Random blatherings.

I went to church again today. It’s weird. They say if you want to find God, the first step is always to be looking for Him. But the fastest way to find love, so they say, is to NOT be looking for it. Yet God IS love, so…

and some alternate universe just exploded

Again, I felt nothing. Just went on Autopilot, mostly. That’s one thing about going to a Catholic church (no matter which you choose): consistency. Mass is Mass, anywhere you go.

The priest doesn’t give sermons. I like a good sermon. Medium, please, just a teeny bit pink in the center.

Seriously, I think I need to hear something that speaks to me. A message from Above. No burning bush, please, that’d just piss off the neighbors. I’d totally take a visit from Roma Downey, but hey, I’d settle for a phone call or some IM’ing.

AlphaOmega42: Please press ‘1′ to pray for faith, press ‘2′ for inner peace, press ‘3′ for world peace, press ‘4′ for Other Requests…

Me: OMG, I finally get You online and You send me to voicemail hell. This is probably going to be answered in India somewhere.

AO42: Heh, just fucking with you, Karl.

Me: I KNEW IT! I *knew* You were fucking with me! The universe is laughing at me!

AO42: Not like *that* idjit.

I can’t believe I’m watching Glee. I think the Testosterone Society may revoke my testicular license.

Told you it was random.

- written on my iPhone

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Desperate times call for desperate measures, so they say. Which is why I found myself today at church. It’s been so long, I expected a Monty-Pythonesque Finger of God to come out of the clouds and squash me like a bug before I could enter the building. No such luck.

God only knows the last time I went to confession. Oops, I mean reconciliation. I have enough material to cause a priest’s ears to spew smoke with the sound of a 1,000 pressure cookers going off at once.

But I need help, and something tells me God already knows all my shit, so I took a chance and went, anyway. Maybe 10 people were at Mass, whole thing lasted 20 minutes, which is like SpeedMass or something.

I got there about 10 minutes early, so I could reacquaint myself. See, God and I have a very tenuous relationship. My doing, not His. Like the story goes, I’ve been rather distant from God. God’s answer: “Well, guess who moved?” Yeah, that’d be me.

I don’t feel Him at all these days. Used to, a lot. Nowadays, I’m too busy being miserable to notice Him. I feel like God’s Punching Bag.

So I did the proper standing, kneeling, sitting, standing again things. Took the Eucharist and hoped for miraculous healing. Did my best to pray in my head (“God, I know it’s been a long time, but Holy Crap, do I need help so please do Your thing and erase all the bad shit in my head and make me feel better…”) but heard no response.

And when I walked out of the church and got back in my car, I felt no improvement…just the furnace heat that Florida is producing of late.  Then I heard this song come on my iPod:

Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor?

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

First off, there will be NO SECONDHAND RADIO SHOW tomorrow (Thursday). My guest, Danielle, had a last-minute thing come up. This works out well, since I just found out I’ll be in Daytona Beach for a few days, and the Internet situation looks dire. We’ll reschedule Danielle for later this month.

Second, I’m looking for a new web host for my blog. Now that the holidays are over, I can make this happen. But I want a good host, someone that is very Wordpress friendly. I want to be able to automatically update Wordpress and all plugins from WITHIN Wordpress, something I cannot do with Laughing Squid. Suggestions?

I just found out that my 2-year Twittiversary was a couple of days ago. I saw the stats (31,118 tweets, 1,200+ followers, blah blah) and was rather nonplused about it.

I wonder if I’m supposed to celebrate this moment somehow, say something profound? Or is it one of those who-gives-a-fuck things, just as when someone says “It’s my 25,000th tweet!” or “I adopted a lonely black sheep in IdiotFarmerVille on Facebook!”?

Then I thought, even if it were one of those occasions that calls for commemoration with profundity, what on Earth would I have to say that’s even the slightest bit profound?

Then I thought, why, I have a lot to say that’s profound, thank you very much. In fact, I have so much that – were I so inclined – I could break it into a list of categorized profane (what, that’s totally right, right?) bits.

