styling gels and hairsprays they had, but thus far they have done nothing to restore things to the way they once were. I'm thinking this may be the biggest mistake I've ever made, Diary. I'd shave it all off, but my head is too oddly shaped for that to look good. Let's just hope for a miracle, Sweetbee
Dear Diary, You may be wondering how my attempt to gain the hearts of the MCTC admissions board has gone, and I'm unhappy to report that the current status of the situation is not good. Their initial response to my heartfelt writings was a letter bomb that nearly cost me the ring and pinky fingers of my right hand, something they followed up with a large crate full of irrate cobras. Lucky for me I was wearing a giant snake suit when I signed for that package, an act that frightened the UPS guy and left the snakes docile and confused. Impressed that I was able to survive their two attempts on my life, they wrote again to inform me that I would be allowed back under the condition that I finish a summer semester at the Anoka-Hennepen Technical & Community College, something I quite naively agreed to. As it turns out, AHTC is a school with a campus barely larger than a Burger King, and it's classes mainly consist of a man named "Crazy Rick" spraying you down with a fire hose while screaming out made up equations (I'm no wizard on the subject, but somehow I don't think "2xy(BOILING BLOOD + SKULL FUCK NIGHTMARE)= mother, MOTHER, MOOOOOTHEEEEER!" is an example of valid mathematics). Sometimes C. Ricky (as he likes to be called) calms down for a bit and lets us retreat for a Dairy Queen break, but then he'll only let us enjoy our frozen treats after he's buried some variety of dead bugs somewhere within. I don't care who you are or what you're into, having some crazy with disgusting hands shove a moth into your Peanut Buster Parfait completely ruins it. It's also worth noting that all of the assigned textbooks so far have been from Richard Scary's "Busytown" series, an added slap in the face for a Sweet Pickles fan like myself. But even in the face of all this hardship, I must persevere in the name of my education. If I fail, my only fate will be to work in some factory and inevitably fall into a vat of molten steel. I don't want to die like Terminator 2 did. Pray for me, Diary, Sweetbee
Dear Diary, Sorry I haven't written in a while, old bean. I've been spending a lot of time lately coming up with creative new ideas for amusment park thrill rides, you know, just because. Here's the best of what I've come up with so far: The Haymaker A quite standard coaster that will be advertised as safe for pregnant women and those with heart conditions, although in actuality it won't be. The real entertainment from this ride will come from watching the subsequent lawsuit play out on CourtTV. The designer would have this glandular problem that causes him to sweat a lot under stress, earning him the nickname of "Mr. Humidifier." People will tune in every day to watch him produce more and more moisture as he is put under increasing pressure. Eventually, the intense scrutinization he endures will prove to be too much, and he will explode into a giant wave of salty fluid, drenching everyone in the courtroom. Orange Fury While people will surely flock to the Orange Fury for it's record breaking 400 foot drop alone, the added gimmick of sitting next to a live orangutan each time you ride will surely put this one down in history as not just a mere rollercoaster, but a man-meets-beast adventure. There will be one orangutan in each car, all of whom would be trained to sheepishly shake their fellow thrillseeker's hand as they sit down to enjoy the ride. This is important in establishing a bond of friendship between the two. Then, when the coaster reaches it's highest point, it will lock in place momentarily while an exotic musk is sprayed onto the human passenger from a hidden compartment, sending the ape into a blind fury. As the free fall begins, each rider will endure devastating punches, slaps, and scratches from their screeching companion, a brutal reminder of the true face of nature. After the ride, all survivors will be corraled into a discussion center, where they can compare cuts, bruises, and other injuries. Anyone who suffered a broken bone or lost teeth will recieve a coupon for free Dippin' Dots, the ice cream of the future. The Tough Guy Special This will be a three player arcade event for all the burly fellows out there and the trashy women who love them. Basically, there will be three large kettles of boiling water lined up in a row, allowing up to three dudes to dip their hands, face, or feet inside to prove who's truly manly. Whoever keeps their selected appendage submerged the longest will recieve a sniper rifle and a garbage bag full of various types of jerky. If these don't get picked up, I think I will have no choice but to start up my own amusement park. Got any ideas for a name, Diary? Think about it, Sweetbee
Dear Diary, Well, the weekend has come and gone, and as per usual I have a story to report that falls somewhere between crazed to double batty. On friday night, the battle for the hand of fair maiden Gun-Bird came to a head when rival suitor, Jack Scarmiglione, sent me a telegram challenging me to drink an entire lake on saturday morning. The reward, should I accomplish said task, was a flask of his own sweat (Wasn't too interested personally, although it may have some practical usage I'm not yet aware of), and of course, the coveted status of being Gun-Bird's sole lover.
