Opening Day

Lets go Reds!

Matty Rooney

I've decided that my excuse for having such out of control eyebrows is that I'm going to apply to be Andy Rooney when he dies. I figure that's what they'll do. Kind of like they do with the Flash. One dies, a new one takes his place. They'll probably pick the replacement Rooney by eyebrow size, so I think I have a good chance. I've already written my first segment. Here it is!

Why do we call driveways driveways when you park on em, and parkways parkways when you drive on em?

I don't like cars whose name starts with a C.

Corn on the cob can also be eaten off the cob, if someone takes it off the said cob. Isn't that silly?

Silly string is the freeze dried snot of a moose.

The plural of moose is meese.

Meese rhymes with crease, I don't fold my own sheets, I have a number of ten year old Malaysian boys to do it, but I do like a certain crease in them.

Bed sheets were invented by the ancient Egyptians. They were used to wrap mummies. Thread count means how many bodies could be wrapped in a single sheet.

If you use more than three sheets in one single butt wipe, a bunny dies of unnatural causes. SO conserve that TP!

I'm old.

Haiku

have no internet
posting on kindle a pain
post is short but sweet

Pictures

A year or so ago, my son Gabe was going through a phase where he was really, really interested in his penis. Actually, he's still going through this phase. The point is though, that a while back, every chance he would get, he'd put his hand down his pants and diaper. Or if he was naked for a bath, he'd just sort of flick it around.

I wasn't sure this was normal, so I asked my best buddy Glenn about it. Glenn doesn't have kids or anything, but I wondered if he had any insight.

"Dude." He said. "It's no big deal. Hell my mom has pictures of me totally nude, standing in the hall and just wacking it about."

Glenn stood and moved to a book shelf, pulling off a photo album. He flipped through it. "She took pictures." He held a picture out for me to see.

"Man, this doesn't help at all." I said.

"Why not?" Glenn asked

"You're sixteen in this picture."

A new thing for Fridays

I thought on Fridays I would start posting ongoing stories I've written or will write. I'm starting with a Mavel Fan Fic, a what if instead of modern day New York, the Marvel comic universe had been born in the Wild West. Enjoy!

Marvel 1878

1

Remy LeBeau had been playing cards at The Thunderbolt for ten minutes when trouble came looking for him. It almost always did, and it always found him. Remy wasn't quite twenty, with brown hair falling from beneath a bowler hat to his shoulders, and smoky round lenses hiding his unique eyes from view.

“Well I'll be damned.”

Tony Stark sat across from Remy, twice as old and a hundred times richer. Well, ninety-nine times richer now, as Remy tossed his cards to the dealer and scooped a pile of money from the center of the table to a position in front of him.

“Now, now, I warned you when you sat down.” Remy spoke, his Cajun accent thick and unmistakable. “You play wit' me, you ain't gonna leave with heavy pockets.” Remy smiled, his teeth dazzlingly white. “Dat goes to everyone at this here table, but I reckon you got the most to lose, Mr. Stark.”

“That I do, young man, That's why I'm always sure to leave some at home, otherwise my sporting nature is likely to get me into some trouble.”

The dealer dealt five cards each to Remy and Tony, and the other three men at their table, and they took turns wagering with cash, coins, and pocket watches. There was even an old six shooter thrown onto the table. Behind those glasses, Remy's eyes moved past Tony's shoulder, to two approaching men, both looked furious.

“Trouble is a comin'.”

Harry Osborn stopped at the table, standing behind Tony, but he only had eyes for Remy. He looked much like his father, his hair brown with flecks of red, though his was missing the grey at the temples.

“Baby Osborn.” Remy grinned.

“You got some brass ones, you son of a bitch.” Harry's voice was booming, causing the heads of the gamblers, drinkers, and whores alike. The man beside Harry was a Russian named Alek, who spoke much less than he broke bones. Harry continued, as Tony slid out of his way. “You come into my casino? When you owe me as much as you do.”

“Well two points, I think.” Remy answered. It's you daddies casino, and I don't owe you shit.” A few laughs emerged from the crowd.

“You stole money.”

“You lost money. I won it fair.”

“Bullshit. Who knows what tricks you have up them dirty Cajun sleeves.”

