...in his most highly conceptual state.



Good luck at SCAD.

XXOOs

ra

Given the choice between cutting my own arm off with a rusty Cub Scout® knife in order to survive or dying with my arm pinned under a large boulder, I'd choose death. And complain about how stupid I was to go on such a dangerous expedition alone and without a cell phone. That’s because with most surgeries where I’m awake, I’m also a coward.

However if the X-acto® Knife were the equivalent of a laser scalpel, I'd be the Picasso of the O.R. With ice in my veins, I can trim hangnails, cuticles and other barnacles from my flesh with the style, speed and skill of Zorro on his best day. No anesthetic. Even brave enough to lance the blisters of granulated eyestrain from my aged eyelids. (Yes, true. And yes, a little freaky even for me. But desperate and painful times...)

With a whittled down graphite pencil, exposing about an inch of the graphite point and heated to a red-hot glow from the open flame of the kitchen stove, I can burn the gnarliest of warts, moles—even create a tat or two—without getting dinged for one cent in co-pay. (Learned that trick from my Dad the hard way. I made the mistake of showing him—a farm boy—a wart on my thumb. That day I was baptized with fire, literally, and have been a proselytizing convert ever since.)

Give me a sharp needle and Camphophenique® for sterilization, and I can pop a zit or lance a boil on the ruddiest teenager in town with such force as to hit the bathroom mirror with authority and precision.

I hold the Guinness Book of World Record® for the longest distance launch of a toenail clipping mortar. One of the most underrated of body grooming activities, nail clipping is an art, a science, and a discipline you must be willing to work at until your fingers and toes bleed. Only then do you know within your heart and soul that your self-sacrifice is synonymous with success.

One of the greatest, simple pleasures life offers me is the occasional itch within one of my ear canals. In the nanosecond at the first onset of itchiness and before my grin reaches full tilt, my eyes scan the room with bat-like sonar, searching for a car key, Bic® pen cap, or most preferably, the indispensible bobby pin. Words cannot describe the pleasing pain and satisfaction of spelunking inside one of my ears and the treasure found within. If I could find a buyer for my auditory secretion, I would've retired at 35.

I could go on, but I'll save more for a later entry. Nonetheless, I do not boast about my talent as a de facto surgeon out of hubris. I'm compelled toward my actions as the moth is to the bug zapper. Moreover, like the beautiful, yet often misunderstood Turkey Buzzard chowing on rotten carrion on the side of the road resembling a number of morbidly obese Little League® coaches at an after-game party at Cici's Pizza®, it's simply my destiny. It's who I am and what I do. Few people reach such self-actualization. I'm just one of the humbled, blessed few.

"Texas is wild, Phillip. Always has been. Always will be."

And it's full of wildlife. Especially where I live.

That said, I can't figure out why people put up fliers for lost pets out here. Are they going through the motions for the kids, or are they just ignorant and stupid carpetbaggers? (Since I'm a certified cynic, I prefer the latter to the former. But we're closing in on Christmas, so I'll give 'em the benefit of the doubt till 2011.)

Nevertheless, I see a new bill posted about every two weeks or so. Most of the time it's promoting a lost cat. Today's guerrilla campaign was for a little, poor-excuse-for-a-living-organism to yip, pee and poop. Some kind of curly-haired, terrier-type of wind up model that went by the name of "Abby," I think. (Passed tense of "To go" used purposely.)

I can tell you that "Abby" is feeling anything but "Normal" this morning. Except in the satiated brain and tummy of the coyote that had her for a midnight snack last night. (I say, "Good riddance to bad rubbish." Next time, get a real dog with no batteries required.)

When I see one of these signs, it's all I can do to keep from getting out my black Sharpy®, using the back side of a sheet of paper from a worthless conference report, and drawing a tubby, relaxed, Loony-Toonish Wiley Coyote, standing up and leaning against a rock, digging into his toothy, shit-eating grin ("Abby"-eating grin in this case) with a toothpick. Pinky raised. And with the headline "Found," written in a bold, sanserif, serial-killer scrawl at the top. They're just lucky I have sucky hand skills.

