Just (Not) My Style

So there I was, in a Hard Day’s Night, working like a dog, with no barking, walking around the factory after walking between the Work Buildings and having enjoyed the cool air of West Michigan spring while in my denim jacket, when suddenly I stopped to talk to some fellow associates; but not all that suddenly because I left no skid marks on the concrete floor or nothing, and long before I wrote this run-on sentence (because I was at work, not writing like I am now) a friend walked up to me with a large grin on his face and said, “hey Ken, don’t you know that denim jackets have been out of style for 20 years?”

Being the good natured fellow I am, I smiled while shaking his hand and quickly replied, “I really don’t give a ship (or something like that…)!!” Then one of the other associates said, “you’re one of the good guys, you can wear whatever you want and it would be just fine.” Being the silly fellow I am, I smiled again and said, “how about I put on a pink tutu and some OSHA approved safety ballet slippers?? Would that be OK??” One of the associates eyebrows kinda came together as he looked at the ground; but the one who called me one of the “good guys” said, “yeah sure!!”

Then I had yet another instance of fashion consciousness. A friend of mine came up to me and said, “nice shirt!!” Took a little pointing on his part for me to notice that he and I were wearing shirts with nearly identical fabric. “Oh!!” I said, finally getting the point. “Yeah, I’m guessing this is a thrift store special.” He gave me a puzzled look. I thought about that much later, wondering if I insulted him. But we are good friends so I’m pretty sure he didn’t take it too seriously. Besides, he found it amusing when I said, “yeah my wife buys all my shirts at the thrift stores. This one was probably 99 cents. Well OK it’s kinda nice, maybe she paid $2 for this one.”

As you may have gathered by now, I’m not exactly in tune with GQ or whatever that hoidy toidy men’s magazine is called. I just don’t give a hoot about fashion. Some proof of that is:

1) I just had to google “GQ” to make sure it still was what I thought it was; and

R) I still like having very long hair, even though it’s only growing well on the sides of my head (I plan to till the top under and try to grow a new crop); so that’s like 40 years out of style, and finally

&) I rarely pay attention to what the work shirt looks like in the morning. My fashion combo consists of a pair of blue jeans and a “business casual” shirt.

And yes, Virginia (or Vern), I stuff my shirt pocket with my smell phone, my eye glasses case, a pen, and maybe a small screwdriver. Oh and not to forget that’s where my badge hangs.

People see me from miles away and say, “NERD ALERT!! OLD HIPPIE NERD ALERT!!!”

Guilty as charged.

I do, however, try to make sure all the buttons are buttoned, my fly is zipped up, and my “gig line” is straight. For those who were never in the military, a “gig line” is correct when the seam of your shirt, your belt buckle, and your fly are all in a straight line from top to bottom. If you didn’t have that just so in basic training, you got gigged. Nobody likes to get gigged. Funny how old habits stick with you.

So the oldest habit of mine that sticks with me is I just don’t care about fashion. Fortunately my Beautiful Girlfriend keeps my garments acceptably coordinated when we have to play dress up for a wedding or whatever. Fun to see the new fashion stuff sometimes though, kind of like going to the carnival!!

I’m just not hip, folks. I’m an old hippie who doesn’t care about hip. Not even sure what the current expression for “hip” might be!! And I don’t give a flying mahookey!! So there!!

As the folks from the Tower of Power said so eloquently all those years ago (1973 in the video that follows), “what is hip? Tell me, tell me if you think you know.” Then later in the song is my favorite line: “What’s hip today might become passe.”

So I’m just not in style and that’s very OK with me. My Beautiful Girlfriend, on the other hand, is “Just My Style.”

So kids, two videos today. Tower of Power with “What Is Hip?” is first but isn’t displayed like other videos I’ve linked to in the past.  That’s because I usually embed them here, but this time Youtube said “embedding disabled by request.”  So just click the link to get the Tower of Power.  Nice performance by them on Soul Train.

The second one is in honor of my Beautiful Girlfriend, who will always be “Just My Style” like this song from Gary Lewis and the Playboys.

Peace!! (Now that’s ALWAYS in style!!)

Click here for Tower of Power’s “What Is Hip”

Click below for “Just My Style.”

Electronic Refractions And Mandatory Recycling Procedures

Dearest Traves and Mizzledenters,

In the interest of a more secure planet whose resources have been dwindling at an alarming rate, we must now embark upon an aggressive lotion application program for each and every living organism on this home we call Earth.

Some of you may well ask, “how does one apply lotion to pollywogs and other large mammals?” As a famous president often said, “let me say this about that.” Seriously, if you cannot yet grasp the operational intricacies of the Royal Lotion Brush, then please do not attempt to enter the Cat Coating Laboratory. Cats are not amused when radioactive desserts are substituted for common flashlight banana candles.

