The Dead Gerbil Blues

I recently came across a blog where the author talked about his family. Yes, one of those boring, family blogs. You've seen them, I'm sure. Nothing worth reading is ever posted on those boring, family blogs. Why is there never anything like "Uncle Frank blew his brains out with a shotgun last night!" or "I discovered that my wife has pissed away all my hard-earned life savings and that she's a dyke!"

Nope, none of that. He talked about his boring wife, his boring kids, and even his boring pets--a cat and a gerbil. I thought I'd leave a comment about my gerbil. I wonder if I freaked him out?

Like you, I had a gerbil.

Although it was a female, I named her Dartanion. A little musketeer.

After three years of having Dartanion as a pet, one day in 1996 I found her body in the aquarium that was her home. She was motionless, pressed against the glass of the tank, and slightly buried under the urine-scented cedar woodchips, toilet paper rolls and bits of gnawed egg cartons--she was dead.

But Dartanion's story doesn't end there. No, rather than simply toss her in the garbage like you would a dog or cat, I decided that she was to live on in a different state. I found an old mason jar, dropped the rat inside (plink!) and sealed the lid, labeling it using a ball-point pen and a piece of masking tape. I then put her safely in the chest freezer.

To this very day her cold body rests in that frosted jar. Now and then I'll show her to houseguests, who, with sickened expressions, stare into the dull, gray eyes of my now 12-year-old gerbil.

They don't understand, though. They don't understand that there can only be one.

Only one.

Only one.

Only one.

Only one.

Only one.

- Wino McHackenpuke

The Good Doctor

Two years ago, my genitals were viciously ripped from my body and devoured by a pit bull terrier. The surgeons at the hospital managed to save my life, but I felt as though I would never truly LIVE again.

I went into a severe depression, and indulged excessively in drugs and alcohol in an attempt to ease my sorrow--but these substances had little effect.

Because my testicles were digested by that beast like a gourmet serving of Alpo, my voice became unusually high. On my frequent walks to the liquor store, school children teased me and requested that I sing Hillary Duff songs for them. I decided that suicide was my only option.

It was then, during the darkest, most miserable point in my life that I met a man (a Doctor, in fact) who claimed that he could help me. I was just about to leap from a tall bridge and drown myself in the river below it when he approached.

"You look like a man who's lost everything," I heard his voice say.

Turning, I earnestly replied, "You don't know how right you are."

He then offered me his hand, introduced himself as "Dr. Equestrian," and explained that he had heard of my plight.

"I can help you, young man," he said. "What that mongrel took away from you, I can return--and THEN some!"


Dr. Equestrian goes over the details of the surgery with me.

I was puzzled, to say the least---but genuinely intrigued to know whether the good Doctor could deliver on his promise of restoring my manhood. "I guess I don't have anything left to lose," I squeaked, trying my best to smile.

What Dr. Equestrian did for me was "nothing short" of miraculous! Using his medical knowledge, he successfully attached a stud horse's member to the scarred canvas that was my groin! Thanks to this brilliant man, I now possess the power and virility of Seabiscuit. I am literally HUNG LIKE A HORSE!


Dr. Equestrian and an assistant preparing the brave, transplant candidate.

Teaching the Retarded

I wrote in my profile details not too long ago that I enjoy collecting things that are a little 'taboo' by today's standards. I find it fascinating that what was totally normal back in the mid-twentieth century is now so alien to most people. It was only a few decades ago, and yet the world has totally changed, and it's not showing any signs of slowing down, either!

If you've never stopped to consider why a lot of old people are so grumpy, it's because they've had everything they were accustomed to taken away from them! I would argue that the technological revolution that transpired during their lifetimes was far more shocking than the allegedly disturbing Industrial Revolution of the 19th Century, which basically just started the ball rolling. I mean, at least the changes back then were practical: Locomotives allowed for travel; advanced farm equipment gave people the freedom to shoot their mules in the head, and electricity meant we were no longer dependent on fire for light and warmth. Nothing wrong with those advances. Then came radio and television, which made things quite comfortable. Yes, everything was going just fine--especially during the golden years of the 1950s and 60s.

Nowadays, though, a lot of the gadgets and fads are so retarded! (Yes, I said the word retarded.) I often wonder how Ward Cleaver of "Leave it to Beaver" would have reacted to them had he the ability to scorn our way of life, as opposed to the other way around?

