I’m so angry, I can’t drink my tea
Got a personalized email the other day from BAAM, which, as it turns out, is the British Association of Anger Management. I don’t know what they want with me, exactly. I suppose when I get really peeved and start ranting, I do sound a bit like John Cleese. It’s bloody hilarious.
Dreams are funny
The other night I had a dream in which I was laughing so hard at one of my own jokes, I couldn’t even walk, and my mirth was so boisterous, it actually woke me up. Once I was awake, I still couldn’t stop tittering over it. Of course later, in the light of day, the joke didn’t seem all that funny. It involved a quip about a Winnie-the-Pooh book, but that’s as much as I’ll say about THAT. Wouldn’t want you to think I’m weird or something.
Why you crine?
The bulk of the people who wrote me last week in reference to a column I wrote about my romantic feelings for the newspaper’s press machine reported that they actually wept when they read it. That’s touching. You know, that’s always been part of my plan here at the paper. If you can’t make ’em vomit, make ’em blubber.
Don’t stop the press
You know, when I say “romantic feelings for the newspaper’s press machine,” I don’t mean it THAT way. We’re just friends, the press and I. GOOD friends. Wouldn’t want you to think I’m weird or something.
In a land called Honalee
So, a dragon and a bright pink unicorn are walking up Lisbon Street, right? That’s not the start of a joke, it really happened. I swear it did, and I hadn’t been in one of the pot shops before I spotted them, either. It was Wednesday afternoon. The dragon and unicorn were stumbling up Lisbon toward Main Street and each seemed to be walking with great difficulty. Maybe THEY had been in one of the pot shops, eh? I circled the block a few times and I deduced a few things. The dragon, as it turns out, was inflatable, so there’s no reason to fear a citywide rampage. The unicorn I believe was real, but how much damage could THAT thing cause?
Puffed out
Dang it, that whole rant reminded me of “Puff the Magic Dragon,” which always bums me out, so I’m done for the day. I mean, would it kill Jackie Paper to visit his old friend once a week? Maybe send a card or something? Selfish punk.
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