Personal Train Me, Please

Dance class stopped plodding along today. Due to various frightening events in my everyday life, I have only made it to one class and I spent most of it getting my head stuck and unstuck and stuck again in my costume dress's arm hole. I think that perhaps I have put the dessert cart in front of the meal horse on this one, because now I am fretting that perhaps my body is not all painted up and readied for public display and liftings without hernias ensuing. Also, my head may have a larger circumference than I bargained for.

I asked my godson, Paul, to get my money back from the place as he is more frightening with his voice than I am with mine. (Although I did once portray a rabid wolf who ate children in a school play, and my performance had everyone depressed and angry for weeks afterwards, but that is neither here nor over there.) It took a lot of shouting, but Paul was able to get the money back in exchange for I never take another class there and that Paul stays 500 meters from their offices at all times. All of today’s shoutings have got me all cramped up in my stomach, wrists, neck, back, feet, abs, spleen, taste buds, cheek puffs, shoulder humps, yarn-bucklers and skull cap, which I am none to the pleased with by or of. Nevertheless, I can't remember a more beautiful day.

I still plan to take some dance classes (somewhere else) at some point, but first I must get into repair. Parts of me that are loosened need to be firmly stowed away and tucked under where they belong. “Keep your arms and all other flapping parts inside the train at all times,” a conductor man would surely say to me.

So I placed a call to a gymnastics man who could train me into tonefulness and versalability. The call was recorded by me to ensure personal homeland security and that quality customer service is being enjoyed by all, not absconded henceto and hitherforth.

Press play on the player below to hear my phone call.

Mantis Encounter!

Yesterday I became troubled upon an altercation I stumbled into as I crossed over to the Walgreens. Now, ordinarily I do not stop for anything that looks like it needs my help, because this is a ploy that many burglars and mafia people will use to ensnare foolish people into, but I will stop to help three things: (1) worms, (2) turtles, and (3) praying mantis people. Today will be my last praying mantis helper day due to anger caused to me in the story which follows this paragraph.

As I was making my street crossings to the sausage pickle basket egg cheese emporium where I like to purvey Monday mornings, I crossed paths with a gentleman who looked like he needed my help as he was much smaller than my foot and I almost stepped directly atop his head and brain region. I stopped short when I saw him and could tell this was no ordinary man. It was a praying mantis. He was sitting in the street and praying. Ordinarily I leave people alone when they pray as it has not gotten me the things I wanted when I have interrupted them in the past. But due to the size of this gentleman, I thought I would let him know he had picked a dangerous place to worship. There are many cars, trucks, bicycles, and robots that could easily run a mantis right down. So I surveyed the ground and grabbed a nearby stick with which I began prodding his person to let him know the time had come to wrap it up and move on.

He spun his head around to look at me and we had a good staring match. I said, “Excuse me,” and suggested that he move, but I have never communicated with a mantis and didn’t know which vocabulary words with which he would be familiar.

He appeared angry as he took a step towards me. I backed up a little out of terror and he stepped another foot towards me. This continued for several hours until I was very hungry and needed to stop in for a quick bite, so I grabbed a cookie biscuit at a bakery and then continued the chase with the vicious mantis. I yelled “I am trying to help you,” but he would not relent. I could not go directly home, because then he would know the locale of my dwellings and that thought was disquieting. I ran in a zig zag pattern for about an hour to throw him off, but he had his wits about him and followed my every move.

I ran to a department store because I knew the mantis would not want to venture on the likes of an escalator, and I needed a new pair of slacks. So I went to Goldblatt's but it was closed for remodeling and instead was the Department of Human Services which was fine with me because I need to renew my city sticker and also the services of removing the mantis from my path.

Scared to make the walk home all alone, I rang for Paul to come get me. He was headed out for drinks but said he would come get me in a few hours. This was fine because I've been meaning to count the dots on my left arms for some time, and this allowed me the chance to do this.

As a postlude, I do want to add that Paul has done a couple nice things for me lately. Yesterday, on the drive home I saw a robot-bicycle-man propelling himself down a street. I yelled "Who's that robot!" and Paul informed me that it was a just man on a bike. It was nice for him to calm me, because he knows that I don't trust robots, vacuum cleaners, belts, or anything you can build a robot out of.

The other nice thing he did was to get me a new stereo. I had complained that when I listen to my phone calls I am always frightened at the sound of my voice because it sounds like a burglar man or a specter has broken into the stereo to hex me and that is something I find alarming. It is a stereo from a car, and how he got it I don't know, but I wonder if the gash on his hand has anything to do with it. I don't know how to hook up a car stereo to my speakers, but I imagine I will tie some wires to it to get it working in no time for tea.

I'm sorry, did you just say something?

Alright honey, bye-bye.

I Elude the Snares of an Evil Canoe Heist!

What an awful weekend.

First off, the futon has sustained another injury caused my godson, Paul, himself. There is a gash in the cushion where the fabric used to be. I checked my godson’s pockets, expecting to find a shiv or a broken glass bottle with which for him to use in his normal barfights. To my shock, all I found was a comb, so evidently he is turning even that into a weapon with which to gash my furniture and nice things. With his hair condition, he really only would need a wet towel for grooming and danderfiling, thus causing me more suspicion directed at his person. I did not question him on the comb as I did not want to stir the pot of frogs.