It was a simpler time back then. After a hard day of work, Mr. Cleaver would relax in the leather-backed wing chair with his pipe, newspaper and clinking glass of scotch on the rocks. Later, after June had finished washing the dishes, vacuuming the carpets and scrubbing the floors, she would accompany her husband to the bedroom and fulfill the most important of her wifely duties.

Yes, Ward Cleaver had it good. Fortunately, he never had to put up with what today's fathers have to.

Ward, wearing his plaid slippers, sits in the living room, reading the newspaper. A pipe rests between his pursed lips and his glasses balance on the tip of his nose.

Wally enters.

Wally: Hey Dad, what's shakin'?

[Startled, Ward violently shakes his paper, and ash spills from his pipe to the carpet]

Ward: Ge--wha--what did you say to me, young man!? You know to address me as SIR.

Wally: [Rolls his eyes, and says in an effeminate tone] Aye aye, captain, thir! (saluting)

Ward: [Exasperated] "Wally, you are really trying my patience, and that's the last thing I need after the day I've had! Why, earlier at the petroleum station, the negro attendant did a predictably awful job on the the Buick's windows, and streaked them horribly. And if that wasn't enough, I--

Wally: Yeah, yeah, great story, pops--but I'm runnin' late. I need you to give me a thousand dollars so I can get myself an iPod, some blow, a pedicure, and a bitchin' new wardrobe. I've gots to work on my metrosexual look a little more.

Ward: [Puzzled] Metro-what?

Wally: Metrosexual. It's what's in, dad, you wouldn't know.

Ward: Well, I'm not familiar with all the 'happening' doo-dads you youngsters have got going these days, but I'll give you some advice that is sure to never go out of style: a man doesn't get anywhere in this life on the charity of others; if you want these things so badly, I suggest you do like the Beav and get yourself a paper rou--

[Wally pulls a knife and puts it to his father's throat]

Wally: Listen good, old man! I'll open you up if you don't give me what I need! Now gimme the fucking cash!

* * *

Tisk, tisk. When will that Wally learn?

For some good reading, you should hunt down some old LIFE magazines from the 1940s or 50s. They've got excellent, frame-worthy stuff in those editions, I can tell you. A while ago I saw a full-colour ad for a car company. It was in that portrait-looking style, and depicted a young teenager's face in the foreground with an automobile of the day behind him. The advertisement was trying to say how safe their particular model of car was, so the caption read: "IT WOULD TAKE 16 YEARS TO REPLACE HIM." Classic. "Shit, Peter was decapitated in a car-wreck - I knew we should have got an Oldsmobile!"

I've also got an issue of LIFE from 1948, where they document in the "Science" section a couple of monkeys who had their skull caps removed and replaced with clear, plastic ones! They bolted them on and then took some amazing pictures, which are now framed on my wall. Great conversation piece.

Today, though, I'd like to show you a similarly amusing relic from the early 1970s. It's a book by Kathryn A. Blake, that I found in a thrift shop for 10 cents. It details how to properly educate the beautifully unique people who do not possess the intellectual strengths we often take for granted. I think Blake summed it up better in her title, which is TEACHING THE RETARDED. Simple. Powerful. To the point. Although something tells me in may not be in print any more. Shameful, really. Just look at all of those happy, retarded children on the book's cover!

WINO

Wino on the street. Drinkin' a bottle of booze
Ain't got nothing to say, yeah
And he don't got much to lose
Times are on his face. Blisters on his brain
Wonders who's at fault. Knows that he's to blame
Thinks back on his childhood and wonders the reasons why
Why some men have made it rich.
Why some men have cried
Reached out his hand, lord. For a nickel or a dime
Livin' every day, yeah, for one more taste of wine

Wino, soon you've got to choose
How long must you take abuse
Wino, you wasn't born to lose
Sweet wine is making you a fool

Wino on the street. Drinkin' a bottle of booze
Ain't got nothing to say, yeah
And he don't got much to lose
I want to help him out with his troubles and woes
I guess he's a happy young man
God in heaven only knows

Wino, soon you've got to choose
How long must you take abuse
Wino, you wasn't born to lose
Sweet wine is making you a fool

Yonder come a man, now this I know
Now you better find some place to go
Yonder come a man to take you downtown
He don't want you hanging around


-Lynyrd Skynyrd

Professor Pig (Click to see full Cartoon)

Hermit the Frog (Click to see full Cartoon)

Bad Luck Billy (Click to see full Cartoon)

Be like the Squirrel (Click to see full Cartoon)

Click the Picture! (Based on a true Story)

As a change of pace, I would like to announce the beginning of CARTOON WEEK!

