Goldfish Weekly Horoscope


I don’t believe in horoscopes. I think it’s ridiculous that anyone could predict what’s going to happen to 1/12 of the population based only on the day and time they were born. That said, for shits and giggles, I decided to look mine up this week, and it has proved remarkably prescient. Who knew?


You will embark on a personal project that is important to your career, perhaps putting your résumé together or building an online portfolio. It will take up all your time, but don’t forget to take care of yourself. Eating is important. If you have pets, you might forget to buy them food. Do not forget to buy dog food.


Beware of coworkers; they intend to sabotage you. You will want to continue your personal project, but your coworkers will saddle you with a last-minute job that they knew about last week, but didn’t tell you about. You will spend all day rushing to finish something you might have had a week to do had your coworkers not sucked donkey balls.


Tuesday will your most social day. You forgot to buy dog food, so today will be spent rushing around from place to place putting out work and personal fires, but it will have a satisfying end. You will begin an adventure and explode a zombie’s head using only a stick. You will meet a bear who will become your companion.


Coworkers will sabotage you again when they force a last-minute project on you that they’ve had six months to plan for. You will have no choice but to follow through. This project will take at least two days of your time, has little to do with your job and will be mind-numbingly boring. All you can do is hope that they get caught for their ineptitude. A friend will send you a message asking where you are and you won’t even have time to respond to it.


You will continue working on the only laterally related work project, which is still incredibly boring and a total waste of your skills. You will have no time for personal projects. Get a good night’s sleep.


You will look back and wryly laugh at the irony of saying only last week that you spend most of your time slacking off. There will be no more slacking. You are now a full week behind on your regular work, because your coworkers are treacherous finger-pointers with zero planning skills.


Spend some time finishing that personal project, but get plenty of rest. You’ll need it for the back-stabbing work weeks to come. Get your personal portfolio and résumé done, and look for a new job. Outlook is unclear, but with any luck, you’ll find one. Almost anything has got to be better than your current job.

Holiday Tour


Crap! My buddy Merbear tagged me in her holiday touring post and I totally spaced on it. Never fret, my dears, for I am on it.

Here’s the deal: The recipient of the invitation (me) has to answer three questions posed by the nominator (Merbear) about how or if they celebrate the holiday that person chose… and then pick a different holiday, write three similar questions to ask about it, and present these questions to two different bloggers.

Alright then. Merby’s holiday is National Weed Day, celebrated on 4/20, of course.

And her questions are:

1. How many nugs would you smoke on this holiday, if you partook in such a deplorable pastime?

I’m not a huge fan of the pots. I’m not opposed to it and I even voted to legalize it here in California, but it has never really been my thing. It makes me all paranoid and I prefer uppers.

However, every once in a blue moon, I’ll get stoned out of my gourd and watch Cosmos with Carl Sagan. In honor of Mer’s holiday, I will take one hit (I’m a lightweight), and watch the New Cosmos with Neil deGrasse Tyson.


2. Would you see unicorns prancing in the meadow, or something else?

Hell yes, but I always see unicorns prancing in meadows with possums and squirrels, of course.

This was my winning entry for Evil Squirrel‘s contest. Bask in its awesome.


3. What sort of marijuana edible would you make to celebrate this holiday, thereby fortifying the snack industry?

I would like a brownie, please.

And now I have to pick a different holiday, write three similar questions to ask about it, and present these questions to two different bloggers.

My holiday will be Unicorn Appreciation Day on 1/11 since 1 most closely resembles a unicorn horn.


And here are my questions:

  1. Will you celebrate Unicorn Appreciation Day by wearing the traditional horn and stilts this year?
    I love the fact that "Unicorns on stilts" actually produces results. (
    I love the fact that searching “Unicorns on stilts” actually produces results. This truly is a golden age in which we live.
  2. If you had your own unicorn, what would you name it? Mine’s named Stanley.
  3. What three wishes will you ask the magical unicorn to grant you this Unicorn Appreciation Day?