But the second bad thing began when I heard my godson place a phone call to a canoe rental company. It began innocently enough. He had invited me to a reunion of his family which I agreed to join, only for the purpose of protecting my name against embarrassments of mine that he may have chosen to mention. Here is the call he placed to the canoe boat rental dock place.



Now, I respect and was impressed with his thriftiness, however, mere minutes after placing this phone call, I heard him chatting with the postman and laughing about tossing me in the water. I imagine that he would like to see what my hair looks like when it is wet, and I was determined for him not to see me like that, so I called back the canoe place to ensure my protection. You can hear the call below.

EPILOGUE

I averted certain drenching by screaming and smoking constantly throughout the entire boat trip. I had alerted the people in the canoe office that if they no longer heard screams or saw my smoke signals, they should call the police. My scheme with the canoe house ended up being for naught because Paul’s family cancelled the trip after declaring that the day was “too loud and musty” to be with on the canoe. I personally thought it was a beautiful temperature, and every time I stopped screaming I could hear the lovely babblings of the brook in which we were astreamed. Their inability to detect ideal outdoor conditions furthers my suspicions that Paul’s family is nothing but drunkards.

Lie Detecting

Pardon the intrusion in my posts of late, but I have been occuppied with an unexpected houseguest. My godson Andrew is in town as his Houston job has dried up and he is looking for funding. He stops in every 3 years and 2 months to see how I'm doing and whether there is a space on the futon for him. Of course there always is, but I am a smidgeon worried this time as I do not have a duvet this time around, since he ruined the last one with his drunkeries.

His name Andrew and he has always never been up to no good. I love him dearly, but he has a mischievous streak of which I am none too pleased. He is not a bad son (I call him my son), although he was never very good at origami or any of the folding arts I taught him. It's just that he is often angered, sometimes on my behalf.

He is not a responsive gift recipient and when I presented him with a sausage cheese egg pickle and sausage basket, he snorted at it, not like a pig, but like a non-plussed burro. He is the only one who has not appreciated the baskets that I give, and this was of course offensive to me.

I have argued with him to stay off the booze train, and he says he is cooperative, but last night I was not sure. I wanted to be sure, so I attempted to enlist the help of a lie detector test. I was thinking that perhaps being hooked up to one and the subsequent flashings of colorful bulbs might make him nervous enough to not get on the wagon again. The rental of such a device necessitated a phone call, of which I recorded, and of which you can listen to on the player below.

Too Much Pudding Information

When I bumped into an acquaintance at bingo the other night I was appalled to heaer her go on an on regarding a hair she found in her dessert. First off, the church has financial troubles as it is without her raising a stink to boycott the chocolate pudding. Second, in mentally selecting a culprit for the hair, the conversation drew all attention on her as she is thinning in the back and the pudding was resting gently behind her for several minutes before she partook. Thirdly of all, it is very unappetizing to hear of such things from other people. Other people’s sophomoric body sheddings should not be shared with by me. I may have lost the bonus board as a direct result of her squeameries.

But on the up and up, what I wanted to tell you about was of my stool samplings of lasterday yester. I had belief of tapeworms that may have been rollicking out down up in there and so I visited my doctor who checked it all out with big metal tools and lights, slapped me on the back and said I was good to go. He gave homework to wrangle up a sample of a dirty culture from my droppings, but I had troubles with the home stool sample kit he gave me, so I placed the phone call below.

Press play on the player below to hear the phone call.

Espionage Against Me

Getting to my dance lessons has been difficult thus far. I have remitted full payment for the class, and today was supposed to be the first one, but I had to miss. I was only 20 minutes late when I was about to leave, but during my customary detailed inspection to make sure nothing is amiss in the apartment, I noticed a crack in the floor that perhaps had not been there before. I followed the crack and it seemed to run the entire length of my living room. I immediately suspected that it was a spy-type thing where perhaps people could follow me from one end of the room to another to achieve some sort of goal of their own of which would not be shared by or helpful to me. I attempted to thwart them by stacking old magazines and newspapers on top of the crack, thereby creating an opaque substance of which for them to not see through.

I had just completed my thwartful task when I found a second crack in the floor, equal in length to the first. I rushed to my magazine and newspaper room, but had only enough to cover half of the crack. At this, I went reeling and into a shopping spree to Walgreens of which where to buy more magazines and newspapers but the man there said he didn’t sell those, only pastries, and did I want to order anything. I was unaware that Walgreens had changed over to selling only yeast breads, but this is fine with me as I like eating a croissant from time to time, for my constitution. I bought the pastries and took them home.

Upon home arrival it was clear that the stack of magazines had been moved no less than a quarter of an inch of where I had placed them, so I readjusted them and filled the other crack with the pastries.

When I found the third crack, it became clear I would not make it to my dance class, as I was 3 hours late and the class is only an hour-thirty. I laid down flat on top of the crack to block at least 5 feet 1 inch of the lateral, floor-length peephole. From this spot I could just reach the phone to call the floor man and he said that cracks like the ones I am experiencing are perfectly normalized in a hardwood floor.

Soothed by his words and promises, I went out to buy some baton twirlers at Walgreens. Because they recently decided to sell only bread goods, I was prepared to use breadsticks if need be. However, when I reached the Walgreens, their new policy is that they sell only Mexican food and beer, so I am using tostadas which is messy, but luckily my floor already is bedded with newsprints and magazines on of which to catch it all. I trust I will catch up with the rest of the class in a timely manner.

Alright, Honey. Bye-bye.