@iPhone

iPhone makes thumbs supreme--
No longer bound
To space bar,
While fingers, folded, huddle--
Restless--
In crowded silence.

To be all thumbs
Is insult no more.
Now thumbs speak freely--
Finally--
Of likes and dislikes.
Of where I am.
Of what I am doing.
Of--
Thumbs so tired.
#sothisisevolution

What’s Invisible And Smells Like Carrots?

You’re not going to know anything about my new job unless I tell you, so let’s go ahead and get this out of the way. First you need to know that I’m keen to avoid causing Google searches about my company to lead people here, so if I seem vague, I’m not just being myself.

My new title is something like Touring Serviceman, without the 1940s flair, and I work for a company named after exactly what it is, a nationwide provider of various commercial filters. The initials of this company are on my company van, hat and shirt, but they are not on my pants, because they are not company pants, they are just pants. This makes sense from the company’s perspective because what they’re doing is paying me to drive on a two-weeks-solid, roughly 2,000-mile solo route changing HVAC filters on the roofs of commercial buildings, with only $60 a day for food and lodging (technically only for lodging, but… for food and lodging), and this promotes a lifestyle that naturally involves a steady diet of AM/PM hot dogs, Big Gulps, and El Pollo Loco, and a lot of high-elevation alone time, so it’s the pants, in this equation, that really take the brunt of the action. Yeah, that’s a fart joke. So is the title. Fart jokes happen, so deal with it. Just be glad you can laugh about it. Be glad you aren’t pants.

Sorry, I do this thing sometimes where I get mad at someone for being mad, and really it’s just an excuse to be mad. And most of the time the other person isn’t even mad. It’s just me that’s mad. And most of the time there isn’t even another person, it’s just me in a van on a lonely stretch of road someplace between Sacramento and Portland, or on a roof changing HVAC filters, and I’m not even mad, I’m in a great mood actually, and they’re my own damn pants I bought with my own money so there’s nothing to worry about and we can go on to talking about something else now. Sorry.

And I’m sorry but if you think I’m going to apologize—alright that’s all. I just wanted to write that. I’m going to move on now for real. Wouldn't want to beat a dead horse. Because, you know, if a horse isn’t alive then you’re wasting your time beating it. Get yourself a live horse, is what I say. I don’t say that. I don’t endorse beating horses in any stage of the horse life cycle, let alone the shorter, less smelly, “living” stage. Why are we talking about horses?

Anyway it works out because, besides smelling, you’d think touring servicemen would have something else in common with dead horses—that they wouldn’t eat a lot of carrots. But you’d be wrong. Good thing you’re here.

Company hat, Company shirt, My pants

When I talked to John for the first time on the phone, his voice sounded raspy and distracted, like maybe he'd woken up to get a glass of water and had inhaled a dandelion instead. I instantly formed a mental image of a man who'd been working on his beard for a couple winters too long, who wore a flannel shirt to church, and who was just overweight enough to give the world something to try to forget every time he bent over.

I called him from K-Mart because there was nothing on or near the Dickies there to assure me that they were navy blue and not just... pants blue. John was the guy who was going to be training me, so he seemed like the guy to ask. Normally I feel qualified to identify navy blue, I told John, but the blue of the reinforced knee Dickies didn't precisely match the regular fit, and I wanted to know how important it was that they were navy blue, because on Craigslist and on the phone they were very clear that the pants had to be navy blue, and they hadn't sent the company shirts yet, and were they going to get upset if my pants were the wrong shade of blue, and I know it's probably not the end of the world but I just don't want to start off with them on the wrong foot.

"You do know they're in Virginia, right?"

Right. Thanks John. Sorry to bother you.

"You got non-slip boots right?"

Well not yet but I was on it, and did it have to be boots because the emails and everything all said boots or shoes, so I had been planning on shoes because those would probably be a lot cheaper and I didn't want to go overboard with buying stuff before I got out there and saw what the job was really like, but if it had to be boots then that's great I can get boots I just hadn't planned on it.

"Just make sure they're non-slip."

Cool. Boots or shoes. Check or check. See you Friday.

A Brief Interlude To Vent

If we ever had this conversation, I don't like you:

"Do you like Cake? The band?"

"Cake? Weren't they cool for a little while in, like, the late '90s?"

"Well yeah they got a lot of radio play in the '90s. Going the Distance. Short Skirt, Long Jacket... I think Fashion Nugget sold pretty well."

