The Wurst Is Yet To Come

I’m sure we all have our little moments of existential crisis … you know, those times on the ride in to work where you start wondering just what in the hell you’re there for, what’s the point, anyway, is this really all there is to life, blah blah blah …

If you don’t - if your life is so fulfilling and complete that it’s just happy-happy-joy-joy all the time, if your glass is overflowing at every moment - well, fuck you congratulations. You probably needn’t continue reading.

I suspect both of my readers are still here, because even the most content among us must have doubts as to what it’s all about. Even a gangsta is filled with angst, after all.

Bratwursts.

That’s what it’s all about – bratwursts. The sausage of the Gods.

I certainly won't deny that there are many other wonderful things in life: 2-for-1 beer night at a single-A ballgame, the full moon rising behind the foothills, seeing a kitten putting the smack-down on some big-ass dog, mimosas, 2-for-1 beer night at a single-A ballgame … all of these are beautiful parts of life’s rich pageantry.

But mostly, it’s bratwursts.

I have a number of friends from the upper Midwestern United States, and to them, I apologize for even attempting to author an accolade such as this. It is most certainly not my place, and I imagine that upon reading this, they feel something akin to how Stephen Hawking feels while talking to a Physics 101 student.

Nevertheless, I must voice what’s in my heart, and I will measure my love for bratwursts not against that of others, nor should anyone, for the bratwurst is truly something that each knows only in his or her own way. Further, adoration for the bratwurst is not a static, unchanging thing … in fact, I didn’t enjoy my first wurst (an occurrence known as menwurste) until adulthood. I was not fully appreciative of the difference a bun could make until just a few years ago. I do not grieve for lost time, however; rather, I relish the thought of the delicious discoveries yet to come.

So on that ride to work tomorrow, think not of the mundane repetition and pointlessness of it all. Ponder instead the pot of simmering sauerkraut, the brats basting in beer … and know that even though it may not be today, nor tomorrow, nor even weeks until the next one, that long-awaited bratwurst will eventually be at your lips, and that it will be the best you’ve ever had, and that the one after it will be even better, and that all the time spent waiting will have been worth it.

And that is what it's all about.

I Got Nothin' ...

We can’t accept its death, and so when it grows silent and colorless, we lie to ourselves and pretend that it’s just asleep.

And we carry on.

And time passes, and we push it into the corner, where it collects dust; still, never moving, but not dead. Never dead.

And we carry on.

And after long enough, it may even slip from our conscious thoughts, but in the dark recesses, it lingers, showing no signs of life, but still we refuse to call it dead.

And we carry on.

And sometimes we swear we see it stir, but it’s just a trick of the light, or a wishful dream in the darkest hours of night, and realizing that, we sigh and lay our heads back down and find our way back into sleep.

And we carry on.

Nary A Cross Word Between Lovers

I have a strong affection for the daily crossword puzzle that’s printed in the local newspaper. There’s definitely a risk/reward aspect to doing them; as the week progresses, so does the difficulty of the puzzle. So while completing a Sunday puzzle feels as good as finally slipping into that narcotic-induced numbness that brings sweet respite from the brutal reality of one's workaday life, failure on a Monday brings a shame no less than that of crawling back, once again, to Monique, the cross-dressing dominatrix who always seems to “forget” one's safeword.

I particularly enjoy the ones with a theme. In these, a number of the longer clues have to do with a similar topic, or make up a famous quotation, or are exemplars of a bad, but admirably formulaic, play on words … something along those lines.

Today’s was such a puzzle, and the theme was so brilliant that I feel I have to mention it here:

(spoiler alert for those who haven’t done the puzzle yet …)

Songs Of Love.

Yep, all of the thematically-related answers were song titles that contained the word love. ZOMG HOW SWEET AND ROMANTIC! Now, as you may have noticed, I’ve written a few angsty and emo posts in my time, and I certainly can’t deny having gone over the top once or twice when the moon was full and I had left the door to the freezer that I keep my heart in wide open. On the other hand, I wrote that crap* on an obscure blog, not in a crossword that millions of people are going to see.

The answers:

• She Loves You


• Love Stinks


• No More I Love Yous


• Bye Bye Love


• I’m Not In Love

I really, really want to know the story behind the crossword author and the object of his/her affections completely rational response to whatever the monster did to break his/her heart complex emotions. At the very least, I'm hoping that we see this turn a little more aggressive and that the paper has to print some type of "Certain Answers Are Not Suitable For Children Or Faint-Hearted Crossworders" warning over the next few days. You know, clues like "Female Dog In The Act Of Making Love" ... that sort of thing.

I think the broken-hearted have a new patron saint.

* "crap" is a descriptor of my writings, not of the crossword puzzle.

Blood On The Tracks

I’m a big fan of computers. After all, it’s computer technology that allows me to post these incoherent ramblings, and you, dear reader, to get paid to read them as you ask “is this idiot drunk again?” while at work. One thing that does worry me a bit, though, is the way that more and more of our personal lives are being captured in a big database kept by the Illuminati and used to, for example, tailor the ads we see in our browsers specifically for us, based on our amassed history.

I’ve grown accustomed to the ads for “barely 18 hot pygmy goat action” and whatnot … I wasn’t really planning on running for office, anyway, so no big deal. Today, though, I was quite taken aback when I went down to my local Red Cross to give some blood*.

