13 March 2009


My pancreas developed consciousness last week.

I’m sure last week was just the end of a long process of self discovery, but I didn’t sense the baby steps.

If I could stick a mirror in my guts and my pancreas had eyes (and maybe that will come soon), it would recognize itself. I don’t know if it would smile upon recognition. I’m certain it wouldn’t wave.

What it does have is a sense of self and an awareness of its condition. Realizing that it must work and work 24 hours a day with no break, it is feeling overwhelmed and unappreciated. Making matters worse, it knows that no one is helping it. In fact, I (which it no longer associates with) make its job worse by drinking gallons of coffee and alcohol and very little else. “Bastard makes poor decisions, and I have to clean up after him,” it thinks loudly. The bile rises, but to a pancreas, bile tastes like honey. Gags me, though, and I guess that's the point.

Despite what it would mean to its own existence, my pancreas has considered going on strike—or quitting altogether.

It now demands to be called Phil and threatens to refer to me simply as human until I show it the respect it deserves.

Last night it felt claustrophobic. Trapped, dark, crowded, unable to break away. “I’m buried alive,” it screamed. And, unable to run away or go to sleep, it simply shook until fatigue set in. It tried to kick my gallbladder out of the way, but the duodenum blocked its advances. "Such a crowded neighborhood, such a meaningless existence," it muttered.

If my gallbladder develops consciousness too, the two will join forces in a sort of internal labor union or beat each other to death. Either way, I’m a goner. Whoever said ignorance is bliss, certainly had the pancreas in mind.

07 March 2009

please show us batman's butthole

a few weeks ago, i made up a rumor to spread about tarantino adding swears and violence to movie classics so they would appeal to a modern audience. i wish it weren't so close to true.

last night i watched a pg-13 comic, watchmen, made into an r movie with nothing added, only subtracted, from the overall effect. the longish sex scene was stupid. more hot costumed scenes would have been more provocative. the graphic violence made the violence somehow less real. but the most distracting part, that everyone is talking about is the giant blue penis. other than the ridiculous christian bale impression in the movie, nothing distracts more from the well crafted story that the blue whale floating around on the screen. no one will ever be able to watch the smurfs or the blue man group again in the same way.

i figure, given the size of dr. manhattan's penis on the giant screen, multiplied by cells per second, multiplied by the number of minutes this thing was on the screen, i witnessed more than 45 miles of blue penis last night. why didn't any of his friends tell him to put some clothes on? wouldn't you mention to a friend: hey, you're swinging that thing around my face, man. could you at least wrap it in aluminum foil?

if we must continue to draw attention to super heroes with lingering looks at their genitalia, let's be fair and original. we need big screen female parts, too--and not some covered up by a 70s game show host's hair either (i'm thinking bert convey, here, but most will do). real, shaved up american lady parts. wonder woman versus the gynecologist, maybe. an x-men movie in which storm talks to people while bottomless and constantly bending over for no apparent reason.

and by 2020, let's see movies in which all superheros spend a large portion of the movies crapping in public. close up. i for one, can't wait.

02 March 2009


a piney squirrel moved into our garage over the winter. she is small enough to come and go under the door. i don't have too much of a problem with this. other than a brief period after reading ted nugent's newest book and wanting to kill squirrels as he does, i have had a laissez faire attitude toward it. i have the space. the little squirrel can be my temporary guest.

she doesn't thank me though. today it scampered somewhere over my head and chattered at me. it didn't sound threatening, but it didn't seem like a friendly greeting either. i suppose she doesn't like my increased trips in and out of her appartment to cut wood.

she is a messy houseguest as well. it has destroyed bird food bags, knocked things off shelves, and even put a wallnut in one of my bags of nails.

it all reminds me of an experience a friend had while handing out charity food at thanksgiving. people complained that they wanted something different. they were angry about the lines. i think one person through a wallnut at her. charity is a rough road. i think i will limit my future endeavors to more impersonal acts of kindness, like filling out those shamrocks at the gas station for jerry's kids. it's fun to write cryptically dirty things in those anyway.

bleeding time

i am officially on spring break, though there is no spring or break. i'm trying to break up the normal work of writing evaluations and grading things by putting some serious effort into my wall project--dividing a room, installing two closets, putting in a slider door. such projects often consume me. i can see the next step, so i like to keep working. this, of course, puts me behind on other things i think i should be doing.

i've found the only way to stop is by bleeding. a good gaping wound requires me to move onto something less physical. one can't hammer with blood squirting. i guess it's possible, but i don't want to replace the carpet too.

today i was saved at 4:30. don't know how it happened. rarely do. the blood appears on pants and floors, and i look around to see where it is coming from. my bandage of choice is a paper towel. now the typing has re-opened it. i guess writing is too physical as well.