Archive for June, 2011


In my ongoing quest to become rich, I recently began preparing my memoirs. Only the richest, most influential people write memoirs – or get them published, I should say. Otherwise every two-bit Jimmy and Jane on the block would be pumping the market full of balloon juice. Beginning this project now will leave me more time to enjoy being rich later. I would assume the full volume will hit the shelves anywhere within the next three to seven years, or whenever it is that I accomplish the remarkable feat that, still unbeknownst to me at this time, will make me an extremely rich person. Let’s just poke our nose in on a random chapter and see what’s cookin’.


….”And so I said to her, that wasn’t a ferret!” Oh, hello. Didn’t see you there. I was just telling a hilarious anecdote to some friends. Anyways, this seems like a good part of the memoir to reveal a major character-shaping event in my life that led me to become who I am today. As we all know, I spent the summer of ’03 working as a “butter melter” under the employ of my uncle Bruce at a dairy plant in a small agrarian town in Minnesota. I spent all day sliding 50 pound blocks of butter into a 250 degree vat where it eventually melted. Not so long after beginning there, the time came for my forklift training. This consisted of me sitting on a forklift in a room full of wooden pallets, and a guy named Fuzzy telling me to “move them around until you’ve got the hang of it.” And so I did. Not soon after, disaster struck. While lifting a stack of pallets, I inadvertently caught the edge of an electrical box on the wall and ripped it out of its moorings. Luckily the training that I had just given myself allowed me to deftly maneuver a bunch of pallets in front of the box to hide it. I just assumed that time would pass and it would go unnoticed. How right I was, for a little bit.

Weeks later, while walking the grounds with uncle Bruce and some guy with a moustache, I don’t recall his name because everyone there but me had a moustache, we came across the box, just hanging there. Someone had exposed it, not knowing that I was hiding a terrible secret in the rotten jungle of pallets. Anyways, Bruce was all like “Who did this?” And the guy with the moustache was all like, “It was probably that idiot Stanley.” Stanley, by the way, was some guy with one eye who never showered. Now, keep in mind that in the butter melting profession, you are covered in butter and sweat for eight to twelve hours a day. So if you don’t shower, things get sour. I thought to myself, “Nice, they’ll just pin the blame on this stinky one-eyed guy.” And it turns out I was right.

Therein lies the lesson for this portion of the memoir: always have a weird looking person that you can project blame onto. And in this case, I didn’t even have to do the blaming, other people did it for me. So there’s another lesson. Just kind of hang out in the background and let other people battle it out. That’s what the Swiss do. And Switzerland also happens to be one of the wealthiest countries in the world.

Thus concludes this portion of the memoir.

By the way, I don’t think that electrical box was actually hooked up to anything, so no one got in any real trouble anyways.

Here’s the Blong (Blog Song) of the day. Junior Kimbrough – Done Got Old. Dirty, filthy, nasty blues.


Here are my ideas so far:

-Walk naked through the outfield during a Twins game. You see, generations of streakers have the formula wrong. When you’re running, you give off the impression that you are doing something illegal. But if I hop out of the bleachers out there in left field, naked as a newborn, and confidently strut through the assembly of players all the way over to the stands behind the first-base line, people will just assume that I’m supposed to be there. I might use a flesh-colored body suit à la George Costanza. That is still up for debate.

-Walk naked through a Fourth of July Parade. Again with the nudity, right? Well, as I saunter along with the floats and bands and what-not, eventually the shocked crowd will come to realize that my nakedness is a metaphor for the birth of America. You see, back in ’76, 1776 that is, what was this great nation other than a naked baby? It came shooting out of The Mother of Modern Society, out into the world, covered in the disgusting viscera of afterbirth, ready to take on whatever Earth decided to throw at it. To arrest me for paying tribute to that would be nothing less than treason.

-Tube down the Root River in Lanesboro without clothing. The last two years I’ve done it, I have slathered myself in ridiculous amounts of sunscreen, only to emerge from the water looking like a freaking apple. Might as well try to achieve a uniform burn all over instead of having unsightly tan lines.

