Courting Thaleia: A Muse Meant For Me

Saturday, October 20, 2007

The One That Got Away

It was dark, gloomy and cold, just like my coffee on the night that Consuelo and I finalized the plans for our most recent of Daring Capers. I am not usually a coffee drinker, but that night I needed to have every bit of energy I could muster.

We gathered our equipment and lugged it to the yellow Yugo, taking care that the instruments inside did not bang and buck against the concrete and asphalt. Our drive was short, and we arrived in front of a ostentatiously sized manor, with the monogram of "B" wrought into the iron of the front gates.

Bypassing the mainframe of the gate electronicsy thingy, I was able to slip past the first barrier that the Countess Brouhaha had placed in my way. I sent the mute-but-telepathic Consuelo out around the back to check for dogs whilst I drew forth mine lockpicks for the front door.

The first one gave me some trouble, but the inner foyer door was a cinch to crack. As I there's no dogs here, Stu, you're in the clear padded my way through the expansive hallway that greeted me ($34.99 will get you a great pair of faux ninja booties... cover those things in peanut butter and you've got Super Silent Shoes... and c'mon, the worst that could happen would be that the media dubs you The Peanut Butter Burglar. Which, now that you mention it, wouldn't be that bad). I checked the wind with my finger as I decided which room the Countess might be in.

The study! Of course!

Consuelo, come through the front door, we are almost ready to complete... the Objective / Sure thing, I'll be right there

I waited and listened to hear Consuelo's footsteps, also P.B.-encased, slosh behind me. Such a good boy, very obedient.

We creep into the doorway of the closed door of the study. I made sure he had my attention Ready? On three.

One,... two... THREE !

We kicked the door down and ran into the room yelling, brandishing our weapons. Whilst I was protected by my Super Soaker 150 filled to bursting with Merlot, Consuelo was armed to the teeth with five Chardonnay balloons, an ankle holster with a Pinot Noir-filled plastic Luger, and the Super Duper Deluge Tsunami 9,000,000,000... loaded with the metaphorical lead of grape juice.

Screams of glee erupted amidst shrieks of shocked terror as the Countess struggled madly to make sense of her sudden rude vine awakening. After we were satisfied that she was in a complete state of soakery, she finally spoke.

"Whaaaaaaaaaat... the HELL... are you two DOING???"

I stammered "Whoa... wait, wait one second... You, madam, suggested that we do this."

Consuelo noddded.

The Wet Countess screamed back, "ARE YOU CRAZY?! WHY THE FUCK WOULD I EVER TELL YOU TO COME TO MY HOUSE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING NIGHT AND... AND... SHOOT ME WITH WINE??? THAT'S SOMETHING THAT CRAZY PEOPLE DO!!!"

I motioned for Consuelo to come forward a bit. "Show her the cellphone, Conny." Wary of his target, he slowly brought out his new Verizon MakeBeliever.

"We received this message from you, five hours ago, coming from a number we did not recognize. It clearly states what you wanted to happen, Countess."

Hands shaking with rage, she snatched the phone from Consuelo and peered at the screen.

"See? It clearly states: 'Hi guys, The Countess is at a new number. Come down and see me if you dare! I have a special water cannon that is filled with Bordeaux waiting for you punk ass bitches... bring it! I can wait all night! There's a man sinking in quicksand!'"

The Countess blinked in amazement and read:

hi guys tc z @ new # cum down n c me f u dar . i hav SWC w/ Bordo watin 4 U punkass b's... bi! I cn w8 al nite! lol

Hoping to clarify, I said "Well, to be honest I'm not too sure about the man with quicksand part, but the rest of it was pretty definitive."

She kept on looking at the phone screen, in a total daze. Then, finally, she looked up at us. And started to laugh.

Me and Consuelo looked at one another in bewilderment. What on earth was she laughing for?

"You guys, this message isn't from ME! It's from Tony Curtis, saying he's sleeping at his new Tic Tac Toe restaurant, and that 'whoever' should come down and compliment him from under the dar, and that he has a sweet white chick he hooked up with his friend Bordo, and upset that the person he was calling lived across a lake which would require him to wade across it, and that he could wade all night! Guy just dialed the wrong number!"

Oh, how we laughed.

After wiping away tears of mirth, I said, "But what about the man struggling in the quicksand?"

She sobered up quickly and said "Yeah, you're right... we should probably go looking for him."

Posted at 06:11 pm by mrmister
So perfect, all are speechless Permalink

Friday, September 21, 2007

Which Brings Me To My Next Pointy Subject

Vagrancy.

