Steroids and Lasers

Sexting

2009-10-09T13:47:00.000-07:00

Sexting was invented after I was already too old for that kind of thing. Fortunately, there are a whole bunch of people who are much older than me. And it is precisely those people whom I choose to sext.

My Ink

2009-04-07T12:08:00.000-07:00

Anyone who knows me knows that I am literally covered from head to toe in some pretty hardcore tats. Here's a list of them, and the inside story behind each piece of my pain canvas.

1. Peace Frog
I was dating this Russian chick, and we were in the middle of a messy break up. So I just threw a duffle bag of some shit into my Hyundai Sonata and made a beave line for Myrtle Beach. Pounded a couple Zimas and there I am crying like a baby in the chair. The peace frog tat was a way of saying "self, remember to chill."

2. Clown Beege
You know that dream where you're getting a beege from a clown? I had that dream so many times, I was finally just like, "what up? Let's put this on my fanny." The barbed wire squeezing his heart was my idea.

3. Stealth Bomber
I got this back when the Stealth Bomber first came out. This tat was just an easy way to cover up my clown beege tattoo.

4. Bluetooth Headset Face Tat
I don't use a bluetooth, but I like to talk to myself out loud at Barnes and Noble. This creates the illusion that someone is listening to me besides me.

5. Corn on the Cob
Corn on the cob is deliciouser than hell. So I decided to cover my entire right arm with corn on the cobs.

6. Popcorn
I did the left arm in popcorn to remind myself about the persistent threat of global warming.

7. Grover Cleveland's Non-consecutive Terms As President Represented By a Discontinuous Link of Chains Around My Calf
Only president to serve non-consecutive terms. Just a reminder to myself that anything is possible. This one looks good when I get all sweaty playing beach volleyball.

8. Space Shuttle Discovery
When I go shirtless, the visual twist is that the space shuttle is actually "taking off" downward into my waistband.

9. Fresh Can of Tennis Balls
I represented the smell of a fresh can of tennis balls with a tessellation of swans and swan droppings on the small of my back. I got sunburned real bad back there one time.

10. Face Tat of My Own Face Staring At You
Looks like you're outnumbered, bro.

When I Create A Time Machine

2008-12-10T10:15:00.000-08:00

I think a funny joke would be to build a time machine out of peanut brittle, and then go back in time and visit George Washington Carver. And when he's like "whoa!" just be like "oh, in the future this is what all our time-traveling cars look like." For added effect, you could be wearing a peanut brittle tuxedo.

As Tall As I'll Ever Be

2008-09-26T13:38:00.000-07:00

This morning, while looking at my driver's license, I realized that there is virtually no chance I will ever be any taller than i am right now. I've heard that astronauts who spend a shit load of time in the space station will get taller because there is no gravity smashing down their joints or whatever. But due to some of my "lifestyle choices," I will probably never be an astronaut. And therefore, I will never be taller than I am right now. One might even note that the relentless force of gravity is slowly making me a tiny amount shorter with each waking second. One might also note (adding insult to injury) that I will almost certainly never be good friends with Manute Bol of the Washington Bullets.
Signed,
Matthew Hutchinson
159 lbs.
5' 11 and 3/4"

Concerning My Playgirl Spread

2008-09-19T07:50:00.002-07:00

My Playgirl spread will be tastefully presented and abundant, like a banquet table set before the nobles of a faraway fiefdom.

My Playgirl spread will lie upon the page with the subtle grace and elegance of a Japanese watercolor, my vast C and B flowing across the landscape like a willowy brushstroke.

IMPORTANT: My Playgirl spread is not for pregnant women, or anyone with a history of heart conditions.

What's that sound? It's my Playgirl spread shuffling gently in the heather, the morning dew fresh upon its pages, catching the light just so. Well hello Mrs. Callahan, doesn't the honeysuckle smell lovely this morning? Why yes, I'd love to try some of your fresh peach cobbler.

My Playgirl spread is open to several interpretations.

My Playgirl spread has worked tirelessly to give back to the community from which it was raised. I bet you wonder where the money for that fancy new swingset came from. The answer is My Playgirl Spread Foundation, the chairman of its board of directors being none other than my Playgirl spread.

