Lenny's Old Spit

Lenny's Old Spit

There were so many kids that ran around bragging about their I.Q's in elementary school before they even knew what it meant. Well I didn't brag. I didn't have one. I didn't need one. I didn't want one.

Some things in life to me seemed pointless to a point which wouldn't exist in an actually Grade A pointless society, but there has been no proof that such a society ever existed.

For example, I learned to masticate before I could even chew my own food and that got me absolutely nowhere.

Oxymorons are fun, but no one uses them anymore, just lives them.

For example, this very fact, in my left-sided mind which often finds itself stealing secrets from the right, is a delightfully sad and untrue one.

No one wants to know what I.Q. stands for because our brains learn facts and discard them like 10 bowling balls on a shelf that only holds 9.

Once the tenth ball is placed (the tenth ball being the translation of I.Q.), one of the other balls will fall (It could be the average wingspan of a brown pelican or even your grandmother's name).

No one wants to add an extra shelf, so they just stop adding bowling balls.

I'd hate to disappoint you any further with a solution to this problem. Today's been a bad day.

"Death is just a passing phase."

"Death is just a passing phase."

It's written in quotes because I'm sure someone's said it before. Maybe those words, in that order, are coming out of the mouth of some rich widow in some industrial town right this second.

Read on a post-it note: Happy Birthday, dear. You're dead.

The lady who invented post-it notes has a mansion in Athens, GA. Who'll get it when she dies?

Some say death will be painful, but have they died? Not very bloody likely.

Some lady with huge hair and prosthetic eyebrows told me, through cable wires, satellites and frequency waves, that when she died, she saw a bright light and decided not to walk towards it. And POOF! She's on a christian miracle telethon.

I see lights all the time, but i've got better ways to get on t.v, I can think of a few other benefits for which i'd rather host.

If i die tomorrow, though, let it be known that i didn't write this. It's a bit embarrassing, you know; writing about death and then doing it. Makes me sound a bit like a fanatic. And if i die, i won't be around to defend myself.

If i could travel back in time...

If i could travel back in time just once to do just one thing before i was shot back into the present day, i'd probably go back to the day i was born and read the obituaries to see if any of them were my fault.

Then, if i had one wish, i'd wish that i had not done that, because it was such a dumb way to waste a time travel thingajobby.

No, actually, i'd wish for a million wishes and if that's against some wishing rules, I'd like to see that rulebook

So, okay, if i had two wishes, I'd wish there wasn't a rulebook, and then I'd wish for a million wishes. Then and only then would I wish that I hadn't wasted my time with that time travel thingy.

Because that was downright stupid.

When drifting through my own personal cyberspace...

When drifting through my own personal cyberspace, I defined my own personal and non-physical culture. One that would communicate with me and all of my alter ego's inner children in MLA and APA format without confusion.

I gave my self a home where the megabytes roam, where light and sound travel in waves.

Where seldom is blurbed, when your e-mail is curbed, that your kids do ecstasy at raves.

We keep digging for sub-sub-sub-culture and pretty soon, we're gonna hit water or someone else's septic tank because your not doing it in your own yard. There's someone already there, picking and scrpaing at your herb garden's parsley, sage, rosemary, and the rest (Just like the professor and Mary Anne is my Thyme). This is fine, but if I ever see anyone anywhere at anytime sticking anything in anyone else's somethings, I will do from nothing to anything to get anyone else to help the original anyone and anyone else who is sensitive in any way to the issue at hand to get any kind of help available. That's just what I do.

I'll be setting up, in a workshop format, a self-therapy help group. We will help ourselves to deal with our cloned brothers and sisters and we will be free to give society an enema twice a day.

Someone hit water in my backyard last Tuesday, but she was nice enough to spend 114 bucks for a cork and some topsoil.

So in my flooded basement, I'll set up my own government with a panel of non-preferencial hermaphrodites that will sit knee-deep in muddy water while making decisions on who will cut my hair and who will not let him/her do the deed.

On the upper floors of my suburban home, there will be free gambling tables and I will lose millions of dollars a day. I will not care because I will drown my sorrows in cheap whiskey and homemade moonshine. There will be no clear-cut definitions of any kind in my house.

