Best Classifieds from Weirdos

I went on to craigslist yesterday for the first time ever because I needed to submit a classified. I'm prostituting myself in exchange for dental work and a ride to The Dollar Store.

In the process of doing this, I noticed a link called "best-of-craigslist." These are actual ads from actual weirdos, and you can get lost for hours reading these. Following are some of my favorites. I did not edit these at all. They speak for themselves...

WANTED: ROADKILL

I want your roadkill. Why, might you ask? Simple. I drive around and regularly see 1-2 deer a week on the side of the road, rotting. Since an average deer has about 80-120 pounds of usable venison on it, its a shame that all that meat is wasted. Plus, you can't normally buy venison, so unless you have a hunting friend or hunt yourself (or pay crazy prices at a restaurant), you can never enjoy the lean, tasty meat that is venison.

So, here's my offer. If you happen to hit a deer (or larger animal, although I don't think we have many of those in southern Virginia), you can bring the animal to me, and I'll carve it up for you, and split the meat 50/50. I hunt, and I do my own butchering, so it doesn't take too long for me, and I enjoy it. Since hunting season is now passed, I'd like something to occupy my time, while also filling my freezer.

There are rules though, like anything else in life:
1. It has to be a deer or bigger. I'm not carving up a flat squirrel for you.
2. It must be less than a day old. God only knows what happens to the carcass after a day of sitting there.
3. You have to call the police after your accident. The cops come out and issue you a permit so that you legally own the deer. It's quick, and it keeps it legal (I'm not carving up poached animals, and if you poach, you should rid the world of your sorry existence).
4. You bring the animal to me (I'm in Suffolk), and I do the rest, and call you when its done. If you live in Suffolk, or hit the deer in Suffolk, I could come to you, but I'm not driving to VA Beach at 10 pm at night.
5. I'll cut up the animal and give half the meat to you in sealed bags. I'll even label it, so you'll know what cuts you're getting. You eat it and enjoy!

Of course, you may feel odd eating roadkill. I mean, that's a redneck thing, right? Absolutely untrue. For starters, you're using meat that would normally be wasted, so its good for the environment. Venison is leaner (deer don't sit on big farms eating corn), healthier (no injected hormones here!), and tastier (there is no such thing as "gamey" meat. That's just anti-hunters trying to justify themselves) than beef. Plus, you get it for nothing (except whatever your car insurance deductible is, if you decide to file a claim). All these positive reasons are sure to impress your hippie friends, if you are unfortunate enough to have some.

Drop me an email (I check it all the time, so replies won't take long) when you hit a deer. If you're a police officer and want my phone number (since you probably get calls all the time), you can email me and I'll give you my cell number. If its late, you can always temporarily store the animal at your house and bring it over when I get back to you.

Start enjoying the meat of your unfortunate labors!

My Comment: What if I hit a guy? Is the deal still good if I hit a guy?

VINTAGE BRITISH 3 SPEED BICYCLE, VERY NICE! - $30 (Dover)

Perfect for commuting and just leaving outdoors. Great for everyday use. Great "Winter bike"
I cant remember if it is a Mens or a Womens, but I know its a 3 Speed. Pick up only. Bring a shovel.

My Comment: I had a bike just like that once.

WANTED: TIME MACHINE DESPARATE!!!

Desperately need a time machine to take me back 6 weeks in time, plus or minus a day. If you have a time machine and are willing to let me borrow it, or know of someone with an impending trip back in time, please let me know ASAP!

I will pay big bucks to have myself warned to NOT sleep with that tramp at the One and Only Bar on the Boulevard.

Tell me that she is very, VERY fertile that night in question, and has a whopping 3 STDs that I will get if I copulate with her.

VERY VERY IMPORTANT THAT I GET THIS MESSAGE!!!

I WILL WRITE YOU A BLANK CHECK IF THAT'S WHAT IT TAKES!

Key things that will let the me in the past know you are for real:

*Tell me that you know about the rubber ducky incident

*Tell me that you know that I pissed in my friends pool last week, when he was in it.

*Tell me that no matter how hard I try, the lesbian at Barnes and Noble will NEVER go for it, no matter how many sex books I ask her opinions on.

If I still doubt you- use this one-----

*Mention that you know I made out with my cousin when we were drunk at a kegger last summer- NO ONE KNOWS THIS BUT US TWO!!

VERY VERY IMPORTANT THAT I GET THIS MESSAGE!!!

