papa porcus

papa porcus, originally uploaded by Blue_beard.

I didn't really do this with the intention of being offensive, it was a reference to a painting by bosch. But, eh...let me offend the rest of you while i'm at it.

Red-headed mexican jewish negro liberal. With Lupus. Falling into the blades of a helicopter.

Dice games

I was reading a post about beer pong a few minutes ago, and I remembered this shit ass drinking game we played in college. It was called boxhead, and it was a dice game (but it was also a box game). I can't remember all the rules, but there are a few things I do know. First, and painfully foremost, was the box in question. If you rolled an 11 or 12, you had to put the box on your head, and everyone HAD to refer to you as boxhead. We were adamant on this point. The box was about this big:
But the box didn't have any kittens in it. Holy shit, the game would be so much worse if it was called box-with-5-kittens-in-it-head. Oh god, the scratching, the mewling. But I digress.

When the box was on your head, you had to drink whenever anyone else had to drink, which was what every other roll of the dice made various other players do. Like circle of death, every roll had its own appropriate drinking command. But it wasn't bad enough that the boxhead had to drink at a near continuous pace - no - people took to slapping and hitting the boxhead, and throwing things at you, because in your tiny cardboard prison you were completely unaware of your surroundings, and thusly unable to defend yourself in any appreciable manner. You were only able to be freed of boxhead status when another player rolled an 11 or 12, and was forced into the box.

Once someone threw a baseball at me while I was the boxhead, and it was awful. Not threw as in nolan ryan wind up with your leg all hiked up and your hat pulled low kind of throw, but more of a relaxed overhand lob. However, not being able to dodge or react in any way to being struck by a baseball makes it oh so much worse, even when you are armed with some handy corrugated helmetry. I'm pretty sure the resulting violence put an end to my collegiate boxhead career. For the record, boxhead was a much more rewarding game than beer pong. Instead of competition and some level of rudimentary skill building to go along with your drinking, boxhead gave you a tiny dash of humiliation and a big ole' heaping slice of beat the shit out of that guy with a box on his head, which is delightfully cathartic.

Conversations I am being paid very little to have

ME: Hello, thank you for calling, what can I help you with?
HER: Hi, I'm looking for a book, and it's called having moose for dinner.
ME: What sort of moose are we talking about here?
HER: Huh?
ME: Moose the animal, or mousse the food?
HER: Y'know, like a moose.
ME: Moose as in the 4 legged moose animal who lives in the forest and may or may not have antlers, or mousse as in the tasty chocolate dessert food which you would eat after a meal.
HER: Oh! The animal.

And the best part? The book in question was a picture book for children teaching them about homophones with silly pictures of misunderstood words.

Basement time!

A short tour of my basement, in which the things that are too ugly for company to see have been banished by the boo. Now, I realize fully that these things are ugly, and aren't appropriate for display purposes unless you're living inside of a piece of furniture, or under a large pile of moving blankets. But I still want them up somewhere, for some reason. Case in point:


This is the Egypt rug. It isn't a rug at all, but a wall hanging. It looks and feels remarkably like a rug in all ways. But it isn't one, according to the maker. It is a wall hanging. Look at it, gaze deep within Tutankhamen's mysteries, feel his deep and inviting Knapp. mmmmmmm.
But seriously, this thing sucks. And I love it.

Next we have the horse. This is even more mystifying to me than the rug, because at least the rug has some sort of camp value going for it. But this is clearly mass produced faux-art asscrap. And yet, in the basement it rests, be-necklaced and under my domestic immunity. I think the only reason the horse hasn't been at the root of a more serious conflict is because of the existence of the monkey.

The monkey is this little gorilla statue thing I have had since college. It looks something like this:
I have no idea what, if any, the original purpose of this thing was. At one point I thought it may be a very fancy candle, because I found what looked to be a wick on his head, under his hat. But it turned out to be metal, leaving me at square one. It had a sign that said party time, and a wicker hat, and a tiny can of beer. It is smoking a corn cob pipe, and looking very content. When I got it, I had no idea what to do with it, so it became my incense burner. I just put the sticks of incense in the tiny can he was holding, and viola. Over the years it has lost most of its accessories, and has slowly become covered in ash, dust and grime.

The reason that I made a drawing of the monkey, instead of showing a photo is because the monkey is currently hidden. It all started when I hid it in boo's pillow-case, because I knew that she hated it with a fervor. So she responded by putting it in my sock drawer, and so on for a few months. But I have hidden it so well, so carefully, that it has stayed dormant for at least 6 months, maybe 10. In this down time, I am fairly certain that an on sight death warrant has been issued for poor Mr. Monkey statue.

I will defend to the death my half of the rights to the decoration of our home, and I will do so on the battle ground whose name is party time gorilla.

Bibelgeschichten

--Click for full size--

Jonah played, and asked if Detroit was ready to rock.

Dr. Dan explained that this flask was full of acid, and if he didn't pour it on an intern he would lose his tenure.