The well is dry.

I can't think of a single thing to write about. The drugs and alcohol of my kindergarten-through-second-grade years have finally caught up with me, apparently, and my brain is as empty as the front of Common Wombat's pants. (The back of his pants is plenty full, as his neighbors and wife keep lamenting, but obviously his sense of smell died along with his last scrap of dignity.)

Either way, I have searched this brain of mine and find it utterly barren and desolate. I can't think of a single thing to blog about. Got any suggestions? Trust me, I can take any topic and run with it--the problem is that I can't think of any topics myself today.

So g'head, give me one. I'll write about the topic of your choice, no matter how ridiculous and stupid it may be...and I'm pretty sure your suggestions are going to be ridiculous and stupid. That is, after all, why you keep coming back here time after time; the ridiculous and stupid are right up your alley.

My continuing struggle to make the world a better place

In this superficial culture so focused on beauty and appearance, a person who feels comfortable just being himself is truly an anomaly. When you stumble across that rare individual who clearly has no self-consciousness about looks, who feels free to dress as he wants, leave his hair uncombed, and eschew fashion trends, don't you think to yourself, "Finally! A breath of fresh air! Someone who is brave enough to go his own way! Good for him!"

No? You don't think that? Me neither. I think, "Jesus Christ, look in a mirror, asshole, before I pick you up and carry you to one." Then I follow him around and silently, but obsessively, mock him like the small, petty person I am, whipping myself into a state of total indignance that this turd has the nerve to shatter the world's quiet beauty with his careless indifference.

For example, there' s the shabby chick who has come into my workplace every few days for the past two years wearing running shorts, a baggy t-shirt, men's athletic socks and leather sandals, with her ratty hair recklessly stuffed into a messy bun on the very tiptop of her head. Not the upper back of the head, where societal standards dictate that a bun should reside, but the tippity-tippity top, where old ladies sometimes put ribbon on their ratty little dogs' heads. And it's not one of those buns you need a mirror and a comb to create, either--I'm talking about one that starts as a pony tail, and then with one more drunken half-pass through the pony tail holder, becomes short enough to look bun-length. By the looks of things, she does this one-handed while driving a 4-wheeler across a half-acre of felled timber. And there's no makeup, jewelry or anything on her to signal that she understands she's female. Yet she's a wealthy woman, from what I can tell. She can afford to buy a mirror. And a pair of ladies' socks. She could use a metric ton of fashion advice, but if I were restricted to giving her just one tip, I'd tell her, "Buy a fucking hat, and never, ever take it off."

There's also the lady I see five days out of every week, who is always, and I mean always, wearing bright red socks. Not because she's homeless and only owns one pair, either. She dresses very nicely, if you dig the middle-aged, lesbian high school principal look, and seems to have a massive wardrobe since I rarely see her in the same thing twice...except for the clown socks. I find this objectionable not because it looks bad--it's not so terrible, just rather odd. What bothers me about it is how it's clear that she's decided it's her 'signature,' in the When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple vein. I'd like to have a moment to sit down with her, put a gentle hand on her shoulder, and say quietly, "Quit being such an attention whore, and just dress normally. Why should the rest of us have to pay for the fact that your daddy didn't love you enough?"

Then there's the tall, thin, reasonably attractive 30-something gentleman I saw the other day in the post office wearing your average, run-of-the-mill men's attire--jeans, shirt, socks...and big, pink, fuzzy ladies' house slippers with purple butterflies embroidered onto them. A real struggle ensued in my head when I saw this guy--I thought and thought and schemed and struggled to come up with a way to get a digital picture of this guy without getting beaten to death with a slipper, but ultimately I chickened out. If I were given the chance to give this guy one piece of fashion advice...I would decline the opportunity. I don't want to die by choking on pink fur that stinks like feet. And a guy who will go out in public looking like that is capable of absolutely anything.

The worst offender of all: The heinous-looking fellow at my gym who insists on a workout wardrobe that consists entirely of low-cut wrestling singlets and bandana do-rags. I've included a picture of a wrestling singlet for your edification, but let me be clear in saying that this jackass looks nothing, absolutely nothing like the model in this photo. And even the model in the photo looks like a total tool in this ridiculous getup--but trust me, the dude at my gym sets new records for total toolery. He looks like a puffy Robert Plant--now, not then--who I've also pictured here for your benefit. As for the picture of the singlet, I wasn't able to find one that's as low-cut as his--it goes all the way down to his horrid, horrid bellybutton which protrudes shamelessly from his distended, matronly belly. You don't want me to get started on how these ridiculous outfits tend to showcase a man's private parts, which, in his case, should really be kept private. Or at least be set against some kind of a magnifying mirror or something. My one tidbit of fashion advice to this guy would be, "Never, ever, under any circumstances, leave your house again."

