Nachos and The Pope

The first things I remember being happy about upon moving to Texas were nachos. We moved from Indiana in 1979, and, at the time, Indiana didn’t have nachos. Because of Mexicans, I bet Texas has always had nachos. The first Mexicans didn’t settle in Indiana until around 1990. Now they are all over the place!

People say that the Mexicans’ greatest invention is the nacho. I say nachos are practically any kind of people’s greatest invention. Here is a list of some really important inventions:
1. Earth
2. Wheels
3. Space
4. Nachos
5. Skin

I can remember sitting in elementary school when the only thing that got me through the day was the prospect of an after school snack of nachos over at BILL Harland’s house. Bill had a really deep voice. His wife was Jacque. She made the nachos and had toe surgery. The son was David and he liked planets. There was a daughter called Kathy. She listened to Men At Work all the time. Jacque knew exactly how much cheese to put on the nachos, and how long they needed to cook in the microwave. She also pronounced Target like this - /tar’ jhays/.

The other day while I was thinking about The Pope, I started thinking that he has almost certainly never had nachos. I think that’s a shame. I had a hard time coming up with things The Pope can eat. Here is a game. I’m going to list some foods, and you get to guess whether The Pope gets to eat it. If I had a way to tally all responses, I bet they’d come out pretty similar. Here are the things that The Pope may or may not eat:

Salad, Cube Steak, Popsicles, Baked Potatoes, Frosting, Nachos, Pot Roast, Eggs, Fried Chicken, Miscellaneous, Mutton, Bread, Blood, Meatloaf, Teddy Grahams, and Salt.

Here’s a clue: THE POPE GETS TO EAT NINE OF THE ITEMS ON THE LIST, AND ONE OF THEM IS NOT POPSICLES.

Here’s the solution in webdings (you’ll need to decipher it by putting it in Word and translating back into American). Salad, Cube Steak, Pot Roast, Miscellaneous, Mutton, Bread, Blood, Meatloaf, and Salt

Recently The Pope had some true things to say about the Muslims. Now some of the Muslims want to kill The Pope (which kind of proves The Pope’s point). The whole thing plus nachos gives me a solution to all of the world’s problems:

Let’s put all of the world leaders down at a table and force them to eat nachos with one another. I don’t know about you, but I can’t remember ever fighting with anyone during nachos. It might not even be possible. People like eating nachos together.

I’m tired, but I have a question. If I were to write a series of illustrated stories called “Adventures of The Pope”, would it be offensive? I wouldn’t have him doing anything immoral. Instead, I would just stick him in unPopish situations. For examples:
1. The Pope Goes to Wet ‘N Wild.
2. The Pope Gets his Pope Teeth Cleaned
3. The Pope Surfs
4. The Pope in Garland
5. The Pope Eats Gravy
6. The Pope’s Body Does Somersaults
7. The Pope Visits a Hot Dog Factory
8. The Pope Gets a Perm
9. The Pope Makes Sausage

Please let me hear your ideas now.

Eggs

This morning I took the train to work. Since I live near the beginning of the line, it’s always easy to get a seat. However, by the second or third stop, the train nears standing room only. I like paying attention to how the seats fill up. In general, the trains here go four seats across with an aisle down the center. As you would expect, the pattern is for everybody to try to sit in a seat without anyone next to them. Some jackasses sit on the aisle and refuse to move to the window when the train starts getting full. The rest of us sit down at a window and wait for people to sit down beside us.

Here are descriptions of the people without seatmates as the train approaches capacity:
* Guys with cuts on face
* Jackasses who sit on the aisle and refuse to move toward the window
* Smelly people who talk to themselves
* Me

I can remember a day when I’d sit there hoping with all my might that nobody would sit next to me. Not anymore. It’s not that I want to sit by anybody. Instead, it’s that I can’t figure out why they don’t want to sit next to me. I am nice and usually don’t smell horrible.

The same thing happened this morning. Every seat was full except for two – mine and that of a man with scabbed up stub arms with open sores on face. Then a woman came on board. When she got to the section with the human infection and me, she stopped, surveyed the both of us, and with a look of complete desperation plopped down in the seat next to me.

She was wearing a name tag. It seems that her parents decided to name her “Every”. I thought, “What a nice name. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it before.” Then I remembered that I have heard it on account of it’s a word I use every day!

I started smelling stuff as soon as she sat down. When I sniffed her real close, I determined that her smell was eggs.

