I altered Teatro Triste del Clown so that anyone can make comments. Go to town, my sisters and brothers.
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Chickenlegs Reprints 

What follows are reprints of all the things I wrote at Chickenlegs.net before it died. The last of my posts - January 25, 2003, I think - was the last post that ever appeared on Chickenlegs.net before it died.

I am amused by how much of this I have already repeated. Especially stuff about hair.
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Best Friends Originally Untitled 

Reprinted from Chickenlegs.net - 8/03/02

The minute Freddy Mercury sings, “Oooo, you make me live,” my cat knows exactly what is going on.

Moving quickly before he can skitter away, I scoop him up onto my shoulder. He emits an anguished wail. Then the drums kick in and we dance, dance, dance.

I am singing at the top of my lungs when he begins to purr. I know he is faking. It is a purr that says, “I am pretending to enjoy this - put me down.” He can’t trick me.

Both other cats are in the room. In unison, they both emit unhappy yowls that are akin to a crying child. If my neighbors heard them over Queen, they would call child protective service.

I imagine them kicking down the door to my apartment.

“Michaels, where is the child?” they would yell, semi-automatic guns drawn.

“No kids here, officers!”

They would rip apart my apartment looking for a child, but would then hear the two cats cry, like those mini girls in Mothra. They would laugh and allow me to complete my pirouette a le chat.

It‘s good that the music is too loud for anyone to hear. Some things are best left private.

(Note: if you ignore this note, this update meets Dogma: July 2002 standards.)
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YMCA originally untitled 

Reprinted from Chickenlegs - 8/13/02

There are few places more aggressively heterosexual than the YMCA gym. Forget the Village People’s song – if you want to be surrounded by grunting, angry men, go the gym at your local Y.

I think they are angry about the song. When they come out of the gym, there is always going to be some dude parked in a Civic who looks at them and smirks knowingly. Thus, the straight men at the Y overcompensate.

For example, sometimes when I finish a particularly grueling workout, I am so focused on passing out that I don’t realize I am staring right at some dude until he growls at me.

I feel bad for the women who work out in the weight room. Dozens of men, eager to prove their straightness, crowd around them. Wordlessly, they lift weights that have no actual purpose save to “impress the ladies.” The fitness-conscious women end up covered in the flop sweat of a thousand strangers.

What would the very straight men of the Y do should any of these women suddenly scream, “Yes, mighty armed man, take me here, on the reclining weight bench!”

Why, the men, wiped out from their work out, would be incapable of performing! What might the women think of them then? What would they think of themselves?

If you want to see heterosexuality in all of it’s glory, the locker room has to be your next stop. Some men, no doubt concerned that wearing a towel is overcompensating, walk around nude for as long as two days before showering and getting dressed. They have stand, one foot placed proudly on a stool, their rank manliness on display for the world to enjoy, flaccidly proclaiming, “Look on my limpness, men, and see how not gay I am!”

It is a sight that I would not wish upon you, but there it is, nonetheless.

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Pre-Ear Hair Originally Untitled 

Reprinted from Chickenlegs - 8/20/02

For years, my back has been a barren plane devoid of growth. If you were a flea, you would have had no shelter below my neck, let me tell you, Jack.

Then, last week, the horror came to my apartment.

I felt an itch in the middle of my back, at the very limit of my arm's reach. It was a hair. A vile hair. A loathesome hair.

"No problem," I foolishly thought, figuring it was a fine hair from my head that had worked its way down my shirt.

Alas, a quick tug revealed that it was, in fact, attached. Attached to my back, an ugly black hair, made more black when viewed against my alabaster flesh. Black as dried blood on an unclean wound. And thick. Thick like a dead millipede.

I am no contortionist, but I managed to dislocate my arm and neck in my effort to remove this offending follicle. Looking over my shoulder into the mirror, I used my best pair of tweezers to grasp and deskin it. It took fifteen minutes and all of my strength. The thing didn't want to let go, and when it did come up, the gruesome follicle came out with it.

Exhausted, but succesful, I examined this awful, black thing. It looked like the sort of hair you may have seen growing on Jeff Goldblum during The Fly. Thicker than a normal hair, straighter than a pubic hair, and more revolting than a nose hair. It was mine, but I cruelly spurned it. I flushed it down the toilet lest it find its way onto my torso again.

