Arbitrary

What there is to say:

First

I had a strange dream last night. In this nocturnal emission, I was sitting on a chair in the house that covered my head for a good portion of my youth. I was sitting in this chair, watching some distorted version of Harry and the Hendersons that played on a thirteen inch, black and white television, except that, in this version, Harry had been trying to break into the Henderson's tool shed for some reason, and Mr. Henderson shot the sasquatch in the back of the neck. The shot hadn't killed Harry; in fact, the beast continued his barrage for tools with a renewed sense of urgency.

As I watched this monstrosity, I had been eating saltines from a Tupperware box. At my side was a tub of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!, and I utilized it as dipping sauce for my crackers. Later on, I put the saltines down, and began to dip Kellogg's Frosted Flakes* into the butter substitute.

From the basement steps, arose my mother. (What you have to understand is that my mother, in addition to being an elementary school teacher, taught piano lessons after work. She was odd like that.) She emerged from the evening's final lesson, and trailing behind her was the last student, who happened to be an individual I currently work with.

I have no idea where I intended to go with this, but it was a weird dream.

Second

Personally, I don't see the allure of suicide. Honorable, dishonorable; whatever, I just don't feel the urge to die. Having said that, if I wanted to go, I'd like to go via gratuitous consumption of hard alcohol, the poison of choice being dependent upon whichever brand of firewater fit my suicidal thoughts, probably Rumple Minze. The method? Shots, and lots of them, all in tune with the G.I. Joe animated film from 1987. That's right, you heard me.

Every time the phrase 'Yo Joe!' is shouted, uttered, gasped, or farted, I'd take a shot** (for the record, I'd have to buy at least three bottles beforehand). Presuming that I were still conscious near the end, Duke's farewell 'Yo.....Joe' would require a double shot, because I'm a credit to my country like that.

Third

Devil's Crush is, as I've noted several times in the past, the greatest pinball video game ever made, and I'd like to take this moment to cordially invite the King of Video Games, Mr. Todd Rogers, to go fuck himself. Look, I understand that he's the best of the best (even if it would kill Billy Mitchell to hear me say that, let alone write it), and that's he's got a grudge against Mother Nature and whatnot, but by achieving the highest possible score available, 999999900, he has pretty much destroyed the need for anyone to strive to new heights. Sure, beating the crap out of some dyslexic kid's score while the two of you hang out in your parents' basement is cool, but shouldn't we have bigger dreams?


Fourth

Whilst on the topic of games, I want to alert you, dear reader, to a game that single-handedly destroyed my lofty notions of having a fulfilling life.



You know, that picture doesn't really do the Godzilla Game justice. Let's go for another angle; off to the side, douche. If the inherent awesomeness of this game still eludes you, please allow me the honor of intervening on your behalf. You had four players, each of whom would select a color (hot pink, jizz yellow, lime green, or fag hag orange) to represent his or her team of... rocket ships. After that exciting prefatory exercise, each player would place the appropriate number of pieces upon the circular board, and take turns spinning the marker around, to see how many times that person would activate the rotating board. Then, the tension would build as players waited for Godzilla to randomly pop out and snatch one of the rockets from its cheap, plastic mooring.

Was it your rocket that got munched, or another player's piece? That was up to Godzilla, and how did Godzilla decide his course of action? Who the fuck knows! The game was utterly pointless, to the extent that I'd be hard-pressed to determine whether just thinking about this game or, say, Terry Gilliam's Jabberwocky, gives me the greater headache.

Fifth

Props to you, Brian Grimm. I've never had the courage to don a bike helmet decorated with a floppy, bulbous dildo***, but you sure do, and I applaud that kind of machismo. Golly, what are those dark spots on your shit? Perhaps I shouldn't ask, but you understand where I'm coming from, right? Of course you do; you have a fuckin' dildo atop your head.

I dig the unsolicited advertisement for Cap'n Crunch in the background, too.




Sixth

I love it when people make cute assumptions about life. The venerable John Edgar WIdeman once moaned:

Is war a preferable alternative. If a child's afraid of the dark, do we solve the problem by buying her a gun.

You buy the child a switchblade, so that she may slice herself wide open; either to remove the fear, or to allow the darkness greater access.

See? I can write cute things, too.


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Real Solution #9


* Also known as Frosties, for the Commonwealth Kids.

** This also makes a fantastic drinking game for a cadre of giggly twelve year old girls.

*** Or is it a dong?