Acting Is A Threat To My Health

You see this mark here? And this one here? How about these over here? Of course you don’t see them, but if you could you would witness the horrible disfiguring that “Fiddler on the Roof” has done to me.

I am forever scarred…


Abby, who was in the play, can attest to this. Several people became burned or charred as a direct result of the actions on stage. In one scene, the family is celebrating Sabbath. They sing a song called Sabbath prayer. A couple verses into the song, a troupe of candle-weilding freaks (i.e. me and three middle school girls) can prancing on stage with lit, flaming candles.

You can imagine what happens. Abby stood right next to me in this song. We would be standing there and my singing would either blow the candle out or cause the flame to snuff itself. Either way, I need a light and I need it bad. So I would lean my candle over to hers and take some flame. Everytime I did this, I managed to pour a good quantity of burning hot wax unto her hand.

We used candles for 8 nights. You do the math.


If you know Heather then you know she’s prone to unpredictable, socially unacceptable behavior in quite social settings. She started what is affectionately known as the “Ass Slapping Reign of Terror.” This title is slightly misleading. HEATHER didn’t hold the reign. It was the guys that held the reign.

ASROT began as affectionate signs of affection and a means of inspiring that “Go Team” atmosphere that footballers love so much. It soon spread to the Russians in the play who are more than buff. These guys are Rusky Gods. When they discovered that hitting someone on the buttocks was okay by theatrical standards, they launched right in.

Laurie had a hand print and three welts on her butt the next day. Heather was equally flustered but less bruised. I, myself, enjoyed quite a lot of bum-touching, but I never got hurt. The only bruised I sustained has not been accredited to any given source, yet.

I’ll just say it’s from ass slapping.


I chocked Heather one day. It was great. She looked so helpless. I could have just squeezed her back to Jesus.

But just think about those kids without a mommy.


This, I can safely say, only Nathan experienced. Nathan Hoffman is a middle schooler. He also played a Russian, so you know he works out. In the bar scene, at one point, he collapses into a bucket and proceeds to empty his stomach of everything he’s consumed since breast milk.

In the next scene, we stumble drunkenly across the stage. During this one Nathan is drug from one side to the other. Since everyone is supposed to act drunk, no one bothers to get a proper grip on him. I can only imagine what being drug across a stage on your stomach with your shirt up at your chin is like.

Can we say ‘pink belly’?


I can personally report on this one. My first story is a boring one. When the play was over, I checked my arm, and I have a cut. I have no idea where it is from or who gave it to me or if I can claim workman’s comp for it. I guess I’ll just have to test it out.

My other injury is a more colorful story. Colorful like blood, that is! Recover, Miles. This took place right before the Wedding Scene. In this scene Motel and Tzietel get married in front of all of us as we sing “Sunrise Sunset.” To set up the scene we all bring on our own benches.

I had already changed into my robes for the wedding and was standing there ready to grab my bench and head on stage. Nathan Swanson was one step ahead of me. He held two benches, legs out at face level, and then let his mind float through space. As a result, I never noticed what he held until it met my eyebrow.

The collision was enough to bring Nathan back to earth long enough for him to say, “Oh, sorry.” Pause. Oh, I’m okay Nathan. I was just nearly rendered blind or completely retarded for the rest of my adult life. Thanks for caring. I thought nothing more of the injury, except a dislike for Nathan, and grabbed the remaining bench and sat down on stage.

We sang and we sang gooooooood. Then the Wedding Dance scene starts. We remain where we were in the previous scene. Then the women of Anatevka come out and do this nice little dance, and we all clap and pretend like we haven’t been watching this dance all bloody week. Then the bottle dancers walk out. They act all tough and macho and then place bottles on their Old West style duster hats.

About this time I noticed something wet enter my eye. I wiped it away (am I sweating that badly?) and noticed that my hand was fairly bloody. Well, way too bloody for sweating, that is. I needed a plan. As the bottle dancers finished up, I pretended once again to care, and I got up to congratulate them. Once offstage I began a steady stream of cursing Nathan, blood, and Nathan’s parents.

I mopped up the blood, answered all the “What are you doing out here? Aren’t you in this scene?” questions, and figured a way back on. During one particular angry outburst (at this point the wedding has turned into Jewish Jerry Springer) I walk on and say things like “What is going on? What’s the noise?” Seamless and cool; most people didn’t even notice that I was gone. They did notice the mark on my eyebrow, though. To this day I have a bruise there and a scab.

Of course, this happened on Friday.

So, here I sit. Bruised, bloody eye. Bruised thigh. Cut up arm. And of course all the psychological damage that comes from hanging around the same people for too long. I hate you all. Don’t you dare add me to MSN or I will block you and then chop you up into tiny pieces. I will feed those dripping, steamy pieces to my snowblower and make meaty, romantic, pink-colored snow out of you.

I mean it.

| It|s holding on. It|s holding on. |

MidWest? More Like MidBest!

Everyday I try to sit at a large table. I try to do this because having a large table compensates for something, and I like being able to pretend I have friends who are just a little late instead of all made up. This particular day, the day I’m talking about, I didn’t sit at a large circular table. Instead I sat in the cultural corner. You know what I’m talking about. If you stand under Big Ben, then in front of you is the “State-of-the-Art” Gateway Cafe. Which, besides having the worst computers you don’t need punch cards for, has no sort of cafe dispensing capabilities whatsoever. Anyone else notice this?

To your right you have the foodery and the “Other Corner”. Like pork is the “other white meat”, this stupid, undecorated slum of a corner is the “other corner.” No culture there, folks, besides that kind that grows. Maybe that’s why football players sit there. Oh, bad! Who would say that? You big, strong, angry football players can blame Jeff Gabhart for that line. I had nothing to do with it and my backspace key is broken. I swear.

