Slushy Harvest Season Begins

I woke up the other morning to a most peculiar miracle. I couldn’t imagine what would make bath bubbles fall from the sky, and it didn’t add up. It wasn’t until I got outside that I understood what was on the ground… original recipe slushy. story137

Since there was many tons of slushy falling from the sky, I assumed I was dreaming. I’ve had dreams before and it didn’t feel like this, so I ruled that out. Yet at the same time I’m pretty certain I’m no prophet, so I don’t think it was a sign from God either. Am I crazy and the only one witnessing this, or is the ground actually covered with a half inch of seriously bland slushy?

Perhaps bland isn’t the right word exactly. It tasted like car and metal, a little bit. Not like a normal slushy. Those are full of sugar, which I’m told is an artificial additive. So I guess this would be a diet slushy, since it really doesn’t have any calories. Then my realization comes to me and I understand what’s going on.

This is no burning bush, we are witnessing the annual slushy spawning, when the slushy farmers harvest their slushy crops. It’s bland because we’re seeing (and eating) the raw material, not the finished product. Just like my wool sweater didn’t come from an argyle sheep… say, that’s a pretty funny image.

I half suspect we’re not supposed to eat this stuff right off the ground. If God wants us to, He should probably rain straws from heaven too, don’t you think? While I contemplate this, I’m going to go back out and gobble up some more. Don’t be shy, go ahead and help yourself.


Mumblers Blossom at Articulation Camp

A new craze in kiddo-rearing is sweeping the neighborhood. It’s called articulation camp and the pupils are lining up in droves or, as many of them say, “dwoves.”

I just don`t think my mouth was built to say Chihuahua.
I just don`t think my mouth was built to say Chihuahua.

Do you struggle with words or know someone who does? They may be suffering from mumbling (though it’s those of us who have to understand you that really suffer.) Well, put your fretty-face back in your back pocket because help is here.

As a mumbler myself, I took a free introductory course where I learned to say commonplace words like “slap-happy” and “bolshevik.” I felt pretty shaky with it at first though they’ve assured me I was doing great. I had never even heard words like “clambake” or “banjo,” but there I was prattling them off as nilly as Willy himself.

With the help of a more articulate pupil (not unlike a grad student who teaches psych 101) I learned how to cram my mouth into funky shapes while contorting my tongue like an anorexic French acrobat. Next thing you know, out pops “foible”, “finagle” and “spatula”. BAM! Just like that, baby. Again, I didn’t really hear it when I said it, but my tutors were just thrilled to kibbles about my progress and assured me I’d really said that stuff.

The courses are priced to meet any budget, and even offers a sliding scale for mumblers less fortunate (ie, having no allowance like myself.)

Prices range from one’s entire life savings all the way down to less than that. In some instances they will also accept payment in the form of premium foodstuffs such as macaroni or candy.

I’m sure you’re wondering so I’ll just tell you. It’s hard to explain what the spoons I’m holding are all about, but they assured me spoons are somehow imperative to the instruction. Besides, I have this spoon thing going on. I’m really fond of them and I often just kind of strut the town with spoons in hand and/or mouth. I can’t really explain that fascination either.


Finding Brendo

The latest heartwarming tale of father and son is available now, but not in stores or on DVD. It is only available here and within your own family.

While it may look as though I`m off the coast of Australia frollicking with sea horses and/or monkeys, it ain`t so.
While it may look as though I`m off the coast of Australia frollicking with sea horses and/or monkeys, it ain`t so.

This is a story about a young boy, Brendo, lost in an ocean of choices. What to do, who to be, and how to grow into the shoes he wishes to wear (even though they are Blues Clues slippers, which are kind of one size fits all.)

With the help of his protective father and a dumb blue fish he wanders from room to room grabbing and biting noun after noun, trying to find reason in it all.

He asks himself questions like “What is my destiny?”, “What does stuff taste like?” and “Why am I in the bathtub with all my clothes on?”

