Pachydermal Porn

This is ever so cute.

PBF

In honor of my re-acquaintance with Perry Bible, fellowship, I will illegally reprint this classic strip:

The Lookout

“Ma, he’s from the company, I’m sure he’s straight.”

“I don’t care. Your father is God knows where; there is a stranger in the house, in our bedroom, right now.”

“It’s the middle of the day. He wouldn’t.”

“Get up there now.”

“It’s embarrassing—you always say—”

“You want to leave our house exposed to the whole neighborhood? Leave your mother defenseless here?”

Basketball would have to wait. A good guilt-trip is more potent than a well-aimed threat from a well-aimed gun.

The gentle morning sunlight peeked through the shutters, seeping hints of mild April splendor through our second-floor windows. Finches chirped in the backyard, luring my second parakeet, Ricky, to mutiny and join them in unfettered freedom. Poor African Ricky was deaf to their American-tweeting inveiglements.

And there was I, a 6-year resident of the United States of America, an enlightened teenage soul steeped in liberal democratic thought and egalitarian ethos. There was I, directed by my progressive, open-minded mother to mind her bedroom while the black cable guy uninstalled the wires and hardware (unbeknownst to him soon to be replaced by an unauthorized cable box reprogrammed by a former dental hygienist from Azerbaijan to give us coveted access to HBO and pornography).

The awkwardness set in immediately. “Would you like something to drink?”

His back turned, he wiped the sweat off his forehead with an elbow. “No thanks.”

I needed a pretext to stay. Pretending to look for something (I quickly caught myself—must stay away from Mom’s jewelry box—too obvious), I foolishly picked up the first thing I saw—a feather duster. Only one thing to do with a feather duster unless you’re a French maid. He turned, reaching for the pliers, and I quickly dropped the easy giveaway.

What else?—The TV! There’s a Yankees game on…Oh, right. It was then that he solved the problem for me.

“Know what? That drink offer still good?”

“Uh, sure. Juice, soda?”

“Cold water’s fine.”

Shit. I realized the fatal flaw of my innocently proffered beverage. Mom was in the basement doing laundry and the parakeet wasn’t trained for racist surveillance. A good half-decade away from the cellular revolution that swept our family, I was unable to hatch a devious text-messaging scheme. I had to chance it.

“You want ice?” Of course he did.

The sprint downstairs must have been record-setting—if Guinness ever recorded such dubious numbers. Races motivated by antediluvian attitudes and fear-mongering were almost certainly unofficiated. I almost tripped on the way up, but not a drop of water lost—a feat worthy of Eddie Murphy’s Golden Child obstacle course. It seemed I, too, had what it takes to be The One.

I looked around the room anxiously with my parents’ eyes. I always preferred not to know. Drawers intact. Correspondence in place. What am I forgetting?

“That it?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. There you go, Sir.” Absently, I handed him the cup with my eyes fixed on Mom’s hand-painted lacquer jewelry box, on which a frisky troika was pulling a rose-cheeked maiden through a frozen riverbed. He took the cup from my hand without turning, the stepladder wilting under his bulky frame and steady legs. We were both in our own worlds.

“You should be all set. There a bathroom here?”

Perfect—he’d be gone for 2, 3 minutes at least!

Elated, I gave him directions to the downstairs bathroom. Like a drowning man barely beating suffocation for that sweet, nourishing gasp of oxygen, I snatched the lid off the box. Looks good. Relieved, I started for the stairs, to graciously welcome our guest from the bathroom with the candy bin and a $5 note. But before I could fete my operation’s success, or grasp there was no way for me to verify the contents of the box came a loud thud and the jarring crack of skull meeting thick wood drowned out by an agonizing “Jesus Christ, my fucking head!”

It was too late to look away. The man was sprawled out on the stairway, taking the first hard-earned break of the day. With heavy hand and breath I went back inside the room and took the cordless. Somewhere in the distance, my grandma’s voice carried from her upstairs cloister.

“Did he put in the TV yet? All day without the TV!”

Clericus for the Restofus

Since when is soccer about fruitful sharing, friendship, and promoting pastoral values? I thought sport was a modern replacement for casual warfare, to keep men's bellicose instincts from incurring true carnage.

Dancing the Night Away

I wonder what Tim Hardaway had to say about this. Thanks to the Velvet Mafia, we may never know.

Confabulations

It's been a big week for two of this blog's most avid readers. Congratulations are in order for:

DukeNobbins (of Why Duck Media) for his prestigious operations research fellowship nomination.

Schwam, Ph.D. for successfully defending his microbiology candidacy.

And a belated congrats to M.J. from the Hawkeye state for her acceptance to historic Columbia U. graduate school, and her impending move to the East Coast with a Jewish leptosome.

New Socialism

I suggest our government hand out free mass-market copies of The Fountainhead to the good citizens of Venezuela. Interesting how demagogues lack in any originality--they just keep repackaging tired old gospels. This definitely IS your daddy's socialism.

Found Art.

I find it, amuuuuuuuuusing.
Here's one from the 23rd street F train station. It's from a new Fox morning news show. Starring one of their famous blonde hoes.

Another Blaze Bites the Dust

I'm not sure which angle Bohemigrant feels more affinity with: the man's proclivity for skiing, onanastic exhibitionism, or concealed toking implements. One thing's for sure: in tandem with a Maine town's recent car smoking ban, Vermont and the rest of the Notheast cluster (sans MA) is quickly losing its standing and reputation for independence and individual liberty. Watch out you New Hampshire snuff-filmmakers and game hunters!

Global Warming

Why have you ruined my life?
I used to swim in oceans, ski on snow.
You took it all away.

Thousands of French dames dead.
And all for what, Exxon?
The sod bleeds green.

Polar bears drowning, oceans rising
I have a nose bleed, global warming.
You ruined my fucking life.

woohoo!

friends, pastor Ted is Cured! .......
or is he?