Have you ever invented anything but kept it a secret?
--Charles McTaint
Penknife, Ontario, Canada
Dearest Mr. McTaint:
Is that your real name? Not to be nosy or nothin', but not since the first two years of my friendship with Sicilian olive magnate Scrota San Perineuma have I found myself stifling a little giggle there.
--Cargo, Mr.
Denver, Colorado USA
Well, Mr. Cargo, let me start with three paragraphs of stupid, barely coherent, rambling hoo-hah I write while smoking marihuana cigarettes and watching one of my many digitally restored copies of Juice Tiger infomercials! The massive erection from my inflated ego, extreme mental illness, and amazement at the visual spectacle of Jack LaLanne's rock-hard buttocks chiseled from top quality prehistoric Anglo-Saxon Manstone, will leave barely enough blood for my brain to formulate my latest bullshit blog entry consisting largely of esoteric pop culture references, self-righteous drivel, and lowbrow bathroom humor!
I'll then proceed to lower my already Oompa Loompa-high standard of writing and dispensation of information by not actually doing my job and answering the damn query, but instead shooting a completely unrelated one right back, because I have taken it upon myself to make sure the Douchebag Renaissance leaves an indelible mark on our doomed children's precious futures. Under my evil and altogether unwholesome influence they will surely choose the worst nursing homes imaginable for their elders, at least one of which will staff people much like them: dumbed-down defecations of the Cargo Generation who will dress us up like robots and shove us into leaf chippers, having mistaken them for giant robot tanning beds.
Speaking of answering the damn question: Yes, this is my real name. I am a second-generation Scottish-Canadian, if you must know, and a proud member of the McTaint clan with a lifetime subscription to the McTaint Society's monthly newsletter.
You suck, Cargo. You suck like Mentos dropped in Diet Coke in a black hole that's being played backwards on Betamax. I hope you know that. I'm sorry I ever asked you. Sure, it was kinda ballsy of you to be honest with me and ask, but that also makes you a bit of an ass. You're somewhere in between those two, if you will.
--Charles Gareth McTaint
Penknife, Ontario, Canada
Most esteemed Mr. McTaint:
I suck like so many things, and catastrophic chemical reactions in deep space are indeed a big part of my sucking regimen. I am quite honored to be deemed a general nincompoop and corrupter of children by such an insightful, straightforward individual. Thank you for laying my curiosity to rest in regards to your name.
Hey! Is there a DeLorean parked nearby? 'Cause you're right down the street from Marty McFly!
AaAahahaHAHaHahAHA!
(15-minute pause while Mr. Cargo is kicked and slapped mercilessly by a Lilliputian street gang)
To answer your original question: Indeed! I repel insects in my home (even behind the walls!), glow in the dark, my whites become whiter simply by my wearing them and never taking them off, and I can hear colors, which I also keep from fading 40% longer than the leading unlicensed sham advice/answer columnist! A horrible side effect is that parts of my memory become inaccessible for random amounts of time, so I can never remember whether it's the magic corduroy pants, the double-jointed bagpiping helper monkey or the cucumber salad I just plugged in to recharge.
ASK MR. CARGO!
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Vol. 7: Riding Coach on the Physical Plane
Why won't my eczema go away?
--Matthew Harris
Portland, Oregon USA
Dearest Matthew:
LONG ANSWER:
You haven't sent me any money lately.
See, the way things get done for you, I have learned, is to send somebody money and sit on your ass in anticipation of goodness onset, especially if that somebody has a direct neurological satellite uplink to their god/goddess/idol/being/Pay-Per-View channel of choice. My deity happens to be Deity #4a638, whose wavelengths I, and only I, share.
Deity #4a638 has not gender nor genitalia. Deity #4a638 has not good will nor ill. Deity #4a638 only wants for the physical existence of all who currently physically exist and will in the future, continued life functions for all who currently biologically exist, and non-itchy, intact skin for those who possess it or have the potential to.
That includes pudding and entities near, containing, or consisting of, pudding, which is the Good Deity's snack cup of choice.
But wait, there's more! Deity #4a638 has just beamed itself directly into my brain and told me that your path to dermal salvation is to become a 638 Club Platinum Shield Charter Club member by gracing my being with an initial donation of $100 or more and agreeing to a modest monthly gift to Nicholas Cargo Ministries and Discount Theremin Repair by credit card, check, EFT, baklava, Yorkshire pudding, flan (check with your local Layered Cakes, Jiggly Desserts and Gelatin-Based Confections Exchange for current conversion rates), Quest Card, paper currency, prostitutes, those flattened bear rugs naked babies get photographed on, or the barter system (wink, wink!!).
Only then will your dermis be blessed at the proper spiritual frequency; Deity #4a638's matter-of-fact, invisible, yet completely actual celestial sine waves will surround you and bake you inside the searing spiritual kiln required to harden and cure your beautiful outer glaze in order to mitigate flaking and cracking that would otherwise occur.
That's right, Good Mr. Harris: While the other preachers are out there mining for diamonds, attempting to murder government officials through prayer, persecuting everyone else for any reason they please, snorting speed off a manly mountain masseur's mighty and magnificent meatstaff, selling protein shakes, impersonating White House-appointed diplomats in Latvia, secretly posing as 15-year-old girls on their MySpace pages, picketing gay people's funerals, drinking so heavily that the tears they cry at night smell and taste precisely like Drambuie, and videotaping themselves pushing the elderly and sick onto the floor by bopping them on the forehead...
This preacher, as a bringer of Deity #4a638's neutral but existent and substantial graces, simply wants you to physically exist, continue life functions, and have a dapper dermis!
Also, send me money and/or stuff so that I can, uh, pass it on to Deity #4a638 so it knows who to whom it shall direct special neutral energy fields.
I mean, Deity #4a638 thinks of all living beings, pudding, and pudding-adjacent, as cool and all, but it never hurts to put in a good word with the "Entity in the Box Seats".
Just saying, is all.
Here's what I'd like you to do in the time between now and when you've got your check (or payment equivalent) in the mail:
ONE) Open your checkbook and kneel on top of it, preferably inside your living space. A public park or crowded town square is also acceptable, weather permitting.
TWO) Raise an open pudding cup in a north-northwesterly direction.
TROIS) Repeat after me, at the top of your lungs, at least thrice:
DEITY! ATTENTION, PLEASE: MY PORES FEEL FULL OF BEES. SHELLAC ME WITH SINE WAVES AND TAKE OFF MY FEAR, GUY; FOR I'M A GRAVY BOAT WITH PUDDING CUP NEARBY!
If you are in a hotel, motel or apartment, I suggest at least ten times, because there's a lot more air and building material to get through, and you want to make positively sure Deity #4a638 can pick up your vibrations properly.
D) Don't forget to send money, gifts or other offerings (hedge those bets, mofo!) to:
Deity #4a638
c/o Cargo Ministries and Discount Theremin Repair
PO Box FAKE
Denver, CO 8020...FAKE
USA
SHORT ANSWER:
You need to be encased in sound and baked so your outer shell can cure properly.
ASK MR. CARGO!
--Matthew Harris
Portland, Oregon USA
Dearest Matthew:
LONG ANSWER:
You haven't sent me any money lately.
See, the way things get done for you, I have learned, is to send somebody money and sit on your ass in anticipation of goodness onset, especially if that somebody has a direct neurological satellite uplink to their god/goddess/idol/being/Pay-Per-View channel of choice. My deity happens to be Deity #4a638, whose wavelengths I, and only I, share.
Deity #4a638 has not gender nor genitalia. Deity #4a638 has not good will nor ill. Deity #4a638 only wants for the physical existence of all who currently physically exist and will in the future, continued life functions for all who currently biologically exist, and non-itchy, intact skin for those who possess it or have the potential to.
That includes pudding and entities near, containing, or consisting of, pudding, which is the Good Deity's snack cup of choice.
But wait, there's more! Deity #4a638 has just beamed itself directly into my brain and told me that your path to dermal salvation is to become a 638 Club Platinum Shield Charter Club member by gracing my being with an initial donation of $100 or more and agreeing to a modest monthly gift to Nicholas Cargo Ministries and Discount Theremin Repair by credit card, check, EFT, baklava, Yorkshire pudding, flan (check with your local Layered Cakes, Jiggly Desserts and Gelatin-Based Confections Exchange for current conversion rates), Quest Card, paper currency, prostitutes, those flattened bear rugs naked babies get photographed on, or the barter system (wink, wink!!).
Only then will your dermis be blessed at the proper spiritual frequency; Deity #4a638's matter-of-fact, invisible, yet completely actual celestial sine waves will surround you and bake you inside the searing spiritual kiln required to harden and cure your beautiful outer glaze in order to mitigate flaking and cracking that would otherwise occur.
That's right, Good Mr. Harris: While the other preachers are out there mining for diamonds, attempting to murder government officials through prayer, persecuting everyone else for any reason they please, snorting speed off a manly mountain masseur's mighty and magnificent meatstaff, selling protein shakes, impersonating White House-appointed diplomats in Latvia, secretly posing as 15-year-old girls on their MySpace pages, picketing gay people's funerals, drinking so heavily that the tears they cry at night smell and taste precisely like Drambuie, and videotaping themselves pushing the elderly and sick onto the floor by bopping them on the forehead...
This preacher, as a bringer of Deity #4a638's neutral but existent and substantial graces, simply wants you to physically exist, continue life functions, and have a dapper dermis!
Also, send me money and/or stuff so that I can, uh, pass it on to Deity #4a638 so it knows who to whom it shall direct special neutral energy fields.
I mean, Deity #4a638 thinks of all living beings, pudding, and pudding-adjacent, as cool and all, but it never hurts to put in a good word with the "Entity in the Box Seats".
Just saying, is all.
Here's what I'd like you to do in the time between now and when you've got your check (or payment equivalent) in the mail:
ONE) Open your checkbook and kneel on top of it, preferably inside your living space. A public park or crowded town square is also acceptable, weather permitting.
TWO) Raise an open pudding cup in a north-northwesterly direction.
TROIS) Repeat after me, at the top of your lungs, at least thrice:
DEITY! ATTENTION, PLEASE: MY PORES FEEL FULL OF BEES. SHELLAC ME WITH SINE WAVES AND TAKE OFF MY FEAR, GUY; FOR I'M A GRAVY BOAT WITH PUDDING CUP NEARBY!
If you are in a hotel, motel or apartment, I suggest at least ten times, because there's a lot more air and building material to get through, and you want to make positively sure Deity #4a638 can pick up your vibrations properly.
D) Don't forget to send money, gifts or other offerings (hedge those bets, mofo!) to:
Deity #4a638
c/o Cargo Ministries and Discount Theremin Repair
PO Box FAKE
Denver, CO 8020...FAKE
USA
SHORT ANSWER:
You need to be encased in sound and baked so your outer shell can cure properly.