For Children

The toaster is never meant for helping melt butter. Trust me on this.

A towel cape (with clothespin) doesn’t help you fly anywhere above the first floor. Trust me on this, too.

Every time you refuse to eat your vegetables, a kitty dies. Except for lima beans. Nobody really expects you to eat that nasty shit.

For Teenagers

You’re unique. You’re intelligent. You’re going to think you know better than your parents. You’re going to be wrong. A lot.

For Teenage Girls

A boy who doesn’t open your door for you isn’t worth dating.

For Teenage Boys (and Grown-Ass Men)

There’s a lot more to life than ejaculation.

For Parents

Aside from toilet training, manners are the most important thing you can teach your child. Actually, many people will forgive you shitting your pants if you’re polite about it.

For Men

Not everything needs fixing. Sometimes you just need to shut your piehole and listen to her.

For Women

Not every thought needs broadcasting. Sometimes men really ARE thinking about Nothing. We’re not all deep and shit like the women folk.

Household

When someone else loads the dishwasher, don’t bitch. (Out loud.)

Empty toilet paper rolls are great for putting folded power cords in.

Toilet paper always goes OVER.

One-ply toilet paper is what they use in Hell. Just sayin’.

Random

A lot of profound things are apparently about toilet paper.

If the universe is truly infinite, then there’s no end to the stupidity.

Douchebaggery

When a friend is mean and spiteful and mocking someone, it’s just a matter of time before they aim that pruntiness your way.

Everyone has a bad day…even a bad month. That doesn’t mean you need to take it out on other people.

Politics

The only time you should be shocked about what happens in Washington D.C. is when a politician tells the truth and/or truly gives a fuck about you and me.

Marriage

Always treat your spouse like they’re your favorite person on Earth. Because they’re supposed to be.

Gay Marriage

Gay marriage is about as much a threat to the institution of marriage as a platypus. You might say, “What the hell does a platypus have to do with anything?” And I might say, “Exactly.”

Drugs

There are 100,000 alcohol-related vehicular deaths every year in the United States. According to Drug War Facts, there are ZERO marijuana-related vehicular deaths every year. You do the math.

Religion

If I had to sum up the Bible in two words, they would be these: BE NICE.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

I wish amazing things for you today. For real.

Even if you’re in a total shit place at the moment, I hope that you feel at least one little tiny moment of joy today. A dog licking your face, a child catching your eye and then smiling big, finding a $20 bill in a jacket pocket. There being a whole sleeve of Oreos in the back of the damn pantry, whatever.

Even if you want to beat your inlaw(s) bloody with a frozen ham, I hope you can laugh at the fact that Uncle Bernie has had that fucking piece of toilet paper stuck to his shoe for almost three hours now.

Even if you’re all by yourself, especially then. I hope you have someone you can call. I’ve been there, the alone Christmases. Maybe just go to the damn movies, I’ve done that.  At least gives me the illusion I’m not alone…get some quality people-watching in.

Even if you’re hurting. Physically. Spiritually. Emotionally. I hope you know you’re loved. You’re cared about. You matter.

And if you were here, I’d have you sign a confidentiality agreement, and then I’d hug you and say things like, “It’s all going to be okay.” What? I have a rep. I’m the misogynistic dick, remember?