Back in the Cultural Corner, I sat staring at my food. I felt syphoned off. I felt partitioned. I felt disengaged. I thought long and hard, trying to realize what it was. Then it hit me. Satan. Satan is the devil. White devil. Snow is the white devil. Snow melts by the sun. Sunshine. Sunday. We have church on Sunday. You go to church and you pray. Pray sounds like prey. Like a bird of prey. A vulture. A vulture is a bird of prey. Vulture sounds like culture. Wait. I have no culture. That was it.

Don’t YOU feel set apart? Don’t you feel like a loner? No, you don’t. Just like the high school-aged son of the ultra-zealous religious family who, despite his being a Junior, still bathes with his younger sister and doesn’t find it strange, so the midwest is an awkward, acne-scarred teenager amidst the more advanced cultures of the United States. Metaphors. I think there are going to be a lot of them in this article. I can feel it in my cockles.

The midwest has always been the cesspool of thought and idea. We have been discovered well before the West Coast, but you certainly can’t tell by population numbers (or celebrities). Maybe that’s why Lewis and Clark didn’t STOP here. Even back then, they could tell that there was something not right with the “Inbetween Land.” They tread lightly, spoke quietly, got drunk, passed out, woke up, and moved on. Why, oh, why didn’t our ancestors have enough sense to avoid this land? Didn’t they feel it in the weather? Seriously. Calculus doesn’t see as much change as our weather does in a “season.” (I am so geeky I scare myself.)

I think Clueless and Dark had it right. Keep heading west. To the west we have LA and San Franscisco. We have Hollywood and Compton. This is the mecca of culture. Everyone there drives big, fast cars. Everyone has a perfect tan, perfect body, perfect spouse, and perfect job. If you get tired of any one of those things, you can pick/buy/trade-off a new one. I hear that there is a special on Russian wives. Might wanna take a look at that.

Or you could head east. To the east is Ivy League. We have New York and Maine and Washington DC. These are areas of refinement. For instance, in New York they have refined the culture of hating each other and not bathing. In Maine they have refined the culture of asking Stephen King for money and the culture of asking him to write “just one more book” and to dedicate it to them. Even in DC there is refinement. In our nation’s capital they have been busy refining the culture of being mentally retarded on a global scale. You go guys!

That’s where the culture is. Hell, even head south. Texas has some culture, I’m sure. All those cowboys and cowboy hats and Mexicans. That’s gotta count for something, right? There’s also Florida down there. This is an area of cultural nuance. Texas, for example, has taken a cultural idea like pants and done a little number on it. In Texas, pants are called “chaps” and they are uncomfortable and tight and not real useful except for horse riding, which I don’t do ever. Florida has done it’s own little nuance. We call it voting; they call it “guessing.” That’s one butterfly you won’t pin down too easily.

The thing is about culture, do NOT head north. There is nothing up there for you. There’s North Dakota (which is the Special Ed version of culture) and beyond that is Canada. Nothing ever comes back out of Canada once it’s gone up there. I heard that “The Macarena” went up there 2 years ago, and no one heard from it again. And, come on. Anyone who is decended from the French has a lot to overcome as it is.

The Midwest has always been the last to get the latest “fads”. Did you know that no one outside of the midwest ever even listened to the song “Sk8r Boi”? That’s how fast that fad was over. Here, though, Avril still sings her heart out over the radio, and thank God for that. Remember pogs? That fad won’t even BE here until this summer. Some people gotten a jump start (Pog Hogs) but the real fad-wave has yet to break upon our misguided, sheltered shores.

Misguided. Sheltered. Those words seem to imply that there is ignorance abound. And, truly, we can say that ignorance is bliss. Being at the drain of culture isn’t so bad. We have a lot to look forward to (thanks to Mtv) and there are somethings we can still enjoy as only MidWesterners can. That applies to pogs; I can’t say the same for Ms. Lavigne.

| black-eyed angels swam with me |

Shock and Yawn

NOTE : missa has a new poem. You should check it out.

Also – I removed the “Shoutbox” area. Um…. apparently it doesn’t work anymore, and instead of figuring out what I did wrong, I just deleted it. I would like to thank steph for telling me. I went to it and, sure enough, clicking “shout” did nothing.

Thanks a lot, guys.

Catch phrases are important. They help to define an activity, a product, or, in this case, a Non-Official War. Look at all the great wars we’ve fought in before and their catch phrases.

  • Revolutionary War : Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death
  • Civil War : Kids, Don’t Fight
  • World War I : Do We Have To?
  • World War II : America to the Rescue
  • Korea : Let’s Just Call This a Conflict
  • Vietnam : The War Hollywood Loves to Hate
  • Desert Storm : Picture Outbreak Minus the Monkey Plus Tanks
  • Afghanistan : The Search For Bobby bin Laden

What’s this war’s slogan? “Iraq : Shock and Awe” Shock and Awe – the last time someone used that slogan they came out of the closet. I’ve heard.

What is with this war? It seems more and more like a high school production. It seems all overly dramatic and craptacular at the same time. Let’s take for instance the catch phrase. Where is all the Shock and Awe? I haven’t heard one word from Sadam going, “Wow, guys. I am at a lost for words. I am shocked and awed.” Maybe *shock* he owns a TV and heard/saw/read us coming. Kinda like Osama did.

