My friends are complain that I never update my blog. I'm thinking of changing my name to Mr. Boring.

     Attention people of the homicidal persuasion: I am no longer afraid of you. I don’t care who you are or how many tattoos of flaming skull monsters you have on your chest—you can shove those flaming skull monsters up your butts, because I’m not afraid of anybody anymore. Not since I found out just how hard it is to actually get killed.

      Television, the news, and other media would have us believe that thousands of people get murdered across the country every day. If you believe them, like I did, you probably spend your entire waking life in a dark corner of your bedroom, hiding inside a pickle barrel, paralyzed by visions of wanton massacre transpiring in the world outside your door. Dear reader, this is not so!

      I recently stumbled upon a web page about the Drug War that listed some of the annual causes of death in the United States. Surprisingly, homicide was not even close to being a leader in the death business, being easily outstripped by tobacco, alcohol, and even suicide. Homicide rang in at a measly 18,272 deaths a year, which is peanuts compared to the millions upon millions that I had imagined it to be. In fact, it’s only enough to average one murder per state per day. Obviously, the media is to blame for the public’s wildly skewed perception of murder. The news plays up every murder case to such a degree that it makes homicide seem as common as breaking the speed limit, littering on the highway, or wearing capri pants. Movies and dramatic TV programming portray at least tenfold the number of actual murders that occur in real life, The Sopranos probably covering 18,272 icings just by itself. All this when really—no one’s getting murdered!

     Since I’ve learned the truth, I walk the streets a new man. I look the drug dealers and the maniacs straight in the eye, leaving them to whisper to each other, “He knows.” At night, I make it point to sashay down dark alleyways, boldly defying any lurkers who may think themselves menacing. When I visit the MAC machine, I flaunt my money as I stroll down the street, inviting all to see my goods. What’s anybody going to do about it? Rob me, maybe, but kill me? Ho ho, I think not. I no longer need my pickle barrel for security; the city is my asylum.

     Fortunately for me, since I’m neither a black adult male, nor a female intern having a secret affair with a disreputable senator—the two demographics with notorious penchants for being murdered (or mysteriously disappearing, however you want to put it)—my chances of being killed are even lower. This was confirmed earlier today by an undisputable source that I have come to place my utmost faith in, namely a fortune cookie. I was delighted by the volumes of good news contained in its simple message: “16 45 13 36 43 22.” Wait, that was the back. The front said: “Good health will be yours for a long time,” which only further convinced me that no harm can come from dancing with drug dealers, toying with the mafia, and tempting the savages of the city.

     Speaking of drug dealers, you should take note that the statistics page reports the number of annual deaths from marijuana to be zero. I gleefully took this to mean that that people who smoke marijuana cannot die. Eventually, my good friend Oscar pointed out the fallacy in my logic—that marijuana smokers can die from other causes, just not from marijuana. To be honest, I guess he has a point there, but I’ve already bought the marijuana, so there’s no turning back now. At least I know I have nothing to fear from the drug, unlike its legally sanctioned counterpart, tobacco. Did you read the chart? That stuff is worse than the plague! People shouldn’t be worried about the killer that’s going to jump out of the shadows with a knife, they should be worried about that glowing cancer stick in their mouth. But Mr. Interesting didn’t come here to preach, dear reader. He didn’t come here to refer to himself in the third person, either. He came here to deliver a message.

     Unfortunately I can't remember what that message is right now, probably as a side effect of this exquisite immortality drug. Instead, let me leave you with another message: “Forget the worrying and the tender loving care. Sometimes all it takes is a BLT.”

        If I had $500 to spend, I like to think that I would spend it on something that could somehow be considered a benefit to me, even in the slightest way. For instance, if I paid someone to break my legs, it would not be a benefit. If I paid someone to inject turpentine into my body, it would not be a benefit. If I paid $500 for something that is free anyway, it would not be a benefit either, unless of course it is a pound of elephant poop, and only then if it’s still warm. (Never mind why.)

         I know that in my case, living in a world where every meal consists of ramen noodles, $500 could take me a long way. So when someone blows $500 on something that is not only free, but has no redeeming value whatsoever, my noodles tend to get in a bunch. ($500 translates to 3,000 servings of ramen, or roughly enough to feed a starving family in Ethiopa for eight generations.)

         Consider an Ebay auction that my friend Teejay sent me a link to with the earnest description: [sic] “people ar edumb!!!!!!!” Based on the description alone, I knew that serious folly was afoot. The auction was for a “Really Low Six Digit” ICQ number. (ICQ is a chat program, similar to AOL’s Instant Messenger. As opposed to Instant Messenger, where identity relies on screen name alone, ICQ identity relies on a number, allowing the user to change his ICQ screen name as he wishes.) ICQ numbers are given out for free to whomever wants them, so there would have to be an excellent reason for someone pay $500 for one, right? The auctioneer’s main selling point of this treasure was that it is “a nice low number which could show you are no newcomer to the online world.” I guess that kind of works the same way that having copious amounts of nose and ear hair would prove that you’re no diaper-wearing dot-com washout, but a hardened veteran, seasoned in the ways of the online world. But wait—there’s more! It would also be “great for business use due to the easy to remember number.” I can just imagine the clients pouring in, irresistibly drawn to your low ICQ number like hapless children to the Pied Piper.

