The Daily Fix

Ammo to shoot things with! After all, you’re not a New England Patriot unless you’re on the payroll, and you’re not on the payroll unless you’re one of two things:

1) An employee of the New England Patriots (r) Organization

2) A vicious imposter who is wearing the skin of Bill Belichick by night and a persian rug by day.

Yes, that’s me. You’ve heard of a naked man with that baseball cap and a handy camera having Leopold’s lunch and dandy too? I cannot profess to having heard of such an imposterer as he.

“Imposterer”: Webster’s diction canary defines “Imposterer” as “The second coming of ‘Akbar the Adulterer’ also known as a blue parrot with a shingle on its head that transmits radio waves at twelve tons of solid waste per second. Completely made up, fictional, not real, false, erroneous, concocted by government agents, sexy (but still a lie), and me no likey the touching of my inky palms to the cool wheaties box of your dank affection. The word of the day.”

So there we have it. The word of the day. Have fun, all you amateur imposterers out there!

Remember the time I tricked Chuck into thinking I had cancer? No? Well, it’s back there, in the archives. I’m sure you could find it. Remember when Chuck thought I was a lady? Well, that too is in the anals.

Yes, the anals. The annals are different. You see, I have devised a clever new way to remember history, involving a dedicated, non-hygiene-concerned tattoo artist, some leather straps, an ergonomic surgeon’s table, and most importantly, Xanax. Lots and lots of Xanax. I think it’s important that Xanax begins with an “x” and ends with an “x,” because otherwise I could not get away with taking them so copiously. “I might forget ‘x,’ the last letter in the alphabet, if only I do not take my Xanax,” I say to Nurse. Nurse is not a tolerant woman, oddly. Curse the Nurse! Lasterday she utilised a heavy quilt in entrapping me, whereupon this grievous incident I was injected in the buyttock with some foul medication. I immediately felt much stronger, and yet filled with an aggression and emptiness I had never known to be inside me. My nipples swelled to the size of grapes, and my testes shrank…

…Twelve months later, in Tucson, there was a grapefruit and then we all ate it. “Sistuh! Sistuh! Come quickly, Y’hear?” I cried, but the truck holding my stuffed animals was departing at speeds I used to think only I could travel at. I jumped on a wheel, went to Omaha City, where the grass was green and the girls were all terrible whores. There, I drunk a whiskey-barrel in three nights and blew a flying elephant from the sky with my trusty Smith & Wesson.

No, a watch. What’d you think? A gun? What? Everyone knows Smith & Wesson make watches and flashlights. In fact, I think I can recall their motto now: “Here at Smith & Wesson, if we do not make a flashlight or watch that suits you perfectly, we will arrive at your domicile with our world-reknowned firearms and shoot you ’til you’re dead!”

I wrote this using Excel.

Before you freak out, wonder: just how does a publishing company know I’m dead?

Because if you aren’t dead now, you will be. Later. Or sooner, depending on when you show up on their doorstep with all those illegally acquired publishing-comfits you stole. And the “Warpling & Schuster” racquetball team’s leotards (with tasteful logos).

Yes, the dangerous world of corporate theft. If you ever get shanghaiied by a crazed manager with a staplegun, remember that it’s all your fault there are now metal stapley thingies in your brain.
“But what if I got a brain staple by a surgeon, Maurice?”
THEN YOU’RE NOT TRYING HARD ENOUGH.

What can I say? Whose fault should it be, eh? Do you think the nice people at the Roomba Company (“need someone to help you operate your Roomba vacuuming robot because you’re elderly and thus incapable of manipulating ridiculously simple technology? Then fuck off!”) care about whether or not you’re getting crushed by a gigantic robotic vacuum? Well, you’ll find the answer when nobody comes to rescue you when you’re trapped inside of the dustbag.

How d’you think that’d read if it happened to Jane Goodall? “My Life Among The Dust-Bunnies”?
NO! SHE’D EAT ‘EM AND KILL EM BY GUM LIKE ANY OTHER GOOD AGRARIAN HUNTER-GATHERER

This blog post has been sponsored M.A.D.B., or Mothers Against Drunk Blogging.
See what happens, children! It comes out all funny and painful to read!
The blog too!

I didn’t know William F. Buckley (Jr.) and Jeff Buckley had so much in common! Like their last names! It’s like they came f- waiiiiiiiiiiit a second there cowboy. What if they did? They didn’t did they? DID THEY????? Oh, wait. That would be silly!

They’re both dead, too.

William F. Buckley (the younger) hated poor people, apparently. Well, that’s unfair. He was a Republican. So OF COURSE he hated poor people. Also, where was the outpouring of love and support for the Buckley family? Remember when Reagan died? Why didn’t people care like that?

Answer: Because Reagan had been legally a vegetable for about a decade before his “untimely” (Who the hell called his death “untimely,” again? What the hell? A cat could’ve beaten him in a wonderlic test! PARIS HILTON could’ve beaten him in a wonderlic test! And then after he was president, he only got dumber! Which is a completely and totally legitimate reason that he should have been dead.) death.

Oh yeah. I’ve been thinking, and I’ve decided to let her go. Now the only problem will be getting her out of the well. Precious didn’t sit so well on her.

In loving memory of the Republican party
1854-1865

Wage slavery, fools!

That Willie Nelson, always swimming in whiskey rivers. When will he learn? Probably never, looks like he’s drowning. Oh well; there are other country music stars to admonish. WAIT! Damn, he owed me money. Guess I’d bettergo swimmin’ and find it…

You know, kids? If I may take time out of my allotted space usually reserved for some type of obscenity in italics, I’d like to tell you something very important: alcohol’s bad. Very, very bad. Why, just the other day, Uncle Maurice inserted a stick of dynamite (damn you Nobel and your cursed invention!) into his rectum and lit it. Haven’t been the same ever since. Of course, that has absolutely nothing to do with licquor, but if everything did then we’d all be drunk.

There we go, flawless logic.