I can't believe it's come to this.
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It's funny. You never really think of yourself as someone who experiences bereavement or suffering. Of course, loss is a universal human phenomenon; indeed, it could even be said that the much-vaunted "human condition" spoken of by the philosophers is, in fact, nothing more than the knowledge of inevitable mortality.
But that doesn't take away the pain when death raps its cold fingers on your door.
Now I'm one of the bereft. Now I'm one of the inner wounded, the poor souls treading the city streets with a lost, vacant look in my eye. My happiness has fled; I number my days in sorrow.
My love has been taken from me.
We had some good times. And that's how I'll insulate myself against the bitter chill of loss; with my memories.
Here's Marc's Barmory ("Bar None Memory") Number One:
I went to the old Mr. Amazing Discount Store in Manchester when I was about 12. I had been mowing lawns all summer, saving up the dollars and quarters paid to me by old ladies with one goal in mind: Sweet, delicious Bar None candy bars.
I don't know how the geniuses at Mr. Amazing did it, but they managed to hook themselves up with a steady stream of factory second boxes of Bar Nones. They came 12 to a pack, and if they were a little cracked or crumbled or soiled, I didn't care: I wasn't going to hang them on the wall, but consume them.
When I showed up at the end of August, a week before school started, I had $50 saved up, enough to buy 38 12-packs of the candy. I walked out of the store salivating at the thought of going home to my Moom (Marc Room) and eating all 250 bars in a Chocorgy (Chocolate Orgy).
After getting outside, though, I was caught in a sudden, late summer downpour. Desperate to protect my B-Nones, I tried to hide all 38 packages under my billowing Joker shirt. I ran across the giant empty parking lot with warm rain pelting down, as package after package spilled out of my shirt.
I trampled on a few in a vain effort to gather them all up. Each time I bent down to retrieve the packages, more would spill out. I began sobbing and screeching uncontrollably as I thrashed around in a Choco-panic (Chocolate Panic).
Then, as luck would have it, I saw some neighborhood kids on dirt bikes at the edge of the parking lot, under the eaves of the building.
"Hey, fellows!" I called out. "A free B-None Bar to anyone who helps me gather up my bounty!"
They laughed a little and slowly rode over on their bikes.
"Hey, you fat fuck," one of them said to me. "Why do you need so much candy?"
"Because B-Nones are Dee-lish!" I replied.
"You need to give that candy to us, fat fuck," he replied.
I don't approve of cursing, so I tried to gather up my packages by myself, but pretty soon the guys had me on the ground, kicking and punching me as I vainly sought to protect my head. They also didn't shrink from pelting me with the B-Nones, which didn't really hurt physically although it was a little off-putting.
Finally, when they got tired of beating me, they left. Soaked and bleeding, I gathered up a few tattered packages of candy and went home. I sat on the bed in my room and greedily devoured the candy, which had become ashy and bland with the amount of time it spent on Mr. Amazing's shelves. To be honest, it tasted like death.
Well, I'll sure miss you, B-None! You're my Coy! (Candy Boy)
I thought we'd get to see forever,
but forever's gone away...
It's so hard to say goodbye
So it’s been quite a Meek (Marc Week). I finished my self-published online biography about the widely misunderstood BTK killer and I also managed to finalize what I’m calling “Project Green,” which is me finding the best place along the wall to listen to my neighbors have sex. Those two go at it like you wouldn’t believe.
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This week also had a tragedy for me. “Cyclops,” my awesome character in EverQuest got killed. It feels so strange to even say that. I can’t believe he’s gone. This reminds me of Star Track II, The Wrath of Con, when Spock died. I feel that same sense of loss that Admiral Kirk and Dr. McCoy did. I felt like I was one with him and now we have been separated. But, the universe being what it is, I know that we will meet again, sometime, someplace. I’m pretty emotional and high strung right now and I’m very grateful that my father can’t see me crying here at his computer. Jesus, I’m reaching out there. This is so hard.
HAS ANYONE TRIED THE NEW CHEDDAR ONION MELT AT “RED ROBIN?!?!?”
It’s my go-to move if there’s no gorg available. I’m spending more and more time at the Red Robin, which is what I’m planning on doing tonight, the kickoff to the two day extravaganza that is the MARCEND!
