Dream Weaver

I have another one of my patented "Great Ideas" (TM). I will file an application with the US Copyright Office to copyright the pattern of the brainwaves generated by REM sleep. Then, anyone who dreams will be infringing upon my copyright and will owe me royalties and attorney fees.


It is my understanding that all animals superior in the chain of command to the duck-billed platypus require REM sleep, so this simple copyright filing should make me the supreme ruler of all mammals. (I can't recall whether the platypus will or will not be under my dominion, so that might present an opportunity for someone out there). If it turns out that there actually is a God, all available evidence indicates that he/she/transgender would require REM sleep and will therefore be under my control as well.


Finally I am getting somewhere.

Dicking Around Update!

If you are reading this, you are too close. As suspected, the amount of time Americans spend dicking around has reached epidemic proportions. According to a survey by Salary.com, the "average" American worker spends almost 2 hours per workday dicking around. This prompts one to wonder, "What is Salary.com's statistical methodology?"

The Bureau of Labor Statistics of the US Guvmint reports "an average weekday for persons employed full time and who worked on that day included 9.3 hours working, 7.6 hours sleeping, 3.0 hours doing leisure and sports activities, and 0.9 hour doing household activities. The remaining 3.2 hours were spent in other activities, such as those described above. (These estimates include related travel time.)" Note, there is no mention of dicking around by the BLS!?!

Now, who are you going to believe, a dot.com jobsite or The Guvmint? The proof is in the reading. You are, de facto, dicking around. We must go with the internets on this one.

Working Class Gyro

One of my fans considers me to be a "smarty pants." By this, he/she/transgender seems to really mean that my pants are not, in fact, smart. This is a literary device known as "irony." The ironic thing is that my pants are, in fact, of average intelligence for pants. Granted, they are not smart relative to, say, a prescient being. But for pants, hey what do you expect? They stay on until I take them off and then they stay off until I put them on. Nice try though.

I do not belong to the working class. Instead, I belong to the class that goes "to work" but who then dicks around instead of working. Perhaps we should be termed the "dicking class." Judging by the blogs I've seen, the dicking class seems to be a large and growing segment of the world.


According to a definition I heard on the radio from a guy who was authoritative enough to be on the radio, "working class" is defined as a person who works where, when, and for how long the boss directs. To me, that doesn't seem right. My employees never seem to work where, when, or for how long I tell them to. I, on the other hand, always seem to be working. Maybe I do belong to the working class. But yet, don't forget about the dicking around.

Much of the working and dicking around that I do is uncompensated. For example, every year, I volunteer at the Toys for Tots program to hand out toys to parents of "underprivileged" children. Because my pants are not smart enough to object, I always get stuck standing outside in the cold to help people load the bags of toys into their vehicles. The deal is that parents somehow qualify to get free toys which are donated by the rest of us. There is a large convention center which is chock full of every toy imaginable. They are divided by age category and sex category and there is some type of rationing system that allows a parent to get, say, 1 large toy, 5 medium toys and 10 stocking stuffers per child (don't quote me on the numbers. I don't really know because, as I said, I'm standing outside in the cold). Whatever the rationing, the end result is that each parent seems to end up with at least one if not two or three 40 gallon bags full of stuff. These are what I get to cram into their vehicles.

Sometimes the folks are very grateful, and, as I load a bag into their 1976 Corolla, I figure I'm probably helping some kids enjoy a nice holiday. Other times, when I'm trying to negotiate around the giant speaker system in the back of a $60,000 Escalade but I dare not ask the owner to help for fear of breaking her unconscionably long, freshly manicured nails, I wonder whether I shouldn't belong to that class. I rationalize my assistance by assuming that this idiot's children won't get any decent toys but for the program despite the fact that, obviously, there would be better expenditures of her money. Yet I still have to wonder, am I really serving society best by enabling the continued gross consumption.

No, I better serve by dicking around. Witness the religion to synthesize all other religions and thereby render them unneccesary and end all need for warfare. Them are some smart pants.

That Which We Call A Seat

By any other name would smell as sweet.

Last night, a woman told me that she is able to sit with her legs in a certain cross-legged fashion and to thereby masturbate by bouncing one leg. Needless to say, I've spent the better part of this morning adjusting my seating position, but no such luck.

Has anyone had any luck with this concept?

"Las Vegas Revue" Not in Las Vegas and Not a Revue

It has come to my attention that there is a discotheque just North of Chicago which goes by the name "Las Vegas Revue." As I mentioned, the location of this particular hotspot is North of Chicago. It is, therefore, not located in Las Vegas. This is simply geographic incompetence.

The greater offense is perpetrated by the fact that the Las Vegas Revue is NOT a revue. A "revue" is defined as "a musical show consisting of skits, songs, and dances, often satirizing current events, trends, and personalities."

I have it on good authority that the Las Vegas Revue hosts no skits or songs. There are dances but they are not very satirical. In short, the Las Vegas Revue is guilty of false advertising.

A person might be driving down the road thinking, "Las Vegas Revue?, maybe I'll stop in here to catch a skit." Upon learning of the $20.00 cover charge, the person might say, "Boy, that is expensive, but it will be worth it to see a good lampooning of our current political leaders." After entering and ordering a beer, the person might be shocked to learn that no alcohol is served and that there is a one drink minimum. "Ok, I guess I'll have a $12.00 Pepsi," the person is likely to say. "It will be worth it to see some satirical personalities." This person is in for a surprise.

This happened to a friend of mine, and he was sorely disappointed by the lack of satirical personalities. There were people dancing. In fact, people kept asking for a "private dance." This flies in the face of the "revue" concept.

A revue is a SHOW. You need costumes. These people had no costumes. You need public spoofery. These people were spoofing in private. You need burlesque. Well, admittedly they did have burlesque. But they were missing all of the other finer elements of a revue.

It is the classic bait and switch.

Blogger Tires of Working - Resumes Dicking Around

In a surprise move today, renowned blogger OneEar, Chief Chief Chief of Rusty Enterprises Corporation, Ltd. and High Priestest of the First Unification ChurcK, became bored and resumed blogging activities.

OneEar has discovered The Earfarm/ which is a music-related site dedicated to the restoration of ears. Rusty will be very interested in learning about this. Very interested. the fluffies and the Clown Squad will be contacted to see if they have any new material to submit to this site.

This empire is growing like a giant fungus.

How about the name Marsh Room and the Fun Guys?

Blogger to Attempt to Get Some Work Done

Smell Ya Later

I'm quitting the band. Last night I went to the jam, you know, the one across the street. As usual, I ended up playing the bass because, as usual, I was the worst guitar player in the room.

Nonetheless, I have a good time when I go, and they always give me free beer which is one of my favorite brands. They have a "table tapper" which holds 110 oz and includes a frozen dildo-looking thing that keeps it cold. But, I digress.

I'm quitting the band. Last night, there was a female singer who showed up, and I am going to make her a *Star*. Her name was something, she is in her 20s, and she has an exotic accent. When I asked her from where she is, she said several words which led me to conclude that she is probably from Poland or East Germany. After concluding that it really doesn't matter, I elected not to pursue the subject.

Forget about her nationality, you've got to hear her chops. When she got up on stage, she asked the guys if they could play several songs. I think I understood the words she was saying, but none of them sounded like songs of which I had heard. Eventually, consensus arrived at "Highway to Hell." I probably haven't listed to AC/DC since 10th grade, but I have to say that the song does rock. And the eastern girl TORE IT UP! She proceeded to sing 3 or 4 songs that nobody knew, but somehow she carried it. It sounded - -- good.

This is when the lightbulb shattered in my brain. Epiphany. A band should have a singer.