How can I make Jake's birthday party all about me?

Wondering about Jake's second birthday party?

Yes, we had it, and it was an unqualified success. I think you know the standards by which I measure party success, but if not, I'll remind you by giving you this glowing statistic: The exact same number of people left as arrived--25 adults and 14 kids--proving that you can come to a party at Chez Karlababble and leave alive and unharmed, and in more or less the same physical health as when you arrived. It can happen! It's only happened this once so far, but it's a good start to a new beginning.

Not like at Jake's first birthday party, where 4 guests had their stomachs pumped, 2 had to be catheterized, and 5 woke up with a tattoo of a penis across their chin. Or Jake's baby shower, where animal control was called 3 times, 2 local high school principals lost their jobs the next day, and a parachute inexplicably failed to open, resulting in 14 broken bones and an embarrassing loss of bladder and bowel control that's still talked about in the neighborhood to this day. And not like our our 2006 family Christmas party, which ended with one dead hooker and a lengthy court trial that made national news, or our 2005 family Christmas party, after which Aunt Bessie spent months in the hospital receiving skin grafts to her pelvic region and buttocks. No, this party was a textbook example of how a 2-year old's party should go, right down to the balloons and Blue's Clues birthday cake.

The implications are frightening--can it be that I'm becoming more June Cleaver than Courtney Love all of a sudden? If so, what's next? PTA meetings, playgroups, volunteer charity work? Selling Mary Kay, hosting baby showers, buying Girl Scout cookies? Might I actually, against all predictions, live to an old age? Might Jake actually have a shot at a normal life, and a hope of staying out of foster homes and social workers' offices? Might Brian have a chance of not becoming another tragic suicide statistic? Can I really--do you think?--become a Respectable Citizen? Suddenly it seems like there's hope for me, and if that's the case, hope for all of us. Yes, even you, Dyckerson, because if I can turn wholesome and vanilla, anyone can--even a total degenerate like you. Well, almost anyone--not you, Common Wombat. Some of us may be on a path to our new destiny as pillars of our community, local leaders and heroes, but rest assured, you're still on your same old path of being found dead in a pool of someone else's vomit, wearing nothing but a pair of ladies cotton panties with the price tag still on them. You're a lost cause, but me? I'm on my way up, baby.

Who knew he'd live so long?

It's that time of year again--Jake's birthday party, the social event of the season, looms on the horizon. Actually, it's this Saturday. He'll be two years old.

I know you've spent the past year plotting and planning what to get him, and I appreciate the thought you doubtlessly put into finding just the perfect gift. There's still plenty of time for you to drop those parcels off to be FedExed in time for the shindig. I do want to lay out a few guidelines before you dash off to your local shipping facility, though, to be sure you don't waste your hard-earned money on a gift that turns out to be wholly inappropriate for a small child. Some of the things you sent last year were--well, let's just say it's obvious some of you don't have children.

1) No toy guns. I don't believe in letting little children play war games with plastic guns, pretending to kill each other in mock battle. In our house, we use real guns. Don't insult my son by sending him a plastic rifle. If you can't afford to give him a real shotgun, just send a card instead. Also, just as it's rather thoughtless to give a battery-operated toy without also being considerate enough to include batteries, it's equally thoughtless to give a gun without including ammunition. If you give him a 9 mm pistol, send bullets. If you give him a grenade launcher, send grenades. Don't be a cheapskate.

2) No pornography. Do I really have to say this? You surely have the common sense to know not to do something so inappropriate. Considering the huge volume of pornography we already have laying around the house, and crammed on the bookshelf in Jake's bedroom, it would be a waste of money to send more to him when you could be spending that money on something he doesn't already have plenty of.

3) No toys with small, easy-to-choke-on parts. We've all heard a horror story about a kid who was playing with a toy that was considered safe, until a small part broke off and ended up in the kid's mouth, causing a fatality or near-fatality from choking. Safety is a priority in our house, which is why we shy away from giving Jake toys of any kind--after all, you never know until it's too late if a toy is going to pose some kind of unforeseen hazard. Instead of toys, we give Jake plenty of guns and pornography, which pose no choking threat at all.