Scene: a large bank that needs someone to develop their record-keeping software:

Partner #1: “I’m sorry, Mr. Gates, but I’m afraid your ICQ number is just too high. We could never work with a seven digit number.”

Mr. Gates: “But I’m the global leader in software development and the richest man in the world!”

Partner #2: “Yeah, like we’ve never heard that before. We’re going with that guy who paid $500 for his six-digit number. That man is a genius!”

Guy with the 6-digit number: (Walks in.) “Hey guys, what’s shakin’?”

Partners: (Kneel and start bowing.) “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!”

Mr. Gates: “Say, could you autograph my palm pilot? My wife’s a big fan.”

Guy with the 6-digit number: “Sure, after last night, she deserves it.”

Guy with a 5-digit number: (Floats in on a blanket of air, radiating pure white light.)

Partner #1: The second coming! The scriptures were correct!

Partner #2: “What is your bidding, O five-digit one?”

Guy with a 5-digit number: “Kill Mr. Gates.”

Mr. Gates: “Hey, what did I do wrong?”

Guy with a 5-digit number: “Gee, I don’t know... there’s MS Hailstorm for starters.”

Mr. Gates: (chuckling to himself) “Heh heh, good point.” (He is struck by lightning and vaporizes on the spot.)


         Of course we know that this scenario is ridiculous (Mr. Gates actually has an eight-digit ICQ number), but it illustrates my point well: that owning a six-digit ICQ number is like being the emperor with new clothes—new clothes that put him out five hundred bucks and make him look like a total sucker.

         Speaking of suckers, I’m reminded of what seems to be the latest trend in designer soap—grit. I am completely at a loss for why this trend has come into existence, much less why people are actually buying into it, but more and more I find myself washing my hands in people’s powder rooms and suddenly realizing that the soap is full of gritty little bits of an unidentifiable substance. I don’t understand why people even like it—soap is supposed to make you feel like you’re getting cleaner, not dirtier. For all we know, they could be mixing in ground-up asphalt, but slap a Bath & Body Works label on it, and people will swarm. Maybe it’s just beyond me; maybe it’s like one of those paradoxes where in order to have peace you must first have war—in order to have cleanliness you must cover your hands in grit or something. I don’t know. But it seems to me that the people who pay to wash their hands in gritty soap are suckers.

         If there’s one thing that’s clear here, it’s that these people don’t deserve to keep their money. P.T. Barnum was the one who said, “There’s a sucker born every minute.” I think we would have made a good team, old P.T. and I. He could have abused the circus animals and their trainers, and I could have raked in all the dough. The problem with the current situation is that the suckers are handing over their dough, but none of it’s going to me. Plus the elephants and the bears are getting off a little too easy; someone needs to teach them an old-fashioned lesson in circus animal cruelty. Five hundred frickin’ dollars. Do you realize that with the current special, $500 would buy 1,219 McDonald’s hamburgers? Of course there would only be four total ounces of actual meat in those 1,219 hambugers, but it’s the principle of the matter.

        Boy am I hungry right now. I’ll sell anybody nose hair for $500. No questions asked. Just ICQ me—I’m the guy with the 5-digit number. And I didn’t have to pay anyone to get it, mind you. I traded it for a pound of warm elephant poop.

        Epilogue: The person who bought the $500 ICQ number tried to pay with a stolen credit card. He would have been better off using elephant poop. Guess nobody told him about that.

Some people would say that a man's attraction to fast, expensive cars is nothing more than a grapple for physical dominance over his peers. I would like to punch those people, because I am better than they are.

I just bought a shiny red VW Beetle, also known as a punchbuggy. This is a beautiful thing, because now wherever I go, whomever I happen to see, I have full clearance to jump out of the car, call "Punchbuggy Red!" and sock the bastard in the jaw. No court could convict me! I can punch anybody: mean people, nice people, people who say "pop" instead of "soda," people who own those lame scooters with the inept little wheels, people who buy not one, but two Furbies so they can have them talk to each other, and heck--even Reese Witherspoon. All very punchable people, you'll agree. If there is any other reason to own a punchbuggy, then I don't know what it is.

I'm not sure why I brought up Reese Witherspoon; there's just something about her that I can't put my finger on. It's nothing personal really, it's just that every time I see her I want to punch her in the face. Okay, well I guess that is pretty personal, but I have nothing against her; she seems to be having a very succesful acting career, and I have to admit that it's well deserved. In Pleasantville she proved her ability to handle a role that could not be farther from her true personality--the role of a superficial, stuck-up bitch. It was convincing, too! Furthermore, I found her performance in Election to be rather naturalistic as well. (Come to think of it, she played a bitch in that one too.) Well I haven't seen Legally Blonde yet, but I'm sure that she carries on the same solid performance that we've come to love and expect (as a bitch). Truth be told, I only wish her the best. But I would still really love it--I mean love, love, love it--if someday I could punch her in her fat, sweaty face.

What I truly need is a fresh outlet for my aggression--that's what my boss is recommending anyway. (Apparently beating your co-workers with sausages and frolicking about in your Tarzan underoos is considered "inappropriate behavior for the office." Damn the man and his rules!) Sure, I could always take up knitting, fly-fishing, milk cap collecting, bonsai kitten sculpting, selling spatulas door to door, breeding gerbils, and collecting my bodily discharges in a jar. Collecting your bodily discharges in a jar is a good one, because it's less pollution for the environment. But really, when it comes to aggression, what better outlet than the hot, chubby face of an unsuspecting punchee?