Now, every time my back itches, I feel a twinge of horror. Is it only a matter of time before I am one of those scary, bear-like men you see on the beach sometimes? What is a hair grows where I cannot reach it? What is next? Ear hair?

The thought is far too gruesome to consider.

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Coming Attractions 

Reprinted from Chickenlegs - 9/02/02

Coming Soon!
Real Life Conversations With My Girlfriend's Drug Addict Brother!
In Amazing 2-D!



Surprisingly Tedious!

Here's a sample:

HIM: I used to hang around this ice dealer named Jose. Jose and this other drug dealer were fucking this chick who they thought was, like, 29. But then, after they had fucked her, they found out she was 14, so they took a chain saw and cut her in half.

ME: Jesus Christ! Why the hell did they do that?

HIM: Yeah, I think they were mad that she tricked them into breaking the law. They buried her in this place where they'd buried like 30 other people they'd killed. They found all the bodies a few years ago when they were dredging it so they could build a Burger King.

ME: That is the most awful thing I've ever heard in my life.

HIM: Yeah, fucking fast food. It used to be a nice park.

ME: No, fucktard, I mean about the girl being cut in half.

HIM: No man, it's all good, though. They were arrested and sent to jail.

ME: Thank God. So you turned them in when you heard they did it?

HIM: Fuck no. They would have cut me off. They bragged to a cop about it or something.


HIM: I love her so much. She's like my lover and my sister and my mother and my wife and my guru, my lover and my friend and my wife and my muse and my girlfriend and... uh... did I say wife?

ME: Yes. Twice.

HIM: Yeah, that too.


ME: Why are you here?

HIM: Isn't my sister here?

ME: No. I told you she isn't home.

HIM: Oh. When is she getting back?

ME: I don't know. So why are you here?

HIM: Isn't my sister here?


HIM: So then Jimmy overdosed in the bathtub and we checked his wallet and stuck him out on the window ledge because he figured he was dead and we were worried that if somebody saw the body that we'd all get busted.

ME: Wait. You mean you took him out of a bathtub where nobody could see him and stuck him outside on a window ledge where the whole world could see him in order to hide the body?

HIM: When you put it like that you make us sound stupid or something. Jeez. People could see him in the bathtub.

ME: Who could see him in the bathtub?

HIM: Well, I did every time I went to take a whiz.


HIM: Have you ever shot heroin?

ME: I'm straight edge. I don't do any drugs ever. Ever.

HIM: Well, if you ever do heroin and you have to detox, it's a good idea to do ice for, like, six days, because after six days of doing ice the withdrawal symptoms aren't so bad and you can get some sleep. That's why I don't understand all of these people who are all, like, "oh! ice is a bad thing," because it helps you detox and shit. I'm on it right now and I feel much better.

ME: I'm going to call the police.

HIM: Don't bother. I smoked it all on your stairs there before you came home, so I don't have anything on me. Man, your neighbors are real jerks. I mean, do you see a "No Smoking" sign around here. Assholes. Hey, is my sister here?


Yes, now you, too, can experience the conversations I go through every Sunday*! Live the glamorous, fast paced life of hopeless drug addiction!

* Except for the Sundays that he is in jail or is having a hard time finding his dealer.

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Ashcroft Hates Boobies Originally Untitled 

Reprinted from Chickenlegs - 9/13/02

I am not asking you to hate John Ashcroft for buggering the Freedom of Information Act. I'm not asking you to hate him because he may be a racist, or because he may favor Christians over non-Christians in a decidedly un-American way. I'm not even asking you to dislike him because of his singing.

Two BoobsNo, I am asking you to hate him because he doesn't like boobs.

Most of you already know that Ashcroft spent something like $8,000 to cover up the breast on the statue on the hall of the Justice League of America or whatever it is called. Sure, its old news.

Now, I also realize we are living in frightening times and that we Americans are supposed to be blindly thinking whatever our leaders tell us to think. Hey, I'm all for not thinking - It makes my brain hurt. Never-the-less, I want to stress that Ashcroft's kind of prudish views are a direct threat to our way of life.

Specifically, to our cam-community. If Ashcroft had his way, all of the women that you can visit from this page would have to wear drapes over their boobs all of the time. On cam and off. Even the ChickenlegsTM Random Boobs of the Moment would have to be covered up. Nursing babies would have to suck life giving milk through a purple sheet. Purple dye is deadly to babies, you know.

