White, American Jesus says "Happy 4th of July!"

More on string-instrument porn and some random pictures from the vault of Lemish

Three people have found my blog by searching for "ukulele porn." To those three people I apologize for not having a greater selection of ukulele porn included in my blog. I did my best by making a plea to the porno industry that they merge these two great arts into one supreme masterpiece; I cannot be faulted that they did not heed my call. They, like so many before them, lack the vision that we, The Enlightened Ukulele Porn Lovers, share.

Oh, here are some unused pictures that I have saved because I thought I might use them someday but never did. Unrelated to ukulele porn, but still equally as pointless possibly interesting:

For an unpublished post about the dangers of flying penises. An update to my mom's crazy warnings.

This was for a time when I saw a guy with no arms and legs being pulled on a skateboard by a dog. The problem with that post was that there was really no place to go from there. My post would have been one sentence: "Holy shit! I just saw some guy with no arms and legs being pulled on a skateboard by a dog!" Okay, I guess that was technically two sentences. But Jesus Christ, quit being so picky. The dude had NO ARMS AND LEGS. He can't be expected to be perfect! Give him his damn two sentences and shut up about it!

This is a man smoking a tiny pipe. That's all I have to say about that.

Here is a cute parasitic worm. I love parasites. Not in the way that I would personally want one, but I love to hear other people's stories about their parasites and how gross they are. One of my favorite pastimes is watching youtube videos of people removing botfly larva from their bodies. I totally don't watch videos about them or anything though. What kind of sick person would do that!?!? Sick fucks, that's who. (I named him Chester.)

Here is a picture of my friend Katrina playing the world's largest tuba. I think this was for a plan I had about creating a marching band where everyone carried huge instruments. I still might put this plan into action, so nobody steal it because I'm pretty sure it's awesome.

I forgot to post this for a special Christmas greeting.

My head on The Last Unicorn's body. This was just for my personal use.

You would hate them too if their furry heads and powdery wings haunted your dreams

I don't like butterflies. Everyone is so fooled by their beautiful image, they don't even take a close look at these things. THEY ARE HORRIFYING.

So they are terrifying, hairy, flying bugs with wings made of powder. And for some reason, someone thought it would be an awesome idea to put images of these horrifying creatures on every accessory manufactured for teenagers. That means I am assaulted by their image even in places that I should be safe, like inside.

There are many reasons for my dislike, but I think the primary reason is that when I was 4 my mom caught a monarch butterfly and thought that I would like to see it. So while I was away at pre-school she stuck the butterfly to my new bulletin board in my bedroom with a thumbtack. Right through the disgusting powdery wing. When I got home from school, the butterfly was still lightly flapping it's wings against the board. That's right, she tacked a LIVE BUTTERFLY TO MY BULLETIN BOARD! To my FUCKING bulletin board. Upon seeing this, I completely lost my shit. I think I may have blacked out for a minute, because the next thing I remember is sitting on my floor covered in tears and shredded pieces of powdery wings.

My mom claims to this day that the butterfly was dead when she found it. But this is also from the woman who says she "forgets" dancing around me in a circle saying over and over again, "I'm a witch, I'm a witch!" when I was little, which totally happened. How sick would I have to be to make something like that up? Clearly, she is not to be trusted.

*Update: So I was totally going to put a picture of someone killing a butterfly and call them my hero or something, but the first result I got was this and I was too disturbed to look any more. I'm going to go throw up now.

*Update 2: I was informed that me choice of accessory was not appropriate for a teen/tweenager so I have replaced it. I'm sure I will now be criticized for choosing something that, while age-appropriate, is not exactly an "accessory." But fuck it, you get the picture.

Goonies never say die. (Especially when they are deaf vigilantes of justice.)

So I've had this life long dream to be a Goonie. Because if I was a Goonie I could get into all kinds of adventures and figure out neat ways to get myself out of dangerous situations. I would also have this cool group of friends that would follow me around and say hilarious things. And we could all make fun of the Asian kid to make ourselves feel superior.

Anyway, if I was a Goonie I could be out saving the day all the time. Like if I was ever stuck in a McDonalds drive-thru lane and a carjacker came up to me and was all "give me your fucking car, you Goonie!" I could totally foil his plan. I couldn't just drive way and go for help because I would be completely blocked in by the asshole in front of me ordering his 12 Big Macs, so I would have to come up with a different Goonie plan.