And now on to tagging. Let’s see. Who’s most likely to participate in my reindeer games? Alice At Wonderland and Draliman maybe? Tag!

Interview With Goldfish

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I’m stealing one of Rarasaur’s prompts: Interview a blogger.

I’ve decided to interview myself with questions I culled from Yahoo answers. Hoo boy.

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Yahoo Answers is always the best place to look for answers.


If I gave you an elephant where would you hide it?
In the middle of the room, obviously.

What is your favorite color of socks to wear?

How many hats do you have in your house?
Fifteen or so.

What made you pick the dress you are wearing?
I’m not wearing a dress.

How many pairs of shoes you own?
Roughly double the number of hats.

On what do you spend the most: clothes, accessories, perfumes, underwear, or anything else?

If you hadn’t been born in this century, when and where would you like to have lived?
Since I’m older than 14, I wasn’t born in this century, but I’d live in the previous one, even though I’ve already done that.

Is it true that you have a house in every country on this planet?
Sadly, no. I don’t even have a house in one country on this planet.

What’s your bad quality?
I have a short temper.

What side of the bed do you sleep on?
All of them.

If you were a tree, what would you be?
Mostly green and a little brown.

What was the best thing before sliced bread?
Did you know that Penicillin and sliced bread were invented the same year? Yet, sliced bread gets all the glory.

If you were a character from ‘Lost,’ which one would, you be?
I’ve never seen Lost, but it’s set on an island, right? I’d be the island.

Do you speak with your dog?
All the damn time.

What sound do you love?
The ocean or rain.

What sound do you hate?
The sound of PC keyboards. Why do they have to be so damn loud? My Mac keyboard is way quieter.

What are you wearing?
Jeans, t-shirt, hoodie, tennies.

What is your favorite daily wear attire?
Jeans, t-shirt, hoodie, tennies.

What does the last text message you got on your phone say?

Where’s your favorite place to eat?

If you had a snail that could magically grant wishes, what would you name it?

Name one actor/actress you would love to get naughty with?

MmmmMitchum. This dude had swagger.

If you were given a chance, would you enter Big Brother?
I would not enter Big Brother, Orwellian or otherwise.

Have you ever seen a UFO or a ghost?
Not that I’m aware of.

How was it working with Al Pacino?
I don’t recall.

What was the most challenging aspect of the film?
Watching the whole thing.

Do you get nervous on stage?

Who inspired you to become a singer/actress?
Hopefully, no one since I’m terrible at both.

At what age did you start taking dance classes?
Well, my mom put me in ballet classes when I was about five. I hated it.

What do you think about your fans?
I think they’re a lovely group of people with excellent taste in blogs.

How do you remain calm and gracious when being harassed by paparazzi and the media?
If I were famous, I’d be the reclusive variety that throws things at the media, and not very calm or gracious.

How does it feel to be the most desirable man/woman on the earth?
Quite lovely, thanks.

Conversations With Pets


I read a post at Content Unrelated where he wondered what it would be like if dogs could actually talk. The results were hilarious. Go read it now. I’ll wait.

Since I’m nothing if not an appreciator of humor and thief, I thought I’d try my hand at it and give you conversations with my own dog and cat.

In the morning:

Dog: Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

Me: Merghablarhg.

Dog: Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. It’s time for up. Up means outside and breakfast. I’m just going to lick you with my giant cow tongue until you wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

Me: Fuck off!

Dog: Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. What if I sit on you?

Me: OWW! I’m up.

Cat: Would you stop fidgeting? I’m trying to sleep here.

In the bathroom:

Cat: Captive audience. Pay attention to me. Now.

Dog: I’m just going to sit here and awkwardly stare at you without blinking until you’re done doing whatever it is you are doing. OK?

Cat: Rub my belly or I’ll jump on your lap and dig my claws in. It will hurt.

