The Poem About the Injured Lion

The songbird delivers the message —
a friend is in pain.
I want to pluck
the thorn from their paw
but I know I’ll only
bring them temporary relief,
because they live in the forest,
and the floor is awash with thorns.
And besides, I can’t touch them
because continents separate us,
and I live in my own wilderness,
with my own pride.
I can only hope the sun
will find them,
warm their mane,
and light their way
to a beast who will walk
the path with them.
And then they can pluck each other
whenever the need or desire arises.

The I Wear My Trousers Rolled Poem

Everybody’s so cool,
I can’t stand it.
That’s how I know
I’m old.
That and the fact
that I get up every night,
in the middle of the night,
every night,
in the middle of the night.
And I repeat myself.
Plus no one’s listening
to what I’m saying anyway.
Not even me.

Love Drunk Poem

We were drunk on our love.
Actually, we were just drunk.
Okay, we were drunks.
Turns out,
we were never in love.

Say What?

Britney's being attacked again. And this time she has to share come culpability. Apparently, she's pulled a Milli Vanilli and lip synced a concert -- a trend in pop music that might be as prevalent as steroids in baseball, but less damning on the goods, if you know what I mean.

Nonetheless, Britney appears to be in her biggest trouble yet. She's lost the ability to say or think anything that is her own. She can't even count on herself to get her mouth around the words and the notes that set her on this great trip in the first place.

Personally, I think she should get back on How I Met Your Mother. Good times.

Or she should meet Vince in Vegas. The language of loves requires no words.

Greeting Card That's Not

Let’s take a walk,
so I can hold your hand,
and feel your arm brush
against mine.
And you can give me
that playful slap of yours
when I say something
that maybe I shouldn’t.
Or we can be serious, too,
and I’ll tell you something
that worries me,
and you’ll make it better,
in that way you do.
Then we’ll stop.
Kiss. Kiss again.
Walk on.
Me and beautiful you.
In sweet love.

Everyone Rips on Cleveland

Everyone rips on Cleveland —
it’s the easy thing to do.
Everyone rips on Cleveland,
‘cause they like to play the foo’.

Everyone rips on Cleveland
as if her people weren’t real.
Everyone rips on Cleveland,
'cause our souls are forged with steel.

Everyone rips on Cleveland
because everyone is better
than all us saps in Cleveland,
our self-worth locked in a fetter.

Everyone rips on Cleveland
from their perches way up high
Everyone rips on Cleveland —
it gives their simple minds a high.

Everyone rips on Cleveland —
they think it’s pretty cool.
Everyone rips on Cleveland.
Let them eat their stool.

Mama Cat

While walking down the hall
of a greeting card company
I passed a crateful of kitties
being carted away for their close-up.
There were eight in all,
plus their gray mommy
who was wrenching her head
in every which-way direction
making sure her youngins were safe
from harm —
from the humans
ooing, awing, and loving
all over her offspring.
And of course they were, safe.
(The admirers were women who make
birthday cards for a living, after all.)
But mama just kept looking over her shoulder,
her eyes wide, alert, watching.

Because, you know,
a mother always worries.

The Poem About the Razor's Edge

The Irish Barber
had an assistant
who liked to talk
to his wife
as he cut hair
with a special shiny
straight razor.
And as talking
became arguing,
shaving became
butchering,
and I left the shoppe

short a half-pound
of flesh.
But up one bad haircut.

The Poem About the Nest

When the winds of change
are so great
they knock a bird’s nest free
from the safe and cozy hold
of a downspout
elbowing against a house,
what does the bird do then?

She gathers twigs, of course.

Haiku #5

Hot and sticky day,

heart as free as a child's,

every day summer.

Haiku #4

The white crescent moon
cradled the sky in her arms.
One earthling noticed.

Haiku #3

As Mondays wear on,
the fog in my sleepy brain
grows denser, thicker.

Haiku #2

Truth is as fleeting

as a perfect summer day

in lovely Cleveland.

Haiku #1

My failures are ma-
ny and varied. Still the Sun
smiles at me today.

How to Save the World?