Please ask both of your friends whether they can seriously find themselves. You simply never know in this day and age where one can be found. And of course, if one is found then others will be soon to follow. Follow me to the store and I may or may not purchase some electronic bread removal tools. These and other contraceptives can be found floating through the 73rd dimensional portal that was built by the Ancient Dribblers.

I’ve asked our electronic recycling contractors to apply soap to both wheels. Please let me know if any capacity regions require further coagulation. The most effective method of communication for this purpose is very loud yodeling during a thunderstorm. Each yodel should be very melodic as well as crunchy; and the yodeler must be prepared to catch the fresh, warm output of the Danish Donut Ejection Machine.

This procedure is truly vital and must be followed exactly. Some of the more common questions that may or may not arise are:

Do chocolate celery sticks enjoy a separate life cycle?

What color is this wandering balloon whose name is Alfred?

Remember that one time when we were sleeping in the snowbank?

Is this carnival really safe?

When do we get to press the Magic Button?

Are you going to eat that???

Please thank yourselves in advance for your constellations. After all, EVERYBODY is a star.

Happy Wheezing,

Brebbick N. Zemberklang
a.k.a. “Foofie McSnuffington”

Now this has NOTHING to do with ANYTHING but it was fun for me. Hopefully for you too…

A Friendly Letter To Lorveltran

Dear Perglezookeys,

Please don’t spread the word, but as I have already alerted some of my comrades, I have been masticating during lunch. My mandible enjoys this to the point where it is pretty much automatic. Please do be aware, however, that mastication is a pure, wholesome, and reasonably natural process and should not be refreshed in the name of Dondo Frijole. You personally may opt NOT to masticate, but do so only with the precaution that you might be setting yourself up to receive the Hindkick maneuver from your piers. Piers and maybe even docks. If their are two such piers, well that of course would be a paradox.

On the other hand, you may receive the Hand Lick maneuver, which is totally disgusting and miserably ineffective. Your piers may not even want to try it. And of course, if you add an “L” to “piers,” you get “pliers,” and that’s what Herman the Zinc Miner will use to pinch your septum every single time the Three Stooges investigate the Twighlight Zone.

In the early morning night time, I opened the window and several nonfurry checkbook carriers escaped and ran through the intersections. As I saw this, I twinkled my toes and exclaimed, “Holy Photonic Calibration!! There go four of my unused satellite receivers!” If you see them, it’s likely they will be traveling with soup and perhaps even potato cartilage. This flavor based combination will intimidate even the best of all your political capuccino. Why would anyone even attempt to varnish tomatoes is way beyond my constitution.

Clang clang clang go the whistles, enjoying help from Above and Oh my God my socks are draining again. Above refers to a place higher than me, where birds, helicopters, and dragonflies enjoy friendly “Hey let’s watch the Exorcist again” parties. If you happen to be near such a gathering, please run from the wildebeest and leave a trail of Poppin’ Fresh doughnuts so we can find you when it’s time to do the dishes.

Are you trying to annoy me with that cheap imitation of a screen door you call “Lermick??” Well, just so you know, you’ll never make any Cracker Barrel Surprise with that silly rubber spoon you’ve hidden in the sofa cushions. I beseech you, never attempt to wave your antler hammers at my pet goat fish while she’s washing the television. This never happened before, and probably will never happen again. Unless, of course, the bread turns left at the next power pickle.

Someone stole eleven percent of my brain. This makes the chore of even normale typeikng vyery diffiddicult indeeded.n Sol I lleave youoyou noww, bbefoorew I cane nlwo longerers type * at # Alle.’

By buy,

Zeb Rookenzool

Action Figure of Choice,

3003 Ozone Olympics

P.S.: Soon I will buy you some string you can use to persuade insects to do fancy tricks.

Unless your name is Bimbo and you are trying to join a fraternity…

Moist Ditches And Windshield Wipers

When work becomes as stressful as a large bowl of salmon scales, I often begin to reminisce about the good old days when lutefisk was worn casually in the shape of a man’s oversized basketball hamper while small, decorative houseflies jump though hoops of blazing oatmeal during halftime at the “Sniff Your Dog’s Crayons” Festival; which is held every 10th Sunday of Jangulary in the beautifully snail infested vegetable drawer of Nyvack, New Applesander.

This of course has nothing to do with messages like:

“I believe I’ll resume sleeping in moist ditches again soon.” Or

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to borrow your windshield wipers for a couple months.”

