In my dream, your mother was torturing bigfoot. That's what she did in reality too.

What would other writers do with the subject of cockroaches? To answer that, I guess we need to think about the salient points of a cockroach--it is brown, durable, dirty and an excellent mariachi musician. Some writers might go on to lament the cockroach's durability, to lament the fact that, of all the creatures that God could have chosen (you'll notice that other writers, even atheists, like to refer to God. I don't, not because I don't believe in Him, but because I am forward-looking and forsee a day when He becomes a licensed character and the other writers are sued for using His name. Another reason is that going back and capitalizing His Name and His Pronouns all over the place is difficult to remember.) to endow with the ability to survive a nuclear blast, the one He chose had to be a cockroach.

I don't lament this. I don't even know where people would get off lamenting it. After all, other writers aren't going to survive a nuclear blast themselves, so what do they care if there are cockroaches scuttling around afterwards. I, on the other hand, will survive a nuclear blast. That claim probably seems a bit bombastic to you (I didn't intend that pun and I'm thinking about changing that word to eliminate it), but you have never met me, so you are in no place to decide what I can and cannot survive. The last known person to survive an atom bomb blast was the Burgess Meredith character in that one Twilight Zone episode. I mean, aren't I just a small man with glasses who wanted nothing but time, or failing that, a mediocre actress and astonishingly poor musician who starred in Mean Girls?

Presented with this evidence, a hypothetical jury would probably find that I am better-placed than most to complain about cockroaches, since I'll still be dealing with them when you've all been vaporized. But note that I haven't been complaining. Perhaps that's because I've been providing explanations for the last two paragraphs. I couldn't tell you, really. But after taking the moral high ground I did three sentences ago, I would look like a "damn nerd," or for those of you not versed in the vernacular of my college dorm room, a hypocrite making an embarrassing climbdown. But come on, cockroaches?

At least it's not as bad as this:

I knew i had seen your mother somewhere else. Turns out it was in my wet-dream about sasquatch.

So i think our relationship is strong enough to tell you that i dabble in Cryptozoology, which is the study of "hidden animals." Yes i know i did not give credit to where i found that definition. If you can find it, then you spend far too much time on wiki-oops, i've said too much. I lied, its cryptozoology.com.

"Where is this post going?" I think the question you mean to ask is, "did you actually have a wet dream about bigfoot?" I think the last word in that sentence all to clearly explains my plight. So clearly my plight is that i have too many E-lektrolyts. It ebonics, don't worry about it, i picked it up off a guy.

"Are you drunk?" Let me respond to the next obvious question with an equally obvious question, "Is the pope catholic?" Yes, but i'm not intoxicated, just inebriated.

I i think the most annoying question in the world besides, "Is that a beached killer whale or am i just looking at Rosie O'donell?" is "If a tree falls in the forest does it make a noise?" The answer is yes, because i chopped it down on all the people who have ever phrased that question to me, and their blood-curdling screams of "no" are only comparable to when the audience at an Eagles concert is asked for an encore.

And that is true terror.
But you know what isn't...



-J.A.

When your mother and I entered the theater, I caught an enchanting whiff of her hair. It turned out that I was actually hallucinating in the bathroom

It's common knowledge that creating and maintaining a MySpace page is the raison d'etre of every rational man and woman. MySpace provides an outlet through which people can express themselves in a way far more profound than anything possible within the framework of mere face-to-face meetings. Such luminaries as Lindsay Lohan and Former United States President Franklin Pierce use it after all. I daresay that the invention of the internets would have been in vain if MySpace hadn't been created.

It's a funny thing about sarcasm...oh, actually I forgot what I was going to say about it. Anyway, some people, I'm sure, who don't think they can find "their type of people" there. I can sympathize. I have a (now thankfully neglected, for the most part) MySpace, but I always felt that my caterpillar wasn't finding the coccoons it needed to emerge as a beautiful butterfly there. I longed for somewhere in the internet community where my humble seedling could bed among the dirt clods it needed to blossom into pungent flowers. But where could I go if I wanted my pile of decomposing plant matter to find the additional decomposing plant matter of the same type it needed to spontaneously combust into a raging inferno?

I found a place where people exactly like me are on the internet. CafeMom, the social networking site for moms! It's a place where mothers can meet to talk about their children and swap "war stories." And by "war stories," I mean tales like mine of starving within the city walls of fourteenth century Calais under the booming of the English cannon. CafeMom is great. Just register a profile, like mine, then provide short descriptions of each of your kids, like the ones I wrote of Cigarette, Darling McWonderface, Faeces, Missus Toad, Slobodan and Obese with their mother/my sister, and then you've got it. So please, give it a try. I promise you'll love it:



And if that don't do it for you, I know someone who will. Gladly:

-Eleanor

Your Mother has a Huge Panis!

