I woke up this morning feeling really weird. Not like any kind of weird I was used to, either. Being used to it, after all, disqualifies its weirdness. It was a feeling of “I think I have internal bleeding and maybe one of my internal organs is damaged/missing”. I don’t know why. It didn’t hurt, I didn’t feel sick or anything, but something was wrong. I then realized that in the past 60 hours I had eaten one hamburger patty for a total of maybe 250 calories. I’m no scientist, but I’m pretty sure humans burn more calories than that in two and a half days, especially when they kick as much ass as I do. I felt like a robot that just turned human and is realizing what it feels like to be sleepy for the first time. I was thinking, “So, this is what you humans mean when you starve. Hmmm…” Upon remembering that I was not a robot, I decided to eat something. Seems to be an effective weapon against feeling like you are going to die.

I’ve been feeling all super creative lately. It comes and goes. Next week I’ll want to quit my job and live in my sock drawer. Just watch. I’m working on some side projects that require lots of idea generation, and that kind of stuff makes me quiver with excitement. Apparently it kills the appetite, too. I was sitting down typing out some ideas that were making me laugh so hard I had to step away from the keyboard, and I thought, “I am actually getting paid to do this. At this rate (and if I never eat again), I’ll be rich in time to enjoy the next ice age from my cryogenic pod orbiting the earth.” It is a good feeling to get paid to do something you love. Unless you love killing people and eating their faces. In that case, it might feel good to you, but it is really bad, and the person who is paying you to do it is even worse.

Hey, I drew this picture-

I told the Ballyhoo guys that they should change their name since they haven’t changed it in almost two months. I offered the following titles-

Buster Hymen and the Penetrators

Johnny Polyp and the Semi-colons

Boney Goat Band

I think they’re sticking with Ballyhoo.

They told me to shut up, but used the picture for their flyer and gave me a free beer they made from other beers that had been sitting around the bar with the last swallow left in the bottom. Reminds me of a time I went to this outdoor restaurant place at the park and sat down to draw a picture of a dog for somebody. I accidentally picked up the wrong beer and took a sip before I realized that I had just done probably the grossest thing ever.

Did you know that beer bottles still have that warning label on them that says, “Alcohol causes birth defects and makes you drive bad”? Come on. I’ll buy a solid gold helicopter for every person whose life has been saved by that warning label. I can see some guy pissing his pants as he staggers to his car, gets in, and suddenly his more literate and observant drinking buddy comes flying out of the bar with a beer bottle in his hand screaming “Hey Mike! Wait! This stuff actually impairs your ability to drive or operate heavy machinery! It says it right on the bottle! Look! Seriously, look! It’s right here! In words and everything!” Another life saved by a warning label printed on foil in 5-point type.

I saw a girl walking down the street in a shirt that said, “Stop capitalism”. It truly is a shame that more people don’t realize how awesome being rich is. I’m not rich yet, but I know it will be awesome to do and say pretty much whatever I want, including opening a huge chain of stores that sell shirts that say “Rich people suck” and “Vote Green” so I can buy more fossil fuel powered hovercrafts to go seal hunting with. I also wanted to ask her where she got the shirt and if she paid for it with love, vibes, or karmic energy. Unless she grew the cotton in her herb garden and screen-printed it with a mixture of blood and earwax, she’s being a bit of a hypocrite.

Then I saw not one, but two cars next to each other at a light with bumper stickers that said “Celebrate Diversity”. Are you ready for this? The bumper stickers looked Exactly. The. Same. Excuse me, Dr. Diverseypants? If you want to celebrate diversity, you might try doing it right. Now go get your anti-capitalism friend and the two of you can pay a marked up price for enough mirrors to cover an entire room. Then sit there and stew in it. Stew, I say.

Someone told me that the Olsen “don’t call us the Olsen Twins” Twins are 18 now. They don’t really do it for me, but I might be in the minority on that one. They still look like they are twelve, so if you fantasize about them, you are a pedophile. Plus, the only thing worse than an 18 year-old girl is two of them who have so much money they could buy Oprah and Donald Trump and put them in a cage match (to the death. Winner gets killed). That’s what I would do.

I’m not sure I understand the fascination with twins. Sure, looking at two beautiful women is better than looking at one, but that’s about where it ends for me, because listening to two beautiful women yammer on annoyingly about how this one guy cut them off in traffic and they were all “whatever” would be 14.3% less fun than crawling feet-first into a badger den.

My conclusion? Hottie twins like the Olsens are reported to be (and may someday be once they look fully mature), the Dahm triplets, and the girls on the miller billboard on Piedmont avenue are good for only one thing, and should be categorized as such. I hereby coin the term “fuctuplets”. If it’s too offensive, feel free to say “humptuplets”.

Now on to the important stuff. No one really seems to care much about the fact that Scaled Composites Tier One Program just made the worlds first private manned mission in space. This is the single biggest event in aviation history, and it got a pretty minor mention in mainstream media. They should have made a piece of the ship fall on an innocent Iraqi citizen so at least part of it would be shown on the news for the next three months in an effort to prove what a horrible nation of underachieving murderers we have become. Is it illegal to report good news?

You know some folks at NASA are sweating right about now. “Yeah, we put a guy in space…you know, government project and all of that. I think the total bill was about seventy trillion dollars over ten years…huh? Sure, we lost a few guys in the process.”

Well, guess what. Someone just did it for $20 million. In three years. With no casualties. Hope you kept your receipts.

They are doing this in hopes of getting the X Prize. A $10 million prize awarded to the first private company that can put a manned, privately funded spacecraft and the weight of two passengers in space (62.5 miles) twice in two weeks using the same vehicle for both launches. Paul Allen dropped the cash to fund it, so I sort of wonder how he’s going to get a better ROI than 50%. If he’d call me back, I’d tell him my fool proof plan- Since the ship has to have a pilot and the weight of two passengers to qualify, let’s put a couple of tickets to ride Space Ship One on e-bay and see what kind of price they fetch. Here’s the hook- The People who buy them have to have sex while in space, thus making their mark in history as the world’s first members of The Sixty two-and-a half Mile High Club.

If that’s not worth $20 million, nothing is.

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