I Want to Live Outside the Box.

I have decided that because I don't have a job and I'm in Grad School. 30 and in grad school. Sometimes that really depresses me. But it's a curvy and roundabout road to our final destinations. Maybe I have to re-read The Alchemist, that might cheer me up.

I digressed. I want to be a consultant. Not for anything specific, just for everything. I have a phone, opinions and I'm relatively bright. One of those "outside of the box" thinkers. I had planned on trying to get a teaching job in September, but so far the only place that has openings is in Compton. Fuck that. I'm not a missionary and even if I were, I still wouldn't go to Compton. The best case scenario for honkey boy me would be a severe beating. I would only visit Compton if I was offered thousands of dollars a week and a Swat team escort to and from the school. I'd probably get shot or stabbed by some 6th grader because I gave his sister a bad grade on a spelling test. So that's pretty much a wash. I'm still hoping to hear back from some of these people who I have offered or have written copy for. That would solve many money problems. I was having a bit of a pity party the other day and I was trying to decide if I was wasting my time with this blog writing. But it's an outlet and it's therapeutic and I've met some really talented people through my posts. You know who you are.

I have to drag myself up somedays to get anything done. Especially now that I'm posting to my blog constantly and getting back to writing that novel. I may just post the chapters as blogs when it's further along. I'm really happy that Penny and I are getting out of town and going up north to relax in Calistoga and attend my friend A's wedding. She's one of those dots her letter "I" with little hearts type of people. She claims that she has an angry side, but she doesn't. I didn't know there were people like that. Her fiance Ryan and his friend Bryan never bothered to stay in touch with me after I stopped working with them. I'm still glad I had them at my bachelor party because that was a great experience. I think I need to enjoy friends and memories for what they were and not lament that I've lost touch with people. That's natural. I think that's one of the reasons that people get married. That ties you to somebody who agrees to grow and change and not leave you. It's a really comforting thing. And, unlike say... the Spirit of Jesus, it's tangible. I'm all over the place with this blog as I was at my bachelor party. Maybe it was the assorted recreational drugs that sent me into what I could only describe as a zany and upbeat Colonel Kurtz state of mind. We were in a boat in a Lake in the Middle of the Desert. It was trippy even without the party favors. I still have the scar on my foot. F.Y.I. Tequila is a much better pain killer than Mary Jane. And taken together they actually make you quite numb to any discomfort. I thought it was "cool" that I had gashed my foot openon a jagged shell. I think I'd really like to get a group of friends together like that again. There is something great about not having to think about how you're going to get home. That's why I've always been a big supporter of Pajama Jammie-jams. Plus girls just look cute in pajamas. I need to find some feetie pajamas that will fit me for the next Crash-Over party. Sleep-over sounds too prissy, like, we'll be playing spin the bottle, having pillowfights and practicing kissing on the back of our hands. That's what I always imagined girls doing at their slumber parties. I think I first have to figure out who my immediate circle of friends are. These days I have about four close friends and a dozen guest stars on the Krankiboy Show. I think the problem with the show is that there are too few regualrs and just too many wacky neighbors and guest stars. You can't get to know them when they're only on for a minutes every couple of episodes. So, if you'd like to audition for a part as friend there are some roles I still need to cast. Right now it feels like I'm staring down the barrel of a long hot summer. I think time away from LA could go a long way towards helping me shake off this haze of funk that I find hovering around my head lately. I just read back some of what I wrote. I'm horrified that I compared my life to a television show. I'm going to shower off my shame and try to purify my bad analogy sins.

Greg the Boyfriend is finally writing interesting posts again.

Molvania!

 
Once in a great while something truly special comes your way. 

 
Something Truly Special

Fierce D.C.

Justin Foster is guest blogging today.  I coerced him into sharing this heartwarming tail. 
 
So my brother’s best friend Aaron from High School got married last week in D.C. He invited me to the wedding even though I always knew him back in high school but we weren’t really what you’d call friends. More like Friendsters. He’s a very competitive guy who always exceeded any goal he ever set for himself and that always impressed me. But it did bother me some when he would ask me things like how many periodicals the library at my college had. Then with delight he would tell me how many periodicals Duke had. And the average class size for Sophomores at Duke. And how many basketball titles Duke has won. And the number of Fulbright scholars from Duke. Now, I may not have learned a lot at my college but whenever Aaron was back from Duke, I sure learned a lot about Duke. Did you know Duke students can actually walk on the lawn at the white house if they’re in town and call ahead at least a day in advance? Swear to God. 
So when I was invited I thought I gotta go see Aaron get married. It’s sure to be one hell a Duke-a-fied affair. Plus, I’ve always wanted to fuck a Fulbright scholar. Maybe one would be there. I flew out on Thursday because my job is casual this time of year and my best friend from Elementary School lives in DC too so we were gonna hang out for a few days before the wedding. Unbeknownst to me it turned out there was a bachelor party that night! All right. Good times. I cancelled dinner plans with my life-long friend and said I was gonna have to go check out some boobies. I’m single and broke and I live in LA, I haven’t seen a boobie going on two weeks. I’m desperate. And yes, I do get laid that much in LA. This place is full of morally flexible girls. But the most important thing is I’m two weeks into a boobie-drought. I have to go to this bachelor party. 
I met my brother Jesse and our other friend Eric at the hotel and then we hooked up with Aaron and his older brother Travis to go over to the bachelor party which is at “someone’s apartment.” Aaron now runs a very big fund in DC, while his brother Travis works for the Secret Service and has quite possibly the coolest job of anyone in the world. He’s the man. I mean, really, the man. Six foot four two hundred and five pounds of walkin’ talkin’ Jesus. With a badge and a gun. Bad ass dude.  
Which made me feel a lot better that we were rolling with him when we pulled in to an apartment complex near RFK stadium. Not really scary so much as not a white person for a hundred miles and hmm isn’t that interesting. Aaron and Travis are African-American but they’re Tucson–Arizonan-African-American. I guessed there’s a difference and it turns out I wasn’t wrong. “Where the hell are we?” I asked. 
Aaron, “What? You nervous, Foster?” 
Me, “No, not at all. We’re safe though right? Travis? You’re strapped?” 
Everyone but Travis laughs. 
Travis, “Man, shut the fuck up. This is a party. (TO AARON) Did he have to come?” 
Travis never really liked me in High School. 
Aaron, “Justin, just wanna say, thanks for making it out. I sent you that invitation I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”  
Justin, “Totally. Congratulations. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Very happy for you. Listen, are we gonna be the only white guys in there? Just curious.” 
Aaron and Travis started laughing. Aaron, “This’ll be great. Now you’ll know what it was like for us going to a party back in ‘Zona.” 
Aaron and Travis start laughing again and we get out of the truck and go inside. Up the stairs and into the living room where there are 30 guys drinking and talking and listening to Lil’ John. Very normal bachelor party. Except me and my brother are the only white guys there. I’m socially adaptable so I start making my rounds, mingling. We were introduced to Aaron’s brother-in-law and a few other guys who’s names I was too scared to remember. My brother and I got a beer and I went out to the deck to have a smoke. Where I met a young Jamaican guy about five foot four. Very nice guy. Introduced himself. I felt relieved to be talking to someone who wasn’t six foot nine. His name was Benny. I tell him I’m from LA. “You ever been to Jamaica?” He asked right off the bat. 
“Um, no. But… my sister went there on her honeymoon. She said it was quite beautiful.” 
He took a drag of his smoke and nodded affirmatively. Indeed, Jamaica is God’s country. 
“Ya wanna fuck a Jamaican girl?” He said in a slow thick accent. 
“Uh… I mean, yeah, I guess. They’re very pretty. Someday perhap--” 
“One second.” He said and pulled out his cell phone.  
Great, I thought. He got a phone call and now I’m out of this very short but very weird conversation. Whew. I was about to make my way inside when I heard him say, “Oy, girl. Me got this boy here from LA, him look real good. Reeeaaal good.” Pause. “Nah, him look real good. Here. Talk to him.” He hands me the phone. “Go, bra.” 
Me, (INTO PHONE) “Hi, how’s it going? I’m Justin. I just met this guy and he told me we should talk. (NOTHING) So, how’s it going?”
She says, “Good.”
I say, “Whatcha up to tonight?”
“Watching a movie.”
“What movie are you watching?”
“Kung Fu.”
“Which one? Is Bruce Lee in it?”
“I don’t know. Is he Chinese?”
“Yeah.” “Could be.”
“Is it Enter the Dragon?”
“I don’t know.”
Jamaican guy rolls his eyes at me. “Alright, well, it was nice talking to you.” I hand the phone back. He says a few things to her, mostly one word answers, then hangs up. “She say she want to meet you at your hotel. When you leave?” “Sunday, but—“ He hands me a card. “Call me. I’ma get a beer.” And with that, he walked off. I tried to follow him inside but just then I noticed the strippers were already dancing. I was outside for all of five minutes and not only had I gotten a prostitute but the stripper was already naked and toying herself with a green dildo. Which was very shiny. Man, this party was moving fast. I joined the huddle of guys around her as she’s dancing for the bachelor. Everyone’s totally into it, staring, not saying a word and watching this girl. The stereo’s blastin’. She’s in the middle of doing her thing when she suddenly stops and addresses the crowd- 
“Yo, I know he’s the man of the hour. Like I’m here for his entertainment and all. But I’m about to stick an eight inch raspberry flavored dildo in my pussy. And maybe my ass if the tips get good enough. So don’t the rest of ya’ll be afraid to start tippin’!”  
And with that everyone started pulling out wads of cash and saying, “Oh, damn! Here you go! Shit! She serious.” 
Then she goes on with the show. And after a while I notice that, in addition to the very fragrant raspberry coating on the vessel, there is the undeniable smell of someone who’s in a not-so-fresh way. Now, I’m a guy and there’s something intoxicating about the smell of a woman who’s about on FOUR on the Aromameter. This girl was on YEAST INFECTION. I tried breathing through my shirt but I was getting light headed. I wasn’t sure if it was the lack of oxygen in the room, which was built to comfortably accommodate nine and was now serving thirty plus two strippers, but I was pretty sure it could’ve also been the smell of rank pussy. I had to get a smoke. And then put it out in my nostrils.
I left the door open on purpose. “Close that shit, yo!” I heard from inside. I reluctantly closed the door and stayed out there as long as I could but when my brother came out after thirty minutes and told me I “had to see something” you better believe I marched back in there. And I wasn’t disappointed. The strippers were now eating each other out while dildoing each other. Wow. One of those girls surely must’ve been born without olfactory nerves and a gag reflex. 
The show finally slowed down around 1 am and you could tell everyone was ready to call it a night. The girls had given many lap dances after the floor show and were exhausted.  
Or so I thought before Sally Smellyvag said, quite loudly, “Oh, I ain’t done yet! Ya’ll got some condoms I’ll start suckin’ some dick up in this motherfucker!” You had to hand it to Sal. She didn’t let her little gynecological ailment slow her down. I thought of all the times I didn’t have a breath mint after dinner on a date and then didn’t kiss the girl when I dropped her off because I was scared my breath stank. I had much to learn from Sally. But certainly no one would take her up on such an offer so brazenly deliv-- 
“Yo, you got any condoms up in this motherfucker?!” A few guys yelled. 
“I ain’t got none!” I heard next. 
Then, “You got like, any baggies with some twist ties or somethin’?! Cuz I’ll wrap that muhfuckah like a muhfuckah!” High fives all around. Then, “Here you go!” A condom was passed to the gentleman caller. And with that Sally began to give her first blowjob of the night. Right there in the middle of the room with fifteen to seventeen people watching. Truly astounding.  
After we said our goodbyes, I was the last in the car and very surprised to find my Jamaican friend riding in the last row in back of the truck. He had his face propped up on the back seat. “Hey, what are you doing here?” I asked. 
Jamaican Guy, “You guys a droppin’ me off at da’ store. My wife is pickin me up.” 
If that is what it was like going to a party back in ‘Zona, those guys sure had a better time in High School than I did.