I urge you all to keep an eye on the things Ashcroft is doing. Don't worry about the fact that he is taking away your right to access government and corporate information. Ignore the fact that he is making it possible to detain American citizens without charges or trial for as long as he wants. Forget that he might think you are less of an American than he is if you don't believe in his particular form of Christianity.

Worry about the fact that he is anti-boob.

Please. For the babies.
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Blow Me Originally Untitled 

Reprinted from Chickenlegs.net - 9/28/02

I try to be pretty open minded about different fetishes. I realize people all like different things. For example, some people get really turned on by feet. Personally, the idea of a foot, even a clean foot on an attractive person, anywhere near my mouth makes me feel a little sick. However, feet have always had something of an allure in certain cultures and among certain individuals. Thus, I can accept that perverts totally normal people are turned on by feet.

There are some fetishes that defy understanding though. Thanks to The Portal of Evil, I am able to find lots of these fetishes first hand. I don't even need to search very hard. I don't recomend actually visiting any of these sites. Thus, without any further ado, I present my list of fetishes that disturb me.
I am trying not to pass judgement on people who get off on any of this stuff, but sweet and sour cripsy Jesus! These people make me sick!

Man, I am going to have to stick an airhose up my butt and inflate my stomach now. Don't laugh. It feels sooooo good.

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Feed The World Originally Untitled 

Reprinted from Chickenlegs.net - 10/15/02

I think I am lactating.

No, seriously, I know I'm a guy and stuff, and nothing has actually come out of my nipples, but I feel like my breasts are just swelling with milk.

I feel like I could feed a nation. Starving children could come up to me and I would suckle them. Sure, I would need to shave my nipples first, or at least pluck them, but the humiliation would be worth it. I would be saving lives with my father's milk.

Well, that might be a misnomer, as well. I am not actually a father, not am I likely to be, as I would need to impregnate somebody first. This leads me to my theory as to why I might be lactating. I figure that since I am not likely to ever have sex with an actual human being, my body has decided it should take on some female secondary sexual traits. I don't think I can impregnate myself, but I do think I can feed a child should I have one.

In the meantime, I was considering getting a puppy.

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On Top Originally Untitled 

Reprinted from Chickenlegs - 10/20/02

True confession time, ladies and gentlemen.

I lost my virginity on a bean bag chair in a dorm room in the mid 1980's. I lasted all of about 12 seconds, which is still something of a longevity record for me. As far as sex locations go, a bean bag chair is about as lame as it gets.

The worst part is that, since the bean bag chair was lame, we continued fooling around for the rest of the semester on the lower bunk of her bed while one of her roommates slept on the top bunk. I thought we were being all suave and cool, until two years later.

See, I lived with this Rugby player named Spike. No kidding. His name was Spike. His given name. On his birth certificate. I introduced Spike to this cheerleader named Annie that I was buddies with and the two of them were soon a drunken, slovenly couple. Unlike Sheila's roommates, these two were hot. I mean "Real World" hot, if we had had "Real World" back in my college days.

Anyhow, Spike and Annie had the lower bunk and while they thought I was asleep, they would rut like horny, wounded rhinos. I am sure they thought that they were being all suave and cool, just like I had, but I learned an unfortunate fact of physics: what is a gentle rocking motion on a lower bunk is equal to a fucking 8.4 on the rictor scale earthquake on the top bunk.

To this day, I send Christmas cards to my ex-girlfriend's top bunk roommate, even though I lost touch with the ex. I figure it is the least I can do for violent shaking her awake for 10 to 15 seconds at a time in college.
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Modest Proposal Originally Untitled 

Reprinted from Chickenlegs - 11/07/02

Finding willing soldiers in times of war is often a difficult thing to do. College age students, particularly boys, realize that war could mean death and that dead men don't shag. In addition, politicians, ever wary about re-election, won't want to shout "draft," as the very dim-witted people who voted for them will likely be the first ones killed on the sands of battle. Hence, we are facing a serious issue of recruitment here in the months leading up to Gulf War II.

I have come up with a modest proposal to solve this problem.

I propose that we actively and aggressively recruit teenage boys into the military. Specifically, I propose that we recruit boys ages 13-15 into the army and marines. Older boys can join the air force or navy with a parental permission slip.

This will solve several problems.