But not only can Saddam see us coming, but WE can see us coming. Thanks to the Shock and Awe Webcam! Yes, just what we’ve been waiting for. A technology utilized and perfected in the dorm and bed rooms of so many lonely and/or hottt girls on the internet. See, what the news companies have done is to send the dumbest reporter they have. They put him in a hummer and they give him a video satellite phone, and they put the hummer right behind a tank, for protection.

The result is a series of seriously choppy, blocky shots of dunes. Guess what; Iraq is mostly desert. And if there was a topless girl in that hummer, I bet her boobs would turn out all square. Didn’t think of that, did ya, Fox News? The most exciting thing I saw, besides all the great Iraqi country side (sand), was a camel who stood all by his lonesome in the middle of it all. I’m sure he was confused. Oh, wait. Did I mention that Geraldo is covering this, too?

The only thing weirder than that is the Saddam “Body Double” hubub. I think those guys in the “Recognition Department” of the United States must have been tore up to think that maybe the Iraqi government dressed up another person as Saddam. A body double? How about a clone? That could be it. Maybe the Raelians have been up to more of their nonsense.

I think it really is Saddam. But look at the guy! I heard a comment on the news that after the initial bombings Saddam looked “shaken and stressed.” You think?! Gosh, I’d think that he’d be sleeping perfectly sound right about now. Just like Bush is. So, he comes out looking like he’d just spent a week in a Rave, and it’s the morning after, and he’s just had a Calc 2 final. Look at those glasses? Who’s he trying to fool? We all KNOW he’s not Bill Gates.

Maybe he’s trying the “don’t bomb me or I’ll hack you” approach. That might work in Iraq, but Americans play hardball, bub. I mean, just look what got us into this war.

I’m still figuring that one out. Why ARE we fighting this war? Well, I remember there were inspectors over there. Then, um, we said, “If you’re not careful we’re gonna take you out.” And now we are taking him out.

Am I missing something here? Or did I just make some sort of point? I can’t tell. But I will say this – you can support the troops without supporting the war. I guess, being Catholic, any war the Pope doesn’t support I can’t support either. So, I’ll say this, “Guys, come home safe. We’re praying for you.”

| god bless america |

Hey Girl’s Name (er… readers)

I was walking to play practice today. It was cold. What do you expect? It’s winter. But, see, it was warm(ish) during the day, so it just follows that the night would be warm, right? Nope. It was “Tear Up Like I’m Watching Sleepless In Seattle” kinda cold. It was so cold that I had tears in my eyes. And it wasn’t because I was singing “I Will Always Love You” at the top of my lungs, either.

Well, maybe it was.

So, I’m walking. It’s cold. I’m crying. I’m singing. And people are staring at me as they drive by. And then it hits me: I don’t have a good addiction. I mean, I have the “intranetweb”. I have chatting and websites, but do I really have a good addiction? Do I really have any means of “getting it all out” and “letting it all hang loose”?

What are my options?

  • Drugging (pott, cocaine, fast food)
  • Chatting (done that)
  • Smoking (cigarettes, cigars, cigaweed)
  • Sporting (baseball, basketball, getting into my loft)
  • Crying (doing that)
  • Drinking (alcohol, sodas, blood)
  • Practicing Medicine (surgury, checkups, prescriptions)
  • Acting (more like acting interested in this post!)
  • Punching (people, pets, faces)
  • Listing (dumb things that aren’t funny)
  • Eating (shrimp, TC “food”, shrooms)
  • Accounting
  • Web Design
  • Or get your Bachelor’s Degree in any one of ten programs right from your home!

I know that I can’t do all of them (because Ozzy did. And look at him) so I had to choose three. Well, since i’ve already done the Chatting one, I’ll cross it out. I’ve had one experience drinking. It was supper. My brother got the great idea to have wine with our dinner. So he popped the cork (pulled it off and threw it) and we poured the biggest glasses we could find. Can you say “Big Gulp”? Well, you can’t with a mouthful of wine, even though I tried. So, I had to refill after I spit “Backyard Crick 2001” all over the table. I’ve seen TV. I’ve watched “Girls Gone Wild” commercials. I know that you’re supposed to race when you drink, so Bryce and I raced. Now, I had already had a mouthful of wine, so I had built up a greater tolerance of wine, so it was 30 seconds after Bryce that I passed out. When we woke up, we raced the second half of our cups, got tore up, and passed out.

Those were good times.

Crying is out because that is my current weekend activity, and it isn’t relieving the stress. I think I just make the rest of the guys in the weight room uncomfortable. Especially when I start taking my clothes off and asking for hugs. What’s left? Listing – I did that up there. Did you catch the joke? If you didn’t, I’m not explaining. I’ve acted before, and still act. I’m acting right now. I’m acting like I’m funny. I’m also acting like I know what I’m typing. See, I can’t actually read or write. . . hebrew. And, boy, I’ve tried. So, I think the three I’ll pick are smoking, playing sports, and practicing medicine (for time purposes). Let’s imagine a scenario.