I haven't posted in some time and it's not because I don't have anything to say. It's just that - strangely - just after I posted about Farrah's death, and heard about Michael Jackson's, I was taken hostage and put into a think tank with a varied group of thinkers. Our mission: save the world.

And we came up with nothing. So I'm sorry if that brings you down. But we're still thinking. And now that I've been freed I can post again, and take your suggestions back to my group, should you have any.

I suggested in an effort to rid ourselves of the unemployment problem facing America that we should just abolish work altogether. As you can imagine, I was mocked mercilessly for that idea, most notably by the farmer and the ice skater. I was like give me a break, I'm just brainstorming. Whatever.

What about you? How would you save the world?

RIP Farrah

I goof around a lot on this blog and say a lot of stupid things, but now let's just take a few moments of silence for Farrah Fawcett who died after a 2 1/2-year battle with cancer. I know I speak for Generation Xish boys everywhere when I say there was no woman whose poster looked better on our bedroom wall. Remember that shot where she's wearing the orange bathing suit?

But really, Farrah, was just an all-around lovely person. And if you saw any of her documentary on her struggle with cancer it was clear how much of a survivor she was, how much she loved her family, and we even got a peek into her artistic talents.

I wish her family and friends the best during their grieving process.

Good Night, Angel.

O-H

Only one force could truly spur revolution in Iran.

That’s right, his shirt does say, "Ohio State."



You know this guy is calling on the power of Woody Hayes to bring freedom to Iran. And if any power out there posssess both the knowledge of military history and the sonuvabitchin hard-headed gumption to do so, you damn well know it’s W. Woodrow Hayes.

Please, for the Love of God...

WASHINGTON – The Treasury Department has approved 10 of the nation's largest banks to repay $68 billion in government bailout money.

The department on Tuesday said the banks, which were not named, will be allowed to repay the money they received from the $700 billion Troubled Asset Relief Program created by Congress last October at the height of the financial crisis.

....Don't let this mean that I'm going to be allowed to pay back my credit card bills.

Might As Well Jump

So this dude in China found himself stuck in traffic one day because a fellow countryman was standing on the edge of the bridge threatening to commit suicide. So this dude goes past the police cordon, offers to shake the jumper’s hand, and then pushes him off. Don’t fret, the man landed 10-yards below into a nice cushiony device filled with air specifically to protect troubled souls from their own actions

The motorist’s response to pushing the man:

“I pushed him off because jumpers like [name omitted here] are very selfish.
Their action violates a lot of public interests...”

And there you have it. Turns out the jumper also owes a whole bunch of money for a failed building project. So not only was he holding up traffic, but he doesn’t pay his bills. I promise you this, my dear readers, should I decide to drop the final curtain on myself, I will not, repeat, will not HOLD UP traffic, express lines in the grocery story, or even my own head. I will just do the deed and be done with it. Hugs and Kisses. Vince.

Let them Eat Cookies

I'm not saying I told you so, but as I'm the guy who pimped Cookie Monster last week, I think I deserve some credit here. A recent article in Time Magazine explains how US investigators used cookies to get Bin Laden's bodyguard to give up information in regards to the original 9/11 attacks. Abu Jandal, a man who struck fear into his own bodyguards, a man charged to put a bullet in Bin Laden's head rather than let him be taken alive, started to give in when investigators gave him cookies. Who says terrorists aren't a bunch of softies?

The long and short of it is, the first day he lectured interrogators on the evils of the West; he refused their offer of cookies and tea because of his diabetic condition. But then the next day, when he was offered sugar-free cookies, something that a diabetic could eat, he softened and started to sing like a bird. The article goes on to say there was some other interrogating sleight of hand used, but the cookies were the turning point.

Didn't I just tell you Cookie Monster is so cool because we can trust what he says. Who knew cookies could change the world.

IN OTHER NEWS: the Iranians are blaming the Americans and Israelis for an attack by gunmen outside the offices of President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. They said, "Hire of the terrorists by the U.S. was verified based on investigation." Excuse me if I don't trust the Iranians' investigation and their obvious motives to blame all wrongs on everything US (read that as a pronoun and proper noun, please). Something tells me, the Iranians weren't using cookies in their investigation.