First, teenage boys tend to be more stupid about their own mortality than older kids. Most figure they are indestructible. I think if we create a military style "Jackass" type show where teenage soldiers do dumb stuff and hurt themselves on MTV, we could fill up the ranks pretty quickly. "Skate hard and eat sand" could be our recruiting slogan. Anyhow, when the bombs start dropping and the bullets start flying, we get them to make light of people's mortal wounds. "Ha ha! Billy got his stupid head blown off. Asshole." Lacking any sense of connection to other human beings, they will be a little bummed that some of their buddies are gone, but they will soon forget them. Instead of killed, we can use the euphemism "expelled from the army" or "transferred to another school." They'll forget them soon enough.

Next, teenage boys are very willing to play with guns. Witness the popularity of first person shooter games, like QuakeTM or DoomTM. Why, put a real gun in their hands and they'll be ready to start shooting real people in no time. We just need to give colorful, demonic sounding names to the various people they will be attacking. Its not an Iraqi civilian, for example, its a Level 10 Kragnasty or something. We tell them that Saddam is the "boss" monster and send them out into the desert. At least one of them will make it his personal goal to kill the boss and "win" the level.

Teenage boys are easy to control. Sometimes, adult soldier question their commanders. Teenage boys questions things all the time, but teenage boys can generally be controlled by using the "f" word. No, not fornication! I am talking about "fag."

"Hey, Billy. Those Iraqis over there just called you a 'fag.'"

"I'll kill them."

War begins! Hurray! Their homophobia and unchecked temper can make them deadly weapons of war. Plus, homophobia is already welcome in the armed services. We just need to get the homophobia out of the closet and onto the battle field.

Finally, teenage boys are expendable. We kill thousands, maybe millions, every year in cities across them United States and, yet, there seems to be a never ending supply of them. Why waste their lives in civilian gang related violence when they can be part of the biggest and best fricken gang on the entire planet? Army green can be the new "colors" for teenagers across America.

What is in it for the teenagers? Well, first there is the sense of belonging that comes from being part of an organized team. Since guns tend to make individual athletic prowess a little moot, even some of the dorkier kids will be able to fit in. Next, we will let them drive stuff. Not just cars - they can drive tanks, motorcycles with World War II style sidecars, camels, you name it. Finally, the young girls love a boy in uniform. This will not, of course, increase the boys' chances of scoring, but we can tell them it will, which will be sort of a permanent carrot to lead our young donkeys into battle.

I think you will agree that this is a sane, rational plan and that it could revolutionize American warfare. Thank you, and God Bless America.

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New Public Service Announcement 

Reprinted from Chickenlegs.net - 11/17/02


Each caption is accompanied by a suitable image

This is Jack.

This is the gas that Jack bought.

This is the Gas Station Attendent who sold the gas that Jack bought.

This is the Station Manager who ordered the gas that the Gas Station Attendent sold to Jack.

This is the Oil Company Executive who made the deal so the Station Manager could order the gas that the Gas Station Attendent sold to Jack.

This is the Politician who signed the treaty that helped the Oil Company Executive make the deal so the Station Manager could order the gas that the Gas Station Attendent sold to Jack.

This is the Arabian Royal Family who agreed with the Politician to sign the treaty to help the Oil Company Executive make the deal so the Station Manager could order the gas that the Gas Station Attendent sold to Jack.

These are the Terrorists who got funding from the Arabian Royal Family who agreed with the Politician to sign the treaty to help the Oil Company Executive make the deal so the Station Manager could order the gas that the Gas Station Attendent sold to Jack.

This is the family that got in the way.

Gas: Not a Victimless Crime

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Pr0ngiving Originally Untitled 

Reprinted from Chickenlegs - 11/28/02

What am I thankful for? Well, I'm damn glad you asked.

Most of you are too young to remember the time before the Interweb and so you take it for granted. Let me describe a typical pre-Interweb day to you:

It is about three in the afternoon and it is time to find some porn. "Johnny" (name changed to protect my anonymity) realizes his whole family is still home, so he won't be able to sneak into Dad's closet to the secret stash of Playboys. As a matter of fact, there are good odds that that is where Dad is right now.