[Interior of Surgery Ward]
[Enter two doctors with patient on guerney]
[Doctor one] Where is Miles?
[Doctor two] I don’t know. Let’s pretend he’s not head of surgery and just start without him.
[D1] We can’t do that. You don’t even know how to get to the spleen. How can you be sure you don’t cut some other organ out.
[D2] What about you?
[D1] I’m actually the janitor. I’m here to be the knowledgable one who has no working knowledge. You get it?
[D2] Uh… not really.
[In comes flying a basketball. It hits the patient, who groans, and bounces offstage. Following it, with a cloud of smoke following him, is Miles]
[Enter Miles. He is smoking what looks to be a 2 1/2 foot long joint. He’s wearing basketball shorts, a hockey mask, and dreadlocks]
[Miles] Hey, bitches.
[D1] *sigh* Oh, great. Look who’s here.
[Miles] Now who do we cut open? You? [Charges D2 with scalple]
[D2] NO! It’s the one on the guerney, you freak.
[Miles] Oh, don’t worry, rookie. Sooner or later, I cut everyone. Remember that.
[D2] Sweet Christ.
[D1] Are we gonna do this or what?
[Miles] Allright, I’m going in. Here [holds something out to D1] hold my watch. I lost my last one.
[D2] Are you serious?
[Miles] [Winks at D2] Ok. [Begins to cut into chest area] Is this right? Just kidding. Who wants dark meat?
[D2] [Begins to sob] You’re going to kill him!
[Miles] Isn’t that the idea? Wait, what are we cutting up here? You know, I’m hungry. I’m gonna go back and play more hoops while I smoke pott with this hockey mask on. It’s great for scaring kids in the Pediatric ward. Or the Geriatric ward. Either way, someone loses bowel control when I come at them. [He stabs his scalpal – which I CANNOT spell right – into the patient, who groans]
[D2] Pull it out! [Loses consciousness]
[D1] Stupid rookie. [Removes scalple] Looks like you’re going back to ICU [Wheels patient out again].
[Fade Out as Sports and Smoking sounds are heard]
| the system … is down … the system … is down |


The Night sits like a Falcon,
To swallow up the Day.
The Day, now slow and sluggish,
Does what the Bird will say.

The Night soars like an Eagle,
Flying beyond the clouds.
The clouds, now dim and whispy,
Do whatever the Bird allows.

The Night swoops like a Vulture,
Consuming up the sky.
The sky, now dark and cleared away,
Is where the Black Bird hides.

The Night floats like a Hawk,
Unseeing of the Star.
The Star, all bright and sparkling,
Defies the Bird afar.

The Night cries like a Osprey,
Berating the infidel.
The infidel, still bright and sparkle,
Sings past the Black Bird’s yell.

The Night leaps like a Condor,
Rushing towards the Glow.
The Glow, bearing herself a smirk,
Awaits the Black Bird’s blow.

Enter the Warrior, Soldier of Light,
His Sword and his Soul shall win him this Fight.

Tearing upward goes the Night,
To rip apart the Pristine Light.
There is a sound that tears behind.
A sword of Light to slice and blind.

Ripping upward goes the Night,
To tear into the Lux so bright.
As the Night prepares to kill,
The brilliant sword shows greater will.

Screaming murder does the Night.
A horrid wound and terrid sight.
Blood like Star Dust trickled down.
And makes a Star who falls to ground.

Diving downward does the Night,
To meet the one who’s sword is Light.
Earthly tumbles the flourescent blade.
To land nearby the star it made.

Shining downward shows the Star,
A glowing warning from her Heart.
With her power slows the Bird,
And hearkens those her voice they heard.

Preparing murder shows the Night,
to bear his talons for the fight.
The brightest flash and violent end
Destroy the Night as Day begins.

Goodnight, sweet Warrior, with Star and Sword
And remember, at Night, You are Lord.
| I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me |

A Response to a Vandal

Since the “pick your favorite moment” isn’t quite taking off, I’ve decided to just pick what I want out of it and rewrite those. As it is, the wall outside our room was vandalized again. This time I am taking it personal. So I found out his name, Brian Rand, and I wrote him a letter. I sent it to him, too. Here it is.

Dear Brian Rand:

Wow. You’re right. All those things you said about me, they are correct. You know me pretty well, Miss (you’re a girl right? Or do you just act like one? He he, j/k). I’ve been thinking about it, and I am a jackass. I have a very small, but very beautiful, collection of pogs, too! I don’t know how you figured that one, buddy, but you must have a psychic dick cause you nailed that one.

You don’t know how excited/happy I was when I woke up this morning and saw all the cool sayings (both funny AND witty) on my wall. The wall right next to my door, no less! You seem to have a knack for decorating that few but the most … efeminate of our sex attain. I’m not saying that you’re gay; I’m just saying your experimentation with your father has paid off! Good job, mate.

And now it is my turn to apologize. You must have heard that thing I said about you being impotent, right? Gosh, is my face red. I can’t believe that I said that. I mean, you couldn’t be to put posters up. I mean, they look just like the ones I had up there before; that’s what you call a good parody. And I should have known, from seeing your trashy, whore of a girlfriend, that you probably have sex with her a lot. Well, at least when your herpes isn’t acting up. Am I right? Am I right?

The duck (or duct, whichever) was a nice touch, also. Though you left some finger nail polish on one side of it. Ooops. Out with the “boys” again, sweetheart? Just kidding! Though I thought I saw you going into that gay club down in Sioux Falls. Or maybe that was your mom’s house. Who can tell? I’m not gay.

I’m not sure how Bill Gates came into the picture, but I’m betting that you pirate his software. I don’t mean to sound like a Negative Nancy (is your nickname Nancy, or did I hear wrong?), but that kind of behavior only hurts yourself. See, what’ll happen when that cool video game playing and beer drinking job you’ve been dreaming of falls though? It’s hard to get software (pirated or not) when you’re homeless and sucking off Japanese businessmen who seem to pay too little (even if it IS in yen). I could say pirate now, worry later, but when the FBI finds all that little boy porn (it doesn’t help that you have the whole ‘Preteen Love’ folder shared) they might write you up for charges like that, too.

