I think the world would be a much better place if all animals remained baby-sized. We would all still become fully developed adults - there would just be a lot more space for everything. And, there would be more food for our baby mouths and everyone would drive baby cars. Everything we made would be little - buildings, planes, prepackaged food. It would be great. You could fit a whole zoo in your backyard.

Plants would stay the same size. Trees would be crazy huge. Even a little shit tree would be like a redwood to us, and you could sit in a watermelon while you ate it.

The ocean might be a little bit of a bitch though (with big ass waves coming every five seconds), but I think we could overcome this by becoming better swimmers and using submarines more often.

All in all I'm really excited about the baby world.

That Damn Pig

There was a pig walking down the road, coming right at me, so I started to run and then it started to run, and in about fifteen seconds there was a terrible collision. His head hit me in the shins, sending me flipping over him - my whole face momentarily touching his sparsely-haired back. I ended sitting up with my back to his ass, and I could feel his curly, coiled tail dangling around behind my head. As I stood up and turned around, I tried to decided if our game of chicken was in good fun or if we both sprinted out of spontaneous malcontent - neither of us had seen the other before. It seemed like it was all for fun because he had a smile on his face, and I couldn't help but grin right back at the little bugger. Just then, I heard an engine roar and a Ryder truck full of a houseload of furniture, clothes, dishes, electronics, and other stuff came zooming down the road. Before I knew what I was doing, I picked that pig up and flung him at the big yellow truck, and with a WHAM! he hit the broadside flatly and bounced off like a racquet ball. The little clump of pink skin rolled end over end through the grass on the side of the road. I jogged over to where he stopped. When he regained his balance, the pig slowly raised his head and looked me in the eye as if to say, "You got me, you bastard," and we shared a little laugh. Porkface (as he has come to be known) sensing that I had momentarily let down my guard, reared up on his hind legs and stomped on my instep with both of his front hooves, digging his razor sharp pig nails into my flesh. Involuntarily, I bent down to clutch my injured feet. Porkface swung his body around like lightning, and, just as my face reached his level, he dealt me a swift and severe donkey kick right in the mouth. I staggered back a few steps before retaliating with a mixture of broken teeth and blood spit directly into his fucking eyes. That's when he really got pissed off. Somehow, he managed to hook me around the ankle and trip me to the ground. And, in an instant, he was on top of me, pummeling my face and groin with hoof stomps, oinking like a demon. I tried to fight him off, but there was no stopping him. I was being bludgeoned to death. As, I lost consciousness, I remember hearing a car door slam followed by someone laughing hysterically and then saying, "Holy shit, I think that pig is gonna kill that dude."

Unmentionable Facts

1. A man exists who has a hook for a hand and answers to the name "Lemon."

2. Lemon drives a tow truck.

3. His son, Joe Dotson, can injure himself at will.

4. Joe never uses "the," exclusively preferring "thee." He thinks this makes him sound smarter, and he is right.

I'm a Grown Man , Things Like This Shouldn't Happen

I only had two beers, but since there's no gas stations up there and the cops are always patroling the streets, I completely pissed my pants while driving my car around looking for a safe place to pull over. The dread I had felt for a number of minutes was replaced by panic as I squirmed in my seat looking for a way, any way to keep the piss in my body and out of my pants, and in turn off of the seat beneath me. Eventually, I surrendered to the piss and the panic soon faded into a sweet bliss unknown to most other drivers. Driving toward home in warm, wet pants, I stopped at a gas station to buy cigarettes after coming to terms with and fully embracing the absurdity of my situation. No one said anything, not even a whispered comment, about the warm, wet stains covering my legs from my waist to down below my knees. I really thought they would say something, but maybe people just figure that you already know that you pissed your pants, so pointing it out would be kind of rude.

Sleeping in the driver's seat of a school bus parked on a hill facing downward, I wake up from a dream about being on the Family Feud television program. There were five of me going against a family named the Richardsons (Father = James, smart sport coat, slick hair, big chin Mother = Jean, royal blue dress, short permed hair, big glasses Daughter = Megan, fat, yellow dress with one of those napkin looking things on the front Cousin = Amber, fatter, same kind of fat girl dress in green, buck teeth Uncle = Marty, suit too tight, moustache, hairy hands).

