BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

First she steals my heart…

Then she steals my freedom…

Next she steals my French fries… (right off my plate)

And then she steals my virginity… Wait… No… That was already gone.

Thing is, now she’s stealing my schtick.

Yeah, I know, Richard Castle is already doing that, but I can’t say too much about that. Last time I did I pissed off the fan club shill.

But, even with everything else, now E K – Her Supreme Evil Redheaded Goddess Techno MILF – is taking my schtick. No, not that schtick… She got that one even before we were married, and she doesn’t even let me see it, much less play with it anymore.

I’m talking about the part where I’m funny.

Okay, stop laughing, I am too funny.

Seriously. Enough.

All right then… So, there I was, engaged in my morning routine. You know, the one that starts at 5:30 AM where I get the coffee going, then give her Eebilness a back massage, followed by setting out her breakfast stuff, yadda yadda…

And that’s when it happened.

There she was, the Eebil Redhead, standing in the kitchen in her sheer black negligee and stiletto heeled mules, as she does every single morning, looking like she had just stepped out of the pages of a Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog…

Wait… That was while I was still asleep. Let’s fast forward a bit…

There she was, the Eebil Redhead, fiery hair sticking out at all sorts of odd angles, one eye shut, clad in sweats and a fuzzy bathrobe. How’s that for truth in advertising?

Anyway, she was standing at the counter peering into a fresh box of Raisin Bran. If you remember my previous blog entries, you know that E K must have Raisin Bran every morning, otherwise people suffer – namely me. I came around the corner just in time to see her eyeball the contents, then eyeball the bowl she had just filled. She did this a couple of times, then closed the top on the box and began to shake it in a most violent fashion. She bounced it up and down, rattled it, beat it on the counter, slung it around in a circle, then shook it some more.

Then she opened it, eyeballed it, eyeballed the bowl, and then did it all over again.

Unable to take it any longer I asked, “Ummmm… What in the world are you doing?”

“Imma rebbstrupping nabn race pins,” she mumbled. You have to understand, when she’s half asleep she speaks the same language she does when she’s drunk (See: Gimme Mai Shooz…)

“What?” I asked.

“Imma rebbstrupping nabn race pins.”

“What?” I asked again, because that’s what I say when I don’t understand someone. Truth is I’ve been saying that a lot lately.

With an exasperated sigh, she cocked her head, put a hand on her hip, drew in a breath and half yelled, “I’m redistributing the raisins!”

“Oh, okay…” I replied. I stood and watched her in silence for a moment, then asked, “Why?”

She pointed at the bowl and said, “Two scoops in every box and I’ve got one of ’em right here.”

I love you honey. I even obey you and try not to complain too much when you beat me severely, use me as a doormat, and steal my French fries…

But now you’re crossing the line. Observational Satire and the associated witty commentary are MY things. You need to stick with being unbelievably smokin’ hot and incredibly evil. It works for you.

Me, on the other hand, humor is all I’ve got.

More to come…

Murv

Several weeks back I was doing some work around the house. It was a warm, sunny afternoon in early October as a matter of fact. I happened to be in the back yard when I heard someone at my gate calling out to me.

I turned to discover a video crew. At first I was a bit taken aback, but then I was also taken aback by a lady in the parking lot of the Home Depot awhile back when she jumped out of her vehicle, pointed at me, and started squealing “You’re… You’re HIM! You’re HIM!” So much so in her case that I dropped the lumber I was loading into the back of my truck and gave myself a nasty gash on my arm.

I still don’t know which “HIM” she was talking about, but since no police showed up to arrest me I have to assume she didn’t mistake me for someone who had snatched her purse or taken the last jelly donut at the local Krispy Kreme.

But that’s another story…

So, back to early October… As it turns out these folks with video equipment in tow had traveled to Saint Louis for the express purpose of interviewing me on their show. Why they hadn’t contacted my publicist first to schedule it remains a bit of a mystery. All I know is that what ensued was a bit weird, disconcerting, made me very uncomfortable, and might not have even been entirely legal. At any rate, after chasing them off my property while  I was wielding an axe handle and screaming obscenities, I thought I’d seen the last of them.

Apparently I was wrong…

Even under the threat of legal action, this production company elected to release the footage of that bizarro interview, and to add insult to injury they have done so in several places around the web – from PUF TV to Youtube and beyond. At first I was livid. Then I was pissed. Then I was livid pissed since dividing my energies between the two seemed a bit wasteful. I started making phone calls and planning my revenge, on many levels.

However… The Amazing Wendy, my publicist, tends to see silver linings where I do not. She has now urged me to give up on my quest to eviscerate these wingnuts, telling me that I should embrace this as a promotional opportunity instead. Wendy can be very convincing. So… Since not everyone is on Facebook, not to mention the state of obscure flux in which the FB news feed dwells, I am taking her advice and posting it here.

You know, the more I think about it, the more I’m beginning to wonder if  maybe she was in on this the whole time…

More to come…

Murv