My Playgirl spread scored a perfect 1600 on its SATs.

My Playgirl spread takes impossible twists and turns into infinity, like the collected works of M.C. Escher.

My Playgirl spread has been successfully used in hostage negotiations, and as a means of expelling third world dictators from their fortified military compounds.

My Playgirl spread is a window into dimensions as yet unspoken of in peer-reviewed scientific journals, but commonly understood to exist nonetheless.

Bill Pullman ends my blog drought.

2008-09-19T07:50:00.001-07:00

Today I washed and conditioned my hair, which I never do. And now it looks all fluffy and loser dad style, like Bill Pullman.

My Tax Rebate Spending Journal

2008-05-08T13:38:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, May 7, 3:28 pm
$600 tax rebate check arrives in mail. I unwrap it and smell it. Rub it along my gums a little. It tastes like freedom. Robust, filthy freedom.

Thursday, May 8, 2:28 am
I have a dream where I am visited by an golden owl. He is so very bright, yet it doesn't hurt my eyes to gaze upon him. He is holding some kind of ancient scroll, written in a language I don't fully comprehend. His face is made of diamonds, and I sense he is wise. Wise like a samurai. Also, his talons are quite sharp as they dig into my genitals.

Thursday, May 8, 11:07 am
I awake hungry and humbled by the dream. What was the owl trying to tell me? I think it had something to do with personal responsibility, or possibly patriotism. I vow that I will use my newly acquired riches for good rather than evil.

Thursday, May 8, 11:09 am
Over a bowl of Honeycomb cereal, I decide I'll use my tax rebate to get a facelift. It probably sounds selfish, but the thing is, I want to get more involved in my community, but I'm currently too ashamed of my face to do so.

Friday, May 9, 11:15 pm
If I have any money left over I'm gonna get a neck tat. Probably of a realistic zipper, halfway opened to reveal my neck organs underneath.

Saturday, May 10 12:08
I call a few dudes, and it turns out facelifts is like mad pricey. I get pretty pissed at first, but then cool myself down with some Nachos Bel Grande. I resolve to sort the issue out in my head. . .

Problem: Facelift is more than 6 hundo.
Solution: Go to Mexico and find a facelift for cheap.
Problem: Getting to Mexico costs money.
Solution: Hitchhike. Pay for food by robbing graves.
Problem solved; tax rebate un-depleted.

May 11-18
Tramping to Mexico is more challenging than I thought. Luckily, I meet up with a hobo named Cookie who can whistle through his eye socket. I sink a hundo into a get-rich-scheme he's developed. He's a little soft on the details, but I'm pretty sure it involves scamming old people. I've also had to spend some of the rebate check on my gambling addiction, which I only recently realized that I have.

June 4, 10:15 am
¡Bienvenidos a Mexico! Getting across the border was a bit tricky (on account of my being a chimera -- more on that in a sec), but I feel as though I am approaching the realization of my dreams. Sadly, Cookie passed away in Piedras Negras. I had to spend the bulk of my rebate check on his ad hoc cremation. Good news is I still got about a hundge to pump into the fledgling Mexican facelift industry.

June 12, 2:30 pm
After a week of bartering and administering street justice, I found the deal I've been looking for. A guy's gonna do my permanent facial expression just like Jack Nicholson as the Joker. I guess since there's a new Joker movie coming out, this procedure is on sale. He also threw in a free laser rejuvination of my female set of reproductive organs. If I don't have more self-confidence now, I never will.

July 4, 8:34 pm
My tax rebate depleted, and my journey complete, I return stateside to begin a new life of community service. I have a one act play I'm performing at the senior center for the fourth of July. It's called "Mirrors of Steve." It is an autobiographical exploration of self identity through the lens of my own selfhood. I play the lead.

July 4, 11:54 pm
I guess old people don't get unscripted experimental theatre cause I bombed pretty bad. I think I even made a few of the older women cry. Removing my stage makeup, I admire my new waxy features, blotting at the moist corners of my eyes.

My Official Position on Skorts and Mouse Pads

2008-01-17T10:13:00.000-08:00

I'm not going to sugar coat this. Yes, last night a specially-trained team of police investigators did raid my house, and yes, in my basement they did find what the local newspaper has referred to as "a sickening accumulation of soiled mouse pads and skorts." What no one has bothered to ask is what I was planning to do with all those skorts and mouse pads.