-Compose an entire Blog post in the nude. Check that off the list right now. This summer is already looking up.

-Maybe try to get a higher paying job so I can buy more clothes.

Well, it looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me. Here’s the Blong. Some of that laid-back killer Cali hip-hop. Ugly Duckling – Left Behind.

Ol’ Man Sits In A Rocking Chair And Tells It Like It Is

Hi there, America. If I could, please allow me to take off my Shlog pants, slip into my relaxed-fit, no-nonsense “What has happened to this country” trousers and ease into my old rocking chair out there on the front porch. Ooooh yeah, that’s the stuff. Now, America’s values are in trouble my friends! Time was, a man could head down to the town square, beat the feces out of a draft-dodging, free-thinking hippie doper and be home in time to tuck in junior, who, by the way, has been cruisin’ for a bruisin’ himself listenin’ to this rock’n’roll music. Down what perilous path is this land of the free traveling? I didn’t lose an arm in ‘Nam to live like this. In fact, my severed limb is probably still rotting at the bottom of that rice paddy, being nibbled on by communist amphibians. And for what? In days of yore, if I wanted to kick the teeth out of some lousy beatnik at a WWII ticker-tape parade, all I had to do was bend over, lace up my boots, and go to town. The times have changed. For the worse, I might add. I didn’t raise six kids during the Great Depression just so I could say that I did. Which I did. Now we’ve got this Elvis Presley character shakin’ his weener around on live television. How am I supposed to explain that to my grandkids? If I tried to pull that garbage in a foxhole in Korea, believe you me we’d all be eating sushi and bamboo out of tin cans at this very moment. Now I’ve got these neighbor kids, listening to their jazz music at all hours, when I just want an honest night’s sleep. I spent the duration of the Coolidge administration shining shoes down on lower 43rd street, and all these kids can do is play Intendo and Sexbox. My old man would have brought me out to the pole barn and taken a switch to my behind, if he wasn’t still out there in the U.S.S.R. laying the beat-down on commies. Hell, even the sun was better in the 40’s, if you ask me. Just hangin’ around up there, not bothering anyone. Now you’ve got the spawn of the few remaining hippie laggards that I didn’t beat the crap out of back in ’68, talking about “UV rays” and “melting ice caps!” You think that’s the sun’s fault, you little Stalin-worshipper? The only reason the sun is burning your precious skin and melting the world’s ice is because you’ve been touching yourself at night! I didn’t spend four years as a POW in Germany to be bombarded with such ignorance! If I had complained about the sun when I was working 16 hour days on my grandpa’s farm after we closed out WWI I would have had my mouth washed out with soap, and then dear grandpappy would have slapped me for not thanking him for sparing a ration of suds! Did I even mention how I busted my sack raising eight kids while Kennedy was busy running this country straight into the ground? And on top of that, we’ve got flappers going wild in the streets, revealing their petticoats! Barf! Did I just say barf? I will not have modern society sully my way of speak! I am off to wash my own mouth out with hand-crafted pumice. After that, I’ll be back out in this rocking chair, tellin’ it like it is.

Just to show you what these young vagrants have been up to, here’s an internet video of my friend Little Braddy singing “Crank Dat” by Soulja Boy.

Eskimo Spy

*Eskimo Spy was a classmate of mine. He wants to be a “buzzworthy music producer.” And I just want to get rich. So I wrote this. If you like it send me lots and lots of money.

Q – What kind of music would you get if Richard D. James of Aphex Twin fame had a sex-change, got impregnated by a race of aliens from the galaxy of Glarknoid, and gave birth to a baby who loves to synthesize?

A – There would be no way of knowing, because Glarknoidian creed dictates that any surrogate host of a fetus be discarded of immediately after harvest, with the offspring being whisped away to be educated and raised exclusively in Glarknoid culture. In addition to that, the human bank of knowledge on Glarknoidian scales and music theory is vague at best, which would cause any semblance of a tune to fall on uncomprehending ears.

Q – What if the first question was posed again, only this time the fetus was absconded with and kept here on Earth? Then the Daft Punk duo came along and adopted, loved, and raised it?