You Have a Drug Problem.

Teens who use drugs are 5 times more likely to have sex than are those teens who do not use drugs. (CASA). 

Is that supposed to be a deterrent?  Umm... 'cause if I'm a guy in highschool and PCP or even Crack could have increased my chances of having sex...

Finally a definitive answer to why I didn't get laid in highschool.  If only somebody had told me I could have avoided one of the biggest regrets of my life.   

Know the Signs
How can you tell if a friend is using club drugs?  If your friend has one or more of the following warning signs, he or she may be using Ecstasy:

- Problems remembering things they recently said or did
- Loss of coordination, dizziness, fainting
- Depression
- Confusion
- Sleep problems

Dear anybody who is reading this,
You have a problem.  You are using Ecstacy.  You have probably had one or more of the above symptoms.  This means that you have a serious methamphetimine problem.  Don't lie to me and say you don't, because if you get depressed or confused or have trouble sleeping or get dizzy you are a druggie!  An X using, E popping, Stacy-sucking druggie.

Here are some other warning signs I'd add to the list.

- Going up to somebody you don't know and saying "Isn't this DJ awesome?"
- Dancing   They had it right in the movie "Footloose."  Dancing leads to drugs.
- Kissing a complete stranger you just accidentally brushed up against. 
- Wearing a visor and/or weilding glowsticks.
- Describing a night of dancing as "Grandma's Chocolate Cake."
- Thinking that shiny things have never been soo cool.    
- Playing a Massive Attack song over and over and over... 
- Doing free verse poetry really loudly.
- Thinking you can play the drums when you can't.
- Going to a rave and introducing yourself to everybody as "The Mayor of the rave."
- Hugging your warm clothes for hours after they come out of the dryer. 
- Drinking lots of bottled water and not caring who's nasty germ- infested water bottle it is.
- Feeling the need to tell people that they're your best friend and why you love them.
- Inviting what turn out to be really sketchy people to come back to your house for breakfast.
- Getting really, really into the Power Puff Girls.     
- Hanging around with somebody because their shirt is really soft.


 

The Hidden Predator: Our Nation in Crisis.

            The Hidden Predator 
  
Why is it that today, in the most powerful country on earth, there is reason to be afraid?  What sinister force has been brewing for thousands of years? What have we foolishly ignored for so long?  What is it that we've been afraid to face?  Why is there such pressure on the backs of young people to grow up faster than the generation before them?  Some "escape" to become musicians and poets living "off the grid."  How can we allow these escapes to happen when there exists such an urgent need for Military Soldiers to fight our un-ending wars, Genetic Engineers to scientifically warp humanity and Catholic Priests who are capable of discretely molesting young altar boys?  Also, did you know that 50% of all lawyers in the world are in the United States.  We have 5% of the world population but only half the lawyers on earth.   We can do better than that!  We should have at least 70%.  America is dropping the ball and I point the finger of blame on music and poetry.  It's beautiful, it's inspiring and it's distracting.  How many times have you sat down to write a paper or read a report or watch television and found yourself thinking how nice it would be to go outside and enjoy natural beauty?  It's those heathen poets.  It's as if their metaphors are choking our economy and our infrastructure to a slow death.  We need TV viewers, we need people inside malls tirelessly shopping and we need cubicle dwellers.  It's because of Poetry that nobody wants to grind it out working in a factory for twenty-five years.  The number of children who list coal-mining as a career goal is at an all time low.  As you read this, the rainforests are not being cleared and burned fast enough to provide grazing land for the cattle that McDonald's buys and serves in our hamburgers.  I know I don't want to live in a world where I can't get a 99-cent cheeseburger.  What's slowing us down?  What's putting the American way of life in danger of extinction?  It's these ruthless poets and singer-song writers, with their appreciation for nature conveyed through the eloquence, melody and subtle grace of the written word.  Good God People!  It's time for us to open our eyes to this often emotive, and deadly Juggernaught of an art form before it crushes our greed and ambition like a soft, ripe melon.  Our nation is like a baby bird, sitting quietly in it's nest as it waits for mother to return with breakfast.  Poetry smells this fledgling and it is stalking us, stalking with a raw hunger and a rhythmic flow, preparing to bare its claws and pounce with an adrenalized fury upon it's helpless prey.

Don't be lulled into complacency.  Behold, my friends, for this is THE ENEMY, and the enemy is at the gates. 

 

Now they're even paying people to write poetry! 

The Threat is Real 

Wake Up America! 

I wish I could draw. 

EVIL WANTS YOU!

PURE EVIL is waiting to welcome you into it's heart of darkness and utter despair.

Warm regards,
S.N.E.E.D!

The Secret Network of Evil Evil Doers

Curious? Click if you dare. S.N.E.E.D!

Kranki

Boys, do you understand this sign, or do I need to explain it to you?  This applies everywhere but in Italy and certain areas of Brazil, where I understand it's considered rude if you don't pinch or grope a woman. 

River, Johnny, River, Johnny. Don't make me choose!  

WOW! is right.  Whatever happened to Richardo Grieco?   

Girls, if you go near "The River" you're gonna get wet!

 
Swoon! 

Was Kirk Cameron actually a boy?  

Puppy Love or Tiger Beat Passion?

Boys, Boys, Boys!  Oh Boy.

My darling wife, Penny foolishly showed me these old clips she saved from when she was a pre-teen girl with raging hormones. 

Penny: "Just promise you won't put them on your blog, okay?" 
Me:  Of course.  I promise.  (Long Pause)  Can I just put a few on there?
Penny:  (Withering Stare) "No."
Me:  "What if I just use River and Johnny?"
She grumbles and nods.  Cursing herself for being duped into loving me because I owned two cute puppies.
 
