Kidnappers Delight

Since Im a 33 year old white male with a staunch brow and a machete fetish, it's pretty safe to say that although it saddens me to acknowledge this, it's quite possible that I'll never get kidnapped. I stress possible. It's just that I've spent so much time considering all the things I'd say to my potential "napper". Brain scrambling, release inducing banter that might somehow open an escape hatch to freedom. Like asking, "You're so good at this, do you kidnap people like me often? Can I get your number? Cause my  aunt Harriet would love you. Are you free next Tuesday? Will I be free by then?" I think on those really long days it would be fun to taunt..."if you don't torture me harder, I'm leaving!" and you know you're going to get sick of your victims asking, "Can I get my skin and teeth back soon?"

Other fun things to ask/tell your kidnapper:

• My landlord tied me up tighter than this when I forgot to pay my rent once...and she's 80.
• This isn't your first kidnapping? Cause it kinda feels like it is...
• Do you think you could pull my hair later? I mean, if there's time.
• (Yelled from the bottom of a deep hole dug in a remote location) Hey do you have any boardgames? Do you have any skittles? Do you wanna learn the dance I just made up?
• Can you kidnap someone else soon please? All these girls are dying and I'm getting bored...

Things I know About Bears:

1. Don't fuck up their porridge
2. Sensitive sleepers...per a blonde white lady
3. Cub nuzzlers
4. Dawdlers
5. Fornicate out of doors
6. Easily bamboozled
7. Will break for honey
8. Like to exercise in front of mirrors

Dear City of PHX H2O Co.,

To whom should I address the announcement of recognition for henceforth receiving the coveted, HOPKINS FLEMPKINS Salute to Excellence Because You Deserve It, award? Perhaps I should contact Elanore Mantooth directly? In any case, we are happily trembling in our Hanes Her Way brand feminine undergarments as we slowly announce that the city of PHX H2O Co. has been awarded third annual first place prize in the diversionary finals for the Southwest bracket of Dionne Warwick's department of aquatic management and filtration advisory board leadership conference. You'll be happy to hear you beat out other such contenders as,

-Chubby Badger Frozen Dinner Corp.
-Schitwiff Brand Biscuit conglomerate

That's enough to sneeze at!

Former winners of the 'Hopky Flempky' include:

Okra Winfrey
Ted's Rib Tickling Barn Wear
Edward G. Hamburger
Harriet Tubman
Hazel Mermelstein
Norms Gnome Hut
Flamin' Hot Cheeto Bark Flavored Stuffing Cubes
Paste
Two vegetable enthusiasts with impacted molars on a faulty tractor
A stray dog with a heart of gold
S'mores
Lucky Charms flavored fungus removal straps

As per typical congratulatory recognizership regulates, a well groomed spokesperson of your choosing shall be required to accept the aforementioned award amongst a roaring crowd of 4000 other nominees. Your spokesperson (we suggest a man) will of course know ahead of time that they've won the BLOGSKINS FORESKINS AWARD but should be instructed to act surprised and alarmed. We suggest practicing awe and excitement in a full body length mirror several hundred times before the actual engagement. Did we mention that its also going to be a gala honoring the majestic chinstrap penguin? We might serve cheese. In fact bacon has oft been discussed. Please inform your spokesperson (a woman is fine too...sort of) that the trophy we will be handing them alongside the splinter encrusted acceptance podium is purely symbolic and so clearly, they shan't be taking it home with them. (It's a quick pose for a photo and that's it). (Corporate policy).

JUST IMAGINE...

Winning the Flopkins Blumpkins award!

In addition to the global notoriety and lawless affection of your bunion ridden peers and fudge gargling fans (as per your entry form) you'll happily accept the following:

-A one week paid stay to Larry Bravo's Double Dutch Sleep Away Camp
-Free galoshes for a year
-Germy women, 24 hours a day
-German women, every fifteen minutes, every other hour
-Shrimp scampi, sometimes
-DotIndian.com trial membership
-FeatherIndian.com tote bag
-Painful manicures by Wei Wong ~bonded and insured~
-Pony rides on Tuesdays
-All the peanut brittle mouth your fragile, mismanaged dental work can handle
-Bumble Bee Orchestra season tickets
-A life sized meatloaf in the shape of Abraham Lincoln
-Complimentary dry cleaning at The Bleached Whale Laundry Shack

In closing, we want to thank you for considering us for considering you. You really are top notch, even if your stilts are bottom rung. Just remember, everyone's circus has a different plumber.

Cordially,
Squidge McTavish ESQ.

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.

Everything has its place.