"Yeah I think I bought Fashion Nugget. You still listen to them? Why?"

Want. To. Stab.

An Unfiltered Blog Post

I have to go to work on Monday, which I promise you is weird. You might have taken someone at their word in the past and you might have been let down, and therefore at this point you might be having a hard time accepting that it's weird that I would go to work on a Monday simply because I promise that it's weird, and if that's the case then I imagine you're wondering if I couldn't give you more to work with than (a)n (potentially) empty promise. But, strangely (and I think you'll agree), I imagine you're wondering this in the form of the question, "what's it like?"

Well, it's like this: I was originally scheduled to begin my route on a Thursday last month (and this month too, [editor's note: I just found out what "by proxy" means, and it doesn't fit here] by extension [editor's note: fingers crossed]), and I would have too if it weren't for dumb Expedia and dumb United Airlines and dumb fog. But that's a topic better left to a filtered blog post.

Losers Never Quit: Your Video Guide To Anything But This

Part 1: "It's not you, The Present, it's me..."

So you're finally ready to quit your job as a pizza delivery driver. Congratulations! And good for you. You could have waited another two months and made it a solid three years at the same dead end, but you're choosing to Move On. You might be moving on because you have:

- secured a better opportunity
- secured another opportunity
- sustained a serious injury

or simply

- stopped hating yourself so much

Whatever the specific reason or reasons, you're quitting to Win! Yes, the future can be scary, but the future is—maybe not so much yours as—well at least it's not Theirs.

Part 2: "We need to talk, The Past. I've met someone else..."

Look at you over there with your new job offer. Aren't you a fantastic pair.

Getting a new job is really the best way to leave your old job, so way to go. You're strolling through life down the path marked "awesome." What's more, training starts in two days, and you just found out today, so you're current boss is going to be pissed something fierce. This will be not-good-but-great news if you:

- hate your boss (as a boss, not as a person)
- hate your boss (as a person? Do you...hate...people...?)
- hate working alongside the boss's alcoholic narcissistic best buddy
- regularly fantasize about leaving without giving any notice at all

These are all great reasons, and you can probably think up some more on your own. But being excited about the possibility of quitting on short notice does not prepare you for the reality of quitting on short notice. In a moment, your instructor will be distributing a handout to help you practice the most likely scenario of giving your boss two days notice. If possible, break into groups of three and act out the provided scene, then discuss your experience as a class. Your instructor may have additional directions. Now, pause the tape, and hit play again when you are ready for Part 3.

Supplementary Handout:

EMPLOYEE has just received a job offer on a day off and needs to tell BOSS as soon as possible. Having learned that BOSS is taking a break at Best Buy, EMPLOYEE drives to Best Buy and wanders into the television section. There they see each other at the same moment. SALESPERSON waits offstage.

BOSS: Hey, what's going on?

EMPLOYEE: Hey, I actually came here looking for you. I need to talk to you. (EMPLOYEE settles into a stance almost perpendicular to BOSS'S)

EMPLOYEE notices several brochures in BOSS'S hand.

EMPLOYEE: Are you...are you with a salesperson?

BOSS: (Looking around) Yeah, can it wait?

EMPLOYEE: Uh...actually I need to tell you something right now, and you're not going to be happy about it.

SALESPERSON approaches.

BOSS: What? Are you leaving?

EMPLOYEE: Yeah.

BOSS: (Looking at SALESPERSON) When?

EMPLOYEE: Two days. I can work tomorrow and Thursday, then I start training on Friday and I'll be gone for two weeks straight.

SALESPERSON comes close enough that the three form a small triangle, unsure what is happening.

BOSS: Why...wha...why didn't you tell me...before?

BOSS clearly wants to throw a man-sized tantrum, but cannot in Best Buy. SALESPERSON stares ahead uncomfortably

EMPLOYEE: I just found out this morning. (EMPLOYEE becomes aware of the stance, something picked up from Matt Damon about standing with your gun hip away from people)

BOSS: I uh...we've got to talk later.

EMPLOYEE: Okay. (Turns to leave, then stops and turns back) Hey, do you want me to work tomorrow?

BOSS: (Definite) Yes.

EMPLOYEE turns and walks away, trying not to smile

Part 3: "Hi there, you must be The Future. My name is..."

You have reached the end of Tape 1. Insert Tape 2 for no further instructions.