I don’t have the money to eat there, but I show up and try to help the staff out, by running food for them or just talking to the hostess. In some ways, the wait staff is too proud, because they act like they don’t need help when I offer it, so when they’re not looking, I’ll just grab the food and ask around among the patrons to see who it belongs to. I think one of the patrons is a bit of a sourpuss, because the police came the last time and escorted me off the property. After that “Don’t come back here” crapola, when I go now, I wear huge glasses and clothes that aren’t mine. I made a deal with the hostess that I can sit in the waiting area until close if I don’t talk to her (she won’t tell me her name) or any of the patrons. We have a ball!
Anywho, after my time at the RR, I’ll probably head home, since Project Green will be in full swing by midnight.
Saturday was usually set aside as a May (Marc Day) or a day for me. I’d wake up around 11:00 and play EverQuest on the computer until about 11:00 (on the flip-side). One time, the game was so happening that I couldn’t tear myself away for a moment, even when nature called! I ended up losing it in my pants, but by then I figured, “Oh well! The kitty is out of the bag, might as well just sit here and play.” So I did until I fell asleep in the chair. Sunday turned out to be a May as well.
But now that EverQuest is gone, and God has forsaken me, I’m not sure what to do. So, suggestions for Saturday anyone!? I’m all ears!
Now that it’s spring, I’m starting up what I call my “Sherlock Sundays.” This is where I hike in the woods off of the Hockanum River Trail looking for a bear. Anyone up for coming with me?!
Have a good MARCEND!!!!!!!!
So I went to a party at a bar for the brother of a friend of my sisters. It’s fair to say he and I are pretty close. I even got a “Best Buds 4-EVA” tattoo on my midsection a few inches below by waist, with his face and my face on either side of the wording. He’ll get the same thing soon, he says. I’ve had mine for about four years. We were supposed to go together, but he totally flaked on me. But, I mean, that’s him man. I forgive him. That’s what best buds do. PEACE!
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Anyway, so I get to this bar and walk in expecting to see a massive crowd of ladies waiting for their maiden voyage on the SS Mock (Marc cock) and what do I find instead? Like eight dudes and my sister. I’m like, what’s up with this? And they’re like, what’s up with what? And I’m like, THIS TOTAL SAUSAGE FEST, BITCHES!
That shut them down pretty quick. I had to explain that by sausage, I meant penis. And that there were a lot of penises attached to dudes, which are like girls except with a penis. AND IT FRIGGING SUCKS because there is nowhere to house the Mock when there is that in the way. That’s what I tell all girls on our first date: I value them because they let me house the Mock in their lady garage.
When I go somewhere, I need there to be at least 50% ladies, or else it isn’t worth it. What am I going to do with a bunch of dudes around? Talk about our feelings or some shit? No, the only thing dudes are good for are spotting me at the gym when the guns that are my biceps (I call them Alsace and Lorraine) are firing on all cylinders, pumping iron. And changing tires, because I can’t.
That’s it. And as far as I’m concerned about that second one, when they are changing the tire, I need to have my Mace (Marc Face) buried between their girlfriends hefty JIGGLIES.
So, I order a Michelob Ultra and start downing it and after like five minutes I ask my best bud, whose birthday it was, when the females were going to get there. He’s all like, “Everyone who is coming is here.” And I’m all like, “Bullshit, you know some females, bro. This lame-ass party is a total SAUSAGE FEST!” And he’s all like “Why don’t you leave.” And I’m all like, “And go find some ladies, right bro? High five.” He walked away before the HF (high five), but he got the message. That’s what bros are like.
So I chug my Michelob and head out – but not before I tried to teach all the dorks in that SAUSAGE FEST what a high five was. None of them got it when I put my caressers (hands, for all you non-ladies) up in the hair. All these guys did was STARE.
Anyway, like 10 seconds later I had the Taurus fired up and was headed out to All Stars to score some major TANG. Then like an hour later I was in the drive-through line at Dairy Queen and getting ready to head home by myself -- WHAT’S UP REESE CUP BLIZZARD!? SCORE!
I’ve had it up to here with scientists and their bullshit. These poindexters with their pocket protectors and taped coke bottle glasses spend all their time fooling around with beakers and Bunsen burners instead of living the “marcstyle,” or Marc Lifestyle which always has hot women, a football, a grill and an effing BEER BONG. They’re locked in some nerd cave somewhere while I’m on the streets sniffing out righteous pou-say and I’m supposed to take them seriously?
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Anyway, I’m not going to let some dork in highwaters tell me what’s going on with a Earth.
