Slugboy and Your Wanton Mother's Libidinous Journey into the Carnal, Licentious World of Molluskan Coitus

There is a strange man sleeping on my sofa. There is a fat, slug-like man sleeping on my sofa. I'm not sure when he got here or exactly how he managed to drag his slug-like body the 10 laborious feet from the door to my fucking sofa. Now, I've only sat on that sofa once; there tend to be people--ewwwww--congregating around it much of the time. Still though, I like to think of it as my sofa.

The air in my room has been growing decidedly stale over the past few days. Whether that fact can be chalked up to the ever-increasing pile of dirty laundry or my general lack of hygiene is anyone's guess, but I decided to remedy one of these. I decided to bathe my clothes and not my body.

I separated my clothes into two piles: whites and non-whites. I'm sure Nelson Mandela would disapprove, but apartheid in a laundry setting is a good thing. After all, it keeps the whites from getting corrupted by the inferior darker clothing. I loaded the whites into my laundry bag, a bag made from my dad's fat pants (not fat pants in the Subway Jared sense; these pants are now too small), left the seclusion of my room and ventured out into the wilds of my apartment where, at any moment, I may be accosted by someone who wants to have a "conversation."

I turned on the kitchen light. I didn't need to; I usually only walk around my apartment under the cover of darkness, so I know the place pretty damn well. But I turned the light on anyway. I was grabbing the key to the laundry room when I looked over at the couch. There, sprawled upon my couch, without a layer of plastic between his cottage cheese legs and the upholstery, was the slug-person. I'm not usually frightened by sleeping people, but this was an exception. I jumped a bit. He looked at me, accusingly, I thought--must have interrupted a wet dream. I used my special wordless greeting smile (I use that one a lot at work). He rubbed at his bleary cow-eyes and I vacated the apartment, fat-pants bag of superior linens in tow.

My laundry happened. When I got back to the apartment, I discovered that this fine chap had turned the light off. Whoa. . . not okay. First of all: my apartment. If I turn the light on, it stays on until I turn it off or the Rapture, whichever comes first. Second of all: mucus trail. I have no problem with Slugboy McWetdream walking around outside. This unseasonable June rain we've been getting should wash away the slimy trail he leaves behind. But is it too much to ask for this human/gastropod hybrid to limit his movement around my apartment? I realize now that the couch is beyond help; I just won't sit on it ever again. But to turn the kitchen light off requires substantial carpet-walking upon. Irrationally, I had been hoping that Slugboy's only carpet-sliding would be from door to couch. My mistake. I may have to get a Rug Doctor.

I am currently sitting on my bed in my room. I can hear Slugboy snoring. How very attractive. I believe earlier I mentioned that it is my scientific opinion that the individual sleeping on my sofa is currently experiencing a wet dream. Since he is a slug and I am a Wikipedia addict, I have decided to include a short section about slug sex dreams:

Slugs are hermaphrodites, having both female and male reproductive organs.

Once a slug has located a mate, they encircle each other and sperm is exchanged through their protruded genitalia. A few days later around 30 eggs are laid into a hole in the ground, or beneath the cover of objects such as fallen log.

A commonly seen practice among many slugs is apophallation. The penis of these species is curled like a cork-screw and often becomes entangled in their mate's genitalia in the process of exchanging sperm. When all else fails, apophallation allows the slugs to separate themselves by one or both of the slugs chewing off the other's penis. Once its penis has been removed, a slug is still able to mate subsequently, but using only the female parts of its reproductive system.

Fascinating, no? The thought of an sluggily erotic, apophallic dream occurring anywhere near the vicinity of my apartment, not to mention inside it, is enough to make me want to toss some table salt on this fucker and watch him bubble and die. But I won't. And who says I'm not a good host?

No Need for Angel Wings

When I use the word "interesting", it's usually in a fairly unequivocal sense. As in: Oh, the Burj Dubai is that tall? How interesting. Or: You thought Elizabeth Smart's dad was so annoying that you secretly prayed she'd never be found? Me too; how interesting.

Next up--brace yourself--I'm going to use "interesting" in an entirely different manner. Today, Tuesday, June 16, 2009 was interesting. The "interesting" I mean here translates roughly to "sucky and/or boring."

I always approach my days off work with a certain no-nonsense "I'm gonna entertain myself in ways that are both scintillating and productive" attitude. Hmmmm. . . that sounds oddly dirty. Ribald connotations notwithstanding (as if scintillating my product was a worthwhile free day activity anyway), I feel like I've wasted my day if I laze around watching Buffy or playing Xenosaga all day.