That's right - Wino draws cartoons. So please excuse my sickening sense of humour and try to enjoy the pretty pictures for the next seven days or so. If I feel like writing anything, I'll post it over at The Handsomes.

The Increasingly Spooky Roommate

Lately, things have been pretty tense around the ol’ homestead. Every time I leave my room to use the bathroom or get something from the kitchen I find that I’m on edge. Why so uncomfortable, you ask? In my own residence, you wonder? Well, as some of the more recent posts will inform you, ever since Pepper was fired from…the mission…her behavior has become increasingly bizarre. At first I thought she was simply going through a period of adjustment, but recent events have persuaded me to think otherwise—I’m now quite certain that she’s got a few screws loose in that furry head of hers.

After our heated confrontation in the living room the other day, Pepper mysteriously vanished. At first I wasn’t concerned. I mean, normally she can be found relaxing in her favorite chair by the television. However, when I would check to see if she was there (and I confess, I did this often), I would find it unoccupied. My first assumption was that she had taken off for a while; undoubtedly to blow off some steam; to get her thoughts in order. But a part of me knew that she wasn’t gone. I could sense her presence. Yes, she was trained by the best, and her stealth and skill are unparalleled; but when those hairs stood up on the back of my neck, I knew she was close by... Watching.

Earlier this evening, things got really weird—at laundry time.

See, the electricity rates were recently increased, so in order to avoid paying out the ass, it is now essential to use major appliances after ten o’clock at night whenever possible. I had been neglecting my laundry for quite a while, so with a ball of T-shirts under my arm, I ventured into the basement—Pepper’s apartment. Her “lair.” It is there, in the darkest corner, that the washer and dryer are located. I was nervous, yes; but I had to get a wash done, and I wasn’t about to let my increasingly spooky roommate dictate my routine. And besides, I reasoned, she probably did take off for a while.

The old, wooden steps creaked as I cautiously descended into the darkness. With my free hand, I urgently palmed the drywall for the light switch. Locating it, I smiled in relief and batted it on. The cellar strobed once or twice, and I heard the bulb rattle.

ZZ-TINKK!!

Burnt out—shit!

I quickly determined that this was not going to keep me from getting my clothes cleaned, and stomped down the remaining stairs in my socked feet and over to the washer. The air was moist and had that earthy, springtime smell. I hastily tossed the clothes in the machine, added the detergent, twisted the knobs into place and pressed the start button. Piece of cake.

As I was about to go back upstairs, though, something in the corner caught my eye. As I kneeled down to investigate, I discovered what appeared to be a crucifix made of old bones!



They had been gnawed clean, and were crudely affixed to one another with a piece of twine.
Horrified, I stood up to leave, but stopped dead in my tracks when I saw them—the two gleaming, yellow eyes that hovered along the ground towards me.

“P-Pepper!” I choked, grasping my chest. “You—you scared me.”

“’P-P-P-P-Pepper’!” she mocked. “What the hell are you doing in fucking apartment?!”

“—I’m just—just doing a wash,” I responded. “You’ve never had a problem with it in the past, so I don’t see why—”

“Just doing a wash, huh?” she interrupted, her eyes flashing towards the corner. “Since when does ‘doing a wash’ require you to root through my shit!?”

“Look, Pepper, I was just leaving when I saw something strange in the corner and—”

“—Strange?” she rejoined, growing more irate. “Are you implying that my handiwork is in some way less than ‘normal’? That I’m some sort of fucking lunatic because my conception of art differs from your own? Is that it, asshole?! Is that what you really came down here for? To give me some fucking lecture?!”



As she talked, she stepped closer, causing me to press my back against the crumbly brick wall. I tried desperately to think of something to say that would calm her down, but realized that being diplomatic was probably not the best option. So, fearing for my safety, I decided to use my legs—which are significantly longer than hers—to my advantage, and jumped over her body in the direction of the stairs.

“That’s right," I heard her say. "Get the fuck outta here!"

She could have easily caught up with me, but instead chose to sit and watch as I disappeared onto the next level and to the safety of my room, where I am now. At present, I’m in no state of mind to try and figure out Pepper’s behavior, or why she would make decorations out of bones, so I’ll have to do that at a later date—if, of course, no harm comes to me before then.

Papal Pepper

The strangest thing happened earlier today. As I was walking through the living room I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Pepper was laying on a pillow against the wall. She was wearing a large, pointed hat and had wrapped herself in toilet paper! What on Earth!? I thought as I approached. The sweet scent of bourbon hung in the air.