Let’s take global warming. On the one hand, it’s like, duh! Yes, the world gets warm every summer. You have to go to college like eight times to know that? If they think the world is getting too warm, why don’t they just wait a few months and it will get cold again and FOOTBALL will be back on TV, but I don’t guess gay-ass Dr. Honeydoo thinks about that. He just wants to keep sucking up taxpayer dollars and rooting for boys swim teams in his spare time like a KA-WEER.
Then they’re all like, “Oh, wah! The greenhouse effect, Marc!” Ok, here’s another thing that needs a Marcsplanation: how can stuff get trapped in our atmosphere when it’s all air? I mean, if that’s true, how did the space shuttle get to the moon? Did it stop and open the invisible space door that supposedly traps emissions around the planet before going into space? Of course not. The only point I am will to concede is that I agree that there may be SOME stuff out there to keep gas in – like what the Challenger hit probably – but not enough so that its like a greenhouse. And anyways, I’d like to ask these so-called scientists a question: when it gets too hot in the green house, what do you do? YOU OPEN THE DOOR! Maybe we can open the same space door the shuttle goes though?
And if it does get too hot in the summer or the sun is too bright, who cares? More beach days. Instead of playing with chemicals all day, maybe the scientists should try and figure out a way to make sun screen taste better. So, that pretty much shuts the book on that subject. Eat a dick, scientists!
The other thing that gets me is people who say there was some kind of ape revolution a long time ago and humans were apes first. Well, I did a little research myself and found that that is not possible. My parents have pictures of my great grand parents and they don’t look anything like a ape. How’s that for research – and I didn’t need a little piece of paper that says I spent like 20 years in a liebarry to figure that out, did I?
Take that back Dork University, Dr. Science!
You look at me and you think, "I wish I was as handsome, as beautiful, as scrumptious as Marc." Right? Well trust me: It's not as easy as you think.
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The woman who married Steven Seagull (ABOVE THE LAW, ON DEADLY GROUND, WEIRD SCIENCE) once did a hair commercial where she said, "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful." A lot of people probably saw that and thought, "Why would we hate anyone because they're beautiful, Mrs. Segull?" But you'd be surprised: beauty-hate or (buhate) is one of the most common forms of discrimination in our society today.
HEY! THIS IS SERIOUS BUSINESS!
The beautiful should not be discriminated against, but should be prized for their important insights into beauty technology, insights which are then picked up on by the uglier members of our society (you). When you have a day where you look presentable enough to be humped, do you say, "Thanks, beautiful people for showing me the way?" No, probably not. You probably say, "I'm going to go get humped." That's gratitude!
You think this is easy? I wake up at 5:45 a.m. every morning to make preparations for my 2.5 hour hairtual (hair ritual). Yeah, I'm beautiful, but you don't roll out of bed with fabulous hair like this. You have to prepare.
My hairtual involves a gallon jug of rose water, a container of Vitalis, two special turtleshell cones purchased in Peru specially for the purpose, conditioner, moisturizer, de-moisturizer (too much moisture!), re-moisturizer, split end detox, highlights, mousee, gell, incense, peppermints, and pure cane sugar. I am late to work every single day.
And because of this, my boss yells things at me like "Why are you late again, Barbie, were you busy in the beauty parlor?" and "Who cares about your fucking hair, you're a goddamn man, aren't you?" and "You're fired." And do you know what that is?
Stop the hate.
Stay in school.
Go Red Socks!
Anyone who has ever gone with me to a restaurant, although I think my sister is the only one, knows that my real name ought to be “Gorg-zilla.” Why? Good question, compadre. It’s because I love gorg. Don’t know what gorg, is? Well, that’s your loss, amigo.
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It means “CHICKEN GORGANZOLA,” or as I like to call it, “Gorganzolken” for short. It is simply the most delicious dish ever made. I consider my self a bon viviant and know a good dish of gorg when I see it. I am also a man of culture who likes diversity in his food and that’s why I gorg myself every chance I get (HA!)
I began this about three years ago and haven’t slowed up since. For many months, I ruled the night at the Macaroni Grill near the mall. I inhabited a certain character each time I consumed The Gorg: I wore a very light lipstick, had vampire fangs (which I removed to eat my gorg) and a long, lush cape that I made out of a blue bed sheet. On the back, I painted, “Count Gorgula” with white house paint and slicked my hair back. This was in addition to my awesome “Count Gorgula” t-shirt that I made at Personal T.
