November 2, 2009
Dear Keith,
Last night the love of my life told me that my pillow smelled like goulash and balls.
It sounded so absurd that I wasn't even sure she actually said it. I thought she might have ejected a creative burp and it only sounded like goulash and balls.
But she did say it. How dare she, I thought. The very idea. She must be goofy on the ginger crinkles I made earlier. (Ginger crinkles are these excellent little chewy ginger cookies I whip up from time to time. Ginger Crinkles also used to be my stripper name when I worked at The Swinging Meat Factory. That's a whole 'nother story and I've still got the coconut oil, shaft wax and anal bleach to prove it.)
Anyway, I grabbed my pillow, shoved my face into it, and took a deep whiff.
She was right, it DID smell like goulash and balls.
How is that possible? I haven't eaten goulash in years, and my pillow generally stays in the head area, at least two feet from my balls. My balls never touch the pillow. I mean, not that I know of. I suppose there's a chance that I'm a sleep wiper, you know, like a sleepwalker except that instead of walking I grab my pillow and give 'er a big ol' honkin' wipe under the nutsack. But that seems unlikely.
Doesn't it?
So, yeah, I took a deep whiff and, sure as the pulsating purple veins in my thick, screaming trouser snake, that pillow smelled like goulash and balls. And I don't even know what balls smell like. I mean, I can imagine what they smell like, but I don't spend a lot of time wondering about that.
Or do I?
I always thought balls would smell like Captain Kangaroo. Nothing against the guy. Seemed like a pleasant enough fellow. Remember that weird haircut he had? Why would a grown man cut his hair like that? And under what authority did he acquire the title of Captain? Captain of what? He never got promoted either. He never became Lieutenant Colonel Kangaroo, did he? Fuckin' slacker. I think he was as much of a Captain as the Captain in Captain and Tennille. Even the Skipper on Gilligan's Island had enough humility to call himself Skipper rather than Captain, and he actually WAS the Captain of his own vessel. Sure, the fat bastard couldn't navigate his own ballooning ass around a bathtub, but at least he wasn't a douche about it.
Anyway, that's what I always thought balls would smell like. Not bad, just..Kangarooish.
Also, we were in an international grocery store the other day (Nancy and I, not Captain Kangaroo and I, although I would go shopping with Captain Kangaroo if he didn't smell so much like balls), and in the store there was this aisle of Dutch products. They had Dutch peanut butter. It's called pindakaas. Then I remembered my Dutch. Kaas means cheese. The Dutch refer to peanut butter as peanut cheese.
Boy, there's a product that wouldn't sell in this country. Peanut cheese. I don't even like saying it. Peanut cheese. Like something you get from a skank. "Dude, I got a wicked case of peanut cheese. Where's the salve?"
Peanut cheese.
Keith, there's a store near us called Nothing But Skulls. I've been in that store and it should be called Everything But Skulls. They have t-shirts and purses and hats and jewelry and all kinds of shit, but no skulls. I mean everything they sell has a skull on it, but you can't actually get a skull in there. How can you have a store called Nothing But Skulls and not sell skulls? They wouldn't have to be human skulls but, I don't know, shouldn't the skulls of various critters be available for sale? You know, skulls of animals that people don't really care about, like rat skulls. I doubt PETA would be picketing your place if you sold rat skulls. PETA seems to care more about lab rats, not disease-carrying, cat-fucking sewer rats.
At the Nothing But Skulls website they tell you to come in and "Get your skull on". That's one of those phrases that..uh...I just don't think that one's gonna catch on. It doesn't really have that "been there, done that" ring to it.
Get my skull on. Pfft. How 'bout I get my shoes on and get the fuck outta this stupid store, hah?
By the way, I think if Captain and Tennille had instead called themselves Goulash and Balls they would have been far more successful.
Ass-deep in peanut cheese, I remain
craniumly yours,
Captain Pindakaas
P.S. Peanut cheese.
Copyright 2009 John Bizarre
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