Hence the punchbuggy.

So when I brought it home all shiny and new, my dad suggested that I take it out for a spin. Of course, hindsight is always twenty-twenty, and it's obvious now that "taking it for a spin" meant taking an orderly ride around the neighborhood, obeying traffic laws and such. But at the moment, I thought he meant taking it into the backyard and busting out some major donuts. I remember gleefully ripping three foot circles in the lawn at forty miles per hour, giggling like a schoolboy, when my parents leapt out the kitchen window (something they don't usually do, so I knew something was up), faces as red as Santa Claus's hat, yelling and motioning desperately at me to get the hell off their lawn and away from their property. Normally I would've called a "Punchbuggy Red" on the suckers, but it seemed like bad form to repay the people who gave birth to me with a torn-up lawn and a beating, even if it were a light beating. So I zoomed off, in search of different outlets for my aggression, preferably ones that weren't members of my immediate family (sorry Grandma).

Now, if you know me, you know that I am lactose intolerant. I hate lactose! I won't stand for it! Nor will I stand for the shameless vending of it to young, impressionable children. Naturally my first stop was the Baskin Robbins, because I had thirty-one reasons to give the ice cream man a severe beating. Little did I know that I would do battle with enemies far worse than lactose.

Another thing you might know about me is that I don't like paying parking meters, so when I arrived at the ice cream store, I just drove my car straight through the front window. Got a few dirty looks, but they were just jealous because they weren't smart enough to save a few quarters themselves. Like it's the smart people's fault that the rest of the world is full of idiots. So I shoved my way up to the front of the line, where these two wise-guy kids in the front wouldn't budge; they were at that age where all they do is walk around angry and sarcastic all the time, mocking everyone and everything around them, rebelling against anything that gets in their way. So I called a "Punchbuggy Red!" on them, taught 'em a lesson. All three-year-olds are like that nowadays. It's sad, really. Forcing my way to the counter, I found myself face-to-face with Roy, the employee on duty. He was all freckles and glasses and had that I-watch-Star-Trek look to him.

"You and your Double Banana Fudge Nut Swirl," I seethed with disgust. "You make me sick."

"Huh?" he asked, quite confused.

"No, literally, it makes me sick," I explained. "I can't eat ice cream. I'm lactose intolerant. And I'm calling a Punchbuggy Red on your lactose-serving ass. So say your prayers, Roy, because after this day sorbet will rule the world!" I grabbed him by his shirt collar like the bad-ass with a punchbuggy that I am and wound up for the punch.

"Wait! You can't punch me!"

"And why is that?" I demanded.

"Because... because I'm wearing glasses?" stuttered Roy.

We stood there for a moment, my fist frozen in the air.

"Dang, you're right. Glasses, my only weakness!"

I dropped Roy and slumped away from the counter. Emasculation consumed me, and I scanned the room for another outlet for my aggression--an old man, a wiener dog--anyone. She was standing right behind me, must have come in when I wasn't paying attention. Her face was even more annoying in person than on the screen, and her nostrils were flaring in that alien way they tend to do... oh, those alien nostrils. It was Reese Witherspoon, Punchable Person Extraordinaire.

There she was with her fat, sweaty face, all sweaty and fat. It was perfect. It was more than perfect. The gods had put her there specifically for me to punch in the face. How could I say no to the gods? It was my calling. But I froze.

Reese stood before me. She looked at the red punchbuggy, then at me, then at the punchbuggy, then at me, clenching her hand into a fist, drawing it back for a punch, and yelled--you guessed it--"Where are your pants?!"

Did I forget to mention that I wasn't wearing any pants? Well I wasn't. It was the peak of summer, and because my parents didn't have air conditioning, our house often reached sauna conditions. The easiest way to cope with this was to forego pants, which I did with much frequency and gusto. If outdoor temperatures were as sweltering as the indoor's, I would go pantless outside as well. Of course I got some negative feedback from strangers, but that's all part of dealing with dim-witted people who are jealous of your creative ideas. So anyway, when Reese questioned my attire--or lack thereof--I humored her dim-wittedness with an enlightened, highly-intellectualized response.

"Uh... I don't know."

That was when she screamed "Pervert!" and punched me in the face, knocking me over.

"Hey, you can't do that!" I yelled after her, as she was now walking away. "You didn't call Punchbuggy Red! You're punching me in your spare time! That's against the rules!" But she heeded not my complaints, and marched away--fat, sweaty face and all. As I picked myself up, I realized I had landed squarely on someone's chocolate sundae, tarnishing my boxers. A free fashion tip: brown goo on the back of your underwear is a no-no; I don't care what kind of goo it is.

The entire ice cream store erupted in laughter. Hundreds, even thousands of mocking fingers pointed in my direction as I scrambled around on the floor, slipping in melted ice cream, making an even worse mess of myself. Even Roy was laughing, all freckles and glasses, snot hanging out of his nose. "I'll get you for this, Reese!" I hollered, vowing to redouble my efforts, naming her every curse I'd ever known. "I'll get you!!!" And then she was gone.

