I love songs about bathrooms almost as much my uncle Larry used to love petting animals with the tires of his car! Ever since I can remember, I have wanted to be some kind of music composer person. My dream is to write as many songs about bathrooms as some guy that writes songs about bathrooms and George Michael (or Jorge Michel if you’re Mexican/French/Labrapoodle.)

Of course you’re wondering, “Why would you give up your ‘awesome as fuck’ job as a Seeing-Eye-Dog spokesperson/model to be a music dealy thingy?” Then you’d probably also say, “Lady Gaga this and Lady Gaga that and blah blah blah as many songs about bathrooms as Lady Gaga.” Those kinds of words are very yucky poopy and you should know that just because a robot made out of toilets can sing, doesn’t mean any of Lady Gaga’s songs are about bathrooms and yes, OBVIOUSLY I have a bathroom attendant.

Did you know that homeless people were voted the best bathroom attendants/babysitters according to a 1991 edition of “Homeless Guy Bathroom Attendant & Babysitter Magazine?” Now thanks to myself (or “me” as I like call myself) the homeless guy bathroom attendant I purchased for three pieces of celery is a functioning member of society in my bathroom!

People say hiring a homeless guy as a bathroom attendant is brilliantly brilliant or “brill brill” for short. My step mom says it is brill brill brill. (The extra brill is for brilliant.)

One time she came to visit and was all “Your bathroom smells like dead bathroom attendant,” and I was all “No way! I was wondering why he hasn’t moved since 1994!” So I thought to myself, “I should keep garbage in the bathtub to mask the smell of the dead guy in my bathroom.” Then I said out loud with words from my mouth, “I should keep garbage in the bathtub to mask the smell of the dead guy in my bathroom,” and guess what? He’s a skeleton now but the garbage is still there. LOL!!! Don’t worry. He didn’t die in my bathroom! He was dead when I found him (in my bathroom).

If you’re like me you’ve always wondered, do homeless people go to heaven and/or have names? I too am like me and have always wondered, do homeless people go to heaven and/or have names?  Now that I think of it, he did scream “AAAAHHHHHH” as I savagely beat him for being homeless and smelling homeless too. Maybe he was trying to say, “My name is Allen.” 

Thanks to Allen I can afford to pay my rent! (Landlords let you pay rent in skeleton bones.) I’m always saying, “Dear Mr. Dr. Landlord, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT THE ANTS IN THE GARBAGE IN THE BATHROOM AND IN THE CLOSET AND IN THE REFERIGERATOR AND IN THE BATHTUB AND IN THE OTHER CLOSET AND IN THE CUPBOARDS AND IN THE BATHROOM AND IN THE TV AND IN MY GRANDMA THAT IS NOT IN THE CRAWL SPACE IN A GARBAGE BAG AND OF COURSE THAT’S NOT HER HEAD ON MY MANTLE!

My landlord giggles and says, “Those are roaches you fucking idiot and why is your girlfriend standing behind you and oh my god she is naked and why does her vagina look like a shoebox?”

I’m no scientist but I think it looks like a shoebox because it IS a shoebox which totally reminds me of the time I was having sex with my girlfriend’s vagina in the backseat of the car that I welded together out of two different cars.  Well, not actual cars but thousands of horseshoes that I inherited from Uncle Larry when he died from horseshoe kidney disease. (That means your kidneys are upside down and also made of horseshoes.) 

After sex, my girlfriend gave birth to my work boots that were missing for 3 weeks and then suddenly her “non-vagina” hole started saying something about blah unicorns and blah chocolate cake and blah rice-a-roni. As my will to live was slipping away I prayed to God, “ Please God, protect me from this evil woman and also, do you remember how many people saw my nipples today? How can I be sure if the nuns on that bus were looking at my nipples or at my mesh tank top? Should I say 37 or round up to a higher number like 21,000 to be safe?”

Then God and I laugh because I was never good with numbers. Seriously, eleven isn’t even a real fucking number! It’s just two lines put together which probably makes it more like a letter or something?

Allen told me a joke about numbers once. Why is 6 afraid of 7? I forget the punch line now but I think it probably had something to do with how 7 dated H for a couple of months and 6 was jealous because she used to have a crush on 7. Plus 6 was raised in a dysfunctional family that was racist against letters so she was racist too.

P.S.
Please write your congressman to help abolish racist numbers and establish our new “America is better than everyone else” number system: 1 2 3 4 5 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 80085!

Did you know cheese doodles aren’t actually drawings of cheese? I didn’t but now I do! My friend Bob told me. (I call him Gary because Gary is “Gay” with an “R”).

Gay (Gary) says, “Fuck you I’m calling the police” because blah blah blah missing daughter or whatever. How is it my fault she LOOOVES hide and seek and is still hiding in the backyard where I buried her? C’est la vie (that means dog shit in some strange language, probably Latin).

Speaking of languages did you know that latin is dead just like Gary’s daughter and also cheese? Well, not really cheese but cheese whiz. And who knew cheese was so fast and/or peed a lot? Not me, but my friend Gary probably knew. He knows everything! C’est la dog shit!

Gary and I spend a lot of time together at the hospital on account of him going into a coma from shock. The doctor said the technical term for his condition is “being a pussy”. Even so, I often whisper to him that I will love him forever then we laugh and fall down to the floor sweaty, breathing dangerously close to each other’s lips and then the nurse comes in and says “What the fuck are you doing in here and you’ve disconnected him from his breathing machine, CODE BLUE CODE BLUE.” She is very pretty but also single which makes her jealous of our love (and a bitch).

For years Gary and I have been talking about leaving this town, getting away. But where can we go? We’re just clowns and clowns don’t make enough money to even buy proper clothes that fit or doctors that will have sex with us. Ugh.

I had sex with a doctor once. Actually it was just a friend I know that once thought about being a veterinarian’s assistant (Gary’s daughter). We were close for those two wonderful days of romance and wine and romance and poison because SHE MOVED THE COFFEE TABLE TOO CLOSE TO THE COUCH AND MADE ME STUB MY TOE!

My toe still hurts. Maybe it’s from that marathon I ran 8 years ago or the snake that just bit me. Either way, ouch! Now my hand hurts too. Seems I have been typing a lot lately or maybe it’s this second snakebite. This time on the hand! He is a clever snake, I am sure he would win a game show if he ever stopped biting people long enough to sign up for one. Probably not jeopardy though. Only nerds that visit buildings with books know about nerd stuff (and also what happens on that show). I will show that snake who is boss by hurting his feelings. Running away has to hurt fragile snake feelings, right?

At least running gives me some exercise but what is exercise? Some say it is moving around violently to an imaginary song that Alanis Morissette hasn’t composed yet. Either way, no way! I don’t dance. Not because I’m white (I am white) but because I’m afraid of not being accepted by white people (me). White people dance too, but then the police come because they are racist against strip club owners.

Speaking of strip club owners, do you know any? I’m trying to sell my strip club. I’m so sick of the girls always wanting me for sex. “Leave me alone, I hate you, don’t ever touch me” they say. Who knows why they always try to be sexual with me like that? I don’t. My friend Gary says it is because I smell like burnt mayonnaise and that is what women are attracted to these days. I say it is because burnt mayonnaise is sexy to women whose father’s ARE burnt mayonnaise. Then we laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and then stop abruptly because we probably took the laughing a little too far.