Your mother's Panis is huge! Deal with it.

I'm glad I got that off my chest.

Literally.

So now I would like to shamelessly discuss my life. I was on a trip to large city, and deicided to look for work. There was a nice opportunity for me to work at a local bakery, which only pays a stipend. Turns out, when you recieve a stipend, hours are no longer of importance, so basically, if I was payed hourly, I would be considered a "sweat-shop worker." This would make my father happy, and outrage everyone else in the world (middle-to-upper class people in the United States who will never actually do anything about it themselves). So instead of presenting accurate detailed information, I will give what is affectionately called "its not you, its me." To oversimplify, something that might not be 100% accurate-but close.

So I live in paradise, middle-america, (Springfield oregon). I have 2 children, both of whom are lovely. I have a beautiful wife who I am madly in love with. I also have a dog. However, in my world, it is actually a Karlien Bear Dog, trained to only know my family, so if the Joneses' little boy Danny walks over ("what a cute little tyk") and wants to pet Snuffles (my dog's name (not really)), Snuffles will treat Danny like a giant brown bear casually patroling the former U.S.S.R's territory and proceed to rip his head off and then devour his soul, then breathing out fire and tourching the whole neighborhood, burning everything and leaving no survivors. When I say don't pet the dog, I really mean it.

But something I hope is not really meant is the concept of never. We learn from mistakes, but I will never say, "I will not get another Karliean bear dog." I didn't say never.

Think of the upsides! I haven't.
But what I have thought of is this...

-Jake

I gave your mother a bouquet when we met up that evening. She gave me a v.d. when we met up that night.

I don't normally like to talk about my personal life in this blog. Why? Well, for one thing, I don't want it turning into one of those blogs. You know the ones. The personal diaries that detail, boringly, the lives of the boring about whom nobody cares, you ask? No, not at all. I'm talking instead about the blogs--I'm sure we've all seen at least three or four--that are just full of exciting stories of Himalayan climbs, fights with kangaroos, escapes from stalled airplanes, and the like. I mean, come on! Everyone knows there's no place in a society fuelled by big-budget films for written accounts of exciting events. The written word is now the province of consumer guides on yarn and price lists for beard trimmers.

What does all that mean? What am I trying to say? None of that is important, because I'm going to make an exception to the talking about myself rule today. Today, I'm going to hike up a very tall mountain and attempt to sleep there. Why am I making an exception to tell you this? Well, not too get too sentimental about it, but if I die, I'd like to thank all of you.

And by "all of you," I mean the 1950s film director Ed Wood, Jr. I don't know why it's contingent on my dying either. I think we all owe Ed Wood a debt of gratitude for what he's done. Me specifically. You see, once I was in the supermarket trying to pick out a dental floss that would work on ten-inch tusks. I don't have ten-inch tusks, I swear, although you ought to be suspicious, since that picture of me doesn't show my face, but anyway, I turned in the aisle to ask a guy about it and he pointed to one that turned out to work pretty well.

Three years later, I saw Glen or Glenda (starring Lindsay Lohan?). Maybe that story shows why I never talk about myself in this blog. If you're not clever enough to figure it out from what I've said already, I'll spell it out for you:

-Eleanor

When your mother and I went on our first proper date, I thought it was to the opera house. It turns out I confuse the words "opera" and "slaughter."

Yeah, I use Wikipedia sometimes. So? It can be entertaining if you have nothing better to do (better things to do include: going to the beach, competing in facial hair-growing tournaments, working for a living, napping, sitting outside and watching traffic, getting information from reputable sources). One of my favorite Wikipedia activities is looking up movies I have seen recently.

Unfortunately, one of the films in that category was the second Fantastic Four movie. Looking it up on Wikipedia, I made a shocking discovery: in the 1910s, "Italian" was a slang term for "coward." At this point in the writing of this blog, I have the option of expanding this into a meditation on the parallels between this archaic usage and the modern usage of the word "fag." I also have the option of spending the next two paragraphs talking about Spam.

Spam was invented in the 1790s by an inventor called Eli Whitney. It completely revoluitionized the economy of the Southern United States and proved to be a major factor in the Civil War. It was a firm believer in the spoils system who became the 21st President of the United States when James A. Garfield was shot by Charles Guiteau. Among its most notable programs in office was an anti-Chinese immigration law. It was praised for its uncannily realistic descriptions of battle in the Civil War and is still considered a classic. It was also unconvincing in A Prarie Home Companion as a suicidal kid folk singer.

