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Monday, December 16, 2013

Weak Coffee, a Small Pot, and Waffle Wednesday


They say in life you can choose your friends but you cannot choose your family.  I’d also like to add to that truth/untruth you cannot always choose the people you work with… and some of them can be… well… asses.

Am I suggesting I’ve worked with such folks? You bet.

Not so long ago when the intensity of coffee was not to the liking of a coworker (someone who spent more time in the kitchen eating and drinking than in his office working) he had the audacity to complain it was weak and needed to be stronger. He wanted someone to make new coffee immediately.

When I suggested he do it himself he huffed and he puffed like an arrogant ass and stormed off saying he was going across the street to buy good coffee. Moments later I watched the cheap bastard sneak back into the kitchen and pour himself another cup of weak java.

This fool is the type who most likely drinks instant coffee at home with powdered creamer, but gives the impression he actually knows the difference between a medium and dark roast.  His perk has runneth over.  And his coffee stained crooked teeth are a sight to behold.

Speaking of asses… it’s common for middle aged men to buy sports cars to make up for their sudden lack of virility, but in my office a middle aged man demanded a bigger coffee pot.

The office had purchased two new big coffee pots for the regular coffee and kept a smaller pot for the decaf. Why? He was the only one drinking decaf.

When he saw the size of the decaf pot compared to the other pots he pitched a fit.  He demanded the decaf pot be the same size or bigger than the other pots.

I am happy to report the apparent size of a dick is now in direct proportion to the size of a  coffee pot. Personally I think if he switched to regular and stopped drinking decaf his erectile dysfunction would finally stiffen.

But it doesn’t end there…

These two asses recently requested waffles on a Wednesday.  They wanted the office staff to make fresh waffles on a waffle iron (like their mommas did) and top them with delicious fresh blueberries. 

I suggested they buy a box of frozen waffles, pop them in the toaster, throw some artificial Vermont maple syrup on them, and top them with frozen blueberries so they’d feel right at home.

Two asses don’t make a right especially on Waffle Wednesday.

Egad… funny the people you meet when you don’t have a gun.

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Yoga Face


One Saturday not too long ago I decided I needed to get more centered, more into a spiritual state of mind, and most importantly more limber.  My old bones were petrifying and calcifying with every tick of the death-clock and I needed to turn back time and I needed to do it asap.

Tick… tick… tick

I logged on to the Internet and found a yoga studio not too far from home. With my somewhat skewed sense of self I thought I could handle a ninety minute class so I immediately signed up.

Tick… tick… tick

I struggled through that first class doing my best to hide my bruised ego and sad, sad yoga poses. I secretly eyed the woman on the mat beside me to mimic her every move. Her legs seemed to twist and bend like young willow branches whereas mine felt like dead logs mired in mud.

In the silence of the room I swear everyone could hear my muscles and bones screaming to stop, stop, stop.

I was asking my body to get physical and my body was telling me to fuck off.  

Tick… tick… tick

Never being one to admit defeat or failure I signed up for another class. I was determined to be a good yoga practitioner, damn it, and achieve limberness.

But age can be a cruel friend and the ticking clock a torment. 

At last week's class as I struggled to swing my leg over over head while my other leg tried desperately to balance my unbalanced body I could no longer hide my anguish and I grimaced, and then I puckered my face with all the pain of screaming bones and muscles.

Ooooooo!
And in the silence of the pose the teacher yelled out “Michael. Relax your face!”
Uuuuuugh!
Her words pulsated through my body and echoed through the room.  Michael… Relax… Your… Face…

And so I slowly did… and when I did my core being seemed to react, to loosen, to relish a moment,  and my muscles stopped screaming.  For a brief moment I experienced a true yoga moment. 

Aaaaaaaaaaaah!
And then the teacher told us to change position. Damn.
What pose?
Tick… tick… tick

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Kidney Stone Jewelry

Lately I’ve been hearing from friends and relatives and total strangers about their adventures with kidney stones. Yes, those solid crystal buildups in the kidneys caused by dietary minerals in the urine have been the hot topic of conversation replacing anything about Kanye and Kim or Miley and her snake-like tongue. 
So pretty!
Are kidney stones the new trend? I think so, which makes me think of what could be creatively made with kidney stones.... are you ready?... kidney stone jewelry!

I plan on taking this brilliant idea on TV’s Shark Tank and having the sharks fight to invest in this wonderful business opportunity. With their multi-million dollar investments I envision going to third world countries to harvest kidney stones.