Cookies!

You want a hero. A real hero. Check out Cookie Monster. Here's a guy who's real. And for those of you who want to argue that he isn't real - I challenge you to find someone who's more real than he is, someone who really says what it is he's after, what he wants out of life. What he wants from you. He doesn't hide behide illusion. He just tells you what he wants. And that' s that. No pretense. No deception. Straight in your face, take-him-as you-see-him kind of guy. Just make sure you have cookies. Here's the complete interview, up close and personal.

Sick. Shit.

I just read a story about a man who ate his four-year-old’s eyes, and it saddens me to no end. Then the man went and hacked at his own legs with an ax – apparently he was in a wheelchair. Clearly he has some real problems. But that doesn’t take the sting out of the statement “my daddy ate my eyes” issued to the police by the son. The boy might – and I stress might – regain sight in his right eye, but it appears the other one is gone for good. Yuck. What the f*ck is wrong with people?

I know this is an isolated incident made visible by the grand powers of the Internet. But damn, people need to get serious about taking care of their kids. Help the kids to see the possibilities of the world. Please don't take their vision away be it literally, emotionally or spiritually. And it's time the rest of the world stopped turning a blind eye.

Finger Food

In protest of a company not paying employees their wages, a Serbian union official chopped off his pinky finger and ate it. He did mention that “it hurt like hell.” It hurt like hell? That’s Serbian folks at their best. Plain, simple, honest. And to his defense, he was making the point that the employees have nothing to eat and have to seek alternative sources of food. And you might wonder where he got this idea? From a woman who was going to do it herself, so he spared her the trouble.

When I first read this article I wanted to write something funny and make light of it. Obviously, the comic potential is there. And coming from Serbian stock myself, I felt I could get away with it. But instead I want to take the opportunity to point out these are a group of people like no other. I always tell people, “don’t piss of the Serbians. They’re crazy.” I grew up in a Serbian church and watched my fair share of political “discussions” between the angry men. But at the heart of it all, is a love and loyalty to all things Serbian, namely each other. This man ate his own finger in support of his brethren who were not being paid their wages. He sacrificed for them. And now people are taking notice. Crazy? Yes. Effective? Yep. Tasty? Probably not.

For years, in the ‘90s, when the world bombed the shit out of Yugoslavia nobody really cared about the Serbian people. When the US bombed Iraq, people cared. Like Iraq, the Serbs had a miserable leader who treated his enemies like dogs. Unlike Iraq, the media, and by extension the rest of the world, could not care less. There’s no doubt that Milosevic - the Serbian leader at the time - was brutal, tyrannical, disgusting. And though the Serbian people deserved better treatment during the bombing, the world turned its back on them. The people would pay for the leader's sins. So what are they left to do? Take care of each other as best they can, even if it means biting the hand that needs.

Pay No Attention to the Ass Behind the Mask

My sister’s ex-husband’s father died. Follow that? If not, my mom would be happy to call you and tell you all about it. Then she might ask you when my sister’s getting back from vacation so she can give her this very important news.

My sister hasn’t been married to the ex for almost 20 years. An early marriage by a girl fresh out of high school too young to know any better. The man beat her, threw her against walls, was an alcoholic and a drug addict. In short, a real asshole. My mom’s a pretty innocent gal, so we spared her a lot of the details, but I’ve told her before in kinder terms that the fella's an asshole. Does that make it less sad that his father died? Of course not. Does his father’s death make him less of an a-hole? Nope.

Once over a game of pool, he, in a pretty drunken stupor, admitted to me how he had snowed my mom. How my mom once thought he was trouble but he won her over, wink wink. He was so proud of himself for taking advantage of a woman’s good heart and charitable attitude towards humanity by employing the simple means of deception and a smile. I really wanted to bust his head open that night. But I’m not really the fighting type.