Me: Go away.

Feeding time:


Dog: Ooh, good thinking, cat. Some food would be nice.

Cat: Mmm dog food nom nom nom.

Me: Cat, don’t eat the dog’s food. Eat your own.

Cat: Food is food and this is closer.

Dog: Are you going to let the cat eat all my food?

Me: Why don’t you stop him yourself? You’re three times his size.

Dog: I can’t. You stop him!

Me: Cat, don’t eat the dog’s food. Eat your own food.

[pick cat up from dog bowl and place him at his own]

Cat: Mmm cat food nom nom nom.


Cat Toys:

Cat: What is that thing?

Me: It’s a cat toy.

Cat: What do you want me to do with it?

Me: Play with it.

Cat: Why would I play with that?

Me: Because it’s a cat toy specifically made for cats to play with!

Cat: I prefer this toy.

Me: That’s not a toy. It’s a power cord.

Cat: Whatever. It’s delicious.

Me: I got a cat toy to keep you from chewing on the power cord. Do not eat the power cord.

Dog: Can I have the cat toy?

Me: No.

Dog: Why not?

Me: Because you’ll chew it into a million little pieces in 30 seconds.

Dog: Yeah! Let’s do that!

Me: No.

Cat: I don’t want it. Give it to the dog.

Dog: Yeah! Let’s do that!

Me: No.

Dog Toys:


Me: I’m busy right now.


Me: Maybe later.

Dog: PLAY. I’m going to shove this toy in your lap until you play with me, alright?

Me: This isn’t a tuggy toy, dog. This is a ball.

Dog: What’s a tuggy toy?

Me: It’s a toy where you hold one end, I hold the other and we pull.

Dog: Ooh, I love that toy! This is that toy!

Me: No, you have a ball. There’s nowhere to grab onto a ball.

Dog: Sure there is. See?

Me: I mean, there’s nowhere for me to grab onto the ball, because you have the whole thing in your mouth.


Me: I can’t play tuggy with this! It’s a ball.


Me: You always win.

Fetch version 1:

Dog: Throw The ball. Throw it. Throw the ball.

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Me: OK.

[dog watches it bounce away without moving]

Dog: Why did you throw it over there?! I wanted that.

Fetch version 2:

Dog: Throw The ball. Throw it. Throw the ball.

Me: OK.

[dog goes after it but doesn’t bring it back]

Me: Why didn’t you bring it back?

Dog: Why would I do that?

Fetch version 3:

Dog: Throw The ball. Throw it. Throw the ball.

Me: OK.

[dog goes after it, brings it back halfway, then drops it]

Dog: That was fun! Come here and throw it again!

Me: No, you bring it back to me and I’ll throw it.

Dog: Come here and throw it again!

Me: You really suck at fetch.

Dog: What’s fetch?


Dog: Outside?

Me: No, we just went outside a half an hour ago. Wait until bedtime.

Dog: Outside?

Me: No.

Cat: What is outside?

Me: Remember that time you went missing for four days and I found you all smelly and matted inside the next door neighbor’s shed? That’s outside.

Cat: Oh yes, that’s where all the scary things happen. Outside is terrible. Why would anyone want to go outside?

Dog: Outside is awesome!! There are squirrels and other dogs and people!

Cat: Inside is so much better. It’s warm and there’s food and no one beats you up.

Dog: Outside!

Me: Neither of you are going outside right now.

Cat: Phew.

Dog: Outside?


Dog: What time is it?

Me: 8:37.

Dog: Hahaha! Gotcha! I don’t even know what that means!

Me: That’s not very funny.

Dog: Hahahaha!

Cat: What is time?

Dog: Time is how we know when we get fed, when to go out and when to go to bed.

Cat: But, I eat when I want, sleep when I want and don’t go outside.

Dog: How do you know when to do that?

Cat: I just do it when I feel like it.

Dog: That doesn’t make any sense. Silly cat.