And of course:

“Now that I’ve reached Mt. Agnes, my next journey will involve training my hair to light up during times of Zombie Invasions.”

All of these communications will be delivered to your screens long before you are able to discern the value of large piles of rusted pine trees. Please don’t attempt to erase this long standing lard hopper entertainment removal procedure. You’ll only end up with way too many roasted pick whistle shavings.

Speaking of whistle spray, I’m hereby reminded of a true (and probably completely false) recounting of our dear Grand Leaf Handler:

Long ago in Grandfather’s beard, a small squid died and stunk for days. All the village Elders offered him fire to drink and hid his remote control. Little children crawled up to see him and chewed off his toes. His own family sent for the Magic Bowl. They filled it with bird runch and mixed in pork, crayon shavings and geek fat. The ceremony began with the first three episodes of “Gilligan’s Island”; and when Grandfather started lusting for Mrs. Howell they fed him the Modongo. Very soon Grandfather blortled and fipped. He asked “What kind of bird runch are you feeding me today? Anyhow?” His family laughed at the snackwonder: “OH! AH! HOO!”, they bribbled. And that is how this Hay-Wy-Ann Island got its name.

I think…

Therefore my friends, dwell not on the nonsensical. Please do not try to extract any logical explanation for silly text that has no rhythm or sense of smelt. Additionally, remember that silliness is not at all similar to boiling marbles in chocolate powder. Lord knows only bicycles can endure that type of topical storm.

Thank you, and may all your blessings fly paper airplanes during important conferences.

Yours In Deep Sleep,

Melbert “Whippy” Goatfinder

And now for the REAL taste test…  I would like a job like what these gents have please.

Zagnut Explosions

There are times when I want to roll on the floor with my tongue flapping in the breeze, all the while flailing my arms and legs about as if I my pants were on fire; but if you heard me say this you would probably know that I may be fooling and then you could chant “liar liar pants on fire nose as long as a telephone wire” with that silly singing voice you have and then of course I’d confess that you’re correct and my pants might actually catch fire because I was fooling the whole time.

Breathe… breathe…

OK, it’s like this, awright?? I just had to pay for car insurance. I would really rather buy candy or maybe a doughnut or something. Do you think you can use doughnuts to pay for car insurance? Or can candy be converted into fuel for small jet packs that do little more than disrupt public speakers and / or eggplant processing machines?

I’d really like to know where my flashlight is.

How much more work stuff do I really need to endure, I ask you? Don’t they know that I’d rather have them just hand me the money and say “thank you for being” and just let me be?? NOOoooo… they actually expect me to perform tasks like remove cheese particles from USB ports and, please excuse my use of rough language, but at times I’m actually expected to work for my money!!! And I have absolutely no idea why I’m using both bold and italics for no apparent reason!! And enough with the superfluous exclamation points awreddy!!!!!!!

Breathe… breathe…

Yes, yes, I know full well that there’s no free lunch, you don’t get something for nothing, a penny saved is a penny earned, a stitch in time saves nine, and you can’t milk a goat with a Crescent wrench. After all, nobody would be rushing to the farmers market to buy wrench cheese stitched with nine pennies for lunch or nothing. No, these are difficult times, so every free something is either saved or earned, and in time I’m pretty sure we’ll find out that goes for all nine of them. Harvey Ticknoodle would be rather annoyed at all this falderal and its associated fiddle dee dee; therefore I implore you not to implode while trying to get those last molecules of milkshake out of the spark plug sockets.

Please, please quit reaching for my Zagnut. You know how doggoned good those are with coffee… mmmm coffee… cream and sugar please… no… honey. No I didn’t call you Honey. Well OK you’re pretty nice but I’m not that kind of Zagnutarian. I just like honey in my coffee instead of sugar. OK Honey?? And if you don’t believe me, just try a Zagnut with your coffeed honey and cream surprise leverage beverage.

While eating the coffee and drinking the Zagnut, nothing in this world will bother you for the entire 12 microseconds it takes for a hummingbird to sing “Oh What A Beautiful Flower Drink” during the last 12 innings of the World Series. That completely unfamiliar Zagnut aroma flavor will cause a sensory explosion the likes of which you’ll never scream to the Sheriff’s Office. You’ll feel refreshed, and of course you’ll be thoroughly Zagged. Only a Nut would deny this delicious cloud softening cable the chance to tinkle on the tastebud tours of Flampington, Indiana.

Well it’s finally a weekend. Thank goodness. Thought I was gonna have to get silly there for a minute.

Life, The Universe, And Everything

A lost document (which should have remained lost)

by Hyram C. Gilmore

     With the wisdom available to us at the present time, it
has been suggested to me that an explanation for our
existence on the planet is in order.  After spending the last
37 years researching this, I have made some true and amazing
conclusions; which I would now like to force each living
being to believe.

