Dissociate Fugue

As part of the plea bargain, this letter is to serve as a heartfelt apology to anyone who may have been offended by my conduct during one fateful day this past week. There are several incidents that I would like to touch on in this letter, in no particular order. For those of you who were present or who have children who attend the Laughing Kangaroo Day-Care, I hope you understand that my actions on September 22nd were meant to be seen as entertaining and fun, not horrific and "an affront to God" as it has so been called. First of all, my song about the paraplegic hooker was meant to be seen as a parable which dealt with the challenges we all face as human beings and, more specifically, as pimps of paraplegic hookers. I fully intended this to be a learning experience for the kids and, in hindsight, the choreography was poorly thought out and lacked reverence to the topic. It was also my understanding that children enjoyed sing-alongs and that asking them to "stay on the

I love a parade. I love a rainy night. I love the nightlife. I have raging flatulance.

I am more of a man than I once was… I admit that I was a testosterone filled monkey man before but now I have the wisdom of the ages to add to my repertoire. Why? I have shopped at Crate & Barrel. It's true. I know that some of you are jealous, others curious, still others…incontinent, but there is a certain glow that attaches itself to your aura the minute you walk into that store. If it isn't something to be bragged about, I don't know what is (and it is possible that I truly don't know what is.) In all honesty, the only reason to go there, for me, is because it makes my wife so ridiculously happy. Home furnishings and storage solutions are her crack. Sometimes, to get her in the mood, I scatter copies of the latest Container Store flyers around like so much obvious porn. Thanks to my wife's organizational fetish, I can convince her to purchase most things simply by making some correlation with storage. See this ridiculously priced writing desk? You can

My wife and I were lying in bed the other night. We were discussing children's cartoon shows, as we are prone to doing. I mentioned how I kept getting Franklin, who is a turtle, and Arthur, who is a fuck knows what, confused. I think it is just the similarity in the names. Both seem to be the kind of names you give to a kid who you never really cared for, even from conception. This led to a discussion about what exactly Arthur is. I have to be honest; I don't think I have ever watched a complete episode. Our daughter has a book that chronicles the tales of his little sister and her day in preschool. This book does nothing to shed light on the actual SPECIES that these things are, however. My wife suggested that they may be gerbils. I reminded her that in the book, they have a pet gerbil in the preschool classroom. I say this like the book is some memorable piece of American literature. My favorite authors list out as Vonnegut, Kerouac, some weird gerbil thing, and Camus. Jesus.

There comes a time in every man's life when he realizes his own mortality. There also comes a time, almost in the same exact instance of the former, that a man has some sort of nonsensical nostalgia for a cherished item or brand from his childhood. This happened to me recently. "Jim" I said to myself, because I know myself pretty well, I dispense with formalities."Jim" I say again…twice actually, "you are starting to get to the age where you not a young kid anymore". "Hey everybody, look at the old senile guy talking to himself" I hear from across the street. I should go back inside. At that same moment of realization it dawned on me; I needed some Fruit Stripe gum. For the record, no one actually needs Fruit Stripe gum, unless you are racked with some serious affliction which requires that you consume a stick of chewing gum with a mean time flavor duration of three nanoseconds every two minutes until the entire pack is gone. It is the polar