But destiny is not a component for impressionable Brendo, who is free to create his own fate. He may choose business, janitorial, clergy or even to be one of the many much despised astronauts who plague this earth. Even if he ends up a journalist, he will be loved, even if only by his parents.

How does the story end? That’s the cliffhanger, we can’t say yet. It’s written by daddy-o who has written quite a bit in his life. Still, he considers this without a doubt his greatest work of non-fiction to date. Keep tuning in, both to this site and to a child near you, and relish the story every day as it unfolds.

One certainty we can share is that along his journey he learns that he doesn’t wish to become a reefer turtle, even if it would make him live to 150 years of age. Oh, and he doesn’t have a gimpy fin so stop looking for one.

Brother Likely Replaced by Pod-Brother

Citizens beware, there is odd plus kooky danger afoot and aface. The trouble surfaced this morning when my own brother was clearly not himself, believed to be victim to alien control or substitution. story131

After my morning Cheerio routine, which I plan on discussing later, I picked up on some commotion going on with who I thought was my brother. He was laughing in hysterics over nothing in particular. Naturally, I had to check it out.

Something looked different about him. It wasn’t a new hairdo, since he’s silky smooth up there. It wasn’t new shoes or a teeth whitening, but it was definitely something. I haven’t quite put my finger on it yet, though as you can see in the picture below, I did try. While he seemed happy, I knew it wasn’t him I was seeing.

That’s when I was sure he had been body-snatched by a race of highly plasticine pod folk. It didn’t make much sense to me, I thought they would start with world leaders and people in the media, like me. But here they were on (or in) Patrick’s head I’m as sure as I am about anything. I figured maybe they were starting small with a sinister plot to work their way up from there.

Have you ever been body-snatched? It’s not cool, let me tell you. I haven’t been body-snatched per se, but I have had similar experiences, and by “similar” I mean dissimilar. I’ve been held upside down, snatched from the ground before tearing open the CD player (yet again), and let’s not forget that whole “being born” experience, though thankfully I’ve already blocked most memories of that.

Do you know what pod people look like? They look like people who live in pods. Why would they do that? That’s gross and scary all at the same time. Do you want those people taking over your brother? I don’t think so.

The other very real possibility is that he’s under alien control. Like those floating brain-thingys in Futurama. Those are scary. They stick on your head and see everything you do and control you like puppet, except they’re made out of meat and gristle instead of cotton.

No matter what the truth is behind this caper, I’m determined to get to the bottom of it even if it means paying attention and remembering to do it — both tasks I’m ill designed to carry out. I will report back on this as the story unfolds.

So anyway, about the Cheerio thing I mentioned earlier. This morning my feeder, dad, decided to feed me in the bedroom instead of at the table. I don’t know why, but he thought I’d make a mess if he just gave me the bowl as usual. Instead, he put them right in my mouth for me. I resisted of course, but he insisted. That’s kinda poetic, huh? Anyway, not one to let any obstacle stand in my way, I let him put them in my mouth, but then I took them out and looked at them. Hey, I wanted them in my own hand, okay? Then, just to see how much I could reverse the process, I put them back in the bowl and waited for the next one. How cool is that? I figured out how to undo things instead of just doing them!

3-D Abacus: Adds, Subtracts, Diagrams Sentences

I can’t speak for the rest of you, but I am a most tech-savvy toddler. I know about computers and how to nibble them, remote controls and how to nibble them, and even cameras and how to nibble them. 

What I had never encountered before was the abacus. It didn’t take long to get a handle and two teeth on it. The problem with it is the limitations caused by it’s flatness, or “flatitude” if you will.