After the divorce was final – thank God – and when my mom would mention him, I’d ask her, “Why do you keep bringing him up? Your daughter’s married now. To a good man, who has a job, loves her and supports her and their kids. It’s an insult to bring him up. Plus he’s a real butthole and lets just leave it at that.” But she didn’t want to believe what her first instincts had told her. Initially she couldn’t stand the man. And who could blame her? Take for instance the time he showed up at our house, drunk and belligerent, swearing at my dad. Cussing out my mom as well, I’m sure. And trust me that’s the least of it. But see, he eventually won my mom over, remember? Wink wink. Mom then chose to believe the lie. I suppose she liked the way he had “reformed” himself. It was such sweet piece of…FICTION.

So my mom won’t call me to find out when my sister’s coming home from vacation so she can give her the news. She’ll call other people. Somehow it’s very important that my sister know this info. Apparently what’s not important is the feelings of her current husband, or the feelings of my sister. What’s not important apparently is leaving the past dead and buried. Or so she thinks. So I guess I’ll have to call my mom instead.

Damned Good Dandy Lions

Okay, so I’m not going to win any Pulitzer Prizes for this entry. But that’s okay, because I will never win one anyway, so I won’t be bogged down by anguish over not doing so. But I do expect this post to make people think about the priorities of the world.

Why do we hate dandelions? They’re pretty. They’re yellow. They’re just one of God’s many gifts to us. Yet when a lawn looks like this:

We wonder what is wrong this those people? Their lawn should look like this:

In essence, we give more value to a lawn that is propped up by chemical supplements (steroids for grass) to one that is graced by nature’s own splendor and beauty. Why not just do away with lawns altogether, throw down a slab of concrete, paint it a brilliant green and call it a day?

See, I refuse to be pulled into the games that lawn care companies try to play with the homebuyer. I, of course, don’t own a home. But if I did, you can bet the $20 you’d spend on a bag of fertilizer that I’d let dandelions roam free like the lions in the African safari.

And finally, a short story I wanted to share with you that I think might win me a Pulitzer.

I didn’t like the way the gas attendant eyeballed my mother. And I could feel the rage boiling inside of me like an egg on Texas concrete in August. I wanted to smash my fist down on his face and bust it into a million pieces. But I did not. I showed restraint. I took mercy on the man. I chose peace over violence. Then, I picked my mother a bouquet of wild dandelions and we drove off happily into the sunset without paying for the gas.

Act Now! Don't Miss This Incredible Opportunity To Paint Your Masterpiece!

Today I offer hope. I just finished reading Gordon MacKenzie’s Orbiting the Giant Hairball, an inspiring book on creativity and the human spirit. The man has a lot of great things to say, but, of course, he saves the best for last: we each have a masterpiece to paint. Before we touched earth, God gave each and everyone of us a blank piece of canvas and requested we return it to him with our masterpiece. The tricky part comes when we make our entrance into a world which conspires to unblanken our canvas by providing us with helpful hints as to how we should go about doing so. And then we take those hints, and our masterpiece ends up sucking. And, I’m guessing, God probably sighs.

But, God also hopes, because he knows us better than we know ourselves. He knows that we can always paint our masterpiece. It’s always in us, just waiting to be revealed – shared – with the world. But here’s the important thing MacKenzie wants us to remember: there’s only one masterpiece like ours, and if we go to the grave without painting it, then the world will be short one more masterpiece.

And, if you ask me, the more masterpieces the merrier.

Have you painted your masterpiece?

What Would Cap-n-Crunch Say About This?

So the Pirates want a piece of us. They’re calling us out. Ready to slaughter anything American because they can “recognize” our flag. I’m overwhelmed by their brilliance. Saw a picture of these guys and they are skinny. I mean, blink-and-you’ll-miss-‘em skinny. To look at them, you’d think no wonder they’re attacking ships, they need food. Too bad the sad irony is that they’re attacking ships that are bringing food aid to areas in their region. But they have guns and rocket launchers so that makes them bad asses.

It’s been a pretty good run for them so far. Many of these unarmed ships have been easy pickings in the vast oceanic expanse. But now they’re calling us out. Even calling Obama out directly. We’ll see how he responds. He says, he will. I think he’s going to have to now that the buccaneers have decided to go after Americans specifically because of his vow to combat piracy.

I wonder where Johnny Depp stands on this whole issue.