Within the first ten or so minutes of waking up, however, I should have assumed that today was going to be singularly unproductive, an especially embarrassing entry into the canon of my awesome life. Why? Despite my uncharacteristic awakening at 10 AM--a personal summertime record--I decided that leaving my room to eat breakfast was a silly idea. Wasteful portent number one. Screw wholesome breakfasts in their buttholes! I thought to myself. What else are days off for? I proceeded to anally penetrate the idea of something healthy and/or delicious and reached for my trusty box of granola bars. Trusty? Yeah, I've had these for about two years, and they've always been there for me.

I munched my granola bar, simultaneously wondering if the little brown bits in it were supposed to be chocolate and contemplating how to proverbially break a champagne bottle on my glorious day. I think I mentioned earlier that I usually try to avoid Xenosaga on days in which I plan to be productive. Well, I'm close to beating it, I reasoned. Doesn't get more productive than finishing a turn-based Japanese RPG that I've already devoted about 50 hours of my life to, right? Wasteful portent number two. I popped that summbitch into my trusty PS2 and picked up my wireless controller. Trusty? Well, no actually. My trusty PS2 was a piece of shit; this one is the replacement. . .

About 3 minutes into playing, I got into a fight with a couple of fucking robots that were. . . beyond my abilities. They kept dodging my attacks. Oh pussyfeathers! I thought, this is pretty darn hard. Look at that! I just had an inoffensive thought! Guess today isn't a total waste. Well, my mind may have had a relatively calm reaction to the virtual ass kicking, but my hand had a different idea. At this point, my wireless controller went sailing into the wall opposite me (I really should use the wired one if there is any chance for meltdown), and it broke open. One of the batteries rolled under my door.

Now, if I had really been gunning for a productive day, I should have gone for a bit of rage counseling. Why, just last week I got an insanely strong urge to play Pokemon--I'm not a pedophile, I swear--but had something of a gaming snafu and ended up breaking my Nintendo DS. Word to the wise: if any of your media equipment has a clamshell design (ie cell phone, Nintendo DS), keep in mind that it's only supposed to fold one way. How was I supposed to know that? I'll make sure to remember that tidbit in the future.

Needless to say, karma decided that I was to keep my no-Xenosaga-on-productive-days pledge, because that gaming session ended rather quickly.

Fast forward a few hours. The worst thing about waking up during this whole AM thing is trying to fit in lunch. I much prefer waking up and BAM! it's lunchtime. But no, I just had to stop sleeping in the morning. Well, I can always finish my book, I thought. That's pretty damn productive. So, I leafed through my book until I found something I hadn't yet read (bookmarks are for fuckers) and plopped down on my bed. I kept looking at my clock to see if it was lunchtime. Wasteful portent number three. After a couple hours, I couldn't handle the stress anymore and took an early midday meal. It must have been 1:30 or something . . . like I said, early.

Here's a confession that's sure to surprise: I didn't finish my book.

I got back from my burritogasmic lunch and decided to finally tackle my computer issues. I had tried the night before, but luckily I realized in time that my laptop has a clamshell design. Voila. A little self control and I'm not computer-shopping today. w00t. Basically, my internet hasn't been working. Aside from sheer laziness--the nearest internet-able computer is blocks away--this is the prime reason I haven't been super faithful with this whole blog thing. To my millions of readers: I'm sorry. I'm sure the reason for the lack of public outcry was tied to to the shock about that dude from American Idol being gay (who knew?) or the fact that Jon and Kate plus 8 may soon become Divorced Jon and Kate plus Marginalized and Exploited for Fame and Financial Gain 8. . . or that one plane crash or whatever.

I finally managed to get my internet up and running like a black man on the Underground Railroad. It's fairly glorious. Now I know how disconnected all those people in Third World countries must feel. Yes, I'm quite certain I sympathize with their plight. In fact, the next time my Human Resources Manager at work asks if I want to donate a portion of my paycheck to United Way, I will calmly consider it and politely decline instead of telling her to go shove her copious ass onto a training manual.

So, my children, I have returned. I have recrudesced after a time of electronic death. And look, you haven't even been burned or smashed by holy rocks. Watch out, though. My Second Coming was mild, but if you're reading this, the next one on the cosmic docket might not be so pleasant.