Trader Joe's Tooth Fiasco

**Warning! This true story contains graphic elements!**

The old Albertson's is gone.

In its stead, a glorious beacon,
A shiny, gilded destination sits:

Trader Joe's.

The place with the organic lager,
The blue label Samuel Smith's.
I had not drunk from it
in quite a spell.

Needless to say,
I was stoked.

So excited was I
To sit and sip from this
Wonderful brew
That I did not wait to sit
Before I sipped.

Nay.

I popped the top
With gusto,
With exuberance,
With almighty excitement.

A hiss escaped,
The pressure released.
I leaned in close
That I should quench my thirstiness,
My parched gullet,
My desert mouth.

And then, alas!

My shoulder twitched,
And bits of tooth
Fell in the sink.

This was not fun.

Yes, but laugh,
Dear friends,
It is O.K.
For I have learned
A valuable lesson.

Henceforth, I
Shall always drink beer,
That revitalizing elixir,
That nectar of the wise,
That libation of the Gods,

From out of a glass.

Chim Chim Goes Shopping

IEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!

Where are you, bananas? Where are the bananas?

I want bananas. BANANAS! BANANAS!!!

I will choke you. Where are the Bananas?!

How can you not have any BANANAS?!!

ooooOOOOOOOHHHHH-AAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!

Bananas! B-A-N-A-N-A-S! Bananas!!

I cannot find the fucking bananas! Where are your bananas?!

I can and will kill you. Where are you hiding the bananas?

Bananas! BANANAS!!!!!!!!!

I will eat your face. Give me bananas!

I don't want cheese. Give me a banana! DAMMIT!!

Why won't you give me a banana? BANANA!!

(Finally finds a banana).

BANANA! BANANA! BANANA!!

I love Bananas!

stupid monkey

One Day

I will wear only bathrobes and ride only horses.
I will be Lord of the Hummingbirds.
I will learn to fly short distances and make a lot of money delivering pizza.
I will name my first child Maximum, and my second child Wilbur.
I will fold all my laundry...with my mind.
While everyone is asleep, I will merge Myspace and Facebook and call it FaceSpace.
I will grow my hair long and shave a hammer into my chest hair.
I will hump every dog that humps me.
I will rollerblade down Broadway wearing only cellophane and a blue tarpaulin cape.
I will eat only applesauce and drink only absynthe.
I will wear a thong on the outside of my tux.
While everyone is asleep, I will outlaw the phrase, 'been there, done that.'
I will make banality a crime.

Children will bathe without being asked to.
Women will come with an instruction manual.
Alarms will go off when no one laughs at your jokes.
Anonymous public flatulence will be punishable by flogging (come on, just own up to it).
A college degree will be necessary to get into college.
Convicted frotteurs will become astronautical janitors.
Penitentiaries will become even more dehumanizing with the invention of 'see-through' concrete.
Jell-O will only be available in one color...black.

One day I will defeat the internet.

What If Reality and Unreal Tournament coalesced?

What if, during a peace accord, Condi Rice was shredded by Brutalis' flak cannon?

What if, during a press conference, Tony Snow was fatally enlightened by Azure's shock beam?

What if, during public fellatio, Kim Jon-il was carved up by Othello's green shaft?

What if, while stealing signals under his natty sweatshirt, Bill Belichick was made extra-crispy by Mr. Crow's lightning gun?

What if, while playing fetch with Barney, George W. Bush tripped on his own grenade?

What if, during a public service announcement, French Stewart was mowed down by Gkublok's mini gun?

What if, while polishing his teeth, Mitt Romney was obliterated by Goth Girl's rocket?

What if, while selling African children, Dick Cheney was mauled by Riker's shield gun?

What if Michael Richards made a crater?

What if Howie Mandel was slimed by Axon's goop?

What if, while filming his next masterpiece of retardation, Uwe Boll was pummeled by Drekorig's redeemer missle?

What if, while playing a kazoo, Fran Drescher had a hole put in her by Scarab's sniper rifle?

What if Vince Vaughn could not avoid my shock combo?

What then?

Dream Elements From Which I Awoke (and The Songs That Accompanied Them)

Where did all this ectoplasm come from?
(All that she wants / is another baby / she's gone tomorrow boy)

Wait a second, this canoe is underwater...
(We didn't start the fire / it was always burnin' since the world's been turnin')

Dear God, will this burning hallway ever end?
(Momma's little baby loves shortnin' shortnin' / Mamma's little baby loves shortnin' bread)

Everyone around me is suddenly holographic...
(I will do most anything that you want me to x2 / But I can't go for that, no, no-can-do x4)

This house is enormous and beautiful, I wonder who lives here?
(Ooh I want to be there in my city / Oh, Oh, Whoa...)

This woman's grip feels like ice...
(In the darkest depths of Mordor, I met a girl so fair...)