I believe it was Confucius who said "choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life." Well, following my termination from the International House of Pancakes six months ago, I decided to heed these words and follow my bliss.

Some dudes are into sports cars, others, exquisite cheeses. My deal is skorts and mouse pads. Yes, I said it, and it felt good. I'm tired of making apologies for who I am. Skorts are kind of dressy, kind of sporty, and I appreciate that. Also, mouse pads are both whimsical and functional. I have a computer from 1991, and my mouse pad enables me to smoothly point and click on e-commerce offerings that I would enjoy purchasing. My mouse pad is also emblazoned with the image of a basket full of kittens and yarn, which, needless to say, lightens my heart in this troubled world.

So back to the basement. For years I have spoken to only my closest friends of my dream to open a museum dedicated exclusively to skorts and mouse pads. Well, the good news is that I've decided to follow that dream. The bad news is that, after a lengthy cost-analysis study, I'm estimating my start-up costs to be right around $4.5 million. Which is where you come in. As a principal investor in the first ever Mouse Pad and Skort Museum, you will help to weave an exciting new thread into the tapestry of our American cultural heritage.

Did you know that John Hancock was wearing a skort when he signed the Declaration of Independence? Or that mouse pads were used as an early form of currency among Native American tribes? Late president John Quincy Adams had this to say about the hemp mouse pad he kept in the oval office:
"A truer pad is ne'er to be found. And whence my mouse drag upon its hearty grain, my vigor is emboldened evermore."

So to the know-it-alls at the Herald: Why don't you dig a little deeper into the facts before your rag slanders another American patriot? And to interested museum investors, I am able to accept your check or money orders immediately. I think together we can really change a lot of people's preconceptions about skorts and mouse pads.

Namaste.

Group E-Mail to French Canada Regarding My Intimidating Scorpion Lollipop

2008-01-11T09:20:00.000-08:00

To: French Canadians
From: Matt Hutchinson
Re: My Scorpion Lollipop

Many of you have been wondering (out loud) how extreme I am. Rather than address the issue myself, I'd like to let this scorpion-frozen-in-a-lollipop answer on my behalf. Wait a minute, that's right -- he can't speak because he's trapped in a sugary translucent crypt which I am now slowly destroying with my mouth hole.

For those of you who can't do the math, I'll give you a hand. 1. Scorpions are tougher than shit. 2. Trapping a scorpion in a lollipop is extremely masculine. 3. Freeing the scorpion with one's face borders on madness.

Most of you (my loved ones included) are probably wondering if I am prepared for the fight-to-the-death that will ensue once the scorpion is awakened from his fructose slumber. More specifically, am I prepared to feel the sweet lethal kiss of his barbed stinger, or the vice-like twist of his pincers on my freshly shorn calves? The answer to that question is yes. And the answer to your follow-up question ("why do you shave your legs?") is quite simple: aerodynamic advantage in the scorpion battlefield. Less drag, more efficient scorpion-liquidation.

On a final note, yes that is my Linkin Park ring tone, and yes, I have to take this call.

Regards,
Matt Hutchinson

"All experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untravelled world whose margin fades for ever and ever when I move"
-Alfred Lord Tennyson

Open Letter to the Guy Who Aimed a Laser Pointer at My 'Nads While I Sang The National Anthem

2007-12-12T12:12:00.000-08:00

Not cool, bro. Reasons why not:

A. Lasers are for science, not for grab-assin'
B. Even though it's a weak laser, it can still do damage (read the pamphlet).
C. It fee-ohs buhney on my ween-oh.
D. Everybody thought it was cute how that kitten chased after the laser dot with his sharp baby claws. Everybody but me.
E. For reasons no doctor can explain, my crotch has the power to split light, like a prism. If hit by a strong light source in the wrong way, it could have exploded into rainbow shards.
F. You took away everything that I worked for. Everything.
G. Francis Scott Key was killed by a laser-guided missile. This incident only serves to open up a lot of unhealed wounds.