* * * * *

So in a lot of ways, I feel a connection with George W. Bush, who is possibly the most misunderstood man of our times. You see, it's not that he's AGAINST the environment so much as it is that he's FOR the corporations. People seem to have a hard time understanding that, and I think he gets judged unfairly because of it. In the same vein, it's not that I'm AGAINST Reese Witherspoon, it's more that I'm FOR punching her in the face. I can see how someone might take that very personally, but really it's not. I find her charming in fact, and I only wish her the best. The best punch in the face, that is. You know, I thought this puchbuggy would help me vent my aggression, but so far it's only served to exacerbate it. Tomorrow I think I'll forego the punchbuggy protocol and just start running people over in the street. I can see them getting all worked up about it already, the town council and the PTA, saying "Ohhh! You can't just run people over with your car! That's against the law!" But you know what? They're just jealous because they didn't think of it first.

It may seem like my life is nothing but punchbuggies and lemon-flavored sorbets, but it's not. It's hard being me--people judging me unfairly, trying to cramp my style, always ragging on me to put on some pants. Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it, the price I pay for being superior to everyone else. And I'd have to say that it is; it's worth it for the pants.

It is one of my most sacred dreams to some day have a Michael Jackson Laser Show/Dance Party at my house. I think if this happened it would be the single greatest thing ever.

If Michael Jackson came, he'd be wearing an elephant costume to the party, and nobody would know it was him under there except for me. He really shouldn't be there at all, but if he begged me and gave me like a thousand dollars I would make an exception. I think it would undermine the party, the entire experience, if the night were overshadowed by the presence of the actual Man. Don't get me wrong--I love the guy. But this is about something much bigger than Michael himself. This is about my Michael Jackson Laser Show/Dance Party 2001.

The 2001 thing is just tentative. I'm not sure when it's going to happen yet, if ever. But if you think about it, 2001 is the perfect year for it. What else happened in 2001? Space Odessey. The final frontier, and all of that. This would be just as monumental as the Space Odessey, only cooler, because it would have Michael Jackson in it. And mondo booty-shaking. I haven't talked to my parents about it yet, but I'm pretty sure they'd be cool about letting me use the house. When I describe my dream to them, instead of saying "booty-shaking," I say "the cha cha."

If it helps people to understand my dream, I will perform interpretive dances for local orphans. Because if children cannot relate to the wonder and power of dreams, who can? Perhaps at the same time, I can spread some of the magic that has consumed me, the magic that is Michael Jackson's music and the feeling that comes from shaking your booty to it.

Everyone has their dream. Everyone has their Michael Jackson Laser Show/Dance Party. Hopefully, one day mine will become a reality. You're invited, if it ever happens. Just don't tell Michael.

He arrived at my West Side bungalow squawking like a raspy crow, refusing to come in for the first fifteen minutes. "This place is a dump!" he screamed into his armpit. He conducted most of his conversations through his armpit, always at a shouting volume. The neighbors were a bit put off by his behavior, and I must say I wasn't sure what to make of it myself. Nonetheless, we had the most wonderful conversations, he and I.

Today I had the Homeless Maniac of Love over for tea. We laughed, we cried, we bared our souls to each other. As it turns out, he's a real jerkface. But we're soulmates, and that's something that can never be changed.

We discussed philosophy, religion, backgammon, finite mathematics, the art of war, the mating habits of the zebra, and above all, love. Oh, the things we spoke of! The magic we shared! It was truly a bond of heart and mind.

He shared a fish with me, which he had been carrying in his inner vest pocket. "Smell this! Doesn't it smell weird? Smell it!" In the afternoon, we held each other. At one point I turned to him and said, "I almost wish this day would never end," to which he responded by heaving my glass coffee table above his head and smashing it against the wall. He's so complex, that Homeless Maniac of Love. But somehow, I feel like I can understand him better than anyone else.

It's a special bond we share, the Homeless Maniac of Love and I. I don't expect anyone else to be able to appreciate it. I just ask the world to accept it, that two such unlikely characters can, despite the one's schizophrenic homicidal tendencies and the other's zest for a meaningful life, still be best friends.

By 3 a.m. the unbearable city heat had driven us away. We left behind the noises of steamy meat market bars and raving mass inebriation and walked the twelve blocks to the ocean. It was so dark there that all we could do was listen to invisible waves, letting the breeze wipe our tired, bloodshot faces. The night was thick with fireflies and fractured dreams.

A weary embrace. Her kisses were warm and tender, but they were belied by her sad, grey eyes. My heart hung heavy. I knew that the next thing she told me would change our relationship forever.

"There's something you should know," she started, but I didn't let her speak.

"No, let me tell you something first." I drew a breath, not knowing what terrible secrets it would carry on the way out.

"I feel like I'm a woman trapped inside a man's body." The words made me choke. "I've never felt comfortable with myself, and I never knew why until just recently. But now that I've figured it out, I feel like I can finally be me. I know it's not fair to you, and I should have told you before, but I just wasn't sure what you'd do--if you'd feel like I was a stranger all of a sudden, if you'd hate me for keeping it from you, if you'd think I was crazy... I wouldn't blame you for any of those things. But I want you to know the truth now because I love you. This is what I am."

A sick feeling took me, like rocks exploding in my stomach. She must have been in shock, but I couldn't bear to face her. There was still one more thing to confess.

"And that's not all," I said. "I'm also a lesbian."

That was it. I knew our love could never last past that. Swimming in dismay, my head slowly raised itself to look into her eyes. Strangely, they held a glimmer of understanding. The glimmer quickly grew into a smile, and she grabbed my hands and shook them excitedly.