And I’m sure you’ve heard stories about what they do to people like that in jail from your Dad. Is he in jail again, or did he outrun them this time? That man, he never knows when a girl means no, does he? Oh, well, I’m sure you’re not down that road. After all, you’re Dad can’t spell like you can. He spelled “cock” with only one ‘c’. You remember that, don’t you? In court? Maybe you blocked that from your memmory. I mean, if it was MY DAD who did THOSE THINGS to ME, I’d probably pretend I had no idea what you were talking about either.

Well, I should go. See, I have a 4.0 gpa and I didn’t get it by writing letters. I wish I could have that care free life that you have. You don’t have to go to classes (well, I mean, the academic probation says you have to, but they also say you have to go to those AA meetings, right?), you don’t have to clean the vomit off your bed in the morning if you don’t want to. You are truly one for me to look up to.

Hey, stay cool and keep those wonderful signs going! I think you have a future in that!

Yours in Wall Art,


Send Brian your own letters! [email protected].

| Baby, you’re a lost cause |

I Had Some Time, So I Figured I’d Ruin Your Life

I have a great idea for this post. Today I am going to copy over some questions that have appeared in the Ann Landers (among others) columns in newspapers around this pathetic world. Then I am going to answer them. These poor people have no bloody idea what they are asking.

Thus, I give you, Ask Someone Who Cares.

I am so miserable and unhappy. My husband retired in February, and I will retire next year. This man does nothing but go golfing every day and then hang out at the local bar. He never spent time in a bar in our 30 years of marriage, and now, all of a sudden, he’s a regular.

[Sir or Madam], my husband does nothing around the house. I get up at 4:30 every morning and don’t get home until 5:30 p.m. I thought when he retired he would at least help do the grocery shopping, but he won’t. I even have to take out the garbage.

My husband has ulcers, high blood pressure and high cholesterol, and I’m sure drinking all that beer isn’t helping. He used to be such a wonderful man, but he’s turned into a jerk who thinks he only has 10 more years of life left — and he’s trying to cram in 20. He refuses to go for counseling, and I am at my wits’ end. I can’t live like this anymore. Please help me.

Well, I have a two part answer for you. The first is, you’re making this up. You live alone and have your whole life. You can’t hold a job and your idea of grocery shopping is picking the dumpster outside of Taco John’s or McDonald’s. Me? I’m a Burger King fan.

The real truth is that you could never get a husband because of how utterly stupid you are. And if they could ever get over your obvious “special” status, then they’d have to deal with the whole “ugly like buddah” face you’ve got sporting. For you it’s Halloween everyday, isn’t it?

Part two, just in case you’re not a pathetic loser/liar, is that maybe the problem is you. When he had a job was it long? Was he out of the house a lot? Did he have very attractive secretaries who’d come over to the house for “business purposes”? Ladies and Gentlemen, I think we have a winner.

My solution is to buy a shotgun and do him in. He’s worthless, like you said, and the long list of health problems will not get shorter before it gets longer. Illness = $$$$. I suggest using one barrel on your hubby (get him while he’s intoxicated and lying down) and using the second on yourself. This way you won’t go to jail. And, if you are pathetic and a loser/liar, this way you end your misery.

Last year, my sister announced that she was pregnant. Because “Jane” was unmarried, she decided to allow my brother and his wife to adopt her unborn child.

My brother completed all the necessary legal requirements for the adoption, not to mention he helped out financially. We were overjoyed when Jane announced in her fourth month that she was having twins! As her due date drew closer, she seemed more and more remote. In her ninth month, she “disappeared” for several days. We finally found her hiding in a closet in her apartment. She was upset and asked that we leave her alone.

After she was forced to get medical attention, we learned that Jane was never pregnant and that she had been stuffing pillows under her clothes. Later, we found out she had had a hysterectomy 10 years ago.

The emotional damage she has caused is indescribable. Although this has not soured my brother and his wife on adoption, I feel something needs to be done about the adoption laws so this type of fraud can be avoided. Perhaps the adoptive parents or the adoption agency should have direct contact with the obstetrician. What do you say, [Sir or Madam]?

Holy crap. Your sister is a nutcase. What the hell is going on in that family? Did you guys all make fun of her or something? Did you hit her with things and say “You can never get pregnant! You’ll always be alone without children or a husband (but especially children)?” If you did, well, looks like she got you back.

Now, I’m not a photography expert, but how hard can it be to tell if someone has pillows stuffed up her shirt and not a baby stuffed up her … you know – baby place. I would think that when you saw feathers that would be a tip off. Or how about the unusual square shape of the stomach? Or the fact that she had the pillow case sitting on the couch in the picture.

I can see that no one came to see her 9 months. Come on – 9 months? No one visited her once? You didn’t have a baby shower or a belly warming party or whatever you women do to celebrate the labour you’re about to go through. You didn’t send her a card, pop by for tea, or any of that?

Maybe the problem isn’t a psychotic who pretends she’s pregnant. Maybe the real problem is called bonding. And the problem is that you don’t have enough of it. Am I right?

My husband has developed the habit of opening ALL our mail, even when it is addressed only to me. I was taught when growing up that one never opens another person’s mail unless specifically requested to do so. I do not open mail addressed to my husband.

We are both retired, professional people, and frankly, opening my mail is one of the few pleasures I enjoy these days. I have told my husband that I prefer to open the mail addressed to me, but if I am not at home when the postman comes, he proceeds to open all the mail regardless. I need to know if I am overreacting, as my husband says.

What is with the elderly writing in all these questions? Oh wait, it’s because they have no jobs and so they have nothing better to do than to bother me. Well… okay not me, but someone like me. That is someone who writes words.

