When I came downstairs this morning it smelled like day-old death in our kitchen. Jesus J. McChrist! I hollered, while involuntarily launching into a series of David Byrne “same as it ever was” body contortions. I think I even did that weirdness with my forearm, but it’s all a bit fuzzy.
The trash! It didn’t take long to pinpoint the source of the funk, and I moved to eliminate it from my life. When I grabbed the top edges of the garbage bag, it sent a puff of undiluted stink directly into my face. And I’m not exaggerating, I nearly puked.
Black Lips Houlihan and I took that nasty-ass sacka stank to the garage, and closed the door on it. Tomorrow I’ll turn it over to professional trash-handlers. I’m sure they’ll know what to do with it, whether or not it will require burial, burning, a launching into space, or the involvement of the National Guard. At that point it’ll be their problem. Screw it.
And when Toney called to check-in during her lunch break, I asked if someone had put a human head in the trash, and told her the whole painful story.
“Oh,” she said, “I might’ve put some chicken in there.”
Yeah. Chicken from the fridge, it turns out, leftover from a dinner we had last week, or whatever. Simply excellent.
And since we’re talkin’ grossness here, I moved in a certain way while brushing my teef last night, and felt something weird on my back. I reached around and felt what I diagnosed to be a gigantic zit. And when I say gigantic, I mean gigantic. It was roughly the size of a tangelo.
I thought about waking up Toney, and asking her to photograph it for me. But I had a feeling it might’ve led to an argument, so I decided against it. I just fingered my new friend for a few seconds, admired its bulkiness, and went to bed.
And this morning, while enjoying my first cup of Eight O’Clock, I remembered my Chernobyl twin, and checked on its progress. And it was gone! There’s no trace of it, whatsoever.
Was it dream?! I’m starting to think it was, and that freaks me out a little. The whole episode was incredibly real. But wouldn’t there be some sort of evidence left behind by a pimple the size of citrus? I would think so, but there’s nothing.
And why would a person have such a dream?! I don’t care for any of it, if you want to know the truth.
Over this past weekend the older Secret sprayed some of that Axe shit in his betroom, and woke me up from a deep sleep. I can’t stand that stuff, it’s harsh and overpowering and disgusting, but he and all his peeps douse themselves in it.
So, I was thinking… Wonder if I could invent an alarm clock that wakes people up with a scent? It would probably be a lot less-jolting than a game show buzzer, Golden Earring, or some exasperated asshole on ESPN radio. Right?
I imagine it would wake a person up, but gradually. It would do the trick, while also allowing us to eeeease into the day. Perfect! I’m a big fan of eeeeasing.
But would it work with a pleasant odor? Like cookies in the oven, or new electronics? Or would it have to be really bad, like that Axe crap? That, I believe, will be the key to the whole thing.
‘Cause I don’t think there’s much of a market for an alarm clock that pumps out the simulated scent of vomit, rotting chicken, or Atlanta parking garage stairwell, at 6:30 every morning.
Yes, there’s still much testing to be done…
In Sunday’s newspaper I saw ads for two more TV show DVD sets that automatically go on the must-have list. And it’s starting to make me nervous. That list is fast approaching the tipping point. Soon, it will be completely out of reach, I’m afraid.
This week I added LOST season four to the list, as well as the fourth season of Saturday Night Live. I’m already behind on SNL (I never bought season three), Deadwood (also missing season three), the last half-season of The Sopranos, and several seasons of Curb Your Enthusiasm.
So, you see, it’s getting out of hand. At some point I’m going to just say fukkit, probably with the addition of one more must-have.
Why can’t they just leave me alone? Why do they insist on torturing me this way, by releasing so much great shit? It’s cruel, I tell ya. Cruel!
And I’ll leave you now with a Question from the Stealing Clive Bull’s Topics desk. Who would you consider to be a true living genius? Is there anyone who genuinely falls into that category?
I don’t even have to hesitate on that one: Phil Hendrie. And I’m being completely sincere. His old radio shows are freakin’ brilliant, on all levels. The concept, the execution, the humor… The man is a genius, straight-up. A true original.
Who would you nominate as a living genius? Tell us about it in the comments.
And I’ll be back tomorrow.