I sleep on dogs now.

YEAH

YEAH THAT'S RIGHT

I HAVE A DOG PATTERNED BED PILLOW NOW. YEAH.

What do you sleep on? I bet it sucks. I got all kinds of dogs. You want to know how many dogs I've got on this thing?

Like five dogs. They're all happy, too. They look like they've just discovered that they won the lottery, but then they gave the money to orphans or something, because they've realized that true happiness lies in quantity of experience in the world or some shit. Maybe they'll join a monastery and spend the rest of their lives wearing these really cute little monk robes and calling puppies grasshopper and stuff. It'd be like kung fu panda, only without Jack Black and with a lot more dogs and no martial arts and also occasionally a dog would die and that would be depressing for small children who want to see cute animals performing martial arts, and then those children would grow up to have a crippling self confidence complex, like maybe they can't eat shrimp if there's a Jewish man around.

Anyway, it's pretty damn comfy. My mother caught me making snuggly noises at the pillow the other day though, so now apparently she feels the need to ask me if I'm, "OK." I tried to explain to her that it's just the pillow is so damn awesome now, but she just looked concerned. She mentioned that we had some real dogs, and that sort of took me by surprise. I mean, when the pillow came along, it sort of blew the less important stuff out the door.

So, I'm planning on sharing this thing with the other people of the world. Imagine, if you will, a rather cold, dreary farm scene. Old Tater, or some other rustic and elderly named gentleman, is out in the moonlight of the cold Oregon/rural Texas/Martian (for variety) moon. His hands tremble slightly, a tremble that wasn't there year ago, when he was still a young cattle rustler/store operator/tractor driver/Martian (for variety) as he lays a bouquet of roses down on his dead wife's grave. A single tear, though one with an ad in the personals section of the local newspaper, which isn't getting any action due to its lack of self esteem and halitosis, rolls down his cheek. Suddenly, he hears a whooping, hollering noise.

"FUCK YEAH LOOK AT THIS PILLOW CASE HOLY SHIT," he hears, coming from over a ridge. Suddenly, a huge repainted tour bus/jumbo jet crests the hill. A rogueishly handsome young man stares down at Old Maize. "Yo," the guy would say, "Get a load of this, old man," and he'd throw the man a freshly ironed pillow case. Suddenly, Old Beet's heart soars. Damn, he realizes, I've been throwing my life away, putting these roses on graves. "Thank you, young feller," he shouts after the departing sex beast extraordinaire.

Afterwards, he goes and joins a surfing community in California. He meets up with some young folks, teaches them the ways of the world in exchange for humor filled surfing lessons, and eventually shows everyone that the old can still be young at heart by winning some surfing/boxing/Martian fucking competition. He dies at the age of 120, while rocking out to Bang Camaro.

Anyway, I guess I'm just trying to say that, yes, I have plans for the weekend.

Man, these last few days sucked

When I say sucked, I mean sucked with the vehemence and conviction that a five or six year old saying the word would have. The kind where they thrust out their lower lip and scrunch up their nose and say, "That sucked," and they don't know what fellatio is yet so you have the urge to correct their word usage but damn they are angry.

I am attempting to convey that these days sucked majorly, bro/broette.

First off, last weekend wasn't a good time for my stomach. I ate in quantities both large and small, and I did so continuously. In the future, a nuclear war will wipe out most of the population of earth. The few remaining will live primitive lives, dominated by praying to Gods that will not hear them and fucking the shit out of things that were never intended to be fucked.

The huge monuments that these scared, frightened mutants will build to their gods will resemble what passed from my intestinal tract and into the realms of legend.

So, I wake up on Monday and, due to this horrific consumption fit, I fart. I do not like to fart when I wake up, because then I'm trapped by my own laziness. The few seconds before any odor reaches me are the worst. The anticipation is terrible, and in my mind, there's a little voice saying get up get up you idiot why are you throwing your life away maybe someday you'll get a microwave with accuracy down to .5 seconds so that you can evenly cook something that has a recommended cook time of 2:30-3 minutes oh jesus. As the stench finally rolled over me, all I could think was I am the worst man that ever lived. I am satan.

It happens to be my last week of high school, so I had to get up, go to school, sit in class, and be bored for a while. Then, I go home. Ah, blessed relief. Unfortunately, instead of taking a nice, long, cooling shower, my drain backs up. So I take a nice, short, room temperature foot soak in filth instead, and that's all right, but you know. It's not really ideal. It is by no means what I would choose for myself, given God like powers over matter, time, and free will.

The next day, no gas, no horrible stomach cramps. The worst, I feel, has passed, and so I set out jolly and comfortable on my bicycle for school. On the way, a delightful man decides that traffic signs are outdated modes of communication, and their existence must be protested. In a show of solidarity with his political uprising, I get hit by him. The crumpled wheels of my bicycle are a brilliant, dazzling message to the fat cats in Washington: Whoa, dudes, some guy, like, is not obeying traffic signals.

To summarize: a bloo bloo bloooh