I was taught that it is okay to open other people’s mail until they learn that you are doing it. Then you have to figure another way to do it. My dad taught me that. He also taught me how to cure a hangover and how to make a shiv out of a bedpost. He was a handy guy when he wasn’t beating us.

The point is you have to physically hurt your husband to get him to listen to you. Or use your feminine wiles on him. Either way, you have to break him. Try seducing the mailman to get him to give you your mail later in the day, away from your husband. Or mail yourself a letter bomb and make sure you’re far away from the house when mailman gets there.

If this is really one of the “few pleasures” (wink wink) you get, then maybe you need a hobby. Maybe you should go looking for whiner number one’s hubby in one of the many bars in the area, no doubt complaining about his life/wife to whoever can stomach him. Or you could find complainer number two’s crackpot sister and get her drunk enough to pretend to have triplets.

I guess what I’m really saying is that there is no way you can solve this problem that doesn’t involve ending your short, pityful, meaningless life. Do you understand me? You don’t care about the mail.

You don’t, really. Just get out – and start opening your death.

| Everything’s not lost |

What Happened to Step Two?

Our lives end in circles. They begin in hard points that conjoin and twist themselves into squares. Life starts off difficult, but simple. It starts off with no chance in the world, but the world a square of land in a circle of blue.

Then, oh then, it starts to repeat. As it repeats, it softens. You learn the dance by heart, but the music is mute. You’re heart skips with the tempo, and your brain vibrates to the tune.

You live, but you control nothing.

As you learn history repeats itself, it leads you to examine your history. Doesn’t it? There comes a point in your life (anyone’s, I guess) where you realize that up until this point you’ve been useless and, after this point (repeating until death), you will continue to be useless.

What you decide to do with this knowledge makes you great, or it makes you nothing.

This isn’t funny. I’m not sure if it’s sad. It’s pensive, and I hope you take time to think about what it means. I was drawing today. Lacey came up to DSU (what else would you do on a Friday night?) and one of the things the three of us did was make posters. I drew; Lacey colored; Jeff placed on the wall.

This sounds silly to saw out loud, but this is my method to art. The method is this : I do what I’m told. When I type, the words put themselves onto paper. There are lots of ways I could explain, but I guess the best one is to say that I’m a vessel. I am a channel for something else. I am an instrument of someone.

The same goes for drawing mostly. The better stuff is done through (though many would argue that none of it is good stuff). Any way, that makes it hard for me to explain my art, but I can eventually come up with what it means if you give me a sec.

Did you ever “feel” bugs on your skin and then there was nothing there?
Did you ever “see” something on your monitor and then there was nothing there?

Have you ever had a moment where you could do anything. Let me explain. I was in those crappy, low-budget, once-a-school-year, grade school productions put on by a group of gypsies with scripts and tshirts. This particular incident happened when I was in seventh grade. On the final night we were giving this girl in the grade ahead of me a ride back to her house. Before the vehicle left the parking lot, as we waited for my mother, this girl and I chatted. Suddenly a strange feeling came over me. It was akin to being drowsy very quickly. I felt like I was outside of myself. Maybe not physically, but my mind was suddenly in a different place. It was like I was thrust into a dream.

In dreams you can do anything. My mind told me this as I sat there. I thought, “I could just reach out and kiss her now. I can do anything right now. This feels just like a dream…” but before any sort of action the feeling waned away.

Has this ever happened to you? I am going to call this a “kissdream” (because the first thing I thought to do was kiss the girl) and maybe it’s something that other people have experienced. I have had several more kissdreams since then. They scare me deeply. I never realize that I’ve experienced one until it’s leaving, and it is then that I realize that I was very close to doing quite unnatural things that could ruin my life or others.

I’m tired. I’m spent. And I think that I pissed Lacey off when she was here. So I’m going to bed.

| Just remember, we’re at the center, not you. |

Step One : Sign

People – I’m back. You may not realize, but what I’m about to type has been sitting on the burners for a bit now. Why? I was afraid. I was afraid of retribution from the mass of females addicted to the hottt body and mysterious nature of Vin Diesel. But I have gotten my confidence back.

There are, near as I can tell at this moment, 3 steps to killing Vin Diesel and I can onlyl remember 2 of them. So, here is the list:

  1. Make a sign.
  2. Get rid of Vin Diesel

Simple and beautiful.

So let me explain step one. First you have to make a sign to your cause. All great social change comes about with a sign. some more obvious examples would be “Room for Rent”, “Blacks Suck”, and “Thank God for Golden Calfs.”

I could go into a long, red, angry tirade about what each sign means or what they instigated as social change or what I am even talking about (some of you just tuned in), but I won’t. That would be waaaaaay too much work on my part. And I’m the one who really matters, right? What do I look like? God? I’m not God.

I am trying to kill God.

I had to decide what best to decorate my sign with. For the creative thrust I needed, I talked to Jeff. (No, really, I did.) The first part of any sign is the background. I needed to show the womens that I am a solid guy. That what you see is what you get. I chose to use rectangles (studies prove that four corners turn girls on). what color? Red. like fiery passion. But I wanted to show that I’m a guy of many shades (but not necessarily a shady guy) so I made the rectangles (getting hottt yet ladies?) go from black (ooo, he’s so dark) to red (ooo, he’s so passionate).

Now I have 2 (count ’em) rectangles (corners, baby) on a sheet of paper. I was satisfyed but Jeff thought the ladies want mo’. He said (and I quote), “The Ladies need more than just 2 rectangles of fiery, hot passion, fool.” Great. Well then, I’ll lure them in with pictures of what they’re missing – me (and Jeff).

