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I decided today that a peanut butter sandwhich would make for an excellent lunch. For one thing, I have peanut butter and bread. On top of that I was hungry and sandwhiches are quick and easy to make. Furthermore, what could be safer than a peanut butter sandwhich? Safe to make and safe to eat (though chunky peanut butter presents some slight choking hazard).

I made my sandwhich and appeared to be out of the danger zone when the peanut butter jar was suddenly sent into motion by my muscular arm brushing by. Thinking fast (as I usually do) I used my cat-like reflexes to catch the jar with my testicles. Nestled in my crotch, the shatter proof peanut butter jar escaped the mishap unharmed. Meanwhile my testicles ached in agony. I couldn't help but think of how many times I had put myself through such abuse when the alternative was actually quite acceptable.

For instance, I was one day folding my newly clean t-shirts at the laundromat. While folding a particularly common white undershirt (it was white when I bought it anyway), the shirt managed to free itself from underneath my manly chin. It was lurching toward the floor when my brain went into action. "this is a public laundromat . . . there are dirty people in here, with dirtier clothes . . . their feet are even dirtier than that . . . SAVE THE SHIRT AT ANY COST!" In a memorable display of heroism, my right hand lunged after the shirt, which was just then passing my belt buckle. I'll never forget the feeling of triumph I felt as I held that t-shirt where I had caught it against my body. . . nor the ensuing punishment my crotch inflicted against me. Yet again, it was a bitter-sweet victory.

Interestingly enough, I have noticed that my reflexes seem to protect the crotch first whenever any person or foreign object wielded by such person attacks. Unless distracted by a potential blow to the head, the crotch is always the first thing to be covered. I just don't understand why my body doesn't protect the crotch from the other, obviously jealous, parts of my own body. If sacrifice is supposed to mean "giving something up for something better," than why do I keep doing this?

Posted by at 01:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

A certain hour of the night slows me
down to single notes . . . long tones. . .
that pull my eyes in semi-circles.
just lying here, the hour folds me
like a paper fan. still, I just lie
here crimped along the bedsheet
naming the spots on the wall after
my regrets, for the ashes I am,
on crowded mantles.

A certain hour of the night
I dedicate to arson;
my several attempts to set myself on fire
(same place and time tomorrow).
Too many letters, too many words,
too many pictures with the faces blurred.
And what if I wasn’t thinking?
What if I wasn’t trailing off
(like words I don’t want you to hear)?
What if this match was real and
this bed was gasoline and I actually went to sleep?

Posted by at 09:16 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

my hands are curtains drawn
to block the sun. my eyes,
already scorched and hot,
like smoking guns, looking
for your icewater tall silhouette,
rocking chair body. To feel you
baby cradle rocking . . . rocking . . . rocking

Mes mains sont des rideaux dessin�s pour bloquer le soleil mes yeux,
d�j� roussi et chaud, comme les pistolets de tabagisme, recherchant
votre silhouette grande de l'eau de glace, basculant le corps de
chaise. Pour vous sentir basculer de berceau de b�b�. . . basculer.
. . basculer

My hands are curtains drawn to block the sun my eyes, already turned
russet and hot, like the guns of nicotinism, seeking your large
silhouette of the water of ice, rocking the body of chair. To feel you
to rock of cradle of baby. . to rock. . to rock

Mes mains sont des rideaux dessin�s pour bloquer le soleil mes yeux,
d�j� tourn� roux et chaud, comme les pistolets du nicotinism,
recherchant votre grande silhouette de l'eau de la glace, basculant le
corps de la chaise. Pour vous sentir � la roche du berceau du b�b�.
� la roche. � la roche

My hands are curtains drawn to block the sun my eyes, already turned
russet-red and hot, like the guns of the nicotinism, seeking your
large silhouette of the water of the ice, rocking the body of the
chair. To feel you with the rock of the cradle of the baby. with the
rock. with the rock

Mes mains sont des rideaux dessin�s pour bloquer le soleil mes yeux,
d�j� tourn� reinette-rouge et chaud, comme les pistolets du
nicotinism, recherchant votre grande silhouette de l'eau de la glace,
basculant le corps de la chaise. Pour vous sentir avec la roche du
berceau du b�b� avec la roche avec la roche

My hands are curtains drawn to block the sun my eyes, already turned
rennet-red and heat, like the guns of the nicotinism, seeking your
large silhouette of the water of the ice, rocking the body of the
chair. To feel you with the rock of the cradle of the baby with the
rock with the rock

Original words by Brendan (copyright: automaton publishing); translations by Sherlock�

Posted by at 09:09 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

So, this is my new blog site courtesy of Amishrobot.com and Josh Penrod (notoriously clever blogger and all around tall guy). Since you are probably here because I know you and told you to come here I thought I'd start by telling you a few things you probably don't know about me:

1. My mother was in attendance at a UNLV basketball game the night before she gave birth to me. UNLV won a very close game that night. I was born somewhat prematurely and it is believed to have been caused at least partially by my mother's excitement during the game. Therefore, I am a lifelong UNLV basketball fan.

2. At the tender age of 3 I got my penis caught in my zipper. My brothers were babysitting and didn't know what to do, so I just layed on the floor watching T.V. with my penis in the air until my father came home and rescued the little rascal. To this day I call my penis the "little rascal."

3. When I was a kid, I was the only boy in my class that thought that pro-wrestling was lame. Now, I think it's awesome (sort of).

4. When I was 14 years old I did the dead man's float in our pool for a half hour with the snorkel on to get back at my Mom for getting mad at me for something I thought was stupid. "What if that was the last thing you ever said to me, mom?" She got scared and my brother-in-law had to go outside and poke me with the pool brush to make sure I was okay. To this day I am a brat who thinks he needs to teach everyone else a lesson all the time.

5. While serving a mission in Texas I aquired the nickname "caps" from some of the missionaries I served with. This nickname was a reference to my large nipples, which were supposedly "as big as hubcaps." In reality they are more like silver dollars (50 cent pieces in colder weather). To this day I have the constant suspicion that, fully clothed, people can still see exactly where my nipples are, even when I'm wearing a sweater. Also, I prefer to call them buttons, because buttons are smaller and cuter than hubcaps.

I think that is enough about me for now. This is my first blog, so I am new to this but, I want to make it a site that is interesting to my friends and others. I intend to post my poetry and possibly song lyrics by request and maybe even songs in the future. I will try to post some other lighter fair as well so that you keep coming back. If you are very lucky, I will post a picture of my nipples and have a caption contest. The winner might just be awarded a free live screening of my actual nipples.

cheers,

Brendan
AKA Huggy Bear
AKA Magic
AKA Caps
AKA spirograph
AKA the phenom

Posted by at 09:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)