Me: It’s time for you both to be quiet.

Goldfish’s Wild Kingdom

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Did you know that you can do slow-motion and fast-motion video on iPhones with IOS8?

With slo-mo, you can turn normal domesticated canine play into the most epic battle for survival with lion roars and cowbell. I prefer my lion roars accompanied by cowbell (which is actually just my dog’s tags jingling in slow motion). You know, just like life.

I was going to post this on Twitter, but it wouldn’t let me, so I’m posting it here.

My dog is the smaller one, clearly, with the upper hand. She’s executing one of her signature moves I like to call The Bulldozer where she scoops up her opponent from underneath and carries them along. It’s a rather effective maneuver.

Next up, fast-motion with a Yakety Sax soundtrack.

Flashback: The Onion

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A long time ago in internet years, I had another blog. It was called Drat & Blast and it was co-written with a very good friend of mine. I was Drat and he was Blast. This friend is hilarious and you’d all love him if he wrote more, which he really should, because he’s a talented writer.

He also lives in Philadelphia, which as you may know, is not very close to Los Angeles. Because of our continual proximity problems, we chat online a lot.

Our conversations are, quite often, entirely ridiculous. This post is one of them. Word for word, it is a transcript of a real conversation. Honest. Nothing was changed except our names and fixing a few typos. Drat & Blast, the blog, is long gone now, but the posts remain. Enjoy.

Originally posted on Fish Of Gold:


Drat: I fucking hate onion.

Blast: I loooooove onion. Ima eat a raw onion and then breathe all up in yer face.

Drat: Raw onion is just about the worst possible food on Earth. Except maybe dill pickles.

Blast: That’s crazy talk.

Drat: At least onion doesn’t spread its weed juice all over proper food like pickles do. Not only are pickles and onion both disgusting, but somehow, everyone who serves me food automagically includes them on my plate, thereby infecting my proper food with vile odors and flavors.

Blast: Define proper food.

Drat: Proper food being whatever onions and/or pickles come on. A cheeseburger, for instance.

Blast: A cheeseburger requires onion. Most non-retarded diners recognize this.

Drat: No way, no fucking how. Get that vile, smelly, goddamn weed off my fucking plate.

Blast: Firstly, it’s a root…

Drat: Whatever.

Blast: Secondly, it’s the awesome.

Drat: It smells and it’s…

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Flashback: The Montebello Incident

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The international date line makes for confusing travel. Male told me he was flying home this afternoon, but because he crossed an imaginary boundary, he actually arrived yesterday. He got two Saturdays. Lucky him. Because there’s a snoring gorilla next to me, which makes for some difficult writing, today, we’re taking a trip in the flashback machine.

I’ve been blogging for over five years and I’ve only had an audience for the last few, which means a lot of my early posts haven’t been read by anyone ever, so I’ve started to reblog some of my favorites. This is probably the best story on this entire blog. Even though it doesn’t seem like it, it is entirely true.

It’s a long story, but I think it’s worth reading. Enjoy my embarrassing drunken shenanigans.

Originally posted on Fish Of Gold:

I’ve done some pretty stupid things in my life; some things I regret and some things that were just plain idiotic. I’m not proud of them, but they all happened. They keep me up at night, cringing, alone in the dark. Some decisions, once made, cannot be unmade and we have to learn to live with the consequences. Most of the time, they don’t leave any permanent damage and give us some pretty good stories, but only in hindsight. One such story of mine has come to be known as The Montebello Incident.

It all started at a friend’s party. It was a pretty good party with lots of people in a celebratory mood. So, when a pickup truck drove by, asking if we wanted to go to a party in the middle of nowhere, thereby leaving the nice, safe comfort of my friend’s abode, well, it made my positive…

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Well-Known Facts: On This Day…

This is what tighty whiteys looked like back then. They called them union suits. 

