Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Yes, My Tusk Is Actually A Sensory Organ. I’d Still Trade It For Legs, Or An Ipod

Everyone’s so excited because some dentist from Harvard finally discovered that my tusk is actually a giant thermometer. Whoop-di-do, I’d still lop it off in a heartbeat. Everybody thinks a nine-foot long tusk is so fucking cool, until they grow one themselves.

What’s that? I’m the only mammal with a nine-foot long tusk? My point exactly.

Sure it’s unique. Sure it’s baffled scientists for centuries. Sure it was rumored to possess magical powers. God, if only. If it was magic, I’d have already turned my fins into legs, grown lungs, and transformed the tusk into a pair of Bose QuietComfort headphones.

I don’t want to talk about what the tusk is really for. Barometric pressure, temperature changes-- I mean I’m depressed already. I liked it when you thought it was a mating device, or a weapon. At least that had mystique. I used to be like a God, a God of the sea. Mysterious. Elusive. My bones had medicinal powers, they could cure diseases, change lives. People didn't know if I was a friend or not. They wanted to know, but they were also afraid. Afraid of my power. Afraid of what my tusk and I might do.

Now everyone knows it’s all bullshit, and all I can think about is how I’ll never drive a BMW.

Let’s face it, all this cooing and ogling from the scientific community, a profile in The New York Times, none of it changes the fact that I’m freakishly ugly. Do you know what the word “narwhal” means in old Norse? “Corpse whale.” A whale that looks like a corpse. Wonderful. You know what I think about that? I think it’s an insult to corpses. At least they don’t look like they’ve been poked in the eye with a giant waffle cone.

So, seriously, think about that the next time you talk about how “wonderful” it is that my task has “sensory abilities.” Your feet also have sensory abilities, except they’re wearing the new Nike Air Flight Banger TB’s. Must be nice.

Highlights from the Upcoming Episode of "Queer Eye For The Straight Guy" Featuring Karl Rove

- Reading through his profile in the car, Jay reminds everyone that Rove was the chief architect behind the president’s proposed Federal Marriage Amendment. Says Carson, “Wait till he meets me, suddenly he’ll be all about gay marriage.”

- Carson takes one look at Karl’s closet, recoils in horror. “I’m declaring this the new front in the war on terror.”

- Thom finds a 3-week old donut under Karl’s futon cushion, deems it “Couch-gate.”

- Kyan jokingly asks how Karl could ever let his mother see his bathroom like this. Karl replies that his mother committed suicide when he was 30. Jay shouts, “Awkward!”

- In preparation for a speech that evening before the American Enterprise Institute, Carson suggests Karl tie a Ralph Lauren sweater around his neck. “You want to say you’re about war, but you’re not ALL about war. Know what I mean?”

- Ted and Karl agree that in politics and food, simplicity and presentation are everything. “You think tax cuts, I think lemon-grilled fish in banana leaf wrap.”

- Thom implores Karl to only buy 600 thread count sheets from now on. “You’re the Deputy Chief of Staff in charge of policy, you’re worth it.”

- Karl cries joyful tears after Kyan convinces him to wax his back hair, saying, “I’ve always been so afraid.”

- Before going back to testify before a grand jury about the outing of a undercover CIA officer, Jay and Karl talk about what music to play in the car. They settle on Spoon’s “Don’t Let It Get You Down.”

Monday, November 14, 2005

Author Terry McMillan's Interior Decorator is Gay, And She Is Not Happy About It

You're what? You're gay? Gay? You? You like men, that's what you're telling me right now? Hold on, hold on. That is fucked up. That is-- Oh, oh no. No, get away from me. No, I don't need help. I just need to sit down.

So, let me get this straight. You like men. Men. With dicks. Hairy chests. Men. You look at a naked woman, you feel nothing? Nothing?! Oh my Lord, I have never.

Have long have you known this? Was it before I hired you? Since you were 15?! 15, are you joking? And you've fucked a man, that's safe to assume? How many? Just tell me how many, I deserve to know how many!