ASK MR. CARGO!
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
vol. 6: For Entertainment Sandwiches Only, Must Be 18+ To Spread
What is the appropriate peanut butter to choke an obnoxious citizen with -- crunchy or smooth?
--Blade of the Mighty Bastard Operator, 4 Phlegethon St., Dis
Dearest Longname McTruncatedstein:
That depends entirely on the mode of delivery for said butter of peanut. It's just not as simple as "Is Mr. Peanut gonna have to choke a bitch?" after all. I will present you with some of the better peanut butter delivery maneuvers and my textural suggestions, for your reference; there are, after all, only so many ways to choke a person with an orangeish, brownish, sepiaesque, semi-edible, sticky goo-like substance such as the one you wish to use as a choking medium. I won't speculate on whether or not this will be a murder choking or not, so adjust accordingly depending on your desired outcome.
And don't come cryin' to me if it doesn't work out. Don't sue me either. I am only offering text; what you do with it is between you and the makers of Jif(tm). Sue them instead. Make it a class action suit and go after all the peanut butter makers. For good measure, include the Reese's Peanut Butter Cups people and whoever makes those little cracker sandwiches with peanut butter in the middle. Make a shrine out of Nutter Butter(tm)s and say in your suit that the ghost of Don Knotts got you addicted to Nutter Butter(tm)s and murder because you've never been quite right since they cancelled Herman's Head.
You'll be known as Mu'dder Butter by the tabloids, who will make you one of their elite. You'll have awesome three-ways and coke parties with Bigfoot and Bat Boy. You'll be world famous! Soon, copycats such as Nutella Necromancer and Marmalade Medusa will take your style to a whole new level. You'll slowly fade into obscurity either imprisoned or impoverished, but your techniques will create a whole new breed of murderous and/or simply mischievous psychopath that will prevail for generations to come.
Somebody's got to do it, that's all I'm saying. Whether or not that is you is completely up to you. Seriously, though, that would be so cool. I'd so read your memoirs.
But don't do it. If you do, don't hold me responsible. Even though I would really, really admire a person that could turn such a seemingly innocuous substance into a source of power and dominion over others. But I won't condone it.
Even though that shit sounds so awesome.
1) ON SUCH A WINTER'S DAY
Simply, this involves a gigantic sandwich so full of tasty bread spackle that it will not only stick to one's inner mouth, but one's internal plumbing as well. Smooth is much more effective as an adhesive, of course, but adding some crunchy in there adds insult to injury. A miniature plunger and two tablespoons of castor oil ought be kept close at hand in the event this is not a murder sandwich.
I recommend simply approaching this person on the street, shaking his/her hand, and offering the sandwich in the most polite way possible. Have the subject sign a release to eliminate your liability in the event of trauma. Let nature take its course.
It's possible your subject won't choke, but it may clog some pipes further down. (By "further down", I of course am referring to "ass pipes".) Perhaps the pain of constipation from cement-like colonic clogs will drive your subject to suicide and nobody will have to sue anybody, eh?
But still, sue the peanut butter companies. That would be wicked fun. Sue them for, uhm... looking at you cross-eyed. Spread some peanut butter on a slice of bread, draw a cross-eyed smiley face on it, and have loud, public arguments with said slice of bread until you have a nervous breakdown. Time it with rush hour, preferably on a freeway median. Liberal application of brightly colored eyeshadow beforehand is highly recommended.
2) DAYLIGHT COME AND ME WANT TO GO HOME
This one is best executed using a chunky variety -- the chunkier the better -- to give it the proper effect. To do this properly, hold a swank sandwich party at your swingin' bachelor pad or pad equivalent. (A hotel banquet room, VFW hall or community center basement can work in a pinch.) You will need to hire a medium that can act as the link between the spiritual and the culinary, such as the much sought after Madame Breville, hailing from Campignons-Magiques, Québec. She will, for a price, reanimate a formerly living creature using a food item as the body. In this case, Mme. Breville shall channel the spirits of human pathological stranglers and OCD-afflicted chronic male masturbators into six or seven sandwiches that will be placed in six or seven positions on a table.
Right before the eating is to begin, Mme. Breville will say the words "tiger eye" while waving her arms gaily towards the roof, as if to raise it (as dabblers in sorcery and 'party people' are wont to do, so I hear), which will trigger the spirits in the sandwiches to form arms and hands and search for the nearest cylindrical flesh pole to squeeze.
3) I HAVE THE POWAH!!
Fill a bucket with whatever peanut butter mixture you find appropriate. Approach your target. Forcefully put the bucket on said target's head. Punch said target repeatedly in the abdomen to force the bucket's contents into said target's respiratory and digestive systems.
4) I CAN'T BELIEVE I ATE THE WHOLE THING
Currently the smart, sciency-engineered expanding dehydrated peanut butter capsules are only available in smooth, but all's well that ends well. Offer your target five capsules at once. Say they're vitamins or something.
If your target is a white male with dredlocks, simply hand him the capsules and say "'Ey, brah -- eat this."
5) IF HE FIGHTS BACK, I'LL SAY THAT HE'S GAAaAaAAYYEEEee...
You will need a motor vehicle and a lake or reservoir filled adequately with the non-chunky variety. Offer your target a ride. Take a detour past said Lake of Buttered Nut Meats. Jerk the wheel. Hilarity ensues!
6) GOD BLESS 'BUTTER' NATURE, SHE'S A SINGLE WOMAN TOO
Dress in a ceremonial Speedo made out of peanut shells. 32 minutes after drinking two cups of strong Panax Ginseng tea, approach your target while holding a boombox. Put down the boombox and force a large funnel into his/her mouth. In this boombox you will have a Weather Girls CD. Turn It's Raining Men on at the loudest volume possible, on "Repeat". Let the music take you into a ceremonial rain dance, in which you will alternately scream in tongues and ride Funnelface McMark like a greased stripper pole. According to all sources, this will cause not only an abundance of men, but smooth, creamy peanut butter as well, to drop down from the heavens.
If it's chunky, you did it wrong, and you're a funnel-clogging, objective-failing douche.
7) MACGYVER, YOU'VE CHANGED
Build one of those two-part teleporter machines. Disguise the exit hole as Steve Buscemi and program it to walk and talk like Steve Buscemi. Have this teleporter hole walk up to your target and begin a conversation. Depending on how annoying this target is, you may need to program it to talk about sports, politics, macrame, American Idol, current and upcoming weather conditions, continuity errors in all episodes of Three's Company, and a-hole ex-husbands.
At the entrance hole, have ready a high-speed, high-volume matter propulsion device with a large hose attached to the end of it, drawing from a tank of Extra Chunky. At the precise moment Buscemi Portal t-6000 disagrees with your subject in any fashion, he will stomp on Target Individual's feet repeatedly with the desired result being a gaping maw from pain and yelping. Also at this precise moment you are to shoot precisely 28.3 gallons into the teleporter, which will cause it to burst out of Buscemi Portal t-6000's eyes, nose and mouth (along with girlish screams) at such high velocity that it will fill all nooks, crannies and orifices in a 20-foot radius.
SHORT ANSWER: Smooth. Don't sue. Don't murder with food either.
Also? Village People. Enjoy!
ASK MR. CARGO!
--Blade of the Mighty Bastard Operator, 4 Phlegethon St., Dis
Dearest Longname McTruncatedstein:
That depends entirely on the mode of delivery for said butter of peanut. It's just not as simple as "Is Mr. Peanut gonna have to choke a bitch?" after all. I will present you with some of the better peanut butter delivery maneuvers and my textural suggestions, for your reference; there are, after all, only so many ways to choke a person with an orangeish, brownish, sepiaesque, semi-edible, sticky goo-like substance such as the one you wish to use as a choking medium. I won't speculate on whether or not this will be a murder choking or not, so adjust accordingly depending on your desired outcome.
And don't come cryin' to me if it doesn't work out. Don't sue me either. I am only offering text; what you do with it is between you and the makers of Jif(tm). Sue them instead. Make it a class action suit and go after all the peanut butter makers. For good measure, include the Reese's Peanut Butter Cups people and whoever makes those little cracker sandwiches with peanut butter in the middle. Make a shrine out of Nutter Butter(tm)s and say in your suit that the ghost of Don Knotts got you addicted to Nutter Butter(tm)s and murder because you've never been quite right since they cancelled Herman's Head.
You'll be known as Mu'dder Butter by the tabloids, who will make you one of their elite. You'll have awesome three-ways and coke parties with Bigfoot and Bat Boy. You'll be world famous! Soon, copycats such as Nutella Necromancer and Marmalade Medusa will take your style to a whole new level. You'll slowly fade into obscurity either imprisoned or impoverished, but your techniques will create a whole new breed of murderous and/or simply mischievous psychopath that will prevail for generations to come.
Somebody's got to do it, that's all I'm saying. Whether or not that is you is completely up to you. Seriously, though, that would be so cool. I'd so read your memoirs.
But don't do it. If you do, don't hold me responsible. Even though I would really, really admire a person that could turn such a seemingly innocuous substance into a source of power and dominion over others. But I won't condone it.
Even though that shit sounds so awesome.
1) ON SUCH A WINTER'S DAY
Simply, this involves a gigantic sandwich so full of tasty bread spackle that it will not only stick to one's inner mouth, but one's internal plumbing as well. Smooth is much more effective as an adhesive, of course, but adding some crunchy in there adds insult to injury. A miniature plunger and two tablespoons of castor oil ought be kept close at hand in the event this is not a murder sandwich.
I recommend simply approaching this person on the street, shaking his/her hand, and offering the sandwich in the most polite way possible. Have the subject sign a release to eliminate your liability in the event of trauma. Let nature take its course.
It's possible your subject won't choke, but it may clog some pipes further down. (By "further down", I of course am referring to "ass pipes".) Perhaps the pain of constipation from cement-like colonic clogs will drive your subject to suicide and nobody will have to sue anybody, eh?
But still, sue the peanut butter companies. That would be wicked fun. Sue them for, uhm... looking at you cross-eyed. Spread some peanut butter on a slice of bread, draw a cross-eyed smiley face on it, and have loud, public arguments with said slice of bread until you have a nervous breakdown. Time it with rush hour, preferably on a freeway median. Liberal application of brightly colored eyeshadow beforehand is highly recommended.
2) DAYLIGHT COME AND ME WANT TO GO HOME
This one is best executed using a chunky variety -- the chunkier the better -- to give it the proper effect. To do this properly, hold a swank sandwich party at your swingin' bachelor pad or pad equivalent. (A hotel banquet room, VFW hall or community center basement can work in a pinch.) You will need to hire a medium that can act as the link between the spiritual and the culinary, such as the much sought after Madame Breville, hailing from Campignons-Magiques, Québec. She will, for a price, reanimate a formerly living creature using a food item as the body. In this case, Mme. Breville shall channel the spirits of human pathological stranglers and OCD-afflicted chronic male masturbators into six or seven sandwiches that will be placed in six or seven positions on a table.
