The Pacifier
Do you want to see my rich uncle pennybags?
You better know how to haggle.
So, I’m growing increasingly frustrated with
modern rock, which manifests itself in almost every available way it can
except for adding the “and roll” that I wish it would.
I’m not looking forward to this day job business.
All kinds of announcements are coming soon
on all kinds of fronts.
To be the man…
*Arison*
9.1%
Well, for those wondering about my location,
look no further than some rustic lake.
I love nature. Save the trees. The Earth is our most precious commodity.
Enough with this uselessness.
I should be serious for a minute.
I’m intrigued by the concept of
a minority rising up
against the opression of white America
and then…
April Fools.
*Arison*
Pan flute
It has been too long since things have been racial here.
So, I’m back.
I must recount a tale of great sorrow and confusion.
I warn thee:
If you have balls of bronze, read on and envision yourself clinging to this plastic nightmare.
The day was Monday.
The great white Bova had made a trek to the fertile land of Alexandria Bay in order to visit Mr. Allen and myself. On a whole, “The Bay” is a hearty place, full of tourism encampments and giant chessboards. On our most recent venture to said chessboard, we came upon a discovery of as(s)tronomical proportions.
Rarely do I see a leg sticking out of a pile.
Let me repeat that.
Rarely do I see a leg sticking out of a pile.
It was the Monday following one of Alex Bay’s multiple “Village-wide rummage sales”. Heaps upon heaps of bountiful junk were ripe for the proverbial picking on this brisk afternoon. As a strapping group of young mathletes, we had little interest in the piles of curbside treasure and much more interest in the concept of an epic chessical rematch between the novice David Bova and the evil galactic chessmaster, Joshua David Allen.
It was, however, a brisk afternoon, and Alex Bay has a way of shifting people.
In this instance, specifically, it had shifted our stroll down Walton street towards an ominous pile of castaway gold that did lay before a church-like structure. Perhaps it was something in the air that cursed us that Monday afternoon. That warm river air had it’s way with us. We drifted toward the pile.
It was Bova who noticed the limb first. It was gentile in it’s plastic beauty. There was almost a serenity in the air while he shouted “a leg!” to all that would surrender their patience. His most-definitely-caucasian arms reached with all their reach into the world of the unknown. I was personally bubbling at the thought of a heavy, semi-realistic plastic leg to put under a support beam and wait for the salvation and command that only a very specific WORF could deliver.
To my enjoyment(?), there was indeed a torso attatched to said limb. In a very “this bone connected to the that bone” sort of way, there was in fact an entire plastic body. This was a female mannequin.
This was, however, not a typical female mannequin.
This mannequin was anatomically correct.
This mannequin had parts.Not only that, but it was equipped with only one breast, which was, expectedly or not-so-expectedly, applied to said mannequin’s sternum with the majestic technology we refer to as “velcro”.
This was now, in the words of Paul motherfucking Paul, weird.
It was about the time Bova started dragging the mannequin with us that I ran into an old high school friend. I tried to explain to her how we had just found it when a vanload of adolescents pulled over and decided that they needed photographic evidence of this mannequin’s existance.
I am sick of saying mannequin.
It will be further referred to as “The Subject” for a brief period.It is pointless for me to explain that we decided to take her with us to the giant chess board.
You already knew that we would decide to take her with us to the giant chess board.Countless strangers posed their inquiries about The Subject.
The Galactic Chessmaster was victorious, as per the standard.I, personally, opted to fireman’s carry The Subject several street-blocks in order to show it to my mother. The subject was not exactly a cruiserweight, and her naked plastic ass and “box” were found greeting the passing traffic. God bless Alex Bay.
My mother was less than receptive of the subject. She ordered we clothe the subject, ironically, in her castaway clothing. This consisted of cookieprint pajama-bottoms and a lime green tee with a cheshire grin and one simple word: “Brat”.
The Subject will now be referred to as: The Brat.
The Brat spent the night on our front lawn.
Dave and Ryon Goodenough made it a point of wicked witching The Brat today… several times.(My mother was also less than pleased with the treatment of her broomhandle.)
Thus, the legend of The Brat has only begun to unfold. In a Superman-esque fashion, her origins are mostly unknown. We only know she rested curbside, seemingly thrown to the wayside by a household we only later discovered were devout methodists. Somehow, it all makes perfect sense.
Arison Londraville, The Magnificent Tales of Woe and Delight
This should fufill your need for a riot for the time being.
Okay…now.
Go. Riot it up.
Peer pressure supreme.
*Arison*
Wolfmans
Josh took the time today to fill my life with musical bliss.
He’s so generous.
This is your singing mammogram.
You’ve got breast cancer ma’am.
Better get it checked as soon as you can.
Singing mammogram.
In other news,
beware twice-a-day buffet.
*Arison*
Nicaraguan real estate?
The only thing left is the internet.
I’m sick of you criminals and your weblogs.
I refuse to be another statistic.
*Arison*
The real trial lawyers…
I was settling in to some healthy after-wrestling television, when I stumbled upon a gem in the digital cable programming guide.
Spike TV – 28 – Tue 12:00-12:30am
REAL TV
“Program description:
Suicide bomber; skateboarder hits a pole; manta rays… [PG]“
Needless to say, I was more than slightly perturbed to discover that the episode of REAL TV featuring “manta rays…”, among other things, was not to be found at exactly 12:00. Instead, I am being treated to an annoying man in a blue shirt pretending to use a plunger for more than a few moments. This episode has been delayed due to the wrestling overrun, apparently.
My spirits have basically been run through a funnel into a wood chipper.
I CAN’T WAIT 8 MINUTES FOR MY REAL TV.
Oh wait,
there it is.
The sweet, sweet nectar of a police chase caught on film.
Also, as a general rule of thumb, avoid laughing at liscence plates that begin with the letters “BBW” around a bonafide BBW.
*Arison*
Allegory
Behold the philosophy of your local BIG M supermarket:
1. Some people are retarded. Bagging boy is some people.
2. Soft ice cream belongs underneath pounds of meat and carbonated beverages. The tastes will combine through perculation.
3. 3 pounds of fettucine and 4 jars of pasta sauce all belong in the same cozy, 1-ply plastic bag. I can think of several, more functional methods to use this bag to it’s potential.
In other news:
Nothing is funnier than some people’s legitimate head shots.
You can go about your business.
*Arison*
Fitness in the dictionary
I’d like to kick off my stay here at use-bombs with the image of an interracial couple.
Welcome to use-bombs.
That is, welcome to me.
Congratulations to me.
*Arison*