     For example, I recently became aware that if you leave
your underpants on long enough, they change color.
Additionally, continued wearing of underpants after this
color change occurs may allow the garment to harbor
unpleasant odors and crusty stuff.  The only way to alleviate
this condition is to place the garment on a flat surface and
cover it with birdseed.  Take this outdoors.  Laugh at the
birds for eating the kaka and weewee particles.

     I am also convinced that yellow things are really
stupid.  Every yellow thing I have spoken to just sits there
with that idiotic yellow way they have.  Yesterday I told a
balloon about how to change an alternator.  The stupid thing
just sat there, sitting there, being right there remaining at
the place where it was!  O obscurity and pickled desk tops!
It's like they don't even WANT to communicate.

     As many of you know, we have been joined together at the
elbows.  Put one in your mouth and the other in your
carbon paper and rotate, as if anyone really cares.  That
should give the neighbors something to sell shoes about.  Of
course, I knew all along that they would choose the wrong
toothbrush if left alone in a crowd.  
     Documentation has proven that Hawaii has been included
in the universe.  You can find it under "H" in the new
edition of Fronkle's Universal Inventory.  Mr. Loofa Noodle
is there, and has been named official Captain of the Battle
Destroyer Flotation Device Cruise Ship Thing:  "Ono-Ahma-
Liki"; which regularly patrols the coast of Oopa-Oopa.  He
and his crew have been on the lookout for fiddler crabs and
their pet hair dryers.  It seems that when the local
fishermen go out on the town, they catch crabs while
fiddling; and the hair dryers cry for chicken pot pies.

     Perhaps the most interesting characteristic about the
Hawaiian Toe Jams is the unique geological constipation.
Large clouds of black dust hover over the natural beauty of
the native insecticide.  Tourists from all over the world
flock around with their chins in a little dress; and sing
about the time I puked all over the dog and he kicked my
rosy red piano.  Palm trees sway in the bathroom when pigs
climb to the top. It is truly a remarkable sight to be dismayed!

     Tropical customs are in full view of retarded garden
tools.  Hula dancers wear the traditional grass shirts which
come in plaid or velvet.  They burn well and are organized
according to battery or solar powder.  Each dance tells a
story just exactly like this:
------------------------------------------------------------
     Long ago in Grandfather's beard, a small squid died and
stunk for days.  All the village Elders offered him fire to
drink and hid his remote control.  Little children crawled up
to see him and chewed off his toes.  His own family sent for
the Magic Bowl.  They filled it with bird runch and mixed in
pork, crayon shavings and geek fat.  The ceremony began with
the first three episodes of "Gilligan's Island"; and when
Grandfather started lusting for Mrs. Howell they fed him the
Modongo.  Very soon Grandfather blortled and fipped.  He
asked "What kind of bird runch are you feeding me today?
Anyhow?"  His family laughed at the snackwonder: "OH! AH!
HOO!", they bribbled.  And that is how this Island got its
name.  
------------------------------------------------------------

     Now, I'm sure you are wondering about the food one
encounters in this area of the planet.  Well, being the
expert you are, let's hear about it!  Don't tell me I have to
eat those dirt things again!  You served those last time, and
they made my cats run for president!  I'll never be ashamed
of my feelings about the time I stuck my hand in that bag of
jello and chicken lips you gave me!

     Last time I was never there, I'm sure I ordered shrimp
on the halfshell.  The cook was in the garage, busily peeling
the breadsticks; when suddenly an overwhelming radio cracked
his head three feet long.  The waiter took photographs of
dead bugs in the air conditioner; but we all knew he sang
great songs of urination.  You see, when you finally learn to
accept that the world is merely a fig in a bucket of lard;
everything else shines dimly through rose colored sandbags.
This can surely cause religious brethren to noisily teach their
children "The Great Spoon Dance."  A glazed look falls upon
the fat silver necklace camouflage device.  With little or no
warning, little pajama people excrete a slimy trail of
really neat toys which are easy to squeeze and maintain.

     Many people have been sticking pens up their noses and
telling me stories.  At first, I thought they were all uncles
of mine; but some of them were not women.  A common bind
between all these folks is that they each have had some sort
of crazy requirement in their past.  The majority of them
used fish for volleyballs; especially when Duane the Root
Seller was nearby.  Others simply wanted their name in print
so they could ring in the New Year with giant fleas.  Jumbo
shrimp.  Military intelligence.  Government efficiency.
OOOOOOO!   TELL THAT OXY-MORON TO GET THE HECK AWAY FROM ME!

