Monday, April 23, 2012


Won't murder.... What? Was that supposed to end with a "you"? Because maybe you meant you won't murder some random bum on the corner and we're still fair game. 

Won't Muder ... says: " Let me get this out of the way first and let you know about my past. Six months ago I drank four cases of TheraFlu and had a psychological collapse in the Shur-Save parking lot; all my demons rose to the surface, informing me that to ensure my survival, and consequent survival of the rest of this planet, I needed to post a casual encounters ad on Craigslist. I posted a photo-shopped picture of my genitals, surreptitiously enhancing both the girth and width. I can't remember what it said specifically, just that I like wearing rubbers because I like the experience of chafing. The last time I had a Bed, Bath & Beyond giftcard I bought a really nice cheesegrater and scraped myself clean. (That sounds refreshing!)

A week later my door is busted in, Craigslist Stormtroopers ransacking my entire apartment - the only thing I cared about in this life was my Wizards of Waverly Place pop-art mural (I'm a very important artist; I'm pretty well known for my portraits of TV Dads with their mouths stuffed to full capacity with catheads and billiard balls), which they took no time to completely destroy. No further evidence was uncovered, and even though I had a solid defense that the camera - ANY camera - is known to add four inches to the extremities captured on film. I was still found guilty of Craigslist Ad Manipulation & Subterfuge and given a sternly-written "write-up", and warned that if it happened again I would have to remove the "not" from this posting title. The situation is sticky and Kafkaesque. Much like this gym towel that I keep by the keyboard. You know, for working out and stuff... and stuff.

Now getting down to brass tax.

I am a 27 year old subhumanoid apelike dwarf; I flopped out of the primordial ooze some several billion years back, moss and jelly sprouted of my orifices which later developed into fingers and thumbs, but not much evolved beyond that. Instead I spent that time drying out in the sun, existing only on mallomar bars, Skoal wintergreen, Dale Earnhardt angel-winged memorial bumperstickers, and Bill Engvall comedy CDs. The end result now types this. I take on an ape-like appearance. Wherever I walk the pavement behind me turns red, blood from my knuckles which hang slack-jawed and scrape against the cement, anchors keeping me in Pittsburgh, be it of my own interest or not, like characters in a Bunuel movie trying and failing to leave the dead and vapid party. The only sounds I express are brief mumbling grunts, hovering somewhere between that fine balance of indecipherable Burger King-induced lethargy and morse code. I would have written directly to Jane Goodall, but I'd be batting just so far out of my league. I don't know. Maybe I'll get lucky and she'll read this, and clean all the dried vomit off my iPod for me.

Everyone inside Bottom Dollar Food is fat and short and ugly... I feel like the bee girl at the end of the Blind Mellon video. (In what ways?)"

Eh... Funny but we've seen better BS ads. Remember Frank? : )  Your Craiglist lunatic bit could use some work.

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