The full moon looks just like an asshole

Dropping your drawers? Chances are you are, or already have, or maybe you're currently losing a bet WI-FI-ing sans culottes "down" at ASTEROIDMONIES, thinking up clever names for a trophy dog you plan on buying.

Wow. Am I the only person who really digs most of Three Times Dope's "Live from Acknickulous Land?"

So I finally went to the doc about this previously very weepy poison oak I somehow managed to wrestle by myself from a tree in the backyard late-night after pounding some bronsons. Got a shot, got some steroids, got much cream.
Man, speaking of fucking three dimensional roid relief — when in the hell is this celebrity-pocked mound of celluloid going to infiltrate my skull and get seemingly uselessly lodged there forever upon some mirthful cloud of synapse lusting playfully at its chance to turn its faucet on to similarly minded pudge-KULTure scavengers? What Wouldn't Eliot Gould Do?


BREAKING NEWS:
ARTHUR MAG LIVES!!!!!!!!!!
from Myspace bulletin earlier this evening...

ARTHUR RESULT OVERTURNED

Sweethearts of the rodeo,

Arthur has been recalled to life.
I bought Laris's 50 percent interest in the magazine thanks to the efforts of family and friends.
Now I own 100% and am moving forward with all Arthur activities as quickly as possible.
Sorry for the interruption in service.
To celebrate the occasion, we've posted the whole ALAN MOORE ON PORNOGRAPHY piece from Arthur Magazine V1 N25 online on our Magpie blog.
http://www.arthurmag.com/magpie/

in gratitude,

Jay Babcock
Editor/Owner, Arthur Magazine

In other news, what's up with Forest Park? First, this house gets several noise complaints via our landlord and, apparently, voicing your concerns about volume levels with the owner of the property, not the current tenants, us, the folks residing next door every day, is to truly roll executive style on the Botox chariot in the faceless information age. A month or so later, I hear someone walk up the steps and the sound of paper being slid through the door, which I open to see what I at first thought was a city police officer shambing off to her patrol car as the pink note falls to the doormat. Turns out it's an obviously ennui-racked brownshirt from the Birmingham Police Environmental Gestapo who, upon my questioning of what her love note really means, informs me of the completely-unnoticeable-from-the-street- unless-you're-snooping-up-on-somebody's back yard's compliance with the city's visible grass overgrowth height! Unfortunately, she experiences a lot of difficulty elaborating about my inquiry into the logic of this warning, especially after attempting and failing miserable to interrogate her as to how the hidden yard warranted such unprecedented scrutiny. Did I mention that the grass in contention was no more than a few (six) surly tufts, each of which, although maybe 9" at best, could easily be yanked up by a fist? I mean, how did she know the land wasn't a backyard wildlife refuge? Now, forward to yesterday morning, where I'm greeted on the front patio by yet another piece of paper, this time from a passively 'tuded Tudor-owning neighbor I'd never met but ended up clandestinely luring over later in the day by passionately watering the very recently planted verbena and bulbs on the front mound (there is no front yard but rather a hill of dirt humping up to the stone patio wall). The letter sort of insinuates that thanks to our shabby rental property upkeep (?), some potential buyers of his fresh on the market waddle-n-dauber had actually backed out!
Did I mention that there is no trash anywhere in the front of our place? The bullshit appears to be already in full bloom. I guess things were smoothed out after our talk, but I can't help but still feel a little leery, especially considering those prospective buyers didn't mention anything to my neighbor about the character-drenched apartments two doors down from him where all kinds of eventful activity can be experienced on any given night in the shabby-chic parking lot of said units. Maybe it's time humanity got a little more in touch with its non-posturing biological energy, and just in time for Wilhelm Reich's archives to be opened! I think I will invite the piquant pharmacy drop-off lady I met while dropping off my prescriptions who involuntarily gnawed my head off, as well as the tightly-coifed noggin of a co-worker, at the Clairmont CVS yesterday. I hope she is toilet trained other than in her mouth.

Road trip anyone?