The newly devised 3-D Abacus takes simple math and goes to a whole new hog-wilderness dimension. (That’s a place in which hogs go hog wild, for you laypeople.) Allow me to explain:


  • Basic with a twist. Down the sides of it you can see an almost traditional abacus, except it’s color coded. Now you can balance your checkbook while coordinating your outfit and keeping track of your fruit and vegetable intake. Snappy!
  • Advanced. The beads represent numbers. The shapes represent placeholders like 10 and 100. And the colors represent different flavors you may wish to consider for snack time. Nummy, no? This is just the beginning!
  • Clever. The swirly wires calculate volume, velocity, and modern artsy-ness. Further, the wires function as a tuning fork in harmonic fifths if you’re musically inclined. And, if you’re not, you can just bang on them to make noises and play it in your zydeco band.
  • Complicated. The height solves for both pi and pie. The colors represent ingredients, OR functions of sine, cosine and the other one. So right there we go from arithmetic to trigonometry and advanced cooking. Are you starting to get a picture of how valuable this tool is?“But is it portable?” you may ask. F’get about it! Any 400-pound gorilla could easily move this a short distance with significant help.I’m just scratching the surface of what this merry devise can tackle. There are letters on the side which, in conjunction with the wirey doo-da bars, can be used to diagram sentences. Advanced users, upon sufficient practice, can determine both the origin of the universe and the meaning of life. But we’ll get to that another day. For now, I’ve got to get back to practicing my percussion’s before our big gig at the Creole bar.


My Newest Invention: Balance

As many of you know I am a scientist in constant pursuit of knowledge. For those of you who don’t know let this be your final notice, I don’t wish to repeat myself. 

This is no act of photo trickery. This, my friends, is an actual demonstration.*
This is no act of photo trickery. This, my friends, is an actual demonstration.*

Daily I conduct experiments in physics, but my latest accomplishment may prove to be the most revolutionary and beneficial to date.

I have named my latest invention “balance.” I say invention rather than discovery because discovery implies it’s always existed and that I just found out about it. That’s not the case here. I’ve been conducting experiments and refining my tests with each effort building up to this final achievement. I share my findings publicly though I still wish to retain the intellectual rights to it so should I decide to charge royalties, I can.

I hypothesize that if I can prolong my periods of balance for a longer duration I will be able to move about with greatly increased speed and efficiency, and I won’t have to bang up my knees quite so much. Imagine the benefits of having your hands free while in motion. I could carry things, grab things as I pass, or stuff them into my pockets for dramatic effect.

It’s complicated to explain the method by which one stands up utilizing balance, but I’ve been able to boil it down thusly: Stand on two feet and don’t fall over. Well, what do you think?

Though I’ve submitted my results to the American Journal of Science I’ve been forewarned that my article may not be publicized citing, “humans are supposed to stand erect, we’ve been doing it for thousands of years.” I stand undeterred (when I manage to stand at all). Every great mind has equally great critics, though maybe “great” isn’t the right word for them. Maybe they’ll recognize my engineering prowess once I perfect the walk, jog, or sprint. No matter though, it’s the same old chestnut, they just wish they’d thought of it first.

Indoor Birdbath Off-Limits

I like birds and I like birdbaths. What a great communal chill spot for my chirpy friends of the air. I believe my love is common, based on the fact that every home I’ve seen has at least one birdbath inside, despite the prevailing absence of birds.

Bet you never thought you could see such joy in an image like this...
Bet you never thought you could see such joy in an image like this…

When I’m outside, no one has ever complained of my feather spa curiosity, nor of the time I spend splashing around like the birds do. Somehow, when I get inside, it’s magically unacceptable. It’s clearly not a sanitary issue since typically the water is changed out several times a day. You never see month old stagnant water in these indoor types, no mosquito farms, no leftover autumn leaves. Though in all fairness, I’m told that if you did it would be a most unpleasant spectacle.

Is it my lack of wings? No, I don’t have feathers, wrinkle-spindly feet, nor a stylish beak. I don’t chirp sweet symphonies and I don’t eat fetid seeds, though I surely would given the opportunity. I do have more gobble than a turkey, but I’ve never seen a turkey in a bird bath either, come to think of it. I have been called a silly turkey before by my dad, but I think he’d had some Wild Turkey, so I’m not sure if it counts.

birdbath-tallAs you can see to the left, I have quite a churn going. I can really swish it around in there butt good. I wonder if birds can even do it so well? Maybe bigger birds like ducks and geese, but they are foul, aren’t they? I mean, my hand(s) in here is debatably foul too, but I meant in the literal sense.

