skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Wednesday, 31 March
Searching For Answers
Some of you may have been wondering where I've been keeping myself. Well, the truth is, I've been doing hard research. Hanging out at Yahoo! Answers, I've been tracking trends among question topics, and the findings are . . . well, they're strange. Y!A has recently seen an uptick in questions regarding zombies, monkeys, pirates and extreme violence. My initial thesis so far: Obama's presidency has unleashed an outbreak of insanity on society. Also, zombies. What follows are representative examples of these trends.
Zombie Temp Has No Brains
So since the zombie apocalypse hit, I've been having problems with our most recently hired temp Theresa. I'm the IT guy in our office, and I'm a little stumped as to what to do. Theresa has moved from being a pretty steady data entry gal into being a gurgling zombie who shouts for BRAINS! and has taken to hitting and shaking her monitor and eating her surrounding cubemates. I mean, she really beats the hell out of those monitors. Is this going to invalidate the warranties? They're Dells and I'm in Wichita if it makes any difference. Thanks!
Helper Monkey NOT HELPING
Long shot, probably. Does anyone have any experience with helper monkeys? I'm a quadriplegic, and I rely on my little guy to help me out with everyday tasks like steaming the couch cushions, grooming my proud golden beard and light typing. Lately, though, Carl has started to SEND BANANAS IMMEDIATELY TO BARRY SCHULTZ, C/O CARL, 187 BEARDO PLACE, WICHITA, KANSAS 67276 and it's starting to drive me nuts. I've tried having close relatives beat him savagely, but it always just ends up with bared fangs and hurt feelings. Any ideas appreciated.
Last week on the ESPN show "Pardon The Interruption," zombie Tony Kornheiser ate the face of his co-host Michael Wilbon. As Wilbon screamed haplessly and flapped his arms comically while Kornheiser devoured the flesh from his skull, I idly wondered if Michael Wilbon was considered kosher. I am not Jewish, so I'm pretty ignorant of the details. It is, however, my understanding that Michael Wilbon is part hyrax, which complicates matters somewhat. Anyone? Wikipedia is unclear, except for the hyrax part.
That's what I screamed when a crocodile ate both of my hands. (Don't ask.) A pirate by trade, I find myself having to consider new job avenues now that I have hooks for hands. I've recently begun performing massage therapy, and my clients seem to appreciate the deep pressure I'm able to apply with the rounded backsides of my iron hooks. Now here's the issues. I tore one guy up pretty good when my mind wandered and I forgot to invert my hooks; I'm now being convicted of manslaughter. Like I needed that. The other complication is that every now and then I've inadvertently killed several back-spasming faeries with the touch of my cold iron hooks. There's a whole stack of them in the basement, and it's beginning to be awkward explaining the gently glowing pile of dead mythological creatures to my wife. Have any hook-handed ex-pirate masseurs experienced similar issues?
So! Last month I was visiting Wichita and I went to a bar (don't remember the name . . . I think there was an ampersand in it) and was served an incredible cocktail and I can't find it anywhere else! It's killing me! I remember that the bartender called it Pat Morita's Hydraulic Arm, and it was some mixture of rye whiskey, cat dander, bitters and human hair. I've tried making it at home with some limited success, but my cat now just hides all day and my girlfriend is pretty pissed off at me for shaving her head in the middle of the night and she's bald. I can always scam some dander from the local kennels, but the human hair thing is a sticking point. So here's my question: does anyone have Sam Waterston trapped in their basement dungeon? I'd be willing to offer fair market price for the guy so I could farm his eyebrows on a regular basis. I hope this isn't a misuse of Yahoo, but I'm getting desperate. (I know, you are unable to provide legal guidance in this matter, nor are you a Saw-like murderous captor.)
The other night I was sitting home as usual watching "Hoarders" while the familiar noises of my neighbors' corpses being eaten by the living dead came through the walls. Whatever, Tuesdays. Anyway, at some point a familiar dull thudding came at my door. But instead of the usual guttural cries of "BRAAAAIIIINS!" I heard the lifeless chant of "CAAAARROOOOT CAAAAAAKE!" WTF? So I spent a few minutes removing the nailed-on boards that I'd been using as a barricade and opened the door to behold a typical-looking zombie. "CAAAAARROOOOOT CAAAAAKE!" he moaned, holding his arms out in front of him, etc. He smelled awful, but with a hint of holiday spices. "I don't have any carrot cake," I said. "I might have some bialys." He didn't respond for a moment, but then slumped and dropped his arms. It was kind of sad. Anyway, my question is, has anyone else seen this guy? The reason I ask is, Albertson's actually has some carrot cake, and I figured he'd dig that (and the staff is all dead), so if anyone has encountered this fellow, let me know--I have coupons. My throwaway email is firstname.lastname@example.org. Oh, and this was in Wichita.
Wednesday, 17 May
The DaVinci Team
[A baseball field. The midday sun glints gorgeously off of all the stuff. RON HOWARD, the coach, calls to his loyal fantasy baseball team, which weirdly, all happen to be Skot's players.]
Howard: Guys! Gather round! Come on over here and take a knee!