“I'll show you. Let me deal you in.” Remy picked up one of the cards from the table before him, and it starting glowing, a soft pink. He flicked the card forward, and it stuck into the heavy oak table by a corner.

“What the hell is this?” Harry laughed, looking over to Alek. As he did, the card, and in turn a large part of the table, exploded. The force and chunks of woods pushed Harry back and off his feet, and even the overgrown Alek had to take some steps back. Shrieks from the women, and a few of the men who would never live it down rang through the air as Remy was on his feet and pulling his long duster from the back of his chair and on. He picked up another card and this one was charged and thrown into the chest of Alek, who had been drawing his gun. The large man flew some feet back, crashing into a roulette table. Remy gathered as much money from the ruined table and stuffed it into his pocket.

“He's a mutie!” Someone yelled. “Send for the Sheriff!”

“Until next time, Mr. Stark.” Remy flashed that grin and turned to leave when a fist caught him in the jaw. More of Osbornes goons had shown up. Remy let himself fall, rolling with the punch and coming up next to a still seated Stark in a crouch. Stark drank liqueur from a glass.

“Nice eyes.” Tony laughed, and Remy realized his glasses had come off in the hit. His eyes were black where most were white, and his irises glowed with the same pink that the cards had. Grabbing the glass from Tony's hand, Remy charged it and threw it at his attacker, it exploded and sent him flying. With a last look to Tony, Remy turned and charged fro the front door, dodging fists and chairs, as the place had been turned into a full fledged brawl. Through the large swinging doors, and Remy was in the streets of Marvel City, Arizona, being pursued by a handful of men.

Sheriff Steve Rogers sat at his desk, his deputy on duty Clint stood at the door to one of the cells, passing a tray of food into a prisoner. Through the front door, a man burst. “Sheriff! A mutie down at The Thunderbolt is causing trouble! He attacked Harry!”


“Norman ain't gonna like that.” Clint spoke, reaching for his bow and quiver. He was a white man in his early twenties, but had spent some time among the Indians, which gave him an affinity for the bow and a tomahawk. “Want me to take care of it, Boss?”

“I'll ride along with you.” The Sheriff spoke, grabbing his hat from his desk as he stood. He wore a blue vest, his shining sheriffs star pinned on the chest. He slung his gun belt around his hips, and he and his deputy were out the door.

Remy crept along an alley, darting to and from wooden crates filled with some stinking mess. He was pretty sure he was alone, but wouldn't take any chances until he found a horse he could steal and get the hell out of downtown. Remy paused at a corner, took a deep breath and stepped around it. An arrow came from the darkness, whistling through the air and imbedding itself in the wall by his head. “Shit!” Remy cursed and threw himself forward in a roll, then he was up and running. He heard another high pitch whistle and dove forward, shielding his head with his hands. Remy rolled over twice and was up again, hurtling around another corner, and found himself skidding to a halt in front of the Sheriff. “Shit.” He said again.

“You the one causing trouble in my town?”

“I don't cause it, it finds me.”

“Well, I reckon you might want to get out of here, I ain't interested in taking you to the station and having a mob outside the door all damned night. So you just do me a favor and leave and don't come back.”

Remy didn't need to be told twice, he turned and was ready to run again when Sheriff Rogers grabbed his shoulder. “I wouldn't go that way. Hawkeye missed you twice, and he don't like missing.” He hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “Down there and take a left, straight shot
and stick to the shadows, then out over Grimms' farm. You leave his horses well alone, but I don't think he would mind if you grab corn.”

Remy opened his mouth to speak, but The Sheriff jabbed him with a finger in the ribs. “I know, I'm a swell guy. Get going.” Remy nodded and disappeared into the shadows.

“ I hate missing.” Hawkeye turned the corner, sliding his bow onto his back.”

“Well, I guess I owe you one.”

“Why'd you let him go?”

“I don't got nothing against em, but a lot of people do. Mutants I mean. I'd rather they just weren't here.”

Glenn Bio

My best friend Glenn asked me to write a bio of him for his bands website. (http://huntingagnes.com/  ) I wrote two up, one being super funny, and one being just funny. For whatever reason, they went with the funny one. So here's the super funny one.