A Hiss, A Piss, A Screen Door, Roodneercsassipassiha

Get a load of this story:

For years my mom tried to convince my dad that a neighborhood cat was regularly peeing on their front door, thus explaining a discoloration at the door's base. The conversations would go something like this:

"I'm telling you, there's a cat peeing on the door. It pees on the screen and it's getting on the door."

"...uh huh."

Her theory was, of course, ridiculous, except for the fact that a cat has indeed been peeing on their front door. This was confirmed when my parents removed the screen door in anticipation of replacing it, and my dad found a puddle of cat piss in the doorway the next morning.

A couple of days later I was delivering pizzas when I noticed two strange devices plugged into a customer's porch outlet. They were dome-shaped objects about two inches around and extended about an inch from the outlet. At first I thought they might be nightlights, but then I remembered that is was night and not light. I asked the customer about them as he signed the receipt.

"Oh, those... we had voles," he said, and explained that the devices emitted a frequency that repelled the voles but didn't bother people.

"Do they work on cats?" I asked.

"On cats? I don't know," he said. "Out here we've got coyotes... those work on cats."

The Trailer For My Next Blog Post About My New Job

John continued to explain the filter count change sheet.

"And here you'll circle N or A for whether it's actual or nominal."

I stared at the paper, and then at John. He continued.

"It's almost always going to be nominal. I don't think I've ever had to order a frame that was actually, you know, 20x25 or 16x20."

"I don't, know what you're talking about," I said. "What's nominal."

"Nominal? You know, 'nominal,' like with a 2x4?"

I stared at John, and then at the paper. He stared at me.

"I, um...," he said. "I don't know how to explain it in 'geek.'"

Adulthood Survival Guide: Dust In The Nick Of Time

You know that stack of magazines in between your dresser and bookshelf? What magazines? Well maybe if you dusted more often you'd remember. But wait, dust only settles on things you don't use, right? So what's the point of picking something up only to, in the grand scheme of things, set it right back down again?

Some people feel pressured to dust for hygienic reasons, but those people aren't taking into account the fact that dust is made up almost entirely of dead skin. If hygiene is your concern, take the direct approach: shower once daily. That way, whatever sloughs off will probably be cleaner than what it lands on anyway. You'll be, in effect, cleaning you're whole house by diffusion.

Still set on dusting? Science hasn't changed your mind? How about economics—does that do it for ya, Jack? If time is money, then why dust when you can move? After all, moving once a year is the only sure-fire way to lock in those move-in specials, and anyone can go a year between dustings. Maybe you don't care for the flat gray luster on top of the filing cabinet in your closet, or maybe you just want to cut down on the weight before lugging that old thing down the stairs. Go ahead, brush that dust onto the floor. Don't worry, it'll get there eventually. Even if you don't plan on vacuuming, you likely have a legal obligation to have the carpets professionally cleaned if you want your full deposit back. So what's that haze in the air? That's a check in the mail.

Left On The Kitchen Counter In A Sealed Enveloped Marked Simply, "Microwave"

Dear Microwave,

I've gone out for the night and I'm not coming back. I know it's partly my fault that we haven't been talking. Maybe it's because I'm trying to eat healthier and I just can't see you ever being interested in that. I'm sorry, but I can't. I would have called but I know you won't answer your phone. Of all the appliances to have a tumor phobia... Microwave I'm starting to miss you already. This probably won't make things any easier for you, but I want you to know this isn't easy for me, either.

You asked me what it is that I want and I wish I knew. I think I just want to know why everything has to be so difficult with you. With my phone, I don't even have to think about it. And my computer is the same way. I went out to get lunch today and it was like the whole world was business as usual. Like it was no big deal. But on a day like today when I'm at home, with you, I can't even be sure what time it is. You make me feel like a child. I literally have to ignore you just so I can make some toast or get a vitamin water without second guessing when I got up or if I'm going to be late picking Brea and Garret up from the airport.

It's obvious that you forgot daylight savings time ended today. I wasn't even going to tell you. I wanted to see how long it took for you to figure it out. Probably the better half of a year like last time. And I don't know why I bother because we both know you're just going to wait around for someone to come along and fix you anyway, and you won't make it easy. You'll let someone change your cook time or your kitchen timer a hundred times a day like it's no big deal, but when it comes to adjusting your one setting that counts up, it's like trial and error with you every time.