Then I’d say, “Merry Christmas!” and you’d mumble something about how you don’t celebrate Christmas because you’re Jewish or Muslim or Wiccan or an atheist or a Reformed Fundamentalist Vegan or a Catholic*, and I’d say “Are you going to get all indignant on me for wishing you a happy holiday?” and you’d say “I don’t have a problem with you saying Happy Holidays but I do have a problem with you saying Merry Christmas because isn’t that just really you being insensitive to my religious or non-religious beliefs by assuming I’m a Christian?”, and I’d say “For fuck’s sake, try not being offended for just one day…you might find you like it,” and you’d shove me and call me a prunt, and I’d shove you back and say “You better step off!” and then we’d have a smackdown situation cuz it would be on like Donkey Kong, and I’d be pulling Chinese throwing stars from these anklet thingies that you hadn’t quite noticed before because they were under my pantslegs, and just as I chuck the stars at you, time slows down and we can wave our hands around and make these cool glowing lines in the air like we’re all Matrix and shit, and now you growl and bat the slow-motion Chinese throwing stars out of the air like they were nothing, and you pull out a bazooka (which I think, really, is escalating things a bit too far, since I only had throwing stars and not even anything remotely involving gunpowder) and I say, “Whoa!” and point to the Guinness on the table beside me and you say, “Ooh, Guinness, say no more,” and you put the bazooka back under your trenchcoat and say, “Wanna go get a beer?” and I say “Well, I just showed you I already have a beer, but sure. More Guinness? Can’t go wrong there,” and we take off to the Blue Lagoon and have ourselves some beers and think about how silly everything was and how we got all pissed off for no good reason and we’ll never let that happen again, and so we raise our pint glasses up in the air to make a toast and clink them together and I say

“Merry Christmas!”

Oh, hell yeah. Like Donkey Kong, betch!

*Yes, I know Catholics are Christians. It’s a joke. I’m Catholic. It’s just funny to me how many Christians don’t consider Catholics to be Christians. Why am I explaining myself to you? You know what? You’re really walking on my spine today! Back the fuck off and go get drunk. That’s what I’m doing.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Three men wandering the streets of Bethlehem, circa 2,000 years ago, give or take.

Bob: Bollocks! I keep stepping on my robes!

Chuck: I told you to get that shit altered, dude. What part of “an angel of the Lord said the Messiah is being born in Nazareth” didn’t you get?

Larry: Seriously, Bob, you didn’t think there’d be walking involved?

Bob: Assumed we’d be cameling most of the way.

Chuck: You know what they say about assuming. Doesn’t make you very wise.

Larry: What’d you get the kid?

Chuck: Gold.

Larry: Nice. Hard to go wrong with gold.

Chuck: That was my thinking, too.

Bob: I got Him some jewels. Rubies, emeralds -

Larry: What the fuck, Bob?! You can’t give the baby Messiah jewels! That’s a choking hazard!

Chuck: Clearly. Why not just give him a bag of broken glass, or a basket of asps?

Bob: What?

Chuck: Why do you think I went with gold bars? Coins? Not child-friendly.

Larry: Hello? Hello? Anybody in there? THINK, McFly! Are you trying to KILL the freaking Son of God?

Bob: No, of course not. I’m just stupid when it comes to kids.

Chuck: Should have got Mable to help pick out the gift, man.

Larry: I still need to get something, anyway.

Chuck: Not like you to be last minute. Everything okay at home?

Larry: Damn teenage son. Caught him hitting the poppies again.

Bob: Shit. Sorry, Larry.

Larry: Hell, who hasn’t enjoyed some smoke every now and again, but at 13?

Chuck: The mind is still forming at that point, critical development stage…

Larry: Right? *sigh*

Bob: Hey, look! A mini mart!

Chuck: You’re getting the Christ Child gifts from a convenience store? Really?

Bob: What are we supposed to do, Chuck? It’s fucking December 24th! Not like there are a lot of choices!

Larry: Ooh, teriyaki camel jerky! I love that shit.

Chuck: Well, smack my ass and call me a gentile! They have myrrh! Can you believe it?

Larry: What brand?

Chuck: What does it fucking matter, Larry? It’s myrrh from a mini mart. What do you think you’re gonna find here? Dolce?

Larry: Good point.

Chuck: Now, Bob, see if they have some frankinsence. We may be able to pull this out of our asses yet, gents!