Born to two circus performers (The Bearded Lady and a trapeze artist) in the mid eighties, Glenn Booth tired of the circus life by age nine. Packing up his treasured possessions (six Pogs, a battered and worn copy of bestselling memoir Eat, Pray, Love, and a chicken named Dave) Glenn left his parents and family and struck out for parts unknown. Piecing together the few bits of known fact with some wild conjecture, we can trace Glenn's path from the circus, to Hunting Agnes. Glenn met, early in his travels, Elvis, who had indeed faked his death, so he could have the freedom to shop in dingy flea markets in the south. Glenn came away from the brief friendship with a love of scarves, peanut butter and banana sandwiches, and a sequin jumpsuit six sizes too big. Dave didn't come away at all, unfortunately, having found himself in the greasy clutches of Elvis, where he was pulled apart and devoured. Inspired by the famous musician, Glenn decided to pursue a life of music, and he spent a few years mastering the guitar. Sadly, while walking down the street, Glenn tripped over his giant jumpsuit and hit his head, forgetting everything he had leaned about guitar. The blow to his head was so bad, Glenn found it impossible to re lean how to use six strings, and had to settle on the bass, with it's easier to comprehend four strings. Glenn made a quick name for himself as a bassist, playing behind some of the greatest singers and bands in the business. It's rumored he's the inspiration for such songs as 'You're so Vain', 'Hot For Teacher' (Which was originally titled Hot For Bassist), and ' I like Big Butts'. After yeas of working on his own, traveling to lend a bass line to those who needed it, Glenn yearned to have that family connection he had left so long ago at the circus, and found his brothers and a friend, and together they formed Hunting Agnes

Fashion

I wish I was a famous, super good looking, cooler than cool actor. Not for the money, or anything like that. I want to be all of that just so I can influence America's fashion choices. When Ashton Kutcher put on a trucker hat, the next day other famous actors were wearing one. A week alter, everyone in New York and LA had one. Two months later, everyone in the mid west had one. Eight months later everyone in Delaware had one. Delaware always gets on bandwagons late. It's because they don't have televisions there.

So if I was famous and awesome, and people would copy me, I'd take full advantage. I'd show up at some red carpet premier wearing a nice suit, expensive shoes, and a chef's hat. Just a big, white, extra floppy chef hat. It would spread like wildfire. Everyone would have a chef hat. Then when Delaware people finally started doing it, I'd stop, and switch to something else.

Like wearing complete scuba gear when I shopped for organic foods at some trendy grocery.

On a completely unrelated note, I just read a little blurb online about how the population of Detroit has shrunk 25%. I'm guessing the 25% were MURDERED.

Til next time.

Library

So here I am. Sitting in the Library so I can post this blog. What the hell has happened to me?  How did I end up like this? To be honest, when Kristi and I moved in to our apartment, we had every intention of getting some WiFi hooked up. Then I found Erma. I neighbor, to dumb to secure their WiFi with a password. jackpot. Then Erma got hip. A few months had passed, and the dreaded little lock appeared. I was devestated. Archdeacon came to the rescue. A new unlocked WiFi access. It worked wonderfully. I no longer even had to sit in Gabe's room, the laptop perched precariously on the window ledge to use it, as I had to with Erma. Then, Archdeacon was gone. Moved was my guess. But near the end of my relationship with Archdeacon, I had been cheating with Netspend22. And now, after a month or so of that brief affair, Netspend22 is gone.

So here I am. The public freakin' library. Have you ever seen the people who use public library Internet? If they're wearing shirts at all, they're either Nascar or baggy Stewie as Scarface. Mullets, gold teeth, unbent hat brims turned to the side with the stickers still on, old seventies band shirts. I'll tell you, never have I seen such harmony between white trash and ghetto fab. They've come together folks, uniting over the choice to spend their hard earned money (maybe hard earned, or collected from the government.)  bags of weed and sixteen 'rillos a day to smoke it with, instead of the internet.

And now, I'm one of them.

It's not the first time. When we had just moved in, before we were settled, I came over to check my email once. The woman behind me speant the whole time I was there loudly talking onto her cellphone about how the governtment had taken custody of her children because she refused to take some sort of anti depressant. Everyone could hear her, and she seemed not to care. I thought it was bad enough to have to go to the library to use the interent. Not for this woman. She needed you to know she was suicidal and an unfit mother too.