Do you have a favorite bath towel? Because I do, and I make sure to let my other towels know that. Modes of expression vary and often include the dictation of sonnets, preforming African boot dances, and/or quivering shamelessly until I'm dry. Even though I do use other towels from time to time, it's just to remind me of what I'm missing when I'm not with you, Favorite Towel. I try not to think about life without my favorite towel because I have heart palpitations and I'm running out of pills. Recently I've considered purchasing a bath robe but I'm afraid that things between us might become casual semi-serious.

How to make Al Pacino barf:

Thanks once again to the Phoenix city bus system, the birthplace of many great strokes of honorary genius, I was able to realize something today; when it comes to malodorous individuals, senior citizens are bar none, the most foul smelling creatures roaming God's green earth. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure your granny smells halfway decent after a shower, however I'd feel its fairly safe to wager that the majority of bus riders in the 70+ age bracket consider a quick wipe down with a wet nap an ample bathing regimen for the week. Whats more, I have it on good authority that the working title for Al Pacino's smash hit, "The Scent of a Woman" was actually, "The Scent of a Woman 25 and Under". Today's encounter with the elderly left me thoroughly nauseous and terrified of my impending birthday...another year closer to reeking of the odd cornucopia that is impending death. Ive taken the liberty, dear reader, of calculating the precise scent of a 70 year old woman. You can pile on the anti-aging cream and re-harness those breasts all you want, but you cant fight the truth...especially from a walker.

If you are 70 and above, you smell of the following:

Gravy

Baby powder

Raw eggs

An ace bandage

A jar of old pills

Urine

A canister of tennis balls

Sour strawberry yogurt

Calling all Martins!

Okay. So I have a plan...I have a friend named Melaine. Melanie has a fiance named Martin, and we are going to make Melanie's fiance famous! Everyone will be using his name...but i need your help.

Your job will be to take a picture of every "MARTIN" you see from here on out.

We are going to publish a book, hand out fliers, do whatever it takes to make MARTIN a household name.

I want to hear people saying things like:

Oh my god, Becky, I got super drunk last night and totally went home with a MARTIN!

or

In theory I like black guys, but it seems like I always end up falling for a MARTIN.

or

Doug is such a MARTIN!

Once we get like 100 REALLY GOOD MARTINS we will make a book and distribute accordingly. I started making a list of "What makes a MARTIN."I will share this with you now...

Martins have floppy, goofy, or non-gender specific hairstyles.

Martins become concerned about strange things at odd times.

Martins may or may not wear glasses. (They're probably wearing glasses).

Are Martins ever really comfortable?

Martins dart haphazardly.

Martins enjoy possessing objects that require a users manual.

Martins are highly allergic to something common.

Martins ask for something not on the menu at a specialty restaurant.

Martins bruise easily and require odd creams to prevent reoccurring rashes.

Martins lack a certain social lubricant.

All Martins will wear a bee keeping mask at one time or another.

Martins make an odd clicking noise in the back of their throat when they are feeling anxious.

I see many volumes of YOU'RE SUCH A MARTIN being published for years to come.

What do you think of my flawless plan?

Can I count on you not to sell my idea to the Vatican and or the Claussen pickle conglomorate?

Hit me on my beeper.

Permanent Wrinkles

This is an excerpt from a collection of writings soon to be published entitled PERMANENT WRINKLES: An Anthology for the Infirm.

~a haiku by co-author Hazel Mermelstein~

I threw up on myself today.

I didn't mind.

It was kind of like a really wet blanket

coming out of the oven,

on top of me.

The great egg debate.

There was a man on the bus today explaining to no one in particular why he likes egg drop soup, but doenst like eggs. Sure he was bat shit crazy, but i can see his point...

THIS NEVER HAPPENED.

…because I am such a decorated gourmand I was treating myself to 3$ worth of food at the Taco Bell one afternoon when I noticed two unforgivably white trash, hillbilly types ragging on their girlfriends. You know the kind; unwashed, farm raised, alpha males who were mostly knuckles and teeth. They were telling their ladies how stupid they were for ordering the wrong things, made fun of them for ordering a huge amount of food, and were more than willing to toss around their criticisms loud enough for all to hear. Pretty much anything either of these two women did commanded some form of scrutiny from their betrothed. One of these girls looked like she was about 14 and pregnant…okay fine, maybe she was 26 and obese but it was still not right the way these guys were treating them. The whole scenario was just all too uncomfortably ignorant.

