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Mr. Wrong

Cardlickin' Shirt-Stain

Emily Flake

By Joe MacLeod | Posted 8/23/2006

Wow, holy furry-tongued crap, seriously, I had, like, a topic here, you know? An idea? For discussion or whatever? But it was, like, a week ago, this "Idea"-thing, when, like, I heard maybe a "ding" sound, or maybe it was when the little refrigerator light bulb went all clicky-glow in the generally cold and empty thought-bubble that's usually floating over my skull, and I thought, Hey, in my opinion, that Idea I just experienced, I bet that it would make for an Interesting and Informative helping of the Mr. Wrong this week, and maybe even Entertaining, but my "column" doesn't run this week, so I will Remember this Idea for next week. Boy, I sure do wish the Mr. Wrong ran every week, blah, blahbbity blah-blah . . .

But now it's gone, The Idea, before it even had a chance to die of loneliness or whatever usually happens to the crumbs I snatch and blaze for the smoke signals I send up every other week in this here space. I mean, jiminy fudge-crackin' critter-snappers, man, zee Idea--she is gone.

That previous "critter-snackin'" crap was part of my recently conceived but now ongoing project to invent fun new personal Bad Words to alternate with the Motherfucking F-Bomb, you know? Not because I have any plans to retire it from my dangerously limited vocabulary, hells-bells-to-the-N-to-the-O, my good brothers and sisters, nunh-unh, no-way-no-how. Fuck, Fuck, Fuckity-Fuck-Fuck, you know? But anyway, look, now I can't fucking remember what it was, The Idea; it was good, really, it was, and I bet it woulda made a lotta sense last week and been really good, but my column only runs every other week, and I figured I would just let it marinate in the underground of my subconscious, but it flapped its Idea-flaps and went back to Ideaville, and now I'm fucked. Jeez, I shoulda took notes or something, huh? Hah! Nah.

Hey, I bet you're already way out in front of me on this one (but wait, if I go and say, "I bet you're already out in front," then that means I kinda already knew you'd be in front, so that kinda makes me the one who's out there, all in front and stuff, hah? ((yeah; always thinking, man, every other weekly))). Anyway, before I parenthetically interrupted my ass with the parentheses and shit, you know what, juicebag? Maybe it wasn't that good, The Idea I thought I had last week for this week`s every-other-weakly, and I got it all built up in what's left of my mind--like when you get an idea in a dream or after you've had a couple too many Pimm's Cups or whatever. Yeah, I bet that Idea sucked, but, like, way more than they usually do. And that "juicebag" thing was another one of my personally experimental swears; I know I haven't developed anything as good as crunk or jackhole, but I just got started on this voyage of personal swear-word inner-exploration, so back off, juicebox. Ooh, I kinda liked that one, "juicebox," mostly because it makes no sense, but ultimately it's gotta be a word that can be used as a noun, a verb, and as those other words that go before words, but not like "the," or "a," or "it," you know what I'm sayin', cardlicker? That's right, shirt-stain.

But seriously and anyway, I'm not kidding, I fuckin' had something last week, and it wasn't something that required ointment, birdpicker. It was an Idea, all shiny-new and, uh, topical and stuff. Not exactly current events, I don't think, but it made so much fucking sense. Shit, see, this is what happens when They (and I know who they are, trust me) only let you out in the yard every other week. You end up like the squirrels, man. They spend all this time collecting and burying the nuts, and how many times you ever seen a squirrel digging up a nice acorn snack when it's winter, huh? I mean, I don't even know if that old bullshit is true, about the squirrel discovering and stashing the nuts when the livin' is easy and then going to look for them when it's cold,

Now I remember: Jarts. Lawn darts. I played Jarts last week. It was fun.

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