Notes for Recliners

I am most comfortable when I am lying on my side - preferably with something enjoyable to watch in front of me. To avoid injuring my armpit, I try to keep the ashtray away from the couch. When you live this way, you can easily lose track of time. This is because you have failed to rotate your clock face by ninety degrees. (In the case of digital, you have failed to stand the clock - or stove - up on its side.) And, sorry to disappoint you, but tilting the monitor upside down does not make the girls' clothes fall off, no matter how hard and frantically you shake it. If you're handy with tools you can put your couch on wheels and never once have to stand on your feet. You can be lying on the floor when the wheel delivery boy comes and get him to slide them under the door for you. Then, as long as your job is on a downhill incline from where you live, you can at least make it in for the first day. You're liable to attract a lot of women around you with all your lounging. Be careful they don't get in too close where they can kick you off the couch. They can have strong legs. People like me sound like they're having orgies in their house all the time but they are only defending their place on the couch from ferocious, lazy women. If you keep trying, eventually your bed evolves to take on couch functions. It offers, swimming, ski-dooing and co-ed mud wrestling, as well as turning itself into a dirigible in the event of a collision.
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My Rebuttal

For the sake of writing something new, I'll talk about what a great visit I had to a fucking place I've never been before. How's that? Oh, that visit to Los Angeles for my world concert. They took all the people who recognize me on the street here and jammed them all into two football stadiums. I mounted the camera behind me at waist level, dropped my drawers, and devoted my left cheek to the first stadium and my other cheek to the other stadium. Then for the encore I turned around. [I hope readers will see this blog in the context of the troubling time in which it was written. Sorry if it offended.]
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Granny, Get Your Gun

Well, ya know, I been bloggin from the time I was a-bouncin up and down on my grand daddy's wooden leg. Bloggin and a -bouncin and splinterin', too, by jingos! And if I got a splinter in my ball bag, I'd yell just like an old dog. And then that's when granny would come by with the healin compound. And she'd shake it all up and get it all fizzin and then drink it all down and punch me in the liver to take my mind offn' the pain. And if she were here today, she'd take five valiums and guzzle half a micky of brandy and say, 'Where's my house?' But then, afterwards, she'd say, 'What did you do, boy, to drag me back up out of Whitby?' And I'd have to say, 'Well, granny, I wrote a blog and it wasn't interesting enough.' And then she'd say, 'What's a blog?' And then I'd say, 'It's like a telegram, except without paper, ink, or horses.' And then she'd say, 'Sounds to me like you have no life.'
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Webcam that I Am

Hi peoples. How are you? I am fine. I called the computer helpers today, so I could get my new webcam hooked up. It seems to be working, but it's still stuck on voyeur setting. They sent me some instructions to follow. Step one was to click the utilities folder. That's as far as I needed to go! I hope you will be patient with me until I get this gadget under control. It tried to kiss me earlier and it keeps dropping stuff on the floor to make me bend over.
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The Time I Quit Smoking

I quit smoking for a spell back when I had an S.O.R. - uh - close to Gastown. I substituted my habit with shooting baskets in the park. My friend had no confidence in my resolve. But I can be surprisingly stubborn and proud. I knew the cameras were watching our every move down there. I didn't want to be caught stooping for a stinky old butt - maybe trying to hide it by pretending my laces need tying. The first week was the hardest. Cold turkey. No patch. No gum. Much coughing. Skin tone greenish. Facial expression unhappy. The doctor told me I was doing fine and gave me aspirins. Then around day five I noticed this butt on the stairs as I was heading up for my room one morning. I kept going right by it, but I remembered it. A few hours later I had to bring my trash down and I saw it was still there. Again I dismissed it with a chuckle. At 2:45 the next am I opened my door quietly and checked to see no one was in the hall. Stealthily in the dim I made my way back to the stairs. There my prize lay gleaming beneath me in the distance. Just a few steps to salvation. Tweezer like, my hand went out helplessly. Moments later I was back in my room, thinking myself quite the cunning fellow. I was about to sneak a smoke when everyone thought I quit! I pinched it between the thumbs and index fingers of both hands but it was packed in tight. I squeezed and squeezed. And grunted. Then when it burst open its foulness exploded about the whole room, almost knocking me to the floor. Its tobacco was scattered and I would proceed weedless. I stayed a non-smoker for several months afterwards, much to my friend's chagrin - for he could only thereafter think of me as a tobacco debutante rather than an all out addict. When I quit quitting smoking, it was only after I could again afford it, and I remember it took willpower for me to ask for my brand at the corner store.
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What Happens

Just remembered the nice things I wanted to say about other performers, no matter what genre. They can't help wanting to share their songs. It's an irresistible urge within them. And then they make it. And they are like gods. Then everyone suddenly shifts their attention to a poor puppy trapped in a well, leaving them jonesing desperately for their attention fix. So they blow their cool and say something against the puppy. And, next thing you know, they end up parking cars. (Wait a minute...)
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Forklift of Fear

Heavy equipment makes the world go round, but with the wrong operator, a forklift for good becomes a forklift of fear. Its puttering strikes terror into your heart. Its forks are like evil prongs, watching sometimes under and sometimes over you like a cruel taskmaster, ready to sneak up and poke you in the solar plexus if you make one false move.
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