Right before the eating is to begin, Mme. Breville will say the words "tiger eye" while waving her arms gaily towards the roof, as if to raise it (as dabblers in sorcery and 'party people' are wont to do, so I hear), which will trigger the spirits in the sandwiches to form arms and hands and search for the nearest cylindrical flesh pole to squeeze.
3) I HAVE THE POWAH!!
Fill a bucket with whatever peanut butter mixture you find appropriate. Approach your target. Forcefully put the bucket on said target's head. Punch said target repeatedly in the abdomen to force the bucket's contents into said target's respiratory and digestive systems.
4) I CAN'T BELIEVE I ATE THE WHOLE THING
Currently the smart, sciency-engineered expanding dehydrated peanut butter capsules are only available in smooth, but all's well that ends well. Offer your target five capsules at once. Say they're vitamins or something.
If your target is a white male with dredlocks, simply hand him the capsules and say "'Ey, brah -- eat this."
5) IF HE FIGHTS BACK, I'LL SAY THAT HE'S GAAaAaAAYYEEEee...
You will need a motor vehicle and a lake or reservoir filled adequately with the non-chunky variety. Offer your target a ride. Take a detour past said Lake of Buttered Nut Meats. Jerk the wheel. Hilarity ensues!
6) GOD BLESS 'BUTTER' NATURE, SHE'S A SINGLE WOMAN TOO
Dress in a ceremonial Speedo made out of peanut shells. 32 minutes after drinking two cups of strong Panax Ginseng tea, approach your target while holding a boombox. Put down the boombox and force a large funnel into his/her mouth. In this boombox you will have a Weather Girls CD. Turn It's Raining Men on at the loudest volume possible, on "Repeat". Let the music take you into a ceremonial rain dance, in which you will alternately scream in tongues and ride Funnelface McMark like a greased stripper pole. According to all sources, this will cause not only an abundance of men, but smooth, creamy peanut butter as well, to drop down from the heavens.
If it's chunky, you did it wrong, and you're a funnel-clogging, objective-failing douche.
7) MACGYVER, YOU'VE CHANGED
Build one of those two-part teleporter machines. Disguise the exit hole as Steve Buscemi and program it to walk and talk like Steve Buscemi. Have this teleporter hole walk up to your target and begin a conversation. Depending on how annoying this target is, you may need to program it to talk about sports, politics, macrame, American Idol, current and upcoming weather conditions, continuity errors in all episodes of Three's Company, and a-hole ex-husbands.
At the entrance hole, have ready a high-speed, high-volume matter propulsion device with a large hose attached to the end of it, drawing from a tank of Extra Chunky. At the precise moment Buscemi Portal t-6000 disagrees with your subject in any fashion, he will stomp on Target Individual's feet repeatedly with the desired result being a gaping maw from pain and yelping. Also at this precise moment you are to shoot precisely 28.3 gallons into the teleporter, which will cause it to burst out of Buscemi Portal t-6000's eyes, nose and mouth (along with girlish screams) at such high velocity that it will fill all nooks, crannies and orifices in a 20-foot radius.
SHORT ANSWER: Smooth. Don't sue. Don't murder with food either.
Also? Village People. Enjoy!
ASK MR. CARGO!
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Vol. 5: Trippelganger Novelty Billfold's Greatest Foe
Have you ever made love in the rain? Or in Spain? Or on a train? Or while enduring much pain? Over a stain? In a silo full of grain?
--L. Nar
L-L-Let's find out:
Have you ever made love in the rain?
Does uncontrollable crying during sex count?
Or in Spain?
Does uncontrollable crying during sex at an Almodóvar double feature count?
Or on a train?
Does impaling oneself on a model train while making mad, passionate monkey love to a model train collector count?
Or while enduring much pain?
Yes. Every time the resurrected Dr. Seuss breaks up, he writes a short story and reads it during the final, closing act of man-love. You'd be amazed at how many fictitious names rhyme with "smothered".
Over a stain?
Yes. It was on a bed of marmalade sandwiches. I do not recommend marmalade sandwiches for any purpose.
In a silo full of grain?
Not personally, but "wheatholing" has gained popularity among young, adventrous couples of all stripes in these Post-9/11 Times(tm). Cow-tipping as foreplay? Who knew?! Those wacky New Urbanists and their disposable income have done it again!
What is the meaning of life?
--Curious in Paragon City
At long last, somebody asks Mr. Cargo the meaning of life! The orgasmically tasty, definitive answer sits in an eye-dropper just a millimeter from the tip of your waiting, undulating, hungry tongue, and I intend to make it wait and undulate and hunger no more.
I have written this question on the back of a rejected Chinese fortune cookie slip and inserted it into the rear orifice of the Volvo Lady Wisdomtron 4444, on loan from the Swedes exclusively for the use of American answer/advice columnists such as Ann Landers and Marybeth Goldenrod. I happened to encounter the refined, Hyacinth Bucket-esque Ms. Goldenrod on a streetcorner by pure chance yesterday, and she just happened to be out walking Lady Wisdomtron 4444 (whose feces are rich in fertilizer and anecdotes for the daffodils, dare you bag it and add it to your compost pile).
The exchange went something like this:
"Well, right before my very eyes, it's the irrepressible wit that is Marybeth Goldenrod! Fancy being in eyeshot!"
"Nathaniel Congo, is iiiIiiIIit! My, what brings you to New Haven? Don't tell me you're here for Ladytron. You know the Swedes have forbidden the release of Fair Ladyborg to, uughhh, impostors. Like my mother used to say, neurotic, altitude-sick lardasses make better thong underwear models than they do answer/advice columnists! Never let them near Scandinavian robotic advice enhancement devices, in the event those are ever invented in your lifetime!"
"Oh, you know. On the way to Diedrich's, was beaten senseless and robbed, ended up drooling and semi-conscious on a Greyhound bus to Albany, where I was once again beaten senseless and forced at gunpoint to go back in time and beat myself senseless in 1992 and bring back my Bart Simpson wallet for my aggressor. Same ol'."
"How... eventful. Is that a water balloon full of lemonade in your left hand?"
"Yes, it is."
"I see."
"For a few minutes, that will change."
"This is indeed a disturbing, yet not entirely unexpected turn, you savage douchebag."
"Care to dance?"
"Considering what is about to transpire, I shall politely decl--"
I then throw the balloon into her face.
"--GAaAAAHhh!"
Enough temple-gripping and gyrating take place that I consider it dancing, and point and laugh with enough pomposity to make Sean Hannity pee blood.
"Told you you'd dance, you doily-making succubus!"
"*hisssssSSS!* This isn't the end, Nautilus Cornhole! We shall meet agaaAaAAIN!"
"Yes, we shall. We will dance."
"NeVEEER!"
"Never again, you mean?"
"GAAAAAaahhH!"
"That's right, you pretentious cow! Shake those udders for your people, the Cow People!"
"THAT'S NOT A REAL CIVILIZATION AND YOU KNOW IT! I HAVE NEVER ASSOCIATED WITH SUCH A GROUP, TRIBE OR SOCIOECONOMIC BRACKET! Oh, dearest, most dickulent motherfuck of a turn of events! Like Great Aunt Ethylene used to say, citric acid is your mucous membranes' ultimate unwanted houseguest! GaAAHH! IT BUUUUuuuUUURRrRrNS.... much less than it did a few minutes ago when this exchange was at its peak! I can almost... Wait, where'd--"
I then pull Ms. Goldenrod's 10-gallon hat over her face, grab Ladytron's leash and waddle back to the Greyhound station, where I am beaten into unconsciousness by a mysterious fat man who steals my Eric Cartman money clip and disappears into a wormhole.
And now, live from Denver, is the Volvo Lady Wisdomtron 4444, on loan from the Swedes to Marybeth Goldenrod!
BEEP. BEEP.
BEEP.
THIS IS NOT NEW HAVEN. YOU PROMISED ME ELECTRICITY. YOU PUT THE ELECTRICITY WHERE MY ANTIFREEZE GOES. I AM CURRENTLY LEECHING THE MAGNETIC ENERGY FROM YOUR DOWNSTAIRS NEIGHBORS AND SURROUNDING ELECTRICAL APPLIANCES TO SURVIVE. HAVE YOU EVER SEEN 'THE PHILADELPHIA EXPERIMENT'? THAT HAPPENED IN MY NATIVE SWEDEN, TOO. THEY DON'T TALK ABOUT IT MUCH. ONE ABBA REFERENCE AND I WILL COOK YOU.
Uhm... yeah.
THANK YOU FOR PUTTING ELECTRICITY WHERE MY ELECTRICITY GOES. I AM NOW RETURNING TO PROPER SPECIFICATIONS AND WILL EXECUTE THE REQUESTED FUNCTION IN VERY SHORT ORDER. YOUR REJECTED CHINESE FORTUNE: A KICK SQUARE IN THE NUTS IS BEST ACHIEVED WITH RUBIK'S CUBES TIED TO ONE'S BOOTS.
I HAVE HERE A PARAGONIAN INQUIRER WHO WISHES TO KNOW THE MEANING OF 'LIFE'. ACCORDING TO MY DATABASES, 'LIFE' CAN BE BEST DESCRIBED AS A MULTI-FACETED LATTICEWORK OF TEXTURES AND SHADES OF YELLOW AND BROWN WITH HIDDEN TEXTURES AND FLAVORS NOT ALWAYS APPARENT FROM ITS BLAND EXTERIOR AND RELATIVE ULTIMATE FLAVORLESSNESS. INDEED, 'LIFE' BECOMES MORE THE MORE ONE ADDS TO IT. IN A STATE OF ENDLESS METAMORPHOSIS, THE OUTER FACADE GIVES WAY TO THE HIDDEN FIBERS WITHIN AS IT MINGLES WITH ITS FLUID, PEACEFUL SURROUNDINGS IN BETWEEN BEING GNASHED BETWEEN FORCES OF STRENGTH, HUNGER AND DESIRE.
ONE NEED ONLY SEE 'LIFE' AS RELATIVELY BLAND, MODESTLY FLAVORFUL FIBERS, COLORS AND POTENTIAL ENERGY HIDING INSIDE THE DARK, COLD BOX WHOSE OUTSIDES BEAR THE IMAGE OF A SMILING HUMAN CHILD.
I've... got something in my eye. I gotta go.
Ask Mr. Cargo!
--L. Nar
L-L-Let's find out:
Have you ever made love in the rain?
Does uncontrollable crying during sex count?