"That's great!" exclaimed Jodie, jumping up and down.

"It is?"

"Yes!" she shrieked. "I'm gay!"

The fireflies roared.

I just couldn't believe it. When our love could no longer live within the limits of the possible, it found a way to exist beyond them. We entangled ourselves around each other like twin fetuses in the soft pocket of the night. All of our dread and heavyheartedness melted into the ocean, and our dreams picked themselves up, pieced themselves back together and buzzed brilliantly around us like the tiny beacons of the fireflies. I caught one on my hand and held it for a moment, making a promise to myself to never forget this night, this sand, these waves, this ocean air, and the miracles that danced all around us.

It is a puke orange day. I recently realized that it is impossible for anyone to be truly altruistic, and now I feel greedy giving any kind of service or money to any person in need. I feel like I need to do good, so I can feel good about myself. I'm a do-good junkie. The only way I can think of to escape this self-serving trap is to do things that I don't want to do, and to do them to people who don't want them done to them. I was going to beat up old ladies, torture and eat animals, throw children into fires, and sponsor terrorist movements in vulnerable third-world nations, all to cleanse my guilty conscience. But I'm so greedy and self-serving that I couldn't bring myself to do any of that. Instead I just sit and knit sweaters for homeless people, donate my non-crucial organs to accident victims, adopt starving children in Ethiopia, and give away my entire income to charities, living off of macaroni & cheese and ice cubes. I'm such a self-centered bastard. Everything has to revolve around me, me, me. Damn everything inside me that's pure and good! I hate myself! I hope Jodie Foster understands.

As I rushed through the flurry of faces on the city sidewalk today, I was accosted by an unwashed old man who had beady eyes that jittered and floated around in his head. I didn't even see him coming as he stumbled up to me, barked, "I love you!" and walked away. He never made eye contact.

I've always said that I wanted someone to stop me on the street one day and tell me that they loved me, that everything was okay, and that they would always be there for me, and here it's finally happened.

To be honest, I had expected someone female, someone who would have better hygiene and perhaps look a tad less criminally insane. If it had been Haley Mills I would have been delighted. If it had been Jodie Foster, I would have melted. But I'm Mr. Interesting, so I get the Homeless Maniac of Love.

Not that I'm complaining. Love is love, yes, and if it's true, it overcomes all boundaries, including the boundary between me and insane street people who smell like pee. I've found my soul mate, and his memory is sticking to my brain like a piece of scotch tape that stays connected to your hand no matter how hard you try to shake it off.

Wherever you are tonight, Homeless Maniac of Love, wherever you sleep, whomever you sleep by, whichever drugs you take to feed your addictions tonight--know that I have felt your presence, and it touches me, like when my gym teacher used to touch me in the locker room.

Friday afternoon at the train station there was this crazy guy walking around with a monkey puppet on his hand. He and his friend would walk up to everyone they saw, and the little monkey puppet would wave his paw and say “hello!” I think people were afraid to acknowledge him because he might ask them for money or something, so instead everyone just acted angry that there was a friendly little monkey saying hello to them. Nobody seemed to be amused excepet for me. I would have walked up and talked to him myself, but you know, I didn’t want him to ask me for money.

I heard about this other kid at Penn State who had a giant monkey doll, the kind that wraps its long, furry arms around your neck. This kid would ride the Loop, which is the campus bus. He would just ride it all night long, and all the kids on their ways to parties would hang out with him and play with the Loop monkey, and sort of be his friend and make fun of him at the same time. He said he did it because it was better than getting drunk, even though he acted drunk while he did it. Kills less brain cells that way, I guess. I went to his web page where he had posted a ton of crappy techno songs he made, and I mean crappy. But I like crappy-and-I-mean-crappy techno songs, so I almost actually bought his CD, till I realized he was asking people to pay him money for it. Just like the other guy--always asking for money. It’s sad, really, how these people can’t think about anything but money all the time, but I guess it just says something about monkeys and the people who hang out with them. I’m not sure what it says, but it’s definitely saying something.

Jodie Foster and I are superheroes. But we don't battle evil villains or save little kids from falling into Niagara Falls, really. We travel the countryside, spreading our message of universal love. We sit in subway stations, and I play an acoustic guitar, and she plays the tambourine and sings. We sing about why you shouldn't be an evil villain and why you should hold on tightly to the guard rail and why you should let your anger out in sweet, resonant song for the whole world to hear, instead of detonating two nuclear missiles aimed in opposite directions. Our rhythms just reach right out and touch people. I think we really make a difference. We sing about green grass, and clean water, and opening your hearts to love.

You could say we're more hippies than superheroes, really. We're really crunchy. We eat organic foods and smoke organic herbs. I walk my dog for five hours every day. Jodie never washes herself or shaves her legs or armpits. She's completely natural. We make hemp jewelry and sell it on the streets. People bought so much of it we had to hire assistants. We started a hemp-making corporation. We have 600,000 employees worldwide, and we're #346 in the Fortune 500. Also, we have the South American cocaine market cornered.