What I'm trying to say is that the times have changed, and you may have everyone else fooled into thinking you're ahead, but I know you're stuck in the past. I hope you change someday, I really do, but I can't be a part of your start/stop routine anymore. Goodbye, Microwave, and good luck.

When Internal Monologues Attack

I'm saddened by how many of my stories begin with the phrase "so, I was delivering a pizza...." Lately I'm also a little grossed out by it, since the dark recesses of my mind recently provided an image to serve as the mental slide show accompaniment to that phrase each time I say it. The image is of myself in green scrubs, hunched down in the classic quarterback pose, looking expectantly between the widespread legs of a very unhappy woman who is about to be the very proud mother of a large combo with extra cheese, half no olives.

So, I was delivering a pizza, and the moment I knocked on the door a cacophony of yapping erupted from the other side (of the door, not, to my knowledge, the afterlife). This is not a rare occurrence. In a world with little dogs behind closed doors, there will always be yapping. And when those doors are opened, there will always be jumping. People who own dogs below a certain height and weight should understand that pizza obstetricians have resolved themselves to the yapping and the jumping and that they find the yapping and the jumping to be far less annoying than listening to the owners say "No! Stay! Down! Sorry. No! Honey, get him. No! Back! Down! Don't worry, he's just— Stay! Honey, would you­­— No! Hey! Down! Just get the— Down! Down! No! Down! Good boy. Good boy. What a good boy! No! Down!" etc. My only consolation during such a production is that the pizza is only getting colder.

Annoyed in anticipation, I was actually relieved when the door opened and one of the dogs immediately got past its owners and jumped up on me in a vain attempt to reach my knees as though the world depended on it. Usually this would indicate that the owners A) don't care or B) are mortified and will do everything in their power to expedite the transaction and send me on my way so they can commence abusing their untrained pet in retribution—so basically a win-win.

Instead I got option C) the owners are not in agreement about what to do with the dogs or about whose idea it was to get a dog and then another dog and then another dog or about the wisdom of letting one impulsive decision made during a power outage ten years ago dictate where you live and what you do for a living and what kind of car you drive and what you order on a pizza for the rest of your life.

"Honey, don't let—" she said.

"He's alright. Don't worry. He's just gonna jump on you a little bit," he said.

"Come here! Down! Sorry. I'm so sorry. Get down! Come here. Come on," she replied.

"Hey buddy," I said.

Meanwhile I was enjoying the ridiculousness of it all. The little dog was harmless. So happy, so delighted to meet me. Why, lady, why do you apologize for this little moment of unbridled mirth? And why, sir, don't you help your wife?

I tried to imagine the kind of person who would be upset in my position, and in succeeding to do so, I turned the situation into an incident.

"I hate little dogs!" I yelled.

Both man and woman stared at me, aghast.

Why are they... oh crap, they don't know me. That's the longest sentence they've ever heard me say. Quick, do something to make it better.

"Don't, um... don't make me pet them."

Good not great. Now seal the deal.

Awkward smile.

"Oh," she said.

I think I saved their marriage.

Archie Robinson Fulton

Sometimes I go looking for something in the depths of my hard drive and find unexpected gems. Just now I was trying to find some writing prompts from a class I took in college, and I came up with this instead. I vaguely remember feeling the need to write something that could be illustrated like it was a children's book, letting myself type whatever I wanted to type, and figuring I would come back later to fill in the gaps. What follows are the unedited, unabridged contents of a Word file called "Archie Robinson Fulton," created Friday, July 13 2007 at 8:25 p.m.

Archie Robinson Fulton lived a storybook life.
The trouble was that his story never really took off.

It all started when… he ran out of scotch tape
the phone rang
the goldfish ran away
the goldfish died
the dog ran away
the power went out
the sun went down
the price of gas went up
had ink on his fingers
he was eating roasted and salted almonds
when people began caring about the environment

the problem was
Archie had no money


And so it was that



when President Bush counted on him to rise to the occasion and take his place among the Bush Library’s most trusted of leaders. There he stood out as one american who was doing everything he could to help President George Bush and First Lady Barbara Bush to define and explore the stalwart values of faith.

Archie’s life was loosly biographical to someone else
and something magical was supposed to happen.

He was on his way to an Island where his Aunt and Uncle lived
So he got on a plane and sat down.

Also, before he got on the plane (just so you know)
Everyone was waiting for a little child to get on the plane (she was afraid of the crack between the walkway and the plane, because it was 20 feet down)

That part was also loosly biographical to someone else.