Oh, she just loved River and Johnny. "Oh, if only they could just merge into one boy who would whisk me away from my parents who are so stupid and don't understand me." I have this image of Penny at around age 12 gazing longingly at her favorite River and Johnny pictures. Pouring over the in-depth articles as she practices kissing on the back of her hand. Actually, I think she was kissing actual boys by that time.  I was the dork on the East Coast sitting in my Grandma's livingroom, playing Dungeons and Dragons for twelve hours every day with my two friends and making mazes for my hamsters during D&D downtime.  So who the hell am I to make judgments?!  I'm lucky Penny decided to give me a second glance.  She's put some serious work into me. Although, now that I think of it, I remember I did have some pin up pictures of my own. 

You see there were these enterprising young kids at day camp who brought in what we called (in hushed voices of awe)... "The Naked Lady Magazines." They would sell one centerfold picture for four dollars!  Maybe even five if it was a blonde with big boobies.  It was our crack cocaine.  We had to have them.  What an enterprise they had going.  They'd just take their dad's magazines and get close to 30 bucks per magazine, selling them off picture by picture.  Remember, we're talking 1987 dollars here. They even offered a frequent buyer discount.  Their fathers were too embarrassed to confront them.  Could you see Dad at the dinner table.  "Say Justin, pass the peas.  That reminds me... Have you seen my Hustler and Penthouse magazines?  You know the ones that I keep in my sock drawer?"    I was a curious young boy without any older males to guide me.  I needed these centerfolds.  I went without buying ice cream and soda for a few days and about 18 dollars later I had a good number of nudie pictures.  Now what?  Clearly the best thing to do was to hang them up in the storage closet and have my neighbors and the boys on my block pay me two dollars each to take the gallery tour. I think I just about broke even. I lived with my aunt and she discovered my secret gallery. Maybe having a half dozen kids running around and giving me money was a tip off that something was amiss. My aunt was surprisingly cool about the whole thing considering there were boys and hormones rampaging through the house. And of course with no sexual outlet for this sudden rush of energy and blood flow, the boys did what young horny boys do best. They turned their frustration into anger and began wrestling on our lawn. I had intended to tease my wife about her Teen Beat, 16, Bop and Wow magazine collection but once again I've only managed to embarrass myself. Well, here are some pictures. Penny only went for River Phoenix and Johnny Depp but I just had to throw some of these others into the mix. Personally I think Peter Delouise is super dreamy. How could sex with Dom Delouise not result in something magical.  

Penny says  "21 Jump Street rrrocks!" 

Ahh, the Stories Old People Tell...

This is a companion photo to go along with Ms. Fit's post on Pensioners.
_________________________________________
I have been considering writing a book that has to do with Old people.  I'd tell you the specifics, but then you'd steal the brilliant idea that invloves way more work than I'll ever actually get around to doing.  Anyway, I think I'm really mixed about old people.  On the one hand they often have incredible stories that they are delighted to regail you with.  However they rarely remember that they've told you the stories already so you have to be polite and constantly listen to the same stories.  By the sixth time it becomes very uncool.  And often these stories start out really promising - something like.  "I was in the Marines stationed in the Philipinnes during WW2 and the flood of troops into the area caused a huge upsurge in prostitutes.  I'm talkin' gorgeous young girls who'd do anything ya want.  A pair of young, strapping fellas in uniform couldn't walk two feet without getting propositioned.  So, my buddy Digger and me, we take our time and pick ourselves six of the finest philies that American dollars can buy and we're gonna take 'em back to the base, cause we figure everybody is in town whoopin' it up.  We decide to use the Lieutanant's barracks since he's got a nice set up with a big soft bed and everything.  We start to drive the girls back to base in a cargo truck we nabbed from the motor pool.  These beautiful girls they're all sitting in the back bouncing into the air with each bump in the road.  They looked so funny.  They were real troopers cause some of these girls have great big families, and the cash these girls make is the only thing they have to survive on.   We hit this really rough patch of road on the way back to base and Digger is up front driving, so he don't know the ladies are all bouncing around so much.  One of the girls knocks her head on the inside of the truck and I go to help steady her, but she's a pro still smiling all sexy.  She reaches out and grabs onto me so she don't lose her balance and as she's grabbing ont me I notice that she smells fantastic.  The road settles down and I go back to the passenger seat.  Not two seconds after I get back to the front seat.  A hell of a loud explosion goes off right in the back of the truck.  All I can hear is a ringing in my ear and Diggy and I figure we're taking enemy fire or something.  I reach for my Colt .45 sidearm and I notice that the grenade I always keep clipped on the side of my belt is missing.  I look into the back of the truck and see that five of the six girls have just been blown to high heaven.  It's just guts and skirts, skin, bone and hair and blood spattered everywhere, like Pablo Picasso meets Jack the Ripper.  Legs, arms and body parts going in all sorts of weird directions.  Dig pulls over and we don't know what the fuck to do.  We catch our breath a bit and we open up the back of the truck and we pull out the one whore that's still alive.  We see that she's got a good tear out of one leg and the other one looks like a hunk of mashed lasagna.  It's gushing out blood.  She was soo bad off and in so much pain and we were in the middle of nowhere, so we did the only thing we could do.  We put a bullet in her head. 

And that's the closest I ever came to cheating on your aunt Gerdi.  It was quite an experience.  We had some helluva nutty times me and Digger.  He was my best friend.  He died two years ago... Cancer... just.... just ate away at his body till this 250 pound muscle man couldn't fight it any longer.  He died before he could make peace with his two sons.  (Long Heavy Sigh)  Hey, I sure could go for some Rocky Road ice cream.  How'bout you?"

But grandma was different, she had a much darker sense of humor. 

 

 

            

Why so Cranky?

Krankiboy - The Original! 
Here I am on the Streets of San Francisco.  Don't let the tassels fool you, I was part of one of the roughest tricycle gangs in the city.  What you don't see in this picture is the kilo of un-cut heroin tucked into my pants.       

While the special effects are cutting edge, the story itself bogs down in the second act. Stallone plays the role of mayor brilliantly. There is gravitas in the moment he surveys the town and says "Yo, It's like a biblical plague here. My town is turnin' inta Ratville!"  

Plenty of Nice Shaded Street Parking

I get home from my therapist appointment feeling lighter and carefree.   I see that the street has a plethora of lovely shaded parking spaces as you might expect for a Tuesday afternoon.  But, for some reason somebody has decided to park in the only spot that blocks the driveway.  There are spots everwhere and this is obviously a driveway.  I thought this was pretty rude to do to me and the 11 other neighbors who need to use the driveway.  I parked on the street no big deal.  I thought about calling to have the shiny blue car towed away, however that seemed like something an old person would do.  Besides the driver could be long gone before the tow truck ever showed up.  Long story short, I "accidentally" went into my refridgerator and found some expired cottage cheese, then somehow a pot of old leftover coffee got combined with the cottage cheese and the entire nasty mixture was inadvertantly dumped across the windshield of the offending car.  It looked like bum vomit and it stuck nicely to the glass all nice and clumpy.  I then took my dogs out for a walk and on my way back around the block I see this woman staring at the car in complete disbelief.  She can't figure out how or why this stuff got on her car.  I smiled and tipped my hat like a gentleman as I walked past with my dogs.  I was tempted to remark what a gorgeous day it was today, but I thought that would be rude.  I can't wait to tell my therapist.         
 

The King of Pop is Going to be a Pappa... Again.

This one speaks for itself.

Michael Jackson

LOS ANGELES, California (Reuters) -- Pop star Michael Jackson, facing a trial on child molestation charges, is about to become a father to four more children -- quadruplets -- by way of a surrogate mother, Us Weekly magazine reported Tuesday. 
 
Full Article 
 
 
I only have one question.  "When Michael is convicted and put into a minimum security prison, will he be allowed to have conjugal visits with his kids?"
 
 

Whatever Happened to What's-His-Name from College?

Have you ever stopped and wondered whatever happened to that happy-go-lucky, big-time stoner and Lynyrd Skynyrd fan who you knew back in college?
 
I know that humor walks the line between tragedy and comedy, but this one is bit more on the tragedy side.  This is the sad truth about what happened to a guy I knew, who lived down the hall in my college dorm.
 
If you want to read more...
 
     Article 1
 
     Article 2
 
 
I really hope that he can put this behind him and get on with his life.  I don't think he's a horrid person.  But as a teacher, sweet-baby-Jesus-on-ice, he should have known better than to act on such a twisted fantasy.
 
Now, I've gotta cancel a meeting set up for tomorrow over at Shakey's Pizza.  I know she said she was eighteen, but why risk it.   
 

  
  
  
 

Girls Are Raunchy!

