Be careful what you wish for

The girl with the chips is gone.

She has been replaced by the woman with the fingernail clippers.

I submit that it is not fucking possible to clip your fingernails every day. They don't grow that fast! What could she possibly be doing?

I'm so afraid that I'm going to knock on her office, and catch her with a toe in her mouth, gnawing off a hard yellow nail.

She'll spit it out, and it will lodge in my sweatshirt. We will both stare at it for a very long, very uncomfortable time.

PSA con frijoles

"I haven't been there in what... 5 years?" I asked myself. This almost invariably leads to a bad decision.

"I think I'll try it out for lunch." Well played, shit-hole restaurant. Well played indeed.

While spending nearly 30 whole seconds investigating High Tech Burrito, I discovered that it appears to be a Bay Area phenomenon. But McDonalds started as a single stand, too. Just say no, people.

As soon as you walk in, you are accosted for your order. No time to look things over. You wouldn't be coming here if you didn't know what you wanted. Or at least that's what I imagine management assumes.

"I'd like the chicken burrito."

"What kind of tortilla?"

"Uhh, kind? Magic, please."

"Whole wheat or flour?"

This line of questioning continues through choice of beans, rice, salsa, and toppings. For people so uppity about me spending a few moments to decide on an entree, they sure have an awful lot of questions.

As they gave me my total, I discovered what all of the smoke and mirrors were about - my $4.00 burrito was costing me $8.00. It would seem that I had made the wrong choices. I could see it in register attendant's eyes: "Should have said whole wheat, asshole."

What kills me is that I could have gone to any hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant and gotten a burrito the size of my fucking head, with all the trimmings, for just over $3.00. Include tip, and I'm still ahead of the base price of this burrito.

"This better be one good burrito," I thought as I left.

How was my High Tech Burrito? Essentially, I had just spent $8.00 on a Taco Bell 7-layer burrito. Except that this burrito didn't have 7 layers, and was smaller. And cost over 4 times as much.

And I don't like Taco Bell.

Fuck you, Robotic Tostada, or whatever you call yourself. My bowels have stopped cramping from your food, but they still ache whenever I consider what an unmitigated rip-off you are.

That which may not be named

"I shall not cause harm to any vehicle nor the personal contents thereof, nor through inaction let that vehicle or the personal contents thereof come to harm."

A meth snorting, Asimov quoting Harry Dean Stanton reciting the Repo Code is only one of the many reasons why Repo Man is among my favorite movies.

There's a scene in which Tracey Walter is waxing shamanistic about pine tree deoderizers. "Find one in every car. You'll see."

I haven't found that to be true, but I have found that the Post Office is a time machine. A twisted, fun-house time machine which forces you to confront the ghosts of your past. The poeople who you can no longer truthfully say you know, because both you and they have changed nearly beyond recognition.

Walter later explains that since there was a time without people, people must have come from the future. People who dissapear go to the past. And they get there by flying saucer. Which is really a time machine.

I haven't found this to be true, either. But if people do dissapear from the future, they come back to the Post Office. There's no other rational explanation.

I'm pretty sure that if I spend any more time there, I'll see my future self. And I'll see that he suddenly remembers what I just saw.

And we'll walk past eachother whithout saying a word.

The spoken word!!!!!!

the spoken word is the spoken word the spoken word is just that.... the spoken word!!!!!!the spoken word is the spoken word damnit!!!!!!!!!

Dammit, people. Dammit.

The Festivus jimmy leg

The night before last I had the worst leg cramp of my life.

It was Christmas, and after eating all day long, I had the bright idea of topping off with a brownie ala mode. Merry Christmas! Not so much later, and not at all surprisingly, during a rather intense dream in which I was training to be a ranch hand in a haunted town, I was awoken by a very sour stomach. As I rolled out of bed to look for an antacid, the room exploded in light and my leg buckled under me.

It was all that I could do to keep from screaming. I tossed back and forth on the bed, sweating furiously and mewling like a sick cat. I woke up my wife, and through clenched teeth managed to bark out, "Sorry."

Earlier, I had watched a show on Discovery about a couple of scientists investigating extremely toxic jellyfish in northern Australia. Inevitably, they were both stung. The program cut to the scientists in the hospital, writhing in pain, unable to keep their legs or arms still. They performed a ceasless dance in an attempt to find a position, any position, that would offer a fleeting respite from the pain.