The jewelry possibilities are endless.

Why not wear something pretty that was made from something that was forced painfully through someone’s urethra?  It’s natural. It’s minerals. It’s organic!

String together a collection of kidney stones to make a handsome necklace that will certainly accentuate anyone’s bosom or rest happily against a manly hairy chest?

A cluster of kidney stones will make a beautiful broach or belt buckle.

Organic!
Excuse me, but where did you get such a unique and beautiful thing?

Oh thank you! It’s a one-of-a-kind created especially for me with fresh water kidney stones. They’re human!


The tinier stones are perfect for pinky rings, earrings, nipple rings, and cock rings. No body part should be denied being adorned in kidney stone jewelry.

In years to come I anticipate kidney stones surpassing diamonds as the stone of choice for engagement rings.

Years ago I had a bout with kidney stones, and as I wretched in pain to pass them they broke into multi-sized crystals.  They formed a nice pile in the toilet bowl shining like gems in the clear toilet water.  Unfortunately I didn’t have the foresight to scoop them up and save them.  I foolishly flushed them down.

They would have made a beautiful remembrance ring, a keepsake I could pass from generation to generation as a treasured family heirloom.



Thursday, October 10, 2013

Funky Funky Socks

My new obsession is funky socks. Happy colored socks. Multi-patterned socks. Socks that make my ankles feel young, hip, and horny.

My mood changes for the better when I wear funky socks.  My achilles heels leap and jump to the joyous rhythms of the day.


But that wasn’t always the truth with me... It took many years for me to come to this realization. My problem was I was born with shy ankles.  They’re nicely formed ankles and they should have been proud of themselves but they were not.  They needed to be coerced into the colored life.

I’m not as young as I used to be and neither are my ankles. Over the years they became happily ensconced  in a life of navy blue and black nylon-blend.

They have also gotten a bit hairy and calloused too.  Am I a bad ankle man because I never moisturized?

Last Christmas an artist friend gave me two pair of multi-colored socks. I was enchanted but every time I put them on my ankles itched and bitched and refused to hold up my body. They were paralyzed with color-and-pattern-fear. Whenever I tried wearing them  I stumbled and scratched. I was forced to toss them into the sock drawer and never touch them again.

A month ago something wonderful happened. I was browsing the sock aisle when a pair of yellow orange and beige striped socks stole my attention.  I tried resisting and my ankles kept pulling me away, but the colors were mesmerizing and I finally succumbed.

There was a lot of crying and stumbling and itching and a few too many bruises but I persevered until my ankles stopped resisting. It was a beautiful and spiritual moment when my ankles' inner chakras opened to the joys of colored socks. Aaaah!

Together my ankles and I have thrown out the drab navy blue and black nylon-blends and have filled the sock drawer with lots of funky funky socks.  Every morning we have so much fun choosing the “socks of the day.”

When I see people catching a glimpse of my newly fashioned ankles I slowly raise my pant leg to give them more, more, more.

Funky socks forever!

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

On Your Head Naked Yoga

A picture is worth a thousand glances... and when it’s a naked woman standing on her head with her breast drooping down (gravity isn’t a breast’s best friend) with a naked child having a mid-day snack you can’t help but look and look again... and again... and let your imagination wander.

Did her yoga-prone titties demand a new breastfeeding position because they were tired of the  traditional wham-bam-thank-you-mam upright breastfeeding position she regularly favored?

Instead of the downward dog the child’s enjoying the upside down milkshake pose.  Thank goodness the woman’s not a hermaphrodite with a dangling penis to threaten rain over the breastfeeding child. Imagine that!

The woman claims it was not a staged photo. Really?  I don’t know about you but if I’m gonna get a full body shave/manicure and step outside naked and stand on my head on newly cut grass in front of picturesque trees and let a naked child nibble on my tittie I’m gonna make sure a photo is taken. For posterity. For proof I'm young and limber. For the Internet attention.

Why else go to all that trouble?

The woman claims “I was just doing my daily flow when the little sweet pea came to sneak a suckle.”   Who’s kid was that sweet little pea?

That’s her story and she’s sticking to it. I don’t believe her.


I must admit though I do wonder what it must feel like to experience a suckling sensation while standing on my head. So... tomorrow at sunrise I’m gonna sneak outside naked and find a picturesque area in my apartment courtyard to stand on my head and see what comes along to suckle on a special part of me.

With my luck it’d probably be a possum or a coyote or that weird creature who lives in Apartment 3D.

But then again I might be pleasantly surprised.