Or in Spain?
Does uncontrollable crying during sex at an Almodóvar double feature count?
Or on a train?
Does impaling oneself on a model train while making mad, passionate monkey love to a model train collector count?
Or while enduring much pain?
Yes. Every time the resurrected Dr. Seuss breaks up, he writes a short story and reads it during the final, closing act of man-love. You'd be amazed at how many fictitious names rhyme with "smothered".
Over a stain?
Yes. It was on a bed of marmalade sandwiches. I do not recommend marmalade sandwiches for any purpose.
In a silo full of grain?
Not personally, but "wheatholing" has gained popularity among young, adventrous couples of all stripes in these Post-9/11 Times(tm). Cow-tipping as foreplay? Who knew?! Those wacky New Urbanists and their disposable income have done it again!
What is the meaning of life?
--Curious in Paragon City
At long last, somebody asks Mr. Cargo the meaning of life! The orgasmically tasty, definitive answer sits in an eye-dropper just a millimeter from the tip of your waiting, undulating, hungry tongue, and I intend to make it wait and undulate and hunger no more.
I have written this question on the back of a rejected Chinese fortune cookie slip and inserted it into the rear orifice of the Volvo Lady Wisdomtron 4444, on loan from the Swedes exclusively for the use of American answer/advice columnists such as Ann Landers and Marybeth Goldenrod. I happened to encounter the refined, Hyacinth Bucket-esque Ms. Goldenrod on a streetcorner by pure chance yesterday, and she just happened to be out walking Lady Wisdomtron 4444 (whose feces are rich in fertilizer and anecdotes for the daffodils, dare you bag it and add it to your compost pile).
The exchange went something like this:
"Well, right before my very eyes, it's the irrepressible wit that is Marybeth Goldenrod! Fancy being in eyeshot!"
"Nathaniel Congo, is iiiIiiIIit! My, what brings you to New Haven? Don't tell me you're here for Ladytron. You know the Swedes have forbidden the release of Fair Ladyborg to, uughhh, impostors. Like my mother used to say, neurotic, altitude-sick lardasses make better thong underwear models than they do answer/advice columnists! Never let them near Scandinavian robotic advice enhancement devices, in the event those are ever invented in your lifetime!"
"Oh, you know. On the way to Diedrich's, was beaten senseless and robbed, ended up drooling and semi-conscious on a Greyhound bus to Albany, where I was once again beaten senseless and forced at gunpoint to go back in time and beat myself senseless in 1992 and bring back my Bart Simpson wallet for my aggressor. Same ol'."
"How... eventful. Is that a water balloon full of lemonade in your left hand?"
"Yes, it is."
"I see."
"For a few minutes, that will change."
"This is indeed a disturbing, yet not entirely unexpected turn, you savage douchebag."
"Care to dance?"
"Considering what is about to transpire, I shall politely decl--"
I then throw the balloon into her face.
"--GAaAAAHhh!"
Enough temple-gripping and gyrating take place that I consider it dancing, and point and laugh with enough pomposity to make Sean Hannity pee blood.
"Told you you'd dance, you doily-making succubus!"
"*hisssssSSS!* This isn't the end, Nautilus Cornhole! We shall meet agaaAaAAIN!"
"Yes, we shall. We will dance."
"NeVEEER!"
"Never again, you mean?"
"GAAAAAaahhH!"
"That's right, you pretentious cow! Shake those udders for your people, the Cow People!"
"THAT'S NOT A REAL CIVILIZATION AND YOU KNOW IT! I HAVE NEVER ASSOCIATED WITH SUCH A GROUP, TRIBE OR SOCIOECONOMIC BRACKET! Oh, dearest, most dickulent motherfuck of a turn of events! Like Great Aunt Ethylene used to say, citric acid is your mucous membranes' ultimate unwanted houseguest! GaAAHH! IT BUUUUuuuUUURRrRrNS.... much less than it did a few minutes ago when this exchange was at its peak! I can almost... Wait, where'd--"
I then pull Ms. Goldenrod's 10-gallon hat over her face, grab Ladytron's leash and waddle back to the Greyhound station, where I am beaten into unconsciousness by a mysterious fat man who steals my Eric Cartman money clip and disappears into a wormhole.
And now, live from Denver, is the Volvo Lady Wisdomtron 4444, on loan from the Swedes to Marybeth Goldenrod!
BEEP. BEEP.
BEEP.
THIS IS NOT NEW HAVEN. YOU PROMISED ME ELECTRICITY. YOU PUT THE ELECTRICITY WHERE MY ANTIFREEZE GOES. I AM CURRENTLY LEECHING THE MAGNETIC ENERGY FROM YOUR DOWNSTAIRS NEIGHBORS AND SURROUNDING ELECTRICAL APPLIANCES TO SURVIVE. HAVE YOU EVER SEEN 'THE PHILADELPHIA EXPERIMENT'? THAT HAPPENED IN MY NATIVE SWEDEN, TOO. THEY DON'T TALK ABOUT IT MUCH. ONE ABBA REFERENCE AND I WILL COOK YOU.
Uhm... yeah.
THANK YOU FOR PUTTING ELECTRICITY WHERE MY ELECTRICITY GOES. I AM NOW RETURNING TO PROPER SPECIFICATIONS AND WILL EXECUTE THE REQUESTED FUNCTION IN VERY SHORT ORDER. YOUR REJECTED CHINESE FORTUNE: A KICK SQUARE IN THE NUTS IS BEST ACHIEVED WITH RUBIK'S CUBES TIED TO ONE'S BOOTS.
I HAVE HERE A PARAGONIAN INQUIRER WHO WISHES TO KNOW THE MEANING OF 'LIFE'. ACCORDING TO MY DATABASES, 'LIFE' CAN BE BEST DESCRIBED AS A MULTI-FACETED LATTICEWORK OF TEXTURES AND SHADES OF YELLOW AND BROWN WITH HIDDEN TEXTURES AND FLAVORS NOT ALWAYS APPARENT FROM ITS BLAND EXTERIOR AND RELATIVE ULTIMATE FLAVORLESSNESS. INDEED, 'LIFE' BECOMES MORE THE MORE ONE ADDS TO IT. IN A STATE OF ENDLESS METAMORPHOSIS, THE OUTER FACADE GIVES WAY TO THE HIDDEN FIBERS WITHIN AS IT MINGLES WITH ITS FLUID, PEACEFUL SURROUNDINGS IN BETWEEN BEING GNASHED BETWEEN FORCES OF STRENGTH, HUNGER AND DESIRE.
ONE NEED ONLY SEE 'LIFE' AS RELATIVELY BLAND, MODESTLY FLAVORFUL FIBERS, COLORS AND POTENTIAL ENERGY HIDING INSIDE THE DARK, COLD BOX WHOSE OUTSIDES BEAR THE IMAGE OF A SMILING HUMAN CHILD.
I've... got something in my eye. I gotta go.
Ask Mr. Cargo!
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Vol. 4: Putting all one's summer sausages on green
Mr. Cargo:
What, exactly, is your educational background?
-Ivanushka Zumchenko
Azusa, California USA
Dearest Ivanushka:
My what, now? I like to think of myself as a non-formal student of human psychology (aren't we all?) and office politics, having already earned my "BS" B.S. in 10-key and light filing.
Well, let me put this another way: Here next to me is a VHS tape I have kept conveniently archived for this exact occasion, which I never thought would come.
Watch and deduce:
*whirrr*
*vvvrt*
Click!
...."What?"
"Ahahahahahahaha."
"Seriously. I need a college diplammo, right, if I'm gonna grow up to buy and sell people's asses on the Wall Street market like in those 80s movies with those cokehead business typhoons with those hanging balls on their desks. I am going to write a seesth..feesthis..seestis..on whatever we find on TV tonight."
"Hands off the remote, then. Migh's well find something educational for you. NO INFOMERCIALS!"
"AHAAAHAHHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHHAHAAHAAAHAHAAAAHAHAAHAHA! I donwant my seesthis to be 'Set It and Forget It'! AaaHahAHahAhaHahA...."
"What's so funny?"
"...What? I have no furg..ferg....The brother from 'Clarissa Explains it All' was named 'Fergie', right, but not exactly 'Fergie', because 'Fergie' is a derivative of 'Fergstein'--"
"'Fergstein? Fergstone? That's wrong. Completely wrong. It was 'FERGUSON', like, slang for going to the can. 'I GOTTA VISIT THE OL' FERGUSON'... Wait. I just totally made that up, I think. It's... He's the Duchess of Spork."
"The Muchness of Spock."
"Live long and prosper, man."
"YEAH, and if Leonard Nimoy was a head of lettuce, he'd totally be like, 'Live long in the crisper, beee-yatch!' ....PppPPFFFAAAaaAaAHAHAHAHAHAAAHAHAHAHaaaAAAAA*uncontrollable coughing fits*"
"Wait..... What?"
"AhahaHaAHAAHAHaahaHahaAhahAhhAaaaawwwwWWwWhat the hell is a 'diplammo' and why did I want one again?"
"To write your bleepfis."
"My what?"
"To get a FFfff-dee."
"Speak up!"
"Your p...There are other letters too..."
"YOU'RE PEE!"
"Your thing!"
"Oh, wait, right, I want one of those hats with the tail smart guys wear with togas on stage."
"They call that a mortarboard."
"A goitersword? Dude, just eat iodine. Less blood."
"Blood?"
"...I don't know, Fergwad."
*15 seconds of silence*
*Uncontrollable laughter of two male voices for 55 additional seconds*
*16 seconds of coughing*
*78 seconds of water bubbling*
"Let's leave it here on the Phi-sci. The fly by. Mai Tai."
"PUT A TINY UMBRELLA IN ME, 'CAUSE I AM QUITE DRINKABLE! ......That made no sense. I don't remember what I just said except that it makes no sense."
"--What about your seesthis?"
"I donknow, but Imna openeez Sno-Balls an' imitate...do like...watch this! (muffled) I'm a world famousth trumpertmammm!"
(two break into song):
"TRUMPETMAAAAN, FLYIN' OUT IN SPACE WITH SNO-BALL CHEEKS!'
"Trumpetmaaaan, ain't seen a pair of Ding Dongs for weeks!"
"I have a feeling Trumpetman's more of a Twinkie man."
"TWINKIEMAAAAN, TASTY PASTRY PHAL-LUS FILLED WITH CREAM!"
"TWINKIE-MAAAAN....uh.....Twinkiemaaan....Dude, Twinkieman's lost his novelty."
"TWINKOPHOBE!"
The tape ends there, because I just took it out of the VCR and smashed it to bits with a summer sausage.
