Spawn of the Crocodile Hunter

I started to read an article about the Crocodile Hunter's daughter getting a TV show of her own and I thought it was great. Exploitative and capitalizing on the fame of her dead father like a hungry money leach, but still lovely that a tradition of harassing animals to amuse TV viewers is being carried on by the next generation. Then I saw this picture of Steve Irwin's daughter, Bindi. Yikes! I thought that having a retarded girl on TV might be an odd way to go. Seriously, doesn't she look as if she has Down Syndrome*? My friend and new blogger J described her as looking like Corky from Life Goes On. Maybe she was born a tad early. "She kind of resembles a cookie that you've taken out of the oven before it's fully cooked."


Thank goodness it's just a really terrible picture of her and she really looks like this.

A lovely young lady. Although... if you look at the picture too long you start to wonder if her hands and arms are monstrously large for her body. It's like she's got Popeye the Sailor arms. I wouldn't want to take a punch from those powerhouse guns of hers. I'm sure they will serve her well if she should need to pin a Croc's jaws shut in a close encounter. In the back of my mind I'm a bit worried that she too will have a fate like her Dad's when some benign variety of butterfly perches on her ponytail and she has some kind of allergic reaction to it's pollen. In any case they need to fire her publicist immediately. Nobody wants their adorable, young, aspiring TV star looking like a mongoloid with gorilla arms. I think it even says so in the bible.

*I've worked with kids with Downs Syndrome and they are wonderful and upbeat children, but I wouldn't put them on television. So please don't give me a hard time about ragging on the mentally retarded, you fucktard.

Beergoggled Bob: A Survivor's Story

Yesterday evening my friend Bob (not me) found himself cabbing it back to the apartment of a woman he'd just met a few hours before. Normally this would have been a good thing, right? No. Not in this case. You see Bob had been drinking a bit and smoking a decent amount of le herb and he ended up sharing this cab at the request of the woman he'd met at his friend's dinner party. Once he got back to this woman's house and bright lighting he told me that the fog of the alcohol began to wear off and it slowly dawned on him that he most certainly did not want to fool around with this slightly older woman who was not at all his type in either the looks or personality department. She also had a totally stuffed nose and was sniffling constantly and wiping her nose with her hand. She clearly had some kind of full-on cold. She also had a less than melodious voice which she clearly liked to hear the sound of. Poor Bob, what an awkward predicament to be in. Here are some of the things that slightly stoned yet rapidly sobering up Bob did at 2am to try and express his disinterest without hurting the woman's feelings... much.


1) Pretended to fall asleep on the couch when she went to get some water from the kitchen. Sadly she didn't let him sleep but instead woke him and insisted that they should go to her bed. Strike one, Bob.

2) Made a truly tremendous effort to get her cat to climb up on him to serve as a protective buffer from any sexual advances or physical encroachment. Bob is also allergic to cats so that says quite a lot to me about his desperation. The cat was shy and never served as the feline shield that Bob so desperately needed. Strike two.

3) Fabricated an elaborate story about having feelings for their mutual friend to buy some time to think of another means of escape. Sadly she had placed her legs on him and seemed to be actually using a bit of force to hold him in place. That is how my pal Bob related the predicament to me. I can only repeat what he told me, right? In any event that was strike three.

4) After she picked up on his subtle hints of non-interest she suggested that they could just sleep in bed and she said "I promise not to attack you or anything." Bob decided this sounded reasonable and agreed. She had lied. Once Bob was resting peacefully on his side of the bed she almost immediately attacked him. Bob informed me that she was a rather lousy kisser with dry lips and unshaven legs. That poor bastard. Could it have gotten worse? How was Bob able to escape? What tale could he tell to make a speedy escape with his dignity still somewhat intact? Could he make it out without killing her or even worse... having to continue kissing her.

Bob held totally still hoping to tap into his happy place. Just as he did the brilliant escape plan became crystal clear.

What magical words did Bob use that gave him his sweet freedom and a long fucking walk back home? Bob did the lamest acting of his life and, with as much conviction as he could muster, he said, "OH, darn! I just remembered... I have to be up early. I promised my mom that I'd drive her to church in the morning."

