I just drank a bottle of Estancia Cabernet and a good half bottle of chilled Cuervo Añejo, and it occurs to me that the hank of jalapeno Havarti I set out on the coffee table next to the tapenade and loaf of Old Country rye has gone missing.
My wife is claiming ignorance, and my son’s breath smells like grape juice box—so I’m thinking that the dog might have had something to do with this. But like a streetwise dame in a Mickey Spillane novel—the bitch is just sitting on the couch with a wry look on her face, smoking a cigarette and refusing to talk about cheese at all unless I buy her a couple Sapphire martinis, or a squirrel stole.
I like her already.
I’m thinking it’s a shifty eyed armadillo with a taste for both fancy cheese, and death.
But the ‘dillo had an airtight alibi. Three holes in his chest from where some plug ugly had ventilated him.
I was out of cigarettes. And pity.
This is why I have no dog. I’d be squeezing that bitch like a nacho cheese dispenser about now. “Where’s my cheese, you fucking cunt?!” And it never tastes quite the same, though not so bad over spicy Doritoes, With Frito Lay bean dip, which you might find redundant, but it’s not.
Hmmmm, Cheese.
Slap her around a little.
She’ll appreciate it and you’ll get the answers you want.
A bottle of red wine and four shots of tequila? The only thing that will save you now is Wild Turkey 101—flush all those impurities, clear the head, and prep you to deal brutally with the cheese thief! I also recommend golf shoes..
Next time, cut it before you set it out. You’ll never have trouble finding it.
Turing = trying, as in Running down Jeff’s abstruse literary allusions can be quite trying.
You shouldn’t let your dog smoke. Not around the kid, anyway.
RIP Mickey Spillane. It was easy.
Mickey Spillane: The Lost Mike Hammer
I think the cheese just came to me in a vision.
Carefull you mentioned the kid again, and his breath. That’s practically begging to get a threat from the left. Everybody knows that’s evil troll bait, how devious of you.
“You’re a great piece of tail, but I ain’t playin’ the sap for no cheesy dame.”
She looked up at me with those puppy-dog eyes and whimpered.
Eat the damn cheese before you pass out next time.
Suddenly it hit me, like the hot kiss at the end of a wet fist: the Armadillo! Of course!
Why didn’t I see it before?
SB: john
watch yer mouth, punk
Found this comment over at frisch’s site:
“Later, I learned Mr. Goldstein refers to himself as “Count Cockula†and that his blog is more a dungeons and dragons/soft-porn playground for really bored young men with no real lives and isn’t a political site at all.”
Did you really give yourself that stupid name, and where’s the porn? Or is this person hallucinating again? And, where can I get an armadillo?
so your she dog has moxxy. But does she have a 1930’s female big city reporter level of moxxy? I didn’t think so.
– I stumbled through the gym, ducking around a big pug of a heavy weight who looked like someone had been using his head to pry open old rusty trunks….the place smelled like a combination of sweat, farts, blood, and bandage glue….
– The Manager motioned me into the locker room, with a surly tilt of his watermellon dome, barking at me through a slash of a mouth, with lips like two fat worms that hated each other….
-She’d been in there for about 6 weeks, judging from the condition of my tennis racket….She might have been called a doll, long soft golden hair…. the kind you liked to jerk around as you beat off over her blue eyed face…..But that was before someone had popped her skull open like a over-ripe cantalope….One thing was sure…. some poor bastard would have to clean up the mess, and I wasn’t nearly drunk or dumb enough to hang around and get involved….
RIP Mickey – rip….
TW: Ghosts of readings past….
Is someone calling a dog? Cause I don’t think I like that! And she’s probably got a problem with it also.
http://moxie.nu/blog.php
TW: working Hello? Is this microphone working?
Thanks Jeff. This post reminds me of another nice tribute.
Suddenly, this madman came driving in, honking wildly, and stopped on a dime. Unfortunately, the dime was in Mr. Rococo’s pocket at the time….
Actually, Peggy, she gave me the name. Or else she borrowed it from one of the leftwing sites that gave me the name.
So yeah, she’s just a fucking nut.
I have, however, embraced the name. As any man would.
I AM COUNT COCKULA! ALL YOUR NIGHTS ARE BELONG TO ME!
They’re always after me lucky charms…
Yes, it had a fine pic of Jeff’s face on a box of Count Cockula. It was referenced on Deb’s website but is gone now…along with her comment that she would shut down her site for thirty days. She was down for about three and blamed others for the fact that she actually tried to use a 555 number as a real phone number. I found that to be quite funny for many reasons.
Sigh:
Dan,
I’m very sorry but I much prefer the name I coined for Mrs. Cockula – it sets up my “the count without the O joke” which I “REALLY like. I trust you get it, Dan – you seemed like one of the sharpest tacks in the box at Lipid Stupidity.
Hint: it’s a sexual double entendre.
Get it?
Deb
Posted by word warrior at July 17, 2006 06:43 PM”
She needs to be stopped.
My wife wants to know if it’s okay to call me Count Cockula.
Select progressive focus groups found that “Count Cockula” registered ‘way better’ than “Bela Lagoldstein.” So there it is.
Stopped? She can’t be stopped. Did you read the responses from her bosses at the University? Sympathetic beyond words. Deb will get her job back and she’ll continue to play the pariah card whenever it works best. She’s a sad sort of soul really.
Count Cockula: FEAR MY COCKLATY GOODNESS!
Me:
CC: BLEAH! BLEAH!