Sustainable Development in Margaritaville

2007-12-12T10:22:00.000-08:00

* as featured in McSweeney's Internet Tendency *

First off, I'd like to thank the city council for giving me this opportunity to speak to you all today. I'll do my best to keep my comments brief, and let you get back to the Jäger ice luge, which I understand is beginning to melt out back.

Neighbors, friends, elected representatives -- I am Margaritaville. My father was a simple shrimp boat captain who set course for a sleepy fishing village almost forty years ago. He didn't want much. A little plot of land, some skanks, maybe a flask of rum to warm his swollen belly. I'm not sure a little boy was in the plans, but he raised me with love, and more importantly, a love of this land.

From the crisp scent of vomit-soaked pizza boxes baking in the sunrise on East Sound Pier, to the pink and orange sunsets softly shimmering behind the west railyard prostitute encampments, I love every inch of this town. I took my first body shot right around the time I spoke my first word, and that word was "body shot."

And yet I fear that our children might not grow up in the same Margaritaville we've been able to enjoy. A Margaritaville where you can get shit-housed on a quiet jetty and think about what it would be like to get a dolphin high. A Margaritaville where you can take a dump on a snow white sand dune and swear at a baby pelican. A Margaritaville where college dropouts, irrespective of race or creed can listen to Pink Floyd and dry hump below a rainbow. These are the experiences I cherish, and I know that I am not alone.

Now I realize what I'm about to say might not make me the most popular man in town, but I just want to pose a simple question to you all. Which human organ parties the hardest? A lot of you might say the genitals. Others, the face area. But I would argue that the hardiest party in the human body is in our hearts. And I'm asking you to use your hearts in securing a brighter future for our town.

As many of you know, tonight the city council will consider a measure to rezone the old Margaritaville Condom Factory district from PZ-1 (Party Zone - Industrial) to MU-GCD (Multi-Use, Greenspace Conservation). I know that a lot of you have laughed at this proposition, but I wanted to clear up a few myths and facts about what this development would actually mean for this town:

Myth:
The new zoning designation will make it harder to party.

Fact:
Higher population densities and smarter growth means smarter and more robust partying. Imagine living in a place where you can eat, sleep, funnel beers, get treated for herpes and attend a funeral all without leaving a four block area. This is the kind of mixed use development we are planning to create at the Condom Factory Lofts (TM).

Myth:
Pre-planned Party Zone developments such as the Condom Factory Lofts create a homogenized party atmosphere antithetical to the eclectic spirit upon which Margaritaville was founded.

Fact:
As part of our sustainable development initiatives, 15% of all housing units in the new Condom Factory Lofts will be dedicated to affordable residences for displaced condom factory squatters. As I've said before, this development is about building up the Margaritaville community, not tearing it down. If anything, our new work / play retail center promises to invite an even more diverse assortment of Margaritaville residents to stroll casually among its funky modern pornography boutiques and redesigned, pan-Asian inspired opium dens.

Myth:
Talking about environmentalism is crushing my meth high.

Fact:
Both Chief Seattle and Thoreau were huge meth heads.

Myth:
My parents never loved me.

Fact:
They just didn't know you, Bro. Come on, I'll buy you a Smirnoff Ice.

In conclusion, we are stewards of one of the most beautiful party zones on the planet. We have a responsibility to make sure every generation has a chance to party. Vote yes tonight and protect the party for yourself, for your children, and for your children's children. Thank you.

Halloween Costume Brainstorm

2007-10-26T07:32:00.000-07:00

Paper mache siamese twin.

Paper mache Kanye West is my siamese twin.

Paper mache, post-sex-change Kanye West gives birth to baby me (my head in a baby bonnet, emerging from a hole in his paper mache crotch).

Paper mache, post-sex-change Kanye West gives birth to baby me beneath an illuminated paper mache Aurora Borealis. Maybe a wise paper mache Eskimo medicine man stands nearby.

A wise paper mache Eskimo medicine man performs highly risky conjoined twin separation surgery on me and siamese twin paper mache Kanye West.

Newly separated paper mache siamese twin Kanye West, drunk with his newfound freedom, makes out with wise paper mache eskimo medicine man on a secluded beach getaway. I am dressed as a paparazzi, hiding in some nearby sea grass, snapping photos of the whole sordid affair.

