Sobbing over salted mangos with Tonya Harding

Ogling bare-chested Nigerians. Collecting humorous beer koozies. Discovering a cask of worthless doubloons hidden inside the cave at Flopkins wharf. Gallons of hard alcohol, a new suitcase pilfered from a Korean Air turnstile each time our wardrobes or our spirits grew tired. It was easy spending that summer with you. Unfolding large bills in tiny unwashed bathrooms, using our eyes and our teeth to replenish silly tactile bits of life we knew we could never afford. I bought you a silver watch and set the alarm to 11:11pm, a time that we agreed was consistently superior to most other times of day. Bugs swarmed our tent, we relented, and found great comfort as alien ship bodies like whales swam above us. By September we realized the rumbling in our bellies would need to be addressed. I started pickling the earth elements around us and we put up a beautiful stock. You put dust and feathers into your loom. I tore pages out of books, finding details useless. We placed small deposits on custom dentures we wouldn't need for ages, but felt better about the prospect of cliff diving and crusty bread. Gypsies tempted us out of our clothes and out of the country. When I'd settled some, I sent a car around to collect our things...only to find I didn't have a car, or things. Some mix up I'm sure. I trust you'll have it sorted out in the new year.

Best,
Brad.

-Published, Eyeshot.net

BLOG ON BLOG ACTION!! Public masterbation makes a comeback.

While I find it distasteful to speak gratuitously of myself in an effort to promote a personal agenda, I do believe it is okay to shamelessly guide those dear to me headlong into genius bits of energy and thought I've dedicated myself to. Which is why I have no qualms mentioning that my own blog made me laugh today. In most cases, blogging about your own blog is about as classy as masterbating in front of your grandma, but sometimes it must be done. In an effort to update my joke-ish ramblings I google searched my blog signifier, SQUIDEGEMAKESFUDGE and was pretty happy to see that my own blog/name/phrase was the top recommended site for that search. I was proud. I felt glad. It was like having a famous baby. Until I realized that I wasn't REALLY the top recommended site. My blog was in fact, 1st runner up. The top recommended site was, did you really mean: Fudge Recipes-get ready for the holidays. I detest American fudge worthy holidays and the idiots at google who refuse to acknowledge that people are ravenously searching for my site, possibly after gnawing through a few bricks of hand packed makinaw island gold. As if somehow I mistakenly typed the word 'squidge' in front of my query? Perhaps a kitten had wandered across my keyboard and I simply didn't have the energy to tap the backspace button a few times? Perhaps I'm some obese agoraphobic hermit in the mood for a fudge binge who hates leavin' my cabin? Nope. I was just squidgin' out with myself. Thankfully grandma didn't walk in on me.

Chat Room Chatter

I'm no sexual deviant. I'm not some type of hopeless molester. I've never engaged in illegal tickling of any sort. But here we are in modern times, with modern loins and modern gadgets and so, inevitably I built myself an online sex account. Don't judge. You'd be surprised how remarkably drab online sex has become. Sometimes I blame myself. I don't even show my tender manbush. But that sure as heck doesn't stop me from having a good old fashioned sexy time or two. I like to keep it fresh. I like to keep everyone on their horny little toes. For example, this actual dialogue took place...

ZACKATTACK: Hey, you lookin'?

SQUIDGE: Lookin' for what?

ZACKATTACK: Lookin' for sex.

SQUIDGE: I'm on an online sex hook up site that you just got ahold of me on...so...

ZACKATTACK: So...?

SQUIDGE: So...probably yes, maybe no...

ZACKATTACK: I like your prayer beads!

SQUIDGE: Thanks! I sure do need them!

ZACKATTACK: U need what?

SQUIDGE: Your adult molars. All of them.

ZACKATTACK: Ok.

SQUIDGE: Great. I will be there to pick them up in nine minutes, riding nine magical donkeys.

ZACKATTACK: There's only parking for six.

SQUIDGE: My donkeys hover.

ZACKATTACK:...restricted air space.

SQUIDGE: I constrict my donkeys air space constantly (I love choking!) and I've never gotten one ticket in my entire life!

ZACKATTACK: See it's only restricted on Thursday's in Guam.

SQUIDGE: Guam. That's my favorite kind of jelly.

ZACKATTACK: Long johns.

SQUIDGE: Bumblebee sauce.

ZACKATTACK: Grasshopper tincture.

SQUIDGE: Cadburry egg boots.

ZACKATTACK: Fucking christ...

Just saying...

I hate when unimpressive new stars scam iconic looks from old, worn out Hollywood bags in hopes of striking box office gold. I also hate when fashionable people look like tired trash. It just so happens I've found an example of this confounding fuckery in it's finest. Those familiar with bossy Prada wearing cunts and roller-skate wearing, orange pedaling male prostitutes can surely relate.


Need I say more?

Flagged for removal

Calling all carniverous sorts. If you've never tried making your own beer can chicken, you should be shot and roasted with a beer can up your ass. It is one of the easiest, and most delicious meals I've learned how to concoct. Even my incredible vegetarian friend, Melinda will confirm this. One night, after a huge feast of BCC, (beer can chicken) my dear friend Melinda asked if she could have my carcass. Well the chicken's carcass, rather. When I asked what a vegetarian like herself would need a chicken carcass for, she rattled off a list of practical uses like making a stock (she cheats), making meat shakes for her dog, fashioning a whimsical hat etc. I agreed to give her the carcass and she volunteered to pick it up the next day. A few days and text messages later the carcass was still sitting happily in my freezer, which prompted me to post the following on Craigslist. The post was promptly and unceremoniously "Flagged for removal". I suppose I'm lucky I didn't have the Phoenix police department banging down my door demanding to know where the remains were.

Flagged for removal

From time to time I'm struck with the urge to publish outlandish Craigslist posts, half hoping for equally ridiculous responses but more so just to give whomever might read them a hearty chuckle. To my dismay amongst all the poorly written, garbage ridden smut that's considered within the bounds of the elusive "Craigslist approved", my posts are singled out and removed. Very well, Craigslist advisory board...if you won't post them...I will.

Desperately Seeking Imposter.

WANTED: Older Asian gentleman with windbreaker type jogging suit who doesn't mind wearing it in a public setting, (embarrassing, I know). My 12 year old daughter's gymnastics coach was recently arrested for smuggling pregnant pygmy elephants out of his home town near Dam Tan Bay, and the big meet is next week! The trouble is, NO COACH=NO MEET! Coach Kuchi-Gori was a snailish, hopity sort of man. Most of the other coaches never looked him in the eye much, so we should have no trouble fooling them as long as you agree to wear an eye patch and walk with a limp. You will need to yell at the girls quite a bit so it seems realistic. Say things like, "Landing no sticky, make me sicky!' No actual knowledge of gymnastics is required. Just be willing to shake the pathetic hands of many looser girls when my daughter Kerry Strug's the bejesus out of 'em. (I''ll go Tonya Harding if I have too). Anyway, if you have a beard, that'd be great. If not, one will be provided for you.If we fool the judges we might be in the market for another appearance by "Coach Kuchi-Gori" come June. This year nationals are in Scamp City, Va., (home of the waffle iron) and the girls have picked out their wigs and everything. I'd invite you to ride along with me in my mini-van but it's already full, so don't ask.