Anyways, here's my thesis, entitled "The Effects of THC on Guys Writing This Thesis While Watching Sci-Fi Channel Reruns in the Early Morning Hours":
HAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA LITTLE RICKY JUST TURNED INTO A CAR! I TOTALLY DON'T GET WHAT'S HAPPENING. THIS SHIT'S MADNESS.
This is followed by twenty pages of pencil drawings, mostly of bearded men wearing wigs. (It did help me get my GED.)
I don't dabble in recreational herbs like I did back in my, erm, college days, mostly due to the arm bullets from the Alan Thicke incident rendering me unable to independently operate a bong, water pipe, non-water pipe, roach clip, rolling paper or wallet. It was just about impossible for me to procure anything smokable without help from the same guy that for a time was helping me dress myself and urinate, and, well, the (totally platonic) awkwardness of that whole deal did those olde-tyme bake sessions in pretty good.
I finally did the mature, sensible, adult, legal thing and took up heavy drinking to cope after an unfortunate slip and fall on Leetsdale Drive alerted me to my ability to open liquor bottles using only my teeth.
Lately, the closest I've gotten to a "recreational substance" is during the last game of Swiss Roulette I played at the office. Here's how you play Swiss Roulette:
1) Buy enough boxes of chocolates to ensure even distribution of said chocolates amongst your entire staff.
2) Inject liquid LSD into a small number of random chocolates. One per box ought to do it.
3) Distribute evenly, per #1.
I can remember that day vividly. I had put the chocolates out first thing in the morning and gone to my desk to begin the day. In the spirit of the game, I ate one of the chocolates with my first cup of coffee. After ten minutes at my desk I began to feel woozy and sweat profusely.
"Jeez, man. This can't be happening again," I thought.
My heart began to race, my head began to pound and I began to see spots. Everything my coworkers said began to sound more like gibberish that got progressively dumber, more annoying, and less interesting. Their voices began to warp into taunting clown-like laughs in my direction, mocking me as I felt the lifeforce drain out of me one page at a time, my esophagus aflame, my taste buds interpreting my last sip of coffee with a slight tinge of vomit. Demons of hopelessness, rage, and frustration descended upon me as I swam aimlessly in the endless sea of grey and beige that swished back and forth around me, rendering me dizzy and disoriented.
The phone rings.
I answer.
"Ac-c-ccCounting?"
"MUuUahahahaHAHaHAHAhaAHahaAAa-a-aa-a-aAAA! Welcome to Cubicle Hades: YOUR NEW RESIDENCE! Pack your bags with your meager belongings and gigantic, doOOoOOMED clothing and undergarments and prepare to thrash uncontrollably, in perpetuity, in the pits of FIIIIRE and TONERrrRr and STaaAAaaANDARD STAPLEssSS, NIC-O-LAssSSssS CAaaarRRR-GooOO! AAaaaa-HAHAHAHAAAaaa--(inhales deeply)HAHAHAhaHa(10 seconds of uncontrollable coughing)YOU GET THE IDEA, WOoOoooRM!"
"...Vicki? Is that you? Oh my God, what's happening?! I can't take this anymore. I think I'm freaking o--"
A workmate interrupts.
"--Holy shiiit! Charlotte's gone nuuuuuUuUuts. You gotta seeEee thiiIis."
"Vicki? I'll pull that report after lunch. Charlotte's put her chips on red this week."
Lovable Charlotte had made it to the roof of the building to spend the next three hours grabbing pigeons out of midair and beating them mercilessly with a summer sausage, screaming the name of a sitcom character for each one she caught. After the thirty-fourth pigeon, she simply started calling all of them "Weezie" or "Meathead".
That was a productive day.
Ask Mr. Cargo!
What, exactly, is your educational background?
-Ivanushka Zumchenko
Azusa, California USA
Dearest Ivanushka:
My what, now? I like to think of myself as a non-formal student of human psychology (aren't we all?) and office politics, having already earned my "BS" B.S. in 10-key and light filing.
Well, let me put this another way: Here next to me is a VHS tape I have kept conveniently archived for this exact occasion, which I never thought would come.
Watch and deduce:
*whirrr*
*vvvrt*
Click!
...."What?"
"Ahahahahahahaha."
"Seriously. I need a college diplammo, right, if I'm gonna grow up to buy and sell people's asses on the Wall Street market like in those 80s movies with those cokehead business typhoons with those hanging balls on their desks. I am going to write a seesth..feesthis..seestis..on whatever we find on TV tonight."
"Hands off the remote, then. Migh's well find something educational for you. NO INFOMERCIALS!"
"AHAAAHAHHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHHAHAAHAAAHAHAAAAHAHAAHAHA! I donwant my seesthis to be 'Set It and Forget It'! AaaHahAHahAhaHahA...."
"What's so funny?"
"...What? I have no furg..ferg....The brother from 'Clarissa Explains it All' was named 'Fergie', right, but not exactly 'Fergie', because 'Fergie' is a derivative of 'Fergstein'--"
"'Fergstein? Fergstone? That's wrong. Completely wrong. It was 'FERGUSON', like, slang for going to the can. 'I GOTTA VISIT THE OL' FERGUSON'... Wait. I just totally made that up, I think. It's... He's the Duchess of Spork."
"The Muchness of Spock."
"Live long and prosper, man."
"YEAH, and if Leonard Nimoy was a head of lettuce, he'd totally be like, 'Live long in the crisper, beee-yatch!' ....PppPPFFFAAAaaAaAHAHAHAHAHAAAHAHAHAHaaaAAAAA*uncontrollable coughing fits*"
"Wait..... What?"
"AhahaHaAHAAHAHaahaHahaAhahAhhAaaaawwwwWWwWhat the hell is a 'diplammo' and why did I want one again?"
"To write your bleepfis."
"My what?"
"To get a FFfff-dee."
"Speak up!"
"Your p...There are other letters too..."
"YOU'RE PEE!"
"Your thing!"
"Oh, wait, right, I want one of those hats with the tail smart guys wear with togas on stage."
"They call that a mortarboard."
"A goitersword? Dude, just eat iodine. Less blood."
"Blood?"
"...I don't know, Fergwad."
*15 seconds of silence*
*Uncontrollable laughter of two male voices for 55 additional seconds*
*16 seconds of coughing*
*78 seconds of water bubbling*
"Let's leave it here on the Phi-sci. The fly by. Mai Tai."
"PUT A TINY UMBRELLA IN ME, 'CAUSE I AM QUITE DRINKABLE! ......That made no sense. I don't remember what I just said except that it makes no sense."
"--What about your seesthis?"
"I donknow, but Imna openeez Sno-Balls an' imitate...do like...watch this! (muffled) I'm a world famousth trumpertmammm!"
(two break into song):
"TRUMPETMAAAAN, FLYIN' OUT IN SPACE WITH SNO-BALL CHEEKS!'
"Trumpetmaaaan, ain't seen a pair of Ding Dongs for weeks!"
"I have a feeling Trumpetman's more of a Twinkie man."
"TWINKIEMAAAAN, TASTY PASTRY PHAL-LUS FILLED WITH CREAM!"
"TWINKIE-MAAAAN....uh.....Twinkiemaaan....Dude, Twinkieman's lost his novelty."
"TWINKOPHOBE!"
The tape ends there, because I just took it out of the VCR and smashed it to bits with a summer sausage.
Anyways, here's my thesis, entitled "The Effects of THC on Guys Writing This Thesis While Watching Sci-Fi Channel Reruns in the Early Morning Hours":
HAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA LITTLE RICKY JUST TURNED INTO A CAR! I TOTALLY DON'T GET WHAT'S HAPPENING. THIS SHIT'S MADNESS.
This is followed by twenty pages of pencil drawings, mostly of bearded men wearing wigs. (It did help me get my GED.)
I don't dabble in recreational herbs like I did back in my, erm, college days, mostly due to the arm bullets from the Alan Thicke incident rendering me unable to independently operate a bong, water pipe, non-water pipe, roach clip, rolling paper or wallet. It was just about impossible for me to procure anything smokable without help from the same guy that for a time was helping me dress myself and urinate, and, well, the (totally platonic) awkwardness of that whole deal did those olde-tyme bake sessions in pretty good.
I finally did the mature, sensible, adult, legal thing and took up heavy drinking to cope after an unfortunate slip and fall on Leetsdale Drive alerted me to my ability to open liquor bottles using only my teeth.
Lately, the closest I've gotten to a "recreational substance" is during the last game of Swiss Roulette I played at the office. Here's how you play Swiss Roulette:
1) Buy enough boxes of chocolates to ensure even distribution of said chocolates amongst your entire staff.
2) Inject liquid LSD into a small number of random chocolates. One per box ought to do it.
3) Distribute evenly, per #1.
I can remember that day vividly. I had put the chocolates out first thing in the morning and gone to my desk to begin the day. In the spirit of the game, I ate one of the chocolates with my first cup of coffee. After ten minutes at my desk I began to feel woozy and sweat profusely.
"Jeez, man. This can't be happening again," I thought.
My heart began to race, my head began to pound and I began to see spots. Everything my coworkers said began to sound more like gibberish that got progressively dumber, more annoying, and less interesting. Their voices began to warp into taunting clown-like laughs in my direction, mocking me as I felt the lifeforce drain out of me one page at a time, my esophagus aflame, my taste buds interpreting my last sip of coffee with a slight tinge of vomit. Demons of hopelessness, rage, and frustration descended upon me as I swam aimlessly in the endless sea of grey and beige that swished back and forth around me, rendering me dizzy and disoriented.
The phone rings.
I answer.
"Ac-c-ccCounting?"
"MUuUahahahaHAHaHAHAhaAHahaAAa-a-aa-a-aAAA! Welcome to Cubicle Hades: YOUR NEW RESIDENCE! Pack your bags with your meager belongings and gigantic, doOOoOOMED clothing and undergarments and prepare to thrash uncontrollably, in perpetuity, in the pits of FIIIIRE and TONERrrRr and STaaAAaaANDARD STAPLEssSS, NIC-O-LAssSSssS CAaaarRRR-GooOO! AAaaaa-HAHAHAHAAAaaa--(inhales deeply)HAHAHAhaHa(10 seconds of uncontrollable coughing)YOU GET THE IDEA, WOoOoooRM!"
"...Vicki? Is that you? Oh my God, what's happening?! I can't take this anymore. I think I'm freaking o--"
A workmate interrupts.
"--Holy shiiit! Charlotte's gone nuuuuuUuUuts. You gotta seeEee thiiIis."
"Vicki? I'll pull that report after lunch. Charlotte's put her chips on red this week."
Lovable Charlotte had made it to the roof of the building to spend the next three hours grabbing pigeons out of midair and beating them mercilessly with a summer sausage, screaming the name of a sitcom character for each one she caught. After the thirty-fourth pigeon, she simply started calling all of them "Weezie" or "Meathead".