My Comment: My uncle Ricco has a time machine but the flippin' thing doesn't work.

I WANT SOME ORANGE JUICE

I'll give you $2 + cost if you'll deliver me some orange juice with receipt. I'm too lazy to get it myself. I live right by University Drive in Elon. Thank you.

My Comment: I knew there was a good reason somebody came up with the Internet. I knew it was for more than just Facebook.

WANTING TO BORROW A CAT FOR A FEW DAYS

Hi all,

Well, my house is being taken over by rats. Really big rats. Smart too. We've set a few live traps, but they keep escaping them while making off with whatever goody that we've used to lure them. I hate to kill them, they're almost like part of the family... well not really, but they are pretty cute, in a ratty sort of way.

So what I need is a large, rat eating sort of feline to borrow for about a week. Now I don't want to keep the cat, so no underhanded hey you can use my cat, and then I never see you again sort of crap... a week should be all I need.

If you have one I can borrow, please email me... thanks!

My Comment: And if you have an unwanted house guest, you could advertise to borrow somebody's monkey for a few days.

STUNT DOUBLE LOOK ALIKE WANTED FOR FAMILY PHOTO SHOT

Hello i am posting this ad to enjoy some times off from getting dressed,a hair cut and the whole 9 yards.i will pay someone 25 bucks to smile in a photo for me with my in laws.easy money!

here's what i am looking for:
.asian male(26-29)
.Short black hair
.handsome smiles
.5'7
.160lbs
.Handsome like myself
.one messed up teeth

Plus i don't feel like shaving etc

My Comment: Yes, I can see why you'd need a "stunt" double. I'll need to jump off my roof or something in order to get the one messed up teeth.

CAT FOUND!

I found this guy the other day on my back porch. I tried feeding him and it turns out that he is not very friendly because i think he may be scared. Not quite sure the breed but I am assuming he is part Siamese. I have him in a crate because he is not really house broken. If he is yours please reply.

 

My Comment: Umm....

WELL HERE GOES

This is weird... I saw you at the park the other day- you know, the one by the school? You were over by that tree taking a leak and I thought that your coat looked GORGEOUS!! I wanted to sniff your rear end and ask if you use liver oil or fish oil supplements but then a bird distracted me (dunno- I think it was a crow) and I ran off. When I came back you were kinda busy eating some poop. Please please please lemme know...

My Comment: Thank you. The coat was a gift.

PINK PLASTIC LAWN FLAMINGOS

three pink plastic lawn flamingos, the momma, the daddy and two babies. in good shape except the momma has a bullet hole. will trade for a good dog or weed eater, will also consider any kind of alcohol as long as it ain't been opened up.

My Comment: And they say romance is dead.

DECAPITATED DOLLS

My daughter likes to pull the heads off of dolls. The therapist says we should let her, so we do. We have lots of headless dolls. Some of their heads my be retreivable; most probably not.

Free to a good home.

My Comment: Just donate 'em to a blind school.

Willard Sightings

There are just some things in life that you never like to hear. Things like, "Come here for a minute... Smell this." Or another one of my favorites, "Just eat around that part." But there's one thing that I never get tired of hearing:

"I just had a Willard sighting."

I can't remember what, if anything, I've written about Willard in the past. So some of this might sound familiar. But it's all worth repeating and you don't have anything better to do right now anyway.

In short, Willard is the most celebrated, adored whackjob in this part of the country. Like that leftover meatloaf in your refrigerator, nobody is certain how old Willard is. The most common guess is that he's in his 60s or even 70s. But one thing is certain. Willard has been walking all across Appalachia "in costume" for decades now.

When I say "in costume," I mean exactly what you think I mean. Superman, Batman, cowboys, indians, Elvis, blonde hoochie mamas, and so on. Nobody knows where he gets the costumes and nobody has ever seen his closet. But everyone who lives in Lenoir experiences the occasional "Willard sighting."

Every community has at least one village whackjob. We've got several. This includes the typical weirdos who walk down the street talking to themselves. Last night, we were watching the city's fireworks from our front porch and here comes a drunken, crazy hillbilly staggering down the middle of the street. Not only was he talking to himself, but he was walking with his head waaaaaay back, like he was trying to get under one of those... whatchyamacallit bars... limbo bars? Is that what they're called? Or are limbo bars just used for stillborn Catholic babies at a luau? I can't remember. Anyway, you know what I'm talking about. I guess he was walking that way because the fireworks in the sky were combining with the 4.23 blood alcohol level in his system to convince him that he was Luke Skywalker. Then he fell down in our curb and nearly fell asleep before he finally he managed to get back to his feet and continue staggering toward the light.