I immediately assumed that she had gone insane, and that this dress-up activity was in response to her being fired from...the mission. Oh, I didn't tell you about that? Yes, unfortunately, on the day of...the mission... it was discovered that Pepper had a dangerously high blood-alcohol level, and she was immediately deemed an unworthy candidate. A sad state of affairs, I know, but her involvement would have likely jeoporadized...the mission.



"Pepper, what in the hell are you doing?!" I asked, gesturing at her ridiculous outfit.
"Go away," she said. "Can't you see I'm busy!?"
"--Actually, Pepper, I don't know what all of this is about. What's up with you?"



"I'm a little...I'm a little upset about the Pope's recent passing," Pepper went on to explain, lowering her head in dejection. "Although you seem to be thrilled with the whole thing, since it's just another point for you on the death list! The fact is, he was a great man!"

It was an uncomfortable moment. It was never my intention to disrespect the Pope--he truly was a great man, and did wonders for the Catholic Church... I just...thought he would be a sure-thing for the death list! It was only about the list!

"Gee, I'm...really sorry, Pepper. I--didn't know you were a practicing Catholic."



"You're not sorry!" she yelled, glaring at me. "All of this is just making you uncomfortable--you just want to be done with this awkwardness, don't you!? DON'T YOU?!"

"No, that's not it at all, Pepper--I just want to know that you're okay. I'm worried about your drink--"

"Don't you dare bring that up!" she hissed thunderously. "I've got enough in my bowl after losing my Captain rank and being dropped from the mission!"

"I--"

"--Fuck off--just--just fuck off. Leave me alone."

So I did. I left her there on the living room floor. I hope she gets through this difficult time in her life. I'd hate to lose her as a roommate. But man... I hope she stops dressing like such a weirdo. I fail to see how that getup paid tribut to the Pope in any way whatsoever.

Captain Pepper

One day not too long ago, I was sitting around the house with nothing to do. When people don’t know what to do, they sometimes convince themselves that they are hungry in order to fill that “empty” feeling. I did the same. I went to the fridge, got myself an orange and devoured it.

“Hmmm. Still empty,” I thought.

Then, looking down at Pepper, I knew what I had to do. No, I wasn’t going to eat Pepper—I was going to transform her into…Captain Pepper!

I took my orange peel and carefully poked two holes in either side of the rind, allowing for a rubber band to be inserted. I then tied knots to secure it in place and said, “Pepper! It’s time for your mission!”

Pepper struggled at first, since she was a little nervous about her mission. But I simply reminded her that she should be thinking about her fellow countrycats, and that what she was about to undertake was noble work—hero’s work!

Strapping her helmet on her, I got the sense that she was ready to embark on her mission. In her eyes I saw determination and valor—traits that are quite rare in cats. She meowed a long and awe-inspiring meow of courage, tossing her head from side to side in an effort to psyche herself up for what was to come. “Brave soul,” I thought, tears welling up in my eyes.


Pepper takes a moment to pray before...the mission
(Click picture for another Pepper story of Argus's)

Celebrity Death List

Late last year I decided that I was going to make a celebrity death list. I got myself a piece of paper and wrote down the following names in the following order:

1. Andy Griffith
2. Don Knotts
3. Peter Faulk
4. Gordon Lightfoot
5. Leonard Nimoy
6. Courtney Love
7. Bob Barker
8. Johnny Carson
9. Pope John Paul II
10. Sean Connery
11. Hugh Downs
12. Doc Watson
13. Kirk Douglas
14. Ernest Borgnine
15. Bea Arthur
16. Les Paul
17. Larry King
18. Bob Dole
19. Dick Cheney
20. Mickey Rooney

Now, as you are all probably aware, Johnny Carson died a short time ago. For some reason my guesses aren't coming true in precisely the order I had planned-- Matlock was supposed to go first, god dammit!! Ahem. *Straightens tie*

Oh well. For some reason my list started up on number eight, but it looks as though it's starting to go in order now, because the Pope is going to be dying any minute. Someone had better warn Sean Connery!

UPDATE:

As an added personal touch, I thought I'd include the original draft of the death list, which is posted on the fridge for public viewing. The names are scratched off as the people die.

Click for larger, clearer view.

Making your own death list can be a good way to add some excitement to family night, or just something to pass the time. It's a pretty simple task, really. Just write down the names of a bunch of people you think might die (paying particular attention to the drug-addicted and elderly) and then post it on your blog! Or fridge!
Here are some helpful websites to get you started:

www.deathlist.net

www.stiffs.com