Canis Latrine

The two-legged, one-eyed dog lumbers along its chosen path, seemingly oblivious to any and all surroundings while onlookers and opponents alike gawk, scream, and strike the beast with the utmost disdain; for a canine erect and purposefully purposeless is unsettling indeed, yet the wrath of others is of no concern to an upright hound, so it continues unrestrained, unchecked, and unimpressed. Where the dog is going and where the dog has been neither concerns nor confounds its would-be oppressors, as what they crave is the catharsis bestowed in destroying the unknown; and so they stab, bash, slash, shoot, and singe this walking anomaly with all their might, yet the morbid curiosity remains unscathed. It is not until cell phones begin to ring, echoing the screams of loved ones near, far, and wide that the denizens of this fine place come to realize the inherent folly of attacking that which defines its existence in terms of sublimation; and even then, the rubes fail to grasp the ulterior significance of the dog's leaden safari.

And the dog says la, la, la, la, la, la, la.

Stevie Nicks - Stand Back

Of Mice and Mazes

Suppose there is a mouse, and that mouse is placed inside a maze with two possible exits. Of these two exits, one purportedly leads to a block of cheese; the other, death, though not necessarily that of the mouse. This mouse locates an exit, only to discover that the exit in question harbors no cheese. The rodent is then sent through 999 additional mazes, each of which offers a different layout with the same proposed outcomes. Over the course of running through these mazes, the mouse has come to learn that regardless of which exit is chosen, the result is the same as it has always been: one of two faces, no cheese. Two faces, one death, no cheese. Two faces, one death, no cheese. Two faces, one death, no cheese. No cheese, no cheese, NO CHEESE. The mouse is then placed into one last maze, a tiebreaker of sorts, yet at this point, the mouse no longer cares about the cheese whatsoever. Go figure. 

Psychedelic Service Announcement (PSA!)

Enter Mystery Substance X

You may be asking yourself, Hey K, when did you start drinking windshield washer fluid? First of all, screw you. Secondly, if you must know, I started sometime in late 2009. Lastly, and sadly, it isn't anything of the sort.

Enter Coconut Wave

Do you like coconuts? Like all reasonable people, you do. Do you like lemons and/or limes? Probably, as statistics show that 86% of people who aren't child molesters enjoy at least one of the two. Do you like carbonated, artificially flavored beverages? Assuming you have a soul, the answer is yes. Do you associate coconuts, lemons, and limes with electric youth blue? Debbie Gibson sure as fuck does, and so should you.

In the end, how could such a drink be anything other than liquified orgasm? Surprisingly (and I hope you're sitting down for this, Mrs. Forbes) the net result is a vile concoction the likes of which haven't been tasted since you last gave C.H.U.D. a blow job.* Put another way, Coconut Wave is the soft-drink equivalent of shitty music blogs. Put yet another way, if I smashed your skull upon the curb, collected its gooey contents into a blender, mixed it up with a cup of cilantro and two cups of cobra livers and fed it to your daughter through a penis-shaped straw, she'd still opt for that muck instead of Coconut Wave.

Just saying.



* Speaking of blows, that was low of me to compare the two. Sorry, C.H.U.D.