I found myself sitting in class on a Saturday at 8am.  We wouldn't be free to go for another seven hours.  It was like being in a boring remake of The Breakfast Club.  Pretty bad punishment for somebody who's never been convicted of a felony. 
(hey, no body + no weapon = no  murder) 
 
I found myself wondering what other things besides a Masters degree that I could have bought with 30 thousand dollars.  The list was long.  I really don't think that you earn a degree at this place I think you just buy it and show up.
 
This particular class was on Teaching Literature to Children, which is normally one of my favorite topics, but not a good way to spend your Friday night and all day the following Saturday.  The "professor" was talking to us as if we were seven years old.  She had this kind of Minnesota-accent sing-songy little squeaky voice that caused me to question my career choice whenever it went up in pitch.  Which was often.  She'd say things, like, "Now, didn't you hear what I just said?  I said I don't want you to be filling that out that right now.  That evaluation is to be filled out in the privacy of your own home." and "Now is the time we need to put our computer screens down, okay?  Great."  I kept waiting for her to trip up and accidentally call us "boys and girls."  I was taking down  some notes and listening to her but she called on me because I wasn't giving her my full attention.  I'm thinking.  I'm sorry, I was under the impression that I was paying to take this class?  Lady, please shut up and stop pouting because we're all human and humans get bored.  I was sitting at a table with three of my very favorite female masters credential peers.  Two of students had given a presentation on a book about clay pottery and they handed out Playdoh.  It was something to do, which kept me from going insane and leaping out of the window bellowing a mighty Xena war cry as I hit the pavement.  Had we been on a lower floor I would have given the window jump option more consideration.  A bit later, the teacher lady was busy on the other side of the room, so we had a chance to talk amongst ourselves.  You know, like adults often do.  The conversation will show you how rivited we all were by the professor's words.   
 
My friend points to the orange Playdoh that I'm using to shape into a monster eyeball and out of nowhere she says.
 
Lady R: "I had to take medicine one time that made my pee that color.
 
We all nod with puzzled acknowledgement of this statement.
 
Lady R:  (ever-curious) "Have you ever peed a different color?"
 
Me: (reaching)  "When I was younger I think I took something that made me pee a bit green once."  
 
Kyle: (kinda proud)  "I once made a green poop."
 
Me: "Yes, Kylie, we're all very proud of your high fiber diet."
 
Kylie:  "Nooo, it was this bread we ate with dye in it for St. Patricks day.  My crew coach came up to us and asked,  Did you guys poop green?  Mine was green."
 
Barbara-Anne:  "If you eat beans it can make your poop bright red.  The first time I did that I was like (feigning shock)  Am I bleeding?"
 
Kylie: " (playing along, musing)  Did I have anal sex last night?"
 
Barbara-Anne:  "(casual)  Hmmm... I don't think so."
 
Damn, girls!  That is the first time in almost a year that friends have been able to shock me with something they said.
 
You treat adults like kids and they will act like kids.  Plus I'm a wise ass and Kylie has ADD.
 
Now enjoy this entertaining yet completely unrelated video clip.

The Right-Wing Dunce and the Liberal War Hero..................... Only an animated music video could crystalize our Presidential candidates.

Jib-Jab has outdone itself.  This is the best thing they've had since they had George Washington and the founding fathers rapping Beastie Boys style to the Victrola beat. 
 
If you haven't yet seen the This Land animated parody, do yourself a favor and check it out.  It's well worth the wait for it to download.  Enjoy.
 
Thanks, JIB JAB!
 
 

And the Hits Just Keep On Coming!

After about 2 hours of fussing I managed to figure out how to put a hit counter on my web to keep track of the staggering number of people who descend on my site like starved dingos on a fresh wallaby carcus.  Somebody asked me what I write.  Well, I'm not proud of it but most recently I wrote for the worst show in the history of television.  I wrote for the Olsen Twins show for Disney ironically titled "So Little Time..."  How long did my chica partner and I try and squeeze blood from that stone?  3 Weeks.  You see the chronologically challenged, cocaine-addled former Laverne and Shirley writer who was the show runner (exec producer) of the show hired us so we'd bring some youth to the show.  We wrote 1 script and then he fired all of the staff writers.  Perhaps we tried too hard to change the hack jokes they wrote for the girls that had Al Gore as the punchline.  The Twins were fifteen years-old at the time so I stupidly suggested changing the Al Gore reference to something more teenagerish, like Justin Timberlake or Ashton Kutcher.  The crotchety old-timers just stared at me as if I'd spoken alien jibberish.  Perhaps they wanted the girls to make reference to somebody more cutting edge, like Henry Kissinger, or Alexander Hamilton?  All I can tell you is that it was a horrible experience that snuffed out my passion to work in sitcoms.  Oh, also, Ashley was prettier because Mary-Kate has a huge head.  I wish the girls well in their battle against cocaine and heroin oops... I meant anorexia.  People magazine is never wrong.  The only silver lining to that dark cloud is that I still get paid residuals from all the dozens of times they've re-run the show.  I think the last check had dwindled down to $45 and 66 cents.  Penny and I had a lovely dinner.  Thanks girls!  Before that I was credited with some "Jesse" episodes.  Remember that was the show on after "Friends" that had Christina Applegate (who is genuinely a fucking cool person).  And it had that Latin love interest guy that sounded like an exaggerated Ricky Ricardo.  "Jesse, ju got some 'splaining to do!"  Before that I was just the guy who typed all scripts while 9 bitter, crappy writers (and five good ones) complained about their lives and wrote episodes in between.  So those are my credits.  I'm so proud.  Veronica's Closet, Men Behaving Badly (the un-funny season) that pilot that never aired with what's-his-face.  As a spunky college grad I was so excited to jump in and write for my six-hour-a-day baby-sitter, television.  I think I'd rather go back to the ground floor of the college dorm where we wrote and performed sketch comedy.  Ahh, the Beige Room.  It had a very snappy name.  So, what do you do when the Entertainment industry has driven you and your lovely wife to a state of utter delusionment.  Naturally you move to Amsterdam for five months to relax and "get your head straight."  And make sure to do a little traveling so when the Twin Towers are decimated you are sitting on a topless beach with your girlfriend on the coast of Spain.  That's where I first discovered the sedating powers of the kava-kava root.  "New York has just blow up! Thousands of people have been killed and we're stranded on another continent where nobody cares or speaks English!"  "That's okay, baby, lets chew some more kava-kava root and build a really bitchin' sand castle."  I swear I would give the 4ft 5inch little Spanish woman who sold us the kava root a big wet kiss on her 104 year-old lips.
 
So according to the handbook the next thing I was supposed to do after going back and getting "distracted" in Amsterdam.  "Look, honey, the ducks, I want to go and swim with the ducks.  I love ducks.  Can we get a duck?"  The next step is to move back to your old apartment that you sublet to some 22 year-old Butt-head clone from Texas who thinks he's going to be a successful actor but only succeeds in doing extra work 2 days a week, whose mom paid us more than our monthly rent with six months in advance.  You kick his cro-mag ass out, have a near nervous breakdown, panic about  what you'll do with you life and go back to grad school so you can earn a masters degree to teach 2nd graders.
 
Originally, all I wanted to say in this blog was "Look, everybody, I have a hit counter on the bottom of my blog now."  But somewhere I got side tracked and elaborated.  I guess I'll spell check it, walk the dogs and pass out next to my brilliant, beautiful and unconscious wife. 
        
Don't forget to buy a Juiceman Juicer!

Why New York City Sucks!

Thursday, July 15, 2004

I post this piece with my friend* Curtis' kind permission*.  
 
*Note when I say "friend" I use the term very loosely.  Also, where I say "permission" it should say "ignorance." 
 
 

      Why New York City Sucks!

            by Curtis Matthews 

 
     New York City is a bunch of people whose only unifying characteristic is that they're jealous that they don't live in L.A. Everyday I walk outside in my flip-flops because we don't have stupid weather like the NYC losers and I gaze out at the vast vista of palm trees. Then I get into my car and take it to the carwash and have it cleaned, because if my car is dirty, people will think that I just got off the goddamn plane from NYC. In NYC there are actually people who don't own cars. Even people who can afford them don't buy cars.  Hello?  I know I sure love to be jammed into a graffiti-covered, urine-encrusted train car with a bunch of sweaty poor people. Then you get some guy with a gimpy leg, an old dirty windbreaker but wearing brand new Nike sneakers who walks onto the train car and proceeds to tell you a sob story about how he was a soldier in Desert Storm and lost both his livers, but he's trying to turn his life around. Then he holds out a cup expecting you to give him money. We have those guys in LA, but they work for a fucking living. They hang out at the gas station and offer to wipe your windows. In New York they just grab a piece of custard-stained newspaper that some drooly wino was using as a pillow and they smudge your windows all up with crud. If anybody in LA did that it's in our city charter that we are legally allowed to shoot them in the head. That's why there are cars, people... so that we can stay disease-free if we choose to. Nobody gets into my car and hits me up for cash. Unless it's a car-jacker, in which case you don't have to worry cause you'll either get a cool new even bigger SUV with insurance money, or you're dead. At least when you're dead you don't have to live in New York City. Wasn't that the name of a Beach Boys single? The East Coasters love to brag that "New York is a melting pot of cultures." Well, I don't want any of that crap melting on me, I have to go eat where famous people might be hanging out. Yesterday I drove a couple miles to my neighborhood Coffee Bean to get to get a grande non-fat frappucino and on the way there I saw Danny Devito AND Kevin Spacey. So,DOMINO, MOTHERFUCKER! West Coast rules!