I think I would bamboozle the carjacker and make him think that I was deaf and that I couldn't understand his carjacking instructions. I would just start frantically signing at him with a confused look on my face. Like "Where are my McNuggets that I was promised? I would like Hot Mustard please." The carjacker would be so frustrated with my inability to understand him that he would have to move on to the next car. In the meantime, I would have been secretly signing to the drive-thru worker to call 911. Then the police would show up and bust his ass before he could carjack anyone at all. Victorious!

Everyone would be so happy with me that they would reward me with a big bag of jewels, which is the usual Goonie fee for a job well done. And I would get to go on Oprah and tell my tale of vigilante justice, just like that old lady who got burgled and was able to stop her burglar by crushing his testicles. I think Oprah bought her a small country or something for being awesome and crushing a burglar's balls and because that is one less pair of balls we have to deal with in the world.

No one would judge me for pretending to have a disability because I would totally donate half of my jewels and at least one quarter of my island to the hearing impaired because I am liable generous like that. I would teach them all how to hand jam and how to make fun of the Asian kids in their group with ASL. Oprah would probably give me a two-part episode and buy me a fleet of rickshaws for all of my good deeds.

Cheating the system doesn't make my victory any less sweet

Confession: I click on the link to my blog 70 times a day to pump up my Google Analytics numbers. It's like analytical steroids. If blogging were an Olympic sport I would be the Chinese. Or the Russians. One of those asshole countries for sure.

Maybe my real name is "Tries too hard to be funny." Like an Indian or something.

I had the same dream two nights in a row that I had a baby. His name was Potter and he was born with 17 teeth. He liked to sing songs about dinosaurs and eat short ribs. I was pissed about his name because I didn't even get to choose it. After he was born I left the hospital to go get some Indian food so the nurse let her idiot man-child name my baby and he named him after Harry fucking Potter.

It is a fact, that in my family, who or what you are named after will determine your personality. I was named after some depressing, hippie, anti-war song called "Come Away Melinda" by Uriah Heep. It is pretty much the most depressing song of all time. Look at some of the lyrics:

Daddy, daddy, come and look
See what I have found
A little ways away from here
While digging in the ground

Come away melinda
Come in and close the door
Its nothing, just a picture-book
They had before the war

Daddy, daddy, come and see
Daddy, come and look
Why, theres four or five
Little melinda girls
Inside my picture book

Come away melinda
Come in and close the door
There were lots of little girls like you
Before they had the war

Oh daddy, daddy, come and see
Daddy, hurry do
Why, theres someone
In a pretty dress
Shes all grown up like you
Wont you tell me why

Come away melinda
Come in and close the door
That someone is your mummy
You had before the war

Jesus Christ, Parents! What kind of fucked up message is that supposed to send a five year old when you tell her she was named after this song? I can only guess that you wanted me to grow up completely neurotic and believing that the Apocalypse was always around the corner. Then you give me the middle name Lemish which is just a crazy made up name. So your secondary aspiration for me, after your desire for me to be one of those assholes on the corner with an "End of Times" board around my neck, must have been for me to be slightly crazy with little to no grasp on reality. What were you hoping for? A telephone psychic? Thanks douchebags.

My siblings are no different. I named my sister Allison, who was born when I was 4, after the Lewis Carrol story "Alice In Wonderland" which in my mind was called "Allison Wonderland" about a girl named Allison Wonderland. My parents were very close to actually giving her the middle name 'Wonderland', and let's be honest, they had the capability to do that (Lemish, assholes.) My sister has peculiar ambitions, the most recent of which is to move to Peru and live in a tree. This is obviously the result of being named after a character conceived in a drug-induced haze. Oh, and good job parents for letting your 4 year old name your child. She came this close to being named Rainbow Brite.

My brothers faced a similar fate. The older of the two, Keith Richard, was named after Keith Richards.

Awesome. My brother, unsurprisingly; is also a fan of the drink.

The youngest brother, Dylan, was named after Dylan from Beverly Hills 90210. Again this came from my parent's brilliant judgement to let the kids pick the name for the new baby. I was 12. The names came down to Zack (Morris) and Dylan (McKay.) My 17 year old brother is now a little Casanova. I guess compared to the rest of us, a crazed neurotic, a psychedelic hippie tree-hugger, and someone whose blood could hold a flame, being a popular kid who all the girls like isn't the worst possible outcome. But he has to live with the fact that he was named after a lame tv star whose biggest role since was a small part in an episode of "Biker Mice from Mars" an animated show about.... biker mice... from Mars....