Somehow the hollow and pathetic lie had worked. It gave Bob the time he needed to confuse her long enough to allow him to make his escape. Bob quickly grabbed his vintage coat and hurriedly fled into the night. The cold crispness of the early morning air felt like a sweet homecoming against his face. He had cheated fate and lived to tell the tale (to me, his friend). Bob looked to the heavens and whispered a quick, pagan prayer to the gods for sparing him. I mean, I assume that's what he probably did. I only know what Bob told me. I wasn't there to know for sure.

Bob feels badly for his scrambled senses contributing to such an uncomfortable interaction. He has since promised me (several times) that he will exercise much greater caution in any and all future events where alcohol, marijuana and socializing are involved. I've known my friend Bob for a long time now and in my heart I truly believe that he has learned a valuable life lesson from this intense experience.

At least one of these is a picture of me wearing no clothes

Well, it's nice to know that my impending nudity can elicit a response. The telegram from Sherriff was very demanding. Some of the positions and props he requested were just ludicrous. Here are the naked images that my publisher approved for posting.

The one of me at age 3 splashing about in the kiddie pool with my krankiwang showing didn't make the cut. I'm saving it for the cover of my autobiography.* I wonder if they can prosecute somebody on kiddie porn charges if the pictures are of the person being charged. Hmm... I should probably go to sleep now if those are the types of thoughts that are going to pop into my head.

*Tentatively titled "One day you'll be big and everybody will want to play with you"

Crayons and other things in my pants that could choke small children

Crayons and Other Things in My Pants that Could Choke Small Children

You're all winners in my book... erm... blog. Everybody gets a picture of me where I am wearing no clothes. I'll just post the naughty morsel for all of mankind (the six people who read this blog) to enjoy. Feel free to doctor it up and photo shop it to make me look hotter.

Forgive me Father Blogger it has been nearly 3 weeks since my last confession. In that time I have been down in the sinful bowels known as Los Angeles getting my affairs in order. I had a very lucrative garage sale. I didn't use the Krankiboy name because then the yard sale would have drawn the usual hordes and shameless throngs of paparazzi. That's no way to earn an honest buck. I unloaded a pile of odds and ends that you'd think nobody would ever want to buy. All I'm left with are a few crayons and other things in my pants that could choke small children. A plastic lizard, a Polichicks pin, some Canadian coins, a penguin eraser and a shiny blue rock that has somehow gained some kind of sentimental value. Being a severe pack rat I find yard sales to be wonderful things but I'm not always able to part with the crap that I collect. Thank god there are people willing to buy half-full bottles of perfume, Post It notes, old screwdrivers and ugly tin boxes with teddy bears on them. That and some decent items made me exactly 1,181 dollars. I think I could probably be a professional yard salesman at this point. Perhaps I'll write a How-To book on the subject. I just need a clever and catchy title.

Here are a few of the yard sale highlights.

1) The old woman who was utterly disgusted with me when I told her that I'd like two dollars for the Barneys cashmere sweater. Clearly she liked it but my egregious pricing prompted her to toss the item to the ground and storm off.

2) The guy who found flaws in everything I had for sale as a means to get me to sell it for far less.

Annoying Mustache Guy: "This dresser has some scratches on it here."
Me: "Yes, that's why it's only 20 dollars and being sold at a yard sale."
Annoying Mustache Guy: But... 20 dollars is too much. I give you three."

He did that for about an hour before he finally realized I had him outnumbered in the brain cell department.

3) The white-haired old coin collector who felt comfortable enough with me to describe his sexual fantasy with his favorite Sizzler waitress. "Lemme tell you, I've been trying to get under that apron and into her pants for three years now. I can just imagine what it would be like to just get all up into her hot wet crotch and press myself in there with my balls all the way up against her sweet thing."

I can't find the words to properly describe the little hip wiggle dance he did while he "shared" with me.

The yard sale proved to be a rich and rewarding experience on many levels. I found a bunch more stuff in the garage a few days later and will probably have a Sidewalk sale with the stuff I haul back to San Francisco.

I'll post the picture of me wearing no clothes when I get back to my new hometown of San Francisco.