He went to 10 D and sat there
and a girl came up behind him and said “excuse me, you’re in my seat”

And he said “my ticket is for 10 D,”
And she said “oh, I’m supposed to be in 11 D”

It all started when… the phone rang,
but it wasn’t for Archie Robinson Fulton. That’s, Robinson-Fulton, with a hyphen (because his parents were so uptight [that they added a hyphen]).




It was his Aunt Sally “B” (on the aformentioned phone).

“Rosemary, you’ll never believe this. Your… Uncle or whatever—your something is in prison.”

“My name isn’t Rosemary,” said Archie. “You must have me confused with someone named else named Rosemary.”

“Oh, so your name is Rosemary.”

“No.”

“Then put your mother on the phone, Archie ‘Rosemary’ Robinson-Fulton with a hyphen.”

“Okay,” said Archie “Swiss Family” Robinson-Fulton. “Rosemary, get the phone,” he said, to his mother, named Rosemary.

But his mother didn’t hear him, as she was preoccupied with Pilotes in the family room, which also had a TV.

Outside the sky looked like a desert landscape.

But whatever happened to Archie? Did he drop the phone and just leave it there, and Aunt Sally is still waiting?


Eight Legs for Archie

Archie’s sister’s name is Melanoma.

“I Precipitate You”


A Boy Named Pthomas
(his fish ran away)
(only problem is that he’s blind, and so is his seeing eye dog)

Awesome Things My Massage Therapist Says: Part 1

"Oh crap."

I Forgot To Go To The Chiropractor Today

I think that means I shouldn't have intended to go. That makes me not only forgetful, but irrational, unless I forgot that I decided not to go, in which case I'm senile. So basically my shoulder feels fine to the point that I'm worried about my brain.

Some Day This Will Be How It Was Then

Last night I booted up my computer to show my brother something. In my mind, I was doing this because I wanted to show him something on my computer, but the truth is I wanted to show him something on the Internet. I'm not too young to remember life before the World Wide Web, yet now when my computer can't get online, I feel like it's broken. Subconsciously, I'm losing the distinction between my computer and the Internet. You may resent the distinction in this case (since we had no other immediate means of accessing the Internet), and I'll admit it's not a particularly strong example of the phenomenon, but I still think it serves as a good starting point for the journey we're on. "What journey," you ask? Why, don't you feel the rocking of the boat beneath you? Didn't you know that the moment you began reading this post, you became swept up in an adventure already taking place—an adventure with me, showered, yet back in my nighttime clothes lazing about on a Tuesday afternoon, in a recliner, on a boat?

But wait, I think we might have left something behind. There on the docks—I can barely make it out. It's the term "booted." Booted is a fine example of just how far the form of a word can dissociate from the idea of a word until it attaches to another idea altogether. The term actually originated in the days when computers were gas powered and had to be kick started. How we ever got from boot to trunk to torso to chest to booty to bottom to foot to kick is beyond me, unless of course that's how precisely. This would have likely also happened on a boat, or a series of boats, requiring at least one transatlantic voyage and an encounter with one or more pirates or pirate enthusiasts/reenactors. Such a shame that you left it there. I'm starting to wonder why I brought you along.

But I guess I can't fault you for failing to recognize the significance of the word for the journey we're on. The process is, after all, so gradual that we rarely notice it happening. I can tell that you want another example—that you aren't going to be comfortable unless you have three examples. Well as it happens I got a sneak peak at the earliest stage of this process last night at my parents' house, less than 30 seconds after the beginning of this story, which now seems so long ago. En route to showing my brother something on the Internet via my computer, I opened Firefox, but the page wouldn't load. I closed Firefox and tried again. Then I tried Safari. When neither worked I reset the wireless router and restarted my computer. Still, neither program would finish loading the homepage, so I gave up on the idea and figured there must be some problem with the Internet service provider. However, after a few hours it still wasn't working, and I needed to email a job application by morning, so I drove to my friend Sam's house to get online.

Both of Sam's parents were online when I got there, but they were having bandwidth problems, so they logged off to let me send my email. They set me up with the network key and my computer showed that it had full signal, but I still couldn't get online. To troubleshoot, Sam's mom tried going back online, but her homepage wouldn't load either.