The Ego, the Id, and the Super Ego are all sitting at a bar.

Thursday, July 15, 2004 
 
The title sounds like the beginning of an old joke. The Ego, the Id and the Super Ego are all sitting at a bar. The Ego turns to the Super Ego and says...   I didn't say it was a joke, I just said it sounded like the start of one. If anybody can invent the remainder of that joke I will by you a coke and teach the world to sing in perfect harmony. Okay I can't do that, so make it a coke and a slice of pizza. That's a promise! You can hold me to it. I know and have worked with a hell of a lot of funny and talented writers, but it takes a rare mind to just sit down and make up a joke from start to finish like that. I bet the guy who came up with the idea of the Farmer, The Farmer's daughter and the traveling salesman was some alcoholic comedy savant. I wonder if there is a big book of those types of jokes.  I'm off to surf the internet to find out. And to refresh myself on the difference between the Ego and the Super Ego. I know the ID is the one that's all about sex and violence and base human urges. I wonder if I could come up with an anti-joke. The non-polish fellow, the man who isn't French and the not-black guy are lost in the desert...

Walking the Dogs and Watching the Neighbors Watching their Porn.

Friday, July 14, 2004 

I just walked the dogs and the neighbor around the corner really should close his blinds when he's going to watch hard-core* porn.  If I had the guts it would have been fun to knock on the door loudly exclaiming "Fire Marshall!" and see if he or she (I didn't actually look to see) would answer the door. TANGENT I think that it is easier to be a man generally because you don't menstruate and you don't have to sit to pee and you have about sixteen fewer emotional responses than women. Or maybe men just have several different kinds of anger. Oh, right so I think that the male erection and how inconvenient and embarrassing it can be especially when you're 14. At that age you have no clue as to what might set it off. There are so many hormones pulsing through your body that nearly anything could prompt a salute from the little soldier. The teacher can write something on the board in smooth, cursive writing and that could do it. Some girl could raise her hand and say problem number three on the math homework was "really hard" and bam the soldier is at full attention. I don't know how I got through Junior High School wearing sweat pants for a year (jeans were itchy). I must have been a late bloomer. Maybe my soldier didn't get promoted up the ranks as quickly as some of the others. Perhaps his ammo wasn't fully-- CENSORED------------------------------------------ Of course it was pretty difficult to get turned on by the girls in Junior High. Most of them had acne, braces or both. And many were a good foot taller than the boys. Biologically speaking, I don't see why girls develop faster than boys. How did evolution decide that was helpful for our species? Maybe it was so the young cave women could fight off the wussy little males and only get impregnated by the young man with the strongest seed. I think I give entirely too much thought to the things that wander uninvited right into my mind. I started out just taking the dogs for a walk and I ended up with a Cavewoman gang bang scenario. I apologize to my Ego and Super Ego for the brazen crassness of my ID. And to you dear reader. I promise the next post will be about kittens and cinnamon sticks. I'm ill. I should be euthanized.

 

* not to be confused with the ever popular hard corn porn  and such sinful things of that nature.

FYI:  When I did a perfectly innocent Yahoo! search for a good image of corn sex I got this disturbing picture.

Plato the Father of Western Philosophical Thought 

This My's Intellergence Skore. Look Who Be Smart.

I figured I've gone thirty years without taking an IQ test. I'd better do it before my brain starts to shrink. Isn't that upsetting. They say that happens to men as they age. Not women. Just men. Of course the ears and nose and body hair continue to grow like a tapeworm on steroids, but the brain shrinks. It does explain why old men get so mad when we kids hit a ball into their yard. When I'm old I think I'll just milk it for all it's worth. Honeylumps, can you get me another Gin and Tonic my brain is shrinking.

So here are my IQ test results.

Your IQ score is 131
This number is based on a scientific formula that compares how many questions you answered correctly on the Classic IQ Test relative to others. I think I made it to smart by 2 IQ points. But I did have to pee really bad part way through the test.

Your Intellectual Type is Visionary Philosopher. This means you are highly intelligent and have a powerful mix of skills and insight that can be applied in a variety of different ways. Like Plato, your exceptional math and verbal skills make you very adept at explaining things to others — and at anticipating and predicting patterns. And that's just some of what we know about you from your IQ results.

Visionary Philosopher?!

Oh... Yeah, absolutely. Plato and I are like two peas in a pod. If Plato were around today he and I would be way tight. That's my boy there. That's Plato! We be kickin' it back at his phat crib. We're talking mutha-fucking off da hook toga parties every weekend. Tons of crazy-ass fly hot sexy nubian bitches. Gettin' ourselfs a little hot tub luv rub. Platey, he loved to tap that tang. We'd even get us a midget butler cuz that shit would be funny. You ring our bell and this little dude in a tux answers the door and he got a big ol' afro. Fuck man, you know it. Plato and me be sippin' on gin and juice with our minds on philosophy and philosophy on our minds. And you know the Platester would have mad love for the chronic-- Super Sonic chronic.

The rap would go like this. Check it now.

(Get a thumpin' beat rappping snoopy snoop dog style)

Plato would be my numero uno bro.
The sleek Greek always gets with da ho. Even more than that he loves da young boys you know.
Hold up. Whoa!

Yo, I ain't down with the NAMBLA love- Oh no!
Let the geeky Greek Freak get hiz-self busted by Five-O.
He'd be some bad nigga's bitch with his ass white as snow.
That old Grecian queer oughta be on Death Row.
He'd get his bald head mugged and tugged like a buncha bored kids grabbin' at Playdoh.
Smart boy'd be passed 'round like a cigarette, then stomped out on the cell block flo(or). And that'd be the end of the late great philosopher Pla-to.

Those IQ tests are freakin' bunk as a three-dollar bill. But if y'all wanna take one, he're the place you can go to do it.  Peace out.
http://web.tickle.com/

The Real Me!

"Change the rest of the world, not your attitude. It's a hell of a lot easier."

I created a photo that speaks so you can see and hear exactly what I look like. I'm kinky that way.

Just click this link to see what it has to say:
http://connect.tickle.com/photo/talkie.html?inviteid=IlyMDnhZONLdtVfulGeKaD-aha7.na8k

Cheers,

Kranki

Krankiboy Quiz

I've been getting lots of personal questions from my readers. So I created the "Krankiboy Quiz." Winner gets a prize of actual value via snail-mail. My wife is not eligible for the prize."

The answers are all about me. Because I want
Here's my first question:

1. How many girls did I kiss in highschool?
* None
* Four
* Nine
* Fifteen

Just click (or copy and paste) this link and you'll be taken to my quiz.
http://connect.tickle.com/test.html?id=o2pBR66loPnwvdfu&

All my love - Krankiboy

Brunch, Spiders, Poker and Fat Jokes: My Sunday

It amazes me how I can spend a Sunday. Today it was brunch with my wife and Lady R- former Mossad, ex-C.I.A. and a lover of nearly creatures great and small. She doesn't like earwigs (pincher bugs) I don't know what the hell they call them outside of the U.S. perhaps the very amusing and knowledgeable Ms Fits, could tell us? But more on earwigs later.