In particular, the musically inclined kind. Rather, the uninclined.

Must I be, for the remainder of my residence in this despicably misappropriated conglomeration of domiciles, plagued by ill-rehearsed strains of "Piano Man" whenever I depart for supplies of staples and goat milk from the nearby foodery? A shake of the head is all I can muster, now that "Froofy Snowflake" or whatever his late-60's inspired moniker may be. What-of-it; he emanates the stench of foodfilth and trying-too-hard. Gone are the days when a well-arched eyebrow would scuttle the 'bonds to the alleys to wrestle the felines for scraps.

Oh well. The tunes he sings might have a fearful tinge to them if he remains, seeing as I have sprayed honey juice over the steps, and am tapping my paperish fingers on the glass of a recently-procured fire ant tank.

Ah, one of the many Questions Of Life: to deploy fire ants, or deploy fire ants later? Time will show me. And it will be well deserved; no ragamuffin without intimate knowledge of Bach's "Bouree' in F Minor" can delegate himself "musician".

Was I missed? Every boutique was out of battery acid. Had to move nearer to the Source.

Posted at 09:07 pm by mrmister
So perfect, all are speechless Permalink

Thursday, October 06, 2005

Oh Hell.

Yes. All inclination to continue this has wavered and fallen over.

HOWEVER! IT IS ONLY MOSTLY DEAD! There's always room for round two...and it starts here: http://www.myspace.com/systemsanalyst

Author's Note: I have enjoyed this foray into the elderly unknown, and found it to be exactly prophetic as to what will happen later on in my years. Writing further would spoil my life's surprise more than it already has, so, in the words of the immortal Christopher Plummer, "Back.. To The Present!"

Thanks for reading.

(Oh, and if you haven't, start at the beginning... it's an interesting ride. If for some reason you are walking through Barnes and Noble trying to ignore the stench of preppicity and crappy live musician, and notice a book entitled "Courting Thaleia" peeking out from between Lileks and Pratchett, hit yourself in the head with it. Hard. You're dreaming.

Get up! You're asleep at the wheel!)

Posted at 07:18 pm by mrmister
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Saturday, September 17, 2005

Never Enough Sugar In My Bowl Of Life

One of my mottos has recently adhered itself to my everyday
philosophy: Let's face it—-you're going to be waiting quite a while
before someone else does the things you've always wanted to see
someone ELSE do… so why wait? You've got a perfectly good body right
in front of you, powerless to your crafty will! Make it so!

For the record, anyone who takes on this interesting perspective
leaves themselves open for a myriad of interesting, story-worthy
experiences. Adult ding-dong-ditch, fabricating a false (yet
specific, with attention to detail) personal occupation to combat
each classmates' at the Ten-Year, renting a completely unnecessary
motorized wheelchair for unintended amusement park amusement… the
list is probably longer than it should be. All have been self-
entertaining, some have been enlightening, and a few have been
downright dangerous. Either Life Itself can't seem to afford a
suitable writing staff, or I'm catching an early case of mid-life
crisis (which kicks serious booty, `cause that means an Arrest-Me Red
Camaro is just around the corner. Sweeeeet).

These episodes begin with the common progenitor of most head-
scratching activities: sheer boredom. In my case, due to my
continuously unmet standards for personal entertainment, this tends
to happen on a daily basis. Last night was no exception.

The opportunity arose when I received an email from Redbox. Redbox,
for those of you who denied the truth of "Super-Size Me" and delved
into the devious deliciosity that is McDonalds, is a company that now
sells ready-to-rent DVDs almost kitty-corner to the grease (and human
dejectedness)-covered ordering counter. I'm sure I'm not the only one
who mentally acquainted this with diaper stations in the men's
bathroom. Or condom dispensers. Or kayaks.

"Happy Labor Day! Labor Day means you don't have to WORK, so relax
with a free DVD! Just type in LABORDAY, and you receive a free DVD!
Relax! You don't have to work! It's Labor Day! Rent at Redbox."