Boats will sail by by the hour and I, in a drunken stupor, will wave and shout obscenities that will only make sense to me and my other lambastard drinking companions to the ladies, and when that sub-culture monger digger in her submarine dream machine comes sailing by, I will call to her.

"You're late, bitch, but I love you!" Before she leaves sight, "Don't forget to play the blackjack tables! They're cheaper than freedom and the bar's open until 3 tonight!"

She will be my eighth wife and I'll stop counting by the 14th.

This is my life goal and mine alone. I've copywritten it and if I find some random schmuck walking down some random street in some random town wearing a t-shirt with my life goals on it, I will tell this schmuck that I respect his or her decision in picking my life over someone elses. Then I'll walk home, whistling a Disney medley, get on the phone with my lawyer, and sue that schmuck for everything I don't own. Even the things that don't exist, because every dog has his day to be a bitch and I'll choose mine wisely.

And if that day with the t-shirt schmuck never comes and I'm lying on my death bed with no chance of seeing another day, I'll flip off my doctor, unless I can't use my hands, in which case I'll ask the nurse to assist me.

And then... I'll be cloned... and I'll do it again.

I think the U.S. Government ate my bagel

I think the U.S. Government ate my bagel. I left it right over there, and now it's gone.

If I knew that we had a gov't in this town, I would've locked the doors and shut the windows.

My wife's bagel's gone too, but she disappeared about three years ago. That's about one year before I dreamed her up. She's that wonderful.

Maybe the gov't took her too. On mondays she was a doctor. Tuesdays she would act. Wednesday was her law-talking day. On Thursdays she built cars. On Friday she played guitar for a rock band. On Saturday, she played bass. On sunday she slept for 48 hours. And on all seven days, she was married to me, until she disappeared, which was before we got married, which is slightly confusing. But she's that wonderful.

We had a library in our home before the civil war. Troops used them as firewood when they camped out on our lawn. When we complained, the gov't came and camped out on our lawn.

They told us to stop hanging out in their country.

But that was oh so long ago, and I'm left wifeless and bageless in my blue house that I built with just an axe and 34 vinyl trees. When it rains, it pours and I forgot to build a roof.

If evolution reers it's ugly head...

If evolution reers it's ugly head near me, I'm going for the eyes. I'm not going to let it push me around.

Okay, well if I was a walking fish, I'd say, "wow. yes. this is exactly what I pictured my new oxygenated life to be like."

There's nowhere left to be pushed, though. That's a problem. We've proven that we can live in trees and soon after, we proved that plumbing was much cheaper if we just stayed on the ground.

I guess we could move to another planet, but some of us (well most of us) have trouble getting out of bed, much less, the galaxy. I forgot where this was going so I'll end it here before my concentration is broken yet another time.

A square is a rectangle...

A square is a rectangle, but a rectangle is not interesting, so we'll talk about another theory.

They say, ("They" as in anybody that says this) that if you were to walk towards point x taking steps that are half the distance between u and x, u would never reach x, and there-fore, never reaching y and z.

Now, we all know that the halfway point between u and x is also the halfway point between v and w, according to the English alphabet.

So a VW, traveling at, say, 50 mph towards point x hits u, knocking u all the way back to e. The VW's bumper and front hood needs repair from the accident so it is taken to JJ's auto shop. Luckily for the VW, who has it's engine in the back portion of it's body, JJ does an excellent job on restructuring the hood and give a paint job for half price.

U, on the other hand have no life insurance and exist between e and f until someone complains.

Now then, from the info you've been given, why is a triangle not a three-sided square?

40,000 dollars a second?

40,000 dollars a second? Okay. Here's my mind on a platter.

On Superbowl Sunday, they show a commercial with Miss Piggy and the next was a commercial for pork.

If that's not violence on T.V...

My father eats BBQ pork rinds while driving on I-95 north.

Jeffrey Dahmer had the decency to throw that part of the body away.

1.2 million for 30 seconds.

Crazy.

Newt Gingrich gets a new hairpiece. Bob Dole gets a new arm.

They both forget their Visa card. But that's no cause for alarm.

Or is it?

Without our product, life sucks.