Paper mache Kanye West, paper mache eskimo medicine man and I lie down on the beach and arrange ourselves in the shape of a pi symbol. A birds-eye satellite photo is taken of the arrangement. The photo is re-rendered as an engraving in gold. The gold engraving is placed in an airtight container on a space probe presumably destined for an inter-stellar civilization existing several million light years in the future.

In a parallel paper mache universe exactly like our own, except that everything is actually made of paper mache, the real Kanye West can't think of a Halloween costume, so he brainstorms about ornate costumes he can make with skin and bones (which are the crafting supplies of his world). Our space capsule (containing the gold engraving) from the un-paper mache world crashes through the atmosphere and lands gently at his feet.

Some New Concepts for Erectile Dysfunction Pill Commercials

2007-10-12T09:05:00.000-07:00

Commercial One: "Starboard"

FADE IN:
A tan, durable-looking senior mans the wheel of an old, sea-beaten sailboat. An off shore gale blows through his rich silver locks. We cut to a close up of his well-worn hands guiding the aged wooden wheel confidently to port. A second second of hands, graceful and feminine, yet showing the same elegant age lines enters frame and interlocks with the captain's. The captain looks back into his wife's eyes with a confident grin as the sea breeze blows through their hair, and the sun warms their backs. We cut to a wide shot of the sailboat cresting over a furious wave, the deck of the ship doused in brine.

DISSOLVE TO:
The two senior citizens engage in graphic sexual intercourse.

FADE OUT

Commercial Two: "Dream Vacation"

FADE IN:
A mid-fifties man and women sit atop an elephant, laughing and smiling in the warm sub-tropical sun. The man carries a "few extra" pounds, but his wife is as graceful and vibrant as the day they met. A local villager passes a coconut up to them. There are two straws poking out from the top. The couple looks tenderly into each other's eyes as they take a refreshing sip. The elephant curls its trunk back and squirts some water in the man's face. Everyone shares a good laugh.

CUT TO:
It is night now, and the couple is taking shelter in a yurt. A medicine man passes them the burning stem of an unfamiliar plant. They inhale deeply, while exchanging romantic glances by the flickering light of the fire.

DISSOLVE TO:
The couple is now completely naked and smeared in mud, at times fornicating, at times just pawing at each others' faces like wild panthers. Their eyes are black coals, like a snowman's. In the corner of the yurt, the ghastly apparition of a she-wolf waves a crystal scepter over the proceedings.

Commercial Three: "Weekend Warriors"

Two adventure-seeking Baby Boomers sit in the cargo hold of a large plane, dressed in snow white skydiving gear, their feet strapped to skyboards. On the cue of the plane captain, they jump out of the hatch and into the cloud-kissed blue sky. After some synchronized board spins and hand-held tandem moves, the scene becomes foreboding as a Soviet MiG buzzes the couple. Breaking formation, the husband dive bombs his skyboard in the direction of the bogey. Punching through the glass fighter jet cockpit, he pulls the terrorist Soviet pilot up onto the fuselage and breaks his neck with his bare hands, like a rag doll.

CLOCK WIPE TO:
Camera pans down from two parachutes entangled in a palm tree to the fit couple on a sandy desert beach. They are doing it (big time).

CUT TO:
An admiral on a battleship off the coast of the desert island lowers his binoculars, stands at attention and salutes.

Commercial Four: "¡Baile!"
A senior citizen juggles and kicks a soccer ball through different parts of Rio De Janeiro. Visible beneath his white Umbro soccer shorts is a pronounced, inappropriate erection.

Dreamcatchers and Energy Drinks

2007-10-10T07:06:00.000-07:00

Question: Do I love dreamcatchers? Answer: Yes, a shitload. Question 2: How into slamming energy drinks am I? Answer 2: A ton. So, no big deal, right? Well, wrong.
The problem is, dudes in the dreamcatcher scene want to tell me it's not okay to like energy drinks. And my bros in the energy drink scene think dreamcatchers are for homosensuals.
But what I want them both to understand is as follows: the only thing I know how to do is to follow my heart, even when what it tells me to do is not the "cool" or "popular" choice. And when I'm listening to my Queensryche cassettes, there's only one way I know how to roll -- dreamcatchin' and fructose-buzzin'. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go take a dump.

