Who Needs Drugs?

On occasion, I'm asked why I don't drink. Once in a while, I get asked whether I do drugs. Although it's typically more like, "Really? You don't do drugs? Then how are you so weird?"

It's simple. My mind naturally produces controlled substances.

The DEA routinely kicks in the door to my skull, runs in wearing black masks and with guns drawn, seizes my brain, takes it to an open field, and burns it. Then they have to collect all the animals that breathed the fumes and sequester them in the hopes they'll return to normal. Apparently a rooster who thinks he can fly an airplane or cow who thinks she can produce technicolor milk (and especially one that does these things) is a threat to national security. Livestock that don't return to normal eventually end up in politics.

Which explains why so many of our federal legislators have absolutely no clue what the Constitution says. They're hallucinating.

So there you have it, straight from the horse's mouth.

And don't forget, horses are livestock, too. If you see one repairing flats off I20 in west Texas, wave. That's Uncle Jerry.

Veggie head

To this day, many people believe I was brought to Austin as part of the "Keep Austin Weird" campaign. I'm OK with that.

But most of these same people express surprise when they meet my wife. "You're so normal," they say. "How did you end up with a weirdo like him?"

What they don't realize is that Sharon keeps up with me, and at times surpasses me. in weirdness. Just two days ago (this is all true) she went to the doctor and had a lima bean and a new potato removed from the back of her head. Really. That's what the doctor told her. A lima bean and a new potato. I didn't ask whether the doctor ate them. I don't want to know.

I also don't know how she had vegetables embedded in the back of her head that required doctor's office surgery to remove. Sharon claims she doesn't know, either.

This doesn't surprise me. Ask any parent whose child has required medical help to remove a bean from their nose or a wad of Play-Do[tm] from their ear canal. "Little Bobby has NO IDEA how that got in there."

You and I, of course, know full well how it got in there. Either little Bobby stuck it in there exploring, or a sibling did it out of sheer siblingtude.

Since my wife's siblings are all at least 900 miles away, I think we can rule the latter out. But she insists, and I have no reason not to believe her, that she didn't do it herself.

The only other explanation I can come up with involves the CIA and space aliens. Frankly, knowing my wife, that seems a lot more likely. She's always expressed more interesting in eating her vegetables than burying them under her skin.

Although, in today's economy, that might be the safest place to stash something for troubled times. Unless you fly somewhere. Then the TSA will know, and report you to the Department of Hoarding which will report you to the IRS, which will sneak in and cut half your rainy day food out of the back of your head, thus throwing off the CIA's inventory and causing friction with space aliens.

That's all we need, war with Alpha Centauri. With fuel prices as high as they are, the troops would get stranded half way there.

So, to avoid an interstellar disaster, please do not bury vegetables in the back of your head. The world as a whole thanks you, except for the parts to busy killing each other to care.

Occupare Die!

Occupy the Day!

Part of a facebook conversation at the end of high school winter break, 2012 ...

Michaela: Oh yeah, I do have to wake up and go to prison tomorrow. I was too busy being happy to think about such a terrible thing.

Me: Go transform school, girl!

Michaela: Yes Raul and friends, that IS the life. I can't tell the difference between our school and a factory. So, ya know... Haha Miles, always encouraging!

Me: I suppose I could be discouraging if you'd rather.

"Don't worry, Michaela, soon enough you'll walk out those prison doors, a free woman at last, only to be gutted by a very small UFO flown by a drunken, miniature Alpha Centauran. As you lay in agony, bleeding on the steps, one of the wardens will walk out, look down, and say, 'You forgot your backpack', and drop it. Right on your gut. A few minutes later, about the time you think you may be capable of moving a hand enough to grope for your cell phone, a kitchen guard will walk out, look down, and say, 'You didn't eat your last lunch room Jello'", and drop it. Right onto the hole in your gut. As a swarm of ants hurl themselves futilely against the 'lime' flavored jello (which appears to be 87 years old) you'll realize that you forgot to turn in your final final, which is most likely inside your backpack, now coated with blood, 'lime' flavored Jello, and furious ants. At this point, a small UFO will land beside your head and an interstellar cop will crawl out (looking for all the world like an over-sized ant in a blue uniform), look up, and say, 'You'll be happy to know we caught the bum who gored you, but not as happy to know that he was uninsured, and the judge let him off because he had diplomatic immunity. Good day. Say, mind if I have some of that "lime" flavored Jello?'"

Is that better?