I guess we're more corrupt entrepreneurs than anything, really. I have six Porsches, Jodie has twenty motorcycles. We like to call really rich people who are poorer than us but still incredibly rich and make fun of them over video-phones. We ask them why they only own one country and why nobody's ever heard of it and if that means it sucks. Then Jodie moons them, and we hang up. But it's because we're actually against all that. We don't like capitalism. We went to Quebec to protest the FTAA and to Washington, D.C. to protest the WTO. We don't like the government either. Or the people, for that matter.

We're really more activists than entrepreneurs, I guess. We don't even care what we're being active about as long as we get to wave signs and scream things. Once we protested photosynthesis just because, you know, it's photosynthesis. Those plants should pay for their sunlight. And who ever asked them eat up carbon dioxide? I didn't. I, for one, enjoy the thrilling effects of global warming; skin cancer can't ravage my body fast enough, the ice caps are overrated, and hurricanes sound like fun. Some day Jodie and I are going to fly into the stratosphere just like Superman and throw the planet into the sun. Then everybody won't have a reason to complain anymore because they'll be dead, dead, dead like Kurt Cobain and Mickey Mantle and Leonardo Da Vinci and everyone who signed the Declaration of Independence, and we'll have peace and quiet, and no one will have to do anything they don't like or talk to anyone that annoys them or watch any shows that don't have naked people in them ever ever and no one will ever ever ever be unhappy again.

I guess we are superheroes after all.

Another haiku about my girlfriend, Jodie Foster:

electric love beams
sweet kind of radiation
now i am sterile

Don't you hate it when you look down and realize your hands are covered in blood, but you're not sure if it's yours or somebody else's, and you never figure out where it came from? I wouldn't mind it so much if it weren't becoming a regular thing. I'm afraid that I'm going to show up for a job interview one day, realize I'm soaked in blood, and then have to try to explain it to my future employer.

"What blood? Oh, you mean the blood that's all over my hands? That's nothing. That's actually just the way my hands look. Bright red and dripping shiny."

They would probably get suspicious when I shake their hands and get blood all over their clothes. But I can always just pretend it's them.

"Huh? What is this stuff? Dear Lord, it's BLOOD! Look, you got all over me! What the hell is going on here? I can't believe this!"

I like mashed potatoes.

Forty-six times.

That's a lot of times to accidentally stab somebody with a pitchfork, I'll be the first to admit. But hey, it happens. I'm the living proof.

Anyway, it's not like he died or anything. He has an extra lung, you know. I don't know why people are making such a big deal out of it.

It's the mystery of the missing gerbils! During recess, someone stole Brownie and Franklin, the class gerbils. Billy Jenkins found a clue--a piece of red cloth with peanut butter on it. I bet it belongs to Old Man Winters, the school janitor. We sent Lisa a message in code to meet us at the treehouse for a secret meeting. I hope we don't have a run-in with the Basin Street Gang. Last time Billy got chased around the block in his chicken costume, and Mrs. Jones' cat got painted red. We've got to save the neighborhood and get to the bottom of this mystery, even if hilarious hijinx ensue!

Whereas I was uncertain before, I now know for sure that there is no limit to the depth of the Grotesque Baby's evilness.

Now it is sending me chain letters.

Those huggy-kissy chain letters with ranks of AOL moms and AOL 13-year-olds filling the headers. The ones that promise the person I have a crush on will fall in love with me if I send out fifty copies, and give me a blow-job if I send out a hundred. The ones that entice you to scroll down for a display of crude, mind-bleeding ASCII animation that stretches on for the equivalent of three nautical miles. The ones that have more forwarding arrows in the message than actual message itself. The ones that try to convince me that copying it a bazillion times will somehow save a boy in Indiana from dying of cancer. That Bill Gates will somehow track the e-mails and pay me three dollars for every one I send. That if I don't, he'll charge me three dollars for every one I don't send. And make my hard drive crash. And my lover leave me. And my house fall on my head. And suck out my soul and imprison it in his 'evil jar.'

I hate chain letters.

But even more than that, I hate the Grotesque Babies who send them to me. Sometimes thirty or forty in one day. I tried blocking its e-mail address and filtering out all chain letters, but it found ways around that.

Then it started its own original chain letter. It told people about a poor man in Oklahoma named Mr. Interesting who is stricken with the rare condition of having been born without genitalia. To help poor Mr. Interesting pay for his operation, please send an e-mail to this address and send copies out to everyone you know. Except "this address" is really my work e-mail address, so now I am getting mail bombed at work by millions of people who feel sorry for me for not having any genitals. (Which, by the way, is not true.)

So like I said, I know now for certain that the Grotesque Baby's evilness has no limit. It is like an aching bottomless chasm, swallowing me whole.

Is it wrong to stab a baby just because it threw eggs in your laundry and you suspect that it's an agent of Satan?
Another one of the burning ethical questions I have to struggle with every day.

For Easter, I gave Jodie Foster a life-size chocolate sculpture of two identical twins that look like she did when she was twelve, engaged in an act of sweet lesbian love. I wanted it to be something really special.

"This is a little disturbing," she said. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Gee, I don't know," I said real sarcastically. "It's in an Easter basket, it's made out of chocolate... beats me!"

Sometimes she just doesn't get it.

Before my clothes smelled like 'dead germs,' they always smelled like eggs. It was strange because I never ate eggs--I didn't even like them. In fact, I used to be critically allergic to eggs. My face would puff up like a marshamllow in a microwave, and I would become unrecognizable even to my mother. Fortunately, I overcame my allergy, but my distate for eggs remained.