Guys like that are a dime a dozen around here. He's not even close to being the most interesting whackjob.

The black Jesus is way more interesting than the garden variety schizophrenic alcoholic that roams the streets of Lenoir and the city council. The black Jesus... That's what they call this guy who, yep, happens to be black, dresses up like Jesus, and stands at the busy intersection across from the Burger King in order to inform everyone in a very pleasant way that they're all going to hell. He plants dozens of "Jesus" signs all around him. Then he blows into his trumpet and yells at cars, just like the real Jesus did.

A few weeks ago I was sitting at a stop light at that intersection. All of a sudden I heard what sounded like a moose getting stuck in the exhaust pipe of a Hummer. But the noise didn't end; it just kept going and going. I said, "What in the hell is that?!" and looked around. That's when I saw the black Jesus holding his Bible over his head with one hand and blowing the crap out of his trumpet with the other hand.

At first I thought of rolling down my window and telling him to shut up. But then I saw the wisdom in what he was doing, so I went over there, put a table cloth over my head, stood next to him, and started playing a tuba and shouting threats at passing cars.

That guy is a great whacko. And if Willard weren't around, he might get might vote for Blue Ridge Mountain Whackjob #1. But as long as Willard is making his rounds, he's got my full support.

The thing that really makes Willard great is that he's got a much better work ethic than your average whacko. This guy walks miles and miles and miles all around the area in his costumes, and he's been doing it for years. He has been seen in every part of the county, and even outside of it on occasion. He has been spotted in the Christmas parade in the heart of downtown, walking right behind the National Guard "float" and smacking into the back of it when it stopped suddenly. And he has been spotted in remote areas of the wilderness, sitting on a rock dressed like Elvis, singing his little heart out to Priscilla.

I myself have seen him 15 miles up a mountain. Not only that, but he was wearing one of my favorite outfits at the time--a very sheer female Genie costume with virtually nothing underneath. Not only that, but he was helping the road crews by directing traffic around the orange cones. Now that is commitment to your craft.

I love Willard. I hope nothing bad ever happens to him, because the world will just not be the same without Willard sightings. A Willard sighting is one of those few things anymore that can really turn a blah day, or a bad day, into a good day.

It doesn't even have to be a personal Willard sighting. Even if somebody else says, "Oooh! Guess what! I had a Willard sighting yesterday!" that's enough by itself to increase your white blood cell count. And the moment one person says that, somebody else within earshot inevitably will say, "Yeah! I saw him last week too!" Then everybody starts reporting what Willard was wearing when they saw him. And it's kind of a badge of honor if you happened to see him in the most exciting costume. If you tell people that you saw him in the Elvis or Genie costume, then you instantly become the most important person in town for a few moments and everyone wants to touch you.

It's been a difficult summer for me. Let's just say that I can use all the Willard sightings I can get right now. Each one helps.

Yesterday, I had a Willard sighting when I was on my way to pick up Monte's thyroid pills.

He was walking on the side of a busy highway, wearing his "Hasidic Jewish Gangster" costume and carrying a backpack. It made me smile.

But then I thought, maybe I could see him again if I hurry. So I rushed in to the vet office to finish as quickly as possible. I knew that if I hurried there was a chance that I might get to see him again on my way back.

I did. I reached him just before he made it to the intersection across from the Burger King where the black Jesus blows his trumpet and yells at cars. That made me smile again.

Then I made an executive decision. Instead of turning to go home, I went across the intersection and into a gas station. Not because I desperately needed to pump some $4 gas, but because I knew that there was a good chance Willard would walk past in a couple of minutes. That would mean an unprecedented third Willard sighting in one day.

Two minutes later, he walked past the gas station in all his "Hasidic Jewish Gangster" glory. I smiled.

It was a Willard hat trick (for you laymen, a "hat trick" means "three Willard sightings," an almost unheard of trifecta).

My white blood cell count went way up. I had a very good day. And I smiled.

Olan Mills Photos

I didn't write this one. I wish I had. My friend emailed it to me. I felt it deserved its very own post.

Those glasses came free with a purchase of Brut cologne.

