19th September 11
Here ye! Here ye! People of the Nations! While we will always be wine-o’s and food-bingers, I set forth today a couple of ideals by which we can decrease our gluttony and increase our health-ny.
1. Drink Less Booze.
2. Eat Less Fat.
My apologies if I made it complicated but if one is to grasp the complexity of improving one’s life, one must open one’s mind to one’s inner one. Which I think equals six.
3rd February 11
Why do we all draw moustaches on people’s faces in pictures? “Look what I did! It’s so freaking-fracking funny that I drew hair on a place of the human body where hair naturally grows!” Don’t get me wrong, I very often enjoy Hilter-lizing a friend or occasionally adding the curly thin villain-esque ‘mustachino’ (as I have termed it) to a co-worker’s face. But why is this? Personally, I think its because every single human (both male and female) has the innate subconscious desire for a moustache.
Moustaches are practically perfect. Regal, rugged, fancy, silly, standard, luxurious, wild—all words to describe what begins as merely peach fuzz and blossoms into a furry lip roof. They catch and preserve all nostril runoff—Mother Nature’s natural tissues. They keep your face warm. Who wants the mid-lower area of their face—the butt of your nose, if you will—chilled during a blustery day? Not me. Not to mention, the word has TWO (count ‘em) different spellings. Moustache and Mustache—I chose the former because it looks like the word mouse and the fact the latter looks like mustard—which I highly dislike. That’s the beauty in it though! You get to decide for yourself (depending on if you are feeling British or not—cheerio!).
The hair on my upper lip exists but absolutely could never fill out to a “Tom Selleck” or even a “Clark Gable” on my best of days. This can be very depressing but whenever I start to feel Moustachealousy (it exists) all I have to do is think about women and their bare mid-face flesh. How they must long for the warming prickly sensation of a moustache below their nostrils! Imagine all the things that they could do with it—braiding, waxing, bleaching, dying, bow tie, straightening, curling, plucking, knitting, and the list goes on. My heart feels your pain oh bald-lipped women of the world.
So next time you pick up that sharpie marker to graffiti the space between the lower nose and upper lip on Aunt Brenda’s Christmas card, please consider whose feelings you might be crushing. Nose rugs are very important to the human race. Moustachealousy is no laughing matter.
-Edward
2nd February 11
Follower. Flatterer. Faker-Outer.
While saying “keep your friends close and your enemies closer” sounds very intelligent and all, it is complete hogwash when it comes to prowlers (that is, you can clean your pigs with such worthless words—if you are partial to owning pigs and using words that display soap-like abilities). You want to be physically, emotionally, mentally and dreadfully as far as possible from your I’m-creepy-because-I-never-got-enough-attention-as-a-child-nor-did-my-mother-teach-me-how-to-properly-address-females-because-she-was-busy-stripping stalker. But before you start packing up to move to Idaho to live with your step-mom who raises literal whole packs of slightly over-aggressive Chihuahuas, realize that the first step to living a lurker–free life is this: you have to recognize your shadow-followers early on.
How do you pinpoint a stalker? Please allow me your undivided glassy attention and I will try my best to inform you. You must slightly become a stalker yourself. Wait! Relax! We are talking ‘stage one’ stalker here—just basic surveillance of those places and people close around you. To defeat one, one must become one. Or two. Take a look around right now. Notice anything unusual? Does your roommate usually bury his face in your dirty laundry while claiming that he saw a quarter, lighter, pen, etc. and was attempting to “save” your beautiful sweaters that smell like “splendid springtime goddess’ breasts”? Has your neighbor knocked on your door a couple times a week asking if you need a ride to your “oh so ruggedly masculine” dream-weaving class at 7:15 pm, unless its Thursday, which in that case, is at 8:00 pm? Take some time and ‘stalk’ people close to you in your life and you won’t be sorry.
There are three criteria categories that one must watch for: the follower, the flatterer, and the faker-outer.
