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August 6, 2014

of the kind of classy, timeless décor I like to festoon my living quarters with.
 
Because they have complete knowledge of my browsing history, they already know I routinely troll , and study for guidance in obliterating clutter in all its forms.  But sometimes you need something…thematic.  Something that calls to mind the refreshing salt spray of the churning seas, the cool mist of the ocean blasting your face in, forever swirling below the surface, …sometimes you need something that reminds, ever so subtly, of doody.
 
 
 
 
How much would YOU pay for an alarmingly classy, dangerously covetable, six inch slab of solid brass with a cutesy word for feces emblazoned on it?  One thousand dollars?  SIX THOUSAND DOLLARS?  Yo u can get this fucking thing for less than seven big ones.  The reviews say it doesn’t come with hardware.  If that’s the case, than pry two of the rusted out screws that hold your cheapshit head on your stingy pencil neck and COPE, son.  What the fuck do you expect for $6.83 and free shipping?
 
Think for a moment about the world we live in right now.  A world in which, for less than the price of an average midtown sandwich, you can pay someone to mine the materials, forge the god damned sign out of the metals of the earth, package it in a vessel sculpted from the pulped flesh of trees that grew out of the planet over the course of many years, and then hand deliver on the back of a servant wearing brown shorts DIRECT TO YOUR FRONT DOOR.  For less than SEVEN DOLLARS you can own this STUPID THING that you are ALMOST DEFINITELY GOING TO HANG OVER YOUR TOILET and then promptly forget about until you move to another house.  It says you can put it up on any door but let’s be honest, nobody’s putting this in the kitchen.  I don’t want to think about shit .
 
This is an age of wonders and miracles, friends, and this little sign, this stupid little fucking nautical themed placard that ever reminds us of , is a symbol of how far we as a species have come. 
 
We have come to the bathroom.  We have business within.
Bonus:  This one’s for the bedroom:

 
See you tomorrow for whatever.

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August 5, 2014

It has just come to my attention that Disqus has been marking various comments on Simian Idiot as spam and not allowing them to post.  In a most egregious fuck-up, they flagged the as Uber-Spam, not allowing him to comment on anything for several days.

If this is happening to you as well, and more importantly if you have any idea how I can fix it, won’t you please contact me at simianidiot at gmail dot com?

This shit will not stand, man.  Across this line, you do not.

I won’t have it.

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August 5, 2014

Hello there Idiots! 
 
By the time you read this, I will be well on my way to a brand new career venture.  I recently hit the books and learned all the important legal and ethical requirements for my new role as a civil servant - one of extreme liability, serious legal obligation, and massive personal fulfillment and reward.
 
I refer, of course, to the coveted position of Rotary Pubic.  Can’t wait to kick back and watch the millions roll in, $2.00 at a time.  $0.75 for protests.
 
I am being made to do this because due to some turnover in my w*rkplace, we find ourselves short a few in-house Rotellis.  My understanding from my reading is that, having passed the test and submitted a check for $60, I’ll soon be responsible for all manner of things which will place me in a very legally vulnerable position, with the possibility of huge fines and even jail time, in exchange for pretty much nothing.  Basically, this is me right now:
 
 
But I’m not too worried, because at least I didn’t fail the test, and out myself as, at worst less intelligent, and at best a worse test taker, than our previous Rotini, who had a copy of “Atlas Shrugged” given to her by her personal trainer, which she used to level her desk and thought was about bodybuilding.
 
But multiple choice tests and w*rk responsibility are not what I want to talk about today.  Today I want to talk about something creepy I discovered on my cell phone recently.  The facial recognition software on my phone’s camera, which draws a little square around your face so you focus on the right thing or whatever the fucking point is, I don’t know.  I’m a wo rse photographer than I am a Notorious Republican, and I’m not even one of those!
 