Some of that, theoretically, may not be one hundred percent accurate, but that's no more than one expects of a text for which all the information comes from Wikipedia. They probably don't expect something like this, however:

-Eleanor

I began a long and passionate relationship with your mother, but only so that I could recover my medication...at least that's how it started

I can't be bothered to segue into this topic. I won't waste time beginning with the turning of the key in the ignition of my mind, the accumulation of gears before my engine finally reaches its top speed and the discussion gets to its most exciting. This film doesn't begin with the trash-talking before the race or the dropping of the checkered flag. It starts one hundred yards from the finish line with the cars neck-and-neck.

I know what you're thinking: movies about auto racing are kind of lame. I would beg to differ. Even if no other films in the racing genre had been remotely worthwhile, it still produced the true classic Herbie: Fully Loaded. Those who have no time for Lindsay Lohan's heart-stopping acting career have obviously never seen her best work.

But who, seriously, wants to talk about Lindsay Lohan? I had something important to talk about and I blame you entirely for leading me astray. Well...not entirely. I guess it's more like a massive reader-Lohan conspiracy. But there you go getting me off-topic again.

The topic is: octopi. It has recently come to my attention that octopi have eight tentacles. That's mind-bendingly unfair on people like me who have only one or possibly no tentacles. Write your congressperson and tell them that there needs to be something done when such a small portion of the population has a monopoly on the tentacles. I know it can be daunting to go up against the powerful mollusk lobby, but I have done it before and won.

And no, I'm not going to explain that. You'll have to do a bit of your own research, but as a hint, here is a graphic in really good taste:

-Eleanor

An Explicit Enlightenment of a Rendezvous with your Father

You thought June 17th was a day to appreciate your father for all the sweat, hard work, and elbow grease he has put into your life--I am about to change that.

Rapidly.

Lets just say that one time when you were five years old and your father was supposed to be outside hanging the wash, and you decided to sneak into his room for whatever reason your five year-old brain wanted to (heroin, baseball cards, full-size billboards), that thing you saw wasn't an armadillo, and the person in the bed was not your mother. Oh, however, he was quite literally "hanging the wash."

I have no idea what "hanging the wash" literally means. One can only assume he was helping your mother with a mundane household chore. What a great guy!

So that explains why your dear old dad cries while watching movies like The Last Kiss, and enjoys musicians like Elliot Smith. Hint: he's gay.

And prose like this is probably why my father is severely ashamed of me. That and the fact that I look up pictures like this:

-Jake

I wondered whether I should call your mother that morning and wouldn't have if I hadn't realized I left my heart medicine with her

Heart disease is a serious issue that I wouldn't even think about making light of. Not only would I not entertain the idea, I would pay someone to find out when it was coming to town and schedule my vacations accordingly. And I'll tell you why--heart disease is so easy to make fun of that I would actually have to install new, lower gears in my ridicule transmission to accommodate it. But seriously, heart disease sufferers are really terrible at working the stock market and ugly to boot.

See, the thing of it is that I would go to any lengths to avoid getting around to what I feel duty-bound to write about--the theme for "Graphic Accounts of Dates with your Mother." Maybe the idea that I'm even asking this puzzles you. Perhaps you will say that you weren't even aware that it (they?) had a theme. After all, none of the topics we have covered so far seem even remotely connected. I mean, except that the one about the Eagles was immediately followed by one about shit. That wasn't a coincidence. But we don't want to keep writing along that vein.

Or maybe what you thought was that the theme, such as it was, was in the title. You would be wrong again. The title is just an attention-grabbing ploy and a disguise for the lack of pithiness that makes it difficult for Jake and I to write headlines. I mean, if you really want to hear about what I did with your mother, you should consult the police report. And it was worse than that makes it sound, if you wondered.

So what do I mean? I mean that we fully plan on having a theme that unifies all of our blogs. It will be great and you will enjoy it (there I go making bombastic promises). But I'd just make fun of people with heart disease rather than devote any serious thought to it. Another thing I would rather do is:

-Eleanor

That intimate time with your mom was good, but it paled in comparison to the feeling of relief I had after dropping an enormous “deuce” the day after

Yes, the time with your mother was excellent. Normally that would have been the highlight of my week. However, the massive poop I took the next day made that night with your mother forgettable.