It’s been a while since I did a Well-Known Facts post. I’m sorry that I’ve been slacking on your education. We’re going to start a new feature on Well-Known Facts called On This Day In History.

According to Wikipedia, on June 17th, this happened:

1900 – Boxer Rebellion: Allied naval forces captured the Taku Forts after a brief but bloody battle.

Today, we’re going to talk about the Boxer Rebellion, a.k.a. The Boxer Uprising a.k.a. Yihetuan Movement. The Boxer Rebellion was a violent movement which took place in China towards the end of the Qing dynasty between 1898 and 1900. It was initiated by the Militia United in Righteousness (Yihetuan).

Throughout history, the English have been pretty well known for colonialism. That’s where they “discover” a piece of land, plant a flag, call it theirs and start pillaging and plundering the natural resources they find to send back to England. They either kill all the people already living there or try to “civilise” them.

Back in the late 1800’s, England discovered China and brought their English ways to the lowly Chinese heathens. Among the civilized ways they brought to China were Christianity, slavery, taxes and tighty whiteys, which they called “union suits.”

This is what tighty whiteys looked like back then. They called them union suits.  (
This is what tighty whiteys looked like back then.

The Chinese have been around forever. They’re one of the oldest extant cultures on the planet. They didn’t take kindly to the English telling them to use forks and wear tight underwear.

Yuxian, a Manchu who was then prefect of Caozhou and would later become provincial governor, is attributed as saying, “White is an incredibly impractical underwear color.”  Also, “my junk is all bunched up.” The Chinese were quite comfortable with their baggier undies that they called boxers.

As a result of this underwear colonialism, several secret societies formed, including The Big Swords Society and the Righteous and Harmonious Fists or “Boxers United in Righteousness” (Yihequan/I-ho-chuan) in the inland sections of northern coastal province of Shandong.

In 1895, Yuxian officially used The Big Swords to fight bandits. The Big Swords, emboldened by this official support, also attacked their local Catholic rivals and tighty whitey aficionados, who turned to the Church for protection.

The Big Swords responded by attacking Catholic churches and burning them. They saw the church as a source of the oppressive undergarments. As a result of diplomatic pressure in the capital, Yuxian executed several Big Sword leaders, but did not punish anyone else. More secret boxer societies started emerging after this.

Boxer rebeller (wikipedia)
Boxer rebeller wearing boxers

Yuxian’s boxer loyalists gained strength when, in January 1900, the Empress Dowager Cixi, a powerful and charismatic woman who unofficially but effectively controlled the Qing dynasty for 47 years, changed her long policy of suppressing boxers, and issued edicts in their defense, causing protests from foreign powers. “I just don’t like the look of those whiteys.”

Eventually, almost the entire Chinese male population was part of at least one secret boxer society. They weren’t really a secret anymore to anyone but the English. Yuxian arranged a secret boxer meeting in Shandong and leaders from all the secret societies attended.

In Spring 1900, the boxer movement spread rapidly north from Shandong into the countryside near Beijing. On 30 May, British Minister Claude Maxwell MacDonald requested that foreign soldiers come to Beijing to defend, as he called them, the union suit loyalists. “The English are not the only ones who wear tighty whiteys.”

The next day, an international force of 435 navy troops from eight countries (75 French, 75 Russian, 75 British, 60 U.S., 50 German, 40 Italian, 30 Japanese, 30 Austrian) called the Eight-Nation Alliance, disembarked from warships and traveled by train from Dagu (Taku) to Beijing. They set up defensive perimeters around their respective union suit camps.

Troops of the Eight-nation alliance, 1900. (wikipedia)
Troops of the Eight-Nation Alliance, 1900.

On 5 June, the railroad line to Tianjin was cut by the boxer loyalists in the countryside and Beijing was isolated. 11 June, the secretary of the Japanese legation, Sugiyama Akira, was attacked and killed by soldiers of General Dong Fuxiang, who were guarding the southern part of the Beijing walled city.

