How to Spell Onamonopia

…but I accidentally opened a bulletin containing:

Classic.

Consider me inspired.

Just focus hard so you can get past the glitter.

Well, that was delicious now wasn’t in? I’m going to go throw some yoyos.

…In my cabinet. It was next to Wheat Thins and a green tinged sourdough.

Augie Fash’s capacity for organization sucks. I can barely remember to keep the toilet paper next to the toilet.

And toilet’s in the dang title.

So it’s 2-ish am, and I’m cooking bacon. That’s right. Bacon.

No lettuce, no tomato. No heart healthy, kick start your day excess bull.

I’m feeling very manly, and it’s very atypical.

I’m gonna go adopt a loincloth and javelin a cheetah. Don’t mess with me. Grr

(I believe that was the first occurrence of onomonopia (sp?))

Peace out brothers and sisters

Update: I just finished 5 strips of bacon 10 minutes ago and now I’m working on a Diet Coke. I feel like hell.

Verdict: Go to Aca Taco at 2 am instead.

lyric)

“I’m a curbside prophet, got my hand in my pocket, waiting for my rocket to come.”

I love you Jason Mraz, even if you’re so very red light district.

If you get a bad mail order bride, does she have to go through baggage claim?

I saw an incredibly beat up limo the other day. Cracked windows, mud sheen, chipped paint. Super odd.
…I keep thinking Tupac got shot in it.

I’ve been urinating a very pale yellow lately. I guess I’m fervently dedicated to promoting healthy kidneys. I use a public restroom and I don’t flush, so people can stop by, view, and learn from the master.

It’s a postmodern art piece.

And the gargantuan mass of Mexico tinged laundry is angry and awaiting washing. I need a good abrasive to hide the fact that at times, I smell absolutely horrific.

The laundry machine is going through a seizure, but I’m absolutely hell bent on smelling good.

And I will not resort to Axe.

Or Febreeze for that matter.

“Twat Waffle”

I know it’s been awhile since I blessed you with literature. I pray that you will go forth and prosper with your newfound vocabulary.

We can play King of the Hill in the wreckage.

Anyway…

For those of you not familiar, take some time and get acquainted:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wife_Swap

Wifeswap:

Wifeswap? Simply brilliant. Incredible opportunities to shack up with a new husband or wife and selflessly donate emotional chaos to young minds for years to come? I’m there.

It plays just like the Bachelor, but with plastic surgery and more soggy cheerios. It’s got all the great drama of Jerry Springer but without the Nascar sponsorship and high stakes midget tossing.

Post viewing, I’ve really come to a cross roads in my life. I’ve realized that nothing I’ve accomplished lives up to even a fraction of this show’s greatness.

Which has led to the question… “What are you doing with your life Augie?” (I like to talk to myself in the third person so I can get a nonpartisan perspective without the input of an uninvolved party. I also like to reevaluate my existence on the basis of a television program)

I feel that I, as a concerned citizen, should add to the debasement of society. I don’t mean to punt small children, genocide an unwitting culture, or splatter feces on sacred religious symbols.

Yeah, I know. Done to death right?

-I don’t want to be trite. I don’t want to be cliché. And I don’t want to be tired.-

(I’m repeating the same thing three times in a row because I don’t like to be trite. I know it may be self-defeating to point out my hypocrisy to you, but I’d like to think that we’re all in the the joke together. Sounds good?)

Continuing on…

I have a new idea for a television show. I’m tired of seeing shows like the Bachelor or Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire, and seeing all the shotgun weddings that add to the 50% divorce rate. These people deserve true love. Something needs to be done to aid this tragedy.

So I want to help.

I say that it’s about time we throw down the gauntlet and help real people find real love. I’m all for the blessed union of souls, but today’s fast based lifestyle just doesn’t afford the time.

Well, you see, not the time for just one woman…

Introducing:

Polygamy Party

You won’t have to worry about finding the right person. You can just select from an assortment. It’s just like the Starburst flavor rainbow, but when life doesn’t give you a tasty rainbow, you can just switch out the lemon and try again next time.

I’m sure I’d be compatible with at least one of 17 wives.

Then I could start a sweatshop with all my kids and take over the orient.
I could probably help pop out enough kids to populate a billion person country.
Granted, I know what you’re thinking, and well, I am too. It is a rather large workout, but I’ve always wanted a Bowflex body. It’s a package deal.

Benevolent dictator and television mastermind here I come.

———-

…By the way, I’m actually a big fan of lemon Starbursts. I thought I would just take advantage of their historically oppressed kind for my own selfish purposes.

I don’t actually advocate polygamy. There’s already enough stupid people who are great at having kids. Mutatating the primordial soup into Chef Boyardee bothers me too. Zero delectability what-so-ever.

Tip of the day:

Cut a lemon starburst and a strawberry starburst in half. Push the halves together and get an awesome mutant hybrid starburst. They won’t sell you that ish in stores. It’s got all the flavor of a Cotton Candee Bubbalicious but with all the safety hazards of Pop Rocks and Coke. Come with me and live life dangerously.

Mad love,

Augie

A million thanks to Amy for the name. “Polygamy Polka” didn’t sound half as good. Sounds too much like a drinking game for swingers.

So I just browsing my Itunes and saw John Mayer’s “I’ve got a woman”,

and I totally thought it was titled, “I am a woman.”

Instead of thinking, ‘Whoa. Weird,’ I thought, “Hmm - How appropriate.”