I’ve grown older and wiser over time, but the rule on this matter has been steady. You can see from the picture below where I’m wearing my stylish Spit Happens bib, that my affinity for the fountain is not new. Even then, when I was so much younger and grouchier, they would threaten me with embargo, insisting they would not trade any goods or services with me. Naturally, I changed my policies, but so much time has passed, I think we should revisit this issue.

Whoa. I just had a major revelation here… Is my toilet shrinking? Look at the below picture taken a few months back. You’ll see I’m standing totally upright and my shoulders are maybe 2-4 inches above the lid… Now look at the current photo taken in the same place. I’m leaning over like a Tae Bo master with my legs apart like a Jumping Jack. Yet still, I’m clearing the lid by maybe six inches. This is most alarming.

As much as I’d like to hang out and toss jokes about birds in the house and the virtues of slapping toilet water as if I was a tongue of dog, I really must go in efforts to address this peculiar new concern. I do not know how I will begin my research, but I must learn what’s causing this wicked recent shrinkage. At this pace, the world will fit in my pocket within just 10 years. Pray for me.

Womb With a View Offers Unprecedented Accommodations

By guest writer, Baby X

You can see me here peeking out at my new boss during the interview. This is my womb with a view.
You can see me here peeking out at my new boss during the interview. This is my womb with a view.

Editors Note – As the search for a new junior writer/editor winds down, I’ve had a chance to interview the front-running candidate. What follows is his or her* first article for our publication, an introductory sampling, if you will. Please enjoy. — Brendan

I’ve never been anywhere like this before. As far as places to stay, the accommodation here is really good, though it’s a tough place to get into. I consider myself lucky because I’ve got the womb reserved through March/April.

So what do you look for when you’re deciding how good a place is?

Comfy. Oh my yes. It’s always tropically warm (womb temperature) and there’s plenty of space to stretch out.

  • Security. No one gets in or out of this place. And, with the way it’s constructed I doubt I’d even feel an earthquake.
  • Location, location, location. It’s conveniently located within walking distance of, get this, everything I have ever known. Try saying that, Mr. Ramada.
  • Price. Best I can tell it’s free. I was never asked for a credit card. I’ve never even signed a womb slip, nothing. I think the tab is being picked up on this one. Maybe because I’m an aspiring journalist, I’m not sure.
  • Room Service. Everything I’ve ever had or wanted is on the menu and immediately available. How is it when you’re somewhere? You read a menu, make a call and then wait an hour for something lukewarm to be delivered by some organ grinder monkey who expects a tip. Consider this the endless cruise buffet, but without all the hassle of having to ask for or chew your own food. It’s just there, in your body, done. Like a Big Mac I.V. (I put the dots there so you’d know I didn’t mean “4.”)

So when I say unprecedented, I really mean it. This place is like no other I have ever seen. This is as first place as any first place could ever be. It’s new, it’s good, and it’s nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I would recommend everyone try being within the womb at least once in their lives… I wonder how many actually do?

interview2* Seriously though, what’s the deal with this “his or her” business? I know we don’t wish to appear to discriminate, but let’s be honest with ourselves here, I think we know who we’re going with. Can’t we just ask more personal questions like gender or name? It’s going to make getting back in contact difficult… although, if I don’t know who to make it out to, I guess I can’t write a paycheck, can I?

So now let’s talk about junior writer/editor. Baby X is a real deal, folks. There’s another staff member on the way. This isn’t just a pygmy of my imagination. They won’t give me a name or gender, but “he, she or it” is en route. What should I do? How should I address this? Do you guys even have any feedback for me? I would love to hear it if you do, and I mean that sincerely.