Feeling emblazoned, I decided to squash this whole hillbilly brain scramble before it gained any more momentum. I resolved to stop them dead in their tracks with a quip so clever it would make them 3% smarter just by considering its meaning…

“Hey fellas, stop picking on your big fat girlfriends. They seem nice”.

How could they possibly recover from that? So witty, so double edged. Thoughtlessly, I imagined they would respond with a brainless retort. What they ended up doing was responding with hitting. Well, rather what would have most likely turned into hitting had I not bolted from the Taco Bell, across a massive parking lot and ducked into the Super Target.

I slipped swiftly through the entrance and headed straight for the women’s undergarments. I figured that if they had enough conviction to take me down amongst bras and panties then it was probably worth any resulting chaos. For no reason in particular I busied myself seeking out the largest available leopard print thong and having found this moved on to house wears. From there stumbled over to the toys. After ambling through the store for a good 20 minutes I began to realize that the coast was probably clear. I spent the next few minutes fondling sweaters, simultaneously laughing and congratulating myself on a jest well played. Goosing those dweebs kind of felt like the right thing to do. Knocking them on their ear, getting them riled up and misdirecting their anger had not only gotten under their skin, it was bound to have a retrograde effects. This would get them talking, this would get them thinking.

By the time I walked back out of that Super Target I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. Imagine my state of alarm when one of the girlfriends comes out of nowhere, decks me in the jaw and shouts,

“Don’t tell our boyfriends we’re fat, you dick!”

Flight 1662

No need to mince words, Dorothy was ugly. Not that sort of unsalvageable ugly, but the kind that needed a distinct amount of attention that was long overdue. Dorothy served warm cokes on cheap flights from Des Moines to Minneapolis and did so without a smile. Her voice was coated in a bubble gummy airline fluff that made your stomach turn regardless of turbulence. She also had the ankles of an eighty-five year old wheelchair enthusiast. Despite all this, Dorothy did have the accuracy and persistence of a tenth grade math Olympian who had dedicated her life to the 4-H. She was more than enough stewardess for one plane and we all remained seated for the duration of the three hour flight despite our wavering bladders and irrational urges to stroll. Even after it happened, I doubt if anyone could have anticipated Dorothy’s tumble. From our urine soaked chairs we looked on in awe as she reclaimed the cabin and delivered the remaining beverages her thirsty passengers had ordered, never alluding to her spill. God damnit, Dorothy you’re tough. Are you Polish or something?

NAME...THAT...SNOUT!!

(Click to enlarge)

You can tell a lot about a person from the curve of their schnoz and the scheen of their whiskers...take a crack at this snout quiz. A score of 100% gets you a place in my Farm Quiz Hall of Fame. Go with your gut and...

NAME

THAT

SNOUT!

Two degrees of Louie Anderson

Picture me if you will, sitting next to an adorable little black lady on the bus today doing my best to ignore her nonsensical ramblings and simply bump corny white jams digitally into my own private ears. The truth is, this task proved too hard to master for ol' Squidge for two obvious---ish reasons. The first of which was that ol' girl was literally under 5 ft tall. Adding to her brain twisting appeal was what must have been two and a half full tubes of Krunch brand DEP designer styling gel that she had applied generously to her grapefruit sized head. Oh, and also she was fucking insane. Eventually I removed my headphones, conceding to her draw upon my attention at which point she began to tell me how last night she was at a party with "uh, you know, that white guy...uh, he's real funny...Louie Anderson, yup." Quite out of no where a tall, bony, long haired, gothtard boy boards our bus. In an instant she forgets all about Louie Anderson's Country Fried Buffet Party (safe assumption) and she screams out, "OH HELL NO! THAT BOY LOOKS LIKE A DRAG QUEEN, DON'T HE"?!

I started laughing pretty hard.

She offered me a bite of her half eaten tamale.

I declined.

Something tells me that she really was at a party with Louie Anderson last night though...also...didn't Louie Anderson die?

...a conversation overheard recently at an Anger-Pissing workshop:

-“I pissed on him because his friends were in town”.

-“I pissed on him because the air freshener he bought smelled like wood chips”.

-“I thought the woodchippy scent would mask the urine! Like in a rat cage or a ferret room…”

-“Oh my God! WE have a ferret room! Sometimes we pee on each other in there too :)”

-“Hey you guys? We agreed to only talk about anger-pissing. That sounds like a pleasure piss to me”.

-SILENCE-

-SILENCE-

-silence-

-Time for lunch! They’re serving kielbasa and jam!

-That’s my favorite…

-Hey, don’t I know you from one of those Circle-K rolling wiener retreats?

-No, but I’m real comfortable around wieners.

-GULP.