Drake won Bitchin'est Senior Mullet by a landslide.

 

The Purvis family made several stops along the Oregon Trail to document their six-month journey.

This photo was take just two weeks before the dysentery took Momma to Jesus.

Once they had two or three, how did they ever find enough time alone to make more?

No comment.

Olan Mills backdrop #4: Bucolic Meadow with Split Rail Fence.

Is that an animal carcass behind her?

A pose like this will get you kicked right out of the Convention.

Bobbi isn't the first waitress to fall for her manager, but she and Dale both got fired from Shoney's.

Dawn and her recently exhumed sister, Gorgotha, pose with Scraps.

The photo isn't discolored. The 70s really were that orange.

At the Southern Baptist Convention?

Olan Mills Backdrop #11: The Library, one of their most popular themes, as seen in this photo of the young Unabomber and his wife.

Patrick broke ranks and chose drag over the bow tie.

Grapefruit smuggling isn't a crime, but posing it in profile should be.

Kenneth and his prom date.

I got a 20 that says he drives a Camaro.

Hiroshima, 1945. The last known photo of Kelli and Senor Loco.

Talk about a third wheel...

Nothing says 1973 quite like denim and helmet hair.

I'd hide my face, too, little girl.

B52's, the early years.

************************************

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Ugly Things for My Beautiful Wife

So after about 2 years of not working--just kind of spending the day reading magazines and letting Monte out to eat cat poop--Jodi went back to work full-time in August. Originally, the idea was that she would take time off work and figure out what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. Well, she came up with a really long list of things that she DIDN'T want to do, but she didn't come up with anything that she DID want to do, except sit around reading magazines and letting Monte out to eat cat poop.

Now she works all day long from home. I dragged an old table out of the basement and set her up with one of the kitchen chairs. "There you go, honey," I said. "Now make us rich. Daddy needs some new underwear."

Apparently, the kitchen chair is about as comfortable as sitting on a toaster oven, so now Jodi's back is killing her all the time. I know this because every 20 minutes she'll say, "God! My back is killing me!" And I'll say, "Oh, I'm so sorry, honey. Back to work now. Time is money."

Actually, I do feel bad for her. So today I started trying to find her a comfortable desk chair. But she insists on having one that isn't ugly. Therein lies the dilemma, for there is no such thing as a desk chair that is not also ugly.

Somebody told me about Herman Miller chairs, which cost $500,000 each, but they're supposed to be really comfortable. Great, but look at this stupid thing...

She's not gonna sit in this thing. What is she, Spock? Why does every comfortable office chair have to look like a paleontologist designed it?

And this is one of the better looking chairs that I found. It's like there's a contest to see who can make the most God-awful-ugly chair. I mean, what in the hell is this supposed to be?...

Is Manute Bol going to be creating a spreadsheet? Why don't you just take a couch pillow and staple it to the top of a telephone pole?

I might as well get her this...

Or this...

Or this...

Happy Anniversary, honey! I mean, I get her a chair like that and I'll be able to get her to take her top off for sure!

So I'm thinking, This is hopeless. I'm never going to find her an ugly chair that she'll be happy with.

So then I'm thinking, Well, what else can I get for her, if not an ugly chair.

I know, how about an ugly baby, like this one...

Good luck with that head, kid. I can already tell you're gonna be a Baptist. All you need is some tight polyester pants from Wal-Mart and a big fat red tie.

Or I could get her this one...

The Westminster Dog Show called. They want their American Hairless Terrier back.

Yeah, that's what I could do. I could get her an ugly baby. Those things are all over the Internet. Big light bulb head ones...

Little red beady-eyed ones...

Great big wide ones dressed in camouflage prom dresses...

What I like best about ugly babies is that they're ugly no matter what you do to them. Go ahead. Go buy the fanciest little red outfit you can find and put it on the little porker with the Pete Rose haircut...

It's still ugly!

Try pink, I don't care...

It doesn't matter. It's still ugly!

No wonder people toss these things in the dumpster.

And the beautiful thing about ugly children is that there's no discrimination. Regardless of what race you are, you can still be an ugly little cretin, like little Achmed here...

 

MC DJ Fuggly Shnizzlehead is in the house!...

 

Or, um, well...

To tell you the truth, I don't know what this one is. All I know is those eyes are wantin' out of that head.

And it doesn't matter who you are. Anybody can have one of these. One of my rural North Carolina neighbors just had a litter, as a matter of fact...

