Bread

"Can you throw some extra bread in there? The Italian Bread? The stuff that usually comes with the entrees?"
"You want more bread?"
"Yeah man. I love bread." Chuckles. "Let me put it this way: I weigh almost 500 pounds. I would guess that 90% of that is bread. I fucking love bread. It's so fucking good."
"Whoa - I know how you feel. I love bread too. It's awesome. But I'm not 500 pounds."
"Haha kid - you probably won't ever be. It takes a lot of hard work to get here. You don't just wake up one morning and you weigh 500 pounds."
"Everybody wants to rule the world."
"That is true. Goodbye."

freedom

for many of my loyal fans out there, the past few years have been long, painful collections of seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years filled with nothing but empty clicks of the refresh button.

a lot of sand has slipped through the hourglass of life. much water has passed under the bridge. much hair has fallen from my head.

many loaves of bread have been broken. many tears have been cried. an equally large number of babies have been belched. a dog named 'frodo' was also run over. i didn't do it.

but here is some good news: a ray of sunshine: a glimmer of hope: a cupcake filled with happiness and jesus.

the blog that makes no sense (tbtmns) is dusting off it's dust. it's awakening from its sleep induced slumber, drawing back the curtains, stretching its virtual arms and yawning. then it's going back to bed for 9 minutes. then it will wake up again, hit snooze, go back to bed and then it will wake up and give birth to itself once again!

check back. tbtmns is coming for you (but only if you're hot. and a woman.).

hahaha! you thought i was vanquished "from" the blogsphere. well, my one armed, runny-eyed sniveling friend...you were wrong!

unfortunately, everyone else who that doesn't describe was right...

sincerely,

rudy mcscroogles

P.S. - I don't even know punctuation?

Blood Oranges

I guess when you bite into a blood orange, that means it bleeds. Does it scream too? Can I just not hear it? Is there a certain 'orange frequency' that blood oranges scream at when you bite into them? Maybe they are trying to tell us something astounding, like how to make a perfect flan. Humanity's loss for not being able to hear the blood oranges scream.

I WOULD LIKE

to take your face and sprinkle it with cheese, cover it in salsa, and bake it in the oven for 3 hours at 350 degrees.

i would then take your face and serve it with a side of rice and maple syrup. there would be plenty of apple juice for everyone, and ice cream would be served for dessert.

everyone would enjoy the meal and your face would have served a higher purpose.

please consider my proposal. i will pay you $7.03.

The End is Near

The end is near. I can taste it. It tastes like sushi.

Sushi is made from rice and seaweed. Sometimes, it includes fish. Sometimes it includes vegetables. Sometimes the sushi is a combination of the two. Sometimes the sushi is made of fish eggs that are like tiny balls of salty slime that remind you of your first encounter with the "Catfish Woman of Lake Minnetonka".

Ahhh yes, the Catfish Woman of Lake Minnetonka. How I long for your scaly touch, your facial tendrils and the emptiness of your words.

Mallovian Toast

"You take the butch. I'll take the book."
"Why do you always get the book. Just for once I'd like to get the book. It's no fair!"
"Quit your fucking whining you piece of shit. I'm gonna smack your face and make it look like a blueberry pancake."
"Ok."

Pondering the Pope

I am thinking of resurrecting The Blog That Makes No Sense (TBTMNS).

It came to me in a dream. In this dream The Blog That Makes No Sense was disguised as my father. My father (really TBTMNS) was riding atop a llama. He spoke to me in Gaelic. I did not understand.

The llama snorted. My father spit. A child cried.

He looked down at me and spoke in French. I understand French. He said to me (this is translated from the French): "You must bring it back. The French Fries are at war and Richard Simmons is crying."

I awoke with a tear in my eye, a stranger in my bed, and a certainty that one only feels when nature calls.

I am yours, TBTMNS. I will not leave you, ignore you nor exploit you for money or free passes to Check E Cheese.

Greatful Dead

Sadness makes my happy. Anger makes me calm. Fear makes me brave. Anxiety makes me want to punch circus clowns in their faces. Music makes me want to dance. Thunder makes me want to run outside in nothing but a Rachel Ray branded apron and let the rain fall upon my shrunken head like bocce balls raining down on an ant hill.

Green shoots of nutrition and death

They grow and they grow and they grow. Green sprouts climbing ever towards the sun. When will the asparagus give up and return to the earth like it's cousin the pear?

DAMN YOU ASPARAGUS!

Damn you oh asparagus!!! Taint my urine. Taint my mind.

Green devils.