Mark Teixeira: Oh boy! Time for sandwiches!
Howard: No sandwiches for you, Tex! .288? Please.
Teixeira: Aw. (Teixeira angrily clubs Geoff Jenkins to death with his bat.) SANDWICHES! FOR ME!
Andruw Jones: Gross, man. Who's that guy that Big Tex just killed?
Nick Swisher: Some guy. He played for the Brewers.
(Everyone loses interest.)
Howard: Settle down, everyone. Listen up. So we've got our work cut out for us today. Now, I know. I've never had any kind of genuine success in this league, subjectively or objectively. In fact, it's fair to say that everything I've ever come into contact with--coached, or directed, if you will--has been a complete disaster.
(GARRET ANDERSON begins to moan softly and caresses his back. Presently, he falls back into an attitude of agony, not unlike an American Pieta. RAFAEL FURCAL flits about like a hummingbird, annoying JOSH BECKETT, who swats at Furcal violently.)
Beckett: Get away from me, you Christless little choad.
Howard: Listen up! I'm not finished. Look, we've got a real challenge today. Which is why I've brought in our new hitting coach. You guys all know Dan Brown.
(Cut to DAN BROWN. He is fucking three cyborg whores on a giant pile of money and wearing a t-shirt that reads CROTCH ENTHUSIAST.)
Brown: Whooooopeeeeeee! Ungh! Ungh!
(Cut back to Howard.)
Howard: But he couldn't be here today. I'd also like to introduce our new pitching coach, the Vitruvian Man.
Vitruvian Man: Hey, guys.
All: Hey, Vitruvian Man.
Vitruvian Man: Listen up, guys. The key to success tonight is this: I need you starters and closers to grow a new set of arms. You're not going to get it done with just two arms. I'm telling you.
MARIANO RIVERA: I get new arms every year from Mr. Steinbrenner. He grows them in vats!
Howard: That's swell.
Beckett: I'm not growing any new fucking arms. You guys can all eat a barrel of dicks.
CHRIS REITSMA: (Miserably) I had to eat two barrels last weekend. That was a lot of dick gristle. (He begins crying softly.)
Teixeira: So, we . . . I guess we don't get sandwiches.
Thursday, 23 January
Fond Recollections of Ingesting Terrible Things
As a kid, I would waste my allowance on the usual dumb things: comic books and candy. My parents hated this, of course, because I suppose they were following the "it'll teach him fiscal responsibility" model, but naturally I learned nothing. Well, nothing except, "One day a week I can gorge myself on sweets while reading trash, and the other six I can spend desperately waiting for that one day." Some favorites:
Good 'N Plenty: These are of course neither. They look like circus medicine, come about nine and a half to the box, and taste vaguely licoricey. There was just one enormous batch made in 1933, and none since. It's okay, there's still a lot left. These however, did allow me to discover:
Good 'N Fruity: Which are marginally less terrible than its cousin, but still a big lie all the same. These are to fruit flavor as Edie Brickell is to songcraft. There's just no relationship. The name is also clearly a not-too-sly bit of agenda-pushing by the Homosexual Ruling Elite.
Spree: What the hell were these things? Spree? Packaged in a long silvery cylinder to boot, it looked like something John Travolta might have pulled from the front of his jeans. Were all the candy marketers trying to tell me something? These were horse-choking lozenge thingies that used the common dirty trick of coming in many colors yet all tasting identical. Which is to say: like lost, dusty dreams. They wanted to be good, but some flavor vampire had gotten to them first.
Necco Wafers: Paper-thin discs of varying wan colors dusted with what might have been dioxin, these Luddites of the candy world eschewed everything. Flavor, texture, appearance, a coherent reason for existence: Necco had none of these. More imaginative parents might have used them as punishment. "I'm sorry I broke the TV, Dad." "You're going to eat one whole roll of Necco Wafers, young man." "I'm going to call Child Services." "You want to try for two, buster?"
Wonka's Bottle Caps: Roald Dahl should be proud of Wonka Candies, because they clearly have the same vicious streak of hilarious misanthropy that his writing does. Vaguely soda-flavored anthropomorphized bottle caps? Uh . . . yum. Or as my geek friends might put it, !yum.
Wonka's Everlasting Gobstopper: Another fiendish Wonka creation, popular only with the most dysfunctional of children. Autistics probably dream of these things, and would probably explain a lot of their behavior. "Why doesn't my child want me to touch or hold him? Why does he hurt himself?" Answer: he is not getting any Everlasting Gobstoppers. A fist-sized sphere that tastes like sweetened sadness, but the longer you suck on it, it changes colors. Seriously. Who gives a fuck? It's in your mouth. So you have to take it out to get the effect. That's adorable; something that encourages children to spit out their food and show it to others.
So the question is, why did I eat these terrible things? They all looked like something out of a Bosch painting, and their taste may be described as what you'd imagine a Vice President would taste like. It's not like I tortured my other senses; comic books can be aesthetically pleasing, and I certainly wasn't enjoying the rather Hadean reek of our cafeteria. So why was I putting these disgusting things in my mouth all the time? It's a question I'm going to ponder over a cigarette.