 Now, I don't like to think of myself as a shallow individual, but I will be the first to admit that Gun-Bird isn't a terrible lot to look at. She looks and sounds like a toad, her wardrobe almost exclusively consists of items ordered through the Marlboro Buxx program, her left arm is grey for some reason, she is consistantly pregnant, and she is boney to the point that I have broken skin during sex. She did, however, win a sizable Powerball jackpot seven years back, and last I checked Gwar umbrellas don't fall out of the sky. With that in mind, I accepted the challenge. Sadly, the day would belong to Scarmiglione, as I was only able to down three liters of tepid lake water before I swallowed a fish poop. Naturally quite grossed out, I conceded defeat, to which Gun-Bird responded "I always knew you weren't MAN enough to ride this Harley!" Jack left me with his sweat bottle and a paltry cocktail umbrella, as if to mock my current life goal. Lesson learned: Never accept a challenge to drink an entire lake for any reason. Mother's Day was pleasant, though, so all in all the weekend ranks a solid B-.
Ta-ta,
Dear Diary, It's been a long time since I wrote an actual letter, but today I composed one with a heavy purpose: To save my academic future. Since I'm quite into sharing lately, I'll let you have a peek. Maybe you can offer some constructive critcism (Haha!). To the Minneapolis Technical & Community College Admissions Board, I am writing today to explain the events surrounding my current suspension from your educational facilities. I hope that by the end of this letter, you will see things my way and grant me readmittance for the fall semester. First and foremost, I did not mean to allow those cougars into the school library. I thought they were an urban mirage, which unfortunately, was not the case. On top of that, I certainly did not "lead them on their death brigade" as your precious Dean of Students was quoted to say in the Star Tribune. It is true that I directed the pack towards a certain Jonah Pritz, but I always knew him to be a bit of a thrillseeker and thought he might enjoy the opportunity to fight off a group of feral cats. I am sorry my decision led to his demise, but I only had the best intentions in mind. I had nothing to do with any of the other deaths that day. Furthermore, the photograph I have attatched below will remind you that I was as much of a victim of that situation as anyone.
 With the cougar incident explained, I would like to address the accident that occoured while I possesed a rocket launcher on school grounds. As you are probably not aware, the Loring Park area that surrounds MCTC is a literal haven for haunted trees, and while attending classes I was required to trek across that ghostly terrain twice a day in order to enjoy the cheap parking meters at the western end. As the threat of tree attacks increased, the only way I saw to protect myself (and others) was with the shoulder mounted FIM-92 Stinger launcher I purchased through a cryptic personal ad. So it misfired during my history course. So Professor Jennings will probably never be able to walk again. People seem to be forgetting that I laid rest to over three hundred haunted trees earlier that afternoon, although I'll admit it's hard to appreciate such fine public service when it's accompanied by headlines like "Local Psychopath Destroys Loring" and "Cougar Boy Strikes Back: College Terrorized Once Again." I vow, upon readmittance, that any rocket launchers in my ownership will be kept safely at home, and that I will close the door on any wild animals that attempt to enter the school building, no matter how certain I am that they are illusions. If there are any future injuries and/or deaths during my tenure at MCTC, I promise that I will have little, if anything, to do with them.
Thank you for your time, We can only hope this works, diary. It might not compare to the major works of Shakespeare or R.L Stine, but I think it gets my point across well and paints me as a sympathetic human being.
Keep your fingers crossed,
Dear Diary, Today I was going through some things when I found three of my old childhood drawings. After thinking awhile on what I should do with them, I decided it would be a great idea to paste them in you for safe keeping! Are you alright with that? I knew you would be!
 This one represents how much I loved Snoopy. My only regret was that the heart wasn't bigger.
 I drew this one when my older sister was watching a makeover episode of Geraldo. This is what it would be like if you let a tornado make you over!
 I think I drew this because I was upset that I lost my red crayon. In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have shown it to my parents.
Take it easy,
Dear Diary, It is a sad thing when you often think the dog you grew up with is dead when she's actually sleeping. Every now and again I will come home after a wild night of whatever the hell it is I do with my spare time, and see the little animal lying there, seemingly without a breath left in her body. The first time I noticed this I spent a solid minute trying to shake her awake, which lead to my right arm becoming a bloody mess of teeth marks. Since then I just kind of assumed, either she'll be alive when I wake up, or she won't. Where I'm going with this is, man, wouldn't it be great to be able to fall into a stone cold sleep like that? My bedroom is currently situated next to what is probably one of the busiest streets in the city, which leads an early alarm call of horns and swearing more often than I'd ever like. Once, I was in the middle of this awesome dream where Max Headroom wanted me to record a cover version of "One Night In Bangkok" with him, only to have it interrupted by someone angrily shouting "SUCK MY O-RING YOU FAT, ROTTING TWAT" outside. It was a little more creative than the standard "MOTHER FUCKER" or "MOVE YOU DUMB BITCH," but even still, waking up to such crudeness tends to have an effect on the day that follows. Trying to get through a day of work or feeling like an ace after that major exam is quite difficult when you woke up to a man furiously suggesting analingus to someone. If I slept like my dog does, the horns could blare, the crass could shout, the house could burn down, the world could crumble around me, but unless someone was frying up some bacon in tandem with these events, I would experience my dreams without any hiccups. But then, isn't that a dream in and of itself? I can only hope that you sleep well tonight, diary.