We had lunch and then we went spider hunting. Why the hell am I out spider hunting? That's not slang or code for anything. We were actually walking around, up and down alley ways and bushes, looking to catch spiders. I don't know when I became a seven year-old boy again. I think it happened after I co-taught a bug class for kids at an afterschool program. That's also the around the time that I started craving eat candy and junk food. Things I hadn't eaten in years. Did I catch some little kid disease that made me change? Did some kind of huge male regression take place. Maybe? I don't know. All I know is that I now like to catch spiders and bugs to feed to them, especially earwigs (pincher bugs). I don't like earwigs and I really don't like roaches. I step on roaches to protect the planet from their total domination. I do this free of charge. The earwigs I usually just feed to a bigger insect like a spider or a preying mantid (when I had those). But today it didn't seem right. Why do earwigs get cast as the villains? They have pincher claws sure, but they don't go after you. So I'm gonna go easy on these guys from now on. Sadly, after a day of catching spiders my friend and I totally nerd out and look them up on the internet. What the hell? When I was a teenager I would have teased the kids who like bugs and playing on the computer. Is it like fashion where everything goes in cycles and what was old becomes popular again? Is it like how they say your tastebuds change every seven years. Around seven pm I get a call from by friend Peter who invites me to play poker with some of his other friends and he's even going to bankroll me because I am really poor right now. Okay I don't want to touch the save for a house fund. But I'm not working. Here in the same day I go from brunching with the ladies, to playing with spiders, to drinking beer and playing poker. Am I a retard or a renaissance man? I really don't know. I can tell you that I did not fare very well in the poker game. Everybody at the poker game, myself included had all worked for this asshole boss. Now he's a big temperamental slob of a man. A former TV and movie actor turned executive producer/writer/dickhead. But the odd thing was that we spent the majority of the poker game talking about this guy and sharing nasty things we'd heard people say about him. It's a very bonding thing to have a common enemy or hated friend and we got so immersed in our group hatred of this man that we all made cruel jokes about him and theorized ways to upset this big, girthy, temperamental, bullying, bragging, beef jerky-loving, condescending, self-hating-infantile, talking megalomaniac turd of a human being. Wow, is he really that bad? Sometimes, yes. But doesn't it say something sad that some pretty funny, bright comedy writers got together to have a good time and shoot the breeze and play cards and we end up talking about this guy for 80 percent of the time? Just spewing sharp jabs and negativity. This guy must have been terribly teased and humiliated as a child and made to feel awful about himself to have become the kind of person he is today. It should be sad that this man is this way. Now he's grown up and gained some clout in his profession and reigns over people like a big teasing bully who wants to belittle those around him in order to make himself feel superior. But this just reminds him of being bullied and this makes him mad and causes him to lash out. It's the cycle of abuse. I thought about all this on the drive home from Pete's house. Then I think this guy is just an enormous earwig and if I don't want to get pinched I should just stay clear of him. I guess I was disappointed that he didn't get pity from us and that he churned up so much bitterness. I think it's fine for kids to play with bugs, but it's mean to say nasty things about someone.

Wait... No, he's a prick, he could make more of an effort not to aggravate people, take them for granted and then shit them into the toilet. I changed my mind. He's a selfish blob of angry fat that does the bare minimum to qualify as a human being. Nevermind all that thoughtful stuff I said before, he's a bloated, sub-human scrotum wart. I hope he writes a book. I'd write a lovely foreword.

The moral of this ramble is:

1) Don't let the fat earwig ruin your picnic.

2) Exposure to young kids can result in bug hunting and excessive candy consumption.

3) Fat Children who become Hollywood Big Shots will seek vengence.

Did I meet you at one of God's parties?

Penny and I watched Touching the Void last night. Wow. Docudrama on two Brits who climbed Suilu Grande in Peru. I want to buy this movie so when have a shit day I can pop the DVD in and get some healthy perspective on how bad things could be. I won't give anything away, because you're going to be so curious about this movie that you'll be compelled to rent it. I think the only comments Penny and I made on the film while watching it were. "Oh, my god!" and "Holy shit." If there is a God I'm sorry we were blasphemous great, omnipotent one. And if there isn't a god then there are a lot of people doing the work of someone that doesn't exist. As an Agnostic, who doubts the existence of God, I can't imagine doing the bidding of someone/thing that was totally intangible. Anyway, my point is that many, many people accept that a person is religious and is doing his work. There is somebody in my class at Grad School who was asked if they had any hobbies. She said "It's not exactly a hobby, but I do the work of God." It sounded like she was bragging about it. All I'd said was that I like to go hiking with my dogs. It seemed lame in comparison to working for the all-powerful creator of the entire universe. I wanted to ask this young woman what kind of work she does and where her office is and whether God provides her with a good dental plan. From what I've seen the work she does involves asking the professors to explain the most basic concepts, being secretive and displaying anti-social behavior. That's not good PR for God. How does being sullen, moody and easily confused (stupid) help God. (FYI: This girl did not recognize what a swastika symbol was.) Also I find it thoroughly pretentious when people name drop like that. It always puts me off and I try not to do it myself unless I've actually met the person and have socially interacted with them. But to just name drop when you've never met the entity. Don't say you work for God unless God, or one of his lesser-angels, signs your paycheck. I could understand if somebody said that they work for the good of humanity. That's a bit more tangible. Hopelessly futile, but tangible. If I started handing out business cards and went around telling people that I worked for the Divine Spirit of Mother Nature #1) They'd think I was a nut job and #2) I'd be lying. I don't even know a friend of the Divine Spirit of Mother Nature. #3) They'd place me in an asylum for the insane. Unless I happened to be rich, then they'd all want my business card to impress their friends and family. "I do the work of God." "My sister works for Mel Gibson." Why do I care, you just want to sound important by association with somebody famous. I hung out in Vegas for two days with Kato Kaelin, but I'm not blabbing that out to make me sound like a big shot. I'm not a big shot. I don't want to be a big shot. I just want to be happy and wealthy enough so that people will refer to me as "an eccentric fellow" instead of "a total nut job headcase." Apparently if you have money it makes you colorful instead of crazy. They could instantly help all those poor people suffering from mental illness if they just gave them all millions of dollars. I'm not saying it would be easy to come up enough money for everybody, but I bet you could find some eccentric billionaire who'd kick in.

Sunday, Bloggy Sunday. A blog from a sleepy man.

Sunday morning early...

So, once upon a time I could play chords and fiddle around on the guitar. But I don't think I have any natural music ability, artificial music ability or preservatives. Nor do I seem to have the ability to even string my blasted guitar. The first attempt ended in strings that overlapped each other. In trying to correct this mistake I broke my string. But because I know that I am shall we say stringing-challenged. I'd bought a second pair so I strung that up very nicely and just as I was getting my guitar perfectly in tune the same bloody string snapped. I haven't even gone to bed yet and Sunday has already been incredibly frustrating. I'm hoping that upon awakening the rest of the day will be a bit more baby's bottom. I think I may be having brunch with Lady R who will finally get to meet my wife, Penny. I suspect that despite the complete lack of things they have in common they will get along nicely. You see I go to graduate school with 97% women in all my classes so she just sees me talking to these young women on the phone, or Instant Messaging them and if I were her I would be wondering. Fortunately for me, Penny attends design school, so the one straight guy in the program Whoa! The thing that I took to help me sleep has clearly just kicked in and I'm finding it difficult to think clearly and type. I wanted to share that I rented the movie In America by Jim Sheridan. It's about an illegal Irish immigrant couple who move into a cruddy neighborhood. It's set in the 80's. It was truly an excellent film. Incredible performances writing and directing. It was intense at times and I was so immersed in the reality of these characters and their struggles with day to day problems, both big and small, that I was weeping at the end of the film. Not simply your usual sensitive guy tears or like the single tear streaking down the cheek of the American Indian on that anti-litter commercial from the 80's - You know the one. We are talking sobbing like a four-year old who's favorite pet just got mangled in a thresher. More tears than I cried for Old Yeller. I have not cried like that since I was 8 and my grandfather died. I may not even post this because it isn't the slightest bit amusing and because I can't keep my eyes open any longer. Perhaps because it's 4am and I took a sleeping pill. I'll give you loyal readers something juicy later on. Something to pep up your Sunday. I may be working as a substitute teacher this August. I'm excited about getting back in the classroom and I even figured out a game that involves counting the dots on dominoes. It's competitive and educational. Perhaps the kids and I will drink some 40 ounce malt liquor while we play dominoes as part of "Gangsta Appreciation Day." I'm excited to be that fun teacher who does really cool projects has amazing guests come to address the class and somehow amongst all the festivities the kids end up learning something. I wish I had me as a teacher when I was in elementary school. Perhaps cloning technology or time travel will make such a thing possible in the future. Until then my bed is calling be in it's seductive, enticing way.

You Scratch My Blog - I'll Scratch Yours.

I would like to encourage all six of my readers (that's six if you include me) to make comments on my postings. They can be totally anonymous, brief, or as wordy as you like. It can be critical, comical, and it can be written in any language of your choice. I just want to see how my readership is or isn't increasing. I want to give you more of what you like. I want to pander to your requests and not just write whatever comes into my mind. Not really but I do want comments.

*For the shy readers I've written a wide variety of suitable comments:

(THE DIFFERENT TYPES OF COMMENTS ARE IN PARENTHESIS)

1) (SMALL WORLD) Hey, krankiboy, what a coincidence. I had an iguana that I used to dress up in barbie clothes, too.

2) (CONDESCENDING) I don't think you know what the fuck you are talking about, tool.

3) (NERD READER) You misspelled "ignorant" as ingorant. It doesn't reflect well on you and your fine blog.

4) (JILTED LOVER) My girlfriend left me because of something she read on one of your blogs. I'm gonna find you and beat you like a dusty rug, bitch!!!

5) (SHY) :)

6) (VAGUE) Your blog totally blogs!

7) (STUBBORN) I don't want to comment on this post.

8) (RANDOM & IRRELEVANT) "Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage." - Smashing Pumpkins

9) (RUDE, YET KIND OF CLEVER)
^ ^
('@') - Hi Krankiboy. I'm a pig...
/( )\
~/ \ ...And your Blog is so bad that I want to roll around in it.