NOT YET, anyway.  I’m giddy with power over what is to come.
~~~~~~~~
 
So recently, I was walking with Little13 in her stroller around the neighborhood.  We like to take a walk for about an hour every weekend morning if the weather is nice, so we can look at the random crap people display in their front yards.  It’s like a scavenger hunt for weirdness, made all the better by the fact that our neighborhood is inhabited by a lot of long-term old-timer residents, who have had their houses since 1962.  Their strangely ornamental garden detritus has, over the course of many years, become invisible to them, but to me, and thus to Little13, it is AMAZING.  We walk the side streets and happily observe things like:
 
- crumbling shrines to assorted saints, attended by bunni es, turtles, and flat wooden children bending over to expose their butts
- stacks of skis leaned against a rusty garden shed
- misguided attempts at beautifying the unbeautifiable, like the painting of a pile of tires in festive pastels, and the planting of plastic flowers on a lumpy mound of soil
- private vegetable gardens planted on public soil patches, with DO NOT TOUCH signs plastered over them
- sunflowers with broken neck stalks
- fire hydrants with Christmas wreaths thrown over them, baking in the summer sun
 

 
I push the stroller and tell her about these things, and in turn she points out every car, puppy, and tree that we pass.  Then we go home and Sifu makes us breakfast, and it’s a nice way to pass the time.
 
Sometimes, when
Cute Russian bitch getting her small pussy eaten out
she is being especially lovable, I will use my cell phone to snap a picture of her:
 
 
Imagine my surprise when the facial recognition software indicated the presence of faces as follows:
 

 
Surely th is is just some glitch, but the morbid element of my imagination, which unfortunately constitutes the vast majority of my imagination, can’t help but wonder:  what if?
 
What if the faces really ARE there, and only my phone can see them?  Who or what would those faces belong to?  Demons?  Elves?  GHOSTS?  Oh my god, there are dead people clinging to everything.  They are our hair, dancing in our wrinkles , writhing in the patterns of our wallpaper. 
 
Immortal souls of the long deceased, trapped between worlds, getting their ick all over our children.  Think of the children!  Won’t somebody do something???
 
Probably it’s just weird programming, but are you willing to take that chance?
 
What we need is a hero.  Someone prepared to save us all from the squirming faces of death as they grind against our backgrounds, making their presence known only through the viewfinder of the supernatural.  Someone prepared to serve us, civilly.  Someone who would ask for nothing much.  Just two dollars and a promise.
 
What we need…is a Nodal Reprobate.
 
I am here for you, friends.  Or at least, I will be, in six to eight weeks or whenever the Department of State processes my application. 
 
< div>For all of our sakes, may God guide my hand.  Witnessed before me this 5th Day of August, 2014, I remain,
Rev. Back It On Up 13,
Bringer of Salvation

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August 4, 2014

Today we honor professional Game Ball player Peyton Manning, who was brought to my attention by the illustrious athlete Doktor Frop:

I don’t know anything about Peyton Manning, but I do know that when he’s balls deep in a rollicking round of sportsing, he is able to deftly deflect the players of the opposing team by using his incredible forehead to aim the rays of the sun directly into them, causing them to heat up to unbearable temperatures and die.

He then grabs, kicks, or pucks the ball with his hands, feet or stick, far across the play grass into their goal hole, where he wins many points for his troupe!  They gather around and pour refreshing beverages all over him as fans cheer with ecstasy, and he says “hey man, not on my forehead.”  And they obey, because he can control the sun.

Peyton Manning, yo u are a hell of a sports winner with your team and a champion at foreheading.  If you ever branch out into pugilism, please contact me so I can help you harness Forehead Magic for ultimate ground and pound violence points!

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August 1, 2014

This is my bus stop. 
image
Look at how friendly everything used to be! 
image

The sun smiled down and waved and flung raisins at us like in that old commercial,
image
and sometimes a two-headed guy would show up and dance for us all.  It was a utopia. 
image


 
There were for riding the bus, but everything was pretty cle ar even to newcomers, and riding the bus was .
 
