That is a difficult title to write. The two meees. No, really, what is the plural of me?As in the two people who I am, not two moose. The singular dichotomy of me. Me, as if I were two distinct people. One with a brain, and the other, differently enabled.
Continue readingIt hides your ugly face. Put one on your kids, for they are ugly too. Is their father ugly? He should wear a mask, also. Your dog is fine, though. As is your baby kangaroo.
Now, if we can only figure out a way to cover up the rest of your physical grossness. Have you ever considered converting to Islam? It has a few enthusiastic supporters, and they have solutions to your problem.
Not where I thought this one was going to go when I started, but it evolved organically. Like a fart forming internally from yesterday’s cabbage rolls. Also unpleasant. I should probably stop now, before it gets weird.
—DG.
It astounds me that people believe billionaires are not screwing with us. Socially, politically, economically. That’s just a conspiracy theory, they retort. I don’t believe any of that.
Continue readingEarnest Hemingway, that’s the guy. I can never remember his name, so I thought I would write it down here so I can look it up easily when I need it. When I am at social events, I often get mid-anecdote, especially when I have been drinking, like I do whenever air is mostly nitrogen, and I get to that part in the story where simile and metaphor collide, the part where I say, “You know, like that guy, the writer guy, you know, the one who wrote those books about war and fishing stuff and then ate a shotgun in his garage because of Sandra Bullock.” And there’s a pause, because no one can remember what happened yesterday. What was his name?
Continue readingIt’s 2am, the whiskey is nearly gone, and I have been posting comments on YouTube. Do you know where your children are?
Ah, man, that’s a really shitty segue; even worse than the two wheeled vehicles. It’s intended as a throwback to a 1990s PSA, but here it seems like a creepy threat. After the news, they used to do this thing, it’s 11pm, do you know where your children are? Back then I didn’t have children, so I would answer, No! or, In my testicles waiting to meet their mother!
Honestly, I don’t have your children, and I didn’t do anything to them. If they are missing, it’s your fault. Mine was a rhetorical question, not a confession!
—DG.
Inside Doug's Head 