That was a productive day.
Ask Mr. Cargo!
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Vol. 3: Turn off the lights, and I'll blow
For the love of God! I can't remember what day of the week it is, but I CAN remember all the words to Vanilla Ice's Ice Ice Baby. How do I erase that from my memory? Also, I can't seem to help myself from doing the MC Skip at weddings when the DJ plays his funky music. Help, white boy!
--Name and location exploded in a cloud of staples and pixie dust
Wait, wait, wait, wai-waiwai-waitwaitwa-wait... The "MC Skip"? In the five whole minutes I spent on Google trying to find an exact reference to the "MC Skip", the "M.C. Skip", and M. Seeskip (who is buried next to his butterfly collection in British Columbia, and whom I doubt has ever been 'done' anywhere near funky music) my sinus cavity began to pressurize horribly and I had to excuse myself to cry softly in the corner. Thus, I'll just speculate. Why not?!
For purposes of this question, let's just say that you are a woman in her late 20s residing somewhere east of West Wendover, Nevada and west of East Brunswick, New Jersey, who finds herself attending functions at which straight (or closeted) people decide in front of a crowd and a member of the clergy and/or notary public who they will one day bitterly divorce and/or emotionally cripple and/or slowly kill with arsenic for their estate and/or Social Security benefit. Much drink is consumed, many inhibitions (and perhaps a garment or two) are thrown to the wayside and dance moves of the later years (the death throes, one could say) of the previous century are resurrected, their agonized zombie corpses to be beaten and stomped on like grapes to make horrible, horrible, amusing wine.
1989 was not a very good year. Not at all oaky, only marginally funky, and way too much nose.
It's no coincidence that these dance moves by televised carnival acts including Vanilla Ice, MC Hammer and Milli Vanilli came to the fore around the same time the Thighmaster appeared on TV, my dear, for the rich, famous and Freemasons were the beta testers.
(Interesting bit of trivia: The success of the Thighmaster would net Suzanne Somers enough to buy her way out of indentured servitude to a Tijuana donkey show and pay Joyce DeWitt back that $500 she borrowed in 1983 to open an office in Tijuana)
As a result, many performers of the day had to dress in large, genie-like pants, sewn from bright fabrics made with fly wings and alien dung, in order to conceal their ever-growing thigh muscles and the protective titanium cups they had to wear to, erm, protect themselves from themselves. Subliminal messages such as "Thighmaster! Thighmaster! Buy one!" and "Chicks dig FEMUR TORQUE" were inserted into every possible orifice of Billboard's Top 100.
The campaign didn't quite net the results the Illuminati had hoped for, as the phone lines at Thighmaster HQ were often jammed with drooling masses wishing to order Ms. Somers herself; it was, by a long shot, a much better year for Kentucky Fried Chicken.
All right! Stop, collaborate, and listen. I've got a suggestion for you:
1) Build a time machine.
2) Go back in time.
3) Oops. Make sure you've calibrated it properly.
4) If you survive, and aren't stuck in a parallel dimension forever, go to an MC Hammer concert.
5) Murder MC Hammer with a laser cannon.
6) Hire Johnnie Cochran and have him use the "Space Invader Defense" to defend you in court. This defense will say that video games such as Pong and Space Invaders have warped your fragile little mind to such a degree that seeing a shiny, alien-like creature moving perfectly sideways in your range of vision compelled you to shoot him; and anyone else next to, above, or below him; with a laser cannon.
7) During said ass-capping, it might help your case to eat a flower and throw some hot balls into the crowd as well (it also might help defend you against the legions of devoted Hammer fans that will not at all appreciate saving the Good MC the agony of losing his shirt later in life, considering he would be at that time losing his life while at the given time in shirt).
This does leave the Ice Ice Baby phenomenon, for which there is no known cure. Will it ever stop? The Surgeon General says: "Yo, I don't know." My suggestion there is to smoke a lot of weed in an attempt to kill those specific brain cells that hold those lyrics. It probably won't work, but you'll certainly enjoy yourself, and find a set of benefits unique to your circumstances. I speak from experience: I will never be able to expel the demon that is the theme from Growing Pains, but with my biceps inflating to massive proportions thanks to two years of nachos, eaten with both arms, one chip at a time, thrice a day, I was able to break into Alan Thicke's house and subject him to hours of non-stop "noogies" and haiku about my massive arms.
teevee alumnus
check out my delicious guns
they bring slow vengeance
It's fitting to call them "guns" when they end up with bullets inside them, no doubt. That was a wild night.
Ask Mr. Cargo!
--Name and location exploded in a cloud of staples and pixie dust
Wait, wait, wait, wai-waiwai-waitwaitwa-wait... The "MC Skip"? In the five whole minutes I spent on Google trying to find an exact reference to the "MC Skip", the "M.C. Skip", and M. Seeskip (who is buried next to his butterfly collection in British Columbia, and whom I doubt has ever been 'done' anywhere near funky music) my sinus cavity began to pressurize horribly and I had to excuse myself to cry softly in the corner. Thus, I'll just speculate. Why not?!
For purposes of this question, let's just say that you are a woman in her late 20s residing somewhere east of West Wendover, Nevada and west of East Brunswick, New Jersey, who finds herself attending functions at which straight (or closeted) people decide in front of a crowd and a member of the clergy and/or notary public who they will one day bitterly divorce and/or emotionally cripple and/or slowly kill with arsenic for their estate and/or Social Security benefit. Much drink is consumed, many inhibitions (and perhaps a garment or two) are thrown to the wayside and dance moves of the later years (the death throes, one could say) of the previous century are resurrected, their agonized zombie corpses to be beaten and stomped on like grapes to make horrible, horrible, amusing wine.
1989 was not a very good year. Not at all oaky, only marginally funky, and way too much nose.
It's no coincidence that these dance moves by televised carnival acts including Vanilla Ice, MC Hammer and Milli Vanilli came to the fore around the same time the Thighmaster appeared on TV, my dear, for the rich, famous and Freemasons were the beta testers.
(Interesting bit of trivia: The success of the Thighmaster would net Suzanne Somers enough to buy her way out of indentured servitude to a Tijuana donkey show and pay Joyce DeWitt back that $500 she borrowed in 1983 to open an office in Tijuana)
As a result, many performers of the day had to dress in large, genie-like pants, sewn from bright fabrics made with fly wings and alien dung, in order to conceal their ever-growing thigh muscles and the protective titanium cups they had to wear to, erm, protect themselves from themselves. Subliminal messages such as "Thighmaster! Thighmaster! Buy one!" and "Chicks dig FEMUR TORQUE" were inserted into every possible orifice of Billboard's Top 100.
The campaign didn't quite net the results the Illuminati had hoped for, as the phone lines at Thighmaster HQ were often jammed with drooling masses wishing to order Ms. Somers herself; it was, by a long shot, a much better year for Kentucky Fried Chicken.
All right! Stop, collaborate, and listen. I've got a suggestion for you:
1) Build a time machine.
2) Go back in time.
3) Oops. Make sure you've calibrated it properly.
4) If you survive, and aren't stuck in a parallel dimension forever, go to an MC Hammer concert.
5) Murder MC Hammer with a laser cannon.
6) Hire Johnnie Cochran and have him use the "Space Invader Defense" to defend you in court. This defense will say that video games such as Pong and Space Invaders have warped your fragile little mind to such a degree that seeing a shiny, alien-like creature moving perfectly sideways in your range of vision compelled you to shoot him; and anyone else next to, above, or below him; with a laser cannon.
7) During said ass-capping, it might help your case to eat a flower and throw some hot balls into the crowd as well (it also might help defend you against the legions of devoted Hammer fans that will not at all appreciate saving the Good MC the agony of losing his shirt later in life, considering he would be at that time losing his life while at the given time in shirt).
This does leave the Ice Ice Baby phenomenon, for which there is no known cure. Will it ever stop? The Surgeon General says: "Yo, I don't know." My suggestion there is to smoke a lot of weed in an attempt to kill those specific brain cells that hold those lyrics. It probably won't work, but you'll certainly enjoy yourself, and find a set of benefits unique to your circumstances. I speak from experience: I will never be able to expel the demon that is the theme from Growing Pains, but with my biceps inflating to massive proportions thanks to two years of nachos, eaten with both arms, one chip at a time, thrice a day, I was able to break into Alan Thicke's house and subject him to hours of non-stop "noogies" and haiku about my massive arms.
teevee alumnus
check out my delicious guns
they bring slow vengeance
It's fitting to call them "guns" when they end up with bullets inside them, no doubt. That was a wild night.
Ask Mr. Cargo!
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Answers, Answers, Answers! Vol. 2
Lines of what?????
--Christy Lesnett
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
United States of Non-Fake America
To begin, some haiku:
i am quite content
i eat candy through my nose
then my heart explodes
blessed coca plant
from which goodness is derived
my gardener rocks
blood-brain barrier
those sweet granules do transcend
i can see through time
Furthermore:
Rhino-rooter! Funky Flour! Grampa John's Olde-Tyme Toothache Remedy! The northbound trip on I-20-dollar-bill to Snort Collins! Bogotá Booger Brightener! Unicorn dandruff! Ike! Daddy's 3Q Bonus! Commodities trader fuel! The ultimate motivational speaker! DeLorean Dust! Little Johnny's College Tuition! Parmesan Sneeze! Midland potting soil! Robin Williams' Pallid Ex-Boyfriend! That Silver Hanging Balls Perpetual Motion Toy Thingie In Powder Form!
It's coke, dearest Christy. Coke is what that guy in the Oompa Loompa costume really snorted off my left boob that night. Telling you it was Pixy-Stix(tm) was a half-truth; that's what it was cut with, I think, judging by the grape smell, and the fact that the last time I blew my nose the tissue animated itself and began booty-dancing to Tori Amos' Raspberry Swirl.
But I swear this is a hand-rolled candy cigarette.
All of my tubeworm friends make fun of the fact that I'm not as good as they are at creating cyanide compounds from filter feeding near deep ocean vents. What should I do?
--Bill
Marianas Trench
Tsk tsk. Those are the breaks, Bill. Life ain't fair. I've parodized a song for you, one from an animated feature whose rights are owned by a conglomerate that could buy and sell the both of us, buy us back at a 10% markup, then part us out just for the thrill of it.
Under the sea
under the sea
In trou-ble we're rich,
life's a shit sand-wich,
take it from me!
Under the sea,
under the sea!
Good luck is flee-ting,
so check your blea-ting
un-der the seaaa...
You can flip moods like a switch,
so suck it up, you Nancy bitch!
Pick up the slack, you
be-fore I rack you
UN-DER THE SEEEeeA!
