even more Extreme bits of the Honky

Do those people that create and send spam e-mail get annoyed when they receive someone else’s shit e-mail in their inbox? One would think they would get pissed off, but perhaps they evaluate it and make changes before sending out their own crap.




It’s like origami...only different.



Rice Krispies...the original Pop Rocks or Pop Rocks...the missing link between Rice Krispies and aquarium gravel.



If it indeed requires more muscles to frown than smile, let’s just say that I’m working out.



Numbers are heavier than words




There’s nothing to see at 8am that can’t be seen later in the day.



I feel it building within my body
The pressure that screams meltdown
There was a time when I wanted to avoid it
Now, I’m not sure that I care enough to steer clear
Bring it on and get it over with
Let me sleep and separate from these things
I never wanted to hurt anyone
And in the process, I continually hurt myself
I continue doing so until I no longer feel it
Once you’re cut, what difference does another cut make?
The stain is there and additional blood doesn’t hurt any more
Things just keep moving until nothing is left
It’s a gradual process that never arrives soon enough



When I die, I hope that my funeral can be held in a McDonald’s playground. This way, the handful of folks that are genuinely sad to see me go will have a mood lifter while in a playground and the folks that are there for the playground will be bummed the hell out to have a funeral in their play land. It all averages out and french fries will be available for those so inclined.




The tree limb scraping against the window sounds exactly like a squealing pig. For you cinematic types, it sounds like Ned Beatty taking it up the pooper in Deliverance. Either way, it’s pretty damn annoying.




Of the few things that I know in life, most were learned in convenience stores, listening to songs with three or four chords at the most, watching skin flicks, or reading books without opening the cover. My formal education doesn’t play a big role in my ongoing consumption of oxygen. I guess my stunted mathematical skills could come in handy if there was a 30% off sale on a travel size of barbecue-flavored Pringles. In that instance, I try to act like I know what the hell is going on, so that the trained person behind the register has to do the math and I can scratch myself inappropriately while waiting for my change. Sometimes, it’s the small things in life that bring the biggest pleasures. Other times, it’s just a bunch of emptiness while standing beneath the harsh neon glow of a Pabst Blue Ribbon sign. Like a lighthouse in the storm, everything has a purpose. I suppose education is no different. Of course, I dropped that ball and couldn’t bounce the other, which leaves me here scratching what I can under the harsh neon glow of a Pabst Blue Ribbon sign while waiting for change. We’re all waiting for change in one form or another. Some of us want specific coinage and others of us will take what we can get. Desperation is a big factor. Desperation will put the razor to the wrist. Desperation will put the needle in the vein. Desperation will not only shake the life’s ladder while you climb, but it will light it on fire and stomp your bones to bits when you hit rock bottom. Formal education doesn’t mention desperation. Why, you ask? Desperation is bad for morale and no one wants to hear the truth, because they want the sanitized, fluffy truth. The kind of truth that doesn’t hurt. Work hard and the world is your oyster. They fail to mention that sometimes the oyster will snap shut on your fingers and you’ll pull back stubs. That’s the breaks. Take what you can get and hope that it doesn’t kill you. Although eventually, it all kills you. It kills you slowly and it kills you when you’re not looking. It happens every second of every day. It happens in Parisian bath tubs and it happens under the harsh neon glow of a Pabst Blue Ribbon sign.




The residue of sour cream and onion potato chips leaves a heavy mark on anything within reach. Slap your fingers on a sleek, black surface and you don’t need to dust for finger prints to find the culprit. Look for the empty bag and greasy fingers. Mystery solved.

Lest you think I am brutally singling out only the sour cream and onion variety, I will add that the same can be said about the barbecue, steak & onion, cool ranch, grub worm and bathroom cleanser flavors. I guess it’s a side effect.