Then, in an effort to make life even better for all of us, the City of New York or Satan installed a BENCH! right in the weirdest, most awkward spot of the approximate bus stop vicinity. 

Presumably this was so old, infirm people or women who were swollen and bloated with child could take a load off whilst waiting for the to pull up in his clean, to whisk them away to wherever they might wish to go.
 
But what ended up happening
 

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July 30, 2014

Right.  Okay.  So here we have this item:
 
 
 
That’s a spittoon, for horking your chewing tobacco slurry into.  You keep it in your house.  Also, it’s covered with Confederate flags.  So it has that going for it, if that’s the look you’re after.
 
So, to revisit this item in summary:
 
1.  It’s a jug you keep in your house to store your phlegm in
2.  It’s covered with confederate flags
3.  Southern pride spittoon.
 
So many of my friends live in the Southern United States, and I’m trying to envision the circumstances under which any of them would buy this thing.  They’re all really good people so naturally I’m coming up s hort.  In an effort to help my understanding, I read some of the reviews.  What I’ve been able to glean from them is that:
 
1.  It’s difficult to break this item
2.  Not that people have been trying, but it was a gift, so…
3.  You seriously can hardly break it
4.  On the upside it doesn’t tip over easily
5.  Which keeps your lungers off the floor, basically
6.  Can someone please come over to my house and “accidentally” break this spittoon that I hate owning?
7.  I need a spittoon, but I don’t think I’ll buy this one.
 
Amazon also has about a million other spittoons in stock at reasonable prices if for any reason whatsoever you absolutely MUST keep a jar of your chunky saliva on hand, you can choose from such a wide variety there is almost no reason on earth to buy this.  
Buy a different spittoon.

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July 29, 2014

Never tell Sifu you have an earworm.  This is simply good common sense, .
 
Last week while I was undergoing some intense mental recuperation, I made the mistake of posting on Facebook about how I’d been humming John Denver’s “Thank God I’m a Country Boy” all morning.  , and it’s not always easy to put those memories behind me, but I try.  Obviously his ghost resents this and makes every effort to infect my brain with thoughts of him whenever possible.
 
I never thought I’d say this, but my husband is in cahoots with John Denver.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
We were watch ing the Fellowship of the Ring.
 
Gandalf:  “BILBO BAGGINS, do not take me for some conjurer of cheap tricks!”
 
BIOU:  “Didn’t I, didn’t I, didn’t I see you cryin’?”
 
Sifu:  “Didn’t I, didn’t I, didn’t I see you cryin’?
 
BIOU:  "Feelin’ all alone without a friend you know you feel like dyin’”
 
Sifu: “Thank god I’m a country boy.”
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
I’m on a conference call at w*rk.  My cell phone buzzes a happy alert -a text message!  Someone is thinking of me and wants to tell me something!
 
Sifu:  “I have heard that life ain’t nothin’ but a funny funny riddle.  What do you think?”
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
I’m laying on the couch messing around with my laptop.  A Facebook alert pops up.
 
Sifu:  “I was just thinking about how grateful I am that I am a country boy, and I had to take a moment to stop and thank God.”
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
I’m washing the dishes.  The sun has finally gone down, the Child is sleeping, the house is dark and quiet.
 
Sifu comes up behind me and wraps his arms around me.  I tense for the inevitable, because we have been married a long time and I sort of know what’s coming now.
 
Sifu:  “You know what I’m grateful for?”
 
BIOU:  “That you are a country boy?”
 
Sifu:  “No!  I was glad to be born a Ramblin’ Man.”
  ;
And that’s how you keep things fresh in a marriage, friends.  You have to be able to surprise your mate with the unexpected.  Just keep her guessing, and try to make a living and do the best you can.  And when it’s time for leaving, she’ll probably understand.
 
You have learned Romance. Go in peace.

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July 28, 2014

Did you ever get sick of the sound of your own voice?  That’s what happened to me in the last couple of weeks, which is why I took a brief sabbatical from composing penis based humor in posts that contain ten thousand times too many words for Tumblr.
 
But then, out of the mist like a man-eating alien, a comment came through on an elderly post from Danni, who suggested that I might want to write about a forehead I can’t believe I never wrote about. 
 
And so, in honor of Danni and forehead lovers everywhere, I give you:
 
 
 
 