Womb With a View Offers Unprecedented Accommodations

By guest writer, Baby X Editors Note – As the search for a new junior writer/editor winds down, Ive had a chance to interview the front-running candidate. What follows is his or her* first article for our publication, an introductory sampling, if you will. Please enjoy. — Brendan

Go ahead and look back through the previous seven pieces and you’ll see for yourself that I’m wearing the same shirt. It’s grey, it’s patterned, and it’s handsome. So why is this so?

Let’s examine all the possibilities. You and me together, okay? Okay.


  • One very obscure and remote possibility is that I wore the one outfit during a very long photo shoot. In essence, a week’s worth of pictures were taken all at once when I had no opportunity to hit wardrobe. This is pretty unlikely because, as you know, I’m a pro. Even if the news actually happened all at once, rather than once a day as it’s administered, wouldn’t my people be smart enough to plan around that? Change the outfits out a bit? This theory does not test well.
  • Perhaps I have not changed my outfit this entire week. It could be that the wardrobe lady was on vacation or that I was just unwilling to be man enough to change. Maybe I wasn’t quite done with it yet. Maybe because I had heard that clothes get stinky after a few days and wanted to see for myself. Maybe just because I’d never worn a shirt for a week and wanted the experience. It could be that this is my own filthy fashion statement. Nasty, for sure, but worth a solid ponder.
  • Slight of hand. It could be that these are in fact all very different shirts: different colors, different fabrics, different everything. They only appear identical due to fantastic trickery. This theory, while plausible in many ways, is sadly implausible on the whole. Nay, beyond implausible, outright dumb.
  • It could be that this is my favorite shirt, that I insist on wearing it whenever it is clean and that laundry was done every day this week. I mean, it’s not my favorite shirt but how do you know that? I could be leading you on, being sneaky, or even telling a tale of medium height. This possibility still leaves too many variables out of line.
  • Perhaps I’m all Einsteiny and have seven identical matching outfits, one for each day. That way I don’t need to dedicate any mental energy to the process of dressing myself. Of course, I don’t dress myself, so I actually dedicate neither mental nor physical energy to the task.
  • It might be my new trademark. Yes, that’s possible. What if I’m wanting to establish myself as more of a brand, like that infernally elusive Waldo fellow. This could be especially true if I have an endorsement deal. Big bucks for wearing a brand name don’t you know… of course, this isn’t a branded shirt per se and, if I’m going to brand myself, I could do far better than this goofy thing.
  • Of course, I could have just done it on purpose to see if you’d notice, make you wonder what’s going on. Did you think of that? Huh? Huh? Did you?


So what’s the real answer? That’s the thing, no one knows. This is a mystery bound to go down in the history books as one of the great unsolvables, right up there with who built the pyramids, who moved them from Atlantis to Egypt, and where did I leave my keys? Sadly, I must leave you to ponder.


Will You Still Need Me, Will You Still Feed Me?

When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now, will you still be sending me a Valentine, birthday greetings, bottle of wine? If I’d been out ’till quarter to three, would you lock the door? Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four?

You’ll be older, too. And if  you say the word, I could stay with you.

I could be handy, mending a fuse, when your lights have gone. You can knit a sweater by the fireside, Sunday mornings go for a ride. Doing the garden, digging the weeds, who could ask for more? Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four?

Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight if it’s not to dear. We shall scrimp and save. Grandchildren on your knee, Vera, Chuck, and Dave.

Send me a postcard, drop me a line stating point of view. Indicate precisely what you mean to say, your sincerely wasting away. Give me your answer, fill in a form, mine forever more. Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four?

On a less melodious note, the question still stands. Having a bizarre and comical insite to what I may look like a million years from now makes me think. I’ve been told more than anything how cute I am. That will fade, and when it does, will I have the tools in my chest to still be loveable?

People my age really dream about being older a lot, but having a picture of what older looks like… I just don’t know any more. You know?

Just a clearer shot, without the dentures of course. Hey, do people actually live to the age of sixty-four? Seems like an awfully long time to me.