I picked a dark, moody picture for me. Very artistic, but it could also be fiery and passionate (yeah, baby) and it could also be Vin Diesel (from another angle). The shadows squat on my face and shoulders as the light farts from above me. Grand pic, I say.

To not scare any chicky-babies away, I included a picture of Jeff. His light-hearted, smile-invoking self-portrait helped to balance my overwhelming shadowy, squint-reaping © PicsByHafner shot. To add that “ghost” feel (and to show off my Photoshop ‘skillz’) the pics are semi-transparent, sorta. The point is that you can still see our rectangles, you know? I think the passion effect is overall increased.

You know what that means – it’s about time to plug the website (gotta make a living, you know?) I thought about including a picture of the keyboard and mouse that I use to craft the page, but I don’t think that they would get the picture. So I included graphics from mine and Jeff’s sites.

Boo ya! We’re done. “No,” Jeff cautions. “How’re the babes (he actually used a much naughtier word) going to know that you’re available? You must use sweet, sweet words to bring them in. Talk first, lovin’ (he actually used a much naughtier word here, too) latah!” And then he started to elbow me in the ribs while making this “belligerent jeweler” sound. “God, stop it,” I said, but I realized that he had been elbowing a good point into me.

The only sweet, sweet word to come to mind (that would get me lovin’) was the word “Brothel”. Who knows what that means, raise your hand? Good. Good. Not only does it conjure images of sexy guys with websites, but it won’t get blocked by most net nannies. Of course, I already got myself blocked for saying “fiery passion” so many bloody times. I would explain what a brothel is (no, it doesn’t make soup) but then I would have to say some words that only Jeff uses in this room so I’ll say “Go to instead.”

Alas, it was finished! All I have to do is to hang it up in a high traffic area (and I don’t mean drug traffic … until Sunday at least) and the babes, ladies, broads, and girlies (and probably some guys) will be knocking on/down my/our door for the fiery passion within/of the hottt brothel.

Except that it’s been up a while now and only Carl has shown up (makes you wonder about Carl). Come on, Ladies! You know you want the passion! And I can’t stay fiery hottt for long, it’s bloody winter, you know.

To make myself useful since them I have been spending oodles of time at and today (yes today) I completely redid my school site. If you have a good browser (anything but IE) then you can see some neat things on the “acooldoggy” page.

But I really like how it turned out. I had that picture in my head and I did just what I wanted. It’s black and white. Maybe that will attract chickiebabes.

Oh well. I’ll give it the sign more week, then I’m going to go buy a Hot Rod magazine. Cause they got the girls with the boobs on the cover.

| Up next … Step 2 |

I Am Getting Depressed

Check out the artist bryce – he wrote a new poem called “Untitled and Horrific”.

This is a special tutorial for those who want to post comments on this site. Ok. Listen carefully, you see that :talk: with a ” | ” and then a number ? Click that. Tutorial done, Mike (Clark). Was that so hard. I guess I assumed too much about my audience. I am sorry. Now a story I wrote.

In Class Writing Assignment #29 : South Duhkota

There seemed to be a mild spring scent to the air. I was walking, by myself (as usual), past the house where Mr. Smerin was found three days earlier and glancing towards the ditch where his wife was eventually discovered and I thought of how odd it had been.

It had looked like there was a murder, but there was no reason to murder these people. Mr. and Mrs. Smerin were nice and kind to everyone, but they were boring, and there was not a soul in town who much thought of them, let alone think to harm them. It was odd.

He had had his teeth removed in a sort of ritual, and they were placed in the form of a smiley face. Each tooth clung to bits of gum like a favorite sweater torn asunder and there was a large amount of blood highlighting the scene. Mr. Smerin’s right arm had been removed, well torn, from his body and it looked as if he had been beat with it. The arm, which appeared to have been twisted far enough to break at the elbow first before being wretched from his torso, was found nailed to the wall, under a painting by Terry Redlin.

I felt it coming. The cold breeze was one that existed only in my head, but I felt it chill my spine. It was close, the vision. Then things went black.


I saw Mr. Smerin. Smiling. His … wife, standing by their stove. The house was dark/damp/dusty. Little light, little else. The painting, the wall (pre-arm), Mrs. Smerin. Pie … apple. Then it went dark … lights out? Shades drawn. I saw their … daughter? I didn’t realize Mr. and Mrs. Smerin (close to 55 years old each) had a daughter. She looked 19. Pretty.

Knife. No, not a knife. Something sharp, no dull. Long at least with a handle. She fades out. I can never figure out what that means. At times, when I have these visions, the people fade out and fade in. Usually, it’s the attackers. She fades back.

Skip. Damn it, a skip. Dead bodies, no one body. Mr. Smerin. How did the girl do it? She’s removed her pictures from the wall. I can see her quite clearly. She turns and walks towards where I stand in the doorway. Where I’ve stood this whole time. She … sees me.

A chill, less imaginary, pierces my heart. Cold fear rises up. I feel sick.

She comes towards me, not afraid, not questioning, not mystified. I’m not sure how I would have looked to her, but I’m sure she couldn’t have been expecting me. She walks up and says, “Describe South Dakota culture.”

Terrified, I say, “I think that most South Dakotans are agricultural people. The parents all live under the illusion that they work hard, and that their children will never work as hard as they do/have. I think the children feel stifled and bored and so they use sometimes ill methods of entertainment.

“South Dakota is a simple place and most of the people are simple, too. Religious, caring, quiet sometimes, but often they are not that deep. They only care for few things and those things are work and family. I am not sure that I fit into this culture. I don’t so much as feel stifled as I feel that I am missing something that I could be a big part of.”