Other than having to stand next to four other versions of myself, the most troubling aspect of the game was that all four previous hosts (Richard Dawson, then Ray Combs, then Louie Anderson, then Richard Karn) were trying to host the show at the same time. After doing their intros simultaneously, they lined up single file in front of the Richardsons and one by one got chummy with James and had him introduce his family four times. I knew I was next, or I,I,I,I, and I were next. I wanted to make up fake names for the other mes and say we were quints or something but we all had name tags. So, I said, "All of these people are me, or at least look exactly like me. So, I guess we are family?" Each host reacted to this like I was just introducing my fat, boring wife, my horribly ordinary children, and some other unspecified, unremarkable family member.

I met James in the first head-to-head battle. After James shook my hand a little too long, Richard Dawson said, “We pretended to conduct a survey of 100 people, but instead our writers just decided what sounded right for this question: How many times a week do you use a porto-potty?” Then, Ray, Louie, and Richard Karn asked the same question before the clock started, so I had plenty of time to prepare an answer. After they had all finished speaking, I buzzed in immediately and said, “seven,” thinking that most Americans worked on construction sites or at cheap carnivals, and that they would have to shit at least once a day in a humid, squalid fiberglass chamber filled with aqua marine tinged light and homophobic, anti-semetic graffiti. Everyone looked at me like I was crazy, including the other mes, and, obviously, James followed me with the number one answer of “two.”

I didn’t really pay attention to the Richardsons answering their questions (they got them all right). Instead, I spent a minute looking at myselves and wondering if they all were hungry too, and suddenly the mes were down by 120 points. Me2 went next and won control of “Name a kind of bread” with “white.” Mes 3, 4, and 5 swept the board with “rye,” “wheat,” and “pumpernickel.” I would have said “potato,” and I would have a gotten a big strike accompanied by the loud loud buzzer horn.

For the rest of the game, the hosts took turns asking the questions. When Richard Dawson went, the others threw dice. When Ray Combs went, the others made fun of how short he was. When Louie Anderson went, the others got balloons, blew them full of air, and let the out air while stretching the open end taut to mimic his voice. When Richard Karn went, the others put on plaid shirts and cut wood.

I, I, I, I, and I soundly thumped the Richardsons (mostly I think because one of the other mes threatened to rip one of the tiny microphones from the counter (I guess it would be called a counter) in front of us and shove it into the eye of the next person who said, “Good answer,” when one of their family members said something moronic like “pin the tail on the donkey” in response to “Name a game or sport that uses an animal.” Richard Karn asked us the “Fast Money” questions, “us” being me and one of the other mes. Richard Dawson hit on the fatter cousin, Ray Combs sat in a corner drinking straight vodka, and Louie, well, you know, he was eating Boston cream pies. I went first and got 145 points (55 away from the big money) but the other me started stuttering and didn’t answer the first question until there were only 4 seconds left. (“Name something you keep in you glove compartment.” “Ff-f-f-f-f-fff-f-f-f-f-ffl—flllf-l-fl—l-f-l-lf-flfl-fllf-ll—lffllf-l-f-l-fl-flashlight.”) And then, Richard Karn was a dick and ran out of time before asking, “What state has the best beaches?”

I sprinted, leapt, and dropped kicked myself in the face. Teeth were lost and a brawl ensued, at the end of which I wake up in the driver’s seat of a school bus parked on a hill facing downward. I release the parking brake and head down the hill in neutral with the engine off. I reach the bottom and coast gently up the other side and back down again, then back up, then back down again, over and over until I stop.

The Basket Factory Workers Code:

1. Be sure to stock up on reeds at the beginning of your shift. You never want to run out of reeds mid-basket.
2. Pick one of the good stools.
3. If it's lunchtime and you only have a few reeds left to weave, finish your basket.
4. Never substitute paper for reeds. The inspectors notice every time, and then you'll have them on your ass for at least a week.
5. Stick to the diagram. We all know how the basket is supposed to look, so don't try and get cute (Beverly).
6. Make a point not to stack your finished baskets too high. Ten or twelve should do.

"A Picnic with Camels Provided by a Coffee Mug Tycoon"


There's going to be two camels at the picnic, and they're for everyone so plan on bringing things to do while you wait in line. I suggest maybe pieces of paper to rip into small pieces or multiple, multiple bottles of pop with words indicating a prize has been won possibly printed on their caps' interiors (these will be for unscrewing one at a time very slowly). And, before things go yuck like a hand thrust into a pocket full of marmalade, I want to make it clear that if any of the caps have prizes indicated on their interiors they will be given to me, so that I can place them on my dresser until the day after the last possible redemption date and then throw them into the trash can.