What happened to the ground? Ah, crap, I am so totally falling!
(These eyes cry every night / for you / these arms long to hold you / hold you again)

This elephant is way easier to ride than I thought it would be!
(Get up (get on up) x2 / stay on the scene (get on up) / like a sex machine (get on up))

My doppelganger is chasing me and he's got a knife!
(You wore out your welcome / with random precision / blown on the steel breeze)

Am I really the only one at this reunion that's naked?
(Georgia / Georgia, no peace I find / just an old sweet song / keeps Georgia on my mind)

Why is this supermarket outside?
(I don't care if Monday's blue / Tuesday's gray and Wednesday too / Thursday I don't care about you)

Aw shit, I'm late for work again!
(God go make me act a fool (up in here x2) / God go make me lose my cool (up in here x2)

Creative (and Mostly Problematic) Uses for Yippy Dogs

Bicycle horn
Football
Alarm Clock
Brooch
Earrings
Snarling change for those problem customers
Hood ornament
Midget dog-sled team
Burrito that bites back
Tribble understudy
Christmas ornament
Ammo
Fake boobs
Mentally challenged child's hamster
Poop factory
Mine detector
Poison tester
Animatronic slippers
Trusty steed (for a Smurf)
Sanity thief
Paper shredder
Ping-Pong ball storage device
Velcro transportation apparatus
Flea catcher
Accoutrement

The Mongoose's Orgasm

Sad days friends, sad days. Terrible tragedy has struck the Mile High state tonight, in a tremendous sonic outburst of cataclysmic proportions. As always, Augustus Foot (intrepid reporter) is on the scene. And let me tell you the devastation here is, well, devastating.

People running in the streets, broken glass, honking cars. In other words, bedlam.

What happened? How could a city celebrating the first trip to the Fall Classic for the Rockies suddenly find itself in a state of utter panic?

I will tell you. The Mongoose has struck again.

Tonight, before her show at the Pepsi Center, Celine Dion succumbed to an orgasm of soul-shattering magnitude. She was somewhere backstage, and it is, at this time, unclear whether she acted alone or utilized the help of accomplices.

But one things is for sure. The good people of Denver have been molested. Wronged. Simply attacked.

The caterwaul reverberated off the mountains, and sped through the streets of LoDo. Windows exploded, pets fainted, the elderly vomited, and hundreds upon thousands of ears are bleeding.

It is confusing and atrocious here. Debris litters the sidewalk as far as the eye can see. and many fans, anxiously awaiting with bated breath for the Dreaded Mongoose to take the stage, have been betrayed beyond comprehension. The wounded are being trampled by the fleeing hoard. And there seems to be no end in sight.

The perpetrator has fled. Her caravan sped out of sight, shortly after the first victims staggered from the arena. We are still waiting for word from local law enforcement on how they plan to proceed.

Wait...What's that? Oh...

Folks, it looks like we are out of time. In closing, I would like to lend a personal thought. No distance is too great. I fear another tremor may rock this city before The Mongoose has reached the outskirts of town. Please, you cannot be too cautious. Buy earplugs, stuff cotton in your ears, and seal your doors with duct tape.

Celine Dion may strike again. Let us not be caught unawares.

Signing off,

Augustus Foot

Professor Polymath's Rules of Retail

As devoted readers of this column will no doubt remember, my previous communique, "Ants That Wear Pants: Surreality & the Rhyming Couplet," examined that grand and eloquent theatre of stupidity known as The Human Condition. This month, I turn my All-Seeing Eye to a little understood realm of mortal man, where I hope to elucidate the confusing encounters of a strange subculture given to paroxysms of hunting and gathering:

Retail.

At a later date I shall unveil in its entirety my thesis. For now, it is hoped that you, dear reader, will permit me to simply lay out the facts as I see them, verily in all their pithy glory. (I use the microcosm of the bookstore, as it seems an oddity among merchandisers, mostly bereft of the arrogance and dehumanized condition of the haberdashery).

As always, there is a dichotomy. On the one hand, there are "book sellers." On the other, there are "book buyers." As I am wont to do (and judging from the heaps of mail around my ankles you, dear reader, enjoy it as well), I shall become a participant, and give an unbiased, uninhibited first-person account of things as I see them. Inclined as I am to utilize the left side of my brain, please permit me to use lists.

Of the Book Buyer:

1. I know not for what I seek; what is it?
2. I know for what I seek, but cannot remember the title, the author, the subject, or the general appearance; what is it?
3. I am in a dreadful hurry; please ignore everyone else and wait on me. (Often combined with 1, and/or 2).
4. I have not bathed in days; do you have a toilet?
5. I heard about a book on the radio several months ago; what was it?
6. I seek a book about water, where should I look? (Often combined with 4).
7. I seek that one book, you know, that one?
8. I do not realize that I am schizophrenic, please be nice to me!
9. I am not schizophrenic, but it would be easier for everyone if I was!
10. Do you sell hot-dogs?

Of the Book Seller:

1. No.
2. Was it "The Secret?" No?
3. I am not your monkey.
4. Please stop peeing on my floor.
5. Was it "The Secret?" No? Buy whatever Oprah is recommending.
6. I am going to ignore you because your halitosis is truly offending.
7. I know I'm a genius, thanks. No, you cannot have my phone number.
8. *softly* hey you...*a little louder* Hey You...*loudly* THE PAY PHONE IS OUTSIDE!!
9. I will only share my knowledge with you if I am adequately reimbursed.
10. Yes.