10) (ENTHUSIASTIC) Yes, yes... Blog me... Blog me... oh, yes... yeah-yeah, more oh, right there, oh, oh... I'm almost there, don't stop, oh my Blog... uh uh uh uh.... Don't stop...aahhhhhhh. Sigh. I need a cigarette.

So please send me comments.

Sincerely,

Krankiboy

Nothing says Classy like a Coupon.

Imagine the delight on the stripper's face when you present her not with cash but with a coupon for her "services." I'm sure it would be one memorable lap dance. "Miss, I tore this out of the free LA Weekly so, please expose your breasts and sensually grind your pelvis into my crotch." I imagine that they have a special girl who only does coupon lap dances. You go up to some exotic and beautiful dancer (let's pretend she even has real breasts, why not) you present her with your coupon and she smiles. She says "hold on a sec", turns to one of the other dancers and asks "Saphire, can you go get Shirley, we've got a guy here with a coupon." You're puzzled as the stripper you wanted walks away. Moments later Shirley "The Coupon" Shaffon lumbers out of the back room. "Mmmm..." she says looking you over. "I'm gonna rrrock your world, stud." You are paralyzed with fear unable to speak or move. "I had me some onions for lunch, so excuse my breath, darlin."  

The Donger has everything you need. 

. 

Anime has never seemed so scary to me. I hope these girls are doing this willingly and not part of some twisted slave harem.

This just creeps me out. 

The Angry Alien Guessing Game!

Grrrrrr..... 

Look, it's a space alien!
He seems mad.
What do you think he's so mad about?

a) Earth women mistake his outie belly button for genitalia.
b) Preferred Art Garfunkle's solo work.
c) Stupid Earth custom of tipping waiter an exorbatant 15%.
d) New C2 Coca-Cola has thrown his home planet out of the space-time continum.
e) Huble telescope crew are just dirty peepingtoms.
f) His rare space artifact was snubbed on Antique Roadshow.
g) Due to the speed of TV waves, he has just learned that The Golden Girls has been cancelled.
h) Craves human flesh.
i) Did not go to Mineke and consequently paid alot for his Saucer's muffler.
j) Four of his Six fathers never said they loved him, told him he'd wouldn't amount to anything.
k) He hates them queers.
l) Falsely led to believe Earth Girls Are Easy.

Add your guess to the list.

The Ramblings of a Domesticated Man

"Men are so intelligent that they've sucessfully domesticating wild dogs while women have successfully domesticated men."

THE CASE AGAINST PURSES
The other day I was sitting in the passenger seat while my wife drove us to a party. I'm just sitting listening to Penny's favorite station on the radio, her new pink and black leather purse (which she loves) is on my lap where she keeps it when she drives. A couple of Hermosa Beach Surfer Types pull up next to us in their Rav 4 Jeep-thing and I see out of the corner of my eye that they're looking over at us. Okay. Cool, they're just checking out my beautiful wife, right? Wrong. They're looking at her purse and whispering to each other. I wonder. Maybe they're anti-leather tree-huggers or something. Then one of them gives me the traditional dude head nod and I dude nod him back. Then he turns to his friend in the passenger seat who snorts a laugh at my expense. The light changes and they're gone, but I can't figure out what just happened. I look down and realize they're laughing at me holding this big pink purse on my lap. I can hold the purse for hours without concern for my masculinity, much. Okay, it's a little uncomfortable to stand in the middle of a crowded restaurant holding a purse. And god, I do hate the color pink. In fact, the only thing that's pink that I do like is... I'll keep this post PG-13.

Still in the car, purse on my lap, I space out. I'm just staring out the window when it strikes me. At that moment I realized that I hold Penny's purse more than she does. During the drive there and back, I hold it. When she goes to use the bathroom, which is about every 4.5 minutes, I hold it. Of course that's just an average. Once she went for nearly 23 minutes without having to pee. But my point is that I hold the damn thing more than she does. When she's out with it, it's next to me on a booth, chair, whatever. It should be my purse. I should at least get to pick it out. Something cool, not pink leather. I want one of those cool metal briefcases. Like the kind that they always carried kilos of cocaine in on Miami Vice. If the case looked cool I wouldn't give a fuck how many tampons, lip sticks, birth control pills, maxi-pads, eyebrow pencils... Go ahead and jam Strawberry Shortcake, Hello Kitty and Cosmo Magazine in there for all I care. If the case looks cool I look cool. It could even have a chain attached that I handcuff to my wrist. Very James Bond, Oceans Elevenish. I mentioned this to my wife and after some calculating she agreed that I probably do hold her purse more than she does. But when I tried to explain that since I'm the one holding it that I should get to choose the purse, she looked at me like I was insane. As if I'd just suggested that she lead me around by my penis whenever we're out in public. She laughed it off, but I didn't let it go. When she realized I was serious her face contorted into a forced smile cleverly masking her "How do I un-marry this head case" expression. She gets that look a lot actually. Should I be concerned?

Anyway, where was I? Right, back to the purse. She tried to spin the whole thing into me buying her a new purse. When it comes to shoes and purses or jewelry women can out Machiavelli men every time. They're so cunning, that by the time they're done they'll even have you convinced that it was your idea in the first place. If you think that you've every actually picked out a purse, shoes or jewelry for your wife or girlfriend by yourself, you're either brainwashed, labotomized or you're fucking a Stepford Husband, my friend. You are a puppet on a string.

I'm sure the same thing will be true for picking out baby names. She'll dupe you. This is how it could go down.

You're both there... looking down at the gurgling baby... in the crib.

Husband: "I definitely think we should name her Randy. That'd be a cool name for a girl."

Wife: "Yeah, Randy is nice... It makes me think of Jenna, or Claudia. Which one do you like better, sweetie?

Husband: "I think I like Jenna slightly better than Claudia, but I don't really--"

Wife: (She cuts you off as she picks up the baby) "Hey little one. Your daddy wants to name you Jenna. You're baby Jenna. (to husband) She smiled. Jenna knows her name."

And woosh! Quick as a blur, she's named the baby. It's over. And for the rest of your life you'll actually beleive that you named the baby.

Women will let you do whatever they want you to do and you'll feel as grateful as a rescue puppy who gets to lick the hamburger grease from its Master's fingers. The puppy doesn't say "where's my damn burger?" Nope. He just laps it up blissfully. Yum yum, tastes meaty.

Here's an example. Let's say it's Saturday afternoon.

Husband: "Really honey, I can go play basketball with the guys?" Panting with excitement.

Wife: (duh) Yeah, of course, sweetheart. You can do whatever you want, it's your day off. Take my car if you want. You can fill the gas tank up for me. High Octane. Just make sure to stop by the grocery store on the way back. We need some non-fat milk, that cereal I like, get some Hagen-Daas-- Coffee Chip if they have it. Um... also as long as you're going, I need tampons-- the kind in the purple box. And have a great time with the guys. (nonchalant) Keep your cell phone on in case I think of any more groceries we need. Have fun!"

We're suckers! They have verbal kryptonite. Forget whipped. You've been hog-tied and branded.

They're like professional grifters. And it's scarier than any horror movie, because it's REAL and there's no escape. I'm tired of it and I'm gonna tell her straight up 'cause-- Wait-- the dogs just heard something. Her car just pulled into the driveway-- Shit... I gotta go--

Japanese Girls Gone Wild!?

Friends & Readers

I was reading a site with haikus on it and this one stood out. It's not so much the haiku as the link.

Somebody explain. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to be scared out of my mind, aroused, or tucked in the fetal position trying to find my happy place.


dear anime girl
you frighten me with green eyes
and that nice blonde wig

posted by Diana at 3:45 PM 0 comments


Is this a fetish, a cult, performance art? Somebody say something. I have no more words.

G.N.N. Your Alternative News Source

Okay, so, I can't listen to N.P.R. any more because it depresses me. I can't watch Local News because it's too vapid. World News is way too scary and Domestic News always reminds me that we have somebody with the I.Q. and personality of a Pork Rind pretending to be the leader of the free world.

Although drugs are a nice break from reality now and then, I really wish that I could watch the news or listen to the radio without being left with a feeling of powerlessness and misery. Suicide bombers, beheaded hostages, a economy crumbling, the sky falling, people mad at other people that they don't understand. Those people mad that they're misunderstood. People violently expressing their hostility about all the hate in the world. No wonder so many people wanted to go into denial and worship Reagan like he made the sun shine. And just to bash the liberals, you all ran to get Bill Clinton's books so that maybe you could distract yourself from the state of the world with some juicy details about Bill's sexual adventures. News is bad yes. Just yesterday I heard that a well-known Hip Hop Rapper completely lost his temper. I know, it's shocking. People, if I had the resources I would create The Good News Network. Not with fake stuff that's made up, but with human interest stories. Despite what I see when I look at the TV, out my window or read the newspaper good things ARE happening out there. They're just not considered NEWS. I really want an alternative news source so I can balance the Ying and the Yang of it all.