Then I'd sit and wait by the lamppost with the camera in my iPhone at the ready for when the owners come by. Would love to capture the looks on their collective faces for posterity. Priceless.

Anyway, I noticed another sign in the bathroom at work today, advertising for a lost parrot that answerED to the name of "Milo." Have no idea how "Milo" met his ultimate fate. Tragic really, I'm sure. Arrrrrgh! It tears apart me little hearty.

It was an international "Tamponalooza" in the wee morning hours of the 21st as thousands of Witches...I mean Wiccans gathered around fires and cauldrons worldwide in an attempt to get the six-plus billion population in alignment by conjuring up a single, global, and unified menstrual cycle. Although this is common occurrence within co-ed dorms everywhere, it hasn't been attempted or tested on such a grand scale before. This all happening during the first Winter Solstice to coincide with a lunar eclipse in nearly 500 years.

Witches...I mean Wiccans around the world, in Middle-earth and at Hogwarts were instructed telepathically by a tremor in the dark side of the force to start screaming at exactly 2:38 a.m. Greenwich time on the 21st — the start of the eclipse, "I'm a psycho-bitch, I'm a psycho-bitch...," for the full 72 eclipsing minutes. (Dramatic aside: I think they all wear tall, black pointy hats when no one's looking, too. Just sayin'.)

If worldwide menstruation is successful, many scientists in the global warming community fear that such a phenomenal, simultaneous release of vaginal blood (Eewwallllyuk!) could have a detrimental effect on the daily ebb and flow of ocean tides. (And feminine hygiene.) Their collective phobia is well founded says, Dr. McMurtry Dorkudong, best-looking, non-degreed-meteorologist-geek at the National Weather Center. "Think of it like the entire city of Manhattan flushing toilets on cue. Not a good thing.

"Melting polar caps and glaciers are tantamount to rising sea levels and paramount in the support of our global warming, 'Bawck, bawck! The sky is falling, the sky is falling! Bawck, bawck!' scam...I mean theory. That supra-amounts to a lot. If the witches...I mean Wiccans are successful, the icicles they have for hearts alone could decrease global temps by one to two degrees Celsius. You've heard, 'Cold as a witch's...I mean Wiccan's teet,' right? Then we'd have to change our stories back to global cooling, like in the '70s. Do you know how much money we've spent, and how many government grants and book deals Al Gore and myself have riding on global warming? Do you, punk!?"

The results of the outcome of this event are still pending. However and like Dr. Dorkudong, I woke up irritable, bloated and cramping. Pretty amazing.

THIS JUST IN — Mydol®, Kotex®, Mad Cow disease and divorces up 37% in an unprecedented one-day spike on the 22nd.

If not, you'll get stuck doing all of the fecal work during the holidays. Like yours truly.

It's always important to be goal-oriented. Regardless of your endeavor. And to paraphrase Ricky Bobby's dad who said it best, "Second place is first loser."

Testing, testing... check, check. One, two. One, two. Helllllloooooo?

I've seen this band live four or five times—once from the 20th row on the floor. However, seeing them at the Bob Bullock Theater in 3D is the best U2 concert I've ever experienced. It's like Bono, Edge, Adam and Larry all are basically playing in your lap. That coupled with nearly 100k fanatic Argentinians jumping wildly in unison and singing along in English is incredible.

Sadly for you, if you haven't seen it in Austin, you've missed it. Saturday night was the last showing of its second run. "Nanna, nanna, boo, boo." Will there be a third? I'll keep you posted.

Regardless, even if you're just a mediocre U2 fan at best, risk everything to see this film. You won't be disappointed.

I actually saw a woman—whom I know fairly well—walk into the bathroom at work today with a newspaper proudly tucked under her arm. That's comedy.

Good thing I wore my 18-hour bra.