     So as you all can see, the truth in this description of
life, the universe, and everything is all that it should be.
If you ever find yourself groping for answers for one of
life's weird stinking disgusting ridiculous and maybe unknown
something of what I just said; it probably was the wrong
number.  Refer to this document often, and you should begin
to hallucinate gladly.  The Universal Truth Fairy will reveal
itself to you; and teach you how to make the best doggoned
macaroni and cheese in the whole world.

     Always remember to worship the little rocks in your
driveway.  This will change nothing in your spiritual life;
but it will make you feel better about squishing their little
faces every time you go for a drive.  Remember that
everything has feelings.  If you have neglected to wish your
toilet "Happy Birthday", now would be a good time to begin.
You'll also begin to discover who your real friends are.

     Many who have discovered the "Righteous Path of Really
True Enlightment Obtained Only From This Here Doo-Dad" are
selling their nose hairs.  They have finally come to realize
that our solar system is really a small pile of dried flies
waiting for a ride on the bus.  Never would I suggest that
the reader adopt this as the only truth known.  However, if
youse jerks doubt anything that has been written here, I will
hire professional laughter addicts to come to your spider's
funeral.

     After all, EVERYONE knows that wiggling a blue car seat
in front of surgical instruments causes trees to vomit!  My
fingernails are actually flashlights which send encrypted
messages to Wognord of the Skoldern Galaxy, Sector 23vx!  You
can pick green radishes and they will still be red.  Snails
invented rock 'n roll.  Cantaloupes will replace ball
bearings in the New World order.  ALL THESE THINGS ARE IN
PRINT RIGHT HERE, SO THEY MUST BE TRUE!!

     If you don't believe, shame yourself daily and call me
in the morning.  I'll be right here, waiting for those purple
cornstalks to sing me another song.  Until then, Peace, Love,
Dove and Harry Kirshner.  May cat barf cling to your enemies.
Tell Mom I forgot to wipe by accident again.  Slip sideways
through the deep canyons of Life; and remember that it's
better to be you than for you to be me, and although you can 
count to it, eight is a word. Finally, I leave you a small yodel
that only Randall the Moisture Merchant can abbreviate:

GIVE TRUTH AND HAPPINESS TO ALL YOU MEET, THEY MIGHT LIKE IT.

Oh Fooey: I Break, I Fix

So there I was, minding my own business, thinking seriously of what kind of seriousness I was going to be serious about, not really sure if I wanted to be serious enough to remove www.kakahead.com from my domain universe and just have that garden thing; but then people told me they really like “Happy Friday!!!” so I put it on the garden website thing and then I thought to myself, “Hey, you self person!  For why you are now put ha ha on the garden website thing? Don’t they are supposed to be a separate something from each other…” and then my mind drifted into a much longer run-on sentence as I dreamed of eating hard smoked eels and singing great songs of corporate dysfunction.

As I was singing, I tried to juggle the two websites, and I, the Computer Geek Boy of My Workplace Factory Thing, who is supposed to know better than to fiddle about with clicking button things (please forgive my technical explanations); proceeded to break both websites dead in a most kaputt manner.  It was very easy.  All I had to do was click a few things and say OK, and suddenly nothing in my two website world was OK anymore.  I was even more pleased when I realized that I had not ever in my living life backed up the databases for either website.  I was very proud of myself indeed, and celebrated by spraying Extract of Bug Antlers on my Computer Monitor Device and of course I also began to wonder Why I was Capitalizing Words that really Shouldn’t Be Capitalized.

So.  Here I am now, rebuilding the kakahead thing (and feeling a bit like a kakahead if you know what I mean); and although I have all my stories still here on my computer,  I am most encrusted with my completely indivisible saturation.  That means, of course, that I am flogging myself with imaginary dust hammers and other implements of construction; as I feel very silly to have perpetrated such a Blarvookian Snerglepop.

I’m very sorry if I saddened any of my friends in the “Happy Friday!!!” kaka readership ranks. I hope you will forgive me and send large amounts of crash to my pet radish who I effectively call “Mr. Crab Crackers.”  He and only he will be responsible for collecting the amplified bread worms that I’m sure so many of you activate with your toasters each and every day of The Great Snack Festival; which of course occurs each Tuesday night when the moon is sailing through the Monkey Head Jones Conservation District.

The morel of the story, then, is that I will keep www.kakahead.com and also rebuild the garden website thing.  Thank you very much to all my friends (some of whom I’ve never actually met).  Bless you all and may the Great Spirit keep you safe and free from indigestion.

Here now is something that makes me stop and sniff the liverwurst.  See you next week kids!!