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

I have many weaknesses. I fall back on sarcasm and bad jokes sometimes when I’m feeling far too vulnerable. I (still) smoke. I bite my nails. I am known to retreat into myself, though I am getting better at that one. I have a difficult time accepting compliments, though I’ve learned to at least (try to) gracefully say, “Thanks.”

But all of those are mere blemishes when I compare them to my biggest weakness of all: death. It’s my Achilles heel.

I suck at death. Now, I know what some of you are going to say. Who’s GOOD at death? It’s all relative, I suppose. There are those of you that are, unfortunate as it may be, better versed at handling death than I am. Me, I’ve done my best to avoid it.

I haven’t had to deal with it very often, and I think that makes me even worse at handling it on the odd occasion it heads my way. I can count on one hand the number of funerals I’ve been to in my life…thus far.

My stepgrandparents. My grandmother. My ex father-in-law. My stepfather. And that’s it.

Sure, there have been pets, and they affected me pretty hard, too. When I was 19, I cried when I learned about Midnight dying, the pet cat I’d had since I was 5. Well, she didn’t die that I know of, but I learned that my father had lost her on the cross-country trip, moving back from New Mexico to New York. And I didn’t hear about it until nearly 2 years later.

When my grandma died of cancer back in 1990, I was a fucking mess. I was at a 6-week course in California, still in the Air Force, when my mom called me and said that I’d better come now if I wanted to see her one last time. All of this when 7 months previous, she was in remission and me and my wife and girls enjoyed her company over Christmas.

I bowed out of the class two days early and flew to Florida to see her. 60 pounds lighter in 7 months, a ghost of a shell of the woman I knew. And she didn’t recognize me. Looking straight at me, she hadn’t a clue as to who I was. It killed me. To this day, I kind of wish I hadn’t seen her that last time…mere days before her death. The woman I knew was already long gone.

My stepfather. In previous blog carnations, I told about that story, just over 5 years ago now. Also cancer. I watched him die in the very room I’m writing this now, stuck in a hospital bed for the last couple of months of his life, still clamoring for a smoke, even right after he turned off his oxygen machine.

And I remember the oddest thing about those early hours after he died. All of my mom’s friends came over and I was on autopilot, just making pot after pot of coffee, when someone said, “Damn, Karl makes some great coffee.” Really? The coffee is what we’re going to talk about when there’s a dead man in the room?

Last year, as I drove home from a weekend stay at Britt’s, I remember wondering about my own death. I listened to some such song that got me teary-eyed, no idea what it was, but oftentimes it’s the only thing that can make me cry…music. What would become of me? What was going to be left of me for the world? Had I made any difference at all?

What about my blog? What would happen to it? Certainly, my mom wouldn’t know what the hell to do about it. I’ve barely got her using a feedreader. Expecting her to sign into Wordpress and tell the world I’m dead would be akin to expecting an armadillo to rattle off the periodic table.

I particularly got to thinking about all this, I remember, because of a dear friend of mine, who many of you know. Lisa had recently announced that she had cancer yet again and it just fucking killed me. I met her in person at TequilaCon and the woman is a positive delight to be around, as lots of you can attest to.

So when Lisa was on my show (the first time), I asked her some hard questions, mostly because I was curious about my own online mortality and how I’d handle it. It was then that we came up with the Power of Blog, which is like a Power of Attorney, only for your blog.

Quite often our loved ones, whether they be spouses or family members, haven’t the slightest clue about blogging. So it seems, in this day and age, that while we’re putting our affairs and estates in order, signing and witnessing our wills, we should also be considering what happens to our blogs.

And Lisa – God knows why – asked me right there on the show, on the spot, if I would be her Power of Blog. And I was touched, and honored, and flattered, and wondering where the hell her head was at. But I agreed.

And since that day, I’ve been a praying fool, praying that I never have to execute that authority.

There’s a little anecdote that goes something like this: a man is conversing with an angel and says, “I’ve prayed and I’ve prayed and I’ve prayed and God never answered.”

The angel says, “Sure He did. Just not in the way you expected Him to.”