Sounds like a great idea on the surface--a new ugly baby for Jodi, instead of a new ugly desk chair. But then, I'll probably have to get her some new maternity clothes. No wait! I can just take her regular clothes and cut out the circle where the new ugly zygote goes...

There, that's better! Much better than a stupid old ugly Herman Miller chair!

************************************

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Mr. Paul's Neighborhood

There's nothing I like better than a good whacko. I know that some people would take exception to me calling another person a whacko. They would say to me, “Paul, just because somebody is a little bit different from you doesn't make him or her a whacko.” Sure it does. That's what a whacko is. But that doesn't mean I don't like whackos. I love 'em. Life would definitely be a lot less interesting without all the whackos. The best part is that there's never a shortage of whackos. They're always out there, everywhere you look. Come on. Let me take you on a tour of my neighborhood and introduce you to some of my whackos…

As we walk out my front door, we see a whacko right across the street. It's the old lady who owns the house with the really big tree in her front yard. She's a real big whacko. Every few days she tells somebody walking by that one of these days she's going to drill holes in that big tree and pour poison into the holes to kill it. And she's serious. Why does she want to kill the tree? Well, she says she wants to kill the tree because, and I quote, “Things keep falling out of the tree and I'm sick of cleaning it up.”

This particular geratric whackjob is also a perfectionist and doesn't trust anyone else to do any work for her. Case in point: She wanted to paint her house but couldn't find a painter who could be trusted to do it properly, so she decided to paint it herself. The problem is that she only has a step ladder. So now the top part of the house is the same green color that has always been, and there's a 5-foot-high stripe with new tan paint around the bottom of the house because that's as high as she could reach. All the house needs now is some big Tide decals and a giant number 42 and it could be entered into the Daytona 500.

She is a whackjob of the highest degree. She probably has a shirt with all of the whackjob badges that she's earned over the years. I could walk over there right this second and say to her, “Psst! At the next full moon the seventh trimester will be completed and the prophecy will be fullfilled.” And I'll bet you a hundred dollars she'd nod like she knew exactly what I was talking about, and the next thing you know she'd be out in her backyard digging a 9-foot trench with a peanut butter jar lid.

Let's walk down the street…

Ah, there are the whackos who own the store on the corner. It's a hair salon that also sells bail bonds. Because sometimes you need to get your bangs trimmed while bailing your pedophile husband out of jail.

A few feet more and we see Jimmy. Jimmy is a very poor whacko with some kind of mental disability. Jimmy always makes it a point to introduce himself to you and spell his name each time he sees you, even if you've met him 80,000 times before. Then he asks if you have any work for him to do around your house, but you always say, “No, sorry. Not today. Maybe tomorrow,” because if you say yes, the next thing you know, your house will be burnt to the ground. Poor Jimmy. It's very sad. Part of us wants to help Jimmy the whacko, but the other part of us is kind of scared of him, so we decide to cross to the other side of the street.

Now we find ourselves in front of the antique store. This store is owned by an old guy who really goes all out to decorate his windows for Christmas. Every Christmas, all the businesses in downtown decorate their storefronts with lights, pictures of Santa, and other festive things like that. The antique store whacko chooses to take a different approach. For Christmas, this whacko creates a display that has to do with the second coming of Christ and the rapture. He displays a big piece of cardboard that looks like it has a message handwritten by Charles Manson in permanent magic marker. The message says something like, “Repent you heathen bastards, or you'll all go to hell! Merry Christmas!” Next to this Christmas message is a big framed picture, which looks like a finger painting that the whacko did all by himself. It shows Jesus up in the clouds, and all of the Baptists on earth are floating up to heaven, leaving airplanes, cars, boats, bicycles, etc. unmanned and crashing into buildings while all the non-Baptists on earth are screaming and burning in the explosions left behind. Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!

In my town, religious whackos are particularly widespread. Not that I have anything against religion per se, but I've noticed that the religious whackos are particularly whacky. As we pass the 7 trillion churches in the downtown area alone, we make our way out to the busiest intersection in town. Here, we see a guy standing next to his van out near the intersection, dressed up like Jesus in a robe. He's waving a Bible in the air and yelling at all the people in cars driving by at 40 miles per hour who can't hear a word he says. That's a fantastic outreach plan! Makes me want to go to church with the whacko right now!