You're kinda screwed in the compounds department, but keep your venthole up: We gotta do the best we can with what we've got, 'cause we're stuck with the billions of bacteria we sucked into our guts when we were young and had everything goin' for us. Your choices in your youth do have a lasting effect on your future, after all. The ol' organ pipes down at the Coral Reef Bar & Grill are mean for razzing you, sure, but life ain't fair. Maybe they knew all the right microbes. Maybe they got lucky and grew up close to some shark feces. Maybe Aquaneisha, Sassy Soul Goddess of the Sea, simply wants you to suffer.
I just don't know.
But listen up, kid. You think you got it bad? You think you got it bad?! My friend Frank, right, is a hydra not too far from your neck of the woods. Frank, despite reproducing asexually, has suffered numerous gay-bashings.
I don't know, man. Life in the underwater is tough.
SO KEEP YOUR CHIN UP, SHUT YOUR YAP
OR I WILL HAVE TO BUST A CAP--
Shit, I just got sued.
FRESH TRI-BU-LATION, PEN-DING LI-TIGA-TION
UNDER THE SEEEEEAAAAaaaaa....
....I recommend poetry or breaking into song (something public domain, preferably).
Is porn bad?
--Fugu
Man, you sea creatures love you some Mr. Cargo, don't you? Before I know it I'm going to be hosting a talk show and settling personality conflicts between co-dependent clownfish/anemone couplings and dodging chairs thrown by ghetto electric eels. "Hey, I'm a Portuguese Man-O-War, and I've grown weary of just floating along the sea, immobilizing small fish and miscellaneous creatures with my numerous poison stingers. I hear stories all the time about divers and surfers getting stung to death, yet all I get is sardines and plankton and shrimp -- the crumbs of the sea! When's my mammal going to come in? Man, one big score and I'd never have to actively float around waiting for miscellaneous creatures ever again. I could just live a lazy life of leisure and never have to worry about where my next meal's going to come from. Cargo, help me get rich with your time-tested, award-winning No-Dendrites-Down system!
Wait, that's not right. Eh.
Let me tell you something, Fugu: I am going to call myself Ricki Lagoon and contend with Jerry Hot-Springer and Oceanprah for the daytime talk ratings.
"Yes. Here I've got with me a creature that can paralyze a human being in a half-hour's time then make his heart explode. He is not at all concerned about containing startling amounts of neurotoxin, instead focusing his attention on porn... though he didn't say what kind of porn. He didn't ask about clown porn or monkey porn or stop-motion foodstuffs porn or even candy porn (Oh, for the days of Gumiman) -- so I don't really know how to answer.
Therefore, I will drop 50 random kinds of porn, written on rejected fortune cookie slips, into a hat and review one selection from this porn genre for this entry, to answer this in the most effective way possible."
Tonight's fortune: A karate chop to the face is just a hug lost in translation.
Tonight's movie: Caramel-Wrestling Furry Fox Kabuki Theatre 14
Tonight's lucky numbers: 5 17 8 13 42 9
..............Wow.
My answer for you, Mr. Poisonous Japanese Delicacy, is this:
Porn is not bad. Porn is bad-ass.*
Ask Mr. Cargo!
* May not apply to all porn
--Christy Lesnett
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
United States of Non-Fake America
To begin, some haiku:
i am quite content
i eat candy through my nose
then my heart explodes
blessed coca plant
from which goodness is derived
my gardener rocks
blood-brain barrier
those sweet granules do transcend
i can see through time
Furthermore:
Rhino-rooter! Funky Flour! Grampa John's Olde-Tyme Toothache Remedy! The northbound trip on I-20-dollar-bill to Snort Collins! Bogotá Booger Brightener! Unicorn dandruff! Ike! Daddy's 3Q Bonus! Commodities trader fuel! The ultimate motivational speaker! DeLorean Dust! Little Johnny's College Tuition! Parmesan Sneeze! Midland potting soil! Robin Williams' Pallid Ex-Boyfriend! That Silver Hanging Balls Perpetual Motion Toy Thingie In Powder Form!
It's coke, dearest Christy. Coke is what that guy in the Oompa Loompa costume really snorted off my left boob that night. Telling you it was Pixy-Stix(tm) was a half-truth; that's what it was cut with, I think, judging by the grape smell, and the fact that the last time I blew my nose the tissue animated itself and began booty-dancing to Tori Amos' Raspberry Swirl.
But I swear this is a hand-rolled candy cigarette.
All of my tubeworm friends make fun of the fact that I'm not as good as they are at creating cyanide compounds from filter feeding near deep ocean vents. What should I do?
--Bill
Marianas Trench
Tsk tsk. Those are the breaks, Bill. Life ain't fair. I've parodized a song for you, one from an animated feature whose rights are owned by a conglomerate that could buy and sell the both of us, buy us back at a 10% markup, then part us out just for the thrill of it.
Under the sea
under the sea
In trou-ble we're rich,
life's a shit sand-wich,
take it from me!
Under the sea,
under the sea!
Good luck is flee-ting,
so check your blea-ting
un-der the seaaa...
You can flip moods like a switch,
so suck it up, you Nancy bitch!
Pick up the slack, you
be-fore I rack you
UN-DER THE SEEEeeA!
You're kinda screwed in the compounds department, but keep your venthole up: We gotta do the best we can with what we've got, 'cause we're stuck with the billions of bacteria we sucked into our guts when we were young and had everything goin' for us. Your choices in your youth do have a lasting effect on your future, after all. The ol' organ pipes down at the Coral Reef Bar & Grill are mean for razzing you, sure, but life ain't fair. Maybe they knew all the right microbes. Maybe they got lucky and grew up close to some shark feces. Maybe Aquaneisha, Sassy Soul Goddess of the Sea, simply wants you to suffer.
I just don't know.
But listen up, kid. You think you got it bad? You think you got it bad?! My friend Frank, right, is a hydra not too far from your neck of the woods. Frank, despite reproducing asexually, has suffered numerous gay-bashings.
I don't know, man. Life in the underwater is tough.
SO KEEP YOUR CHIN UP, SHUT YOUR YAP
OR I WILL HAVE TO BUST A CAP--
Shit, I just got sued.
FRESH TRI-BU-LATION, PEN-DING LI-TIGA-TION
UNDER THE SEEEEEAAAAaaaaa....
....I recommend poetry or breaking into song (something public domain, preferably).
Is porn bad?
--Fugu
Man, you sea creatures love you some Mr. Cargo, don't you? Before I know it I'm going to be hosting a talk show and settling personality conflicts between co-dependent clownfish/anemone couplings and dodging chairs thrown by ghetto electric eels. "Hey, I'm a Portuguese Man-O-War, and I've grown weary of just floating along the sea, immobilizing small fish and miscellaneous creatures with my numerous poison stingers. I hear stories all the time about divers and surfers getting stung to death, yet all I get is sardines and plankton and shrimp -- the crumbs of the sea! When's my mammal going to come in? Man, one big score and I'd never have to actively float around waiting for miscellaneous creatures ever again. I could just live a lazy life of leisure and never have to worry about where my next meal's going to come from. Cargo, help me get rich with your time-tested, award-winning No-Dendrites-Down system!
Wait, that's not right. Eh.
Let me tell you something, Fugu: I am going to call myself Ricki Lagoon and contend with Jerry Hot-Springer and Oceanprah for the daytime talk ratings.
"Yes. Here I've got with me a creature that can paralyze a human being in a half-hour's time then make his heart explode. He is not at all concerned about containing startling amounts of neurotoxin, instead focusing his attention on porn... though he didn't say what kind of porn. He didn't ask about clown porn or monkey porn or stop-motion foodstuffs porn or even candy porn (Oh, for the days of Gumiman) -- so I don't really know how to answer.
Therefore, I will drop 50 random kinds of porn, written on rejected fortune cookie slips, into a hat and review one selection from this porn genre for this entry, to answer this in the most effective way possible."
Tonight's fortune: A karate chop to the face is just a hug lost in translation.
Tonight's movie: Caramel-Wrestling Furry Fox Kabuki Theatre 14
Tonight's lucky numbers: 5 17 8 13 42 9
..............Wow.
My answer for you, Mr. Poisonous Japanese Delicacy, is this:
Porn is not bad. Porn is bad-ass.*
Ask Mr. Cargo!
* May not apply to all porn
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Answers, Answers, Answers! Vol. 1
So, you're back. I knew you would be. Mr. Cargo, why did you go away? What have you been doing? Where did you go? WATER DISSOLVING, AND WATER REMOVED! THERE IS WATER AT THE BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN! How do I work this?
--Fictitia Figueroa
Fakeland, Fakevania, United States of Fakemerica
Beloved Fictitia,
Not the loudest citation of Talking Heads lyrics between here and the Great Salt Dunes of Arseland will make me talk, except to say that many sock drawers are now properly arranged and indexed to national specifications.
Mr. Cargo, many of us dream vigorously and non-stop about being insanely, filthy rich, and all the wacky, crazy things we would do, or not do, depending on what we do to continue feeding ourselves, defecating indoors and paying our silly bills.
My question to you, Mr. Cargo, is this: What would you do if you found yourself so endowed?
--Sue DeNymhh
Salt Fake City, Ufaketah USF
Ample-curved Sue,
Endowed, eh?! Whenever I think of the word "endowed" I without a doubt start thinking about wangs. Unfortunately for all of us, there's more to life than wangs. Speaking of things other than wangs: Your question! Were I to have unlimited (or semi-unlimited) funds, dare you inquire, I would do jack shit to begin with. Why?
Because I can! You know, it's funny, but what one could "do", presumably, could be something along the lines of years of non-idiotic financial decisions and/or one or two definitely idiotic but ultimately beneficial ones (Secret questionable bets by Braniff executives on a prized fighting cock named El Cabeza Loco de la Rodriguez Smith-Jones not being one), in which case it wouldn't so much be what one would do if one woke up after 20 years of investment and/or cash hoarding and deciding out of nowhere to go cash-mad, but what one would do if one came across some twisted windfall, like fathering Anna Nicole's baby, doing a few quick trades on the Black Tar Market or robbing ten banks. This seems to be the angle you're playing with your query.
*clears throat nervously*
What I meant to say was "what one would do in the event one wins the Powerball and/or encounters a wacky, suicidal multi-millionaire that uses a camera phone to stream, live to the Internet, himself pointing to one in a public square, screaming 'THIS UNKEMPT LARDASS GETS MY ENTIRE ESTATE!' and then shooting himself in the head."
Say that I am this man, this recipient of said Crackpot Jackpot(tm), and I could, at my option, give up my relatively mundane life as an accounting clerk and part-time editing monkey to wander the beautiful Earth as a career consumer, strutting around like I were hot shit under the sweltering Algerian sun while pointing and laughing uncontrollably (and undoubtedly condescendingly, as new money ought to) at people like, erm, myself.