God definitely didn’t answer my prayers in the way I expected (or demanded) him to. Because as most of you know, Lisa’s days with us are quite numbered now. I knew it weeks ago, and knew that she and I had matters to discuss, but I kept putting off that phone call because, well, I suck at death. And suck as a friend.

But she called me last week and we spoke for a while. She’d been putting off the call, too, until her husband – The Dude – poked and prodded her mercilessly. Listen, he said, I don’t know what the fuck to do about your blog. It’s too important to be just…left. Call Karl.

And she did.

And so I find myself getting on a plane in less than 12 hours, heading for Philadelphia, so I can go to my friend. And see her one last time. This woman, who has fought cancer three times in recent years. This woman, who I shaved my head for last year in solidarity. This woman who pretty much bullied her way into my heart in very short order. This woman who actually had the nerve, after telling me of her most recent doctor visit, to ask me how *I* am.

An amazing person. Amazing wife and mother. Amazing friend. If there’s anyone in this world I find myself asking, “What did I do to deserve having THIS person in my life?” it’s Lisa.

There aren’t many people I’d brave 10-degree weather for. She’s one of them. I had to pull out all the stops and whistles in my wardrobe so she’d better be ready to par-tay like it’s 1999. Or as much par-taying as a hospital bed will allow.

Last year, on that drive back from Britt’s, I found myself praying that Lisa wouldn’t break my heart, as if all this shit is about ME.

She’s going to.

But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

And maybe THAT’S the way God is answering my prayer. Maybe He’s trying to show me that death is nothing to be afraid of, that it’s just natural, it’s part of life’s cycle. We pop out from our mother’s nethers, we splash around in the water, make some ripples in the pond, and then fade away, like a whisper of a dandelion seed into the wind. And hopefully, the ripples we made affected others in a good way.

Maybe that’s what He’s trying to teach me.

Fucker.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Tonight is another episode of SecondHand Radio and my guest is the beautiful cop, Shash from Diary of a Crazed Mommy. Shash is a ton of fun to hang with…I’m hoping to do it again soon. She’s funny, pretty, intelligent, and full of grace.

And she’s all mine for a full hour tonight at 10pm Eastern!

Tune in tonight. There’s a chatroom where you can join in on the fun. It opens at 9:45pm. You’re welcome to call in, too.

The call-in number is 724-444-7444, Call ID is 23738.

Woo hoo! I booked my plane tickets yesterday for Tequilacon! I’m flying into Albuquerque April 24, renting a car, driving to Santa Fe, partying down, leaving whenever on Sunday, and driving down to my old stomping grounds, Alamogordo.

Never heard of it? No surprise. Regardless, I have a lot of history there. Graduated high school in the top 50% of my class, lost my virginity, and met my future ex-wife there. So I thought I’d go visit for a few days. Haven’t been back to Alamo since my 20-year reunion.

The only thing left to do is book my hotel in Santa Fe because the venue hasn’t been announced yet. All you cool kids who are going…let me know if and when you book your hotel so we can stay together, OK? Not in the same room, necessarily, but in the same hotel. I wouldn’t subject most of you to the WJP.

So I went to the doctor last week for a follow-up and my nipple markers must have done the trick because the x-rays came back clean. Whew!

And my doctor says to me – again – “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

For sure, this time, she’s going to ask me if it’s okay for her to expose herself to me. Right? Two visits in a row she asks me this question?

I smile and say, “Sure.”

I’m sure she’s about to unbutton her blouse, show me those olive bosoms. Everything starts moving in slow motion. Someone off set starts a strong fan that’s blowing her hair around in a sexed-up Whitesnake-video fashion. She smiles and slowly, oh so slowly, rakes her tongue across her highly-glossed lips.

Then she says the four magic words: “What is that ring?”

POP!

My bubble bursts and, much to my dismay, there are no free-range breasts roaming anywhere in the room.

“The ring?”

“Yes,” she says, pointing to my hand. “That ring you’re wearing, what is it?”