If all goes well I’ll be posting a photo soon.



Sunday, September 01, 2013

Jesus Melvin Christ

It’s with dismay that I read recently a mis-guided judge in Tennessee forced a mother to rename her child from Messiah to Mark because “the religious name was earned by one person and that one person is Jesus Christ.”

Really?

When I looked up the population census for Jerusalem in the year one AD it’s clear to see his birth record states his first name is Jesus and his last night is Christ. Did you know his middle name was Melvin? Jesus Melvin Christ.  (True!)  There’s no Messiah in that name. He weighed in at 6 pounds 6 ounces and his birth mother and birth father are listed as Mary Elizabeth and Joseph Conrad Christ.

So why did the Judge waste tax payers dollars to make such a silly ruling?

I think it’s because she couldn’t wrap her tongue around Messiah while singing “The Name Game” song.

“Messiah Messiah Bo Bessiah Banana Fanna Fo Fassiah Fe Fo Mo Essiah... Messiah!”  Try singing that repeatedly and your tongue will surely get all twisted and tied.

If you don’t know “The Name Game” song you should learn it. It was originally a huge hit for Shirley Ellis and many years later recorded by Laura Branigan. Here’s a performance from the great Shirley Ellis:



The non-impartial judge blurred the lines between separation of church and state on this ruling. It should be appealed.

What makes this so strange is that in 2012 Messiah was listed as #4 on the list of most popular baby names.

It’s now 2013 which means at this very moment there are a lot of Messiahs getting potty trained...

Friday, July 19, 2013

Hi Y’all... This is Paula Deen...



Hi Y’all,

This is Paula Deen. It’s been one week since my last confession.

I want to apologize for the millionth time from the bottom of my inflated southern heart for uttering that word - you know the one I’m speaking of - not because I regret saying it but because I don’t want to lose my TV Show and book deal and lucrative endorsements. If everyone writes their senators and governors and mayors and Sarah Palin I am 100% positive I can get my southern droopy creepy ass back on TV where it rightfully belongs.

A few years ago I never disclosed my health and diabetes issues, but wouldn’t you have done the same thing? If I told the world to heed my doctor’s advice and stop eating the heart clogging crap I’ve been forcing down the throats of y’all I would’ve lost my fortune and my fame. My ego craves fortune and fame. That’s what makes my southern charm glow and my girl parts tingle.

Oh yes, yes, yes... My accent gets more pronounced with every million dollars I make, y’all. 

When I said that word I meant what I said when I said it. But I never meant it to be hurtful. It’s just a word, an expression I’ve been using for years. And I’m not going to stop. I yelled it out my window last night when someone cut me off in traffic.

Now I know what you’re thinking. You think underneath my pretty southern exterior lies a trashy hateful mean old lady racist bitch. I’m not that old!

Let’s bury the bad publicity and go make some deep fried corn dogs, deep friend cheese balls, deep fried turkey breasts, deep fried dog biscuits, and end our southern deep fried meal with some deep fried faux humble pie (wink wink) and a side of deep fried ice cream. (Of course mine will end with a double shot of insulin.)

Rest assured, as sugar is my witness, this Southern Goddess will rise again!

Love and hugs,
Paula Deen

Monday, June 17, 2013

Eat and Not Pay at the Alamo

I love food. I love to eat. I love to eat in restaurants. I also pay for my food and leave a generous tip.

Anthony Malabehar of Mattoon, IL doesn’t feel the same way.  He recently ate quite the hefty meal at the Alamo Steakhouse -  filet, snow crab, lobster pinches, snickers pie, two shots of rumple minz liqueur, and a Mike’s hard lemonade - and then refused to pay.  His tab was $69.27 and with a 20% tip it would be $83.00 (give or take a few cents).

What caused him to take such a stance?

Was it bad service from a surly waitress/waiter?

Was if bad food that quickly raced through his intestines with the intensity of montezuma’s revenge?

Was if bad restaurant lighting that made it difficult seeing cockroaches running across his table and food?

None of the above. It was a case of bad, bad manners from a bad, bad man.  He claimed he had no money to pay.

At first you would think Malabehar was really, really hungry and possibly homeless with a sad sob story that could reduce a cold hearted person into sympathetic tears, but that’s not true. This idiot ate like a friggin’ pig.  He knew exactly what he was doing when he ordered from every food group (though noticeably no vegetables or salad) and filled his face like a pig to a trough.

