I Crack Me Up

In the metropolis where I live, there's a place called "Bob Goff Heating and Air Conditioning".

I wonder if he has a brother named Jack.

Daily Journal

Loyal readers of this blog will no doubt be aware of the situation concerning me and my archenemy, otherwise known as "Mom", who unilaterally decreed that I should remain in my room until I capitulate, and see "the errors of my ways". Following is a day by day account of my exciting and true adventures battling the evil warlord who imprisoned me in my very own bedroom for merely exercising my freedom of speech.

Monday. Day the first. Starting daily record, in case I don't make it. Epic battle of wills begins. Must remain tower of strength, but with no big screen TV, odds are not good.

Will I ever see the sun again? Think I'm losing weight.

Tuesday. Day the second. Still confined in room, except for quick seven-hour break to attend school. Trading one prison for another.

Lovely bluebird remains perched outside my window, symbol of eternal hope and beauty, singing his joyous song of freedom. Wish I had my be-be gun.

DVD player removed, left with only basic cable. My evil overlord's cruelty knows no bounds.

Wednesday. Day the third. This solitude is driving me mad. What I wouldn't give to fill my lungs with fresh air, or to feel the thrill of tossing a cinder block from an overpass. The simple joys of life I miss most of all.

Only three oatmeal cookies for dessert. Feel faint.

Thursday. Day the fourth. Granted limited release to general house area and grounds. Apology demanded by evil warlord, i.e., Mom, but not forthcoming. Must remain strong. Her underestimation of me will be her downfall.

Friday. Day the fifth. Apology delivered, but had fingers crossed. All's fair in war.

Extra scoop of ice cream for dessert. Evil nemesis, aka "Mom", bested once again.

                                                              Artist's rendition of Evil Warlord.

Grounded

I keep telling my mom that I don't like beans in my chili, but what does she do? She puts beans in my chili! How many times have I mentioned it? Countless.

So we sit down to dinner the other night, and as she places the bowl in front of me, she says, "Here's your chili just the way you like it. With beans!"

But I don't like beans in my chili, I say. Since when? she says. Since forever, I say. But you've always liked beans, she says. To which I replied, "There's only one kind of bean I like: lez-beans!"

Man, I never saw my mom so mad. Not even that time I filled her shampoo bottle with honey. She ordered me to march to my room, which I did, like a stormtrooper, and that did not make her happy, either, and she told me that I would be grounded for a week, and if I thought I'd spend the entire time in my room watching Bruce Campbell movies, I'd have another thing coming. Ouch!

So here I am, stranded in my room, with no human comforts except for basic cable, which sucks. Mother , how can thee be so cruel?

However, I did see an X-Files episode the other day that was extremely awesome. And you know who was in it? Bruce Campbell!

 

The awesome Bruce Campbell

 

Freda and The Beatles

My mom made me watch this documentary called Good Ol' Freda.

Documentaries and I usually don't mix, but my mom promised me a neopolitan ice cream sandwich if I didn't get ants in my pants.

Turns out Freda was a secretary for a band called The Beatles. Never heard of them, but my mom says they were pretty good. She said she used to have all their records, whatever that means.

There were four of them: John Lemon, Bingo Starr, the cute one, and the one I forget. They started out in a club that was really a basement, singing songs and such, in Liverpool, England, Great Britain.  Freda said they were really nice, but she said John could be a grumpy arse, as they sometimes say in England.

Well, The Beatles paid their dues for several long months, and then became real famous, eventually moving out of the basement and performing in bigger venues, as we say in the music business. They received lots of fan mail, and lots of requests for samples of hair. Maybe that's why they wore their hair so long. Ha ha.

It was Freda's job to answer the mail, and to write The Beatles Fan Club Booklet, and such, and by all accounts she did a good job. Over the years she got many requests to spill the beans on "The Lads", as they were sometimes called, but she kept her lip buttoned, respecting their privacy, and never making a dime.

Until this movie came out? Who knows? But I hope she does make some money, since she seems like a nice person. She said she wanted to make the movie so's her grandson would know she used to work for The Beatles, and wasn't just a lyin' old bag making stuff up. (My words.) Good enough reason, but a little money would be nice too.

So if you've never heard of this band called The Beatles, I guess this movie is as good a place as any to start. There's a little bit of music in it that's not too bad. And Freda seems like a nice person.

Now where's my ice cream sandwich? 

Call Me Stinky.

My mom says I should start a blog to re-direct my misguided energies. So says my school guidance counselor, too. My behaviorist says I need a creative outlet that doesn't include fire or small animals. As does the judge who presided at my trial. The last trial, not the previous three. And not including the mistrials.

My mom says, when she's in a good mood, usually right after her three-martini lunches, that I'm just a bit "rambunctious". Good one, Mom. Last time I heard that word, I fell off my dinosaur, laughing.

My dad, who's known for his sense of humor -- he farts and then always blames it on the dog -- calls me lots of funny names, but none of them that I can repeat. He does say that if I had another brain, it would get lonesome. He's all the time saying funny stuff like that.

Am I really a genius? Who knows? But who am I to argue with everyone?

So here I am, preparing to write about my interests (classic movies from last year and beyond, politics, old guys with funny-looking toupees) and my disinterests (girls with cooties). My likes (potted meat sandwiches, anything with Bruce Campbell) and my dislikes (inflammable things).

"Don't be afraid to express yourself," says my court-appointed psychiatrist, wanting to light his pipe with the missing matches I just took off his desk. "Be the best person you can be."