A Few Years After the Complete Collapse of the Global Economy, A Consumer Reporter Reviews the iPhone.

2007-09-19T14:13:00.000-07:00

*originally featured on McSweeney's Internet Tendency*

Apple iPhone (8GB Model)

Features:
Much has been made of how the iPhone is really more than just a phone. And the point bears repeating, especially now that all communication networks have been destroyed in the Great Food Wars. But even in our post-apocalyptic agrarian wasteland, this technological marvel still boasts an impressive set of functions, a partial list of which includes:

- Walnut cracker
- Canned goods smasher
- Slingshot projectile for hunting small woodland game
- Pestle for grinding wheat into flour (and flattening pemmican)
- Non-porous preparation surface for mixing blow dart poisons
- Reflective signal mirror for coordinating attacks on rival scavenging tribes

Sure, there are existing products that can already handle each of these tasks individually, but the iPhone really brings them all together into one easy and fun-to-use device.

Design:
Apple has always had a reputation for sleek, state-of-the art design, and the iPhone is no exception. For several weeks, I was being tracked by a pack of feral, parentless children with no sense of right or wrong. Cornered in an old boxcar, I removed the iPhone from my tattered loincloth waistband and held it out to them in an act of pure desperation. The sounds of their hissing grew quiet as the savages became entranced by its smooth, shiny surfaces and glossy, mirrored finish. Fearing me as some sort of deity, these former predators now serve as my pawns in the brutal chess match for our territory's remaining petroleum.

Sound Quality:
While I have not had a real conversation on my iPhone since the de facto fall of mankind, I've had many, many imaginary conversations to stave off madness. Whether I'm speaking to my long-deceased stock broker in an act of heartbreaking denial, or just verbally expressing the confused rage and fear I've lived with for the past seven years, the voice that responds in my head is always crystal clear and compassionate.

Summary:
There's a good chance no one will read this, as I'm scrawling it onto the remote ruins of an old condominium building with a stick of charred wood. Nonetheless, the Apple iPhone has really changed the rules of how we communicate and survive in a constantly evolving world. I was a little disappointed that a protective carrying case is not included in the purchase price. But overall, it's safe to say that Apple has hit yet another home run with this engaging, innovative device.

Inside the Mind of the Dude Who Did a Wheelie Next to Me on Ponce De Leon Avenue for Like 2 Miles.

2007-09-15T02:34:00.000-07:00

Oh man, I think those chicks on the sidewalk up ahead are hot. Yes, they're definitely hot. I can tell by the shape of the back of their heads. I bet they'd really like to see me do a wheelie on this chrome steed which glistens beneath my crotch like a diamond broomstick.

I wonder if I should start my wheelie right now, and ride past them in wheelie position -- or -- should I wait, and lift up into wheelie position right as I pass by. I think I'll wait. No, I'll start the wheelie now. Here goes...

Hmmm. I think I may have started this wheelie too soon. They're still like two more blocks away. Maybe I should go back to traditional riding position and then re-pop this wheelie later. Then again, now I'm almost there. I guess I'll just keep riding for a second. Oh wait, here they come. Alright, nice. It's go time.

Oh yeah, what up now, lady friends? I am riding a wheelie right by your faces. I bet you are sensually aroused currently, aren't you? In case you were wondering, A. Yes I am a badass. B. Yes, I work out a shitload, and C. my genitals are sizable.

Oh wait a sec. I think that might not have been women. Oh no, that was definitely 2 dudes. And one of them was about 75 years old. Wait, I think that might have been my grandpa. Oh no, that was definitely my grandpa. I recognize that sweater I gave him. He looked so hot from 2 blocks away.

Well, now I feel stupid. I guess I should just keep riding this wheelie in the hopes that I will eventually pass a hot chick. Oh, nice, there's one. Wait that's just a homeless guy wearing a fur coat. Well, maybe he'll be intimidated by my wheelie. Oh no, he's not even looking at me, he's yelling at some geese.

Well, this is awkward. At this point I guess I'd look stupid if I stopped wheely-ing. Especially before even a single hot babe has a chance to see me gliding through air on one wheel like a chrome unicorn from a book of ancient lore.