I looked down at my hand, which was not at all pinching her nipples, and there it was. A ring.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. She doesn’t know what that is? And she’s in charge of my medical care? “It’s a cross.”

“I know what it is,” she says, “but what does it mean to you?” And here we go again. The last time she asked me a personal question it was about my eternal salvation. Now we’re going to discuss religious iconography.

“It’s a symbol of Christianity,” I say. Am I going to have to teach CCD to my doctor?

“Yes, I know. You’re a Christian?”

“Well, it would be an awfully silly thing to wear if I wasn’t.”

“Lots of people wear crosses and it doesn’t mean anything more than a fashion accessory to them.”

“True, but I’m not one of them,” I say.

“So you’re a Christian.” It’s a statement this time, not a question.

“Yes.”

“Can I ask what -”

“Catholic.”

“Oh,” she says. One of those. “Catholic?”

“Yes.” Now can we commence the striptease? I’ve got my iPod in my pocket and I can have “Here We Go Again” playing in less than 4 seconds.

“What church do you go to?” she asks.

“Well, I haven’t been going much [at all] lately, but St. Catherine’s. Close to downtown.”

“Yes, and what is it that Catholics believe?” This is one of those loaded questions, I find, that non-Catholic Christians like to ask. I don’t know what they expect to hear.

Oh, we’re Pagans through and through. We worship statues and bow at Mary’s feet and occasionally sacrifice a lamb.

“The same thing that most Christians believe. Christ died on the cross for our sins,” I say.

She nods. Then she asks me about people praying to Mary, and saints, and praying the rosary, and all those evil things that all Catholics do. And I smile and answer her questions, more educated than a lot of Catholics because I chose to become Catholic as an adult. And I asked lots and lots of questions.

So it’s clear to me she’s likely a non-denominational Christian, which is fine with me. I have no problem with that. I’m not one of those Catholics that believe that the Catholic Church is the only way to finding God. I think God calls us each somewhere, and we should answer that call, wherever it takes us. Jews, Baptists, Methodists, Buddhists, whatever. As long as you’re not Pentecostal. Those snake-handling bastards are fucking crazy.

I kid, of course. Sort of.

We have a nice, pleasant conversation about Christ and religion and Catholicism for a few minutes and all my fantasies about asking her out – inappropriate as that may be – come to a crashing halt.  I’m not an evangelist and she happens to believe we should ALL be evangelizing. Clearly. She’s doing it in a freaking doctor’s office.

She asks me if I’m sharing the Word, which is the job of all Christians, and I lie and say yes. I’m not. Not actively, anyway. I’m not a proactive Word-Sharer. Maybe that’s a bad thing but all I can think of at the moment is what it was like living as an atheist, what a turn-off it was to hear Bible-thumpers thumpin’ that Bible. And I know in my heart that the best way to share the Word is to live it and not just talk about it. Set an example.

Not that I’m any great example, mind you. Obviously. I’m sure Jesus wasn’t out in the Holy Land, fantasizing about women’s hair blowing in slow motion to a Whitesnake soundtrack. He prefers The Doors.

I remember when I wrote about my last visit to the doctor, how offended some of you were, that a doctor would ask about religion. That doesn’t bug me. I’m happy to talk about my faith, such that it is, with most anyone who asks. That’s because I’m a REactive Word-Sharer.

I just wonder if next time she’ll remember that I’m a Christian so she doesn’t have to establish it yet again. I mean, she did notice that I had new glasses this time, which is something. Hmm, maybe she has a just-as-hot younger sister who likes a little sacrificial lamb once in a while.

Oh, and here’s a new shirt from the SecondHand Store:

More Popular Shirt by karlerikson
Design Custom Shirts At Zazzle.com

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

As a child I was fascinated by all sorts of things: the stars and planets, dinosaurs, volcanoes, and the song “Turkey in the Straw.” Like now, I had more books than I could read in a reasonable period of time…everything from the World Book Encyclopedias to “The Velveteen Rabbit” to a children’s illustrated Bible.