It had been a while, as I only donate in years that are evenly divisible by 10, but it became painfully obvious that they’ve updated the software on their computers and have full access to those Trilateral Commission data. Here’s a sample of the script questions I had to answer in the screening:

Computer: Have you ever had sex, even once, with an intravenous drug user?

Dead Acorn: No.

Computer: Have you ever had sex, since 1977, with another male?

Dead Acorn: No.

Computer: Have you ever been paid for sex, or have you ever paid for sex, even once?

Dead Acorn: No.

Computer: Have you had sex with anyone in the last 12 months who has had a tattoo or body piercings within the previous 12 months?

Dead Acorn: No.

Computer: Have you had sex with anyone in the last 12 months?

Dead Acorn: No … wait, what?

Computer: Have you spoken with a member of the opposite sex in the last 6 months?

Dead Acorn: What the fuck?

Computer: Dude, do you even KNOW any girls?

Dead Acorn: This is bullshit!

Computer: You know we don’t pay for blood,right? You’ll have to get your hooker money somewhere else, loser. Try the plasma center.

They ended up taking my blood anyway, which didn’t go all so well. At first, it was flowing really fast, then it stopped altogether and the nurse had to jiggle the needle around in my arm to get it going again, then I got all light-headed and started sweating**, so then everyone was staring at me, thinking “wow, so that’s what happens when you don’t even know any girls,” and finally they got done, and I stormed out saying “see you in 2020, assholes.”

*Obligitory blood donation joke: As the nurse was getting ready to stick the needle in, she says “ok … little prick …” so I said “yeah, well, your tits ain’t so big either!”

**That part is true. It was a bit of a rough go there.

But Officer, He MADE Me!

I’m generally not all that much of a risk taker. I enjoy the sports pools and the occasional small wager, of course, but when it comes to exposing life and limb to potential harm, well, my body’s broken down enough as it is. I try not to invite trouble in to my living room, if you know what I mean.

Sunday, though, was a whopper of an exception. The Live Acorn is coming up on that age at which she is legally eligible to obtain a driver’s license. She seems to focus mainly on that aspect of it, and downplay the veto power held by the EMDAMOTLA and me. It’s highly unlikely that the veto power will be wielded, however, as the phrase “ARE YOU CRAZY? SHE CAN DRIVE HERSELF AROUND!” is used quite often, and with no lack of vigor or excitement, I might add, by one of her parents*.

As I was resigned to the inevitable, and also knowing that showing up to driver’s training without at least 1,000 miles under your belt is just embarrassing, for both parent and child, off we went on Sunday to toodle around a parking lot for a bit. In an awesome display of my brilliance and forethought, I chose the parking lot outside of where I work, which is a government agency that deals with felons, and occasionally has incidents of vandalism during off-business hours, and which consequently is frequently visited by various law enforcement agencies driving through.

I’m a sharpie, alright.

Luckily, nothing came of that. We did have the following conversation, however:

Dead Acorn: Are you planning on doing some traveling abroad sometime soon after you get your license?

Live Acorn: Umm … no … what are you talking about?

Dead Acorn: Well, from the lane you’re currently in, I would assume you’re practicing for driving in Jolly Olde England.

Live Acorn: Shut up.

She got a little excited when I told her to pull out of the parking lot and on to the street for about 100 yards, and pull back in at another entrance, but all went swimmingly with that maneuver. A little confidence can be detrimental, though, as we all know, and in retrospect, my subsequent decision to just have her drive all the way back to the EMDAMOTLA’s house (a couple of miles on city streets) was probably a bit irresponsible. Despite arriving home with damage to neither car nor passengers, I'll probably leave that off of my application for Father Of The Year.

On the other hand, SHE CAN DRIVE HERSELF AROUND! is something of a persuasive argument.

* It's already been pointed out that I will soon have a permanent designated driver, by many, MANY people, so just save it.

Mere Words Can't Describe How I Feel, But That Won't Stop Me From Trying

corndogs, o corndogs

i tremble with delight, longing to devour you
i fear sleepless fits as dusk draws nigh
i am restless in my anticipation
of your glistening and stick-perched beauty

from your bath of hot oil
to my awaiting lips

your composition

is not
can not
will not

be known

various parts of exotic animals
a whole far greater than the sum
the mystery of your origin
only intensifies your allure

corndogs, o corndogs
be you ten, or twenty, dare I dream fifty

tomorrow we shall be as one

Just A Wee Post

On this day in 423 C.E., St. “The Saint” Padraig, leading a battalion of snakes, though vastly outnumbered and brandishing only crude weapons carved from potatoes, defeated the occupying French army and drove them out of Ireland and back across the channel. Over 1500 years later, in 1952, John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara starred in “The Quiet Man,” set in Inisfree, Ireland. These two occurances set in motion the events that, just 12 years hence, would result in the invention of Lucky Charms.

Or something like that.*

Above: I'm not sure of the Gaelic translation of "hubba hubba," but that Miss O'Hara is one fetching Archie.

Erin Go Bragh!

[ST. PATRICK'S DAY JOKE UPDATE]:

Q: What did St. Patrick say as he was driving the snakes out of Ireland?

A: "Are ye alright in the back there, lads?"

* The Dead Acorn is a product of the Idaho public school system. Believe it or not, with the recent textbook selection by the Texas school board, which essentially drives the selection for the entire United States, knowledge of history by our youth will soon be even worse.