I thought about this as I began to pray under my breath for Jesus, sweet Jesus to please kill me now.

Eventually, through sheer will, I managed to pull myself into a standing position. The pain began to subside, and soon I was able to move enough to shuffle my feet. I had heard that potassium helps with cramping, so I hobbled into the kitchen in search of a banana. It was about this time that my sour stomach found itself able to compete with my slowly easing thigh for my miserable attention. I leaned against the counter with a peeled banana in my hand, wondering which fate would be worse.

With a nod to Solomon, I ate half of the banana.

Later, I placed my hand on my thigh, just above and behind my knee. The muscle was still so tightly coiled that a palm-breadth length of my leg was only as big around as my forearm. It was if I were wearing an invisible corset or tourniquet.

Yesterday, my wife told me to drink some orange juice and finish the banana. The orange juice is supposed to help, as well.

I never got around to it.

How quickly we forget and adjust.

But I'm still afriad to go to sleep.

Freeform Friday, The Xmas Post

Being nearly Christmas The Holidays Winter Break Fuck... uhhh. Oh, hell Christmas, my thoughts were drawn, of course, to the Immaculate Conception.

Or rather, what the Church might be like if it were designed by Rube Goldberg. Starting with a bowling ball falling on a frying pan to pull a rope...

It became neccessary for Christ not only to have been born of a virgin, but he must also be untainted by original sin. However, it would seem that he couldn't be the only one born without orignal sin, or he wouldn't be fully human. And "fully God, mostly human" didn't translate into good ad slogans. Speaking of which, if we could only figure out how to transubstantiate without the trans fats, we'd be onto something. "Now fullyGod! Heart healthy Kosher brain food! Add a sip of blood for an important part of this complete breakfast!"

Anyhow, so's Little Big Guy can be fully human, someone else needs to also have been untainted by those wacky Adam and Eve kids. And what better choice than Mom? Princess Maria of Alderan.

So it becomes important to institute a policy of Immaculate Conception, in which Mary is personally exempted by the grace of God to be fit to carry His Son-self. Which is a chicken and egg issue, because she is chosen because of her purity, but pure because of her having been chosen.

Because it's too damn simple to be amazed at a mere virgin birth.

...which cuts the string that drops the anvil on the button that Poof! knocks up a virgin.

Merry day before the eve.

Freeform Friday, early edition

And quite early at that.

I noticed a Porsche in my work parking lot today, parked where an SUV usually sits. I speak occasionally to the woman who's spot that is. I imagined that I would say "Wow. Porsche. Nice." But I wouldn't feel it. Humorously, a radio personality just yesterday was talking about disliking Porsches. He stated that any man that owns one is either gay, closested, or doesn't yet know that they are gay. PC aside, I chuckled under my breath. I thought of the few people that I've known that have owned a Porsche. Check, check and check.

On the other hand, I could just be jealous of the lifestyle which affords one to blow off child-support payments in order to purchase a gas-insatiable roadster to impress future ex-wives.

But I have no bitterness.

She was gone before I had a chance to comment. That was probably for the best, given my mood and recent thoughts on the vehicle. But where, I wondered, was the SUV? I'm proud to say that I couldn't tell you if it was a Hummer or a Bejeezus X-Mark 010. But I kept thinking, "God, I hate it when my husband takes out the tank. I can't see around corners in this itty bitty Porsche!"

Somewhere my Honda and my plastic mini-van are weeping. Peace be with you, utilitarian vehicles. The patron saint of consumerism is nigh born. Hail Rudoph.

Which reminds me, for some reason, that we received a beautiful hand-made Christmas card from our oldest today. The day-care people took a great picture of our son, and pasted it above the requisite "love and xmas" handwriting. I'm dubious that my 2 year-old actually wrote, much less dictated, the note. Sweet, none the less. But the picture appears to have been taken at an opium den. My son's eyes are half-mast, and drool is pooled in the cleft of his collar bone. I'm thinking I should stop by unanounced occasionally. I know that child-care providers need a little time to themselves, but perhaps The Horse is a tad strong?

The upshot is that my little man is halfway to Sherlock Holmes. That is, he can't play the violin, and he's apparently addicted to smack. I'm working daily on the misogyny and pet-like feelings for fellow humans. We'll lick 'em yet, Baskervillians.