Don't let the bed bugs bite,
Dear Diary, These days many of my friends use Myspace, and wanting to make myself easier to get into contact with, I created a profile myself something like a year ago. You'll have to forgive me, diary, for I did not know what it was precisely I was getting into. At first it was nice to keep in contact with old friends who I wouldn't be able to otherwise, but unfortunately those old friends gave way to minor aquaintances who sent messages to the effect of "Hey, I remember you (kinda lol). anyway remember Sophie DeMarco? Well she's a shit eating bitch who sucked off my boyfriend. do you still talk to Kyle give him my phone number, LOL." Worse yet were complete strangers, who left notes such as "Hey u like Prince? Well eye LOOK LIKE PRINCE. LETS MEET." The result of this meeting? Hepatitis. To deter correspondance from such unsavoury indivduals, I updated my profile with no information of myself other than the phrase "bird calls" repeated over and over again and a personal photograph from when I completed the 2005 Vision Quest (enclosed below).  Did the ends justify the means? Well, have a look: "Hey what the fuck happened 2 you? nice beard LOL. DID YOU GIVE KYLE MY NUMBER YET?" The results speak for themselves. Ta-ta, Myspace.
Take care,
Dear Diary, So, in my last entry, I mentioned that I visited the Gwar Superstore in order to purchase some fake blood, so I think now I should explain it's purpose. Using a crude detonation device and a ziplock bag filled with the blood, I have created a makeshift "gunshot simulation vest," that I decided to wear in case of uncomfortable situations. Who's going to keep at a man who has just been shot? I'll tell you who, and that's a little fellow commonly known as "nobody." I recieved the perfect opportunity to test the device today at work. See, I work (Or should I say used to work, after the events that took place) at a flower shop, which attracts it's fair share of ornery customers. The one who stopped in today, though, trumped them all. He introduced himself, quite cartoonishly, with both hands on his crotch and the greeting "Where the FUCK is your bathroom?" Sadly for this gent, our restroom isn't public, due mainly to the bizzare fecal mishap of a certain stranger from a year earlier (This person claimed it was an accident, but considering there was a brown cat drawn on the wall, I'm skeptical). When I informed him he couldn't use our bathroom, he rushed out of the store to find someplace he could. The situation drifted from my thoughts and I continued about my duties, until two hours later when the man returned, this time with his young daughter. He approached the counter and told her "It's okay honey, you can just go on the floor! This mean lady won't let you use their bathroom!" Imagine my surprise when she followed through with this! Now, imagine THEIR surprise when I'm gunned down right in front of everyone! Knowing things were not going to end well, I cooly reached into my pocket and pulled the trigger, causing authentic Gwar brand blood to explode from my chest. My "last words" were "A... sniper... I always... always knew..." and they had everyone fooled! It was hard for me not to release a revealing smirk as an ambulance was called, but somehow, I managed. Once I'd been wheeled in and the flower shop was well out of sight, I bolted "alive" and in my best Milton Berle exclaimed "That's one Hell of a vacation spot, but I wouldn't wanna live there!" The paramedicas all ROARED with laughter, and one even asked what I wanted for "my last meal." We rolled into Arby's and took full advantage of the 5 for $5.95 deal, and their beef and cheddar sandwich never tasted sweeter (actually, it normally tastes like it spawned off a toe, but I digress).
Until next time,
Dear Diary, The rainy season is approaching and the time has come for me to purchase a new umbrella. I currently tote around a simple black polyester thing to protect my head from the wet. It's functional enough, but it lacks a certain sophistication, and I fear that may come to reflect on it's owner (me). However, as luck would have it, I recently became aware of a certain umbrella that captured my heart.
 I was shopping around the local Gwar Superstore for some fake blood (more on this later) when I spotted this stunning little number. It was a bit steep in price for to be purchased at the time, but imagine how dapper I'll appear at the weekly farmers market with that above my head! When the funds start smiling my way, it'll be mine faster than you can say "Sleazy P. Martini."
Love, |