There is no humor. There is no joy.

Everyone's unhappy and stocks drop dramatically.

Dramatically?

There's nothing dramatic about it.

Japanese people are happy and they drink Coca-Cola.

Let's have a pillow fight.

Wait!! How do I know that the Japanese people are happy? How do I know they drink Coke?

Who is the XYZ Generation?

Now I've sung my ABC's. Because I went to school.

Why doesn't anyone say "groovy" anymore? Groovy grapes get gross net worth.

Apple Computers get sued by an apple orchard company. It's O.J's fault.

Who's O.J. Simpson? I heard he plays football.

What's this I hear about his glove? Was it name brand? Did he buy it factory direct?

Black gloves prevent blood stains, you know.

Who killed J.R? I did. I turned Dallas off as soon as the credits came humming, buzzing, and pooting across my television screen.

Why does my cat hate every possible animal in the world, but she doesn't hiss when a cat food commercial poots on my screen.

I yell at my T.V. Why won't she?

Is she smart? Is she dumb? Is she name brand pussy cat?

I wanna be name brand! No fair!

I wanna be mass produced on some tall shelf in a factory outlet, never to be seen by the public eye again.

People say I'm shy. I prefer to say that I'm living life to someone else's fullest.

Well, it makes sense to me, anyway.

Sam's Moist Bread

Sam licked his fork clean and jabbed it into the moist bread on his plate.

"Sock it to me Sam," said the bread. "You're so boring. You never take a chance."

"How can I take a chance? This place is revolting."

"Write a complaint."

"Write a --" Sam picked up his plate. "The god damn managers don't know how to cook pasta, or, or..."

"Shh!" said the moist bread, "you're in a sound pocket."

Sam put the plate back on the red-faced table and sighed. "What are you doing on my plate anyway? I asked for an egg."

"'Egg' sounds like 'moist bread'"

"Yeah, and what country are you from?"

"The deli bar."

Sam was tired of this. He was tired of losing weight. He was tired of getting sick. He was tired of staring at those windows.

"Tiffany glass doesn't look that great to me."

"You're so negative. I should be the negative one. I'm gonna be eaten after this conversation."

"You're not gonna be eaten," he said, looking around to see if there was anyone else attempting to eat. "You're too moist."

"That's not my fault!"

"Shh."

"I've worked my ass off to get here and now you're gonna throw me out?"

"Shh! If I could take you out of here, I would. But they won't let me so I'm sorry, you're going in the trash."

"Put me in your backpack!"

"I can't put you in my backpack!"

"Why?"

"Because you're, you... you're moist bread."

"So?"

"You're discusting."

"I'd stick you in my backpack."

"What, so you could sneak me into the cafeteria? I don't think so. Look," Sam paused, "you wouldn't like it out there. Couches equal sex. Incense equals drugs. The library has about 15 books. The art department's stingy. Interdorm visitation is just a pipe dream. Everything within walking distance closes at six. The Student Services and Financial Aid offices will screw you over before you even begin to mold, moist bread. And that's just the beginning."

Sam stopped to catch his breath.

"So what you're saying is," the bread caught up with a conclusion, "that... I'd be better off being thrown away than going to school out there?"

"That's it in a nutshell."

"Is there nothing good you can say about the school?"

"Mmm... the cops are real nice."

"Oh."

"Well, it's time for class. Lets go."

Sam picked up his tray and carried it to the assembly line.

"Hey Sam."

"Yeah?"

"Throw me away in the trash can on the right. I heard they sometimes recycle the food from there."

"It's only fair."

Sam tossed the bread in, moistness and all, placed his tray on the moving counter, and left for class.

MONKEY 2: I think he's living down there on that street where Chaquita Juanita M'hm Gnoc Gnoc lives.
MONKEY 3: Oh, you mean Cordova Street.
MONKEY 2: Is that what it's called?
MONKEY 3: Yeah!
MONKEY 1: (Enters stage right) What street?
MONKEY 3: We've covered that already.
MONKEY 2: Well then, that must be it!

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Copyrighted production of Lenny Barnhead
Revised: 1997-03-18
http://geocities.datacellar.net/Athens/1020/oldspit.html