Me: Uh-huh…
CC: It’s a fooddy sorta double-entendre. Get it?
Me. Oh yeah, I got it…
SB: late
g’night
“At 4th and Drucker I took a right. At Drucker and 4th, I took a left.
I walked into a big sandstone building … Ow!!!”
You misspelled tapenade. Nice word, though.
You want Ace of Spades.
Well, Jeff, I’ve no idea where your cheese is. But I have an email from somebody who claims to have your goat, and would like to make a prisoner exchange for her dignity.
Sure, the Count Cockula dig stings a little, but you did pose for the picture. So you have to accept some of the blame.
Had I been your publicist, I’d have steered you away from the General Mills fare and toward the Peace Cereal line up.
I mean Banana Nut Rainforest Crisp already has a monkey on the box. Jeez.
Wine, Tequila, peyote, cheezzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…… perchance to dream.
A world where Deb is beaten in a Burqa while only speaking Chinese when spoken to.
Supporting the left becomes almost worth it.
Come to think of it, Cindy, Hillary, Pelosi, that Sarandan thing, the list is pretty long.
Why, the motivation for a little bit of brutal man-luv’n becomes clearer by the second.
A little Count Cockula after the morning prayer session.
Then the cheese disappears.
Little wonder the true basis for Jihad.
But I awaken and realize that prospect unfairly denies the world of their brilliance and we can’t have that now can we?
Choices, choices.
I know I left that AK in the basement with the Semtex and the ball bearings……
Count Cockula: BLEAH! BLEAH!
Me: You mean you actually went out in that get-up?
You let your dog smoke in the house?
Less Filling, ya batty dame.
The inventor yelled,”CHEESE!, Gromit!” His happiness was shortlived however.
The armadillo drilled him in the left eye with a snubnosed .38.
The inventors brains wound up all over the backside of a robot cooker. The cooker was after the inventors dog.
The dog was wearing a pair of iron pants.From somewhere you could hear a chicken laughing.
I told you this wouldn,t be a pretty story.
A three legged dog walks into a saloon in the Old West.
He slides up to the bar and announces: “I’m looking for the man who shot my paw.”
From the next room Velda entered with a two-pound package of low-fat, sliced Lorraine Swiss and two bottles of Pabst. The cheese had more holes in it than a New York Times editorial.
Cabernet, Anejo, Pabst. I was looking death in the face and I knew it.
I know that it’s nitpicky, but shouldn’t that be “sidles”? I mean, assuming that a 3-legged dog can do that.
“All right, Danger, where’s the fire?”
“In your eyes, Officer Bradshaw.”
I know how it went down, but it’s a story that’ll never get told… Goldstein wasn’t in it for the cheese. It was never the cheese. The dog? She was the perfect patsyâ€â€couldn’t say a word in her own defense, and who wouldn’t believe she did what he says. But why’d he do it? That’s the thing. Why did Goldstein take his own cheese? Maybe he wanted to get Yin’s mind off of the axle grease she got on her pretty dress, or he just wanted to kill some time. But there was no crime there–just a guy with a couple few belts too many of the good stuff in him, and he was looking for a tussle.
Me? I’m gonna’ get back to the shack and lay this .45 down next to a bottle of bourbon, and drink away the memory of that beautiful Dane lying there on the couch. She had such innocent eyes–haunting eyes. I’ve seen her kind before, and I know I’ll see the bottom of the bottle before I begin to forget… Damn Goldstein! He could have picked on anyone, why’d he have to pick on her?
Groping for the door (ring) he steps inside (ring) climbs the thirteen steps to his office (ring). He walks in (ring). He’s ready for mystery (ring). He’s ready for excitement (ring). He’s ready for anything (ring). He’s… (answers phone)
NICK: “Nick Danger, third eye.”
CALLER: “Ah, yeah… I want to order a pizza to go and no anchovies.”
NICK: “No anchovies? You’ve got the wrong number. I spell my name Danger!” (HANGS UP).
CALLER: “What?”
(This, by the way, is George L Tirebiter from the other side of the album calling.)
Cuervo Anejo? That’s like a mediocre tequila served in a dirty ashtray.
Blech.
TW: glass. We don’t need no steenking glass.
Correction: He’s calling from another album entirely!
http://www.lodestonecatalog.com/firesign.html
That’s wierd, man…
“Rocky Rococo, at your cervix.”
In the end.
The cheese stands alone.
(cue the music
fade to black)
“The floor was slippery. More slippery than actus’ asshole.”
Millions of men who had never read for pleasure suddenly became Mike Hammer fans. Anybody got a spare deck of Luckies?
Ummm, I think I’m actually the one who came up with this. That would make you a plagiarist as well as a loon, Deb Frisch. I offered it up to a guy named Stogie who did a spoof of your Count Cockula graphic. Although, it is not particularly clever, and I am not especially proud of my momentary lapse into vulgarity. It befits a seventh grader, not a person with a Ph.D. Again, I’m not proud of it, so if you want to claim it, go ahead.
You forgot the extra half-ring after he picks up the phone, Mojo.
If I’d had the temerity to ask the dog to be quiet, we might have forgotten the incident. But, damnit, the sun was coming up and the cops had begun a quad formation two blocks north. I grabbed her by the collar and kissed her full on the muzzle, then ran down the steps, with my flip-flops noisily announcing my departure. But then I saw it, and knew my fate was sealed.
The Cheese stood in the door, legs wide, barring my escape. And then I understood what had happened to it.