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The ancient art of fecomancy can help you determine your personality type and how to live your life. Your fate is not ruled by the stars! The stars above are too far away and dim to exert any influence on you; common sense tells us that. No, your fate is ruled by something much closer, maybe even in your colon right now!
Use this handy chart to determine YOUR fecotype now! (click to download a nice, printable PDF)
So there's been lots of miserable headlines in the news, but then I saw this one that made me realize that there's lots of wonderful things going on as well.
by T. Mike
The Dream:
I'm in a car with comedian/actor/writer/director Carl Reiner. It's a young version of him, so young he actually has hair! The car is black and of older, if indeterminate vintage, late 1950s to early 1960s. Carl is drving, I'm in the front passenger seat. He's started the car and we're about to pull away from the curb, when I realize my cat is sitting on the hood close to the windshield, by the passenger seat. I quickly reach out the open window to grab her. Some combination of my inadequate grabbing, and the cat struggling cause me to lose my grip and the cat starts to fall to the ground. I manage to grab her tail. Now here's where some weird dream effects kick in, and several things happen at once. I'm horrified of course, and quickly haul in the cat by her tail to the safety of the car. But for a horrifing second, the cat is on her back on the asphalt being dragged along almost behind the car. But, of course, cat tails just aren't that long. Nor do cats survive that. The whole time I'm doing this I'm chanting "Stop the car! Stop the car! Stopthecar! Stoptthecar!" But not only does Reiner NOT stop the car, I swear, for the instant the cat is on the ground, the damn car SPEEDS UP!
So the cat is safely in my arms where I am hugging it tight to make sure it doesn't freak out and get away from me and in any more trouble. Eventually Reiner pulls over and I'm like "Dude, did you NOT hear me saying 'Stop the car'!? Or did you just not pay attention? When somebody starts saying stop the car OVER AND OVER again, you STOP THE CAR!" He doesn't even have the decency to act sheepish. And then after I say something like "Dude, you OWE me! Big time!" Reiner starts talking about how when I tell this story about him and the cat, I should start it with this time he paid for a $21.95 dinner with 22 dollars, leaving a nickel tip. So not only does he not care about almost killing my cat, he's trying to help me punch up the story of him almost killing my cat!
I would be more outraged, but then the dream turned into something about how I had decided to feed my old car to a couple of newer cars. But the newer cars just sort of nibbled on it, and then drove off playing with a giant ball, driving into it to "kick" it, and then chasing after it. And the cars were really bad at it 'cause they were cars.
Analysis:
I think this dream is about the incompatibility of compassion and comedy. I've always felt that it's comedy's job to be nasty and vicious, but in a smart and sharp way, like a knife, and not gratiuitous and disgusting way, like a handful of poo. Well, people get hurt either way, and um... that's a bad thing. Not as bad as deliberately speeding up the car is trying to haul in a cat by the tail, mind you.
Reiner is telling me that tragedy can be mined for comedy, that everything is grist for the mill. But for God's sake, punch it up a little! Make it interesting! But so complete is his heartlessness, he deliberately speeds up the car either as some kind of joke on me, or in an Andy Kaufman-esque move, speeds up the car so that my story of the event I will tell later will be better. Weirdo!
But as for me, I chose the cat. I guess I haven't got the large cohones nor the icy heart needed to rip into everything and everyone.
The thing about the cars eating each other and "kicking" the ball around, I have NO freaking idea what that means. I haven't even seen that Cars movie yet.
Conclusions:
1. Carl Reiner was handsome before he went bald.
2. Cats are more important than jokes.
3. If someone keeps saying "stop the car," then STOP THE DAMN CAR ALREADY!
I thank you for your time.
Back to T. Mike's other dreams
The staff and directors of the Museum of Found Art are excited to announce that we have been able to expand our offerings into a new wing. Our first exhibit in our new space features advertising images. We begin with this ad for the most famous little blue pill in the world.
... and, like subways all over the globe, they often function as a complex subterranean network to distribute lunatics and unhygenic people all over a metropolitan area. And such was the case this past Friday.
Now, I love cars, and own 2 vintage cars, but the combination of my cheapness and a career that mandates lots of sedentary ass-sitting have made me decide to bike and take the subway to work. Normally, the LA subways are clean, fast, and wildly under-utilized. Friday was not much different, except I managed to pick the absolute worst and most fascinating subway car to be in.
When I first entered the car, I was struck on two sensory fronts: olfactory, by the colossal jets of stink issuing from the unclad armpits of the guy next to me, almost visible if one squinted; and visually, by the gigantic 8-foot tall transvestite dressed like a 12 year old girl at summer camp. It was kind of like seeing a mighty sequoia clad in denim capris and a white shirt knotted playfully above the knothole that stood for the tree's navel.
But for subway travel, neither of these things are that unusual. What really made the trip special was a disturbed older fellow, filthy, shaggy-haired and bearded, clad whimsically in a woman's low front and back shirt with fur trim and a pair of slim, pocketless women's jeans that I'm sure would be quite flattering anywhere else. What made this fellow special was his willingness to grab a big hunk of his hair, produce a lighter, and set it on fire.
His hair went up pretty well, making a nice smouldery fireball on the side of his head. In a way, I was glad he set his hair on fire in that the smell of burning hair effectively masked the armhole stank of the guy next to me, and it was, if not better, at least different. Eventually, his headfire died down, leaving a charred horn of hair in its place, and I, along with pretty much everyon else on the subway, bolted out, leaving the car to the flaming-headed loon and the massive tranny.
I love LA!