"Maybe it's Explorer," she said. But no, I didn't even have Explorer, because I'm too mac for PC. By now it was too late to go to a Starbucks or some other Internet "hot spot," and I was starting to think I'd have to drive all the way home just to send one lousy email for some lousy job I probably won't get anyway, when Sam tried the wireless network with his phone.

"My phone isn't having any trouble," he said. "I can get to Facebook, and my email... what page are you trying to load? Oh hang on. Google isn't working. Yeah, it's just Google that isn't working right now."

Oh, right. I forgot. Google is not the Internet. And that sound—that's the sound of our boat scraping against the rocky shore. You were supposed to be paying attention. But anyway we're here. "Where," you ask? That's where.

From Now On, Only Posts About Poop

Brea is complaining. I've thought about it and decided not to confirm the validity of her complaint due to the nature of her complaint which is, best case scenario, dog poop related. But is it animal cruelty related? An interesting question, given how little information I've presently divulged about the situation. It should help for you to know that her complaint regards an alleged smell coming from upstairs—a smell described to me as not unsimilar to poo or vomit coming from the direction of Bret's bedroom which happens to be, not inconsequently, the same direction as my bedroom and bathroom, which are the only reasons I am here today instead of at my parents' house 20 miles away taking care of my poo-breathed dog and watching Sunday television, which is probably competitive horse... prancing.

"It smells really bad up there," says Brea. "Have you been up there? Or... did you just... come from up there?" She sounds increasingly guarded.

But no, it wasn't me, and no, I don't smell it from my position on the possibly spider-infested couch. All I know is that I came here to clean the bathroom, put my room in order, and collect my dirty laundry, but now there is a smell I don't want to smell, which suggests a situation I don't want to deal with. And having issues I don't want to deal with is why I have this blog. Without stopping to consider how long this will take or if it will be worth it or if this will help me run out of time before I can clean the bathroom or my room, I get right to work, and I have a lot of catching up to do.

Another handy bit of information on the whole "animal cruelty" question you so off-puttingly brought up earlier is that there are two dogs locked in a kennel in Bret's room. "Kennel" is what you call a cage when you feel guilty about it. But not to worry, both dogs are "kennel" trained, I mean, "kennel trained," which means their dog wills have been broken for their own dog good. They sleep in the kennel and contentedly hang out in there for a few hours at a time when necessary, like now, while Bret is on a bike ride and Brea and I are just getting home and the back yard is occupied temporarily by another dog that is here recovering from a tussle with still another dog who was (and this is the scientific explanation) jealous of his balls. So seriously, stop freaking out and going on with this "How could you just sit there and blog about this? You're probably ignoring the fact that a dog is up there caged in with his own shit, and another dog is up there caged in with the other dog's shit" shit. (Yeah, in the past year I've learned to cuss not unlike a sailor, but I still never follow a thought in a straight line... probably also an unsailorlike behavior. Er... no, not also. And while we're on the subject, who are you to say I'm sitting? People never stand on couches? People never type while standing?)

And now a timely (narrative-saving) report from Brea: "Bret said he's coming back in a half hour, so I didn't tell him that's the reason why I called," she says. "I don't know. I mean, would you want to know?"

Yes, yes I would. However, she's right; it doesn't make any difference whether Bret knows our selfish reason for wondering when he will be back. He's on a bike ride (a situation I would never put myself in), and knowing what awaits him won't make him pedal any faster. If anything it could cause him to take mental inventory of his worldly possessions minus his bike and potentially just head southwest toward more favorable climate. Brea and I agree that something needs to be done, and soon, but if someone other than us can do something about it, and soon, then boy, that's friggin fantastic as, well, the subject at hand. (Yeah, I swore off cussing. And yeah, just for the pun.)

"Are you typing what I'm saying?" Brea asks.

taptaptap

"Is this your blog?"

taptaptap

"You should put 'Copper has big balls." Copper is the dog outside. He does have big balls. This blog is now about dog poop and dog balls.

At this point I begin reading and editing what I have so far. We can only guess how much harder you'd be laughing by now if Bret hadn't shown up when he did. I'm not saying this to be mean, but that guy pretty much ruins everything. He's like the Lance Armstrong of beating fun cancer and winning the Tour de Lame. Anyway, trapped in the flow of time as I am (what given my speed relative to Bret) I postpone the greatness and ask him if he smells anything. Bret goes upstairs to investigate.