Helen Hunt.
 
Helen Hunt has a forehead that, if I am to be completely honest, makes me a little weary and sore.  As foreheads go, it’s magnificent, with an epic combination of width and breadth and a full-bodied, highly symmetrical shape.  It is smooth and unlined and about three miles high, as though you could advertise on it, but not just a picture with a couple of high-impact words.  You could put the kind of ad on this forehead that contains lots of fine-print legal language about professional stunt drivers on enclosed roadways.  So what is it about this forehead that I find so bothersome?
 
I believe it’s what I think of as the Andie Macdowell Phenomenon (AMP).
 
This is Andie Macdowell.
 
 

 
 
 
Every time I look at her, I feel stress building in my temples.  It’s as though A ndie Macdowell is radiating inner-cranial pressure at such high volumes that I am receiving an air-transmitted migraine via photographic eye contact with her.  
I can’t think of one movie Andie Macdowell was ever in, but I remember a commercial for eye makeup or wrinkle cream or some shit where she’s glaring into the screen, focusing so hard on showing us how minimized her wrinkles were through the scientifically harnessed powers of microbeads and what-have-you that I could feel a low-grade fever starting to ignite behind my eyes.  Andie Macdowell just gives me a headache.  Just writing this paragraph hurts me deeply.
 
So it is with Helen Hunt.  For me, the only Helen Hunt credit that matters, besides “Twister” which I watched on a Greyhound bus which was plodding  down the east coast amid torrential hurricane rains, is “As Good as it Gets”, which is a movie about Jack Nich olson’s temperamental love affair with his favorite booth at a diner.
 
In this movie, Helen Hunt plays a working-class lady with a lot of personal problems.  And even though I know that Helen Hunt in real life is a wealthy, successful woman, I was able to forget all about that and fully immerse myself in her home-life woes in the movie because her forehead projected EXTREME STRESS to me.  I was able to forget that she was Helen Hunt, actress, and allow myself to believe she was Overworked Waitress with Sickly Child, Money Problems, and Frenetic Household.  Because of FOREHEAD POWER.
 
Foreheads can project a lot of things.  And you can project a lot of things onto the right forehead.  Literally onto it, like a movie screen. 
 
Congratulations, Helen.  You are our forehead of the week.  Treat yourself to a couple of Advil and a neck rub.  You look like you coul d use it.

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July 27, 2014

Just kidding.  My hiatus is coming to an end.  Starting tomorrow.
 
For today, just kick back with the following video and allow the smooth, sexy sounds to wash over you so you’ll be good and warmed up in anticipation of my return to filling your life with whatever the hell it is I do here.

See you tomorrow, for head.

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July 11, 2014

A few years ago, I lived on the same block as a young girl who was forever walking her shaggy little dog. 
 
One day I heard this girl addressing the dog by name.  “Bilbo, it’s time to go inside now!  Come on in, Bilbo, let’s go home!  Come on Bilbo!"  Through my shrewd powers of deduction I was able to extrapolate that the dog’s name was "Bilbo”, and I retained this factoid within the warm, pulsating lobes of my soggy thinkmeat as I imagined there would be a time when it might come in handy.
 
I was not a fan of this particular little dog-walking girl, for reasons that seem mean-spirited in retrospect.  She was not that time, nor was she the little punk shit who raced me to the bus stop so mom c ould skip ahead of all the people waiting in line.  As I think about it, I have had problems with a few kids in my general vicinity, but in true me fashion, I don’t blame myself for this.  Those kids are dicks. 
 
Bilbo’s guardian, however - she never did anything wrong to me, not specifically.  It was more of a vs. Benjamin Raspail type of situation.  She was just a garish and unpleasant kid in a lot of ways, and her poor flute playing was diminishing the entire orchestra.  She was always barefoot, and her feet were filthy, and she was constantly shouting at that dog in the street with her filthy exposed feet.  Her face reminded me of kids who were unpleasant to me when *I* was a kid, five thousand years ago.  Her stupid ponytail and inappropriate butt shorts gave her a constant wedgie, which she could not quit diggi ng at.  She had perpetual Jam Face.  Who eats jam every day?  Employ a napkin please, my god.  Eugh.  Just eugh. 
 
