Last night, while my friends Todd, Ryan and I were out doing some scouting for an upcoming Rock TV, we stopped off for a pungent meal at Burger King.

Then, in the middle of our conversation, something wonderful happened.

Todd was the first to notice it. Ryan and I then saw his change in demeanor and turned around to pay attention as a female customer and the teenage girl behind the register began a heated exchange for the ages. Near as I could tell, the two individuals were unhappy with the attitude of the other and were expressing their displeasure though the gift of cursing.

As heads shook and veins bulged, vollies of vulgarity vaulted through the otherwise grimly silent Burger King. Ryan, Todd, and I sat frozen, processed sandwiches in hand, as the exchange continued. Then the customer, respendent in her loose t-shirt and Famous Daves hat, won the argument soundly by screaming, “I was a f****** manager at a Burger King for 6 years! I know how to f****** treat customers!”

The girl behind the register protested with a few more weak vulgarities, but her position had been breached. After challenging the customer to solve the matter in a physical manner, her manager quickly interceded, and the festivities drew to a quick conclusion.

Later, Todd and I noted that that was the only possible scenario where the claim to have managed a Burger King for six years would be cause for anything other than a deep and punishing shame. Think about it, in what other context could dropping the fact that you were a longtime fast food manager be considered advantagous? Todd speculated that late last night, while she lay in her bed, that woman thought to herself, “Yes! I knew those years weren’t a complete and utter waste!”

Here’s to you, ladies. Your expletive-laced tirade enlivened our dinner and crushed the innocence of all children present. I wish you godspeed on your sure-to-be-successful journey in life.

Say, I wonder what Jamie Farr is up to these days…

I’ll just make a brief visit to jamiefarr.com and provide a few brief reflections.

Nice picture there, Jamie Farr. However, I’m looking through his biography here, and it goes on for about 11 paragraphs before it bothers to mention M*A*S*H*. Nothing odd about that at all…

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The site immediately greets you with this quote:

“Jamie Farr is not only a great thespian, he is also a great storyteller. He will make you laugh and make you cry. He is witty and wise, serious, unpretentious and an all-around wonderful entertainer.” -Hall of Fame Golfer Patty Sheehan.

Really? Jamie Farr is a wise, serious man? I guess that just goes to show that I really don’t care.

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If you scrounge around the site, you come across a page pushing his 1994 memoir “Just Farr Fun” that he had ghost-written for him while he was busy doing regional theater in the Quad Cities.

Apparently they blew the budget when hiring the ghost writer and didn’t have much left for the cover design.

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So there’s your Jamie Farr update, folks. Check back next month for updates and hilarious anecdotes from “Just Farr Fun” about the time he made Alan Alda vomit with rage!

Hey kids, tired of the same old cereal?

Finally realized that Cocoa Krispies taste like shredded paper? Sick of forcing down gulpfuls of Froot Loops that literally taste worse than sickly human excrement? Does the thought of another bowl of Kix make you vomit a fountain of bagels and bile across your desk?

Then try new Waspy Crunch! The only cereal available in this country with bee-related nutrients! Taste the flavor of thorax-puss with a tangy zing of their frightning venom! These flavors will explode in your mouth with every crunchy spoonful! What’s that? You taste that extra sass? That’s the chocolate-coated antennae slamming you to the ground, forcing your face into the sandbox, and taste-raping your tongue!

Waspy Crunch is exclusively available across the floor of my basement, thanks to the nice exterminator-man. Order now!

Fear not, everyone! The bees are most assuredly not disappearing.

I have found them. They are in my house.

On Sunday afternoon, Bridgette and I returned from a short cabin retreat to find our basement window teeming with yellowjackets. This was in no way unnerving. I’ll level with you people, spending 30 minutes in longsleeves and a winter hat swatting and sucking up bees with a vaccuum cleaner wasn’t the most enjoyable thing I’ve ever done. A few hours later, another batch of those yellow-striped bastards popped up, but this time I was much less hesitant. Choosing to forego the protective wear, I blasted the bees back to hell with my berzerker attack, swirling in a counter-clockwise motion while snipping scissors and barking obscenities.

This was a tactical error on my behalf, and led to numerous stings across my upper body, including one directly into my left retina.

This morning, an elderly, pot-bellied exterminator visited our home and sprayed the yellowjackets to kingdom come. Hopefully I will return this evening to find a basement riddled with crunchy bee carcasses. I will then feed them to Ben Franklin, our cat, to increase his hit points and vitality.

See you in hell, bees.

My summer is officially over.

This morning, with a heavy heart and a bloodied spirit, I must return to the classroom and engage my chosen profession. I suppose a part of me finds energy and renewal in this turn of events, but mostly it makes me want to slip a shotgun barrel in my mouth (perhaps after dipping the muzzle in chili for added flavor).

Where did those two months go? I guess between tutoring, spare shifts at my second job, trips to the cabin, Rock TV meetings and writing poison-tipped editorials blaming Gov. Pawlenty for the 35W bridge collapse, my time was basically filled. Oh, also I attempted to train bears to maul the homeless, but with precious little success.

(I’m sure Ben Franklin once coined a phrase to describe this phenomena of time’s hasty passage, but nothing is coming to mind at the moment. Thanks for nothing, you fat son of a bitch.)

And so I am off to once again teach innocent young children the vagaries of our world’s history, what with all the despotism, ethnic rapings, Tim Pawlenty and whatnot. It’s a duty I cherish, that of souring the souls of the next generation to all that is pure and true. In this way I suppose I’m a bit like a hungover Mr. Rogers.

Happy first day of school everyone!

I’m writing this in a Panera, surrounded on all sides by boisterous middle aged women. I am disoriented and frightened.

But perhaps I should explain.

I seem to be caught in the crossfire of a meeting of Avon ladies. In a bit of perfect irony, the meeting is being led by a grotesque, leathery-skinned she-troll whose makeup approxomates the horrific look of Dee Snider, lead singer of of Twisted Sister.

Seriously guys, I wish I could snap a picture. This lady’s face looks like a football, and they’re all attentively listening to her describe how Avon’s new products make women look five years younger. That means that if she’s using them, she is roughly 136 years old.

By the way, if you comment within the next ten minutes, I can get you three jars of night cream for the price of two. Apparently this stuff works miracles. Skeletor told me so.