The inescapable egg smell was like a curse. I was sure that whenever I was engaged in conversation, the person I was talking to would be able to detect it, and they would be politely suffocating, choking back their tears while their mind raced, trying desperately to find a way out of the conversation. Maybe I was being paranoid, maybe I wasn't. At any rate, this egg phenomenon prevented me from conversing with anyone for more than five minutes at a time. Acquaintances all remained acquaintances. Co-workers ostracized me. Dating was out of the question. (Fortunately, Jodie Foster lost all olfactory senses in a childhood accident; that's how we can manage a relationship.)

This all came into play on my trip to the laundromat today. I was listening to old Mrs. Brown, the laundromat owner, tell the tawdry story of how she showed up at Postman Nedry's house naked and painted in Vegemite, proclaiming "Hullo Bob, lick me clean, baby!" Just as she was getting to the part where Postman Nedry whipped out the dipping vegetables, we had to cut it short because of my overpowering stench. I ambled back to my laundry, so abuzz with dreams of celery that I almost didn't notice the grotesque baby throwing eggs into my dryer.

I immediately recognized it as the evil baby from two nights ago in the park, but I couldn't believe that it had hunted me down. No, in fact it didn't need to hunt me down, because it had to have been the one throwing eggs in every load of my laundry for the past seven years.

"YOU!" I screamed. The baby was even more evil than I thought. What kind of sick freak would throw eggs into someone's laundry for seven years? Seven years! It was an evil I couldn't conceive.

The horrible, wrinkly baby sneered at me and started throwing the eggs in even faster.

"Stop that!" I shrieked, dashing towards it. It tried to run, but it was slow like a baby and I caught up with it easily. When I picked it up, it bit me and wouldn't let go. I tried smashing its head in a dryer door repeatedly, pounding more and more fervently as the searing pain from its bite nearly rendered me unconscious. I'm sure the other customers in the laundromat were horrified at the scene, but their opinion was the farthest thing from my mind. I was determined to detach the demonic baby from my hand even if it meant smashing in its skull. Finally it disengaged its teeth, and I slammed it into the dryer, turned it on high, and set it to run for 80 minutes. Then I got the hell out of there.

Clearly this possessed creature has had it in for me for some time now, meaning the incident two nights ago was not an isolated event. I don't know what it wants from me or why it has chosen me as its tormentee, but it is quickly becoming my arch-nemesis. I'm not sure that even France can help me now.

A haiku about my girlfriend:

Hey Jodie Foster
hey baby uh huh say yeah
Tony is so wrong

It was such a blissful day that I took my Jodie for a stroll. We passed through a cemetery where I picked some flowers for my sweetie. I wasn't really thinking about it, but apparently I was stealing the flowers from the grave of a lady who had died in 1977--"Martha K. Winterbottom. Wife, Mother, Friend to All." We felt the ground shake as a wretched, decomposing corpse scrambled its way to the surface. "Excuse me!" she scowled in a rickety old voice, dirt spilling off her body.

"Oh, I guess these are your flowers," I said, like I didn't even know how they got in my hands. I handed them to her gingerly and stepped back. There was a long pause as she watched me shuffling my feet. "Gosh, this is awkward."

"Hey, you're the lady from Contact!" she shrieked, suddenly recognizing Jodie Foster. Jodie blushed. "Here, take the flowers! I love your movie! We all do, me and the gals."

"Hey, you're dead!" I interjected. "How can you watch Contact?"

"We get DirectTV down there."

"Bastards! My cable company still doesn't offer it."

So the lady hugged us both and sent us on our way. That's the only bad thing about going out with a famous actress like Jodie Foster--fans slobber all over her wherever we go. I think when that dead lady hugged me she got 'dead germs' all over me because now my clothes smell weird. At first I thought it was the salmonella poisoning, but now I'm pretty sure it's the dead germs. The moral of the story is: if you see a dead person, don't let them hug you, because it will make you smell like them. Take it from me, kids. I'm Mr. Interesting.

There's a lot to be said for spraypainting your pet day-glo orange.
None of it, however, will be said here.

I am the both the luckiest and the unluckiest man in the world.

Three days ago Jodie Foster came over and we made brownies together. She looked so cute licking the brownie mix off the spoon that I had to give her a kiss. I leaned over to gently kiss on her on the nose when suddenly she grabbed my head and shoved her tongue down my throat. It was so hot. I kinda knew she had a thing for me, but I definitely didn't expect that. Oh man, it was so hot. I didn't brush my teeth for the next two days just so I could savor the taste of her brownie kisses. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm... chocolately.

Anyway I got salmonella poisoning. The raw eggs from the brownie mix were infected, and they got me but they didn't get her. Sure, if I had to do it all over again I would keep everything the same--the same brownie mix, the same hot tongue being jammed down my throat. But I guess that's just the price you pay for having such a hot girlfriend like Jodie Foster.

Whenever I see a dog trapped in a chain-link fence yard, I feel sorry for it. They must get terminally bored spending their entire lives in the same ten square foot area, with nothing to amuse themselves by except chasing bugs, barking at strangers, and eating their own fecal matter. And we all know how old that can get.