The camels are a gift (well, the rental of the camels more specifically) from my boss, Alexander Brimmington, heir to the great Dutchessfield Brimmingtons' coffee mug fortune. For those of you who have been out of touch with me as of late (oh, so many, what a shame!), I met AB at the train station last October on a windy night. After a short conversation (actually so short I shall write it right here: Me, "Is he ok?" AB, "They were wax bullets. Grab the wheel, you're driving me home,"), I was unexpectedly driving the white-haired fogie back to his estate. Of possible note is that the above conversation occurred after I witnessed AB shoot his previous limo driver in the forearm for being tardy and toss him on the sidewalk. The ride home was silent but for his last-second top-of-the-lungs shouting of "left!" or "right!" when he wanted me to turn the wheel (I had no idea where I was going). As I parked the limo on the grass, AB offered me the job on a permanent basis if I would keep my "big fucking mouth shut (presumably about filling his old driver's forearm with wax)", and "promise not to park thee fucking auto on thee fucking turf," to which I replied, partly out of extreme fear (he still had at least eight wax bullets left, he could've had more in his pocket) and partly because I hated working at the train station gift shop (I had sold four packs of gum, eleven newspapers and a wooden train whistle in the eight months I worked there), "What time should I be here tomorrow, or should I sleep here in the auto?" This may sound like a smart-ass answer, but I was seriously asking what he wanted me to do.

AB's great-uncle Leopold invented the coffee mugs with your business's logo, your baby's head, or phrases like "God Made Men to Make Me Money for My Cigarettes" or "Grandkids are God's Little Way of Saying Thank You, Now Start Cooking" on them. And, by ruling his empire with an iron fist and sending out relatives to the four corners of the world to oversee his expansion efforts, Leopold built a large fortune and a rock solid company structure. AB took over after Leopold realized that his blood lust for cash and world domination of the image bearing coffee mug industry had waned and stepped down. Needless to say, there was an intense battle for control of the company (Leopold had four brothers, seven sons, twenty-six grandchildren, twelve nephews, and forty-five great nephews). AB won out because he was the only one with red hair. Leopold never trusted a man with red hair but he figured that all the years of ridicule and abuse would provide AB with the necessary rage to be a devastatingly tyrannical CEO. In all of this Leopold was right, and in the twenty years AB has managed Brimmington Coffee Mugs the company's stranglehold on the market has tightened each and every year.

But, enough of all that. The picnic is going to be stupendous. Besides the camels, as if they weren't enough, there will be mud wrestling, shotgun shooting contests, horseshoes, bingo (complete with prizes ranging from crock pots to gas-powered scooters to wetsuits to spice racks with gourmet quality spices), and an awards ceremony. Oh, I just remembered, I already ordered a few boxes of paper and multiple, multiple bottles of pop for the camel line, so don't worry about that. By the way, I realize that the whole thing with ripping paper and opening the pop bottles might have seemed strange, but in actuality they both make total sense. The paper, the more random of the two, is for confetti. The boxes I've ordered are to be filled with paper of different colors. Trash bags will be used to collect it all and it will be utilized during the awards ceremony. The pop bottles, aside from allowing us the fun of finding out if we have won prizes, are meant to keep AB from flying into a fit. You see, his daughter (allergic to bees) was attending a picnic some fifteen years ago and, upon returning to the pavilion from sliding on a slide on the requisite playground, she took a sip from her pop can, swallowed a bee and died! So no cans, just bottles with firmly closable, thereby bee a'climbing in preventing, caps.

I will end with a reminder about the awards ceremony. It starts at 4:00pm. AB hasn’t decided the categories yet, but remember that if you are not present for your award it gets thrown in the lake.

previous "man" who played ronald mcdonald passes the current "man" who plays ronald on the street, each not wearing make-up. each thinks he has just looked in a mirror and smiles, not realizing at first that they have spent a combine 19 years as the cultural icon. they stop and face one another. flash back to scenes of #1 ron getting fired for repeatedly forgetting to shave, wearing normal shoes by accident, and almost choking to death on a burger during a live taping on a local news program, then scenes of him putting on and taking off his make-up, being driven in a limo to appearences and meeting minor celebrities. returning to this conversation:

#1: i know who you are.

#2: and i you.

#1: you know i have the right to strike you dead.

#2: you may have the right, but you don't have the guts or the strength required. i am simply a better man than you.