Please forgive me for judging a child in this way, those among you who are of a finer ethical class than I.  I am the mother of a little girl now, and the idea of some snotty bitch judging her feet in front of her own house makes me want to punch this hypothetical person in the face, but this was years ago, like I say.  Before I grew a compassion gland. 
 
In any case, this hapless child had done little to earn my ire, but nonetheless, she had it.  As a result, I also found Bilbo distasteful.
 
I am a terrible person.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
Sifu and I were discussing affairs on the block one day when he mentioned the girl with the dog.  “That dog’s name is Bilbo,” I s aid.  “I heard her calling it Bilbo over and over again with her horrible little voice.”
 
“What is your problem with that child?” Sifu asked me.
 
“I am a terrible person,” I said. 
 
Sifu, who is a lifelong Tolkien fanatic, thought “Bilbo” was a perfectly good name for a dog, and remembered it.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
Weeks passed.  One day, Sifu came home from w*rk, and as he entered our apartment, greeted me with a look of perplexed disdain.  “Why did you tell me that dog’s name was Bilbo?” he asked. 
 
“Because that is what the filthy little child who owns the dog was calling it.”
 
“I just saw that kid’s mother walking the dog, and I said ‘hi Bilbo!’ and the woman looked at me li ke I was crazy.  'My dog’s name isn’t Bilbo.  It’s Rufus.'  That’s what this woman just said to me.”
 
“That crazy kid was calling it Bilbo.  I am not making this up.”
 
“I told her I called her dog Bilbo because my wife is a liar.”
 
“I am not lying.  That lunatic kid doesn’t even know her own dog’s name.”
 
“I’m sure that’s what happened here.”
 
I may be a terrible person, but I would never mislead someone into thinking a dog’s name was Bilbo if it wasn’t.  That’s not how I was raised.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
But Bilbo the dog is not what I want to talk about today.  Today I want to talk about two situations involving people I have w*rked with in the past .
 
The first situation was when two guys, Jack and John, were hired on the same day.  They were introduced to me in passing, and I absorbed that their names were Jack and John, but I failed to assign an appropriate face to each name.  They both looked similar, and they sat next to each other performing similar tasks, so all conversations with JackandJohn could be handled as a combo deal. 
 
Until the day that I, the consummate professional, was tasked with informing Jack, but not John, of some critical w*rk related matter.  'Give this information to JACK’, I was told.  'John doesn’t need to know about it.’
 
Fuuuuuuu…
 
It had been months since they started at this point.  It was now simply too late to consider asking anyone at all which one was Jack and which one was John, because in doing so, I would be outing myself as a complet ely oblivious moron.  So I did what any rational, thinking adult would do.  I snooped on their desks and messed with their phones until one of them produced a name, and then I threw caution to the wind and addressed one of them by name.
 
I guessed correctly and never again forgot who was Jack and who was John. 
 
But Jack and John and their stupid phones and name are not really what I want to talk about today.  Today I want to talk about another guy I w*rked with, who was introduced to me on his first day, and then I never had anything further to do with him until almost a year later. 
 
Throughout the course of that year, I had determined, somehow, that his name was Woody.  Every so often I’d address him, in passing.  As Woody.
 
Which by now, you, super sleuth, have determined, WAS NOT HIS NAME WHY DID I THINK HIS NAME WAS WOODY????
 
One day, Not Woody casually asked me why I kept calling him “Woody”.
 
“Because that…is your name?”
 
“Nope, my name is Jeff.”
 
His name was fucking JEFF.  Jeff doesn’t even sound like Woody.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
Jeff Not Woody and Jack and John and I no longer w*rk together.  And I no longer live on the block where Bilbo and his unpleasant little mistress patrolled the pavement with their murky toenails on display for everyone to enjoy.  I guess this is all for the best.
 
But I think of them often, when I am trying to remember some jerk’s name.  I think, “perhaps a pneumonic device should be used to retain this data for future use”, but then I remember that what I actually want is a MNEMONIC DEVICE, and if I can’t even r emember the kind of god damned DEVICE I should be utilizing, I have no chance of remembering the name of someone I never want to talk to.  So why try.
 
You have learned Sociology.  Go in peace.

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