The fireman yelled at me!

When I was driving to work this morning, I drove slowly past a wonderful place. There were police cars and two fire trucks with bright, flashing lights! Big men in cool uniforms were walking around - it was like the county fair!

I stopped my car and got out to take a look around. The ground was covered with shiny chunks of glass! I collected a few of the chunks that I liked. They were really sharp and poked my hand! I also found a blood-soaked wallet with $15 in it. This was my lucky day!

Then the mean fireman started to yell at me. I told him that I didn’t understand, and that if I needed to pay admission I would be gladly willing to do so. I offered him one of my gumballs, but then he said the F-word at me and made me get back into my car. Another man gave me the middle finger. I think those guys need a vacation!

I like the blue gumballs best.

Last night, as Bridgette and I were visiting with our church small group, conversation somehow turned to this blog. I did not direct the conversation in this direction, nor was I entirely comfortable with it. I sometimes like to pretend that my writings are fired into a vacuum with no real-life consequences, a fantasy that was interrupted last evening.

So anyway, the JLP was mentioned, and suddenly people were asking all about my blog. What is it like? Where can I read it? A couple who we’re friends with took it upon themselves to describe it. With grimaces on their faces, they detailed how I write about pig intestines and baby guts. Having remained silent on the issue thus far, I felt compelled to break in, “Hold on, it’s not about pig intestines!”

Now, putting the pig intestines issue aside (I don’t actually think I’ve ever used “pig intestines” for a joke - clearly, it’s beneath me), I think this is an important distinction to make. The John Larroquette Project is about human frailty and longing, about passion and vulnerability. Granted, I will concede that there are occasional themes of vomiting and homelessness that thread themselves through these posts, but I would contend that those are merely guises, or code words, for frailty and longing.

Believe it or not, people, this website (which most of you so cruelly dismiss) is actually about my innermost dreams and hopes. Oh sure, I gussy up a post here or there with detailed accounts of violence and brutality, but that’s simply to meet public demand. How else am I supposed to compete with the FOX network? I urge all of you to look below the surface of my words. Peer beyond the Dairy Queen fetish and the hyper-patriotism to find the meek little boy merely asking for your affections. Will you deny him? Is he really so unlike yourself?

The answer is yes. He is really messed up, and he probably wants to cut you.

My hair is really messy today. I didn’t really touch it this morning, and now it looks unkempt.

What are you gonna do about it?

What’s your problem? You want to fight me, boy? You want to fight me, don’t you? You act real big when you’re reading this blog and laughing at my hair, but you aren’t so big now, are you?

Of course you meant to hurt my feelings! Did you think you could mock and ridicule my messy hair and I wouldn’t care? I’m a red-blooded man! I have a soul! Now I’m going to fight you and prove my worth to all who watch us scrappin’.

Don’t try to shake my hand! You can’t just disrespect me and then expect me to give you the ol’ handshake-hug combo! Rest assured, our next physical contact will be when my substantial fist collides with your right temple.

No, as a matter of fact, I’m NOT interested in seeing a counseling pastor to help us resolve our differences! Unless that pastor is willing to calmly officiate our savage street fight, there is nothing such a man could do for you and I. Our destiny is set: we will rumble after school in the far southwest corner of the student parking lot.

Don’t think that you can avoid a tussle by not showing up, either. I’ve already instructed an aide to attach a GPS tracking system to the underbelly of your vehicle. I will follow you to your home, to a remote cabin, and to the isolated mountain villages of western China if need be. Truly I say to you - I will fight you, bitch. Your mouth will bleed, and your humiliation will be complete when the popular 11th grade girls laugh at you.

See you after school.

Is there anything finer than Girl Scout thin mints?

Okay, let me put that to you another way. Besides the 1991 World Series, is there anything finer than Girl Scout thin mints?

I would contend that there probably isn’t. A few difficult people might object and say that they prefer Nutter Butters, but I don’t want to get bogged down in semantics.

Of course, we also don’t want to forget the glory that is the United States of America. So basically, besides the 1991 October classic, Nutter Butters, and the USA, is there anything finer than Girl Scout thin mints?

This post is starting to turn in a different direction than I had anticipated…

While I want to move forward with this idea, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the awesomeness of the polio vaccine. And the smell of a summertime barbeque. And the surfing-on-top-of-the-van scene from “Teen Wolf”. And the 1903 World’s Fair. And the video for Michael Jackson’s “Black or White”. They all deserve some special merit, either alongside or possibly in front of Girl Scout thin mint cookies.

Anyway, long story short, I just ate a few of them and sucked down a six pack of Pabst. Good night.

America loves Sasha Cohen!

Last night, America’s newest skating princess glided into the lead in the women’s figure skating event. With her sprightly jumps, sassy spins and indomitable smile, she made Nancy Kerrigan look like a meth-addled convenience store employee. Truly, she was the belle of the ball!

And now we must strike while the iron is hot.

Sasha Cohen is our key to changing the world’s perception of our glorious republic. She is America’s greatest export since gangsta rap. Her beautiful skating reminded Americans of a better time in our nation’s history. A simpler time, when America was pure (except for the Indian atrocities). It is therefore imperative that we capture Sasha Cohen, enslave her, and make her to dance and skate before all the peoples of the world.

She will skate for Russian president Vladimir Putin, and he will politely applaud as his heart warms towards the American way of life. She will perform for Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad causing him to frolic and laugh and create a watercolor painting of Uncle Sam riding on a unicorn. She will skate for the Sultan of Brunei to the strains of Ray Charles’ “Georgia on My Mind”, and he will feel an overwhelming love for America and demand that his eunuchs prepare him a fresh apple pie. When they fail to do so in a timely manner, he will have them beheaded as a show of strength to the young Miss Cohen, who will smile demurely in return.

May God bless America.

My friends, I’ve come full circle.

Back in December of 2003, I began this blog with a clumsily-worded entry about buying new glasses. I talked about the stakes in doing so when I wrote that picking new frames was like determining what my face would look like until 2005. Well, over two years and 385 posts later, it came to be that time again early last week.

Time to go in and get new glasses.

Fortunately, on this go-around my wife was with me to direct me in the ways of style and dork-avoidance. We finally ended up buying a pair of thick framed glasses not unlike Adam’s, but mine are brown and better. And my new face was thusly determined. For the next couple years, I’m going to look like a bearded dude who hopped on the hipster bandwagon just a little bit too late. I will feel an ocean of shame as a result of this, which will likely result in an unstoppable wave of unsightly acne that will scar my face and soul for decades. The acne will be bulbous and shiny, and my myriad whiteheads will cause passersby to double over in revulsion. Hungry ravens will land in my unkempt hair, mistaking me for a bloated human corpse, and I will eagerly accept their companionship as it is all that remains for me. I will eat at Culvers thrice daily, consuming double butter burgers with distressing ferocity, as there will be no longer any reason to eat or behave in a responsible manner. In addition, I will aggressively throw the warm pickle slices at children.

We should’ve gotten the wire framed ones.