In the interest of saving time, Bret tailors his assessment for the benefit of me and the dogs. "Yeah that's pretty gross, Wilco. That's why you poop outside in the [hell-bound] morning, [friend to lonely mothers]. Hold still."

Bret comes downstairs with Wilco and Zoe and leashes them to the end table near their auxiliary bed, about four feet away from me. Feeling the need to justify the fact that I'm not helping even a little bit, I explain what I'm doing.

"Cool. I'm pretty excited for you. do you want to clean it up instead?"

taptaptap"thanks but no"taptaptap

Bret leaves the dogs and goes upstairs with what I thought was a can of Raid but I'm trusting is a cleaning product unless I'm majorly misunderstanding what happened up there. Neither Wilco nor Zoe support the arts, and therefore they both whine incessantly as I type onward toward the universal approval and gratitude of every teacher I've ever had. The noise coming from the dogs is like the shrill metallic squeak of a rusty gate hinged to my temporal lobe, a gate that is being slowly opened forever or at least until my death. It is under the influence of this sound that I edit what I have so far and add all of the harsh language and lame jokes. I still like Wilco and Zoe, but in an "I want to fill their nostrils with popcorn kernels and put them in the doggy microwave for two minutes or until the popping sounds are ten seconds apart" sort of way.

Bret calls down from the stairs. "It's like he stuck his butt up to the cage and let it rip. Like, 'I don't want to get this all over the kennel.'"

Bret's not just talking like this to be quotable. Conversations with him really are this awesome on a regular basis. I was only kidding when I said he sticks his butt up against the metaphorical "cage" and lets it rip. And see, it is a cage and people do call it a kennel.

Usage Question: How Ironic?

Warning: this post contains an allusion to the act of human defecation disguised in fairy tale language.

It may be that the reason for my trouble sleeping tonight is traceable to the approximately three-quarters of a pint (three cups, one spoon, no bowl) of Ben & Jerry's ice cream I ate almost immediately before going to bed. This would explain both my physical discomfort (stemming from the tremendous intake of sugar and fat) and my mental unrest (stemming from my vast knowledge of nutrition and the depths to which I loathe myself).

Consequently or not, I recently had to go to the bathroom, and it was an unsatisfactory experience, beginning with my knowledge that I had earlier observed a spider scurry across the bathroom floor and under the plunger. At the time I considered turning the spider's shelter into an instrument of spider death, however, though they often forget, I am more afraid of spiders than they are of me and will usually run away unless cornered. Consequently for sure, I opted to use another bathroom for my impending misadventure.

Sparing you the gory details, I huffed and I puffed and I clogged the toilet. Thus came an end to my truce with the plunger spider.

I'll Sleep When I'm Blog

Is your cat a nighttime snacker? Does your dog sleep through the night? About how many night owl motorcyclists would you estimate live in your neighborhood? Find out the answers to these and other exciting questions each and every night on Insomnia.

Tonight's episode: "Sleeping Dogs Tell No Lies." Tonight's question: How long does your dog lie drooling between coughing fits? Answer: 38 minutes. Bonus question: does the light from your computer screen cause her to get up and breathe hot poo breath into your face? (Hint: of cat litter)

Goodnight. Sleep Tight. Etc.

Before I dive into the topic at hand, it probably isn't necessary to address why I took a one-year hiatus from blogging.

So I'm writing this post from bed, if you must know, and I'm going into this night's sleep with a high level of confidence that nothing is going to bite me or suck my blood between now and morning, or at least that if anything does, it will be by chance, not on schedule.

A few days ago Garret and I were discussing this or that video game when there was a lull in the conversation, a lull I broke with the question, "hey, have you been getting bit lately, like an unusual amount?"

Garret looked at me like we'd been watching Marmaduke for twenty minutes and I'd asked if he'd ever thought about setting himself on fire with Sterno gel and a brulee torch.

"Yes," he said. "Yes I have."

And he didn't stop there. In a shameless display of contempt for my ability to fall asleep, he submitted two ready theories: fleas or bed bugs.

You d-bag, I thought.

I'm too tired to elaborate now on why I think both theories are bunk. Suffice to say, I think a spider nest hatched inside the couch and we're being slowly digested each night as we watch House.

But that's down there and I'm up here, so goodnight.

Hello? Is This Thing On?

A Text Message Transcript:

Self: I don't like delta spirit

Samwise: I don't like you. You are the first person I have ever heard express that opinion, and it is a false opinion. I told you to buy the old one first. FYI.