So today I happened upon a scrappy little pup stuck in a chain-link backyard, and it ran up to me all happy and panting, excited to see something that wasn't a bug or its own fecal matter. Of course I felt sorry for this dog like I always do, but this time I decided to perform a rescue. I climbed into the backyard, lifted the dog over the fence, and watched him scamper away ever so gayly. Then I remembered the dog's owners, and I felt sorry for them because they wouldn't have a dog anymore. So I put on Sparky's leash and nobly took his place.

Basically I chased bugs all day. It was fun for a while, but eventually I got bored and wanted to trade places again. "Sparky!" I yelled again and again, but Sparky never came. When passersby looked at me strangely I barked at them. An angry, stinky lady came barging out the back door, yelling. At first I thought she was angry because she was so stinky, but it turned out she was angry at me. She didn't want to hear about how I had valiantly rescued her dog; she was angry that I had let him go in the first place. Right when she was about to call the police, Sparky showed up and explained everything. The lady had to call my Jodie to come pick me up. It was pretty embarrassing.

I thought I was doing a good deed, but instead everyone just got mad at me. Jodie said I was grounded for a week and that I wasn't allowed to leave my room. So far I've been making pasta art and blowing spit bubbles, but I'm already starting to get bored. If I get really bored, I guess I'll start eating my own fecal matter. Sparky, if you're reading this, you owe me. Big time.

My band, Snicker and His Fat Black Ego, was playing at the battle of the bands. Nick (a.k.a. Snicker) was shouting angry nonsense words and sweating a lot. It didn't bother me at first since that's what he usually does, but when he smashed my didgeridoo and started throwing chairs and stuff we could tell he had been sniffing Elmer's again. Whenever he gets like that we just have to put him in a tub of ice and sing "Mrs. Brown You've Got a Lovely Daughter" until he calms down. So Michael Jackson and I tried to pull him backstage, but he wrestled himself out of our grip and dove into the mosh pit. The crowd just parted, and he did a big bellyflop on the cement floor. It was pretty messy, but at least it was easier to clean up than the baby (see next paragraph). He is currently being nursed back to health by Michael and is listed in 'fair' condition.

It was disappointing that everyone pretty much left right after our set. Outside, there was this one guy with long hair who came up to me and wanted me to shake his sweaty hand. I said no way because it looked like he might have ghonorrhea on it or something, but he gave me a bag of what he claimed to be glazed donuts. Foolishly, I accepted them and brought them home with me. Walking through the park on the way home that night, I opened the bag, and what I saw inside was not glazed donuts. What I saw was a grotesque baby staring back at me with a look of such evil that its stare pierced my eyeballs, impaled my brain, and hit the back of my skull. Its misshapen, wrinkly face squinched into contortions of hate as it read my thoughts, my life, learned things about me that I couldn't remember or never knew. It absorbed my faults, my insecurities, it sneered at my weaknesses and foolish optimism, it collapsed all the hope and faith I had into nothing. Wheezing and sputtering, with green discharge oozing from its eyes and nose, it sealed its deicision, making a vow to fill me with its hate, to overwhelm me with its hurt, to destroy my soul.

A wave of nausea hit me and I dropped the baby to the ground. Strands of loathsome green liquid squirted out of its pores on impact. The sight and smell of it was enough to cause me to shower the baby in vomit. I ran away as fast as I could, without looking back.

I don't know what the grotesque baby was, but I'm sure it wasn't human, or if it was, it had to be possessed by an agent of Satan. My mom always said Madonna was the devil, so maybe it was her baby. At any rate, I don't care what happens to it. I just don't ever want to see it again. Maybe France will take it.

Today my Jodie and I went for a walk to the ice cream store. She was holding my hand and I asked her if it meant we were going steady now. She said she wanted to but that her parents wouldn't let her go steady with a guy until she turned 18. I said I thought she was 38, but she didn't say anything. She just squeezed my hand and we kept walking, with the sun going down and strawberry ice cream dripping all over her face.

I'm starting a band, and I'm calling it Snicker and His Fat Black Ego, or SHFBE for short (that's shiff-bee). Anyway the band is going to suck because Snicker said that my weblog sucks. Let this be a lesson to all who defy the interestingness that is Mr. Interesting! Nick can play the keyboard, my friend Matt can play the accordion, and Michael Jackson can molest the little boys. Check out our hot new site on mp3.com.

Today I walked to New Jersey just for laughs. I crossed on the Ben Franklin Bridge, watching the fish dance beneath me through the grate. They wanted me to jump, but I wouldn't. Their laughter was like a pack of constipated hyenas as they tried to convince me that I would like being a fish, but I didn't believe them. I kept on walking. On the other side, waiting for me in New Jersey, was none other than my Jodie Foster. I told her about the fish and how they tried to trick me, and she held me in her arms and told me that it was okay. Then we went fishing and threw our catches over the nearby prison fence. The stupid prisoners didn't know what to do with them--they tried playing basketball with them, tried lambasting each other with them, tried copulating with them, tried singing to them, and tried wearing them on their heads for hats. Those silly prisoners. They had no idea how to properly treat a fish. I guess that explains why they're in jail playing with dead fish and I'm out of jail hanging out with Jodie Foster.

Dang I'm interesting. Everything about me is interesting. I even picked the most interesting default blog layout there was. Black! Who would've thought? No one! No one, that is, except for Mr. Interesting. It all just goes to show how interesting I really am. Tune in next week, when I will relate some of my interesting encounters with interesting people, who will throw interesting things at me and call my mother interesting names.