Turns out Malabehar, who’s been arrested over 70 times, had been doing it at other restaurants all over town. In February he was arrested for refusing to pay and sentenced to two months in jail, and was released the day before the Alamo Steakhouse meal.

He has never explained why he orders, eats, and refuses to pay.  Maybe it’s entwined into some sexual fetish where he gets totally aroused having a belly full of free food. Maybe it’s because he feels entitled.

Because of his prior arrest the judge sentenced him to three years in prison. 

Is that really punishment? 

For the next three years he’ll be eating three meals a day. Granted they won’t be filet, snow crab, lobster pinches, snickers pie, two shots of rumple minz liqueur, and a Mike’s hard lemonade, but they’ll be free, along with his accommodations.   You and I will be picking up the tab. 

I think we should refuse to pay.

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Jump Up! with Hungry Jack

The other day I was clicking around the prudenudist.com website.  I was looking for porn but got something totally different, and in the Vidz section came across something that musically inspires, is musically fun, and has an infectious dance.

It’s called “Jump Up!” by Hungry Jack. 

Now I fancy myself a dancer with great musical taste. As a matter of fact I have a dance of my own called the “Seduction Dance” that’s been applauded by those fortunate enough to see me do it.  It’s a simple dance that casts a spell over those who watch it igniting pheromones and lots of horny behavior.  If I were to release it unto the world there would be a chorus of screaming orgasms nightly as a result. It’s that powerful. 

Some day... some night... when you least expect it my “Seduction Dance” will invade your lives and the world will never be the same. Until then I recommend “Jump Up!”

When I first saw the 2:04 video I couldn’t sit still. I had to jump up and do the dance over and over and over again. 

The dance moves are really quite simple:

Jump up (4 times)
Get down (4 times)
Spin around (4 times) ** Beware this can be dizzying if you’re not a trained spinner.
Then Stop!
And do it all again...


The next time you see me strutting my Mick Jagger swagger down Main Street come join me and let’s start a flash mob of jump up, get down, and spin around.  

Saturday, May 25, 2013

I Want to Die at Exactly 5:00 PM

I think a lot about death.  Not always mine.  Others people’s deaths too.

Sometimes I think about how I would want others to die especially after they piss me off.  Don’t boo-hoo me. I know and you know we all think it. I’m just ballsy enough to put it in writing.

Usually I don’t think about causing much pain.  I just imagine I have this magic finger and I ever so slowly point at the offending asshole and zap! down they go. Dead. Wouldn’t that be terrific?

I’m sure there are people who would love to point a magic finger at me and see me gurgling my last breath. Hey, sometimes I feel the same way.

Now that I’ve confessed... if you piss me off and you see me slowly extending a finger your way you now know what I’m thinking and wishing... zap!

As for me I want to die at exactly 5:00 PM on my birthday.  5:00 PM is the exact time I dropped out of the love canal (according to my birth certificate) and made my grand entrance into this wacky wild world.  Wouldn’t 5:00 PM be the perfectly appropriate time to go back to where I came from? So profound... the exact moment you come is the exact moment you leave, though hopefully with years, many years, many many years between the coming and the leaving.

I imagine myself lying on my death bed with my arms outstretched in a lordly manner.  It’s 4:57 PM and all my loved ones are gathered around my bed tearfully telling me how much I changed their lives for the better while secretly checking their watches anticipating my last breath... and anxiously awaiting the reading of my will.

Then when 5:00 PM arrives on my birthday on the year I am destined to die I will bolt upright and with a cheshire grin say “Th... Th... That’s all folks!”

Maybe it’s because my birthday is fast approaching that I ponder aloud the 5:00 PM death desire.

Rest assured when my birthday arrives this coming week I have no intention of actually dying, though I do get a tad freaky when the clock ticks that particular hour on that particular day. 

I’m not ready yet for the pedestal in the sky, and this birthday when it’s 5:01 PM you will hear me exhale a huge sigh of relief knowing for certain that I have another year to share me and my wonderful witticisms with all of you. 



Thursday, May 23, 2013

Treadmill Desks and Internet Porn?

Keeping yourself physically active presumably keeps you healthy and in shape forcing the demons of age and the black grasp of death to stay at bay. 

But sometimes you’re so damn busy with your career and family obligations you have no time to trim the fat with exercise.  Your lifestyle doesn’t allow escaping to the gym, a quick jog, a sweat-inducing calorie-burning slutty lust-filled affair at the no tell motel, or taking a “weekend away” to the fat-reducing surgeon.

So what’s the solution? Treadmill desks.