So allow me to reintroduce myself. My name is Jake. You may think it odd to say "pinching a smurf" is better than sex. I didn't say that. You wrongfully inferred it. What I said was that "taking the Cleveland Browns to the Superbowl" was better than that time with your mother. Yes I had a stressful week. Yes it had been a while. But I was also very backed up.

You see, part of the reason I enjoy the act of scatting so much is that I think I am at my best while in the act. I often have my best thoughts while on the toliet. So it is very conceivable (as in, I would have sex with this thought's mother in order to make her pregnant with it) that I came up with the idea for this post while on the toliet. In fact, count on it.

The are varying degrees on my bodily functions. If I am constipated, my creativity is probably at a 1 out of 10, and I am not enjoying myself. However, if I have just eaten some raw meat that has salmonella, and to go with that I'm sick with the flu (shakes, sweating, all that) and what is coming out of my rectum can only be described as "butt piss," then am not just enjoying myself, but I am also thinking about what to write for the next blog.

So I realize this probably wasn't a good time to discuss the politics of my shit, but when isn't it a good time to hop on the Night Train?

-Jake

The next day, all I could think about was calling your mother, mostly because she'd forced me to get her number tattooed onto my arm the night before

There are a lot of things to write about, many of them profound and interesting. In the blogs we have written since I opened this site, Jake and I have contemplated our own mortality and just who it is we are. That's great. They are definately within the sphere of questions about which writing is worthwhile. I hope to continue in a similar vein with today's topic, which is: one reason I hate the Eagles.

Not the Philadelphia Eagles, mind. I don't care enough about football to hate any team especially. My feelings for NFL teams are like the ones you have for one of those moles you are barely conscious of until it turns out it's a malignant skin cancer (I think everyone's been there), but I have no special hatreds for any team (Except the Jacksonville Jaguars and I don't think it takes a rocket scientist to figure out why.)

Instead, I'm talking about the California (I think) rock band, but the previous paragraph does says something about your Freys and your Henleys. When making a rock band, you have four options, or legitimate options for the name: quasi-poetic (the Rolling Stones, the Doors), slightly funny (the Beatles), descriptive (the Beach Boys, the Monkees), or wierd (Seattle Symphony Orchestra, and yes I went there). Names shared with sports teams named after fierce animals (Eagles, Falcons, Lions) or demographics (pirates, cowboys, giants) should be avoided at all costs. In addition to being a counter-lameness maneuver, this also would help resolve my personal confusion, which ought to be the aim of all movements aspects of pop culture.

I mean, Leroy Wolfgramm, who played with the Jets in the '80s, would have wanted it that way. What position, you ask? Keyboard. Another thing he would have wanted would have been:

-Eleanor

That "thing" between your mother and i probably took place before i was 24, because, evidently, i will die by age 24.

I had my palm read the other day. Within 2 seconds of looking at my palm, my friend
Mark said, "your going to die in 5 years." Great!

I should probably just end my blogging days here...
...but I won't
...
I enjoy ... way too much
...
sorry i'll stop

So now I really don't care about the whole thing with your mother--even though I told her that I loved her. Ha. Did I mention your mother was an idiot. I should probably throw in alcoholic, coke addict, and in love with meth, but I'll save her the last vestiges of respect from the community. We'll, I guess I didn't anyways. But to sum up, I don't really care, because I'm going to die.

I apologize for the last paragraph, just getting out the frustration of my imminent death.

So now that I have come to grips with my death (I haven't), you are probably wondering what sort of life-changing values I am going to start living by in hopes of redemption. You would expect me to get a new perspective on life, relationships, death, love, comedy, tragedy. It would be expected that, while I am improving the quality of life of those around me, and trying to leave the earth better off than it was when I was born, I will also be figuring out the mysteries of life. Who are we? Where did we come from? Is there a God? In short, I would become the start of a profound new change around the globe that would bring people together around a common goal, and then further my dream by becoming a martyr for something I believe in.

I haven't...remotely (and i'm well aware of the ... usage) so here are my 5 goals before I go to meet my maker in 5 years.
1) Own a sweatshop
2) Eat 37 egg rolis in one sitting (not influenced by drugs)
3) Solely account for 3% of the world's greenhouse gas emissions
4) Trip Scruff McGruff while he is off-duty
5) Become the Mother Teresa of the cashew industry
Oh and getting to that one point with that one person about that one thing that I have always wanted to get to in the overall context of that would be nice, if you know what I mean. And, if not, this will help:

-but even though I pretend otherwise, I'll always remember that one time with your mother

-Jake