So, borrowing mom's car, "Jimmy" (this is a better name for him) drives to the local magazine store where kindly old Mr. Jacobs works. There they are behind the counter, the porn magazines, displayed like treasures in some X-Rated Indiana Jones movie. They have names like "Swank," "Double D Cups," "Barely Legal Teens," and, of course, "Ass Lovers," though the "o" in "Lovers" has been replaced by something that may be a heart or a little ass. From this distance, it is impossible to tell.

Now, in order to get this treasure, "Ace" (if I am going to be making up a name anyways, it might as well be a cool one) needs to walk up to kindly old Mr. Jacobs and say, "Good day, Mr. Jacobs. Could I have a couple of 'Ass Lovers.'" The old codger has a weak heart and, even though he stocks the magazines, there is the fear that this might give him a heart attack. Of course, he is buddies with "Ace's" mom, too, and he may very well call her up and say, "Hey, Joey is buying 'Ass Lovers.' I mean 'Ace.'"

After nervously walking around the store, "Akira" (Ace is a lame name) chickens out and just buys a copy of Billboard magazine. Wimp!

There is only one other option, now, and that is for "Max" (Akira makes me sound like an anime character) to drive around some of the backroads and look for porn that people threw away. This happens more often than you would think, and it wasn't unusual to see six or seven desperate adolescents wandering through the brush at the side of the road back in Max's hometown. If they were lucky, they would find a half-rotted copy of Hustler, its pages stuck together with dew (one hopes). No such luck for "Max," though, so he is sent back home, lonely, horny and with feet wet from tramping through the brush.

And that was what it was like for teenagers looking for porn back in the day.

Thanks to the Interweb, you can find porn anywhere at any time. And, heck, on this special day, that is what I am thankful for.

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The Heat is On 

Reprinted from Chickenlegs.net - 12/05/02

The holiday season brings grim nightmares. Nightmares about characters from holiday specials. Nightmares about Heat Miser.

I lie down to sleep and pull the electric blanket over me, afraid to close my eyes. Inevitably, sleep comes and with it, the dreams.

He is in front of me, his flaming red hair at my crotch level. He is singing his little song:

I'm Mister Green Christmas...
I'm Mister Sun...

That's when I feel the burning at my crotch. It isn't him, he is a few feet in front of me grimacing and doing a little stop action dance. I don't know what is causing it, but I don't want to remove my pants. I am afraid of what Heat Miser might do.

The burning gets too great and, finally, I tank off my pink stretch pants. I look at my crotch and scream in horror at what I see.

All of those little "mini-Heat Miser" guys are crawling through my pubic hair, singing and dancing:

He's Mister 101...

I wake up screaming and turn down the electric blanket, his whiny voice echoing in my ears.

I am not sure why I have these dreams. Maybe a bad case of jock itch around the holiday season as a youth, or maybe it was that red-haired Bangkok whore who gave me crabs. I don't suppose it really matters. What matters is the fear.

It is Christmas. He's coming. I can almost feel it.

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Reprinted from Chickenlegs - 12/25/02

All right, this is going to get gross. You have been warned.

I like that “empty” feeling. You know the one I’m talking about. You’ve been carrying a load around all day, you go to the toilet with your copy of Gravity’s Rainbow, and you evacuate. If it is a good day, you evacuate a ton. You worry that you are going to clog up the toilet. You’ve done it. You know what I mean.

There are times that I am even sad that I can’t evacuate any more.

Anyhow, afterwards, after the wiping and the hand washing, you are able to just stand there and feel all empty and stuff. There is almost no more perfect, aesthetic experience than this.

Or so I thought.

I have had this cough for the last couple of days that I just couldn’t get rid of. No other symptoms, just a cough. This morning, I woke up and had a stuffed up nose to match it.

It was one of those aggravating, stuffed up on one side only stuffed nose experiences. I tried to blow the side that was stuffed up, but mostly just hyperventilated. Nothing - and I mean nothing - was coming out. I could feel the air rushing by a reservoir of snot somewhere, but it wasn’t moving.

That is when I noticed that the other side of my nose was clogged up, too. I took in an enormous breath and BAM. The biggest, crustiest, most solid booger in history came out of my right nostril. It felt like somebody had shot a bullet covered with sandpaper out of my nose. It was so huge, I wanted to show somebody.

Before I could, I felt what could only be described as a gurgle and then, without blowing, the reservoir broke in the left nostril and a ton of snot poured out. It looked like the baby version of The Blob. Dude, it was vile.