Pray for me.

Jetpack

I was reading an article a while back about how some scientists had made the most realistic sex doll robot yet. Like totally a robot you could put your weiner in. She had a moving  mouth, eyes, hair, boobies,and a robot vagina. (Robina?) The only question I have is what the hell happened to finding a cure for AIDS? Did I miss the memo that it had been cured? Oh no? Tons of people still have it? But now theres a robot they can bang?
 Great.

If scientist are going to use their giant brains on stuff that doesn't really help anyone where the hell is my jetpack? I want one. I'll take a jet pack even if it gives me AIDS. I'll take one even if it gives the people around me AIDS.

I would be hovering around, two feet off the ground since I'm afraid of heights,and some dude would walk up.

"Sweet jetpack" he would say.

"It's all right" I would reply, playing it cool.

The guy would raise a brow. "But what's that shit shooting out the bottom?"

"AIDS" I would answer while I jetted away.

Band Name

I came up with the best band name ever the other day.

You're welcome in advance

Vaguyna

Boom minds were just blown.

Have a good weekend everyone!

George Washington

Who the hell does George Washington think he is? I mean, how had was it to be the first president? Everyone would have thought you were doing pretty good, because thee was no one to compare you to. If Bush the second had been the first ever president, everyone would be a little nicer to him. We wouldn't have known he was such a giant screw up, because the awesomeness that was Clinton wouldn't have existed. Lincoln was cool too I guess.

Washington probably got to make up crap as he went along, which only makes his job easier. “Uh, I need a vacation, so uh the vice president is going to take over for a bit.”

“What the hell is a vice president?”

“Oh didn't I tell you? Yeah, uh I have a vice president, to help out.”

“Oh okay. Who is it? Ben Franklin? Einstein? Someone super qualified?”

“Yeah, uh my little brother Chet.”

“Chet Washington?”

“Yeah.”

“Didn't a horse kick him in the head as a kid.” (Incidentally, that's exactly what happened to W.)

“Well yeah, but I mean, this has been pretty easy so far, so I think he can handle it.”

Washington left for a couple weeks, Chet was in charge, and boom Vietnam War I.

Thanks for nothing you wooden toothed, powdered wig wearing bastard.

Cats

A bunch of homeless cats hang out by the dumpsters in the parking lot at work. They're not really annoying, but the ten or so people who feed them every freaking day are. Hey dipshits, if you want pets, take em home. I had a lady leave a giant cardboard box with a door cut into out there once for them to live in. Hell no, I threw that crap away. I throw the food they leave laying around away. Seriously, quit leaving trash in the side yard of a gas station. It's littering. Spoiler alert, these cats eat better than most household pets.

The other day at work a woman came in and asked if the cat guy had been there.

“The who?”

“The cat guy, he feeds the cats every night.”

“Lady, a million people fee those cats. We'd rather not have them there.” I replied. “I'm going to start punting them across the street to Burger King.”

“You're what?”

“I'm going to kick them across the street.” I said. With a smile, so she knew I was kidding. I was really planning on kicking them into the street.

“I don't find that funny. I love cats, and we're trying to take them to a shelter.” I should have known, I hadn't noticed her sweat shirt. It was pink. And covered in felt paw prints.

“What's stopping you?” I asked.

“We're letting them get know us.”

“Well stop. You people have been saying you're going to take them to a shelter since I stated working here. Instead you leave garbage I have to pick up. They don't need to know you. Pick em up, put em in your car and take them. You aren't trying to take them anywhere, you want to leave them here and feel like you're doing something to help. Except they're cats. Seriously, if people spent half the energy helping the homeless that you do on a bunch of mangy cats, the world would be a better place.”

The lady left. With her retreat, came my victory.

Creepy cat people – 0

Matt - 1

Drinking Story

Here's a fun story about the day my best friend Glenn got super super wasted.

We weren't long out of high school, and I still lived with my mom. (Hell I lived with my mom long after I graduated high school.) She was out of town or something, and I had a little get together. Glenn can throw them back, and he did. Eventually he crawled into the bathroom, and threw up. He was spent. He had no energy left to leave the bathroom, so he just laid down there, right at the foot of the toilet.