I love John Mayer, even if he is a douche.

Ok, ok, occasionally a douche.

Even with that fact withstanding, the lyrical quality on Inside Wants Out totally makes up for all the unnecessary estrogen discharge brought on by the entire Heavier Things album.

But then again, maybe that’s just giving him too much credit. Perhaps the title, “Inside Wants Out” is really just a subtle nod to some sort of closet transvestitism fetish?

I don’t know. But I do know this:

That’s right.

Forty-Six Thousand. .

Power in numbers, baby.

He hadoukens Blanca with genocide just for being different.

Discuss.

For further thoughts, please view the film. Street Fighter: The Movie is a true pinnacle of cinema greatness.

Top film critics like L33tSpEaK1818 and MuCh0Suxors72 felt that the Academy Awards completely shafted the film’s achievements. Many attribe it to a political move. It’s a dirty, dirty shame that something this fine could slip through the cracks of bureacracy.

I’ve seen it perhaps 9 times. There’s 9 circles of hell. I hear that God enjoys irony.

Movie Trivia:

Ken and Ryu are “brothers” in the movie. One is played by a Caucasian/Albino actor and the other is played by an Asian actor. Either genetics don’t work the way I thought, or the mailman is one good looking fellow.

I’m backdating this to match my myspace posting because I have no respect for historical authenticity.

Anyway, that being said…

I like to think I’ve gotten less socially awkward in recent years.

I don’t stare incessantly at the ground while mumbling sorry. I don’t quite dread conversation with that cute girl with the charming smile that makes me feel too self conscious to allow myself a smile in return.

I’ve changed a little bit.

Now I confidently make jokes about people’s mothers and rehearse armpit noise symphonies.

So not quite that bad, but I definitely don’t blush when a girl says hi to me either.

Granted, I also don’t say Hey Baby and hand out numbers. But then again, I like to think I’m squarely in the anti-douche bag portion of the venn diagram coolness chart.

Anyway, the other day, I was randomly feeling pretty self aware. I keep checking for my image in all sorts of dull surfaces with zero light reflection. I keep checking my hair. -Yeah, The hair that I don’t cut and I don’t style. The unwieldy hair I’m content with when it does anything but assault innocents.-

I’m chilling in the hallway, and this group of girls walks by giggling.

Well, they were more laughing. But I’m gonna go with giggling because it’s more prototypical for stories involving self conscious high school aged boys.

So they continue walking by, giggling.

I glance at the ground, and start to push my glasses up.

…But, the problem, you see, is that I haven’t worn glasses in 2 1/2 years.

So finger + invisible x-ray specs = !Bam! Augie janking himself ungracefully in the eye.

Group of cute girls keeps walking by.

Luckily standing alone while yelling OWWW in the middle of a quiet hallway doesn’t attract attention. Neither does looking like you were going in for a quick nosepick and missing completely.

Was that a highschool flashback? Definitely.
…That was originally intentioned to be a rhetorical question but I answered it for you anyway. I realized if I asked you it rhetorically, you probably wouldn’t have replied “definitely”. Which I think would’ve then really ruined the overall feeling of the piece.
Go back and read the sentence again. -Now- Take a dramatic pause before, “Definitely”, and think to yourself, “Wow, what a great culmination to a pointless story. I’m going to mentally file this one so I can tell my grandchildren.”
So yeah, thanks for letting me feel self-aware and playing along with that one guys.

Ah well, back from the birdwalk.

Maybe I’ll plan that scene out again in my head and maybe they’ll all walk by in the same formation again, in the exact same situation. But maybe I’ll have gotten that haircut. Maybe I’ll pretend that that uncoordinated dude wasn’t me, and then convince them that I’m actually the Leader of the Pack. I’m the studly leather clad male lead in Grease sans the cheesy melodic interludes and oil spill hair do.

Because, Contrary to Guy Poking Himself in the Eye Unaided, I’m actually Alpha Male with Style. I’m Movies for Guys who Like Movies. But there’s an underlying sentimentality that means you’ll never have to watch A Walk to Remember alone. Granted, I’ll be laughing at all the inopportune cry moments, but I’ll still be there for you.

There will never need to be a pint of Ben and Jerry’s cause you’ve had a bad day. You know why? Because I’d be right there.

I’d at least have Hagen Daaz. And, if you’re cool, there might even be toppings. And If you’re really really cool, those toppings might not come out of my roomate’s cupboard.

That’s right baby. I care.

Then again, maybe I don’t need to care (Just play along with me) Maybe all the extra labors of love aren’t even necessary.

50% of success is just showing up. And you know what? 50% of 1 is .5. And you know what .5 does? It rounds up to 1.

That’s right.

100% of success is showing up.

So you want a successful man, ladies? I’m here.
I’ll even show up 50% of the time for you.

I field all calls to 867-5309. Ask for Jenny and stay on the line indefinitely.

[Cut to Augie reclining in front of fire reading the Wall Street Journal and wielding David Hasslehoff chest hair]

If you don’t understand tongue in cheek, I apologize.
Tongue in cheek doesn’t mean I think you’re hot and am hitting on you. Journey backward, cross out the above sentence, and pretend it wasn’t there. It’s not for you.

Jeopardy trivia of the day:

No one needs the 6 minutes and 15 seconds of D’Angelo from the Space Jam soundtrack.
Itunes landed on it, and it was anything but an uplifting experience.

I need to go watch Touched by an Angel and tell myself that everything will be ok.