I often pondered the greater mysteries in life. How does Santa Claus visit every house in the world in less than 24 hours? Why are stars all sorts of different colors? How did Noah fit two of every animal on that boat? How come making a cape out of a towel and a clothespin doesn’t enable me to fly off the roof?

Now there’s a place that thankfully answers some of these questions. It’s called the Creation Museum in Petersburgh, Kentucky and it’s causing quite a stir. Why? Because the creators of the museum teach that the book of Genesis in the Bible is literally true. I have to say, this throws me for a bit of a loop.

I mean, I’m Christian, but my understanding of the Bible is that it is full of many truths, literal, figurative, and symbolic. This allows a number of thoughts to coexist in my head. For example, I have no trouble believing in creation AND evolution at the same time. I believe that God created the universe and then allowed things to take their course, based on the plan He set in motion.

One of the many questions I had for my pastor as I was considering my move from atheism to Christianity was about the population of the Earth. Let me get this straight, I said. We start off with Adam and Eve. They have two sons, Cain and Abel. Next thing you know, the boys are married with wives and kids of their own. Where the heck did the wives come from? If you ask the folks at the Creation Museum, they’ll tell you that Cain and Abel had sisters and they married them in order to populate the planet. Who knew that we were all descended from hillbillies in the Ozarks?

Scientific evidence shows that the universe is nearly 14 billion years old. That’s a lot of compound interest. Thing is, creationists believe that the universe is only 6,000 years old. I have trouble with this notion. How do we have fossils that are millions of years old? Is God just thumbing His nose at us? And what about dinosaurs? The Creation Museum says that dinosaurs and humans lived on the Earth at the same time. In fact, dinosaurs were amongst the other animals on Noah’s ark. I can just hear that conversation.

God: “Looking good, Noah. But I see you’re leaving out some animals.”

Noah: “What? Where? I’ve got elephants, hyenas, a couple of platypus – and what were you thinking with those things, anyway?”

God: “The dinosaurs, Noah. You forgot the dinosaurs.”

Noah: “You’re kidding, right, Lord? They’ll eat all the other animals!  I just narrowly escaped a Tyrannosaurus this morning on the way to the market.”

God: “Every species must be collected and accounted for, you know that.”

Noah: “I think it’s a good time to let them go extinct, don’t you?”

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Jeff mentioned in his post yesterday a lot of good points for bloggers to keep in mind. One of the things he talked about was the idea that less is more and that you shouldn’t blog when you have nothing to say. Certainly good advice, but – even though I love an audience and comments to boot – I like to think that I write primarily for me. All of you are just wonderful gravy icing on the cake, so to speak. As Dave commented in the same post, if I don’t write every day then it gets way too easy for me to get out of the writing habit altogether. So I write even when I don’t feel like it.

And I don’t feel like it. But oh well. Here I is, anyway. For the record, I have an appointment Friday with a counselor so we can see about getting the meds thing under control again. I guess it’s Mental Health Week or something. Hi, Chase!

I went to church for the first time in a couple of years on Sunday. I
figure I need to change some things up if I want to break loose from
the Monsters in my head. The odd thing about church (aside from me
being in the building) was that the sermon was about depression. Did I
feel like God was talking directly to me through the priest? Um, yeah,
you betcha. Freaky.

The part that cracked me up, though? The woman at the podium is making
the announcements and she mentions that Tuesday is one of the many
feast days for Mary. (Yeah, I’m Catholic.) And she says, "Mass will be
held Tuesday at 8am and 7pm, and remember that it is a holy day of
ovulation." Snickers in the audience and she said, "I mean, holy day of
obligation!"

So, a few big moments coming up that I should mention. I’m trying to get psyched for them so maybe you can help. First of all, August 27th will be the one-year anniversary of SecondHand Tryptophan.
I’m certainly in no position to go hogwild and throw out huge prize
bundles like Dave did a while back for his Bloggiversary, but I do
appreciate each and every one of you, so I’d like to do SOMEthing. More
on that in a bit.