Glenn's girlfriend at the time had been with him, and came back into the living room, letting us now that Glenn was all but passed out, there in the bathroom. We wanted to laugh at him of course, and a large number of us gathered in the doorway.

Nick Bose wasn't a man to let someone in need go without help. He pushed his way through the group and into the bathroom. He assessed the situation. He knew what had to be done.

Bose knelt by Glenn, reaching out and pressing his fingertips to Glenn's shoulder.

“Glenn.” Bose said. I'm going to help you stand up, on the count of three.”

Glenn opened his eyes, his hand shout out and he gripped Bose's arm, pulling him down, their faces close.

“Bose.” Glenn replied, his voice dropping into a grim action movie star type.

“I can make it on two.”

Daylight Savings

Really, we still do daylight savings time? I hate daylight savings time. Here's a really simplified and short historical lesson. Daylight Savings time was created back in the day, when everyone was a farmer. Seriously, at one point in American history, 99.9 percent of people farmed. The other point one percent killed Indians. Anyways, it helped our agricultural folk to gain an hour of sunlight in summertime time, and naturally you had to take it back later.

NO ONE FU*KING FARMS ANYMORE.

Seriously, robots do it, I think.

I love when we gain the hour, everyone is stoked as hell. All day long, everyone tries to be the first to tell you, like they're the ones who decided to give everyone an extra hour of sleep.

“Hey Mike.”

“DONTFORGETTOSETYOURCLOCKSBACKWEGETANEXTRAHOURTONGIHT!”

“Uh, yeah, I saw that. Thanks.”

But compare that to the day we set em forward before we go to bed. It's like everyone's dog died or something. Everyone walks around with their heads bowed, on the verge of tears. No one wants to be the one to tell anyone else.

When I heard on Saturday that we we're losing an hour, I saw red. I seriously got pissed. I almost punched a co workers face off when she told me. I could have torn a city block down with my bare hands. I'm still mad about it. I want to go onto my roof and shout at the moon. And then I want to punch the moon's face off.

Retail Love

I couldn't stand to be an attractive young girl in a retail situation. I've worked a lot of retail, and every girl I know has horror stories about being creepily hit on. Hell, I'm a chubby nerd, and I used to get hit on by middle aged women. Then Twilight came out. I guess I'm not much of an Edward or Jacob. Hell, I'm team cupcakes.

At the convenience store/ gas station that I work now, there's a black girl named Jessica. She's cute, and is constantly being hit on. One guy just stared at her for a while. Just a creepy white dude in his late forties. Standing at her register, looking at her. Finally, Jessica asked “Can I help you with anything?”

“I came in, saw you, and forgot what I came in for.” Creepo replied.

I laughed. Really? An attractive woman made you completely forget what you had come in to buy? You can see attractive women literally every whee you go. Except Kentucky. See, he must have been from Kentucky. It all fits now. But seriously, a good looking girl makes you forget what you wanted? I would have to go up to a checkout and see a freakin' leprechaun manning the register to forget what I wanted.

“Holy crap.” I would say. “It's a leprechaun. I cannot even remember what I came in to buy.”

“I will take these Lucky Charms though.”

Another guy came in and was hitting on Jessica, trying to get her to come out on his motorcycle with him. He was middle aged, fat, with a long beard and a bandanna. Not exactly what a young African American girl is interested, I imagine. Jessica kindly turns him down, the man accepts defeat, and pulls out his wallet to pay for his items.

His wallet was adorned with a rebel flag.

A REBEL FLAG

No one owns a rebel flag adorned anything without having at least ten times referred to black people with the N word. You do not get to pick and choose if you're a racists. You can't only like the pretty ones, people.

Dolphins

My girlfriend Kristi went swimming with dolphins once with her family in Florida. Before you go into the water, someone speaks to you about what to expect, and rules and the such. They tell you, along with 'No riding the dolphins', 'No bringing ham to feed the dolphins', and all that junk, that you are absolutely, under no circumstances, to touch the dolphins on their undersides.

BECAUSE THE DOLPHINS WILL GO MAD WITH LUST.

AND RAPE YOU.

Seriously, it's true. Dolphins are like the Ben Roethlisberger's of the ocean. Touch them any where near their little dolphin junk, and they'll dive to the ocean floor, only to return with a mixed drink with seven different date rape drugs in it.

