On I’m a Little Tea Pot.


Today, I noticed, that when I’m at the urinal I subconsciously stand on my tip toes, and lean froward when I piss.  As if the function of urination is like pouring water from the pitcher that is my body.

“Bad Sex On Speed” by Jerry Stahl, “Brother Sam” by Bill Kinison with Steve Delsohn, and “Knuckle” from Ian Palmer.


I’d recommend all of these.
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This might not be for everyone.  It’s a collection of ramblings from the point of view of someone that is on hard drugs while writing them.  I found it hilarious.

Brother-Sam

Sam’s brother’s book on him.

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And I just watched this on Netflix, and I couldn’t stop laughing.

On Jury Duty


Lawyer:  Is there anything that would prevent you from serving on this jury?
Me:  No.  I’m ready to let them feel the strong arm of justice.  Make use of that electric chair.

Silence.

Me: Ole Sparky.
Lawyer: We don’t execute people in this court.
Me: We will if you elect me jury foreman.
Lawyer: You’re dismissed.

And I really wanted to serve.  I was being earnest.

“Crash and Burn” by Artie Lange and Anthony Bozza, and “Happy Mutant Baby Pills” by Jerry Stahl.


I’d recommend this shit:

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I love the fuck out of Artie. My two favorite things he did on Howard are the day he did the news as Michael Jackson as a construction worker where he asked Quincy Jones to hold his tool belt while he shit in the spackle bucket.  And the day he did the news as Chazz Bono after the sex change where Chazz had gone so overboard with becoming a man that he had become an out in the open  homophobe.

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I also love the fuck out of Jerry Stahl, although he does that silly nonsense that gives me docuhe chills where he has to mention all the hip trends, and shit the kids are into on the computers.  I’ve just started to accept cell phones in movies as not docuhey, and only if they’re flip phones.

Happy Holidays.

On Surviving.


Whenever I run into somebody from the past; be it from high school, college, or just life they all say the same thing – “you’re still alive?”  Astonishingly they say this to me.  Jaws agape.  Looking at me like how a dog looks at you when you try to rationally explain your thought process to it.  I’m thirty three.  I’m not sure how to take this.  I’m that one friend your girl tries to forbid you from hanging out with anymore because of the next day cleanup.  “Andy, you’re supposed to be an adult.  You’re just never going to make adult decisions.  Maybe I’m wasting my time thinking you could be responsible enough to be in a relationship with.”  My fucked up decision making process goes so hard, and deep that I was thrown out of Boces, which is a place where New York State sends the kids they don’t feel comfortable having around around the other students.  Boces is where the state realizes that these are kids that won’t be advancing in life, and they at least try to teach them a trade.  And, I wasn’t assigned there, or thrown out for any behavioral issues.  It was because New York State found my unique version of creativity scary.

In a previous relationship I bought a pair of panties, and hid them in an incriminating manor because I thought my old lady’s reaction would be funny.  I did this not thinking through that there would be no explaining.  As my mother used to implore to me as a kid when she was punishing me; “think before you act.”

Everyone else ready for Christmas?

I created this with my boredom.  It really doesn’t make a lick of sense unless the new Pope is assassinated for being a Pope based in reality.

Copy write 2013 I, Flounder

Copyright 2013 I, Flounder

On Neighbors.


My parents have these neighbors who they have to call the village on once a year to get them to  clean up their yard because they throw their trash out the windows.  Giant rats run from their mess.  The paper boy flees complaining about the smell.  I remember having to go home, and change my pants one day when I was in first grade because I sat on their couch, and it was covered in dog puke that they had long left there.  And, they named their dog nigger.  They’d call out to it.  I don’t know how they made themselves feel above anyone, but somehow they did.

My parents planet giant arborvitaes between the two houses to act as a protective wall.  They block the view, and act as the last line of defense to keep out soda bottles, and trash that the wind blows down the hill from the neighbors yard into my parents yard.  One year my father left out a pie tin full of antifreeze to poison the deer that were eating these trees.  A meter reader from the electric company was making his routine rounds to check the equipment, and reported this dish he saw to the state.  I was at home when the officer showed up.  I knew nothing about it, and my father had taken away the evidence, so I directed the officer towards the neighbor’s house thinking he just had the wrong address.  He took one look on the other side of the hedge row, and never came back.

The father of the family living next door considered himself a handyman although that is like Manson calling himself a statesman.  At least once a year my parents would be enlisted to watch his children while he went to the hospital because he had cut off a finger off with a power saw.  He’d come over holding the finger to ask.  He put an extra room on the house that fell down ever year.  The roof leaked.  He built his children a tree house with legs of different lengths, so not all of them touched the ground.  He tried to put up a pre-made shed, and couldn’t follow the instructions.  With the pieces in the wrong place it was the shape of a rhombus instead of the square it was pre-built to obtain.  His son wanted a basketball hoop, so he cut the bottom off a five gallon plastic pail, and nailed it to the front of the house.  When his son shot his first basket he found out the ball didn’t fit through the bottom of the pail because it was graduated.  One time he asked to borrow a chainsaw.  I told him I better have a look as my father doesn’t lend out tools.  When I went over there where two circular saws stuck on opposite sides of the tree he was trying to cut down.

He worked at an appliance store.  He took one of the stores neon signs home, and nailed it to the back off his house as a permanent ever glowing light source.  The pack rat that he was, he’d bring home the empty boxes from the store, and throw them in the basement.  One day the house caught fire because he grabbed the boxes from the alley, and one had a discarded still lit cigarette but in it.

My sister recalls going into the neighbor’s parents bedroom once to make a phone call when she was a child, and cell phones had yet to be invented.  She had lost her keys, and needed to call our mother.   She sat on the bed, and a large black fist popped out from between the frame, and the mattress.  One time the neighbor’s daughter brought out her mother’s giant underwear.  Not panties; underwear.  There where shit, and blood stains in them.  At the time we where too young to know why there where blood stains in them.  We spent all afternoon, but none of us could figure out the answer to why there was blood present.

Today I created artwork.

Copyright 2013 I, Flounder

Copyright 2013 I, Flounder

“Wired” by Bob Woodward, “Bad Grandpa,” and Apinya Thai Chilli Sauce.


These are all things that have entered my life recently that I would recommend:

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Beyond fucking hilarious.  If you didn’t find this funny I don’t know how I could take you seriously.

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Amazing Thai Chilli Sauce, and I don’t even know what Thai is.  Makes Sriracha look like it has a limp dick, and I love the fuck out of Sriracha.  Best part – although it made my stomach feel like it was full of hot fire; it didn’t make me breath hot fire out of my ass.