Off subject, my toilet tank has recently been sporting a skirt of condensation. I keep telling myself that it must be awefully cold outside, and awefully warm inside. But, c'mon, I live in California. The coldest it gets around here is maybe 15 degrees F. On a spectacularly cold day. And since it's raining, it hasn't been much below 50. So if there are any Bob Villas out there, what the fuck is up with my toilet?

Off/on subject, when I was a freshman in Highschool, I used to ride my bike a mile or so to my friends house. We would then walk the few blocks to school. For a week or two, it was just over 15 degrees F (Squishi - that's friggin' cold). I remember my hands litterally not working until about 2nd period. It took most of my strength to {crack.. crack} disengage my fingers from the handlebars. I understand that some areas sell "gloves". We don't have these in Sunny CA.

And you people in Colorado, pshaw. You're prepared. I know it gets colder. My sisters love to tell me about their wet hair breaking in the wind while waiting for the bus. Suckers.

But we weren't. It was damn cold. All we could wear at the time were weaved ponchos and penny loafers. And our pants were pegged, so our ankles became arthritic. I hold Tubbs personally responsible. Only because I can't remember Don Johnson's Miami Vice moniker. What an asshole.

My parents used to live in Idaho. They tell me that I have no idea what cold is. Strangely, my father worked for the Navy. Landlocked or no, Admiral Rickover knew where to build bases.

My father tells a great story about meeting Rickover. I'd tell it here, but I couldn't possibly do it justice. He is one personality that lives in the minds of every nuclear officer of that era. Is it strange to wish that I could have been interviewed by such an unmitigated asshole?

And speaking of characters, what happened to the Warner Brother cartoons? I remember this being a stock staple growing up. These cartoons were made from the 30's through the 60's, as far as I know, and were played constantly when I was a kid. Now that I have kids, I'm often up early enough to watch Saturday morning cartoons. But it's all Yu-gi-oh! and Pok-e-mon. I don't even know what the fuck that means.

Where's the "puddy tat?", the "Wyle E. Coyote, Super Genius?", "Hoo-hoo!! Daffy?" To quote arm-pit hair diva, Where have all the cowboys gone?

And what happened to arm-pit hair? When I was young and stupid, and did I mention young (and stupid?), we played a game in Germany called "Mann oder Frau?" We would sit in the train platforms in the summer and watch the legs go by. Without looking above the waist, we would try to identify men or women based on leg hair. Surprisingly, there is little natural difference.

And I ain't a child of the 60's, but c'mon, tell me the truth. You don't think a little underarm hair is sexy? No? I suppose you like clinical clean-room sex, as well. Some Honda robot pulls a rubber onto your schwantz, then lowers you toward a perfectly washed and shorn female.

Wow. Nothing sexier than antispeptic romance. "I'm done, honey. Would you like to spray with Lysol?"

"You're what? I was watching The View."

Any wonder "3rd World" countries reproduce at an embaressingly faster rate? If absolutely nothing else, I bet they know, and can smell what is truly sexy.

"Tutanka," asshole.

Oh, sweet, sweet Jesus, no.

Or, BUSHISM VI - The Final Chapter
(Now without audioblogger!)


It would be impossible to grade these, so I'll just post them chronologically, as they appeared in my calendar (it would appear that they were waiting for December to pull out the big guns):


"The legislature's job is to write law. It's the executive branch's job to interpret law."
-Austin, Texas; November 22, 2000

"I was raised in the West. The west of Texas. It's pretty close to California. In more ways than Washington, D.C., is close to California."
-Los Angeles; as quoted by the LA Times; April 8, 2000

"I am mindful of the difference between the executive branch and the legislative branch. I assured all four of these leaders that I know the difference, and the difference is they pass the laws and I execute them."
-Washington, D.C.; December 18, 2000

"Natural gas is hemispheric. I like to call it hemispheric in nature because it is a product that we can find in our neighborhoods."
Austin, Texas; December 20, 2000


So remember kids, "Render unto Caeser that which is hemispheric." And, "Bush interprets the law closer to California than you think."

A brief dream XIV

Last night I dreamed that Robyn dragged me to a black-market craft fair. Initially I didn't understand why it was black market - it appeared simply to be wood carvings and metal work. She found the gift that she was looking for, and approached the stall.

Lou Ferrigno was manning the stall. Robyn introduced me as Peter Parker. Lou gave me a strange look and then exploded in laughter. "I like it!" he said, as he lead me to a bar. "Get my friend Peter here a drink!"