After a quick shower in the restroom to cleanse myself of the oddly
repetitive ad-assaultery, I weighed my options for the Movie Of The
Night: "Piglet's Heffalump Movie" (sleep like baby after, wake up
missing masculinity), "The Wedding Dinner" (sleep on couch, preparing
myself for future marriage), or… oooh! They have "Crash"! Heard good
things about that one. Hillary Duff's not in it, so it's already a
promising choice. I cover my hand with my eyes as I swipe my card and
dangle my identity foot above the hacker crocs, and like magic—a DVD
burps out the big red monstrosity. *Make sure it's back by 7
tomorrow, and we'll try to leave you at least one of your future
children for your own. The ugly one. Moo hoo. Ha ha.*

Gleefully it pops into my DVD-ROM drive on my computer,
after politely asking the cup occupying the tray to seek slumber
elsewhere. Comfy-chaired-up, hot bowl of Campbell's, chopsticks, and
a tasty wine cooler ("Hi. Yeah, my girlfriend's in town… yeah. What?
Oh, right. Paper, please.") sets me right.

So I'm watching the movie. Not bad. Stellar cast, makes me glad that
the part of my brain that calculates how much producers have to shell
out per celeb got some much-needed stimulation. Gripping story.
Awesome dialogue.

Yet… somehow it was just… not enough.

As the Fates would have it, controlled by that cosmic god of personal
mischief (Craig), my eyes glance down to my arms, and these next
thoughts occurred in still-puzzling sequence.

1. I am one hairy dude.
2. It's a shame chicks can't see how ripplingly buff my forearms
are through this mane.
3. I should shave my arms.

And so I went to work. No questions arose as an insane unwavering
impulsiveness took over. I turned up the volume slightly to overcome
the slight buzzing that was taking place so I could clearly hear all
the naughty, naughty words coming from that wholesome Sandra Bullock.
I declared harvest season on my limbs. To be honest, it was actually
an oddly soothing experience. Like listening to good ukulele music,
or taking a gravy bath.

The logistics involved were a sort of pioneering endeavor… I had no
precedent for this sort of activity, so I found out a few tips from
the get-go (just in case anyone who reads this realizes just how
they'd like to express themselves). Go against the grain. Drop over
the white cloth. Blend either right before the elbow, or just past…
short-sleeved hair is just not attractive (and yes, the rest is), and
can chafe the inside of the elbow skin. Caution around the wrists is
a wonderful idea.

The end result was a smooth pair of muscled arms. They somehow seemed
much smaller. My hands were gigantic meat slabs. I touched them, and
was instantly taken back to junior high when I accidentally brushed
the back of my hand by my teacher's leg and lost all prior innocence.
Eeeeenteresting.

The lesson I learned that night had carved itself in my psyche the
next morning as I groggily flipped through my long-sleeved work-
shirts. Okay, Stu… next time a spontaneous action grips you, try…
TRY to remember that you have a date the next evening.

*my collegiate application entry, under the "What You Did This Summer" heading. Ugh. Too many contractions. But, such is the folly of the young...

Posted at 10:11 am by mrmister
(1) Rave Reviews Permalink

Saturday, August 13, 2005

Hanging Ten On A Wave Of Babies

Yesterday was "I Am Smarter Than Aerosmith Day", as when my ears attuned to the drug-addled inspirations behind one of their lyrics:

Pink/Gets me high/As a kite
Pink/It's like red/But not quite

I celebrated with a half-gallon jug of Cheetos and washed it down with AMP! THE DRINK THAT MAKES YOU HIGH AS A KITE! BE YOUNG! HAVE FUN! DO THE DEW! and quiet dignity. Then, I tripped upstairs reaching for that ethereal thirteenth step.

I am now beginning to feel the cold seeps of age begin to accentuate my bones with that look of "stooped over" that seems to be never un-vogue. Realization of this occured mid-dream. Said dream was that I was walking down a mossy green road, flanked on either side by a row of identically well-groomed pink rosebushes, and behind them, also flank-ed, where equally majestic mossy green oak trees that reached up with gnarly arms. Everything was symmetrical, and it held my vast attention. The road, trees, and rosebushes stretched into an eternity, but the entire locale with encased, with me in it, in a rectangular shape, castrating the trees at the top and the beginning of the road at the bottom. Above my head, in stark rainbow-ed letters, was a shimmering word: SERVICE. Below the manicured bottom, was this inscription: Exceeding expectations keeps us on the path to success. Needless to say, Inconsistent Peruser, I must admit that I was mildly, albeit momentarily inspired toward acts of goodwill toward my fellow men.

(Today's Mr. Mister entry was sponsored in part by "Motivations: Year 2005 Inspired Visions Calendar--Caring People Make A Difference".)