For the longest time I’ve had a love/hate relationship with eggs. On the one hand, I love the way they taste. On the other, I can’t think of anything less appealing than putting into my cakehole the reproductive cells from which a new chicken should have developed had I not become hungry.

Every’s egg smell grew and grew. The stronger the smell became, the more I wanted to smell her. I’d never smelled anyone like Every. I leaned over for an extra big smell when I realized that it wasn’t that Every smelled like eggs, but that the guy across the aisle was eating a Tupperware container full of leftover chicken.

I know it was leftover because it was 6:30 in the morning, and chicken places aren’t open that early.

At that point I was feeling sort of guilty for accusing Every of smelling like some eggs. I tapped her shoulder and said, “I’ve been thinking to myself that you smell like eggs, but it turns out that it’s just that man’s chicken. For all I know you might smell normal. By the way, is that a real name? Every.” She didn’t respond to my compliments and decided to move over next to Scabby for the rest of her ride.

I’m pretty certain I’ve never seen a man eat chicken so early. (P.S. The man eating the chicken did not have an “away-from-the-face” beard. I think this proves the latest addition to my beard theories. That is, bearded men don’t eat chicken for breakfast.)

I’m disturbed that my olfactory system confused eggs with chicken. I think it’s weird that something that came out of a chicken smelled so much like a chicken. That’s certainly not the way it works with stuff that comes out of people.

By the time my stop came, I was about to throw up from the chicken/egg smell. The weird thing about it is that when I thought it was eggs, I wanted to smell it real hard. Once I realized it was some chickens, I started getting sick.

Are other people like me? If I smell or taste something taken totally out of its normal context, it’s liable to make me kind of sick. For example, I can’t drink Coke (which I normally enjoy) out of a translucent green cup. It just doesn’t look right, and I think it tastes different.

Here’s another example…When I was in high school some of the other kids and I went to Mr. Gatti’s after final exams. While I was at the buffet re-loading my plate, my friend Brandon put a piece of spaghetti in my straw. When I sucked out the spaghetti, it nearly made me throw up. But I like spaghetti! I just wasn’t expecting it. I thought I was getting a drink, but got food instead.

I was expecting the smell this morning to be eggs. When it turned out to be chickens, I got thrown for a loop. I’m still trying to cope with what happened, and haven’t yet determined whether I’ll ever be able to eat eggs or chickens again. You can think I’m an idiot if you want, but I’m serious. Today was the first time when ordering fajitas that I didn’t either get chicken or combo. Instead, I went with the steak. Chicken was more than I could take.

P.S. I have a real niece now. Her name is Daphne and she is correctly proportioned. Evidently those sonograms distort head size on fetuses quite a bit. She came with orange hair and seems to enjoy being alive so far. The picture at the top of this is her. When she yawns, her mouth goes crooked. While I’m unwilling to tolerate much in the way of imperfections, this is one that I think gives her character.

My Sister's Baby

Here’s some happy news just in time for the holiday season. My sister and Kevin are hauling off and having a baby. As much as I feel sorry for babies that they were ever made to be born, I can’t wait for this kid to come true. This is going to be a good family. I sort of feel like drawing a little picture of what I think the baby will look like when it is new. If I’m still having energy by the time I’m done typing, I might make that picture and post it for you to see!

The other day I saw a sonogram of the baby. Honestly, I’m more than a little concerned. The baby’s head is about three times as big as the rest of it’s self! It looks like somebody you would see in space. Hopefully things will become a little more proportional over the next couple weeks. People assure me that this odd shape is normal. I assure those people that my parts were the same scale as present from the get go. I was just a tinier version of how I am now.

Do you remember shrinky dinks? They were plastic shapes that you baked in the oven turning them into miniature plastic shapes. Did people-shaped shrinky dinks start out normal-shaped and end up with a colossal head compared to the rest of its body when they shrank? I didn’t think so, and I don’t see why it would be any different for regular people. When you really think about it, shrinky dinks are the exact same thing as people, but opposite. Just like the Jonathan Winters character (“Mearth”) on Mork. I hope I’m wrong about all this because if current shape holds this kid will be made fun of! Why don’t people work the same as shrinky dinks?