My point in all of this is that I can't have a kid named Potter. The kid would grow up to be some little weirdo waving his "wand" at people. Unfortunately, because I am neurotic and a little bit crazy I now must name my future child Potter because my dream demands it to be so. The little bastard will probably also be born with 17 teeth just to fuck with me. So when you see me in a few years, toting around some little 17-toothed freak looking for a good place to eat short ribs, don't give me any shit; it wasn't my decision.

OCD spells P and cream soda bottles make shitty shivs

When I'm alone in my car and listening to music I have a weird compulsion to sign out the first letter of every word in the song. I am pretty sure my scary kindergarten teacher who got fired for stealing our milk and then blaming it on the poor kids forced us to learn the deaf alphabet that way and it is burned into my psyche. Come to think of it I should sue that bitch for contributing to my early onset rheumatoid arthritis. Anyway, I have been doing it for years and cannot stop. I call it hand jamming.

My OCD tells me that I must get at least 80% of the letters signed otherwise the sky will rain down acid and I will burn for all eternity. I am good at preventing this but I can never remember the sign for 'P.' I can't stop the flow, so I just throw out any sign for P. Most often this one:

Usually I am able to hide this shameful deed from the "normal" people but the other day I was driving home from work, rocking out to my The Best of Bob & Marcia album (my totally awesome 70's hippie reggae. "Young, Gifted, and Black" is like my personal mantra.) when my favorite song came on, "Pied Piper." So I am sitting at a red light innocently hand jamming away. Unfortunately for me there are a lot of 'P's' in that song. The guy facing me apparently thought I was having some angry Tourette-like episode and started honking his horn at me over and over again. Well I can't stop while I'm in a hand jamming groove so I just kept on throwing out those P's like I was some 90's west-side gansta rapper.

The light turned green and I drove off. I stopped a few miles up the road at a gas station and went inside to get some cream soda. When I came out the guy from the light was parked next to my car waiting for me! I was totally freaked and walked quickly to my car. I held my cream soda bottle by the neck, ready to smash it and slash the fucker with my rudimentary shiv in case he wanted a Piece of Me.

The guy looked at me and said "do we have some kind of problem?" I got so nervous that my soda slipped and smashed on the ground. Awesome, there went my shiv. I had no other choice but to be honest with the guy. I was very reluctant to do this because everyone knows that the OCD penalty for revealing my ritual is that I lose five minutes off of my life for every person I tell unless I spin around three times after telling them.

"Oh that is just this thing I do, kind of like a dance? I spell out the first letter of every song with my hands.... but I don't know the sign for P..... and see... I can't mess up my rhythm for fear of the acid...." and then I spun around three times.

I think he understood because he immediately broke eye contact and got back in his car. I finished spinning and got back into my car, figuring screw the cream soda. My Ipod shuffled to the next song, "Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps" by Cake and I was on my way. I love that song.

Now it smells like scotch tape

Everything stinks to me lately. Stinks like a terrible, terrible smell, not like how it stinks when you lose your wallet or run over your baby or something. I don't know what's going on but I am constantly smelling weird things that no one else seems to notice. It's really annoying because people keep looking at me weird when I ask if anyone else smells old stale beer that has been spilled on the floor of a dirty bar. They act all high and mighty like they wouldn't even know what that smelled like, but I know they totally do.

Right now I smell the powdered cheese that comes in a box of macaroni and cheese. Just the powder, not the prepared cheese-flavored sauce, just like I snorted it right up my nose.

So I've decided to wash the inside of my nose because maybe my nose had been trapping tiny molecules of each smell inside my nose and had reached it's molecule storing capacity and had begun randomly shedding these particles causing me to smell weird shit all of the time. I really can't think of a more simple explanation. I'm either going to use one of these:

or I'm going to snort bleach up my nose. I haven't decided which.

I'm also going to demand that people stop cooking disgusting things around me because I really don't want those particles trapped in my nose. I used to work with this guy that would eat these microwave fish dinner things for lunch. No food in the world stinks more than microwaved frozen fish dinner, but this guy made it worse because he didn't cook it like a normal person would - take the little plastic tray out of the box, vent and cook. No, he would just stick the whole fucking box right into the microwave without even opening it. He said that it made it taste better that way. So now not only was our whole office filled with the disgusting wobbly fish stink, we had to contest with the smell of burning plastic and chemical smell from whatever dyes they used to make the box colorful. He was super popular in our office.

I probably have years of stinky frozen fish and commercial dye particles stuck in my nose. No wonder my world smells like shit.