We all got to know eachother over a few beers. At one point Lou told me that I should have an apostophied nickname, like a boxer. "Tookie," I suggested. He didn't find it amusing; Robyn just shook her head.

We took an elevator to a sercret warehouse which was nearly pitch black. That is, if you tried to focus on something it was completely dark, but in your periphery you could almost make out shapes and movement. We had a sense of forboding, and decided that perhaps this gift was not worth the price.

Later, Lou joined us for Christmas at my parents house. Introducing him to my mother, I asked, "Should I call you Lou, or Mr. Ferrigno, or what?"

He said, "Call me Steve."

Phoning it in

Thank God that I've kept a few posts as drafts, so that I can spend 20 seconds online and make it seem like I'm actually keeping up with my duties. This is the penultimate draft, to be followed only by That which may never be named or spoken of here, which will probably eventually be both spoken of and named.

So:

We need to lose the sax solo
Or, Two songs about horses that I dig.


My Lovely Horse

My lovely horse,
running through the field,
Where are you going
with your fetlocks blowing
in the wind?
I want to shower you with sugarlumps,
And ride you over fences,
Polish your hooves every single day,
And bring you to the horse dentist.

My lovely horse,
You're a pony no more,
Running around with a man
on your back,
Like a train in the night
Like a train in the night.


The Stallion, Part II

For hither not, I am the stallion
Come fear, come love, I am the stallion
You know that I am the stallion, mang
I am, I am the stallion, mang
You know that I am the stallion, mang
I live, I walk, I am the stallion, mang
Hair-throng goo-tongue, stallion mang
A 2 S-T-A-L-L-I-O-N
I am the stallion, mang
1: I can drink
2: I get groomed
3: I go for a walk
I am the stallion, mang
You know that I am the stallion, mang
Deaner! Deaner! Dude!
Where can you be? Come hither
Who are you? The stallion
What's goin' on?
Who are you, Deaner?
I am, I am the stallion
You are the stallion
A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-I-J-K-L-M-N-O-P-Q-S-S-T-A-L-L-I-O-N
I am the stallion, mang
I can feel what I like to see in you and me and the stallion
I can play, I get to take the water because I am the stallion
O-P-L-G-H-M-F-S-T-A-L-L-I-O-N
Stallion, mang
Stallion, mang
Stallion, mang
I am the stallion
Wild stallion
Wild stallion
Goodbye
Stallion
Stallion
Goodbye
Stallion! Stallion! Stallion! Stallion! Stallion!
Stallion, mang
Whenever forth you come hither, when I can see the wind,
I shall too ride upon the stallion
I shall too lick the palm of the stallion,
Whilst I drink the hair from the stallion, man
I am the stallion

Alien...? Where?

I have not had time to respond to specific emails or comments, recently. But I hope to put to rest the pressing issue of the granite-born alien. Now.



If you still don't see it, that's okay. I hear that Captain Kangaroo, Mr. Rodgers and Bill O'Reilly all have treats for your virgin eyes.

What is this... 'brother'?

15 minutes of fame knocking a gift horse in the bush

Update 12/19/05 --- Certain references and persons have been removed changed per request.

Hi KOM,

I'm working with Dr. Karl Schink on the book Super Z's, to be released next year by Seabird Pudd'n', and one of the sections deals with sleep laughing. I'm looking for personal stories about it and came across a recent blog post of yours where you mentioned that you sleep-laugh. Any interest in being quoted in the book? If so, I'm looking for a couple of paragraphs about your experiences-- are they always related to dreams? Do you usually remember why you're laughing? When/how often does it happen? Etc.

Thanks for considering it!

Regards,

Julia Glazed
Editor-in-chief, http://www.writtenstuff/
Author of Patty Get Your Gun! and many other books.
See Julia's books at http://www.juliaglazed.com/

I can just imagine...

"KOM, who doesn't want to share his real name for fear of the 'twisty ear things', among many other concerns, has agreed to share a brief description of sleep laughing."

"Well, Julia, its like this. I crack me up. I'm the funniest person I know, but only in my head. The things I think about, well, you couldn't... wouldn't... shouldn't understand."

"Thank you, KOM. It's been a revelation to speak with you. Now on to Cynthia Marisa, who claims to see the Virgin at night..."