The second big moment is my pending birthday next month. You can
see the countdown in the sidebar, along with my Amazon wishlist.
(Shameless beg for pressies. I know, I’m a whore, I admit it.) I’ll be hitting the big 4-0 next month
and I know Sandra
is all about the birthday self-promotion so I’m I’m trying to
get excited. See, Sandra?

Here is what I’d like to do. First of all, I want to design at least
one t-shirt. I’m not an expert by any means, so if anyone has any
suggestions for companies to go through, please let me know. Cafe Press
would be my first guess but I’m not crazy about white t-shirts. And if
anyone has any mad design ideas for shirts, that’d be cool, too.

I’d like to give some shirts away for my birthday celebration week. I
guess I can combine the one-year mark of 2HT and my birthday into the
one week, since they’re only three weeks apart. I’m going to think on
the giveaway details some more and probably write it up tomorrow. Meantime,
suggestions and ideas for t-shirts/companies are most welcome (needed).

One other thing that I’ll mention so I can go out on a postive note. I have a date next week. And no, she’s not inflatable.

Oh, and the Springfield video? Made YouTube’s Top 100 list of most-linked comedy videos yesterday, so feel free to keep on linking to it!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FUrA7CyHAJ0

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

I don’t mind that David is now a Christian. In fact, I think that’s great. The man even turned down his parole hearing a few years back, which is good, because he totally should never get out of prison. What worries me is the "born again" label. I don’t trust anyone that says they’re born again. They’re as crazy as Jim Jones’ Kool-Aid chuggers or Scientologists.

Come on, nobody can be born again. It’s impossible. Seriously, maybe
the Jolly Green Giant’s girlfriend could help with her Jolly Green
Gigantic Nanny-nanny-hoo-ha. But that’s about it. And I’m sure she has
better things to do all day than to have crazy brainwashed Christians go
crawling in and out her enormous vajayjay.

Jolly Green Giant’s Girlfriend: "Hey, hey, hey! I told you, little bitch, take off the heels!"

Woman 1: "Oops, sorry."

JGGG: "And don’t take too long in my cavernous uterus, either. Be considerate, others are waiting."

Man 1: "Hi, I have reservations for three."

JGGG: "Right, take off all your clothes and spread this Astroglide all over your bodies."

Man 1: "I’m not supposed to get sexually stimulated. You know, because it’s a sin."

JGGG: "Honey, I’m not asking you
to do the tube steak slip n’slide. But you ain’t crawling up in these
sugar walls dry, I can tell you that."

Woman 2: "Oooh, I love your piercing. Who did it for you?"

JGGG: "John Deere, thanks. Oh! Excuse me. Whoa there, little buddy! The puckered green hole is for outgoing traffic only!"

Man 2: "Sorry, I slipped."

JGGG: "Yeah, uh huh. That’s what
my Jolly Green Dick of a boyfriend says every time. I tell you the same
thing I tell him: you better seriously truck on out the jewelry if you
think you’re gonna be my backdoor lover."

Man 3: "I can’t get my carabeener unclipped."

JGGG: "Hey! Don’t go hanging all over my clitoris, dipshit! Use the friggin’ ladder like everybody else."

Man 3: "Oops, sorry. Hey, how big is your Jolly Green G-spot?"

JGGG: "Fool, please. I could
surround it in neon and you still wouldn’t be able to find it. OK, you
know what? Get the hell out, asswad. Seriously, you even think about
coming into my love gash and I’ll Kegel your f*cking head so fast I’ll
be peeing skull fragments for weeks. Focus on that family, bitch."

Weird,
you might think I orchestrated this entire thing, but I seriously never
thought I’d start a post about the Son of Sam and end up with a post
about gigantic green vaginas. Totally unplanned.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan