My, it sure is rainy outside this morning!

It’s all wet and drippy everywhere, like a rottweiler’s mouth. I hate this weather, because my hair becomes unmanageable and my inner thighs chafe. Why is everything all gray and cold and forbidden today?

Is it because of Terry’s shame?

Terry has a secret that he wants to tell you, but he shouldn’t. His secret would disrupt your tenuous friendship. Perhaps his stifled desires have caused the raingoblins to shower us with their sweaty crotchdroplets? This sounds causal to me.

I hope that this rain goes away soon. Then perhaps Terry will return and teach me about the majesty of dance while I vacation with my family at a mountain resort in the summer of 1963 and pass from adolescence to adulthood as I am held aloft, safe in Terry’s arms.

Also, I’m afraid of all the worms on the sidewalk.

Guys, I have a question for you, but I want you to be honest.

Does this soaking wet t-shirt make me look fat?

When I was getting dressed this morning, I threw on one of my favorite old white t-shirts and a pair of cutoff jean shorts (sometimes I just open my dresser and follow my heart).

Now, this particular t-shirt has been washed many dozens of times by now, so it has become very thin and soft. It’s like a comfortable, even whiter skin. Unfortunately for me, the moment I stepped out of my car I was blasted by cold, pressurized water across every inch of my craven body. A nearby fire hydrant had malfunctioned, and now I was a sopping wet, dripping mess.

It looks as though my t-shirt has become see-through. My plump, milky-white belly is exposed for all to see. I suppose there’s a chance that this somehow looks cool and intentional, but it seems more likely that I’m a revolting pig right now. This is all just so unfortunate. I was having a good day in my favorite t-shirt until this happened.

I’m just going to peel this sopping wet t-shirt off my chest, since it isn’t covering anything anyway. This way, my moist, glistening skin can dry off in the sun.

I’m going to swing by an Old Navy and see if they have any cheap shirts on clearance I could wear today. Maybe something with a sailboat on it. I’ll see you guys later.

Hey gang, Harry Truman here.

You know, everybody likes to remember me for my saying, “the buck stops here”. Well, there’s a lot more to me than just that. I remember when I was escalating the Korean Conflict by invading North Korea in 1950, I said to mysel-

No! NO!

Unhand me! WHY?! ARRGGHGAHGGAHGHHHHHH

*gurgle*

I, Genghis Khan, have beheaded your beloved Tru-Man!

Behold! I hold aloft the dripping head of Tru-Man! All who do not show proper reverence and pay tribute to me shall meet a similar fate! The John Larroquette Project is my dominion! I am Universal Ruler!

I have thrown the Tru-Man’s head upon the pile of my enemies that I shall now urinate on!

Yesssssssssssss! My urine is splashing all over their dead faces! I delight in this atrocity!

Check back later on, guys. I’m going to blog about how much I love coffee.

Kneel, feeble city-dwellers! I, Genghis Khan have conquered the John Larroquette Project!

Now, celebrate my conquest with me! We will drink deeply from the sweetly fermented mare’s milk of my people! The milkbooze will drip down our chin-whiskers as we gulp down its warming thickness! Together, we will imbibe heedlessly until we vomit forth the white, milky sourness upon the dusty ground! We shall also shatter the skulls of our blogging enemies and violate their wretched children!

Then we shall go out for buffalo wings!

But first, let me make my inaugural entry into the blogging world:

Don’t you guys just hate sitting in traffic? I was driving home last night, and I was like, “Hello! The speed limit is 60, why are we all going 25?” It was really frustrating for a while, so I listened to Cities 97 to help me calm down. They were playing a Sheryl Crow song. She’s all right, I guess.

Then I kidnapped the wife of my tribal enemy and boiled her alive.

I really hate traffic.

UPDATE

Are you interested in yumtime snuggles and carefree twirls ’round the butterscotch tree?

Do you believe in the magic of rainbow dragons and multicultural gnome whisperings?

Then join us in our populist destruction-riots, celebrating the miracle of short-sightedness!

Together, we can pillage the homes of AIG executives and ravage their neighboring women! We will savagely behead investors upon sight! Then we will go to Dairy Queen and drown our rage in soft-serve ice cream!

Also, we will drive a pike into Tim Geithner’s anus.

You know that thing that happens when people get really overweight – that thing where they breathe through their mouth all the time and they get that “fat voice”? By “fat voice”, I mean that even if you were talking to them on the phone, you would still know that they were majorly fat and awful?

I think that’s awesome.

Is there a way I can get the mouth-breathing fat voice without gaining all the weight? Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m afraid of becoming a gelatinous fleshmound, it’s just that I don’t want to wait. I’m pretty impatient. I would seriously rather pop a mouse’s skull between my thumb and index finger than wait in line at a bank or something.

But anyway, back to my point – how to get a disgusting fat guy voice by tomorrow afternoon at the latest. I can already picture it – nuzzling into my wife’s ear at first light, gurgling through my mouth like an engorged swine. It’d be like Titanic, but without all the drownings or rich people.

If nobody gets me a grotesque, mouth-breathing fat guy voice by the end of the week, I’m moving to Canada.