I have declared myself in charge of the baby naming committee. Evidence shows that a person’s name is what determines their fate in life. In your own head, imagine someone named Elmer. Now imagine someone named Lance. Finally, think about someone named Wayne. Tell the truth! You think of Elmer riding farm equipment, Lance with a comb sticking out of the back pocket of his tight fittin’ jeans, and Wayne either in the electric chair or beating up his common law wife. I take this naming business serious.

And if any Waynes out there read this and decide they are “going to whoop” me for what I said about your name, I say that that’s about the reaction I’d expect from a Wayne.

The other day I was telling my sister that she should give the kid two names. One for when it acts good, and another for when it misbehaves. I told her that she should name the bad version of the kid Bunstance (assuming it’s a girl). It sounds right to scream, “Shut up Bunstunce!” Try it for fun – “Shut up Bunstunce!” She told me that the words “shut up” and “stupid” aren’t allowed. Good Lord. Those words were allowed in my house when I was little. Plus I was never held. I was poked quite a bit, but never held. And I got sat on by my own mother as a form of punishment. What’s wrong with the way I turned out? Name one thing!

Here are a few of my preferred boy names: Plaul (it’s just like Paul only with a spare ‘L’), Crayon, Blarn, Kayo, and Robert. My friend Brandon said that they should name it La Jennifer if it comes out to be a girl. How good is that? If it’s a girl, I think just about anything is okay as long as it ends in “stunce” (e.g., Karnstunce). Stunce just sounds pretty to me. If you want to offer up a name by leaving a comment, it’s okay with me. I’ll run all suggestions past my sister and Kevin.

I hope my dog is nice to the baby. It would be horrible to have to give it away.

The SPCA Needs Foster Homes

Good morning individuals. Here is something from somebody in charge of SPCA volunteers. If you can't foster an animal, perhaps you can donate food or blankets or whatever.

Dear SPCA Volunteers,

As you know, the SPCA is stepping in to help with the animals rescued fromLousiana. As of right now, we are at full capacity with our shelters. To continue helping these families, we will be holding foster trainings begining tonight through the weekend for anyone who can foster. If you are interested, you will need to RSVP. Keep in mind you may have these animals from 30-60 days. The classes are as follows:
Sept 1 at 7:30pm Mckinney
Sept 2 at 9am Mckinney
Sept 2 at 9am Dallas
Sept 2 at 12noon McKinney
Sept 2 at 2noon Dallas
Sept 3 at 5pm McKinney
Sept 4 at 11am Dallas
Sept 4 at 5pm McKinney
Sept 4 at 6pm McKinney

In addition, any of you who do TLC in McKinney can ask the adoptionsupervisors manager about helping them with animals housed on site from therescue. They will need to get out and be socialized also. If you or anyone you know can donate items for the animals, that would be great! Donations can be dropped off at any our of shelter locations.Examples of items are towels, blankets, food, etc..Last- I am waiting on confirmation from the shelter managers regarding the Labor day holiday. Our dept will get this to you today! Thank you all for being patient with me. If you need anything, call my cell214.507.9881~

Please Let's Help the Nice People of New Orleans

I’ve already told you about a guy I met in the French Quarter named Daniel. He shines shoes for a living. Most nights he makes the two mile walk from his home in the Ninth Ward to his spot on Decatur Street where he gives the most thorough (and expensive) shoe shine you’ve ever had. His shoe shines last at least 10 minutes. The whole time he talks about the value of proper shoe care. When he’s not talking about shining shoes he talks about his mother who he takes care of with his shoe shine money. Daniel is a good man who makes the most of what little he has. He told me that his mother is proud of him.

New Orleans is full of Popeye’s Chicken and Biscuits. One night when I wanted some chickens, we went over to one of the Popeye’s stores on Esplanade in Metairie. There worked Patricia Robinson and another woman whose name I can’t remember. Never have you met anyone who enjoys her work more than Patricia Robinson. I live in a town where you can scarcely get a fast food worker to grunt at you. This Patricia Robinson treated us like she couldn’t wait until we came back for more chickens and biscuits or corns. Her staff was equally friendly. I’d eat a lot more Popeye’s if Patricia Robinson worked at the one in Garland.

The second to last time I went to New Orleans, we stayed at the Renaissance Pere Marquette hotel down by the French Quarter. One night I wanted some dessert, so I ordered it from room service. I think it was pie. The woman that brought my pie or whatever it was up to my room on the Dave Brubeck floor told me all about how proud she was of her daughter who had earlier that day been accepted to a very prestigious prep school in the area. The room service woman never graduated from high school and told me she was determined to see that her daughter gets the best education she could possibly get.

