Poop Is Brown

A few weeks ago, my mom enlisted my services to help clean out her closet the next time I visited. This past weekend, I entered the walk-in to find enough trash to fill a small country. As I sorted through the mountains of clothes, receipts, old newspapers and shoes not even worthy for Goodwill, I came across an old duffel bag. Now, I will inform you I was instructed to clean only my mother’s side of the closet and to leave my father’s side alone. She did not want to be blamed for any garbage he viewed as collectible and irreplaceable to be thrown out by me. I figured the duffel would most likely be filled with more garbage, seeing as I had already found two other random satchels filled with crumpled school reports and a 12-year-old stack of promissory notes from my little brother’s elementary school cafeteria for never bringing his lunch money. So I open the bag. And no, I do not find the report cards, receipts or rumpled accident reports I had scavenged earlier, I find porn. Lots of it. From the ’80s. An entire duffel bag filled with crumpled nudie magazines belonging to my father. And that’s not the worst of it. Near the porn I find another duffel, this one the monster Army regulation kind. I try to move it but no, it won’t budge. I open the bag to another surprise, bullets. Every size you could imagine. Tiny little ones (I was told these were .22s) to giant shells for rifles in a range of colors. Behind the bag? Well of course, the guns. Four to be exact. All at least half my size. There is at least one semi-automatic (I was told this was an AK-47) and I know of the sawed-off shotgun from prior mentions, although for all I know that one wasn’t in there. These were stacked next to two other rifles, well, at least they were, before they all toppled over. Upon inquiring to my father about the arsenal, he reveals that we have a total of at least seven working (not loaded) guns in the house. This means that there are enough guns for each of our family members, if we all happen to be visiting at the same time, and an extra, just in case. Now, mind you, I don’t live in Montana and we aren’t a part of any crazy militia, so why all the guns? I got no real answer. So I did my best to organize them.

But how do I organize guns? By size? What about bullets?

Not wanting to disturb the dangerous posse, I gave up and did my best to shove them all in the corner, balanced by the bullets, right next to the high heels.

Ha ha ha ha-snort-whooo-ha ha ha ha ha…this so belongs in a “Serves you right you moronic assholes” file. I wonder if the cops have one of those? Yes, I know, it’s sad when someone dies, but a whole frickin lot less so when it’s Darwin capn’ their asses!

I’m not much of a tin foil hat wearing sort of person, but I don’t believe that we are alone in this great big universe either. There was an interesting article regarding the Roswell incident from an Australian news website talking about the release of a sworn affidavit from the military’s PR guy at the time. During his entire life in as many interviews he participated in he always played down & refuted the “aliens” version of the story & kept up with the weather balloon account. He asked that the letter only be released after his death. In it he recants his testimony that the events were all misinterpreted & states that he did indeed see not only an aircraft of unknown origin, but he also saw what he believed to be bodies of extraterrestrials. I’m sure that this letter will not end the debate or the mysteries, but it’s pretty interesting when something like this makes the papers:

Lieutenant Walter Haut was the public relations officer at the base in 1947 and was the man who issued the original and subsequent press releases after the crash on the orders of the base commander, Colonel William Blanchard.

Haut died last year but left a sworn affidavit to be opened only after his death.

Last week, the text was released and asserts that the weather balloon claim was a cover story and that the real object had been recovered by the military and stored in a hangar.

He described seeing not just the craft, but alien bodies.

So who’s to say what really happened, but I for one never really thought the weather balloon was a really good cover up story anyway. As long as a satellite dish doesn’t pop out of my ass, I’m more than happy to have my planet be a tourist destination.

I remember back when Even Stevens was on the air and a young Shia LaBeouf appeared on my screen. He was funny and cute, like most child stars, but I wondered if he would make it through puberty. The “Savage Syndrome,” as I like to call it, happens to many child stars, where just like the Savage brothers of Wonder Years and Boy Meets World fame, take on an entirely new, and not attractive, form upon entering adulthood.

So I watched little Shia progress, and he made it through unscathed. (The same can’t be said for Haley Joel Osment.) He’s even made it to the big time, now starring in hits like Disturbia, Transformers and the newest Indiana Jones installment. However, with this newfound success should come a personal stylist. And it’s not the clothes. It’s the creepy pervo mustache and the matching slicked back hair. Who told you to do this, Shia? It looks awful. If your hair can look good in your movies, let it look good in real life. You’re in Hollywood, brotha. Act like it. This isn’t Canada.

So my favorite show of all time has been canceled. Seven years of watching and waiting for the happy ending has left me heartbroken and destroyed over what I was actually left with. I remember when the show’s creator, writer and producer, Amy Sherman-Palladino, left last season because she was overworked. In an interview she had said she always knew what the final four episodes would consist of. She never said what they were, and now I am left to wonder. Now, as Rory has said “No” to Logan and the avocado tree in California and I am left in my home sick to my stomach because that’s not the way it’s supposed to end. It’s not supposed to end with Rory going to Iowa. That just sucks. Who ends a show that way? It had come so far, so wonderfully far, all to spit in my face. See if I’ll invest that many years in another show again.

I probably will if it’s just as good, but it had better have a good ending.

It’s the week after the Memorial Day holiday & my body is speckled with random bruises. Some I remember exactly how I got, others I can place the situation but not the action, but I can’t quite remember where the one on my forehead came from. Elbows were definitely from my Chris Farley impression on the coffee table, knee is from ducking in the bathroom avoiding the shower spray & flung toilet water, but damn if I can figure out the big red one just at my hair line. I can say every drunk night bruise I’ve ever gotten is a badge of pride & usually serves to map out the evenings festivities. Oh well, maybe when I get plastered on July 4th the glorious memories will come flooding back. In the meantime, I’ve got some kick-ass war wounds.