4) No books or games which depict Christ as our lord and savior. Everyone has their own beliefs about religion, and we don't deny anyone their right to worship as they choose, so long as they don't try to push their religion down our throats. For the record, we are strict Scientologists who believe that aliens crapped us out after a particularly big meal, and we ended up on earth when the waste management system aboard their spacecraft malfunctioned and dumped out sewage in mid-flight. Even though we'd appreciate it if you would refrain from giving Jake any kind of propaganda depicting Christ as the savior, we welcome anything you want to give that depicts Tom Cruise as as the tiny little friendly, elfin, couch-jumping genius and philanthropist he is.

5) No candy. Obesity is an epidemic in America, and bad eating habits start in childhood. That's why we steer Jake away from sugared treats by offering him appetite-curbing cigarettes any time he begins clamoring for snacks. If a couple of Marlboros aren't sufficient to kill his sweet tooth, a shot of tequila usually does it.

Well, that about covers it. I think if you carefully review the above guidelines and commit them to memory, you should have no problem seeing Jake a gift that will be appreciated by him as well as by us, his watchful parents. Particularly if you also adhere to the common sense rule that any gift under $100 is just plain embarrassing and cheap. Now, I don't want to keep you here all day reading my blog; get out there and send those gifts, pronto. And don't expect a thank you card--I have a life, you know.

You may be anonymous to your wife and your boss, but you're someone special to me

Once again, The Man is trying to keep me down.

I didn't want to switch to New Blogger. Despite the energetic attempts of my login screen to get me to switch, I refused on the grounds that I knew the longer I waited, the more bugs would get fixed. However, last weekend I was forced (forced!) to make the switch or not log in at all, so I switched over...but to demonstrate my defiance, I did so while holding a picket sign that read, "No means NO," one that read, "Hell no, we won't go," and one that read, "Know Jesus, Know Peace." (That last one didn't seem to apply to the situation, but I figured three displays of defiance are always better than two, and since I had stolen it from a homeless man at Mardi Gras a few years ago and had yet to make use of it, I felt it was a shame to let it go to waste.)

Naturally, I have complaints about the switch. Namely, some of your comments that were previously linked to your profiles and websites are now marked "anonymous." In fact, of the 42 comments I received on the post about my stinky, sweaty mentor, 15 of them (previously linked to actual bloggers) have suddenly been anonymized. (It is too a word. It's what happens when you anonify something.) Someone suggested this had something to do with whether you Blogger users had already made the switch to New Blogger yourselves before leaving your comments on my site, but the answer to that is 'no.' For instance, Dyckerson left one comment that remains linked to his blog and profile, and left another comment to the same post that has been anonymized. Granted, if there were a god, everything Dyckerson says would be be anonymous, but sadly, this is not the case. Besides, some but not all of the anonyified comments came from Blogger bloggers. Anonymous Coworker was included in the anonyfication, and although I'm thankful because I try daily to forget him, it's confusing because he's not a Blogger user. Maybe the smartasses at Blogger purposefully anonyfied his comment while chuckling, "Let's put the anonymous back in Anonymous Coworker.")

The blitzkrieg of anonyification continues throughout my post archives, although it thins out the deeper we go into 2006. It appears that the oldest posts have been left intact, while the newest posts suffered the most plundering.

This makes me sad because I love each and every one of you. Okay, I admit it--that's a baldfaced lie. Some of you make me want to plunge to my death from atop a snowy mountain peak...but I love most of you. Or at least like you somewhat. Or at least harbor no ill will toward you. For the most part. At any rate, I like to occasionally, when I'm on house arrest and very bored, revisit the links left by commenters in my old posts. Now, thanks to Blogger, you and I will be separated forever, like tfg and every woman he's ever seen or heard of.

It's an outrage, a cause for mourning, a catastrophe of epic proportions. I suggest you immediately write to your congressmen, storm the Capitol, or at least wake up from your heroin nod and acknowledge this travesty with a grunt or a sigh of some kind.

I'm sure this bug will eventually be fixed, but until then, I have a backup plan. For now, any time you comment, include your home address, home phone number, cell phone number and work phone number so that I'll still be able to get in touch with you even if you fall victim to the anonymizer. For safe measure, include the full credit card numbers from no less than three of your credit cards with the most available credit (and don't forget the expiration date and the three-digit code from the back of the card). This may seem a bit drastic, but I'll do anything to ensure you and I don't get separated again. You're that important to me.