I'm Either Considered Funkadelic or Funkalicious

Firstly, I want to say hats off to Roger Moore for making such an auspicious debut with his documentary "Farenheit 7/11." It takes courage for an individual to stand alone against such a popular administration. Not that I consider myself a political person, though I tend to lean towards the Librarian Party on most issues.

Now, to the business at hand, which is pressing:

A Few Reasons Why My Children Are Smarter And Better Than Yours

- Zach can roll onto his back to burp, then back on his stomach to fart.
- Zoey can poop the profiles of famous political figures into her diaper. Yesterday I saw Fidel Castro.
- They often cobble all of my shoes in the middle of the night when I'm asleep.
- Zach can sing Britney Spears songs in the voice of Johnny Cash.
- Zoey can spell "credenza."

The Stationary Store That Moved

A good way to get rid of a roommate you hate is to one night, stand over him/her completely naked with a huge erection and a hunting knife, all the while fingering the blade, smiling, and whispering "Ooooh man, this is gonna be SWEET!"

I had a roommate from Brazil during my years at CalArts. He had a tendency to mix tequila into his beer and drink quite heavily of the mixture. I got back from class one night and found a massive, chunky puke splashed on the side of my dorm fridge and a little on my shoes as well. I considered this to be somewhat disrespectful.

I knew that our relationship was in jeopardy from the first time we met. I attempted to shake his hand, and he looked at me like I was offering him free Ebola.

I remember standing over him for a little while with a pillow in my hand as he snored, envisioning him as a rebellious free spirit struck down by the oppressive Nurse Ratched, the stitches from his recent lobotomy still gleaming wetly. I was the Chief, ready to set him free and throw a large appliance out the window to make my escape.

I did neither thing, and he eventually moved out without incident.

The Greatest Band in the World right now is an 4-piece instrumental group called Explosions in the Sky. They make music so gorgeous, it makes me want to weep like a little girl. Their brilliance live:
angels-gone.com/explosionsinthesky/video.htm

You know what I hate? When you unconsciously scratch your anus during a deep sleep, and wake up to find poop under your fingernails in the morning.

I wish I had a monkey that I could train to fling feces upon command. He would perch upon my shoulder and let loose a barrage of brown justice at any individual I would point at. I could get him a little suit with a trapdoor in it that read "Mr. Poopflinger" on the front.

He'd be my bestest friend.

And I would teach him by example, of course.

I hope I get a monkey for Father's Day.

Dung is Brown and Sounds Like a Bell

Elementary School:

I once punched a kid in the hallway for no reason while waiting outside the principal's office. I was sent there because I had gotten into a fight earlier that day.

Mom used to make me wear Tuffskins from Sears. After a nuclear holocaust, only two things will remain on earth: Roaches and pairs of burnt Tuffskins.

I sat on a kitten and accidentally killed it. My mother has always stressed the word "accidentally."

I sewed my finger to my sister's Barbie sewing machine. I then ran around screaming and flinging blood everywhere with the machine still attached to my finger.

I once screamed so loud in my sister's ear that it rang for a week straight. After her hearing returned to normal, she delivered a crushing kick straight to my nuts while I was playing with my Transformers. I dropped Optimus Prime and fell to the floor clenching my injured sack for the remainder of the day. Even as an adult, the sight of any transforming toy makes my balls ache.

I once got a GI Joe stuck up my ass while taking a bath.

I cried for an hour straight with ice cream running down my arm while watching "101 Dalmations" at a drive-in with my pop. Every once in awhile he'd turn to look at me in disgust and say "Just EAT the damn thing!"

My first kiss was from a boy in my class who pinned me down one day during recess and planted one on my lips. Of course, according to what I told my friends, my first kiss was from the girl who used to babysit me and went on to have an illustrious career as a pornstar named "Kascha."

I once got into a fight with the only black kid in school, when, upon hearing me sing the theme to "Scooby Doo," thought mistakenly that I had just called him a "scoop of doo-doo."

Trying to impress a teacher, I told her that I had actually read the novel "Of Mice and Men," and proceeded to make up a dazzling lie about the wondrous adventures of a plucky mouse named Lenny.

I watched "Porky's" and blinked maybe once during the entire movie. It was the first time I felt something strange down below.