Anyhow, it took me a moment to throw it all away. Plus, I had to change shirts. Afterwards, however, I felt that empty feeling, except in my head instead of in my colon. It was like discovering that a different part of your body, like your index finger or something, was able to have an orgasm.

This really was the best Christmas ever.

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Our Heroin(e) 

Reprinted from Chickenlegs.net - 1/13/03

One thing they don't tell you when you are being forced to take drug awareness classes in high school is the effect of heroin on your skin. Now, my girlfriend is in the middle of what you might call a major relapse, so I've watched her skin go from silky and smooth to scab covered and bumpy. Mind you, this is not where she is injecting herself - this is around her shoulders and chest.

See, apparently, heroin isn't as pure a drug as people think it is. It gets mixed in with dirt, meat tenderizer, whatever is sitting around the dealer's house. Whatever is in the heroin, goes into you. It has to come out somewhere. On her, it has chosen to come out in areas she usually likes to reveal to the public. Basically, it looks like she had horrific chest and shoulder acne and scratched - perhaps with a cheese slicer.

Another thing they don't really mention is the collapsed veins. She has a bunch of them. When she has had to go to the hospital for non-drug related things, they have had to draw blood from her neck. Dude - that just gives me the willies.

Still, she is lucky, since most people her age (28) who have been doing heroin as long as she has have pretty severe limps or withered arms. Her brother, who is the cause of this current relapse and who had best avoid the apartment lest he be pushed over the balcony by yours truly, looks like his arms were burned with gasoline. She is lucky because she has been with me for a number of years and, thus, has been clean for seven of the eight years we've been together. Every day is a little intervention with Mr. Michaels!

Also, many junkies stop taking care of themselves. See, compared to getting that little fix, brushing the teeth and combing the hair aren't quite as important. Tooth ache? Kill the pain with another hit. Basically, what I'm saying, is that when you stop taking care of yourself, your body starts to disintegrate. Many of the people at the methadon clinc I take her to (even when she is relapsing) look like villagers out of Monty Python and the Holy Grail or, more accurately, Jaberwocky.

I'm not saying that you shouldn't do heroin or anything, because it is your right to choose to become a drain on society and a burden to those that care about you. No, far be it from me to suggest that drugs are bad or anything because you have the right to become a scab covered cripple with bad teeth and severe B.O. I'm just saying I wish she had never started doing this "boy."

On the plus side, being co-dependent ROCKS.

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Book Review 

Reprinted from Chickenlegs - 1/23/03

This month, I've been reading Journals by Kurt Cobain. Well, when I write "this month," I should stress that I mean, "from time to time when sitting on the toilet."

Actually, the toilet is where I do most of my reading. Sometimes, I can't poop unless I am reading something. I think this is why people write on walls in bathrooms - so that they will have something to read when they poop. The fact that most of the writing is obscene is because the average immature human mind can't write anything more clever than "Josh U. takes it up the ass."

I should also stress that when I write "reading" that I mean "looking at his pictures and notebook covers." I mean, I'm sure many of you have a shelf in a closet somewhere with old notebooks from high school and college. Dude, this so-called "book" is what would happen if you got famous, died and somebody took that shelf of old notebooks and published them as a coffee table book for $99.

We received this book as a gift from Laurie's sister. It is the kind of gift you would give somebody that you know was a Nirvana fan, even though it is also the kind of gift many Nirvana fans would have no interest in owning. Oh, I suppose that there are a few Nirvana fans who would like it - maybe the same ones who would have gone through the dumpster behind the stadium after the concert to look for a Kleenex Kurt used during the show.

I'm not saying that Kurt is a bad writer. No, in fact, all evidence points to the fact that, were he alive today, Kurt could be running one heck of an E/N site. It's just that this was writing that wasn't really intended to be for publication. I mean, they've included his fricken' driver's education notes. There are two pages of pictures of road signs. They've also included lists of songs to include on mix tapes. Oh, and a picture of a living corpse that looks a bunch like "Eddie," the Iron Maiden zombie.

On the plus side, there is no narrative. You can read it in short sections and not feel like you've missed anything. For that matter, you can pretty much start on any page of the book. In this sense, it is an excellent bathroom book - almost as good as Fox Trot cartoon collections, but not quite as good as, say, The VideoHound Movie Retriever Guide.
If you need to poop, I recommend it.
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