A – Again, there would be no way of knowing, because the Glarknoidians have travelled many light years to find a human uterus worthy of housing their progeny, and if their seed is tampered with, their superior musk-tracking skills will come into play, find and take their baby, and destroy mankind as punishment.

Enter Eskimo Spy. He is 100% Earthling, and has never lived in Richard D. James’ uterus. But please believe he would love to one day. No one is quite sure how long he has been spying on Eskimos. Or is he an Eskimo, spying on us? That has never been made clear. What is clear is that he’ll employ a sinister abundance of twisted synths to eat your cerebral cortex away from the inside out, only to exit peacefully, with everything somehow feeling refreshed and fertilized after the fact. Kinda like what a worm does. When he’s feeling particularly saucy, he’ll even take some bass, and make it ripple and shake, like a tectonic plate. Pepper some drums over that. Then listen. Click the links below to hear for yourself, because you never know when those Glarknoidians are going to descend upon us once again, perhaps this time targeting Eskimo Spy himself.

And here’s the Blong (Blog Song). It’s obviously Eskimo Spy.


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I Could Probably Write For “Yachting” Magazine If I Really Wanted To

Since this Blog is very quickly turning into my personal quest to become rich, I went ahead and came up with another idea. I was thumbing through a copy of Yachting, a magazine about boats that rich people utilize to vacation in exotic locales, cheat on their wives, and, this is just a guess, urinate into the ocean from. It features articles written by richer-than-thou men of status talking about Italian-craftsmanship-this, I-winter-in-such-an-exclusive-location-I-can’t-say-the-name-that. This is just another guess, but these guys are probably getting paid pretty good to write these fancy-pants critiques. So I prepared a fictional review to send into the magazine to show them I belong in their ranks, but upon finishing I went to their website only to find that you can’t even get their email address without subscribing to their magazine (the copy I had been originally reading was inaccessible by this point). That, my friends, is a true rich move. So if any of you have connections at that fine periodical, please pass this along.

Symphony of the Seas

I recently had the privilege of setting sail upon what is sure to be this season’s most opulent seafaring vessel – The Symphony of the Seas. Crafted by a reclusive Scandanavian poet-warlord who only emerges from his enigmatic fjord domain once every nine years, Symphony left me speechless. The ship boasts a 10,000 gallon fuel tank, allowing for a liberating travel distance of up to 200 miles before a refill is needed. The sun deck provides ample room for you and your guests to drink scotch and discuss the pressing issues of today’s society, such as illegal immigration, while the three undocumented aliens that come standard with each Symphony clean the hooker blood from the bunks below. Speaking of bunks, Symphony has the largest dwellings of any yacht on the water today. The three bedrooms – each with a private bathroom complete with seperate hooker boudoir – all measure in at an astonishing 500 square feet; unprecedented in the world of yachting – until now. The engine room comes equipped with a dog kennel for the migrant workers to share. The pièce de résistance, though, has to be the fully operational “hooker cannon”, stationed midship. When a hooker’s antics have gotten old, or it say, passes out or “dies”, you will undoubtedly wish it to be gone. Unfortunately, this is one of life’s few problems that won’t go away when it is pelted with a stack of hundred dollar bills. Fortunately, though, it is a problem that free immigrant labor can solve. Simply have one of your confused illegals stuff the body into the canon’s chamber and pull the lever. Now freshen your drink, kick back, and watch that baby fly in a beautiful arc of evidence-erasing flight into the horizon, never to be seen or heard from again. Needless to say, this ceremony is at its most awe-inspiring in the waning crepuscular light. Is this not why we have become rich, ostentatious yacht-owners in the first place? We are the precious few who are able to experience first-hand the joys of promising desperate foreigners 20 cents an hour to clean up bodily fluids for the duration of a three week pleasure-fest, only to have them deported without pay when the voyage is done. Symphony of the Seas provides the perfect backdrop for this debauchery of the high seas to take place. Vivant la bonne!


Here’s the Blong. Black Keys – Goodbye Babylon.

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