The one thing I can think of off the top of my head (and this may change with a few nights' sleep on a 600-square-foot waterbed filled with Perrier-injected pearls) is this:
I would buy and fully restore a Yugo GV. I would go to fancy restaurants and start arguments with valet attendants (whose poorly paid buttocks have nonetheless grown accustomed to heated, retrofitted BMW seats made from the buttocks of Greek deities) and drop names like they were ticking.
One situation in particular (being that I will likely attend various hedonistic and/or extravagant shindigs with individuals of some status in the community) comes to my mind:
I pull up to an exclusive downtown eatery.
Me: "Don't scratch this, peasant. It was made in a country that no longer exists."
Valet: "Huh! Um, yeah. *snork* HEY, STARLA! COME LOOK A--Hold on, doucheba--er--sir--STARLA! CHECK THIS SHIT OUT!"
"Uh, 'Scuse me? I've got a baby seal and bay leaf smoothie waiting for me in the Hasselhoff Room, if you don't mind."
"STARLAAA! Haha! It's a LeCar!"
"Humph. Yugo GV, thank you very much. Renault? More like Re-NO WAY."
"Um, yeah, you've counted the change in the ashtray, right? It's safe with me, Mr. Uh... Dude."
"I will have you know that I am the Nicholas Cargo, famed recipient of the Denver Crackpot Jackpot(tm)! Traveler of the world! Meeter of movers and shakers! Seeker of hedonistic pleasures and hoarder of creature comforts on the backs of the working class! I ONCE WRESTLED IN PUDDING WITH THE ENTIRE CAST OF 'FERRIS BEULLER'S DAY OFF'!"
"...."
"YES, EVEN THAT GIRL THAT OFFERS THE PRINCIPAL THE GUMMI BEAR ON THE BUS! SHE'S MUCH OLDER NOW! SHE LOOKS KINDA LIKE DAWN FRENCH! AT LEAST SHE DID WHILE SHE WAS COVERED IN CHOCOLATE, FROM WHAT I COULD TELL, GIVEN THAT I SPENT A GOOD DEAL OF TIME WITH MY FACE BURIED IN MATTHEW BRODERICK'S--"
"--Right, right, riiiiight. Nick Fargo. How could I forget--STARLA! CALL SECURITY!"
"You don't--*humph!*--I can not believe this. This is such bullshit. Here, let me play you this tape. Go get your supervisor. He or she can listen too, and then I will have you justly executed."
TAPE PLAYS YELLO'S OH YEAH IN THE BACKGROUND AS A VOICE DICTATES: 'Hi. I'm Matthew Broderick, known to some of you lesser beings as Ferris Beuller. You may not believe the story my, erm, disjointed pudding-related acquaintance is about to tell, and are denying him goods and/or services as a result, but anything he tells you about me and pudding is absolutely, positively true. Mr. Cargo is a good man. Mr. Cargo is a rich man. Mr. Cargo generously tips those that take his boorish tantrums in stride. Mr. Cargo donates to wildlife charities to help rebuild the populations of exotic, most likely endangered animals he eats on a daily basis like you eat cheeseburgers and Doritos. This is Matthew Broderick, signing off. Long live Nicholas Cargo!' CHIC! CHIGGA-CHIGGAAaaaa!
This is followed by about thirty seconds of astonished silence, after which I am dragged out of the car and beaten mercilessly by several individuals. Later, I'd go on to sue the establishment and all parties involved, including the zombie Divine and a man in a bear suit, whose legal name never appears on the court docket.
Their defense would be: "If he could really afford the smoothie, why couldn't he at least upgrade from a damn tape deck?"
IT WAS A SIX-CASSETTE CHANGER, FOR YOUR INFORMATION, AND THOSE AIN'T CHEAP!
I'd go on to have my eyes modified to shoot lasers and the teeth knocked out by the valet extracted from his sneakers to make replicas I would then have implanted back into my mouth. They would change color depending on my mood. The man in the bear suit would go on to be mauled to death by a bear in a man suit. The valet would go on to win the 2009 Valet Olympics in Athens, Georgia. Starla never left her booth, because she just didn't give a shit, so she remains without a documented future.
...Or else I'd just stay in and order a pizza.
With extra sausage. And some of that cheese bread. Without a coupon.
Ask Mr. Cargo!
--Fictitia Figueroa
Fakeland, Fakevania, United States of Fakemerica
Beloved Fictitia,
Not the loudest citation of Talking Heads lyrics between here and the Great Salt Dunes of Arseland will make me talk, except to say that many sock drawers are now properly arranged and indexed to national specifications.
Mr. Cargo, many of us dream vigorously and non-stop about being insanely, filthy rich, and all the wacky, crazy things we would do, or not do, depending on what we do to continue feeding ourselves, defecating indoors and paying our silly bills.
My question to you, Mr. Cargo, is this: What would you do if you found yourself so endowed?
--Sue DeNymhh
Salt Fake City, Ufaketah USF
Ample-curved Sue,
Endowed, eh?! Whenever I think of the word "endowed" I without a doubt start thinking about wangs. Unfortunately for all of us, there's more to life than wangs. Speaking of things other than wangs: Your question! Were I to have unlimited (or semi-unlimited) funds, dare you inquire, I would do jack shit to begin with. Why?
Because I can! You know, it's funny, but what one could "do", presumably, could be something along the lines of years of non-idiotic financial decisions and/or one or two definitely idiotic but ultimately beneficial ones (Secret questionable bets by Braniff executives on a prized fighting cock named El Cabeza Loco de la Rodriguez Smith-Jones not being one), in which case it wouldn't so much be what one would do if one woke up after 20 years of investment and/or cash hoarding and deciding out of nowhere to go cash-mad, but what one would do if one came across some twisted windfall, like fathering Anna Nicole's baby, doing a few quick trades on the Black Tar Market or robbing ten banks. This seems to be the angle you're playing with your query.
*clears throat nervously*
What I meant to say was "what one would do in the event one wins the Powerball and/or encounters a wacky, suicidal multi-millionaire that uses a camera phone to stream, live to the Internet, himself pointing to one in a public square, screaming 'THIS UNKEMPT LARDASS GETS MY ENTIRE ESTATE!' and then shooting himself in the head."
Say that I am this man, this recipient of said Crackpot Jackpot(tm), and I could, at my option, give up my relatively mundane life as an accounting clerk and part-time editing monkey to wander the beautiful Earth as a career consumer, strutting around like I were hot shit under the sweltering Algerian sun while pointing and laughing uncontrollably (and undoubtedly condescendingly, as new money ought to) at people like, erm, myself.
The one thing I can think of off the top of my head (and this may change with a few nights' sleep on a 600-square-foot waterbed filled with Perrier-injected pearls) is this:
I would buy and fully restore a Yugo GV. I would go to fancy restaurants and start arguments with valet attendants (whose poorly paid buttocks have nonetheless grown accustomed to heated, retrofitted BMW seats made from the buttocks of Greek deities) and drop names like they were ticking.
One situation in particular (being that I will likely attend various hedonistic and/or extravagant shindigs with individuals of some status in the community) comes to my mind:
I pull up to an exclusive downtown eatery.
Me: "Don't scratch this, peasant. It was made in a country that no longer exists."
Valet: "Huh! Um, yeah. *snork* HEY, STARLA! COME LOOK A--Hold on, doucheba--er--sir--STARLA! CHECK THIS SHIT OUT!"
"Uh, 'Scuse me? I've got a baby seal and bay leaf smoothie waiting for me in the Hasselhoff Room, if you don't mind."
"STARLAAA! Haha! It's a LeCar!"
"Humph. Yugo GV, thank you very much. Renault? More like Re-NO WAY."
"Um, yeah, you've counted the change in the ashtray, right? It's safe with me, Mr. Uh... Dude."
"I will have you know that I am the Nicholas Cargo, famed recipient of the Denver Crackpot Jackpot(tm)! Traveler of the world! Meeter of movers and shakers! Seeker of hedonistic pleasures and hoarder of creature comforts on the backs of the working class! I ONCE WRESTLED IN PUDDING WITH THE ENTIRE CAST OF 'FERRIS BEULLER'S DAY OFF'!"
"...."
"YES, EVEN THAT GIRL THAT OFFERS THE PRINCIPAL THE GUMMI BEAR ON THE BUS! SHE'S MUCH OLDER NOW! SHE LOOKS KINDA LIKE DAWN FRENCH! AT LEAST SHE DID WHILE SHE WAS COVERED IN CHOCOLATE, FROM WHAT I COULD TELL, GIVEN THAT I SPENT A GOOD DEAL OF TIME WITH MY FACE BURIED IN MATTHEW BRODERICK'S--"
"--Right, right, riiiiight. Nick Fargo. How could I forget--STARLA! CALL SECURITY!"
"You don't--*humph!*--I can not believe this. This is such bullshit. Here, let me play you this tape. Go get your supervisor. He or she can listen too, and then I will have you justly executed."
TAPE PLAYS YELLO'S OH YEAH IN THE BACKGROUND AS A VOICE DICTATES: 'Hi. I'm Matthew Broderick, known to some of you lesser beings as Ferris Beuller. You may not believe the story my, erm, disjointed pudding-related acquaintance is about to tell, and are denying him goods and/or services as a result, but anything he tells you about me and pudding is absolutely, positively true. Mr. Cargo is a good man. Mr. Cargo is a rich man. Mr. Cargo generously tips those that take his boorish tantrums in stride. Mr. Cargo donates to wildlife charities to help rebuild the populations of exotic, most likely endangered animals he eats on a daily basis like you eat cheeseburgers and Doritos. This is Matthew Broderick, signing off. Long live Nicholas Cargo!' CHIC! CHIGGA-CHIGGAAaaaa!
This is followed by about thirty seconds of astonished silence, after which I am dragged out of the car and beaten mercilessly by several individuals. Later, I'd go on to sue the establishment and all parties involved, including the zombie Divine and a man in a bear suit, whose legal name never appears on the court docket.
Their defense would be: "If he could really afford the smoothie, why couldn't he at least upgrade from a damn tape deck?"
IT WAS A SIX-CASSETTE CHANGER, FOR YOUR INFORMATION, AND THOSE AIN'T CHEAP!
I'd go on to have my eyes modified to shoot lasers and the teeth knocked out by the valet extracted from his sneakers to make replicas I would then have implanted back into my mouth. They would change color depending on my mood. The man in the bear suit would go on to be mauled to death by a bear in a man suit. The valet would go on to win the 2009 Valet Olympics in Athens, Georgia. Starla never left her booth, because she just didn't give a shit, so she remains without a documented future.
...Or else I'd just stay in and order a pizza.
With extra sausage. And some of that cheese bread. Without a coupon.
Ask Mr. Cargo!
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