HOW TO DATE, MARRY, GET SHOT, STABBED..

Not that I am anyone your parents would want you listening to, but this is me preaching none the less. This is the secret of life, okay? Here is what you do: Find another inmate in the asylum who has a form of madness you can live with.

In my thirties, this changed a bit to only sleep with women you will marry. As soon as I learned this trick , another quickly followed: which is putting up with living with someone who is basically insane and gets to yell at me all she wants and I can not, in any way, smack the shit out of her. When I went looking for M. , I told myself that I would only date women I could marry; luck and a very specific ad in an alternative newspaper, helped, too.

I do love her in better and worse, and she loves me the same way. That is a damn fine feeling, having a woman at your back (as long she isn't stabbing you, which will happen, because they are nuts and you just have to deal with this like an intern at a psycho ward--- it helps to always tell them they are right, over and over).




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i AM SO FUCKING PATHETIC

What the hell am I doing sitting around thinking about sodomizing various rodents and plants? Like most people, I often ask myself this question. And like most others as well, too, I know there are no easy answers as to why sodomy, rodents, and squash are just so damned funny to me. I'll tell ya though, confidentially speaking, I fear that down this road is no Hemingway like adulation, nor even a Grisham who weathers the literary storm of the critics as he merrily laughs all the way to the bank. . . no, no... this just makes me weirder than before. The older I get the more creepy it will be. I'll get busted for hanging out in pet stores playing pocket pool in front of an aisle prominently advertised as the hamster hutch. I'll claim the young girl clerks excited me, and the cops will play along to keep the conversation from even going near what I like to think of as 'the exotic scent of man rodent love.'


I guess this is about as close as I can get to expressing my fucked up moods lately. I feel adrift, like an astronaut on a permanent space walk with only a slight, tenous rope keeping me from spinning off into the cold, distant stars. The rope would of course be made of hemp. I worked all day writing a stupid comedy story for in here, than on a drawing which is easily another one of the best I have done (I recently had a big break through in drawing and took my shading to a whole nother level; not that this means I suck any less over all).
I truly feel like a failure most of the time. This is a sign of sanity, I suppose, as much as anything else... or as close as I am likely to get to one.

Oh, go put it in a sock with some vasoline and have your way with yourself. Then die in the act, so from this day forward all will scoff and chortle at the mention of your disgraced name. Or buy a hat?

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NEVER TRY TO BE YOUR OWN LAWYER WHEN YOU ARE FIGHTING VEGETABLE MOLESTATION CHARGES. SERIOUSLY, DON'T DO IT.

VEGETABLE MOLESTATION CHARGES. SERIOUSLY, DON'T DO IT.

I held up the small, dark green squash for the jury to see. For the past three hours they had heard some pretty revolting (to some) testimony about me, and now was my turn to launch a brilliant defense and bring them back into my fold. "Some see only a vegetable here. Me, I see ... Well, nothing erotic, like most people would". For some reason, this made one of the jury women kind of scow?

"Now, Me," I continued, "I have no use for this squash. None. Especially at this temperature. Room temp. or better is the general rule when boffing a veg, as I have heard from others. But me? No, I merely see food. It is them, those who oppress me, who are actually guilty here. They have this need to sex up cute young vegetables and . . . "




The judge interrupted at this point, telling me, "Johnny, stop rubbing yourself with the squash or I am going to have the bailiff take it out back and smash it." That judge, he was one mean bastard.




I really tried to stop rubbing that vegetable on my crotch, but it was just... A very difficult time to stop, and when I explained this to the judge, he yelled, "Mr. Pain, you have now lost the right to bring any more vegetables into this court. Now, or forever. Bailiff, take that squash from this sick bastard."





I wanted to be all non chalant about handing over the squash, because I didn't care, really, what happened to a squash -- let alone one that was much colder than room temperature. Even then, I am afraid as I started to hand over the squash, I accidentally let loose with a kind of cry of pain, or something. To be honest, though in a purely platonic way, I had grown close to that plucky little squash. Any one would have. That one was special. I guess then there was some chasing around in the courtroom. Someone was held down and forced to give up a true friend. And all during this, the judge was all, "Hit that bastard!! Knock him into next week!!" So I finally just turned that little queen over to the bailiff. . . . And I haven't seen her since.




Once everything settled down, I continued my defense with, "Some vegetables really want it." Looking the various jury members in their eyes as I spoke, I added, "We've all seen the come hither look of a summer squash, once in awhile, from time to time."




The prosecutor objected, and that damn judge goes, "Sustained!! You even go there, Pain, and I will jail you for contempt of court. Which I just may do anyways. Just for damn hell of it. I despise you that much."




"Okay," I went on, "Let's all try to remember -- as if any could forget, that glorious, glorious day that comes after thanksgiving and well before christmas, when the halloween pumpkins are all thrown out... who hasn't marveled at how the alley ways are transformed into almost surreally erotic walks of delight."




Then the judge just wouldn't let me talk anymore. I don't think that was legal, but he says it was, along with hitting me with that little hammer of his. I really think it prejudiced my case when he had the jury hold me down so he could hit me with his little judicial club. Anyways, the sentencing comes next week... or not.
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