There He Goes

There he goes. The man accused of being an accessory to the deaths of some
29,000 people while serving as a Guard in a Nazi Germany death camp. The man who claims he was a Ukrainian POW. The 89-year-old man on his way to Germany to await a trial he’ll probably never live to see. The man who yelled "I love you" in Ukrainian to his family as the US Government whisked him away from his suburban home outside of Cleveland, Ohio. The man who will take the truth to his grave no matter what happens. The man who can only be tried - truly - in front of God.

Metamorphistication

I'm happy to report that I have broken free of my creator. Just as Kilgore Trout was given freedom by his creator in Kurt Vonnegut's brilliant Breakfast of Champions, I too have been liberated. I have gained my freedom because I persevered. I offered to talk to the Alien but he wanted nothing to do with me. I slept in trunks and watched my best friend die. I saw my wife leave me for an Alien. And still, on special nights, I look for her. But I am free. I did not ask to be made young. I didn't even ask for my freedom. But I have it and I shall not ignore it.

Bad Bidniz

I came across this article about a baseball player who was traded for 10 bats - yes, I wrote that correctly . Many of you probably already heard of him. Being an Indians fan I don't know how many times I've heard, "trade him for a bag of balls," "a bag of peanuts," "get his ass out of here," anon. Well, poor John C. Odom was traded for 10 bats. Apparently, the trade for a slugger (not a Louisville Slugger, but a real breathing person) fell through, and his former team - the mighty Calgary Vipers of the independent Golden Baseball Leauge - turned down an offer of $1000 because they didn't want to appear to be in financially dire straits. So they traded him for bats. Yes, bats. At first he took the trade okay, did the interviews, laughed at the Batman jokes, etc. Fast forward six months later and he's dead of - among other things - a heroin overdose. A former manager, who genuinely seems to feel for the kid, wonders if the trade had anything to do with it, but says we can never be too sure. Really? I think we can.

And here's the problem with sports. It's not real anymore. I don't even know why we bother. With all the free agency, steroids, and salary figures that go beyond my comprehension, why not just watch video games. Is it because the game would no longer be about chance? I'm not so sure it is now.

The long and short of it is we - the fans - have lost touch with the reality of anything when we view it through a sports lens. We like to yell, scream, and ridicule. It's a great way to let out our own frustrations. It's also a great way to lose our self respect. In the meantime, the absurdly rich get exponentially richer (yes, Manny Ramirez just signed his two-year $45-million contract after rejecting a two-year $45-million contract), and we root for teams who somehow represent us and our fair cities. I'm trying not to throw up in my mouth as I write that. And somewhere, some kid dreams of being a professional ball player, and he is failing. And maybe he can handle it. And maybe he can't. And maybe he'll survive and move on to the next phase of his life, or maybe he'll become an alocholic, drug addict, abuser, or God knows what else.

The PS to this whole story. The team claims they did not trade him as a publicity stunt. If you believe that, you probably believe the Indians and Cubs will meet in the World Series this fall. The whole business of sports is a publicity stunt, and if you ask me, it stinks.

VOTE - FOR MY SAKE

Throughout my life I’ve made hundreds of rash decisions that have led me to where I am now. There’s no point to digging up the details of my past, but the point is I think I need outside advice. In the upper right hand corner of this page you will find a poll asking what I should do about my wife. Long story short is she’s been in contact with an Alien. She’s even gone so far as to say it visits us in our bed. At first I thought she was just…well…let’s just say I didn’t believe her. But she’s persistent and even more communicative with the Alien than ever before. So if you were I, what would you do? While this may seem like a joke – I wish it was – it isn’t. So please take the time and vote responsibly. My life literally depends on it. I’ll see how this works out for me, and if it goes well, maybe I’ll put more of my life choices to vote. Thanks for taking the time. Remember, making decisions for others is no joke. And, as always, please feel free to leave a comment - advice is welcome.

Mark Me

I’ve been silent for quite some time now and I’m fairly certain no one has noticed – judging by the fact that I have no new comments. The dust has settled on the play about me. I did see it one final time, and I realized that to most people, most specifically the playwright and director, my life is some kind of a joke. The first time I saw the play, I too laughed, but now as I consider things, I just wonder. What good is being done by the mocking of my life? I will take action. And, in fact, I may have begun to already do so. People will see. People will one day mark me just as Hamlet did the ghost of his father.