And hey, just in case you're hungry after attending church with the whacko, you can get a bite to eat at the whacko Jesus BBQ place. As we drive by, we see the sign out in front of the restaurant which says in big, bold letters, “Nothing But the Blood of Jesus!” That may be fine for some people, but I prefer more of a tangy tomato-based BBQ sauce on my pork ribs.

Let's turn the corner and see what we find next…

It’s Willard. In a town full of whackos, Willard is THE town whacko. But in a good way. Every day, he wears a different costume (Batman, an Indian, a genie, Superman, a gangster, Elvis) and walks around town slouched forward with plodding footsteps. Willard is the best! We keep going…

Ah yes, there's the Mexican grocery store. It's a quaint little store. Well, it was until the city decided to make a parking lot next to it and the whacko driving the bulldozer backed into store, leaving a nice crater next to the shelf of tortillas. Of course, it's going to take more than just a little crater next to the tortillas to close down the Mexican grocery store. They're still very much open (crater and all) for all of your bean and piñata needs. Well done, everyone! Well done!

As we go a little further, we see the bakery. Cool. Because this bakery is really great… I mean, as long as the lady who runs it is on her meds. That's what our friend tells us anyway—“If she's on her meds, everything tastes wonderful. If she's not on her meds that day, well, there can be issues with the cream puffs.” The problem is that you never know if she's on her meds until you take that first bite. I've decided they need a system like the smog problem out in Los Angeles. Every morning, they tell you what the smog level is for that day. There definitely needs to be a sign on the front of the bakery that tells you what the med levels are for that particular day.

Out in front of the bakery we see three whacko homeless guys sitting on a bench. Well, actually, we've been told that they're homeless, but we're a little skeptical because they're sitting out in front of the bakery and they're all fat. If you're poor and starving, wouldn't you think that you'd be thin like the starving people in third-world countries? How is it that you're poverty stricken but you weigh 350 pounds? Only in America. Obviously you've got money for food… don't you, ya whacko.

Well, we're almost back where we started on our little tour. But in the distance we can see Jimmy walking toward us again, so let's cross to the other side of the street.

That's enough whackos for today. There will always be more of them tomorrow. I love whackos.

************************************

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What I Want to be When I Grow Up

I was sitting with my dogs outside a health food supermarket, waiting for Jodi. She was inside buying a bunch of soy lint and other hippy food that’s required in our new Buchenwald diet.

Every few minutes someone would walk by. Most of the time, they would comment on how cute my dogs are. Because I have some cute damn dogs. They're stupid as Shredded Wheat, but they're cute.

Then a crazy homeless guy walked out of the store carrying a box. Naturally, like everyone else, he was attracted to the dogs. So he came over, sat down on the sidewalk, and started French kissing my beagle. He didn't say anything to me. He just sat there, caressing and kissing my pets. This went on for 20 minutes. Every couple of minutes, he just blurted out a nonsensical riddle or something. (Later, Jodi told me that he had been inside the store trying to find tofurkey. I don't know what tofurkey is. I have a feeling it's a turkey that's against the war.)

I didn't say anything to the guy. I mean, what do you say to a crazy homeless person who is making out with your dogs in front of a hippy food store? Care for an organic bar of soap?

But the guy did get me thinking. He seemed happy. I mean, he seemed really happy. Maybe I should have considered a different career path in life. Maybe when my high school guidance counselor asked me, “Well, Paul, what do you think you'd like to do with your life?” I should have said, “I'm thinking crazy homeless person.”

I remember in Catholic school, they had “Vocation Week.” They made all of us 6th graders draw a picture of what we wanted to be when we grew up. All the boys drew a picture of a priest, and all the girls drew a picture of a nun. Imagine that. I wonder how that happened. Perhaps it had something to do with Sister Anne saying, “Now, boys and girls, as you draw pictures of your future vocation, try to draw something Catholic that won’t make me ashamed of you and force me to give you an F.”

But I didn't want to draw a picture of a priest, or a nun. I wanted to draw something different. I didn't know what, but I knew I didn't want to be the same thing as everyone else when I grew up. So I went to the school library and looked for a book that might give me ideas. I looked at every book on every shelf, from Green Eggs and Ham to All Non-Catholics Go to Hell. I looked and looked and looked. Finally, I came across a book that didn’t have anything to do with priests or nuns. And I drew my picture, my dumb vocational picture. A picture… of a sky diver.

