It's especially difficult to find Houdini action figures – all those mysteriously empty bubble packs on the racks...
Last night at a Chinese restaurant I saw "Kung Fu Chicken" on the menu. I asked the waiter what it was. He said "oh, that's our dinner special... it's guaranteed to go down fighting."
At the table across from mine:
WOMAN: "Where were you?"
MAN: "The mensroom... it's just one thing after another in there."
I spent a half-hour following the YouTube meme of the song "Sukiyaki." A catchy melody, but it seems to bring out the latent weirdness in people. One encounters everything from bug-eyed Yankee drummers in Bangkok nightclubs to Urban Boyband harmonizers, even to Indonesian Everly Brothers imitators – singing in German. Not to mention Japanese Beef Hotbowl recipe videos that use the song as a background track. And the translations of the lyrics leave a lot to be desired – no two are even remotely alike. The song is apparently about both unrequited love and eternal union, long distance oaths of loyalty, and even perhaps the musical transcript of "Brunch With Der Führer." This song is a multi-faceted lullaby into insanity. It has to be the melody that attracts me, and even that played often enough may be suitable mewzak for prison camps. Who needs therapy?
Speaking of which, here's a dream I just had recently with plenty of Freudian undertones – perking up already, aren't ya?
I walk into the mensroom at work to find employees of both genders lined up for turns at the urinal. Yes, it got weird fast, but you were warned. Anyway, I take my place in line... and I see that in the corner of the mensroom is a lounge area, with a casual no-host bar, and large plush beanbag chairs for people to chat and relax while they wait. A female co-worker (portrayed here by an individual who no longer works at my place of employment) offers to let me pull up a beanbag next to hers, which I do. She informs me with a smile, that she "owes me a bowl of chili." Yeah, I know, I'm starting to squirm myself just writing this. Anyhow... I and this lady commence a discussion of favorite chili recipes while we sit sunken into our plush beanbags in the mensroom waiting for a shot at a urinal. It's then we notice there is a huge venomous snake in the mensroom with us. I turn to warn my grandmother, dozing in a beanbag behind mine, that "the snake is back." Your mind is racing trying to interpret this steeping mess, isn't it? Everyone makes for the exit, but being the gentleman my mother raised, I bravely hold the door and shuttle everyone out ahead of me... only to find myself trapped alone in the mensroom with the snake. I begin to climb out of its path... up onto a toilet tank... then higher, to balance myself straddling a toilet stall partition. I notice I am wearing thin black dress socks and rather expensive looking leather shoes... laced, not pull-on. I then decide my ruse is no good, and jump down. The snake knows I'm there and is stalking me now. I let it chase me through the door, where, once its head pokes out, I slam the door closed, decapitating the monster. The SWAT team arrives. I wave them off... got it handled, guys. Do I get a kiss thank-you from any of the ladies who were in the mensroom... whose fine little butts I saved from a painful, venom-soaked demise? No, because they're all married. AWAKE.
DAMN POETRY CORNER UNLEASHED
I just brought home a truckload of farts.
A big truckload of farts I wish weren't mine.
A truckload of farts and you'll not find better.
A whiff of corn.
A hint of cheddar.
Don't turn up your nose at my truckload of farts.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaand scene.
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