I ate at the MG (Macaroni Grill) every night around 4:00 for six months and ordered my gorg every time. I asked the staff to call me Count Gorgula, but they wouldn’t. I have plenty of time because I’ve been between jobs since Nov. 16, 1999.
Anywho, the gorg and carafe of white wine got expensive to eat every night and after my CC (credit card) got declined for the third time at the MG they told me to leave the premises. After a brief struggle with Brenda, the assistant manager, I found my elbows and knees scraped up from where I had hit the ground outside the entrance. Brenda told me never to come back. I tried to explain that I didn’t mind not coming in, but asked if they would bring out my gorg in the future. She said I was a “deadbeat loser,” which I felt was the height of rudity. I’d show them by feasting at the gorg palace of one of their competitors.
The biggest problem was this that night: I was only half way though my Thurgorgken (Thursday gorgonzola chicken) when I was asked to leave. So, needing my gorg fix, I dusted myself off, hopped on my scooter and headed up the road to TGI Friday’s. My snow boots gave me quite a push as I zoomed up the hill, which is why it was necessary to wear them in August.
Unfortunately, I got into a bit of a scrape on the way, with my Count Gorgula cape getting caught under a tire and pulling me off with it. Fortunately, I tumbled onto grass, but still hit my head as I rolled into the gutter. I was out for a quite a while, I guess, because it was dark when I woke up. I must have practically been invisible even under street lights, because no one stopped to help me.
Anywho, bruised from Brenda and the fall, I made it to the TGI Fridays, to see what kind of Gorglection (gorgonzola collection) they had. After about an hour wait, I got a table near the kitchen and men’s room.
I didn’t even need to look at the menu. I asked Dennis, the waiter, to bring me the biggest plate of gorg they had (and explained what happened earlier). In fact, I said, bring two. I was famished! Before my orders arrived, the manager came over and very loudly asked if I would be able to pay for my upcoming gorg. I assured him that I would with cash, but, um, hello!? Rudity!
I must have spent two hours eating the two gorg entrees they brought me, because it was closing time when I finished! Dennis said it was time for me to pay the bill, and here’s where my ingenuity really came in handy: I told Dennis, that, yes, I was aware there was a bill for $41.80 in front of me, but, I said, I did not have enough cash to pay the whole bill. (In truth, all I had was my lucky Sacagawea dollar).
Instead, I suggested to Dennis and Tim (the manager, who appeared at the table as well) that as entrepreneurs, it should be more important to them to make sure the customer is always happy so they can ensure repeat business from me, so I should not be expected to pay the first of what I knew would be many bills. I reminded them of that old saying, “The customer is always right.”
Well, I can tell you that the TGI Fridays in Manchester probably won’t be open for long, because they rejected this with a torrent of swears and insults directed at me (THE CUSTOMER! HELLO!?). They told me to get out, but I was not yet ready to leave, because I hadn’t even considered dessert. When they tried to drag me out, I grabbed the table and held on as tight as I could. Tim grabbed my Count Gorgula cape and dragged me backwards and the force of the cape being pulled gave an awful choking sensation so I finally let go, tumbling backwards. Still determined to show them I was in the right, I began shouting that I still wanted dessert and, after all, I said above their shouting, I was the customer. They were deaf to my reasonable assertions, which, I must admit, upset me very much. Knowing that it’s ok for men to cry, I began crying very hard as they dragged me across the floor by my cape. Here and there I’d grab onto a coat rack or table leg, but Tim and Dennis must have hit la gymnasia pretty hard, because I was overpowered.
I was unceremoniously launched out the door and onto the pavement. This was the worst customer service I had ever had! I lay there letting the tears flow for a while, but eventually knew that my Diagnosis Murder chatroom appointments would be wondering where I was, so I again got up and dusted myself off, finding that SOME mysterious hooligan had slashed the tires to my scooter.
As I walked the scooter home, I knew I was disappointed at how this gorg outing had turned out, but I knew that the next day I’d begin fresh and alive, yet another exciting search for the Best Gorg in Town.
Republican, Democrat, what's that all about?
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Liberal, conservative, what's going on with you guys?
We live in a political world. In a political world, people often disagree. This disagreements causes problems ESPECIALLY in people.
But now we don't have to disagree. Now we ahve a solution to all our political problems, a solution the whole world can agree on:
I first had the idea for Marcanomics the other day while at Dairy Queen. Did I tell you how much I love Dairy Queen? Or "the brassiere," as I call it. For some reason, they have a sign out front saying "Dairy Queen Brassiere." Which is weird, because they don't sell bras there.