Things didn’t look good for union loyalists and it only got worse when, on the same day, the German Minister, Clemens von Ketteler, and German soldiers captured a boy wearing boxers and inexplicably executed him. In response, thousands of boxer loyalist burst into the walled city of Beijing and burned many of the churches and cathedrals in the city.

The soldiers at the British Embassy and German Legations shot and killed several boxer loyalist, alienating the Chinese population of the city and nudging the Qing government toward support of boxers.

In Beijing, on 16 June, the Empress Dowager summoned the court for a mass audience and addressed the choices between boxers or seeking a diplomatic solution. In response to a high official who doubted the comfort of boxers, the Empress replied:

Perhaps their magic is not to be relied upon; but can we not rely on the hearts and minds of the people? Today China is extremely weak. We have only the people’s hearts and minds to depend upon. If we cast them aside and lose the people’s hearts, what can we use to sustain the country?

Both sides of the debate at court realized that popular support for boxers in the countryside was almost universal and that suppression would be both difficult and unpopular, especially when foreign troops were on the march.

The event that tilted the Imperial Government irrevocably toward support of boxers and war with the foreign powers was the Eight-Nation Alliance’s attack on the Dagu Forts near Tianjin, on 17 June 1900. They took the Dagu Forts commanding the approaches to Tianjin, and from there brought increasing numbers of troops on shore.

When the Empress Dowager received an ultimatum demanding that China surrender total control over all its military, underwear choices and financial affairs to foreigners, she defiantly stated before the entire Grand Council:

“Now they [the Powers] have started the aggression, and the extinction of our nation is imminent. If we just fold our arms and yield to them, I would have no face to see our ancestors after death. If we must perish, why not fight to the death?”

So, they fought… to the death. In October 1900, after a long war of attrition, a diplomatic solution was sought. Empress Dowager Cixi reluctantly started some reformations despite her previous view on boxers. Both boxers and union suits would be allowed in China. She put her foot down on slavery, taxes and Christianity though.

The Eight-Nation Alliance agreed to the demands of the Empress Dowager, knowing that they would not obey the treaty. They would spread tighty whiteys, slavery and Christianity wherever they damn well pleased. And that’s exactly what they did, which led to the Brassiere Revolution in the 1960s, but that’s a story for another time.

The end.

More Well-Known Facts

Apologies to Wikipedia for severely slaughtering their Boxer Rebellion page.

The Night I Killed The Clutch


I have a long history of drunken stupid things. There are more drunken stupid stories on this blog than I can link up in that sentence. I’m not exactly proud of it, but excessive drinking and stupid things have given me some good stories. This is one of them.

A friend of ours is the progeny of a successful Hollywood something or other. Her family lives in a huge mansion on top of a big hill overlooking the entire city of Los Angeles. It is such a massive estate that she could have parties with her parents at home and they wouldn’t even notice. For a while there, when she still lived at home, that’s exactly what she did.

At one such party, Male and I got pants-on-head drunk. A few hours before, trying to be a responsible drunk, Male asked me if I could drive home since he was, in fact, stupid drunk. Being only half-stupid drunk at the time, I said sure. Yet, because I was already half-stupid drunk, I went the rest of the way to stupid. Why waste half a stupid?

We cavorted. We swam in the hot tub and sat in the pool. We climbed hills and made out with random strangers on piles of firewood. We said WOOOOOO a lot. I spent some hours looking for a bathroom. I walked in on my friend’s parents.

“Allo, mystery and mishuss Hollywood. You have a lovely gnome. I’m looking for the ladies. Do you have a spare sherpa you could loan me? Have a night nice. WOOOOOO.”

Finally, as is its habit, the sun came around to the swank hills of Hollywood and shed a pallid light on the night terrors. There were people passed out everywhere. It looked like a virulent tornado had swept through, bestowing a fatal disease on the people and spreading plastic cups asunder. There was a plate in a tree and several at the bottom of the pool.