But I guess I could tell people I'd been published. That would be cool.

Because before racist, misogynist and bastard, I'm a braggart first.

Have a cigar

UPDATE 12/10/05, 8:46pm -------------

Make that 8lbs, 12oz. KOM's brain no worky goody after a day or two without sleep.

I'd also like to share a brief anecdote. The nurse who left the OR to share the news with our remaining family members was actually asked about the hair color, not the sex of the new arrival.

Robyn and I are Golden in the eyes of both sets of grandparents for providing the first red-headed grandchild. I guess everyone was wondering if lightning would strike twice.

The nurse said, and I verified with the family so that I may quote, "It's a sort of a non-descript brown color - like his father's beard."

In case any of you were wondering, my beard is beautiful, thank you very much.

--------------------------- 8:56pm


You can all start ignoring the baby countdown on Robyn's blog - our family has grown by 1/3 today.

2:10am - Baby boy, 20", 9 8lbs, 12oz.

That's 9 8 and 3/4 pounds three weeks early

Mommy and baby are doing great. I'm with little man until he wakes up, then it's back to the hospital to meet his little brother.

Don't anybody write anything interesting for a couple weeks - I don't know if I'm going to be able to keep up with the blogging for a while.

Aar has spoken - he wants your children

They're coming out of the woodwork, again.

Moral, upstanding, conservative and most importantly christian citizens are calling for Tookie's head.

What would Jesus do? I think that the Bible makes it pretty clear that Jesus would be first in line to administer the lethal injection: "Let he who did not read the New Testament cast the first stone at her," John 8:7. Or, adjusted for the vernacular of his time "Why you all standing around? Someone put a cap in that bitch ass."

As we all remember from bible school, Jesus is a bloodthirsty bogeyman that appears once a year, disguised as a clucking rabbit. The baby Jesus we associate with Christmas is actually Budha. No shit, but I digress. When the Were-rabbit isn't busy hiding aborted chicken fetuses, He is on a mission to personally "send scum to hell". As He states in the book of Robertson, "Look, I didn't die on the cross to save murderes, pedophiles or pot heads. Why's everyone always hanging this peace crap on Me? Cluck."

Thank Dad that we finally got our collective asses out of the stone age and reinstated the death penalty. Jesus is hungry, and He requires our goverment-sponsored sacrifices to sustain His mighty rage.

I hate being with the "Kill a queer for Christ" crowd. But I guess that like a stopped clock they can sometimes be right, even if for the wrong reason.

Mr. Williams deserves nothing less than the ultimate punishment. Murders aside, I believe that he needs to die for founding the Crips. That he has helped a few individuals quit gangs is a noble start, but simply does not atone for the misery that he has caused. Not by a long shot.

By the way, quit telling me that he has been nominated for a Nobel. My fucking pet rock has been nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize. Just last week I nominated my asshole for managing to restrain itself from shitting on some "Tookie's good people" protesters.

I've re-written this closing paragraph 15 times, and I can't find a way to end without sounding cavalier about supporting the end of a life. So I'm not really going to try. I'm not generally a hater, but some people need to be exterminated. And if anyone deserves it, Mr. Williams does. So light him up, and do it today. I'm tired of listening to this crap. Besides, I might be missing more important news. Are Brit-Brit and K-Fed still together?

Mount Rushdeath

It was beautiful, and the insects appeared to play us our song, the trees seemed to bow, the rocks, even, to rise at our approach.

I took a picture of our Honeymoon in paradise, little suspecting the horror that awaited.

Behold, the breathtaking Yosemite valley:



One comes to the top of Glacier Point by a narrow, twisting, treacherous road. But the view is spectacular. The tears of awe could fill oceans.

If only they'd known.

I submit to you the pea in our mattress, the new clothes of our emperor, the bear of our Honeymoon:



Like an ancient-day Mt. Rushmore, the Alien has already left his mark on our pristine landscape. Notice the beady eyes and block-a-chock teeth.

This queen in stone must be obliterated.

But reader, the horror does not end here. Submitted further - the foil to my simple paranoia, the mac of alien cheese, the toe-curl to the Rushdeath orgasm:



"What the fuck are you?", it seems to growl. Mirror lake reflects only the white-hot body of a scorpion and the echoing laughs of special operation soldiers. Half Dome itself has sacrificed its face to not have to view the unholy visage of our overlords.