#1: We'll let the kids decide.

scene shifts to local mcdonald's. each man looking at himself in mcdonald's bathroom mirror, applying makeup and situating wig. plain clothes are worn. the competition will be held on the playground. each must choose one child. that child they must convince to eat mcdonald's food. the child who eats the most decides the fate of the two rons.

#2: i choose the fat kid with the fogged up glasses.

#1: i choose the skinny girl missing many of her teeth.

#2: you're a fool.

#1: i'm a clown.

the skinny girl wins easily. the fat boy with the fogged up glasses was already stuffed, and the the few teeth the girl has are brand new and razor sharp, perfect for shearing mcnuggets and fries. #2 grabs the fat boy by his hair, pulls him over to the ball pit, and dunks his head in it like it's a bath tub. #1 ron takes a digital photo, posts it on his website, and returns to work the following week.

Q:

So, there's this girl I like, and I kinda thinks she likes me, and it's her birthday, so I want to get her something, but I'm not sure what to get because I don't want to send the wrong message, like, "I thought about this way too much," or "I didn't think about this at all and I might as well have saved the six dollars I spent on your crappy, meaningless gift." What should I do? I mean, I really, really like this girl, and I guess I know her really well, but I'm so nervous around her, and the fact that she'll be getting this present in front of all her friends at a nice restaurant makes matters even worse. It just has to be something great. Something that says how I feel without coming on to strong, impresses her friends, and makes the evening perfect. Oh please, please help me. I should also mention that I've known this girl for five years and we are presently living together.

A:

Stop being a weiner and the answers to all your questions will find you.

Big toes can be thumbs. Mice can grow human ears on their backs. Noses can be grown upside down on the foreheads of men who try to climb Mt. Everest. Little people can have the bones in their forearms, shins and thighs extended with metal halos. And now, German men can grow jaw bones in their back muscles.

If I had the choice, I'd grow butt cheeks on the palms of my hands, and then spend three years in the jungle honing my clapping talents. Upon my return, I'd challenge that guy who can snap his fingers like a thousand times a minute to a hand-noise face-off. After watching his pathetic display of wispy arm and wrist movements and listening to the extended version of his best click-clacky finger solo, I would stand motionless and silent for a long moment, allowing him and the audience time to prepare themselves for what no one ever thought was possible. Assuming a wide stance with bent knees, I would swing my arms behind my back, touching my middle fingers together. Then, with the swiftness of a king cobra, I would strike my applebottom palms together, shattering the pocket of air between me and the snapper; throwing him backwards off of his feet. As the snapper is no quitter, he would try feebly to get in some last second snaps before falling to the ground, but I would quickly clap again, sending him through a storefront window.

Years later, I would dream of being able to open car doors and jars of peanut butter without assistance, but I would never regret having ass hands.

Yesterday, I believed that I almost lost my pointer-finger fingertip to a heavy, slamming solid metal door. I immediately thought I had broken the bone at the end of my finger. This seems to contradict my constant assertion that I have an unhealthily high threshold of pain, but it does not. Rather, after seriously hurting myself so may times during the course of growing up and thinking that nothing had happened (when in reality I usually had earned large gashes on parts of my scalp that I could not see or dislodged my entire nose), I have made the transition to thinking that I need to go to the hospital every time any of my nerves gets a little action. Basically, I don't trust my nervous system. I look upon it two ways: 1) My nervous system is heroic, buffering pain so that I can triumphantly go about my day without making a big deal out of life-threatening injuries, or 2) My nervous system is lazy and weak, forcing me to interpret vague signals that might or might not be considered pain by other healthy humans.

Today, after much deliberation, I believe that I received above average pain from catching my finger in the door, but my fingertip was neither broken nor was it almost removed. A healthy nervous system is supposed to relay pain information to the brain at roughly the speed of light. Upon receiving this info, the brain reacts instantaneously. You jump, you howl, you pass out. But, even with some slight delays due to screaming or thrashing about, you have some idea of how badly you have just been injured after a maximum of ten seconds. I caught my finger in the metal door 32 hours ago, and it wasn’t until just recently that I finally decided how badly I was hurt.

Many things in my life are like this. Things that should be instinctual sit in my head for days before I can react appropriately, if at all. I do have instincts. It is just that my instincts are so dissimilar to most everyone I know or have had the occasion to observe or have read about or have seen on video that I am unable to interpret them quickly. The majority of what I think, feel, and sense seems to be a foreign/ancient/alien language (that must be painstakingly translated after it is painstakingly discovered and painstakingly researched) to the untrained ear that is my mind, which resides in the head of a boy that just wants to be like everyone else.