The weather has been so amazing today I've been taking supplies out to the deck to masturbate outside. Nothing like the unequaled pastoral beauty of hot oyster production with a cardinal perched on the branch of a Bradford Pear off in the distance.

Pie/Pai/π

All the best pies were probably originally intended to be cakes that were just too soggy and then the lady that cooked them was all, "But Lance's boss is coming over for supper tonight! If we don't have a confectionery for post-meal mastication he won't get the big McGonigill account!!!! EXCLAMATION!".

So she served the wet cake and the boss, who has a Big Moustache, says, "Good pie Gladys!" and so then she makes it all the time and her husband gets the account and his wife gives him ten million blow jobs.

But then Lance fucks up the McGonigill account and the Boss fires him and then Gladys leaves him because when the Boss goes down on her the Big Moustache tickles her just the way she likes.

30 years later she confides in the Boss that the "pie" she made him was really just a wet cake and he beats her with the PVC pipe they keep in the janitor closet at the retirement home.

He got in 3 or 4 good shots before she called the nurse in to protect her, and the nurse punches him so hard that his old head falls right off and Gladys finally sees inside of his head and inside of his head is a Robot Brain and she finds out that his moustache wasn't really a moustache but a Space Antennae for receiving instructions from Space.

After all these years, she thinks, he turned out to be a space alien who excelled at cunnilingus.

The moustache, maybe, was little fiber optic wires.

Goddammit, I'm depressed.

Akimbo.

Try as you might, modern hipster girls, you'll never achieve the amount of sex, awesome, and rocketship laser future the 70's had.

(courtesy of Prolly Is Not Probably)

His table was sticky and initially seemed unwilling to let go of the ancient menu. Andy's mother had always told him she could guess how good the food at any restaurant would be by taking a quick peek into the kitchen. "No clean kitchen ever produced finger lickin' fried chicken" she'd cackle to the friends and family 'fortunate' enough to hear her truism one more time. On the way to the bathroom to wash his hands Andy caught a glimpse of the back room at Rita's Sunshine Sitdown and knew that if his mom was half as accurate as she was colorful, he was in for a hell of a lunch.

A weathered looking redhead he correctly assumed was his waitress breezed past him a few times while attending to other patrons before quietly settling behind him shortly after he pried the menu from the table. "I think I'm going to try out the Sunshine Burger Plate with the fruit instead of fries please, " he announced to the charm less woman who offered no name, greeting or smile and looked to be on the 16th hour of a 12-hour shift. She was off as silently as she arrived leaving a wake of a stale perfume mingled with an attitude that likely sucked the will to tip fifteen percent out of more customers than not.

With nothing to read as he waited for his food Andy scanned the cafe and spotted an old "Frogger" machine on the other side of the counter. He quickly fished two quarters out of his rucksack and sauntered over to the machine. It was the walk of someone who had played the simulated 'frog crossing a busy road' game a few times too often and spoke of a naivety and youth Andy tried to hide in most instances. He dropped in quarter number one and began traversing racecars, semis and logs and slowly tuned out the less than ideal surroundings as the game's action quickened. After a few minutes of frenzied play he felt his stomach beckon him back to the table and he sat down just in time to exchange a forced smile with his waitress.

Andy was hungrier than he'd reckoned and the burger went down fast and taste like he'd expected. The fruit, however, looked like it had been picked with the intentions of feeding someone with poor eyesight and a tragic but necessary lack of taste buds. He pushed the unappetizing mix away after picking out a few grapes that looked like they'd escaped the Produce Grim Reaper. Feeling full and rested Andy reached for his rucksack to pay his bill and get back on the road but instead felt only the worn upholstery of the seat where he'd left it.

"Someone stole my bag!" he announced to the waitress while storming to the counter, "Some THIEF here stole it while I was playing 'Frogger'!"

"Now just calm down, honey, let's take a look around and see if we cain't turn it up here before you go around calling names," she drawled with no matter of urgency. She walked around cocking her head this way and that, occasionally pausing to purse her lips or squint her eyes. "Now what color did you say that bag of yours was?"

"It was tan," he replied in the calmest, most monotone fashion he could muster. "It was a tan bag with ALL of my things in it," he repeated, feeling his facade crack and vanish much like all of his belongings. "But just what the fuck does the goddamn color matter if you don't see any bags in the first place?"

She straightened and red-faced started, "Now just you-"

"Are you trying to decide if mine is the brown lost bag or the orange lost bag or the lavender lost bag and you just can't decide which one to happily hand me or are you just apathetic to the whole thing and wasting my time?" Andy shouted.

A formidable looking male patron of Rita's Sunshine Sitdown rose and moved toward Andy but was waved off by the waitress. "Can we calm down now? Can we take a breath?" she asked the now seated and defeated looking boy.

"Surprise," someone behind Andy meekly exclaimed. His stomach dropped when he instantly recognized the voice. He turned and barely managed to eek out a grimace as he saw his prankster girlfriend Anne standing at the door dangling the bag from a single tanned shoulder. "I thought it would be funny," she attempted, "Who knew you'd go psycho on these poor people?"

Andy slumped deep into his booth and wished silently Anne had slept through lunch in the van. He walked toward the register with his tail between his legs, his eyes to the floor and paid the check. Before he swung cafe door open towards the cloudless sky and inviting road he turned and started a halfhearted apology that found no purchase in the ears of the employees or customers at Rita's Sunshine Sitdown. He turned and slowly followed his girlfriend and felt slightly embarrassed but more than a little vengeful.

He'd hear about this one all the way back.

Random Thought Dump Time

-Today I went to Laurel Hill Cemetery. Saw Harry Kalas' memorial and spent a lot of time admiring tombs. Millionaires Row filled me with a sense of awe. I was standing amongst some of the oldest graves in the country. I would like to talk to people entombed there, have them share their life stories and tell me how they became so affluent to have such grand memorials erected in their honor. They'd probably just be really racist, though.

Nothing Can Stop the Grimace.

I bet Ronald McDonald gets furious when people mention Mayor McCheese... I mean, here's Ronald who basically runs the whole company, serves as it's mascot, contributes to a number of deserving and well-funded charities and this old guy just kinda slides in through the back door one day and declares himself to be the Mayor.

What mayoral powers do you think he holds? Stays of execution for the Hamburglar?

The Hamburglar, also, is a character that gets my goat.

First off, if you're going to steal hamburgers as your trade NEVER dress in the ol' timey vertically striped black and white prison uniform, a black mask and a hamburger spotted tie. It's going to call attention to you every time.

Secondly, you're going to need a moniker that doesn't initially suggest you're about to try and steal some hamburgers. Maybe call yourself the Carburglar or the FineArtburglar and fucking catch people off guard for once. Jesus.