Posted at 09:41 am by mrmister
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Saturday, July 23, 2005

Half Of This Is Legit

It is nine minutes till barely daybreak. Reclining in the absurdly quaint hovel with myself is my flamboyant comrade Damocles. He is preparing the filming of my adaptation of the character of Lecrecian from a series of tired Rennaissancian novels. Soon will actuate the arrival of the oft-mentioned Edmund Ricolas; and photographs of feminine allure are being auspiciously taken by my starboard... tis an annoying distraction at worst, and thoughts of Raspberry Danish delight my brain with alarming alacrity to ease the damned eye tracers. Ahh, tis but a few barely even countable days until my Thaleia and I are reunited... her smelling of Reno grannies and flagrant gin, me aromizing cold ham and various local breweries. Truly, a more amorphous assault on the tender olfactories were never sharied between twain tweethearts. I miss her. I shall see her soon.

Posted at 02:03 am by mrmister
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Friday, July 08, 2005

It Takes Twenty-Five To Tengo

I have recently begun fervent perusal of the novelic wonder that is Jack Reacher, and few things have impressed this old shell more.

I have guffawed at an impeccably doctored photograph of Mr. Jackson riding a white banana seat bicycle being chased by state law enforcement. The caption read: "Rapist Escapes In Victim's Vehicle".

I have gained and lost as many urges to publish/perish this odd assortment of entries as the overly illustrious Madam Winfrey has poundage.

I have drifted from my Subway diet.

I have lost all respect for states that shut down their own goverment.

I have found a way to pilfer obscure comedic bits off of the Communet (with not a whit of file-sharation).

I have a co-worker who is the embodiment of an Old French Whore.

I have finally curbed my disgusting nail-biting habit, and have moved on to the much more highly prestigious (mentioning also addicting) habit of plucking.

I have not read the Koran.

I have a patent pending for the world's first Finger Discotec.

I have a makeshift Segway.

I have found that it is impossible to change the status of "orphan" in later years.

I have a growing distaste in my mouth, and I am in heavy lean towards the assumption that it is a mixture of two-day-old cauliflower cake and seasoned American society.

I have woken up more times than is necessary due to blind callings, and I am somehow fine with this.

I have stopped attending Kleptomaniacs Anonymous, due to mounting complaints of missing coffee canisters.

I have no opinion on Terry Hogan and his overbearing, narrowminded, belligerent on-camera persona.

I have returned twice as many products as I have purchased in the past year, fulfillling my resolution for 2003.

I have finally one-upped the indomitable Smittles by hiding the tranq guns in the ice chest. If felines bent on relentless domination and evil have one weakness, it is Dreamsicles.

I have two weddings to attend; one in body and another in spirit.

I have lost myself in the misadventures of a metrosexual preteen, a mallard with no sense of direction, and a buck-toothed mongrel with severe proportion issues.

I have come to grips with the advantages and disadvantages of televised interest, and my needs of "The Nanny" far outweigh the needs of "The View".

I have but one piece of snapping turtle care advice: buy L'Oreal in bulk.

I have a purpose in life, and while I thought it was mindless and reckless acquisition, realization struck that the prior purpose is secondary; the primary is striking fear into the hearts of respect-deficient twelve-year-olds.

I have attitude, but not too heavy on saucy.

I have a paper about Pearl Harbor due on Monday, and I am confident that that third-grader would have gotten a solid D. It currently resides in my loo, elaborately framed.

Posted at 04:55 pm by mrmister
So perfect, all are speechless Permalink

Thursday, June 30, 2005

Zenith of Faithfulness

The creation of a great compilation cassette, like an amputee churning honey butter, is difficult to accomplish and takes centuries longer than it might seem. It necessitates that you explode with a killer southpaw hook, to fasten her attention. Then you add more coal to the furnace, but not too much that it seems like a premature eejee, so then you got to cool it off a notch. There is a long laundromatic list of stipulations. Anyperchance... I have begun fabrication... in my head... for Thaleia. Replete with melodies that appeal to her eclecticity. Replete with harmonies that bear happiness. For the first time I am capable (in an intrinsic way) of seeing how it is done.

(Side A)
Track 1. "Let's Get It On"--Marvin Gaye
Track 2. "November Rain"--Guns And Roses

Track 3. "Theme From Family Ties"

Track 4. "Shake Senora"--Harry Belafonte
Track 5. "(I'm A) Survivor"--Christina Aguilera or Beyonce and The Two

(Side B)

Track 6. "Turning Japanese"--name scratched out by Smittles, so I will venture a guess: Robert Seger
Track 7. "Crash" David Mathew's Band
Track 8. "Hakuna Matata"--Timon and Pumbaa
Track 9. "More Than Words"--Extreme
Track 10. "Pomp And Circumstance"

And that, Mr. Top Five, is how it is done.

