Strove to find a way to punch people in the face by using the Internet.


Goblins Will Come Out, Etc.
Here now – look here:


Notice the difference? With regular Barbasol, you get a cool thing about manliness on your can. With the Barbasol what’s made for sensitive skin, you get nothing.

Godammit, am I not a man, just because I like a little lanolin in my foam? I know what this omission implies, and I don’t like it. I have a skin condition — a medically diagnosed skin condition. I don’t deserve this kind of discrimination.

Heh heh, that sounds like a dirty euphemism — “Hey baby, I like a little lanolin in my foam, if you know what I’m sayin’. C’mon over here and sit on big poppa’s lap.”

Anyway, I noticed this when I was out running errands this weekend and thought I’d use the Internet here to clamor some for justice. You hear that, Barbasol? No justice, no peace.

Hey, check this out — when I was out running around I saw a haiku in the Wal-Mart parking lot:


This weekend marked a big evolutionary leap for me. First off, a few months ago, I bought a Palm Pilot thingy, mostly because I wanted to be all cybernetic and technological like Bonner, who's always yammering on about this kind of shit like some kinda sophisticated la-de-da robot. A few hundred dollars later, I was the proud owner of the world’s most expensive shopping list doohickey.

Really, I thought this thing was going to change my life, organize my shit and make me cool. But up until this last weekend all I ever did with it is scrawl barely comprehensible notes to myself that said stuff like “HOT DOGS.” Then I’d go to Publix and pull it out in front of the hot dogs or whatever and think to myself, “Ah yes, hot dogs,” while attracting the attention of old hippies who desperately grabbed at relevance by approving of my modernity while simultaneously seizing the opportunity to disparage how much technology ruins our lives with all of its comforts and conveniences.

And it is more convenient, I guess, writing “HOT DOGS” on a little computer, as compared to the grueling task of writing it on the back of an unpaid phone bill.

But no, now things are different between me and my electronical grocery list. And these changes were flown in on the wings of the Wal-Mart haiku. You see, I parked my truck next to the haiku, and was standing there marveling at it, when I thought, “I sure would like to preserve the magic.” And then I remembered my Palm Pilot has a damn camera stuck in it! I took the pic, and revelation smacked into my frontal lobe like Pegasus smacking into a unicorn: Not only could I preserve the magic, I could use my gadget to surreptitiously photograph average citizens and make fun of them on the Internet.

Hot damn! It was on!

I rolled out my plan at the Laundromat, and soon discovered that a Palm Pilot takes shitty-ass pictures.



This lady has pink hair, but big whoop. The thing I really wanted to document is an unfortunate blur — a T-shirt that says “WORLD’S GREATEST DAD.”

A brave move, pink-haired lady, even on wash day. I regret my Web site doesn’t stand as the tribute you deserve.

Disappointment struck again when the wheelchair man wasn’t at the laundry. I wanted to get a picture of him, and he’s ALWAYS tooling around outside the laundry. Seriously, there’s a retirement home down the street (which, incidentally, has a retention pond next to it that’s chock full of little three-pound bass — fun and easy to catch, if you ignore the No Fishing sign and the impotent complaints of the very elderly), so it’s not unusual to see old folks truckin' around the area on their scooters and Little Rascals and such. But his guy is there every damn time I go. He picks a spot, pulls up alongside the road and just sits there, watching the cars go by.

A few weeks ago I was the only one at the Laundromat. I was kicking back on the toolbox in the bed of my truck, reading and waiting for my clothes to dry, when I saw him making his rounds. “Good ol’ wheelchair man,” I thought. “His ass is always out here.”

This day the wheelchair man bypassed all his usual car-watching spots. He patrolled the sidewalk in front of the laundry for a while, then caught me by surprise by gunning the engine and crossing the grassy little slope separating the sidewalk from the Laundromat parking lot. I was watching out of the corner of my eye, thinking he was going to eat it, and wondering if I’d be inclined to help when he did (look, old people need to learn about their limitations, and it’s a cruel world, OK?). But he made it, and immediately took up a spot on the other side of the lot from me, swiveling around and fixing me with a stare.

I started getting a little uncomfortable, every so often peeking over the edge of my book to see if he was still staring at me. He was.

This went on for a few minutes, and I was wondering if I was going to have to go over there and give him a smack. He made his move first, though — reaching over and pushing the button on a tape deck affixed to his steering column. And I shit you not, as soon as he did the first Black Sabbath album started blasting out. Loud. And this dude is like 100 years old.


So you can see why I’d be disappointed that he wasn’t there the day I figured out my PDA camera. But I sucked it up, finished my laundry and went to get some groceries over at the Publix.

Fortune favors the bold, as you know, and lady luck soon caressed me with her bosoms, as I spotted my old-ass buddy cruising the aisles. He caught me by surprise, but I managed a quick snap:


Notice the speed — he’s a damn blur! He really must have tricked that thing out. No way it’s stock.

When I was leaving he had taken up a post outside Publix. Not enough action at the Laundromat I reckon.


I also took this picture of some ribs I got from Terrell's. Not to make fun of, but because I just like them.


Oh, you know what? Based on all the outrage directed at the condition of my stove, I picked up some CLR at Publix. It came recommended, and I planned to give that thing a good cleaning and throw a pic up here for everyone to marvel over.


But look at what the goddamn CLR did to my grease-catcher! It left the rust and crud undisturbed, but ate the important shit right up! What the fuck? Seriously, it totally dissolved the infrastructure, leaving behind a thin crud shell. Is this an improvement?

For comparison, here’s my stove, pre-CLR:


Okay, maybe it’s a little gross, if you’re a girl or an OCD-sufferer or some other kind of big whiny baby. But what you’re looking at is actually recently scrubbed, with soap and steel wool and everything. I swear! It might look like any ol’ food scum, but it’s not — it’s actually congealed and hardened food scum, buffered and polished to a fine sheen. Shit, if my grease catcher is anything to go by it might be the only thing holding the stove together. It’s an important part of my kitchen’s ecosystem, like tundra.

I ain’t gonna listen to you uptight crackers and yankees no more, for real. If I keep fucking with that stuff, picking at it and applying all manner of infernal chemicals and unnatural cleaning devices to it, I could end up with a real sorry mess instead of just the weird smoke that comes out of the burners if I turn them up past medium. THAT I’ve learned to deal with, you know? Like, you don’t go picking at the earth’s crust, for god’s sake — goblins will come out, everyone knows that.



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