I'm hungry. I wonder If there's anything to eat around here. I'm kind of in the mood for Mexican. I think there's a taco bell somewhere around here. I'm going to have to slow down if I want to wheelie through the drive thru. I think I'll get a beef meximelt, or maybe one of those hard tacos wrapped in a soft taco with a candy treat in the center.

Scenarios Where You're Like "Damn, I Wish I Had My Hand Sanitizer"

2007-08-14T20:41:00.000-07:00

A dumptruck full of baby goats breaks down on some railroad tracks. You spring into action, but the latch to the dumptruck won't give. It's jammed up with a wad of matted fur, goat cheese and axle grease. You lift the goats out one at a time. It sounds like one of them has a cold. You remember you're supposed to meet your boss to discuss "the big promotion" over some chips and salsa in just a few minutes.

On the deck of an aircraft carrier, you are doing a bunch of push ups to intimidate the other pilots in the Top Gun program. Around number two hundo, you pop up to your feet, and are congratulated by your peers. Some of them give you a simple high fives, some high tens. A few of them give you the high ten that resolves in a swooping, sweaty second clap down low. A few of them just got done eating a bunch of Cool Ranch Doritos. Suddenly, you feel an eyelash poking in the corner of your eye. It's really uncomfortable.

It's the first night of your prison sentence, and something gross brushes against the back of your hand in the dark.

You and a prostitute you met in a boxcar are in the middle of robbing some graves. The ghost of a really fat guy rises up out of the ground and gets ghost sloppy joe meat on you.

A dude named Gary that you "kind of" know is passing around a petition. A petition with a really huge pube on it.

You are a mime doing a bit where you pretend to be entering a window. The pretend window is from a really cute pretend craftsman bungalow built in the 1920s. Even though its all pretend mime stuff, you are kind of freaked out by the fact that there might be lead-based paint present.

You are checking your e-mail at an internet cafe in a leper colony. On a whim, you lift the keyboard of the community computer up to your nose and take in a deep breath. It smells like a pet store.

Things That Would Be Interesting to Dust with a Swiffer

2007-08-02T12:39:00.001-07:00

1. A large crystal prism balanced on the hindquarters of a mongoose
2. A pile of peanut brittle on a moving treadmill
3. Woodrow Wilson's personal effects
4. Amethyst chess pIeces depicting some dudes partying at a kegger
5. An olympic bronze medal on a dead guy
6. A glacier with a perfectly preserved homosexual viking frozen inside it
7. A Lincoln Town Car filled with bald eagle excrement
8. A fallen space station, partially buried on a topless beach
9. A bobcat trapped in a shower curtain
10. A pommel horse in the middle of a civil war battlefield

Tonight I Will Apply Axe Body Spray to My Person.

2007-07-25T05:31:00.000-07:00

It's almost Friday night, and I'm getting ready to douse the shit out of myself in Axe male fragrance Body Spray. When I get done going to town on my glistening pectoral muscles, I'm gonna smell like a platinum cinnamon stick from the planet Jupiter. Pop quiz, Hotshot: everybody knows that the speed of light is faster than the speed of sound, but what about the speed of scent? Well, tonight that question is going to get answered. Dramatically.
(aerosol spray sound)

Hello Beautiful, I made you look, didn't I? Perhaps it was the intoxicating aroma of velvety chives that follows me to and fro. You are the most stunning thing I've ever seen at this Red Lobster location. May I purchase your shrimp scampi? Trust me, I can afford it. Do you covet fine jems? I will buy you the largest amethyst brooch you've ever imagined.
(aerosol spray sound)

What up, Alexander Graham Bell? You are probably the dopest inventor of all time. I apologize for tearing a wormhole into your 19th century laboratory. It must be some sort of complication arising from the extremeness of my Axe body spray. My face tingles and my sense of balance is shot. While time-traveling, I had a vision of an Apache wizard walking on a mobius strip made of stars.
(aerosol spray sound)

Thanks for joining me at the Stone Mountain laser show, Centaur. Apparently my Axe body spray has released your majestic form from the giant onyx obelisk orbiting earth in which you were imprisoned centuries ago. Would you care to dry hump in this Coleman sleeping bag? I've filled the bottom of it with rare pirate doubloons and crystal figurines, culled from my travels to faraway mythical lands. Quiet. They're about to play "Devil Went Down To Georgia."
(aerosol spray sound)

Holy Shit, Mount Fuji. I stand humbled before your greatness, and yet my masculine fragrance dwarfs you. The villagers in your foothills have named me "Fuji-wan-prick" - meaning, "he who's smell is wise and powerful like sabre-toothed-tiger". If I so desired, I could crush you into baby powder with my armpit.