I wonder what bras at dairy Queen would be like. Would they be icey cold to the touch? I can see how that might be kind of cool (T.H.O.!s all the time!), but what if girls got freezer burn? That's something you didn't think about.
Anyway, so I was at the brassiere buying #3 on my all-time favorite list of Dairy Queen Blizzards: the Strawberry Cheesequake Blizzard. Coming up with the list actually took a lot of time. I did it last September, and ended up calling out of work two days in a row. If I'm going to do this, I said, I'm doing it right.
So, #5 was pretty easy: It was the Heath Bar Swirl Blizzard. Heath Bars are kind of the champagne of chocolate candy bars; not everyone appreciates them, because some people are so unsophisticated they prefer Skor. Skor! That's even spelled wrong (It's "Score," dickheads - take a tip from me!). Heath bars have a subtle "underflavor" that reminds me of being a kid and going on these fishing trips to a cabin in Maine. Wood grain.
Now that I think of it, putting the Strawberry Cheesequake Blizard at #3 is kind of controversial. I may have to rethink my decision, and bump it up to #2. But then that would move the Oreo Surprise Blizzard back to #3?? Can I do that??
So, seriously: MARCANOMICS, bitch-izzz.
As many persons who read this blog no doubt know, Johnny Damon recently left the Red Socks to go play for the New York Yankees. Speaking as an avidionado fan of baseball, you can imagine that this came as quote a blow to me. I was so upset when I heard the news, I threw my cross stitching (it was going to be a porpoise with the breasts of a human woman) across the room in disgust.
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I paced around the room angrily. I didn’t know what to do! So I went to my closet to find that hand crafted piece of wood that always makes me feel better: Tickle MeStringies (which is what I call my guitar).
It was time to let the timeless sounds of the greats like Bel-Biv-Devo, Color Me Bad and Fine Young Cannibals assuage my bruised psyches. But after strumming the theme that perennial favorite, “Airwolf” for what must have been almost a half hour, I decided additional steps needed to be taken because I was still very upset.
I ate a family-pack of pudding and felt better (at least mentally – puds goes right through my system).
Sitting in my bathroom expectorating the pudding, I decided that the best way to address the situation would be to write a song to Mr. Damon. I got right to work and by dawn I had some up with these lyrics to the tune of “Runaway” by Del Shannon, who killed himself once. This is called “Johnny Damon Ran Away.”
As I sit here I wonder a-what went wrong
With our club, a ball club that was so strong
And as I still sit here, pants around my ankles,
I think of the things you've done
For me on the ball field, while our hearts were young
I'm a-sitting' in such pain
Pudding’s fallin' and I feel the drain
Wishin' your sculpted abs were back in Boston
To end this feeling that is not awesome
And I wonder
Ah-why-why-why-why-why Damon ran away
And I wonder where if he will stay
My little Damon, da-da-da-da Damon
I'm a-sittin’ on the bowl
Tears are fallin' and I feel so old
I wish that I could eat his soul
And shit it out to end this misery
And I wonder
Ah-why-why-why-why-why he ran away
And I wonder if he will stay
My Johnny Damon, da-da-da-da-da Damon
I was exhausted after what must have been close to 9 hours of slaving away on the song. And wouldn’t you know it – I missed another day of work because I fell asleep right there on the toilet and stayed there until almost 2:00 the next day! Talk about lid marks!
Next weekend, I will travel to New York to find him and sing the song. Anyone want to come along? I got my van fixed and everything!
There are lots of mysteries in the universe. Like, how do they get the delicious filling inside Twinkies? Do they bake the Twinkie around the filling? Do they inject it into the moist sponge cake with some kind of filling injection machine? Unfortunately, mankind will never know.
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However, one mystery that people are asking about a lot this time of year is, "Marc, how do you make superwords?"
I am the right person to ask, because only I have the years of training that enable me to make "superwords."
What is a superword you ask? Let me show you.
Let's say you want to describe something, like a great Kid Rock show. In the old days, you would have to say it was a "great concert," which is three syllables, taking up valuable time you could spend thinking about putting cats in clothing.
Now, a superword engineer like me looks at that word and says, "Great concert - a groncert." You now have a brand-new superword.
Let's express it mathematically:
Great (x) + Concert (y) = Groncert (superword)
I know this seems incredibly complicated, which is why not just anyone can make a superword. It takes years of training in high level mathematics and linguistics before someone can become a doctor of superwordology.