The treadmill desk concept is you walk on the treadmill, at a walking speed of 1 to 2 miles per hour, while working at your raised desk.  If you’re at your desk 6 hours a day that’s close to 12 miles walking.  It’s multi-tasking from your brain to your toes.

I have a difficult enough time on the gym treadmill trying to walk and watch “The Wendy Williams Show.”  Sometimes her Hot Topics segments are so engrossing I miss a rhythm in my step and almost fall off the friggin’ thing.  A fall from the treadmill could really bruise my bum, and my ego.

How could I possibly type on the computer with complete concentration and chat on the phone with a business associate while my legs are in constant motion, and not sound like I’m having a self-induced moment of pleasure?   After treadmilling for a while I get a bit winded and my speaking voice sounds like heavy breathing. 

If you’re a phone sex operator then working at a treadmill desk might very well enhance the experience for your clients while keeping your butt fit and firm.

But what about solo-watching Internet porn while at your treadmill desk?  Wouldn’t that be a bit difficult when your hands are busy elsewhere and not helping keep your balance on the treadmill? Nothing would be more embarrassing than falling, passing out, and waking up in an embarrassing position when the paramedics arrive.

I’m sure treadmill desks with practice might prove beneficial, but instead of a treadmill desk I’m thinking a few less Oreos, no more KFC extra crispy breasts, no more peanut butter ice cream, and a nice new comfortable desk chair to fully enjoy Internet porn.

Thursday, May 02, 2013

Headless Man Walks Along the LA River

The other day I was riding my 21-speed bicycle along the Los Angeles River when I kept seeing a posting on poles and cement walls.  Curiosity got the best of me and I hit the brakes to see what it was. And this is what I saw:


The text read:

A headless man was documented walking on the LA River Bike Path near Atwater Village earlier this year. If you have any further documentation, information, or recognize anyone in the photograph below please contact the Department of Investigations at 213-688-3919.

At that very moment the sunny California sun took an ominous turn and cast a grey cloud over the river, and more specifically me. 


Eerie. 

Like an owl I turned my head every which way.  I felt the headless man was making his presence known to me. I didn’t see him, but I swear on the guillotine of life I felt his headless body wrapping his headless arms around me. 

Chills. 

My bike chain rattled. It wanted to be pedaled out of there asap.  I was too paralyzed to move.  

And then I heard a voice. A voice that seemed to be gurgling. A voice with barely a larynx to emit a sound. A voice from a severed throat.  The kind of voice you hear from someone who spent decades with a four-pack-a-day unfiltered cigarette smoking habit. 

And this is what the severed voice said to me:

Anastasia did it.  Find Anastasia and get me my head back. 

Then just as quickly as it happened the cloud evaporated and the sunny California sun shone bright blinding me with its rays of light. 

The headless man chose me for this important task.  It is now my personal mission to find Anastasia and recover the headless man’s head. 

It must be so frustrating for him not to have head, and having to walk aimlessly along the LA River. 

I have re-read all Agatha Christie, re-watched Inspector Clouseau, donned my Columbo raincoat, grabbed my Sherlock Holmes pipe, and am now ready to solve this mystery of the headless man.



Saturday, April 27, 2013

A Love Letter to Flo the Progressive Insurance Gal


Dear Flo,

For the longest time I hated you.   

Whenever one of your stupid commercials came on my semi-big-screen TV I would hiss and throw whatever was close at hand at your ultra white face halo’d by that retro mop of dark hair and hideous headband.  I swore on a stack of insurance inspired Bibles I would never like you and I’d never ever buy Progressive Insurance. 

I would tell anyone - fellow treadmill runners at the gym, drivers of cars next to me at red lights, the cashier at the grocery store, my proctologist, the drug addict who lives across the hall -  how much I loathed you. 

But then you started to appear everywhere.  No matter where I was there was you.  Absolutely no escape.  Your face was in my constant visual landscape!

You even invaded my sleep.  At first they were sweat inducing near death nightmares, but then... 

Something began to happen. Something out of my control. 

I began to stop whatever I was doing to watch you more closely.  I began to smile, not hiss, and my arms refused to grab the nearest object and toss it at your face.  I would make any excuse possible to go to bed early hoping to see you in my dreams, where you and I would be running in a field of blue and white daisies singing the theme from The Sound of Music. So romantic. The hills of my dreams were alive! 

I began scheduling “Flo Time” where I’d sit in front of my semi-big-screen TV and await your loveliness.  