This has been about three of the people I remember from New Orleans. I don’t recall anyone who was unfriendly or threatening or cruel. For the life of me, I don’t get the mentality of the people creating havoc in that fine city’s most desperate time. Then again, I can’t remember the last time I was really hungry or desperate. Why should I understand why they do what they do? All I’m saying – to those of you who haven’t been there – is that the people of New Orleans are good people. I hope you’ll do whatever you can do to help.

Hodgepodge

I’ve been meaning to write, but I just can’t think of anything else to say. There’s only so much stuff to put.

Put <-- I think that’s a funny word. Say this: "put put put put put put". Now that’s fun! "Put put put". Swing!

When I was too small to defend myself, my sister used to drive me through construction zones. She made me play a game called “Barrel”. The rule was that if I didn’t say “barrel” each time we passed a barrel (and there are numerous barrels in construction zones), she’d haul off and punch me right on the fat.

When I got big enough to drive, I put my sister in the car and told her we were going out for a game of “Weed”.

Speaking of relatives who did mean things to me when I was little…

Sometimes my cousin Tony reads this blog. I wonder if he remembers the time he put Preparation H on my toothbrush when we were spending the night at my grandma’s house. It’s weird to think that my grandma must have had some hemorrhoids. In the bathroom with the Preparation H, she also had some goopity goop goop called Dippity Do. People used Dippity Do in their hairdos. After I finished brushing my teeth with hemorrhoid cream, Tony and I took turns playing the Card Sharks bonus round. I had fun back then. But not anymore!

Does the H in Preparation H stands for “hemorrhoid”? Of all the things to prepare, I can’t imagine why you’d ever need to prepare a hemorrhoid. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

I know a guy named Chet. He recently had several surgeries including adult tonsil removal. I bet he’s also had hemorrhoids. It seems Chet set the world’s record for biggest tonsils. According to Chet they weighed four pounds! Some midgets don’t even weigh that much.

The other day, my friend (who is quite brilliant) – let’s call her Gertie - issued the following two statements:
1. “Fat’s what makes everything good.”
2. “Bulls are big.”
Who could argue? The best part is that she wasn’t even trying to be funny.

I really must work to perfect the technology for the customized See N Say. As you may recall from childhood, this is the toy with a dial in the middle and barnyard animals around the circumference. You put the dial on the pig (for example), pulled the string, and the machine went “Pigs say, ‘Oink, oink, oink’.” I’d make a See N Say with Gertie's head on the dial. It would go, “Gertie says, ‘(insert funny statement)’”.

Tomorrow is my sister’s birthday. She’s going to be 37! I can’t believe she’s that old. Way to go, Tara! You did it!

I guess I need to figure out what to give her. It seems like she’s constantly asking for “a good cookie sheet”. Either we are bad at buying good cookie sheets or she is bad at cookies because my parents and I have made gift-giving careers out of supplying her with good cookie sheets.

From what I understand from people, the secret to good cookies may be something called “parchment paper”. They say you can put parchment paper on even a crummy cookie sheet (crummy meaning bad; not crummy meaning crumby), and the cookies will come out perfect (that is, they would be neither crummy nor crumby)!

Apparently parchment paper is on the same aisle as wax paper and plastic wrap. The other day I found out that plastic wrap let’s off cancer and you shouldn’t use it to cover up your leftovers.

What fun would it be if I made origami out of parchment paper? I could rub dough on the origami and turn it into a swan cookie (or something). These would be some fancy cookies. It would be neat to have a store called “Fancy Cookies by Larry”. I’d also offer fondue. Others would like me and wonder if I’m gay.

As this is clearly going nowhere, I’m going to go away until I get some better material. This has been crap.

I Sat on Some Urine

Hello from the Quail Springs Holiday Inn Express in Oklahoma City.

I used to have an insane barber. When I was very young, he was an amateur boxer. He used to challenge me to matches. As I grew larger and larger, he stopped boxing and started manufacturing homemade shotguns. He liked pointing them at me during my haircuts (these days I get my hair “styled” by a beautician). His name was John Merrick. So was the elephant man’s.