It would go something like this...

First "It's a Beautiful Day" by U2 would play over the opening news credits.

Then:

ANCHOR MAN: "Good evening everybody I'm Sam Goodman, the jovial yet earnest, salt and pepper-haired, trustworthy anchorman. For our top story at this hour we go live to Blueberry Glen Wisconsin."

Then Jenny Gisworth field reporter would give her report.

Jenny: "Would you believe that a duck and a kitten could be best friends...? Well, it's true! Here on Mr. Rutherford's farm Quackers and Mr. Purr were born just two days apart from each other and as they've grown so too has their friendship."

Sam: And in politics, Democrats and Republicans held a special join meeting on Capitol Hill today to work through many of their problems and sort out differences of opinion.

Republican: "When you sit down and listen to each other. I mean, really listen to one another some truly amazing things can happen."

Democrat:: "I think after today we're all pretty much on the same page and share the same goals for America."

Republican: "Rich and Poor, Black and White, Dumb and Smart, we're only going to get the job done by working together. I'm particularly excited about our new government funding for avante-garde performance art."

Then it would be Dawn Everpure with an depth and hard-hitting look at some trends in romantic picnic outings.

Dawn: This just in... The bluebird that lives in the tree right outside our studio has just finished her nest.

And over to Dan McCleary with the weather... "the Sun will continue to provide heat for more than five billion years, so enjoy that time with friends and family. Looking at weather in our local area... We'll have some percipitation, which means WATER. Wonderful water. The staple of all life on the little blue green ball of love that we call earth. That should result in some beautiful flowers in the next few days.

Then for Sports we'd go live to Dirk Dobson.

Dirk: Hi Dan I'm out enjoying a great game of celebrity kickball. Shaquille O'Neal and Kobe Bryant, former Laker teammates who co-sponsored the event were on hand enjoying the festivities.

Dirk interviews them.
Dirk: "How's the weather up there, big guy?"

Shaq: (smiling) Hello, Dirk. It's just nice to be outside in the fresh air with all these selfless stars of stage and screen, getting the blood flowing and circulating healthy endorphins. But really today it's all about charity and helping our fellow man.

Kobe: It really is a beautiful day. Did you see that catch David Schwimmer made in left field? That Jew has got skills. I was impressed. Before I forget, you have got to try Shaq's potato salad. It is simply delicious.

Shaq: Thank you, Kobe. It's nice to be recognized for my culinary skills. I hope I made enough for everybody. Say, you smell really nice, is that a new cologne, Kobe?

Kobe: Yes, it is a new scent. It's actually more of an au de toilette... it's got rosehips and lavander an-- OH! it looks like I'd better get back to the barbecue grill-- Otherwise we're likely to to have some burnt London Broil and some sad celebrity kick ball faces. (running off) Remind me to give you my marinade recepie! It's on my website.

SHAQ: (calling to Kobe) Don't forget the Garden Burgers for Ted Dansen and Ed Begley. (to camera) Two very funny vegetarians. You gotta love em.

Then we'd go to international news... "No major earthquakes or signifigant natural disasters today on most of the continents."

ANCHOR: "And Four Italian Quintuplets who were accidentally seperated were reunited after growing up apart from each other for 42 years.

Italian Brothers (in broken English): "In my heart my brothers and I, we were never separated. Each night I went to bed I would think of my brothers and I knew somewhere they were alive and well and happy and had love for me their hearts so I always kept a smile on my face for them. We always knew one day we would see each other again. I think somehow it's better this way because we share the rich and diverse events of our lives with one another making the reunion that much more special."

Quick Montage of Beautiful Baby Boys and Girls Born over the weekend. Then Two Commercials. One for Healthy Cereal, and one for The Boys and Girl's Club.

Then we'd continue with the last of our three part series on College Strippers.

Sweet Girl Next Door Stripper: "I don't do it just for the money. Most of that goes right towards Med School tuition. Honestly, the patrons here at Sticky's are just as important to me. They're practically family. If I see that somebody has had a bad day, I'll go over to them and talk, maybe rub my soft glistening breasts on their face or give them free lap dance. It's about giving back to the community where I grew up. I feel really blessed to have been born with what some consider an asthetically pleasing body and I'm proud to share it's beauty with the men who take the time out of their busy days to relax, unwind and appreciate the contours of the female form. It's especially rewarding when I have the chance to work with the house-less who don't always have the opportunity to watch nude young women dance or pay for simulated sex. I prefer the term house-less to homeless, because the house is the only thing that they're missing. When they come here, as they do often, they know that they have a home."

Then it'd wrap up.
SAM GOODMAN "That's all for this hour. Thanks for joining us everybody. Have a good night.

SFX: Music "Don't Worry, Be Happy" by Bobby Mcferrin plays.

End Credits roll as we watch additional footage of the Quackers the Duck and Mr. Purr the Kitten frolicing and playing chess while a soft warm sun sets over the distant green rolling hills.

Music "Don't Worry, Be Happy." continues in musak.

Tomorrow on G.N.N. Clip of An old grandfather bouncing his granddaughter on his knee and telling her that he has lived life to the fullest with no regrets. "I love you Grandpa."

THE GOOD NEWS NETWORK is sponsored by Smuckers. With a name like Smuckers it has to be good.

The Moonbounce Encounter

It was the 4th of July.

Not only was there a party at K's bro's place but the entire block had been closed off to traffic. There were at least 2 DJ's there. One DJ looked like he was easily pushing 70 years old. Well there I am soaking in all in as DJ "Pacemaker" pumps "She's a Brick House" out of his Korean War-salvaged speakers. I've got a nice vodka-buzz as I watch the Red White and Blue flashes of DJ Pacemaker's light show magic. SFX galore baby!

There were lots of people there, in the street and on their lawns grilling food with chairs set up to watch the fireworks display. But you're thinking... "Wait. That's not a party." Something's missing... You know it. The Moonbounce. So, after I emptied my red plastic cup of it's contents several more times, the moon bounce started looking pretty good to me. My friend "K" and her roommate "A" convinced me to go with them on the moonbounce. That's for kids, right? My wife Penny gave me the thumbs up, which was her way of saying "You go ahead without me, I don't feel like puking up hotdog." So, it's sneakers off and onto the moonbounce with "K" and "A." We're in there, we're bouncing, there are a handful of little kids in there too. We're having a grand time. The fireworks are shooting off into the night sky above. DJ Pacemaker begins blasting "Born in the USA." The music's thumpin', I'm wasted, bouncing with my gal friends to Springsteen and there are fireworks. What more could I want?! It's one of those absolutely pure moments of contentedness. Which is immediately broken up when this little kid bounces up and- WHA-KOW! Drop kicks me in the nuts. I'm hit and I'm down. I look up to see this five-year-old little Hasidic Jewish boy charging in to finish me off. I know this because he shouts the little boy kung-fu war cry - "Heee-Yaahh!" He tries to elbow slam me while I'm still down. However, using my veteran street fighting savvy I roll out of the way just in time. Missed me. I bounce away, but here he comes again wide-eyed and hungry for battle. I manage to bounce my way around, avoiding the little Tasmanian or perhaps Israeli Devil. I'm thinking, why is this kid coming after me? Perhaps he's upset with the recent shift in US-Israeli foreign policy? Nope, he's just a five-year-old boy hopped up on SUGAR! He's clutching two Wolverine figures in his hands, wielding the pointy plastic things as if they were claws. I do my best to bounce around avoiding him and trying to have fun with this high stakes game of Cat and Mouse. After a few minutes of this my stamina totally gives out and my legs begin to get heavy with fatigue. My Little Wolverine nemisis seizes this opportunity, and deftly leg tackles me like a strong-safety. I hit the rubber floor of the moon bounce and manage to get to my knees. I remember what Cobra-Khan told Johnny in the big match and I sweep karate kid's leg. VOOSH! He's down. He's lost one of his claws. Unrelentingly he crawls for me. I point out to him that my leg sweep knocked the yarmulke right off his head and he reaches to retrieve it. This is my window. My chance to escape the Moonbounce. I scramble to stand up. Mistake. I should have crawled for it. Just as I get up the sway of the moonbounce knocks my feet out from under me. I fall kneecap-first right onto the hard plastic Wolverine toy. I wince in pain and that's when my attacker strikes me with a swipe to the face. The tiny claw of Wolverine gingerly scratches my cheek and it's over. He's finished me. Goliath has fallen. I meekly roll out off the Moonbounce grab my sneakers and flee the scene as the fireworks display comes to it's crescendo behind me. I slip my sneakers on and lumber off on weary legs. The sound of Springsteen slowly fades from my earshot. Soon the sound is gone. Just a memory lingering in the air of the night sky.