Even to the untrained eye in the head containing the mind of a degenerate sub-human it is obvious that more research is required. Why does neither party revolt against their co-dependence? Why do they not realize they are absurd comedy of the lowest possible denominator? The answer, dear reader, is simple.

*ahem* At least it shall be when it is written. You cannot boil water with your mind, as I always say! Until then, feel free to check back soon, when I reveal my latest treatise: "Feasts of Burden: Why We Should Eat Only Donkeys, Mules, and Other Pack Animals."

Intellectually Yours,

P. G. Polymath, PhD.

A Note on the Comb-Over

Balding men,
Please lose your hair with dignity
Shave your head

The future is yours
Let go of those wispy strands of a bygone era
Help them die
Let them die

The skullet is amoral
No length in back can replace the canopy
Please shave your head

We do not mind your tortoise freckles
We do not mind your sunspots
We like your reflective noggin

Polish it well

You must guard against folly
And ward away farce
You are so much more
Than strands of seaweed hanging limply from a rock

Your destiny lies without hair
None
Not a whisker

Consider the peeled garlic clove
Or the hard-boiled egg
Now consider a sticky jawbreaker covered in straw
Two are natural and one is an accident

You are not an accident

You are a man
A being capable of choice
Choose wisely
And shave your head

Walk forward boldly
And stop clinging to your past
Be brave
Let it go

We will still be here
We will still love you
But only when you accept your fate
And claim your throne

Please shave your head

Locker Room Etiquette

Sometimes it is funny, and sometimes a little unnerving how established behavioral conventions completely disappear inside a locker room. For the fat, hairy-footed stockbroker, removing his clothing is apparently much more than a metaphor. He has been given the green light to do deep knee bends and touch his toes, fully nude, inches from my face while I lace my sneakers. How outlandish, I must wonder, is his fully-clothed life? Does he have no concept of personal space (and the invasion thereof) when he is clothed? Why not do your naked aerobics in the comfort of your own home? Being unclothed and naked is natural, freeing, and beautiful (as long as you don't stare too critically). Again, I have to wonder what magic vortex does one walk through when one leaves the gym floor, and enters the Locker Room, and why do I seem to be impervious to it? Who is this strange man, large and covered in tattoos, that felt no impetus to converse with me, until he had removed his clothes? I do not come to the locker room to search for intimacy. I go there because that's where I store my shit.

There are the obvious exhibitionists, but that's easy to explain. They like to be looked at, and so some oblige and stare and thus encourage the extrovert to keep on exhibiting. Whatever. That's not what I'm getting at. Where is that wet bar of soap, that elusive explanation for what drives a man to shed his socialization along with his trousers? There is no easy answer.

In high school, I would frequent the YMCA, for their gym was nice and reasonably cheap. I could work out in relative anonymity and quiet, and focus my mind. Until, one fateful day I was changing in the locker room, stuffing my sweaty clothes away and turning to leave, when, out of the corner of my eye who should I see, fully nude, weighing himself on the scale, but my painting teacher. He noticed me (and my friend Peter who I was with) and had the decency to put on a threadbare pair of fruit-of-the-looms before accosting us.

"What are you guys doing here?" His hands were on his hips, and he had not finished drying himself off.

"Uh, you know, we just worked out, and now, um, we're, uh, gonna leave," I said.

Palpable silence, but my painting professor continued breathing deeply as though he'd finished running miles, arms akimbo, and smiling like he'd just been given a trophy.

My point is this: he never said much of anything in class, when it would have been appropriate to do so. There were the obvious critiques of whatever piece I was working on, but no casual conversation, before or after class.

The trend continues into adulthood. I thought it was hormones of the terminally awkward teenage years flooding my brain and making me hypersensitive to uncomfortable situations. Now I see that there is an entire subculture too which I am not privy and will never be anything beyond a casual observer. Therefore, I can only guess at the motivations of the initiated.

I can also declare, to a large degree of certainty, that the trend is specific to males. I asked the Girlfriend to investigate this peculiar phenomenon in the Women's Locker Room, and her response was, "there are a lot of boobies, but not much talking." Very helpful. How far will the real estate agent let himself slide? Will he, when he has been intoxicated by the aroma of foot and groin and Lysol, one day accidentally reach forward and shake my penis instead of my hand? I fear so. What then, will be my reaction? Eye contact of a fierce nature that says, "hey man, WAY inappropriate," or will I punch him on the nose? Neither. Behavioral conventions have not completely eroded in the locker room but, sans clothing, the day draws near when I foresee my strength to continually resist failing, and then sad will be the day when we sniff each other in greeting as do dogs.

What is the Point?

First of all, the name of this blog is meant to be nothing other than linguistically pleasing. Try saying it several times, very fast, in a row. Kind of nice, no? The more you say it, the less it sounds like English. I feel a bit like a leprechaun when I chant it, but then again I kind of look like one too. The word 'fork' is much the same. Repeating 'fork' multiple times makes me feel like a viking. Then again, I look like a viking also. Hmm...I don't think this blog will involve any photos of me.