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?
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Monday, January 26, 2009
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.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, January 12, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, December 15, 2008
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."
"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."
Sunday, December 14, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
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.
Friday, March 14, 2008
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.
DAMN YOU ASPARAGUS!
Damn you oh asparagus!!! Taint my urine. Taint my mind.
Green devils.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Tonight
Tonight I am going out on the town to celebrate the anniversary of a friend's birth, some 33 long years ago.
I am sure that his mother is not celebrating this "occasion". Perhaps that is because her belly has swelled and her face has fallen sallow with the passage of time. She will spend tonight with a loaf of stale bread and a pot of boiled green beans. She'll wash it all down with cheap vodka and reconstituted milk. Then she will retire to the bedroom and lay her wrinkled face on the hard pillow she's owned since she was a little girl with grand dreams and limitless optimism. The pillow laughs at her naivety. Her soul cries. The neighbor screams. The child bites.
The beans give her gas and she rises in the night, fumbling her way towards a bathroom she's seen one too many times. She needs to relive her distended belly. Her flatulence attacks the senses, roiling the quiet night like thunder and invading the nostrils with a smell akin to boiled cabbage and rotting flesh. The moonlight catches her face, casting shadows along the deep valleys that hundreds of years and thousands of cigarettes have carved in her skin.
She lifts her head briefly from the toilet, just in time to catch a glimpse of her reflection in the dirty water. She begins to cry. The salty tears roll down her cheeks, and into the toilet. The tears follow the same path that thousands of others have followed, flowing through the flesh canyons and caverns created by her pock marked and wrinkled skin. The tears pool around the open soars on her mouth before finally toppling onto the floor.
She is thirsty. She is hungry. She is cold. She is lonely. Darkness surrounds her, both day and night. Her soul has atrophied, her body is old and used. Her mind is clouded, like her cataract covered eyes. Tomorrow is a new day, but she already knows exactly how it will unfold.
I am sure that his mother is not celebrating this "occasion". Perhaps that is because her belly has swelled and her face has fallen sallow with the passage of time. She will spend tonight with a loaf of stale bread and a pot of boiled green beans. She'll wash it all down with cheap vodka and reconstituted milk. Then she will retire to the bedroom and lay her wrinkled face on the hard pillow she's owned since she was a little girl with grand dreams and limitless optimism. The pillow laughs at her naivety. Her soul cries. The neighbor screams. The child bites.
The beans give her gas and she rises in the night, fumbling her way towards a bathroom she's seen one too many times. She needs to relive her distended belly. Her flatulence attacks the senses, roiling the quiet night like thunder and invading the nostrils with a smell akin to boiled cabbage and rotting flesh. The moonlight catches her face, casting shadows along the deep valleys that hundreds of years and thousands of cigarettes have carved in her skin.
She lifts her head briefly from the toilet, just in time to catch a glimpse of her reflection in the dirty water. She begins to cry. The salty tears roll down her cheeks, and into the toilet. The tears follow the same path that thousands of others have followed, flowing through the flesh canyons and caverns created by her pock marked and wrinkled skin. The tears pool around the open soars on her mouth before finally toppling onto the floor.
She is thirsty. She is hungry. She is cold. She is lonely. Darkness surrounds her, both day and night. Her soul has atrophied, her body is old and used. Her mind is clouded, like her cataract covered eyes. Tomorrow is a new day, but she already knows exactly how it will unfold.
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