The sun scorched my eyeballs as it and Male tried to wake me up. I was half in the pool. Fortunately, my breathing parts were on dry land.

“We need to go now.” Male was saying. “Are you still alright to drive?”

“I’M UP!” I said with a splash as both of my fists slammed on the water and kept going. I wondered if I had peed myself… a lot. I dragged myself out of the pool like the first primordial ooze that would someday come full circle by evolving into me. Dripping and sagging, we walked the long way down to the bottom of Hollywood hill. Instinctively, I walked to the passenger side.

“You’re driving.” Oh crap.

I can drive stick. I’ve owned several manual cars, but Male had a stupid European sports car with the most impossible stick shift in the history of manual transmissions. It was a test of cognitive ability. Sober, I barely passed that test, but drunk and half awake, well, there was a lot of grinding and thumping.

Strangely, the fact that I was barely awake and in various states of intoxication seemed to work to my advantage in the battle between stick shift and me. I got us onto the freeway. Why don’t I ever have sunglasses when I need them?

We were halfway home and moving from one freeway to another. I slowed to merge, down-shifted and the whole thing went kablooey. I pulled the lurching, shuddering beast over to the side of the freeway and stopped.

“I think I killed the clutch.”


“Your car hates me.”

“Maybe because you tried to kill it and succeeded.”

“Now what?”

“Now we call a tow truck.”

Arrangements were made for tow trucking. “They’ll be here in 15.”

“Now what?”

“We wait 15 minutes.”

I decided the best use of our time was to give Male a blowjob. I had just killed his car after all. It was the least I could do.

It was only after the tow truck pulled up, backed into position in front of us and two guys knocked on the car window that we noticed their presence. My head popped up like a prairie dog and immediately melted into my hands in shame.

These same guys gave us a ride to Male’s house. They didn’t say a thing, but they were smirking and trying not to laugh the whole time. I could only imagine the story that would be told back at the garage. They’re probably still telling that story. “This one time…”

From time to time, Male still complains about the time I killed his car because he’s a whinging bastard. He leaves the embarrassing ending off though.

Don’t drink and drive, kids.

The Story Of The Blue Goo

The Red Goo in action.

This blog has been far too serious of late with editorials about stupid things happening in America, because stupid things keep happening in America, dammit. Dear stupid things, stop happening so I can stop writing about you. Thanks.

To lighten up the party, today, it’s story time. Yay, story time! Grab a carpet square and gather round for the story of the blue goo.

A long time ago, I shared this picture with you and told you that there was a story to the canister of red goo hiding behind the elephant and the purple cow.

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It’s a simple hard plastic canister. In the middle is a disc with a hole in it through which a viscous red goo can flow, like a goopy hourglass that is terrible at its job. My version of it is small and red, but once upon a time, there was a large canister of blue goo.

The Red Goo in action.
The Red Goo in action.

The owner of the blue goo lived up north several hours away. My best friend and I would make the trek up there once every few months because the place he lived had magical properties. No matter how tough life was–and it was pretty tough back then–if we drove up north, there was fresh air and the smell of ocean that didn’t smell like our ocean downstate. The air was clean and tinged with pine. At night, you could see all the stars–all of them and planets, too.

Among my friend’s possessions was a canister of blue goo. This canister of blue goo was much like the canister of red goo you see up there, but much larger, and well, blue.

I fell in love with the blue goo that had a home near the pine and ocean. Every time I walked into my friend’s house, it was the first thing I grabbed. I loved watching gravity manipulate the goo. I found it relaxing and I could not go to sleep at my friend’s house without watching it flow for a while.

One weekend, my best friend and I were up north, and while our friend was out making a living, we plotted a nefarious caper. We were going to borrow the blue goo and send it around the world. Another friend was leaving on a long backpacking-type trip in a few weeks. We would pass the blue goo along to him where he would take pictures of the goo in various recognizable places around the world, which we would send to its owner. Eventually, the blue goo would make it back stateside where it would once again live among the ocean pine, none the worse for its adventures. There might have been alcohol involved in concocting this plan.