What are the benefits of superwords you ask?
Easy: Superwords do twice the work of regular words in half the time. For example, whereas in the past you had to spend long hours saying the three syllables of "great concert," now you can say it in two syllables, and two is half of three. Or even a third.
In conclusion: superwords save us money and time and allow us to enjoy life more easily. Just don't go trying this at home: you don't want to try and create the superword "groncert" and end up with the distinctly non-super "gconcert."
|Subject:||Check the Flex|
If you were to ask the question, Marc, why do girls like you so much?, I would have to reply, Good question!
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Actually it's not a good question, because the two answers are obvious:
As for #1, we'll have to leave that for another day (or TWO!). But let's talk about my Hunting Hounds, or my "muscles" as the doctor calls them.
I love my muscles. I love that they help me lift heavy things and I love how they look in sweatpants. If there were a fire in my house and I could only save one thing, it would be my muscles.
But my muscles aren't only good for attracting girls. They also have practical uses.
Just the other day, I was out on what I call a "Flex Tour" of Manchester. This is where I go for a brisk walk/run while wearing a sleevless shirt, so everyone in town can check out my muscles.
My Flex Tour took me past some apartments, where some girls were trying to load a heavy filing cabinet into a moving truck. There was some limp wristed dude with them. Try as he might, he couldn't lift that filing cabinet (Reason: NO MUSCLES!).
So I walked over and picked it up without saying a word. I put it in the back of the truck and turned around and said, "UH, YOU GOT SERVED!"
And they were like, "We were moving that out of the truck, dickhead" and "You are pathetically, disturbingly alone, aren't you" and "You'll never satisfy a woman."
Whatevs. I took my Flex Tour homeward bound and I guess I'm not the one who's pathetic and alone, because I spent the rest of the night....photographing my cat wearing scarves, bitch.
Haha! That looks like an acronym! Anywho, so I was walking home from getting a Carvel ® Iced Cream Cake last night when I passed by the new skate park in town. Well, seeing some of the gangly young men riding their rollerboards around was quite something. I was having trouble eating the cake standing up at the fence so I sat the nearby bus stop, where I could still see them. One day, I thought, those fellows’ pectoral muscles will better developed and they’ll be the envy of every young lady in town!
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Anywho, I was so engrossed by the rollerboys (my word – hands off!) that I didn’t notice the bus pull up. Well, apparently, he must have been talking to me for some time, because the first I heard of it was the driver shouting, “Are you getting on or not!?”
I though that was nasty – since I was clearly eating and watching the rolling and NOT riding the bus. So I said, “I should say not. And if you talk to all prospective clients that way, no one is ever going to ride your bus.” He responded by calling me a “cheesedick” and driving away. Rudity!
I got out of that bus stop area and decided to offer the skating fellows some of my iced cream cake before I left, since they looked famished. I walked onto the rolling area and called them over – you’d be surprised how quickly they raced over! They didn’t seem to want any cake at first (maybe because it was a mushy puddle in the box it was so warm out that day!) but one finally took a piece of my Cookie Puss.
“Ah-ha,” I said, “I knew you were hungry for some of this Cookie Puss!” I was Mussolini-like in my triumph! And do you know what he did? He threw my cake right back at me and it hit me in the face. I don’t mind telling you that my glasses could’ve used some wipers at that moment! I was covered in iced cream, which had begun to roll down my neck and onto my clothes!
Well, my rolling companions thought this was just the height of humor and were laughing and laughing. I felt a little out of place so I began laughing, too. That is, until one of the Young Guns knocked the remaining Cookie Puss right out of my hands. It went everywhere! I told them I was very angry, but they were laughing so hard, that EVEN I had to chuckle!
I think I’ve made some good friends and plan on doing some bargain hunting over the weekend for a rollerboard of my own!
Ok, can I just say that whoever wrote “Butt Plug” on my apartment door last night had better grow themselves a conscience. That is the height of rudity!
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PS: I’m really enjoying my salad today. It is fraught with kiwi (exotic!)
This is my first post! I just want to say that I totally disagree with what Kanye West said about President Bush. He can pretty much forget about me buying his albums. They’re probably no “Dr. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club” anyway. (Which is STILL #1 on the Marc’s Favorites List).
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Anyway, I’m going to be posting a lot more as soon as I can get my checking account back up and running.
Marc's and away!