I want to know why they even need to tell you not to touch the dolphin's dicks. Seriously. Who was the guy sitting in the little pool, rubbing a dolphins back, who thought, “This is boring, I'm going to give this dolphin a handy.” Turns out dolphins are like most men, a hand is nice, but an orifice is much better. Might as well try for it.

My cousin Kevin and his wife Mary went to a zoo one time where you could swim with dolphins. When they came back, Mary was ecstatic. “Fantastic!” She replied, when asked how the swimming with dolphins was. Kevin was more subdued. “Kevin, did you have a good time?” Someone asked. “I don't want to talk about it.” Replied Kevin, before running to his room and slamming the door shut.

To this day, if you sneak up behind Kevin and make a dolphin sound, he'll burst in to tears and start rocking in a fetal position.

A Morning With Andy Rooney

Andy Rooney opened his eyes, with a considerable amount of effort. For one thing, Andy Rooney is old as hell. For another, Andy Rooney's massive eye brows collapse upon their own weight and onto his eyes in the middle of the night. Andy had to actually use his fingers to push the wiry thick strands of brow back into their original position. Then he sat up.

Andy Rooney slept naked, and ate breakfast naked. It made his housekeeper very uncomfortable. As well as his visiting niece and her seven year old daughter.

Andy bathed in buttermilk, and stood with a horse hair towel wrapped around his waist in front of his mirror. He mumbled to himself.

“Mirrors are strange things. They show your reflection, but not that of a vampire. We didn't even have a mirror in my house until I was fourteen. Which of course is now seventeen.”

Ready to run errands, Andy backed his car out of the garage. He of course killed two pedestrians, six cats and a squirrel. Andy walked to the local market after wrapping his car around a telephone (“ I don't like phones. It's much nicer to beam thoughts directly to a persons mind via Edison's Thought O Matic”) pole six blocks away from his house.

Andy pushed a shopping cart along the produce aisle. He drew many odd looks, mainly because he still only wore the horse hair towel, but also because one of his eyes brows had shifted, and now appeared to be eating the other.

Andy lifted an orange in each hand. He spoke out loud. “Nothing rhymes with orange, but I think there's a strong case to say that porridge does.”

“Uh, okay.” Said a near by stockboy.

“Oranges contain a trace amount of lead. I don't enjoy lead in my fruit, so I mainly stick to apples.”

The stockboy turned and headed for the back room.

With a cart full of Granny Smith Apples and two cardboard displays that weren't for sale, Andy made his way to the register.

He presented a gold doubloon to the check out lady. “American Money is too green. The color green has been proven to cause irritable bowel syndrome.”

Andy was refused service and thus made the trek home alone and on foot.

“Feet are funny things, you don't know they're there until you look down. I like cheese that's yellow, but not white. When Africa was first founded, A Hyena was president.”

Drumroll please....

Here it is. Multiple people have asked me to start a blog over the years, and I've finally done it, now that everyone cares more about twitter. Hey I totally have a twitter, though I haven't been on it in like, a billion years.

So, what can you expect here? A lot of laughs, maybe a few short stories (which are short on laughs, but tough turds.)  and maybe, just maybe, I can make you a better person. Because seriously, you're kind of a jerk.

I've had this strange fantasy that I can't stop thinking about over the last few weeks. What if while people slept, their facial hair left their faces, and raised hell around town? Beards, 'staches, goatees, even a few girl mustaches. Little punk ass teenage mustaches, barely more than a few wisps of darkened hair.

My DM at the gas station I work at is named Lamar. Lamar has a faboulous mustache. Seriously, no joke, the thing is magnificant. His mustache is so freakin' rocking that it has a mustache. Seriously, his 'stache has a smaller, even ass kicking-er 'stache. Lamar's mustache (which I've named, obviously, Ramal.) rides a tiny motorcycle around at night. Ramal's mustache rides in the side car. They cruise around, drinking beers, getting into fights, and being awesome.

A co-worker asked what Lamar had said to me once, after I made my way back to the register. I told her I didn't know, because Ramal was whispering threats to me the whole time. Ramal told me he was going to knock the crap out of me one night when I'm leaving and in the parking lot.

I believe him.