In the haze of an extra choc-ice

Have you seen my 85,000 year old neighbor man? I suspect him of slipping a roofie into the bottled water he gave me yesterday when I saw him shuffling around outside muttering "no drinking water, no drinking water"..

Do not be fooled. He is not who he is claiming to be. He is going by the alias "Gilbert", but that's all it is, an alias.

He is wanted in 49 states for fraud, the robbery of a produce market, and lewd conduct. He is also wanted for questioning in the stampede that led to Billy Joel's untimely death. He is considered unarmed, but extremely dangerous, especially when confronted or fed potatoes. He already got me to agree to spend an evening with him by throwing me off with that "did he say spend an evening with me or do you grow beets?" thing, it's pretty clear I'm a sure thing, isn't it? But let's not get into that right now, the important thing here is that if you see this geriatric do not try to apprehend him yourself. Leave it to the professionals.

I beg of you, call your local Monkey Catcher and put your tax dollars to work. A $50,000,000,000,000 reward, payable in yellow m&m's only, will be offered for the capture of this doddering deviant (indeed, I'm all about alliteration).

I always wanted to be a camp counselor

Now that the month of Hellvember is almost over, I can concentrate on the important things. Things that I have been unable to attend to as I have been hiding under my covers for most of the month. I think you know what I'm talking about.

First off, the canceling of 502 magazine subscriptions (erm...yes...that IS including Cosmo...whatever, I don't need to explain myself to yous people.). It's still unclear how I acquired these subscriptions, although I can almost see myself up late at night, delirious, high on shrooms and ketamine, in tears, calling some 1-900-SubscribeMeToAllYourMagazinesBecauseIamSadAndPatheticThanks number. Obviously I need help. Yes, I do. All of these magazines are getting in the way of my budding relationship with my mailman. I can just about sense his frustration at trying to cram all 502 of these magazines in my tiny mailbox (I swear this isn't a metaphor, no, no, no) even though he hasn't said anything to me (ever, except for those conversations we have in my head in which he tells me he begged to be on my route and then we ride off into the sunset together in his mail truck).

Then my chocolate biscuits, I'll need to engage in even more serious matters. Namely the firing of Gigi, my Psychic Friend. I did what she said and screened all calls and didn't talk to anyone except her for the month, but if she's so psychic why didn't she tell me I was going to forget to turn the volume down on my answering machine and so still hear every damn phone call I didn't want to hear in the first place? Hmmm? And she didn't warn me about the Hellmouth in my living room opening up and vampires coming out and taking over my house or that I was going to acquire an unsettling addiction to fabric softener or those annoyingly addictive Buffy-reruns or that I was going to get fired from my job as a sports agent after writing that mission statement and have to start my own company with Renee Zellweger who had me at hello, and her son who is probably a serial killer because he knows how much the human head weighs and who just wants to go to the f@#king zoo. So yeah, she's fired.

And finally, the one I'm most dreading...finding a way out of my "evening" with 85,000 year old neighbor (I know what you're thinking, because I'm thinking it too "Ewww, old people"). I'm thinking it's too late to pretend I don't speak Dutch/I'm really a man/I'm really Hannibal Lecter/I moved to Guam/I'm a xenophobe/or I'm one of the stars of The Cat In The Hat and so will be out of the country on a promotional tour for the rest of my life, but there has to be a way out. Maybe if I show him my glow worm collection? Show him my hockey mask? Pretend to have a crack addiction? (Did I say pretend? Who am I kidding?)

*Sigh*

So much to do, so little time.

There's a definite lack of chicken carcasses under the bed.

The other night I got into my car, put the key in the ignition and it blew up. No, I'm kidding (I know you were concerned, you probably had one hand on the phone getting ready to call me/911/moviefone to see if I'm ok and/or when that new Kevin Bacon movie is coming to a theatre near you. Well rest assured, I am fine/there IS no new Kevin Bacon movie). What really happened was I got in my car, turned it on, started driving and the most horrible thought popped into my head. I actually thought "man it would so suck right now if someone was in the back seat waiting to kill me and heard me singing along to this Whitney Houston song". Now a SANE paranoid schizophrenic might worry about the (non-existent) person trying to kill them. An INsane paranoid schizophrenic, though, worries about the (non-existent) potential murderer hearing her sing. To Whitney. Yeah. Clearly I have issues!

But anywayz, can I just say that generally I have never had the highest regard for the month of November? And now specifically I HATE you, November.
Really, really, potentially I hate you even more than I hate Luxembourg

(which I hate for many, many obvious and completely objective reasons, all of which I will not state in this particular post as I would simply be repeating myself I will not grant fucking Luxembourg the satisfaction. Screw you Luxembourg, you fuckwaffle!)

Really, I want to hire a hit man and have November taken out back and shot (I would do it myself, but that's just what November wants, for me to go to prison for 11th degree murder). Now that I think about it, maybe murder won't be necessary. Maybe what I will do is file a lawsuit against the month. God knows I at least deserve compensation for emotional damages. Even Johnny Cochran can't help you now, November!

Emotional Distress Endured At The Hands Of November:

-The depletion of all my brain cells (What else would cause me to misspell "Ark", and what's worse, try to cover up by attempting to convince the person I was using the French spelling?).

-Dreams in which Pauly Shore told me I expect too much, dogs ruled the world, and I was eaten alive by a large cotton candy cone. Or was it that a large cotton candy cone told me I expect too much, Pauly Shore ruled the world, and dogs ate me alive? I forget (see above depletion of brain cells).

-Leaves. Leaves in my hair, leaves in my pants (somehow), leaves everywhere.

-The progression of my case of Wanting What I Can't Have from mildly unpleasant yet entirely medicable condition to Hopeless Terminal Disease. The doctors have now ruled out any chance of recovery. I am doomed. Doomed, I tell you! And it's not even half over yet!
I'm thinking if I get a sympathetic jury I can get millions. Millions of what, I don't know. Calendars? For when they have to remake them all because not only did they reward me my emotional damages, but decided November was no longer fit to be one of our twelve precious months?! Who wants to be my attorney? I can pay you in yellow m&m's, murky water, and slabs of concrete.

Note to Luxembourg: Size does matter.

Right. So. Hi. Anyone still out there? No? Great, then I can skip the part about my delayed existential crisis involving the Olsen Twins, Lysol disinfectant, satellites falling from the sky, Grasshoppers, Mika's "Love Today" played 57 times straight and why you shouldn't ever trust a man in a white turtleneck or eat handfuls of raw meat from the backseat of a station wagon and get right to the part where I'm going to offer you many wise and important pieces of advice during this post. Because voices are telling me to (damn annoying Fran Dresher-like voice that makes me want to hurt myself repeatedly.).

And of that advice please note that war MUST be declared on Luxembourg, it is the only alternative to putting up with their shenanigans and if World War 2 has taught us anything it's when in doubt as to the intentions of a German speaking country, it's best to be vigilant. Besides, they are a landlocked nation, and everyone knows landlocked nations are for losers.

Now then, does anyone want to join my newly formed Country, Amnesia (Well it's actually more of a cross between a country and an empire with a democratic monarchy and a motto of "Where Skull Bashing Is Law Of The Land", but you get the picture.) ,and help? They’ve never been much of a fighting force, should be easy…

Ok, ok, I know you're all "no, really, what have you been up to in all these many, many days you have neglected to post and thus forced us to watch barnyard animal porn and read Bart De Wever’s blog (and never the two shall meet)?" but that will have to wait until tomorrow. The other inpatients want to use the computer to write a letter to Catherine Zeta-Jones and I still have to finish my paper maché Donald Trump Head before Lights Out.