squirrelking.com

1. Mary-Kate Olsen is dating a Greek giant named Stavros. A friend says Stavros “can’t see enough of Mary-Kate.” That’s probably because there isn’t enough of Mary-Kate.

2. “Phrenologist attempts to ease blockages in Britney’s inner spirit.” Interesting. A phrenologist is a bump-rubber, right?

3. “Mini-Me gets drunk and naked.” I’m struggling to resist mini-bar jokes.

4. Is there really a celebrity named Bai Ling? Is she bilingual?

5. “Britney lets her dogs pee and poop wherever they want.” I guess the phrenologist eased their inner blockages, too.

6. Katie Holmes is “a dumper.” I had to read that twice. I thought it said Katie Holmes has a dumper, which she most certainly does.

7. “Shakespearean actress snags Keanu.” Good, maybe she can teach him how to act.

8. Tommy Lee is dating a blonde with big boobs. Are they serious?

9. Lindsay Lohan admits that she is shrinking, but denies that she is dating a Greek giant named Stavros.

Give it some gas, Lance.
Wang Fu has Mata Hari.
There’s no time to waste!

When I heard the squeals of delight, I rolled my chair backward and looked out the window. The boss’s nanny was in the yard with the kids. They were playing together on a giant inflatable Banzai Water Slide from Target. Boss’s nanny looks great in a bikini. I try not to notice this because noticing causes extreme discomfort. Sometimes she catches me off guard, though. Summer is the dangerous season.

“Whoa!” I said. I clutched my chest, fell over and rolled around on the floor. “Quick, call 911.”

Co-worker Barb did not call 911, but she did come over to see what was happening. “Sweet Jesus,” she said. “Look at that!”

“I know, I know,” I said. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

“Wouldn’t you like to have one of those in your back yard?”

“You bet I would, Babs. You bet I would.”

“Kay-rist, that’s the biggest freakin’ water slide I’ve ever seen!”

“Water slide?” I said. “What water slide?”

The establishment insists that I wear pants. I am oppressed. Are not all Americans entitled to life, liberty, and proper trouser ventilation? My blue jeans have a higher R-value than most polyurethane foam insulation products. My pencil-thin legs are currently throwing off enough heat to be considered alternative energy sources. Still, I must wear pants.

The employees at the nearby Mardi Gras Club have no such trouser ventilation restrictions. Mardi Gras dancers are not expected to wear pants. In fact, they are encouraged to remove their pants as often as possible. But I must wear pants.

There is no justice.

Place your sex poll here.

The house across the street once belonged to the O’Possum family. Danny O’Possum was the neighborhood cool kid. He wore John Lennon glasses with purple-tinted lenses, and he was the first kid in town to own a Janis Joplin lunch box. By the time Danny reached high school, he was already a mediocre drummer in a mediocre rock band. I looked up to the guy.

The O’Possum family had three cars, one of which never left the driveway. It was a puke-green 1964 Rambler Ambassador, and it sat in the same spot for years. Eventually the O’Possums got tired of looking at the puke-green Rambler and they buried it. They put the car in neutral and pushed it into a hole they dug beside the driveway. I don’t know why they did this. Maybe they couldn’t afford a tow.

Years passed. The O’Possums moved out of town. Danny was doing a lot of drugs by then, and his drumming was much improved. New people live in the old O’Possum place now. They’re the third family in the post-O’Possum era. The new people think they’re a two car family, but I know better.

“Excuse me,” Jan said. “Are you the lifeguard, or are you just some guy with orange shorts and a whistle?”

It’s springtime and the lady squirrels look fine. Especially from behind. See how they skip and jump and chitter at passing Oldsmobuicks!

This is not the season for foraging, my friends. Leave the acorns for another day. Pollen is in the air and the squirrel dance has begun.

A while back, one of the old biddies on the masslive.com Springfield forum suggested that our beloved City of Smells should model itself after a more successful (and less smelly) city of similar size. According to this poster, Springfield should aspire to be the Plano, Texas of the East. I emailed this suggestion to masslive blogger Kelsey Flynn, who pointed out that Sprinfield will never be the Plano of the East until it has a Tony Lama boot store. I agree. Not only will a Tony Lama store be the catalyst that initiates a renaissance in Springfield, it will also make it much easier for me to buy a pair of antique brown full-quill ostrich boots. This is a win/win situation.

Hello from Pennsylvania.

Everyone has gone shopping. Again. They left me alone with a computer. I must be brief.

My sister is a bundt cake freak. This afternoon she purchased a Fleur de Lis bundt cake pan at Williams-Sonoma. Had I not mocked her in the presence of the W-S clerks, she would surely have purchased the Tunnel o’ Fudge attachment, too. Apparently, she already owns the Williams-Sonoma Sunflower and Sandcastle bundt cake pans. It may be intervention time.

More later. Hold down the bundt castle.

Mr. Squirrel

Dear BlogCo employees, silent visitors, smokers, spitters, gamblers and women of easy virtue,

I will be out of the office for the next three days. Please take this opportunity to raid the liquor cabinet, play naked Twister, sit in the punch bowl, and say funny things. Don’t forget to turn out the lights when you’re finished.

I am going to the land of the Amish, where people dress funny and spend the days writing lame haiku. Here’s an example of their work:

Our timing is off
It’s the luck of the Amish
We can’t make progress

Farewell. I shall return on an airplane, whether the Amish like it or not.

Begin.