I even took picture of you on my television with my iPhone.  And whenever I’m away from my television you are just an iPhone photo away (and I don’t go anywhere without my iPhone). 

Oh Flo, dear Flo, there’s a thin line between love and hate, and you have won be over.    Heart over heels over heart for you. 

There have been other commercial stars - Jared the Subway guy, the Wendy’s “Where’s the Beef” lady, the Old Spice guy, Madge the manicurist, the stoned Dell Computer dude, and the Geico caveman to name a few - but no one compares to you.   

You are an American icon.

I think I love you.

Sincerely,

Me

P.S. - I’m dumping State Farm Insurance to be closer to you, my Progressive Insurance Gal. 

P.P.S. - Next Halloween I’m going as you. 



Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Need Advice? Ask Yourself What Would Ryan Lockte Do.


Life is full of hard questions and life changing personal choices. Making the wrong decision could possibly pave the way for a tragic personal consequence.   

My fragile existence cannot afford any more wrong turns down a dead end street.  

To alleviate the pressures of responsible decision making I have decided, after careful consideration and watching promos for world-class Olympic-medal-winning-swimmer Ryan Lockte’s new reality show, to only make decisions after asking myself “What would Ryan Lockte do?” 


Once I determine what Ryan Lockte would do I am going to do the COMPLETE  OPPOSITE.  It’s a sure fire formula for success. 

I can only assume Ryan Lockte’s apparent low IQ is a result of too much chlorine in his pool. Not his gene pool but his swimming pool. 

Sure the guy can swim better than some fish but beyond that he appears pretty much, well, dumb as a box of pubic hair.  
  
His phrase is “jeah”, and he spends too much ego-stroking time saying it over and over again.  According to Ryan to properly pronounce it you must put the emphasis on the “j” and “e”.  Not saying it the right way is considered boring, but saying it the right way makes you sound like a complete idiot. 

Try it and hear it for yourself.  Jeah. Jeah. Jeah.  Is that a hairball you’ve got stuck in your throat?

But without Ryan Lockte I would not have made a very important life decision.

When I pondered whether or not I should watch Ryan’s new reality show I thought “What would Ryan Lockte do?”  

For Ryan I’m sure that’s as much a difficult question as asking him to spell MGM backwards, but I do believe he would say to watch it.

So I’m choosing the opposite.  

Life crisis averted. 

I can feel my brain cells sighing relief. 



Tuesday, April 09, 2013

A Bicycle Bell to Die For


I love riding my bicycle around the streets of Hollywood, CA.  I plan on doing it well into my 80s and 90s as long as my legs continue to be able to move the pedals. 

Unfortunately the drivers in Hollywood aren’t accustomed to bicyclists.  In their pursuit of fifteen minutes of celebrity they’re too busy texting, holding their cell phone to their ear (blue tooth? what’s that?), fiddling with their GPS, playing with themselves (don’t gasp, it happens and I’ve seen it), or looking in the mirror admiring their mediocre attractiveness to pay attention to the road.  

As a bicyclist I’m sometimes forced off the road and onto the sidewalk.  But the sidewalk pedestrians suffer the same ego driven ailments as drivers: walking and texting, walking and talking on the phone, walking with an iPod obliterating surrounding sounds, and not paying attention to anyone but themselves. 

After scaring friends with too many near death bicycle experiences two lovely friends of mine (Kim and Denise) gifted me a bicycle bell. It’s a beautiful sunflower bicycle bell.  Something my idol Pee Wee Herman would certainly envy. 


As a mature seemingly sane man I couldn’t help but yelp with glee when I opened the gift.  Yipeeee!  It’s a bicycle bell to die for. 

I’ve always wanted a bell but a very good friend threatened to disown me if I were to buy and attach a bell to my bike. Of course I think that was because in the same conversation I verbally fantasized about handlebar tassels and a front basket too.  

I sensed my friend was serious so I promised not to buy a bell, but I never promised to not accept a bicycle bell gift.  Same with handlebar tassels and front basket. 

My bell, which I’ve named Sunflower Sally, has a melodic ring with a tinge of aggressiveness which will certainly let pedestrians and drivers know to get the fuck out of my way.  I am Bicycle Michael hear me roar.

I’ve already got a somewhat too tight grey suit (a sad unfortunate result of too many visits to the donut shop) and a starched white shirt and red bow tie ready to make their bicycle debut. 

Soon you’ll be seeing me Pee Wee’d and riding the streets of Hollywood.  
Maybe then I’ll finally get those fifteen minutes of fame I’ve been chasing all these goddam years.