IN THE YEAR 2030, THE YOUNG HOT SHOT AT MY OFFICE TRIES TO WALK ME THROUGH "CENTAUR," APPLE'S NEW MIND-ORB BASED OPERATING SYSTEM

2007-07-23T12:15:00.000-07:00

*originally featured in McSweeney's Internet Tendency*

ME: For some reason, I can't get this report orb to beam.

HOTSHOT: Well, go ahead and materialize the topaz orb first. That should launch your facefield preferences.

ME: OK, here goes ... Wait, remind me, how do I get to the topaz orb? Sorry, I knew how to do this just a second ago—I imagine a shape, right?

HOTSHOT: Kind of. Defocus your eyes and visualize a beam of light illuminating a rhombus. That will materialize the topaz orb.

ME: Hmm ... It's still not working.

HOTSHOT: OK, let's back up a step. Which wormhole did you do your push-up in?

ME: I'm pretty sure it was Wormhole Gamma. But I did a sit-up. Does a sit-up not work?

HOTSHOT: Oh, you did a sit-up? (Smirk.) Yeah. That's probably why it's not working. Try it again.

(I lie down and do a push-up. Immediately, a lifelike 3-D porno hologram materializes in my cubicle with the volume turned way up. Co-workers begin to gather. The hologram depicts me naked on the plank of a pirate spaceship with our company's robot intern, Suzanne. The scenario is dirty in a way not yet fully describable in our present age.)

ME: Turn it off!!

HOTSHOT: I can't. You have to double-imagine the red orb to quit out of iPerv.

(I try desperately to materialize the red orb, but instead accidentally launch a hologram chat with my late grandfather from beyond the grave.)

GRANDFATHER HOLOGRAM: Where am I? Who's moved my reading chair?

ME: Granddad, I can explain. Hold on a sec ...

(Swatting at my temples like a fevered gibbon, I accidentally materialize a mastodon diorama, Dabney Coleman, the color green, and John Coltrane's Giant Steps album.)

Sweet Ass Ice Sculptures I'm Going To Make With A Chainsaw One Day

2007-07-20T13:44:00.000-07:00

*originally featured in McSweeney's Internet Tendency*

Ice Sculpture No. 1

A huge ice dolphin carrying a suitcase of ransom money in his snout jumps an aircraft carrier (made of ice). A formation of ice jet planes have to pull "evasive maneuvers" to avoid smashing into the dolphin's huge icy dorsal fin. An ice rainbow frames the scene.

Ice Sculpture No. 2

A full-scale ice sports car peels out of a full-scale ice Mrs. Winners, and some ice skanks get turned on.

Ice Sculpture No. 3

A Rollerblader made of ice grinds his way down a huge spiral staircase. At the bottom of the staircase, there is a trapdoor, leading to a gay bar.

Ice Sculpture No. 4

The planet Saturn is rendered in ice, with a huge ice python emerging from Saturn's north pole. I know what you're thinking—"That's been done a million times." But what hasn't been done is to stage a badass ice eclipse where ice Saturn blocks the ice sun completely and all the ice aliens on a darkened ice Neptune freak out. I'd probably need a grant for this one.

Ice Sculpture No. 5

Basically, just a huge-ass pile of ice cubes.

Ice Sculpture No. 6

Ice me is bench-pressing 500 pounds in front of my ice webcam, which is streaming the whole glorious event to an assembly of ice United Nations ambassadors.

Ice Sculpture No. 7

This one is more conceptual. A simple square block of ice represents one man's suffering. Sequentially stacking the blocks, I create a numerically repeating visual pattern of ice blocks. One row of seven blocks representing the seven continents of earth, two rows of four blocks representing civilizations as yet undiscovered, and so forth. Repeating the pattern vertically, I create a confining space of spiraling ice-block walls. Standing on top of the structure is a really, really hot chick.