Masks, Umbrellas, the Threat of Tetanus

May 05th, 2008 | Category: Photographizzle

Or: Henry’s son Blake and my friend Sarah are good sports.

Blake wore a Chiodos shirt and I was happy.

At least I didn’t have to worry about their stilettos getting slurped into the mud.

Blake was atop a train for this and I was so nervous that a) he was going to fall; b) someone was going to see and call the cops. But then I was like, well, if he falls, maybe he’ll be knocked out long enough for me  to steal his Chiodos shirt.

"Sarah, I only see you once a year, but I’d love to take your picture." And she didn’t think it was weird at all, which is why we’re friends in the first place.

More Photos Here.

 

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Henry: b&w

March 14th, 2008 | Category: Henrying

Since the year 2001, my sole purpose in life has been to ridicule Henry as much as possible, and in ways he never could have fathomed, on the Internet and off.

This involves looting through his belongings; eavesdropping on phone calls; creating fake blogs, MySpace profiles and personal ads in his name; giggling every time he talks to other men; and A LOT of help from my side kick, Photoshop.
 

But sometimes, Henry makes it too easy. Like today, when he was looking through all his shit that I made him keep in the garage and not in my house, and came back into the house cradling his Air Force year book.

"Holy fucking shit, give me that!" I cried, snatching it from his meat fists. "Please tell me you’re in here!" He watched impatiently as I flipped frantically through the pages, gagging on the fumes of 1983.

"Gimme that," he said in frustration, opening the book to the page I wanted.

Running my finger down the page, I quickly found his name. I started to laugh really hard. Really, really hard. But then I stopped and said, in shock, "Dude. You kind of weren’t too gay-looking then." He rolled his eyes. "No seriously, now I wish you still looked like that. Aw, why did I have to get the stupid-looking version of you?" I’m not used to seeing Henry without his molester-stache.

Maybe I would like him more if he wore that hat all the time. I bet meals would taste better if cooked with him underneath his service hat.  Maybe I would show him some respect if his dome was capped with this prestigious relic.

That’s funny.

Maybe I would like him more if he was monochromatic.

As I’m hysterically typing this, he walked past and asked, "Does this really require an entire entry?" Does my universe center around laughing at his expense? Does an orphan slurp porridge? Does Michael Jackson grab crotches? Does auto-asphyxiation feel good?

No, really — I’m asking.

There was a candid, too! Of all the luck.

 At least this tells me that Chooch should hopefully get a good twenty years of cuteness in before his looks are shot to Hell.

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Hell: Where all my dreams will come true

February 15th, 2008 | Category: Reporting from Work

When I think of Hell, I always imagine a large atrium-type  room  (but with like, less of the pretty botanical touches and more of the speared shit and car exhaust) where everyone goes to do their chores while enjoying a cocktail of some mighty fine ass rape by staggering penises coated with AIDS, followed by an enema of stagnant leech-filled pond water and battery acid. But after all that daily socializing, everyone relocates to their bunkers — their own little personal Hells-with-the-lid-on.

I think that my room would probably have a row of bottled Henry-snores, the caps of which will lift up in random intervals, broadcasting a nasal symphony around the walls. Eleanore will be seated two feet from me, no matter where I am she’ll be two feet from me, ripping up sheets of paper, slamming desk drawers, and sighing heavily.

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Then she’ll stuff her mouth with food and start ranting about racism, while hurling a pair of scissors down against the desk top.

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The clatter of that will reverberate inside my head, making my teeth chatter.

The Gum Popper will have a permanent perch upon my shoulders, cracking and slurping and snapping her fat Bazooka Joe-wrapped tongue in my ear and down my neck and even when she pauses, it’s still all I can hear, the ghosts of the gum echoing inside my skull and no matter how many times I gouge flaming twigs into my ear drums, the drums Satanically repair themselves and the new carnations come packing amazing clarity.

A parade of strangers will back me up against the wall with their overused sayings, like “Any-who,” “om nom nom,” “Asshat,” and “Exsqueeze me” and every third one will touch my eyeball.

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  And one by one all of my favorite bands will announce their tour dates but I’ll have to miss every single show because if I stop data processing for even three seconds, I’ll be eviscerated by a tag team of Fran Drescher and Jessica Simpson, who will laugh and sing in my face while strangling me with my intestines.

Then Henry’s ex-wife will come strutting around in a tie-dyed shirt, wearing her vagina on her face.

I guess it could be worse. No, that sucks.

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