The Follower. The follower is the most obvious and possibly dangerous stalker out there—and it is as literal as your little mind can imagine. The lurker-in-question will physically (and/or electronically) follow your every move. This guy (or girl) knows your bus stop and may even wake you up if you miss it (which means you were sleeping. No sleeping!). They know your address, your social security number, your birthdate, your deathdate (as they are planning it themselves), your bust size, and even how many times you have said the word ‘lugubrious’ (which I hope is no more than three). Stalkers “like” every Facebook status and invite you to every single possible group, event, fundraiser, house party, etc. They have no concept of boundaries—no matter how many times you refuse to attend their cousin Leanna’s dominatrix-themed baby shower.
The Flatterer. The stalker loves to give you compliments and does so every possible second—even if you don’t know/recognize them at all. This might be head inflating at first but please take a second to contemplate a little. Are you really that attractive? Are your jokes actually that funny? Is your vivacious love for alcohol (to the point of vomiting on your friend’s vintage record player and then claiming that it was on “purpose” because now the puke is “spinning ‘round just like my head”) actually that cute? Was your comment about the lesbian waiter’s face resembling a young(er) Justin Bieber actually that insightful? C’mon really think about yourself. My guess is absolutely not. My second guess is that the person constantly informing you that you are “greater than God and Star Trek” is either your reflection in the mirror before your date with Angie ‘Eyebrows’ Stanowski (your dorm’s RA)—or a stalker.
The Faker-Outer. This one is very simple. If the possible personal-space-infringer does something stalker-like, then visibly sees your confused reaction and off-handedly tries to rectify the situation by claiming, “haha, don’t worry, I’m not stalking you”—that person most definitely is stalking you. This is the classic fake-out: I will blatantly state that I am not doing something (that I clearly am doing) in a last ditch effort to show you that I am aware of my behavior in hopes to justify said behavior. This can also be called ‘the overcompensation technique’ and might take place in routine “I’m not gay”, “I’m not an alcoholic/drug addict”, or “I don’t have a small penis” situations.
This is just some advice that I hope all of you will implement at your earliest inconvenience. I plan on keeping my friends close and my disturbed-soul-pursuer on another continent or planet. Either way, stalkers—you aren’t fooling us.
-Edward
"A privy is an ‘outdoor toilet, latrine, earth closet, john, johnny house, a toilet’. While this is amusing, I fully plan on using the term ‘earth closet’ instead of bathroom from now on."
2nd February 11
"Does anybody else have trouble remembering how to spell restaurant every single time you write it? It’s like my brain refuses to acknowledge its existence."
1st February 11
1st February 11
Sleep? Who needs sleep? Not you! That is, if you have a stalker. The first step in deterring stalkers of the creepy kind is the refusal to shut your eyes even for a moments notice. When you sleep you are weak and vulnerable. Sleeping is for the small children, Frenchmen and cowards, the dead, and overweight people that just ate a meal of any kind or size and are currently sitting in a warm room.
“For when thou sleepeth, will thou give thine enemies a chance to sneak upon thee and do vile, creepy, and all around nasty things to thy person and thy possessions? Nay. Do not rest and thou shall not get molested. ” –William Jenkins Shakespeare. This truthful and very accurate quote proves my point solidly.
When you are asleep and incapacitated in your comfortable 5-thread-count sheets because your parents no longer support you due to your meth habit (that you started to avoid sleep in the first place—good job!)—just think of all the things that your particular stalker can accomplish! I shudder that your stalker could be in your fridge eating your cottage cheese or the four-month-old pasta that your roommate swears resembles John Candy’s face. Or he/she could be cutting out eyeholes in your sheets in hopes that you both can go to a Halloween party next year dressed as the ghosts of Christmas past, consume too many wine coolers, and end up in the back of taxi that smells like re-vomited vomit and toenail clippings for a little pat-pat rub down. No sir, none of these options are for me.