I remember a time when I first got my dog, Albert. Albert liked eating Robert’s poop (Robert was also a dog). I tried and tried to get him not to eat the poop, but he kept eating it anyhow. One day I asked the Barber John Merrick if he had any ideas for keeping Albert from eating up all of the poop. He said I shouldn’t worry about it on account of poop is just “changed food”. I thought to myself that John Merrick is right! Robert died and Albert stopped eating poop. Nowadays, Albert is fresh. I guess every cloud has a silver lining.

Anyway, upon checking into this Holiday Inn Express, I did something a little out of the ordinary by laying down on the bed without first removing the comforter. After laying around for about an hour and forty-five minutes, I decided to remove the comforter. Then I sat on the edge of the bed for a minute. Suddenly, I started feeling soggy in my pants. I reached down to where my body met the bed and it was soaked. I smelled my hand and I’ll be damned if I wasn’t sitting in a pile of somebody else’s urine!

I stood up and thought about things for a while. Then I started to almost throw up. Then I remembered that if poop is changed food, then all I’d sat in was changed drink. For a second, I almost stopped starting to throw up. Then I realized that John Merrick’s poop theory was way off. Sitting in urine is disgusting.

So I picked up the phone to call the front desk. Then I hung it up. I was afraid they’d think I was the guy who made the adult butt-sized pool of urine in the bed. I kept thinking about everything. I knew I couldn’t sleep in a toilet. I decided to call the desk…

Worker: Front desk.
Me: Hello. You probably aren’t going to believe this, and, anyway, it didn’t come out of me, but I was just relaxing on your bed when I realized I was sitting on a very large amount of urine.
Worker: (silence)
Me: It’s really gross. Somebody who isn’t me went in the bed!
Worker: You can’t be serious.
Me: I’m serious. I don’t make up stories about sitting in waste. I really don’t think I can sleep in this bed.
Worker: (silence)
Me: Do you think I could possibly move to a different room?
Worker: Yes. Come to the front desk.

I hung up and decided to account for how wet I was. When I sat in it, I was wearing my work shirt, shorts, and underpants. My shirttail was soaked through, as were my shorts and underpants. I felt my butt. It was moist. It occurred to me that, in my adult life, I’ve never had a wet butt in bed. Have you?

I went to the front desk and the lady apologized. I told her that it was okay for she was neither the one who did the urinating or the one who failed to change the sheets. I recommended that whoever “cleaned” the room be fired immediately. They moved me to a new room where I kept imagining that the new bed also had wet spots. Finally, I settled down enough to sleep albeit poorly.

What diseases can I catch from sitting in that stuff? Who would do something like that? I figure it was an old, a sicko, or the person who cleaned the room. But why would anyone leave the bed in such a mess? I think it’s pretty weird.

People wonder whether I’m going to ask for compensation. I tell people that I don’t yet want anything. If they give me my room for free, they’re really giving the government (who pays for my room) the room for free. But the government didn’t sit on the urine. I did! I’m going to write a letter to the Holiday Inn once I go home. What do you think they should give me?

Hitting Rock Bottom

Over the next week or so I’m going to try to document all of the things that have happened in the last six weeks or so. I’ll also stick in current stuff if it’s any good. We’re going to have fun!

Back before I could drive, I used to go up to Richardson Square Mall on the DART bus. The beauty of the Richardson Square Mall DART bus stop is that it’s within eyeshot of a Long John Silver’s.

The Long John Silver’s people didn’t like me. I would time my return to the bus stop so that I could stop in LJS for a box of crumbs, a cup of water, and an “I Sailed With Long John Silver’s Crew” pirate hat. Total cost - $0. Then I’d sit there eating crumbs and looking at my latest heavy metal purchase until the bus showed up. To this day, it’s easy to identify the LJS grease stains smearing the cover of my Deep Purple “Deepest Purple” record. From time to time you’ll catch me licking that album cover.

I still can’t get enough of them crumbs. They’re the batter particles that fall off all of the fried crap that Long John Silver’s serves. Six Thursday nights ago or so, I decided to stop at LJS on my way home from work. I got three chickens, hush puppies, fries, and a box of crumbs. Then I went home and ate the box of fried lard…while lying down…in bed.

As you’ll learn as I continue to update you on all of the different things that have happened to me during this blogging hiatus, I am a changed person. And it all began that night when I ate the crumbs in my bed. My mom often says that sometimes people have to hit their low point before they can make their lives better. That night with the crumbs was my rock bottom. Rest assured that despite lung cancer and heart attack scares, things are really starting to go my way! I’ll tell you about what happened next later. But first, get a load of what happened this week…