My arm went to sleep one day during class after I had been sleeping on it. In a panic at the now-useless limb beside me, I rushed to the nurse's office and told her that it was broken. She kindly humored me, splinted it, and called my mother. My mother, who had been a nurse for over 20 years (4 of them in Vietnam), came to collect me during her lunch break and proceeded to give me a tongue lashing so severe that Jesus Himself decided to go back to sleep because he figured that the Armageddon had begun without Him.

I'm Drowning, Not Waving

I spent the weekend standing next to a freeway offramp dressed in ragged, dirty clothes, holding a sign that said "Feelin' Fine." Occasionally I would change this sign to "Don't Need Anything," or "Doing Pretty Good." If someone stopped and offered me change, I would scream gibberish and point at the sign.

I also went up an escalator without holding the handrail. But I held it going back down, because I'm not crazy.

My weekends are not what they used to be since I had kids. Before Zach and Zoey, not a weekend would go by that didn't include booze, drugs, strippers, gambling, two midgets, and a Dixie cup full of KY. Things have changed.

I don't think Becky likes me anymore.

Probably because I'm a habitual workaholic who is so centered on his career and does nothing else but bring in income.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

No, Becky loves me too much for her own good, even with my considerable emotional problems. And the kids need someone else to puke on once in awhile or it just becomes boring for them, right? There's nothing like being up at 3AM with a screaming child launching a warm vomit with the consistency of pulverized tofu down the entire right side of your body, all the while depositing a load of steamy mud into the diaper you just changed five minutes ago....

And then 16 years from now we can have this conversation:

"Hey, pop, can I borrow the car?"
"Well, son, I don't think so."
"I WISH YOU WERE DEAD, YOU OLD PIECE OF CRAP!"

Some good names for your future children:

Male
1. Osama
2. Forklift
3. Timberlake
4. Buttafuoco
5. Porkchop

Female
1. Credenza
2. Mezzanine
3. LaToya
4. Marge Rita
5. Bungee

End Transmission.

CRAPOLA

And so it is Friday, thank gawd, thank gawd.

I've only been at work for exactly 1 hour and 19 minutes, and I'm already bored. "Living," for me, is what happens between the times of 5pm-11pm on weekdays, and for 48 hours on weekends. The other time not accounted for is spent on what I call "Soul-Sucking, Hair-Graying, 'Rhoid-Inducing, Can't-Fart-Without-Looking-Around-First" work.

Maybe I'll pack up the kids and Becky in the Prius and escape for greener pastures. Motor north via the 101, throwing off the shackles of responsibility and the last vestiges of my tax-paying life.

And maybe bats will fly out of my anus.

I often resist the urge to go running down the street completely naked except for a pair of red pumps while screaming "Toto! Toto!"

I often resist the urge to run amuck with a weed whacker.

Without Becky and the kids, I'd probably go insane. "Or turn dang fruity," as my pop would say.

Hey, I hear Nancy Reagan is available now. Think I'll put on a tux and go innerduce myself. But I guess Becky wouldn't like it. Of course, before you get married, it's all "Sure, go ahead and seduce all the octogenarian ex-presidential widows that you want! I'm cool with that!" But as soon as she gets that ring, boy howdy, there go all your hobbies!

Next week I'll post a picture of Buster Poindexter with a small Asian girl per Mike's request.

Grant and Becky Rule the World

I don't like the word "blog." I keep thinking of the phrase "big log," as in "big brown log," as in "big brown doo doo log," as in "big brown doo doo log floating in the toilet." I don't think "weblog."

And there, in a buttshell, is what you can expect. Oh, curious reader, brave friend, vegi-sexuals and various pedophiles, why the hell are you here? Isn't your own life interesting enough?

Besides, I'm not one of those attention-craving whores parading around every facile aspect of their lives in a pathetic display of neediness.

Yes I am.

Let me tell you why:

1. My head is in physical proportion to my body.
2. I often turn frowns upside down.
3. I drive a Prius. Like Leonardo DiCaprio.
4. I have been frequently referred to as "the shiznit."
5. I find monkeys hilarious.

My wife and I had twins on March 24th, 2004. They are the most beautiful things I have ever seen. And they look NOTHING like the mailman, so don't believe those STINKIN' LIES!

If I won a million bucks, I would save it because college will probably cost that much in 18 years.