She’s quiet. She puts her hand to my cheek and kisses me. “Say hello to my parents for me.” And in a flash my mind goes back to before the murder, to what I saw.

It was a knife after all.

Wasn’t that interesting and worth the read. But wait, I have more. I found out something terribly depressing. Girls don’t want a deep, artistic, sensitive guy. No way. They want [ this ].

I am not and never will be that. So, it looks kinda bleak for the rest of my probably long and expensive life. The only way for me to deal with this is to either end my life – or Vin Diesels. That is why, I being much more important than he, I will begin my campaign to Kill Vin Diesel for good.

Or course, if he keeps making movies like “Fast and the Furious” I won’t have to do a thing! (oooo, baZing!)

| Who’s with me?? |

Aqua Teen Hunger Force

Dr. Weird
You are Dr. Weird from ATHF!

Which Aqua Teen Hunger Force character are you??


Aqua Teen Hunger Force – which character are you?

My name is Shake-Zula,
the mic rulah,
the old schoolah,
you wanna trip,
I’ll break it to ya.
Frylock and I’m on top rock you like a cop,
Meatwad you’re up next with your knock-knock.
Meatwad make the money see,
Meatwad get the honeys G.
Drivin in my car,
livin like a star,
ice on my fingers and my toes and I’m a Taurus.
Cause we are the Aqua Teens,
make the homeys say ho
and the girlies wanna scream.

| you should visit |

A Year and a Day

Holy Crap. Another year is gone by and here I am, a day late. I meant to launch this thing yesterday, but I was at a New Years party that lasted longer than I planned.

Much longer.

But it was nice and I had a good time and Im sorry that none of you were there. Hahaha, yeah right. Im not sorry.

So, there are so many ways to attack this post. I could write about my entire (freakin) year; I could just write about what I did yesterday or the day before; I could just wax and wane intellectually for a couple paragraphs.

Or I could show you all a bunch of funny Get Fuzzy comics that came and went.

Here they are!

Can we say nervous break down?

Kittens can be so cruel.

Bucky says some crazy things sometimes!

In this one you kinda have to tilt your head, but its worth it.

And what else do I have to show you? These two logos Collin made for me (that I could not really find a spot for in the site). They are this one and this one

You may notice a post below this. You could consider it an ‘extra’ or ‘bonus’ post since I posted it when the site was down. Its not great.

Its boring.

But its something to read. Have fun navigating the site and Welcome to 2003 (3… right? Yeah, its 3.)

May the terrible second coming of Christ be upon us soon so that the sinners may shake in their insolence and die horrible deaths!

This Isn’t Funny : I Have Issues


i have so much to say
but words of fog escape
it was a perfect day
but my emotional rape


i reach for snow flakes
who tell what to write
but for all it takes
i can ‘ t clear my sight


angst and questions
blasphemy of soul
masochist suggestions
words take their toll


mirrors : own to cut
fasces : cut to buy
people : asking what ?
and i : asking why .


order or entropy
i knew which it was
the universe’s canopy
between it and us


grammar a n d s p a c i n g
Personality and conversation
My emotions are still racing
But closer to elation


thank you


En Terra Saunt Tay

I want to be interesting. Jill said that I’m interesting already, but I must not be interesting enough. The way I figured it, girls flock over interesting guys, and no one’s flocking over me.

I guess Jeff had the same ideal, because he said, “You know, the chicks really dig interesting guys. Brad Pitt is interesting, and so is Einstein, and they are both famous and both get the chicks.” I thought about correcting Jeff, and telling him that Einstein wasn’t that famous, but I didn’t. I decided to figure out what makes someone interesting.

If we analyze Brad Pitt and Arnold Einstein, and if we consider them interesting, then we learn this about interesting people:

  1. They are thin (or muscular)
  2. They can act
  3. They develop mathematical theories
  4. They’ve never heard of Bryce Rausch (there, you’re in my post – quit annoying me)
  5. They know interesting people
  6. They may (or may not) have a personal webpage
  7. They do interesting things

That’s it. Really. Just seven things. I feel so enlightened, though. And you can replace the names “Brad Pitt” and “Albert Einstein” with any names of interesting people. You can also replace the name “Bryce Rausch” with any name of an annoying person, or even your own brother.

The point is that Jeff and I decided we had to do something. Interesting people who are less famous usually have interesting websites. These websites mirror their lives. My site is okay, but in order to be an interesting person, you have to have pictures of your interesting life. Otherwise, how will people know it was you doing those interesting things? And I can’t put pictures on this site; it’s getting old! Exactly!

For this reason, a new site will shortly come into existance. We will call this “” (we’re even going to buy the domain) and we’re planning on having more than one author. Thus, more than one guy with an interesting life. Therefore, guys with lives. Get it? Not just “Lazydesert” and not just “Awayken.” It would be “LazyAwaykenDesert.netcom/” or “”. Do you see where I’m going with this?

To continue my research, I figured out that these same people (who I’m studying) are also partly interesting because of what they say. They have interesting words. These words perk your … interest. They make you sit up and say, “Waaaa?” (which isn’t an interesting word by the way). They use words like “Sex” and “Free” which usually make people listen.

Other words are:

  • Culture
  • Biohazard
  • Zoolander
  • Satan
  • Plethora
  • Awayken
  • Lazydesert
  • Collin
  • Not Collin


  • Culture

and, also,

  • Fingers (thanks Jeff)

So, I plan on using these words a lot more Satan. Hopefully some Awayken chicks will notice my Not Collin and decide to Culture with me.

Fingers Fingers, Zoolander!

By they way, good luck to everyone taking tests today. I hope you all Collin it. Plethora face :)