Posted at 04:52 pm by mrmister
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Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Song For My Two Ladies

Verse 1:

Thoughts of you turn me foolish clown

I’m yelling, jumping down, up and down

You and me was just felicity

Motivation was not publicity

Chorus:

You say I’m amazing

And I say YES! I’m amazing

But hey,… y’know?

You’re amazing, too

Verse 2:

You and I, we’ll bark at moons

I’ve always had this thing for brunes

You’re your own crazy religion

Be part of mine, and we’re just bitchin’

Chorus

Bridge:

What makes me dance in underwear

And sing like the neighbors don’t care

Just don’t take Ritalin

I don’t trust Ritalin

Oooh

Verse 3:

My love for you cured my dyslexia

I just want to be next to ya

Doesn’t mean a thing that I am older

Whenever you cry,

Baby,

I’ll offer you my shoulder

End Chorus:

I know I’m amazing,

I’m rich and popular and nine kinds of loony

I know I’m amazing,

My smile is huge and bright and cartoony

But you…

You’re kinda amazing, too

Posted at 04:35 pm by mrmister
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Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Tuesday Is Gonna Be The Day

"*mumble mumble mumble mumble* back to you...

"Right now, you should've seen how Fortinbras overtook Smittles' One with his Ess. What cunning! What reptilian cunning; such as I have not seen since the days of Warren Harding. Truly amazing.

"When holidaying in Africa recently, I spent an inordinate amount of time researching training practices for Serengeti wildlife. Progress was quite expedient, and I was way ahead of schedule. Plans to release them on the unsuspecting Hampshirian public were drawing nigh, when two should go missing and against all odds appear on the International News Program. Apparently the Hampshirian blood-brain-washing had adverse effects on a few of the large feline subjects, and turned them into Samaritans. Well... bless their hearts, they saved a defenseless girl, and chased off attackers. I noted this, and used the event to change my formulas ever so slightly, kicking myself in the medula for not catching the glaring error firsthand.

"If nothing, I do pride myself on the ability to adapt. Changing like crusty chameleon. Keeps me alive; sane; derelicious.

"Will Mademoiselle Federline make a passably efficient maternal wench? I forgivingly look past Thaleia's crunkled nose at the prospect, although it endears me to her so. I am filled with confidence and faith that she will not fail to disappoint. It glees me so."

And... scene.

Once again? Up a notch? As you wish, Stani-old-boy.

"*mumble mumble mumble mumble* back to you, goddammit...

"Right now, you should've fuckin' seen how Fortinbras overtook Smittles' One with his Ess. Kicked his ass! What reptilian cunning; such as I have not seen since the days of Tonya Harding. Shit, that was fucking amazing.

"When holidaying in Africa recently, I spent an inordinate amount of time researching training practices for Serengeti wildlife. Progress was quite expedient, and I was way ahead of schedule. Plans to release them on the goddamn, stupid, no-doubt-unsuspecting Hampshirian public were drawing nigh, when two should go missing and against all odds appear on the International News Program. Apparently the Hampshirian blood-brain-washing had adverse effects on a few of the large feline subjects, and turned them into Samaritans. I was outraged! How the hell did this happen?? All my research pointed to them having an insane bloodlust for my next-state-enemies; not to play fuckin' Anti-Dirty-Harry with a preteen?! God!

"If nothing, I do pride myself on the ability to adapt. Changing like crusty chameleon. Keeps me alive; sane; derelicious. Although it pisses me off to no end that I have to. JESUS, for just one second I'd like to have my plans maybe, uhh... not go absurdly awry??

"Will Mademoiselle Federline make a passably efficient maternal wench? I forgivingly look past Thaleia's crunkled nose at the prospect, although it makes me (harder than... oh, let's pull an oft-used phrase from contemporary comedians: Chinese calculus.) filled to the brim with amusement. I am filled with confidence and faith that she will not fail to disappoint; the trash whore. It glees me so to think about it, so much that I want to go on a rampage in my closet and annihilate all the dust bunnies there."

Too much of an antagonistic spin? But... hmm... yes, good point. You are right. I shall take the week to practice. Do stop by and see Smittles sometime, she is always want for your input on her sense memory technique.

Posted at 05:36 pm by mrmister
So perfect, all are speechless Permalink