Where the fuck do you get off not telling me a thing like that? It never occurred to you?! It never occurred? Motherfucker that should have the first thing you said when you walked through that door for your interview. When I called your ass to make the appointment, your answer should have been, "I like men, what time?"

What do you mean I should have known? Don’t you dare, don’t you dare try and make this my fault. Oh I see, so a man walks into my house with drape samples and a book of carpet swatches talking about awnings and accents and negative space, I should immediately assume he likes men! Well, I stand corrected.

Hints? What hints? I didn’t hear no hints. I heard you say you had a wife, that’s what I heard. Andy can be a woman’s name, I know plenty of Andies. You still said wife. Oh, that was just an expression. Well, in my world, wife don’t mean a man. In my reality, wife is an expression that means “lady in a white dress with a pussy.”

What’s that? Do you act masculine? Why the fuck are you asking me that? Answer the question? Fine, I’ll answer the question. No. No, you don’t act particularly masculine, but that ain’t exactly a red flag. What is a red flag? I don’t know, it’s—what? Is clapping your hands when you laugh a red flag? Shit, I know plenty of men who do that, you’re trying to tell me they’re all gay? Little Ricky down at the florists, you’re trying to tell me he likes men. What? Bullshit. Bull. Shit. How you know that? You did what? Oh my lord in heaven, soon as I’m done with you Ricky and I gonna have a little chat. About what? About honesty, motherfucker, heard of it!

Why am I so upset? I’ll tell you why. Because not two days ago, you were in that living room taking measurements, I walked past you in nothing but a Julianne Ray see-through chemise, and when you turned your head to admire my backside I felt reborn. Little do I know when you looked at my ass you were thinking of Denzel Washington. What? My ass looks better than Denzel’s? See, now you’re fucking with me, trying to get on my good side. Uh-uh, it ain’t that easy.

Wait a second, how the fuck would you know what Denzel’s ass looks like. Bullshit you have! Motherfucker, that is not funny. No you did not, you are lying. Oh my fucking god, I’m calling Oprah.

Thursday, October 06, 2005

Harriet Miers Indeed Has A Paper Trail

From The New York Times:

When he was asked if he had ever talked to Ms. Miers about her views on abortion, the president did not answer directly at first. "I have no litmus test," he said. A moment later, he said, "In my interviews with any judge, I never ask their personal opinion on the subject of abortion." To the best of his recollection, Mr. Bush said, he had never discussed abortion with Ms. Miers.

Mr. Bush also sent a clear signal that he would resist, on grounds of executive privilege, providing senators documents related to Ms. Miers's work in the White House. At least some Democrats are likely to seek such records, especially since Ms. Miers, who has never been a judge, has no "paper trail" of opinions.

"I just can't tell you how important it is for us to guard executive privilege in order for there to be crisp decision-making in the White House," Mr. Bush said.


U.S. SENATOR ARLEN SPECTER (R-PA) CHAIRMAN:…thus, I yield to my colleague, Senator Leahy.

U.S. SENATOR PATRICK J. LEAHY (D-VT) RANKING MEMBER: Thank you Mr. Chairman...Mrs. Miers, I hold in my hand a document, a receipt, in fact, from a purchase you made several weeks ago from the Blockbuster Video location at 1639 P Street NW. You rented a film that night. Several films. You purchased a box of Hot Tamales. You used a coupon. None of this is of interest to me. What does interest me is that you also paid lates fees. Late fees totaling twenty-five dollars and twenty-three cents, for the rental of film entitled “Phenomenon,” starring John Travolta and Kyra Sedgwick…running time of one hour, twenty-three minutes, yet it sat in your VCR for over three weeks, a gulf in time that I find, frankly, staggering…how are we to understand your sustained interest in this movie? How are the American people to interpret your… fascination with Mr. Travolta’s situation, your deep and abiding identification…I ask you simply: what, in your opinion, is the source of Mr. Travolta’s super-intelligence? Was it random…was he chosen…does the notion that Mr. Travolta, a lowly mechanic, would be able to master the Portugese language in just under twenty minutes seem plausible to you? Does that then make him qualified to teach a class in Portugese, despite having no previous experience, no discernable public record…

U.S. SENATOR HERBERT KOHL (D-WI): …perhaps a useful porthole…toward better understanding your relationship with President. Which of you is the Travolta in your dynamic, and which of you is the Forest Whitaker?

LEAHY: … Are you Mr. Travolta, Mrs. Miers? Did the President strike you with a bolt of lightning?

U.S. SENATOR ORRIN G. HATCH (R-UT): …the good senator attentions are misplaced…versus other choices on her account warranting much closer scrutiny…”Fast Times at Ridgmont High”…with reference to the Jennifer Jason Leigh character’s abortion…a significant plot point portrayed, I would say, quite sympathetically…

U.S. SENATOR JON KYL (R-AZ): …with all due respect to my colleague from Utah…widely regarded as a comedy classic…keystone of the genre…launched the careers of Sean Penn, Pheobe Cates, Judge Reinhold…hardly a litmus test…there are plenty of other reasons to recommend it.

U.S. SENATOR CHARLES E. GRASSLEY (R-IA):… a Jeff Spicolli in our midst? “Aloha, Mr. Bush?” Is that what we are to expect over the next three years?

U.S. SENATOR JOSEPH R. BIDEN JR. (D-DE): …my concerns are much more fundamental, which I'm sure comes as no suprise…I’ll ask you point blank, Mrs. Miers: how can one claim to have properly understood “Matrix: Revolutions” having never viewed “Reloaded?”

U.S. SENATOR HERBERT KOHL (D-WI): …Mrs. Miers, you honestly expect this committee to believe that in your ten years as White House Counsel you never once discussed with the President the ending to “The Sixth Sense?” He never asked? And you gave no indication? Not even a hint?…

LEAHY:…Travolta to Kyra Sedgwick in “Phenomenon," Sedgwick to Kevin Bacon in “Murder in the First.”

U.S. SENATOR MIKE DEWINE (R-OH): ...“Grumpy Old Men”…was that indeed your recommendation?…

U.S. SENATOR JEFF SESSIONS (R-AL): …and why not “Two Weeks Notice?”

SPECTER …if we could just take a step back for the moment, I’d like to remind my colleagues of my intent as chairman going in…it was my hope that these proceedings would remain cordial, that we would band together as Senators to conduct a fair and thorough hearing, one that the American people desire, and deserve… devoid of rancor, devoid of posturing…most of all, devoid of spoilers…

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

A Christmas Greeting from the Foners

Happy Holidays, Foner friends and family! Hope our little missive finds you healthy, wealthy and sufficiently bundled up (10 degrees here in Aurora. California we hate you!). It’s been quite a year here at the Chateau Foner (pronounced Fo-nare). We have so much to share, it was a real chore fitting it all into one letter!

Mark just put the finishing touches on another banner year as plant manager at PIP Industries. Quarterly earnings were up 10% from the same time last December. His annual goal of 6% productivity was quickly met, leaving ample time and resources to execute a much-needed inventory at the Joliet storehouse. This might sound like bragging. Or it might sound like you’re reading the cover page of the PIP internal newsletter for the greater North Eest, because guess who scored the “Model Manager” profile for the fourth time in five years (third consecutively)?!

And as if that weren’t enough, Mark also managed to shoot the best 9 holes of golf in his life! A 45 at Sweetwater Links! For the skeptical among you, a copy of the actual scorecard is enclosed. Cindy was there, too, she’ll be happy to verify.

What’s that? “Who’s Cindy?” You know, Cindy. Mark’s wife. Erin, Brian and Sarah’s mother. Don’t tell us you forgot about Cindy just because she doesn’t bother to write or call. We all agree communication was never her strong suit. Now, if we could just convince her!

Seriously though, Cindy’s doing fine. She’s bounced back from her firing at the hospital, for the most part. And now that the malpractice suit is settled, she’s free to talk about it, which our therapist is encouraging as part of her anger-management program. But whatever you do, don’t bring up the gift basket home business venture. Or the South Beach diet. Both have gone the way of the graduate nursing degree. Anyway, Cindy wants all of you to know her resolution this coming year is to be a better correspondent. Let’s all keep our fingers crossed.

Speaking of “fingers,” Brian has a new nickname on his baseball team. I don’t want to just come right out and say it, but I will give you a clue: it starts with a certain dairy product that tastes good spread on toast. Eric put forth a really great effort this year, but I think it’s clear to all of us in the family that he just doesn’t have a knack for athletics, or competition in general. Feel free to write Eric back with suggestions for career paths that don’t require leadership skills, endurance, cooperation or strategic thinking. We’re all stumped here!

Erin has applied to law school and painted her first chapel mural. Just kidding, this is Erin we’re talking about! She was accepted early admission to IU and already knows what sorority she wants to join. Here’s a milestone for you: 450. That’s either Erin’s height in centimeters or her SAT Math score. See if you can you guess which one.

Remember Sarah, that innocent little towhead who slept with her thumb in her mouth and loved dolphins? Well, believe it or not, she just turned 16 (33 if you go by her wardrobe). She scored a “lead role” in the school theatre production of Into The Woods (Daddy’s not allowed to say “understudy”), and her dancing has gone in some…interesting directions. Next month she’s going for her driver’s license. Wish her luck! Remind her gas prices are well over $3/gallon!

This past September Brian, Erin, Sarah and Mark took an exciting trip up to Niagara Falls. Highlights included the Maid of the Mist ride and Brian’s all-night battle with a plate of bad seafood. Sarah met a nice Canadian boy who I’m sure will threaten to come visit us, and Erin and I found a bag of marijuana that someone must have secretly stuffed into her purse! Can you imagine?

Anyway, that’s the 411 on the Foner clan. Until next time, have a relaxing holiday and an exciting and productive new year. Quick suggestion from Mark: try and do something fun and impulsive every once and a while, something none of us would expect. No offense, it’s that just some of your Christmas notes are starting to read like form letters!

Okay now!

Mark, Sarah, Erin and Brian

(Cindy’s name removed by request)

Friday, September 23, 2005

"Fight For Your Right," An Early Draft

You got to fight!/

For your right!/

To celebrate youth and flaunt your carefree attitude toward the world!/

Thursday, September 22, 2005

"OPP," An Early Draft

/You down with OPP?

/Yes! You are familiar with my personal preferences as they pertain to sexual encounters outside of a monogomous relationship!

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

The Bush Administration Has A Softball Team.

Alright, who we playing today? Brookings? Oh, Jesus. Unbelievable they’re still allowed in this league. I mean, are we the only team in this town that isn’t stocked with cheaters?

Who’s pitching? Probably that Reynolds asshole, right? Great. Another fucking POW war hero. Every time I step up to bat I’ll be worried he’ll mistake me for Victor Charlie and slit my throat. I’m telling you the guy is mentally unstable. Remind me to talk to the umpire about that.

Who’s umping anyway? Are you kidding me?! Schumacher?! I’m sorry, there’s no fucking way I’m gonna let him ump this game. What do you have Alzheimer’s, he fucked us all through last year’s playoffs! Every fucking call went to Treasury. Strike zone the size of your grandmother’s vagina. Fuck that. He’s not umping this game. Forget it.

You want a reason? I’ll give you a reason. Meghan’s Law, how’s that for a reason? What do I mean? I don’t mean anything. But let me ask you this: does it bother you that a convicted sex offender can hang around in a public park where mothers bring their children? Yes or no? Yes or no?

Wait a minute, who said he was a child molester? Did I say that? But did I use those words? No, no, did I use those words? That’s right, I didn’t. I simply asked a question.

Let me see the lineup.

This is all wrong. Totally ass backwards. No, shut up. If you knew what you were doing, I wouldn’t have to be here half a fuckin hour before the game starts every week, holding your hand and changing your diaper and making sure the umpire isn’t a mentally-unstable liberal pederast.

Did I say that? Did I say that?

Get your pen out, here’s the real lineup. You ready? Pritchard leads off. Then Miller, then Monkey Cock. Put Anal Wart fourth. Then me, then Taint, then Butt Munch, then Brownie, Pus Boy, Scooter and Dingleberry. Got it?

Scooter’s out? Since when? Well who do we got for a sub? Condi! Have you lost your fucking mind! Goddamnit, how did she even know we were looking for somebody? Was it you? I swear to Christ if I find out it was you, they’re gonna be playing croquet with your nuts down at Gitmo.

Well, of course she wants to be included. When does she not want to be included. Story of her fucking life. But you know what? She can’t play for shit, and this isn’t the University of Michigan. If I wanted cunts in the lineup, I’d call Lynne Cheney.

Do me a favor, call Bolton. Tell him Turd Blossom wants him to call Condi, have her meet him in New York. He can tell her it was my idea. In fact, have him tell her I’ll be there too. No, he doesn’t have to fucking go, don’t be an idiot.

In fact, ask him if he’s got a glove.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

FEMA Director Michael Brown Has A Wife

Is something wrong? You're goddamn right something is wrong. Oh no, don’t you dare pull that “I’ve got a job to do” shit with me now. Not after what I’ve been through these past two years. You know sometimes I think that’s why you took this job. “Uh-oh, Sheryl’s on a rampage. Thank God for that landslide in Ventura.”

Yes, thank you, I realize New Orleans is underwater. But you know what? I don’t care. Senators are calling for your head on national television? Big deal. I’m talking about what’s going on here, in this house, right under your nose. This week has been a Category 4 natural disaster for this family, Michael. And I, for one, am not satisfied with your response.

What happened? I’ll tell you what happened. Your son Frederick turned in a plagiarized microeconomics paper and was promptly expelled. When did I find this out? When I went in to meet with his guidance counselor this afternoon, by myself. You’ll be interested to know the counselor asked if Freddy’s father was aware of his disciplinary issues. I said no, but that shouldn’t be a surprise, since his father just announced on CNN that he was unaware of the thousands of refugees stranded at the New Orleans Convention Center.

What’s that? The President says you’re doing a good job? Well then, mission accomplished! A pat on the back from Joe Integrity himself. Wow, congratulations. Next stop, medal of freedom.

Oh, he appreciates you. Well isn’t that sweet. Maybe you ought to divorce me and marry him then. Kids, come inside! Meet the new first lady!

Hey, didn’t I hear someone leaked a memo saying you waited until the day of the storm to request help from Homeland Security? Any thoughts on where that came from? Nah, couldn’t be The White House. They never leak. Valerie Plame, who's that? Hey, by the way, Stevie Wonder called. He wants his eyesight back.

I have no idea what I’m talking about? Oh, you don’t want to have a conversation about qualifications right now, Mr. Arabian Horse Show Association. No you do not.

Yeah, well, when your parents turn on the TV and hear Scott McClennan say you’ve “decided to spend more time with your family,” you better hope no one is pointing a camera at me. Because they'll see me at the beach house, changing the fucking locks.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

And The Winner Is...

Oh, wow. Give me a second. Just let me... Oh, God. I need...water. Please. And could someone raise this mic stand just a little bit? Appreciate it.

Well, then.

This is truly amazing. They say there are only two certainties in life: death, and taxes. Well, now I know there is a third: winning this award. At least in my case.

[Laughter, applause].

Many of you are probably wondering why I've chosen to actually accept the award this year, after declining it for the past ten. The answer is simple: my children. They wanted it. They were tired of waiting.


I tried to explain to them that once I accept the award, no one else will want it, ever again. There'd be no honor in it. No value, really. Who wants an award after it's been given to yours truly? But you know these kids: in one ear, out the other. Want, want, want. Gimme, gimme, gimme. They're great kids. They deserve it.

[Awwws, laughter].

So, yes, I accept. Hear that, Sadie? Raphael? Ying Dong Zhen? Daddy's bringing home a big present! What do you say to Daddy? You say, "thank you." Well, you're welcome.

And let me just extend that to the rest of you out there. You're so very, very welcome.

[Laughter, applause].

If I could just single out a few people here. Julia Morton. Hey, sweetie. I know you had your doubts. Now they're regrets. Live with them.

Bobby Wasco. My best friend. You've been with me since the beginning. How blessed are you, huh?

My brother couldn't be here tonight. If he was he'd be very jealous. Trust me. He lives in Wisconsin. Some small town, you've never heard of it. Spokane. He's a lawyer. Not a great one. I talked to his bosses, they told me that. "Long way from partner." That's a quote. Sometimes he plays guitar. Alone. In his garage. At night. It's pretty sad. He'd love to be here. He'd love to be me.

[Laughter, awwws]

I'd like to dedicate this award to my wife, Cynthia. What a woman. Intelligent. Honest. Funny. So lovely, so supportive. Exotic. Fashionable. Thin. Really, she's the best thing any of you could hope for.

I love what I do. That's the simple truth. Is it difficult? Is it a struggle? No, really, I'm asking. I have no idea. Because it comes pretty easy to me.

You're all probably wondering what's next for me. That's a good question. Luckily, I don't have to ask it. I don't have to think too far ahead. I have nothing to prove. Right now, I just want to think about tonight. So, what's everybody doing later? I'm totally free. Text me, seriously. Let me know where it's at. 310-555-9678.


[Music plays]

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Go-To Guys (TM)

Established 1963. Fielding young, educated, resourceful temporary workers to meet your myriad personal and business needs.

Exact services rendered are determined on a client-by-client basis. Past customer requests include the following:

“Balance my checkbook.”

“Rewire this lamp.”

“Proofread this legal brief.”

“Inventory this lumber.”

“Redesign my company letterhead and alter my seasucker for tonight’s fundraiser.”

“Hang these curtains and reset my shoulder.”

“Cancel my subscriptions and forge this Vermeer.”

“Prepare my tax return and deliver Ohio.”

“Clear those gutters and drive my herd to Montana.”

“Spay my boxer and check the accuracy of this Clippership model.”

“Change the air filter and find my daughter a proper suitor.”

“Organize my collection of vinyl records, first by release date, then by relevance.”

“Title my installation.”

“Freak this and, upon completion, peep that.”

“Unclog that drain and build me an exit strategy for invading an oil-producing nation with a history of entrenched tribal conflict.”

“Make reservations for four at Spago, under the name “Camille,” and bring me the head of Diego Santa La Joya.”

“Gather quotes on this shelving job and restore honor to my father’s name.”

“Clip my hedges and reveal to me my deepest insecurities."

“Conduct tissue graft.”

“Translate Oslo Accord into Mandarin.”

“Scout the top power-forward in the upper NorthEast region.”

“Restore my Faberge Egg.”

“Resolve the Krumberg paradox.”

“Apply this formula.”

“Apply this grout.”

“Mail these thank-you notes.”

Call now for a consultation. All major credit cards accepted. This is not an escort service.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

Bruce Wayne Kept a Shame Journal

My name is Bruce Wayne. I’m eleven years old. I’m sick of my Mom and Dad. I wish they would die.

I’m sick of Gotham City. Everyone thinks it’s so great. I can’t wait to leave.

I hate everyone at school. I wish they would all die. I read in the newspaper about a girl who got kidnapped and thrown in a cellar. She was a cheerleader. I thought, “good.”

I dream about my death. Everyone who was mean to me would have to come to the funeral. They’d look at my grave and feel sad and ashamed of themselves.

If I could live anywhere, it’d be a big cave. I’d fake my own death and move to the cave, then watch my funeral with hidden cameras. I’d see all those jerks crying and I’d smile. You know why you’re sad, Trent Baker? Because I’m dead, and it might as well be your fault.

I don’t know what I’ll be when I grow up. I just know while everyone else is studying to be a doctor or a banker, I’m gonna practice ninja fighting until I’m unbeatable. Every year on the anniversary of my fake death, I’ll appear at night to save one of my asshole classmate’s lives. They’ll be in an alley getting mugged, and I’ll come out of the dark and kick the mugger’s ass. They’ll be so scared of how quick and deadly I am that they won’t even be able to say “thank you.” So I’ll say it for them. I’ll say “you’re welcome.” Or I’ll say, “I think the words you’re looking for are ‘your welcome.’” They’ll feel even worse because they killed Bruce Wayne and now his ninja ghost just saved their life. They won’t know what to think.

This is awesome. I’ll save Mark Schulte first. Twenty bucks says he shits his pants.

After my third or fourth rescue someone will call the police. Too bad the police will be on my side. At least the chief of police will be. He won’t try too hard to catch me because secretly he likes nothing better then pulling up to a crime scene and finding Nick Hammand sucking on his thumb like a two-year old.

When I save Annie Bates, she’ll go crazy. She’ll fall in love with me and never be able to sleep until she finds me. They’ll put her in a padded room up at Arkham with a bunch of stuffed animals and the doctors will shrug their shoulders. Then, on the night of the big dance, I’ll bust her out and take her as my date. We’ll walk in and Greg O’Donnell will punch the wall and Mark Schulte will shit his pants again without even thinking about it. Annie will smile for the first time in years, her dream finally come true. Then she’ll turn around and I’ll be gone and they’ll have to put her in restraints.

I know what my parents will say when they find out I’m a ninja. They’ll say what they always say. “For a boy who has everything, you’re awfully selfish.”

Fuck them. Ninjas save lives. They’re just not wimps about it.

Monday, August 15, 2005

Yes, I’m An Astronaut.

Yes, I have degrees in both aerospace engineering and physics. No, I can’t afford to be absent-minded. Yes, I’m aware the world is watching. Yes, I know I left my razor behind at the International Space Station.

Yes, I’m aware I left my journal, too. Yes, I heard it read aloud by the Russians on their daily transmissions yesterday. Yes, I heard the giggles. Yes, I wrote the phrase “a kagillion stars.” Yes, I’m aware there is no such word as “kagillion.”

Yes, thermal protection is my specialty. Yes, I want another launch in September. Yes, I was alarmed by the foam loss. Yes, I have ideas on how to reduce its size. Yes, they’re in my journal. Yes, I see your point.

Yes, I like Harry Potter. Yes, that’s my “Half-Blood Prince” in the crew quarters. No, I didn’t finish it before we returned. Yes, I will have to buy another copy now that we are back. No, I didn’t know Dumbledore died. Thank you very much for telling me.

Yes, I take my job seriously. Yes, I think what we do is important. Yes, I believe in the mission. No, I didn’t say NASA was a “clown show.” Yes, I did write that Colonel Reed reminds me of Fatty Arbuckle. Yes, I think there is a distinction.

Yes, I like my job. Yes, I want more shuttle missions. No, I don’t think we should abandon the space station. Yes, I want to fly the successor spacecraft. No, I don’t think it should be named after me. Yes, I realize that wasn’t a serious question.

Yes, I’m currently single. Yes, I live alone. Yes, as of a few weeks ago that was not the case. Yes, I wrote that the infinite black of space is only slightly lonelier than my apartment. No, I have nothing to add to that.

Yes, I know there were reporters camped out at my mother’s. Yes, I heard she talked to them. Yes, I know what she said. No, I didn’t call her when I landed. Yes, I haven’t called her in months. Yes, I forgot her birthday. No, I don’t want the press and public thinking we send degenerates into space. Yes, but you’re assuming that she’s ever been supportive about anything I’ve ever done in my entire life ever, which she has not. Yes, I suppose giving birth to me is something. No, you’re right, I wouldn’t have walked on the moon if it weren’t for her, but we can’t exactly give out medals for getting knocked up by the factory foreman, now can we?

Yes, I realize you’re the one asking the questions. No, I have nothing further. Yes, I plan to shave tomorrow.

No, thank you.

We Call This The Pete Rose Haircut

Short in the back. Combed forward in the front. Bangs cut even.

Thanks, Sheila. School's fine. I'm working at Blockbuster for the summer.