My best friend and I went shopping for kidnapping provisions. We bought a newspaper, a glue stick and a bottle of blue Gatorade that was the approximate color and dimensions of the blue goo.


We cobbled together a ransom note from letters cut out of the newspaper, which we glued on a sheet of paper.  I can’t recall exactly what the note said, but I know for sure that one of the ransom demands was pie. We left the note and the half-full bottle of Gatorade on the shelf where the blue goo normally lived and went back downstate.

We expected a call right away, but our plan was botched almost from the start. In the landscape of his apartment, a half-full bottle of Gatorade looked enough like the blue goo that it was nearly two weeks before he noticed something was a little off and read the ransom note.

By the time he called us up, laughing his fool head off, we had already made the transfer of the goo to our friend who was just about to leave for Russia. We feigned ignorance of the goo disappearance, of course.

Two days later, we got a panicked phone call from our Russian bound friend. It seemed that the Russians weren’t too thrilled about a can of goopy looking blue stuff entering their country. Wanting to know what it was and why he was bringing it into Russia, they detained him and separated him from his suspect luggage. Meanwhile, at the airport, there was a protest. Things got out of hand and it turned into something of a full-scale riot, during which our friend’s luggage was ransacked and smashed.

When he finally got his suitcase back, there were shards of clear plastic and a sticky blue substance covering all of his belongings. He sent us a picture of the goo carnage. He spent the next few weeks backpacking around with blue everything. He was an exceptionally good sport about being suspected of terrorism by Russian officials. He didn’t care about his stuff being destroyed, but he felt terrible that the goo was gone and he couldn’t take it on adventures.

That left my best friend and me with the unenviable task of telling the goo’s owner that it had been destroyed. We figured it was best done in person and made plans to go up north at the weekend. In the meantime, we tried everywhere we could think of to get a replacement, but we could not find one. We drove up north like dogs who had just destroyed something–our heads down and tails between our legs. We told him the unfortunate fate of the blue goo and apologized.

The goo’s owner laughed. He said, “You always loved it more than me and I was thinking of giving it to you anyway had ‘somebody’ not ‘kidnapped’ it. But now, I have something better than the blue goo; I have a good story! The blue goo was destroyed by Russian terrorists!”

We tried to explain that they weren’t actually terrorists, but protesters, but he would hear none of it. From then on, the blue goo was destroyed by Russian terrorists. Going along with his fanciful embellishment was the least we could do. We gave him the picture of the goo remains from Russia. He still has it along with the ransom note.

Years later, the owner of the late blue goo was visiting a friend back east. This particular friend of his was a big fan of personal space. I get it. I don’t like personal space invaders either, but she was pretty extreme about it. Something had happened that made her religious about the amount of personal space she required.

They were sitting in her living room across from each other when the goo’s owner spied something on a shelf just above her head that looked remarkably like the blue goo. In his excitement, he forgot about her personal space requirements. He stood up quickly, and with two arms outstretched, he snatched up what was, in fact, an exact replica of the blue goo.

“THE BLUE GOO! Where did you get this?” When he looked at her, he was surprised to find her trembling and horrified. She was rather in a state of shock to have been so nearly assaulted, or at least, that’s how she saw it. He apologized, but she basically told him to take the goo and get out. Are you sure? Yes.

He called her up later when she was calm and explained the story of the blue goo to her. He tried to give it back, but she told him to keep it. The blue goo’s owner was reunited with the blue goo once more.

Years later, I was thrift store shopping, as I am wont to do, and found the little red goo pictured above. Even if it had been a thousand dollars, I would have found a way to buy it, but it happened to be less than five. Some people just don’t recognize the value in things. Now I have my own goo and the goo balance in the universe is once again restored.