“But isn’t lack of sleep unhealthy and can lead to sickness of both the mind and the body?” Well let me answer your question with another supremely more important question: Would you rather have sickness or have a greasy man climb into your window, tickle your ear with the heel of his slightly smaller and birth-defected foot, then proceed to sit on your couch completely nude while reading yesterday’s [insert local newspaper]—a publication that your elderly grandma bought you a subscription to—all while wafting the smell of your dirty gym socks over his coffee that he made from last weeks grinds still in your trash can?”
I would rather not sleep.
-Edward
31st January 11
It’s funny that most stories begin with ‘once upon a time’—when this seems a very useless statement. All stories happen at some point in time (as far as hu-man and hu-woman are concerned), so why prostate the obvious? Just seems a huge waist of already wasted time. Why not say ‘once upon an undisclothed location’ instead? I suppose this is neither here nor there nor hair because this story has no time or location. In fact, it is complete nonsense. A whimsical child-ical immature-ical tale of ep-ical pointless prop-whore-tions. With that in your head, approach this tale as you would approach a frog. It jumps around and appears to be fun to hold—but if it pees on you, you could get warts. And nobody likes warts. Or peas. Not even anyone.
Once up on a dime, there lived a small germ-man named Oliver. Oliver was a very spacial germ-man. You-she, all the other germies were distracted fighting with each other but Oliver had a unique desire to find True Luff. Unfortunately, True Luff is not something one easily finders and keepers. Four [ger]many years he had been searching height and low—but atlas! Luff had evaded him to know a veil.
His coin world had been passed hand to hand to foot so many times that it was a very smelly place to live and to his dismayflower, Oliver had always lived on the ten-scent piece for as long as he could remember. Oh how he hated that place but it was illegal (that is, against the law and order) to leave! If he was caught escape-goating, then he would most certainly go to jail. Even steal, everyone knew he had big ass-perspiration’s and dreamed of getting off of the coin someday. So he lifed his live, ever planning and scheming his plant to leaf. It was only a matter of crime.
Oliver lived with his Mum, Pop, and two younger brothers in their corn-hair store on Meryl Street. It was a quiet existence and rather unfulfilling, that is for such an adventurous young germ-man. Often he wood come plane that his dustiny was not for such a boaring existence.
Then it happened! One average day, that is to say it was very geriatric, he was walking among the spore gardens of Franklin Roosevelvet’s nostrili and he saw her. She was stunning, standing there in the sunlight. Her face glistened with dripping light bulbs—the prettiest germ-man woman lady he had ever senile. ‘Could this be True Luff?’ he asked himself ever so quietly out loudly. Very scaredcrow to ask her name or even just to match her i’s with his i’s, he quickly tried to hide behind his mask.
‘His mask?!’ you might ask real fast—for it would be normal to ask about such a task of carrying a mask, as we, in our society and past, have never all carried masks—maybe a flask but never a mask. Let me explain: on their fifteenth burpday, each germ-man and germ-man woman were given a fake face to sometimes take the place of their real face—just in case it was ever appropriate to hide one’s face. When would this ever be appropriate? Why, whenever they felt!—In happiness, i’m-bare-ass-ment, hanger, or even generally at social part-ties in the front parlor. This was tradition!
So Oliver exercized his write and whore the mask as she passed by! For he was too much in fear—fear that came from her beauty-ness and overall attractivefulness—to show his true phase. Littledidheknow that she would be changing his world in the near and dear future.
To be continued…
-Edward
31st January 11
this is the story of crazy mart
whose ramblings weren’t very smart
really quite dense
never made sense
and his sentences always fell apart
and mart lived way out in the woods
avoided people more than he should
except for his brother
they had the same mother
both acted as loony as they could
there was one thing that mart could do
this was playing the trumpet—toot toot
he was really quite good
and it’s understood
that his notes would really impress you
johnny and I had this mission
to put together a group of musicians
we heard about mart
and his instrumental art
we sought to make ‘em an addition
so after a journey deep into the forest
mart agreed to be part of our chorus
so we played and played
sweet music we made
we even impressed uncle horris
the moral now i must push
for without it this story is mush
just remember the plan
that an absurd in the band
is worth two in the bush
-Edward