Now that was a lie from the pit of hell. I'm the last person in the world who would enter the lucrative world of sky diving. I have absolutely no interest in sky diving. I'd almost rather be in charge of shaving guys' balls before they get vasectomies. Whenever there’s something on television about a guy dying from a sky diving or bungee jumping accident, I never think it’s sad. I always think Well, that’s what you get, ya jackass.

Unfortunately, I was being graded on the assignment, so I had to make a choice. And if I had to choose between being a priest or a sky diver, I was going with the idiot jumping out of the airplane. So I drew my dumb vocational picture of a sky diver falling to his death.

Now I’m older and wiser. Now I have years of experience under my belt. And I decided that if I could go back in time and draw my picture all over again, I definitely wouldn’t draw a sky diver. I’ve thought about this a lot. I now think I know what I would draw a picture of if I could do it all over again…

Ted Bundy.

Okay, now don't jump to conclusions. Hear me out.

This might sound a tad politically incorrect, but I think serial killers have gotten a bad rap. Don't get me wrong. I'm not condoning what they've done… at least not entirely. I just think that maybe they had the right idea in the beginning, but they didn't know how to properly focus their efforts. Killing people indiscriminately—well, that's a little whacko. But killing assholes—now that's a plan I can get behind. Who doesn't have a list of assholes that could use a good killing? I know I do. Want to see the first part of my list?

1. People who tailgate me
2. People who I tailgate
3. People who play rap music really loud on their crappy stereos in their crappy cars
4. People who let their children throw tantrums in public
5. Celine Dion
6. Whoever stole my car in 1991

I don't see any reason why “asshole serial killer” can't be a viable career path for someone. My problem is that I doubt I would have the energy and commitment to see it through. Sounds like a lot of overtime to me.

And that's a big reason why I don't think you can say that serial killers are completely bad. I mean, yeah, John Wayne Gacy was nuts, but at least he wasn't lazy. Jeffrey Dahmer wasn't just sitting around on his ass like a lot of people. All day long, he was killing and cooking, killing and cooking. He probably went through dozens of oven mitts.

Yep, serial killer is probably way too much work for someone like me. So if I had to do it all over again, I guess I would have to settle for my second career choice: crazy homeless person who hangs out in front of hippy supermarkets French kissing dogs. I just have to figure out how Jodi and I can fit our television and sofa into one of those shopping carts.

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Vertical Wafflehead Man

Today I saw a guy with the narrowest head I have ever seen in my entire life. It was spectacular. It made my entire week. It made me feel like I had just discovered the Loch Ness Monster.

Okay, here's what happened. Jodi and I were walking into a restaurant for lunch. We made our way into the waiting area where you give them your name. We looked up and there he was—Vertical Wafflehead Man.

My first reaction was to say, Holy shit! You've got the narrowest head I've ever seen! Fortunately, my social skills barometer kicked in and I didn't say it out loud. I only thought it. But I did flinch and quickly look away, just like you do when you're flipping through the channels on TV and accidentally come to a station showing some fat guy's hairy butt.

I couldn't help it. This guy's head was absolutely amazing. It was as if some mafia thugs had tortured the guy by putting his head in a vice and squeezing it until they could fit it through a mail slot. I am not kidding. His head had to be no more than a couple inches wide, and that included his ears.

Then he spoke to me. He made this real nasally sound (which is quite understandable under the circumstances) and asked me a question. I couldn't understand a word he was saying. But as I continued to twitch, I managed to say, “Table for two.”

There were a couple of average-looking employees standing on either side of him, but they didn't seem inclined to help me out at all. They didn’t help Vertical Wafflehead Man either. They just stood there. Apparently, that was their job—to stand there and watch people flinch as they walked through the door.

Somehow, I was able to make out the next thing he said to me: “Would you like a booth?”

I said, “Yes.” But what I really wanted to say was, Yes, I would like a booth. But first, I would like to see if I can fit a medium-sized binder clip on your head.

But to me, the most incredible thing was not that this guy had a head that he could hide behind a flag pole. The most incredible thing to me was that management decided to put this guy right out front to greet customers, rather than working in the back washing dishes or making food. They must have gone up to him and said, “Slim, we'd like to offer you the position of Senior Host. We want the first thing our customers to see when they walk through that door is your freakishly skinny head. We want our customers to say, ‘Holy shit! You've got the narrowest head we've ever seen! What's for lunch!?’”

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