Last Call!

Well, it's the final weekend of the play about my life. Friday and Saturday are your last opportunities to get an up-close, intimate (albeit manufactured) peek into my life. There are some talks with various people of import that the show may find a new life down the road in some better weather conditions - I can say no more on that topic. But as we all know, nothing in life is guaranteed except for the end. And I see my train a coming. I do plan on being in attendance tonight, assuming I'm not called to secret, peacekeeping duties elsewhere. But the plan is to be there. Before then I will be making a guest appearance at an institute of higher learning where I will be stinging the bee.

However, during this sad occasion do note that I left you with a little gift, a picture of Britney from her Mouseketeer days. Do unto others as you would have them to do unto you, assuming of course we lived in a world where people cared about doing others.

FREE BEER!!

Need I say more?

Okay, it's tonight, Monday, January 26, at 7pm. Show up! Bring your thirst and your laugh to 540 E. 105 St.

A Call to Action

Being in the limelight is very tiring. So much so, it makes me want to take a vacation with JD Salinger. But watching the play has opened up some old wounds, and suddenly I have vengeance on my mind. I think I might be on the lookout for a certain pair of gentlemen who are in the business of recouping hamburger payments. No one does that to Mr. Cleveland Brown and gets away with it.

Back Atcha!

So I took the weekend off from the blog. I hope everyone's okay, and that my absence didn't dishearten you too much. I saw the play Friday. It was awesome. I think everyone should see it. I did speak with the writer afterwards and mention there are some things I would have done differently...but...hey...I can't fault him for not being Vince. Also, I liked the guy who played me a lot. I thought he did a great job. But he's not as good looking or as muscular as I am. But again, you can't fault him for not being Vince. Everyone did a great job and I think you should check it out, especially on Free Beer Monday, January 26th at 7pm. You might just see me there...

Breal a Leg, Ye Scottish Playas.

This is one of the reasons why theatre drives me crazy. Somehow that playwright got a hold of my phone number and called to see if I was coming to see his play about my life. “Uh, yeah, read my blog,” I said. Anyway, then I wish him good luck, seemed like the nice thing to do. Then the dude freaks out on me. “Good luck, Good luck, you’re supposed to say break a leg,” then he hangs up, and as far as I can tell took a bath in garlic and tomato juice. And theatre people wonder why the rest of the world thinks they are freaks. I suppose writers are especially…troubled. So anyway, break a leg. I’m closing in on Cleveland and the temperature is a beautiful

12 degrees BELOW zero

Don’t you wish you lived in Cleveland? After all, New York may be the Big Apple, but Cleveland’s a plum. Don’t lose sight of the left, right, left rule, especially in these trying times.

Welcome To Fantasy Island!

Tomorrow is Opening Night, and I got the jitters – but not for the reason you think. Yesterday, as a tribute to the late great Ricardo Montalban (<-- wiki entry), I took my Chrysler Cordoba with rich Corinthian leather for a ride, and, man, I just kept driving. And the whole time, I couldn’t stop thinking about my wife and this affair she’s having with the Alien. Then I started talking to myself out loud in an accent very similar to Ricardo’s, and before I knew it I had driven until I saw the sign you see here. And now I have no idea where I'm at. When I left, the temperature was a bone-snapping 2 degrees, and now I’m wiping the sweat from my brow as I look for an answer to all of life’s nagging questions, most notably: Why do I feel so lost?

Are You Experienced?

Here’s a flyer I found about the play. It’s kind of cool, but that's clearly not me in the picture. My hands are much more understanding. That’s the thing I hate about theatre. It’s not real. It’s just people acting like someone else. I mean, why didn’t they contact me to play the role of me? Can anyone possibly do a better job than I would? It’s not like acting is hard, right? Say some lines, walk around, change clothes. And why didn’t I just write the thing? I could have saved everybody a lot of time by just walking onstage and telling them what happened. If I don’t like this play, I’m going to stuff that playwright into a locker from whence he will never return. I wonder if Britney Spears is being played by Britney Spears or by an actress. I bet if Britney Spears were playing herself she’d be using a pseudonym. Remember, when the blizzard hits, your one true saving grace is Jimi Hendrix. Have you ever been to Electric Ladyland?