I learned an interesting fact while visiting the museums around the Yosemite Valley. Yosemite means "sometimes they kill."

Mostly they come at night. Mostly.

A brief dream XIII

I know I've been posting a lot of dreams lately, but this one is weird even by my standards.

Last night I dreamed that Cartman from South Park had kidnapped my cat in a ploy to force me to help him free a wondrous, wish granting substance from a tree.

He was afraid to stick his hand into the hollow of the tree because there might be "icky" things inside.

We had to wait for nightfall to retrieve the substance, so we held vigil in front of a house several blocks away. At one point I had to urinate, so I went behind the house to piss in the bushes. A deer approached and spoke to me in a very heavy native american accent*. He told me that no one was home, then wished me a nice day before running off.

As the sky darkened, we walked to the tree. Inside was not a substance, as such, but a demon. For the rest of the dream I was able to see through his eyes and experience his thoughts. He was particularly vain, and dismissed most people out of hand. Interestingly, he spent quite a bit of time reading the minds of dogs.

Cartman held a "wishing" party and invited over his friends. The demon stated matter of factly that he would twist any of our wishes to cause more harm than good, so no one volunteered a desire. Instead, the demon walked around making random comments to people.

One woman had made an off-hand remark about not being able to stand the smell of garbage. The demon looked at her and said, "But your husband becomes excited by the smell of decay. Does that make you feel like less of a woman?"


* I know, I don't know what "native american accent" is supposed to mean, either. That's just what I remember thinking.

Pure Gold

I have seen the future, and it is funny.

I was introduced to I Wrote This When I Was Drunk (proudly linked for some time to your right) by Diva Working Mum long, long ago. Or as I prefer to think of it, "The Haiku Days".

Recently, Paul of the Violent Farmers asked for words that rhyme with Nipple for use in a new song. Those suggestions were catalogued in the comments, and the result is the sterling "As of Yet Unnamed" to-be-classic that can be read here.

The line that sold me?

They're long not large if you get my gist
Like the index finger on a midget's fist

My insignificant contribution?

Milk dribble.

My mother would be so proud.

Go check out his blog and dive into the archives. There's gold in them thar hills.

The Big 3-0

When I think of Jack London, several images come to mind: childhood adventure stories, books about dogs, overly long and dramatic descriptions of mundane things, wide open wilderness, freedom and its price...

I don't think of Oakland.

But that's where the gods put Jack London Square. I had to do a little research to figure out why. 30 Google-seconds later, I learned that he was raised in Oakland. I had always associated him with San Francisco. Or Alaska. Or the ocean. But Oakland? Home of Al Davis and the Black Hole? Land of the snot-colored A's? The adoptive city of Tupac?

O-town, bitch!
D.Jay Lundin Squizzle.

I'm so street I bleed asphalt.

Jack London Square is the home of Yoshi's, a sushi restaurant and jazz club. Because, like London, when I think authentic sushi and great jazz, Oakland is always the first city that comes to mind.

Yoshi's was featuring Taj Mahal, and that's where the wife, a few friends and I spent Friday evening. I had first seen Taj Mahal perform at a concert 10 or so years ago. There were some great performers, including Blues Traveler, but Taj Mahal made such an impression on me that I remember little else of the show. I immediately went out and bought a cheap 'best of' album, and it's one of my favorite discs to this day.

The seating in the jazz club was quite intimate. While we were seated on the side near a wall, we were only 3 rows back from the stage - close enough that we could easily hear his off-mic musical direction.

If the Taj Mahal trio comes to your area, I would highly recommend checking them out. If you're already a fan, you don't need me to tell you. If you've never heard of him, give him a chance. It's not like buying tickets to the Rolling Stones - you don't have to decide between good seating and your children's education.

Did that last paragraph sound like a book review on Reading Rainbow to anyone else?

Anyhow - Happy birthday, Robyn! I hope you enjoyed the show.

Nature abhors a vacuum shark... and dog

Last month I was terrified by the python who ruptured after eating an alligator.

Now, more proof that we left the oceans millenia ago for a reason, and should never go back.


(Insert favorite Goldfish crackers jingle here)

Dog eat dog, you say? Fair enough. How about Squirrel eat dog?

I guess it's not so safe on land, either. Kansas, Arkansas, Russia, the ocean... I'm running out of places to hide. If you need me, I'll be under my monster-proof cotten sheets.