And Now We Know...

There it is. It looks innocent enough, doesn’t it? And it certainly does not look like a theatre. But, apparently, inside those walls is where the play THE BLOGGER will be produced. It’s being produced by Fourth Wall Productions and was written, as I suspected, by Greg Vovos. I never paid him much mind in high school. But that just goes to show you, just because you don’t pay someone much mind doesn’t mean their mind ain’t working much. You would think I would be upset about this, but I am not. If it brings people to my blog then God bless us everyone. Though I don’t attend any plays or things like that or donate money to museums or orchestras, I do support the arts – in theory. But I will go see this play. And review it. I have posted all the details, as I know ‘em, on the right side of my blog, just below my poll.

PS Please Keep Commenting and Voting!!

Shocking Poll Update

I'm amazed that as of now more of you voted that I choose Babe-A-Quer-Que over Britney. You do realize I'm talking about Britney Spears, right? Everyone has heard of Britney, I assume. The most mouskerific of all mousketeers! In case you haven't heard of her, I have provided some reference for you to the left of my blog. Don't worry though. I will not let my readers down.

Out Of This World

So I don't think I've told you this yet, but my wife is having an emotional affair...with an Alien. Apparently, she talks to him quite a bit. And on many occasions, I am the main topic. The Alien is worried about me, he's not happy with my choices or actions. And Pamela's doing everything in her power to try to help me find the light, but...alak. Last night she got out of bed at 3am, and walked outside into the cold winter moonlight, wearing only her nightgown. She was actually quite beautiful standing there with the moon reflecting off her and the snow. When she came back to bed I acted like I was asleep. Then she started to chant. When we woke up this morning she asked me if I ever had the urge to walk into the light. I kept chewing my Crunch Berries and acted like I didn't hear her. It is a loud cereal, after all. If there really is life in outer space, what could they possible see in us?

The Dangers of High School

I think I have isolated the individual who has taken a study of my personal life for his own selfish gain. I used to go to high school with him. I have a distinct memory of his wearing bright orange corduroy pants and being stuffed in a locker. He was the second shortest kid in a school of almost 2000 kids. But still he smiled. We never had any sort of relationship so I can't imagine why he has taken these actions. Once I am sure I will reveal his identity, but I am not one to put the carrot before the cart.

If one is unable to converse or share consciousness with their alter personalities, how can one ever be sure that he himself does or does not have multiple personalities?

Blizzard Conditions

I have reason to believe this is all going down in the town of my birth, which leads me to surmise that someone I know is behind all this. Of course, I could be wrong. This whole thing is kind of creepy, but on the same point, there's a part of me that really likes it. When up is down and down is up what is the middle?

Art Stealing Life?!

I have serious reason to believe that someone has written a play about my life, and that they will be producing it soon. I stumbled across this:

The Blogger
January 16th - January 31st
Vince decides to start a blog that takes him around the country while juggling a love triangle between his wife and Britney Spears in an exploration of self worth and creativity.

The details sound a helluva lot like my life. So either it's some kind of play or something, or some sicko is planning on broadcasting my life somehow, unbeknownst to me. The scary part is it ends on January 31. And then what? What about me? What happens?

Long Live The King

It was on this day in 1935 that King Elvis was born in Tupelo, MISS ISS IPP I. Some folks think he broke on through to the other side. I know better. I feel the desert sun of Vegas calling me on.

No, I'm alive.

There is only one real Vince. And I am he. The blogger extraordinaire. All the rest are cheap mimiographed, carbon copies, products of alien intervention, spousal imagings, and a fiscally irresponsible goverment. I am here. I am here. I can save us all... Has anyone ever wondered how that Billie Mays guy doesn't lose his voice?

I'M ALIVE!

Day One of my blog. I think people have been following me. With notepads. Trying to steal my life. I won't allow them. I'll steal my own life. Remember, take hold of yourself, you're the only one you got, besides others...if there are others. Watch for more Vince.