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11.2.2003 by Dan, every Monday.


Editor's Note: Dan was unable to write this week due to his contracting, as he put it, “The Dread Bubonic Anthrax.” Sensing another of his convenient illnesses that he tends to get whenever he goes on a Windex bender, I went to his place. However, Dan was apparently legitimately ill as his sole actions upon my entering his bedroom was to mutter “fghqwqads” and fling one of the glowing green pods covering most of the surfaces at my head. Therefore, today's column will be written by Billy of ”Family Circus” fame.

Billy's Blank

By Billy age 6

So i was praktising my spelling in ms. Williams' class when a man walked in and asked her for one of her students becawse dan was sick and he needed someone hoo could rite like him. mis Willmaes said the the last guy she let take a kid from her class never brot her bak and evnku evempu ewok later he got shot my the F Bee Eye and Mif Wilma got wroted up. But the man sayed he was okay So MS Willmas pointed at me because i always eet the most play doh and said that i wood have to do. So tooday i am going to tawlk about girls. Girls are icky and ware pink and never want to play Ninja Fruit Storm Power Ranger Commando with you even if you promise to stop taking her erasers. Also girls are icky becawse they ware dreses and and your legs get cold and the ribbons in your hair make your eyes water. I know this becawse one time mommy stopt taking her pills and she started wearing lipstik all over her body and bawt a buncha dresess and said we would be pretty little girls and we didn't need no mans who would leave the toilet seat up and bang sekweterrys. Well i gots to go because mommy sade that my wurfless daddy is here with his floozy. I'm gonna ask daddy if I can pet the floozy!

Second Editor's Note: On behalf of all of the real and imaginary staff at Tangmonkey, I would like to apologize for both the overall poor quality of that article and it drifting dangerously close to having some sort of social relevance. However, at least it was short. Unfortunately for me, however, it wasn't quite enough filler. So I called up Sean at the last minute to see if he would be kind enough to provide me with a music review. He kindly agreed to dictate one to me over the phone during his scuba diving lesson.

I first had opportunity to hear the smooth, mellow sounds of “Leonard Nimoy Sings The Very Best Of Pakistani Opera” during my recent capture by Canadian extremists, who were holding me hostage in exchange for the release of several key beavers from the Vancouver Zoo. At first I screamed and begged for help, but soon I found myself *SPLASH* gurgle gurgle gurgle glub glub glub. GLUB! GLUB GLUB GLUB *SPLASH* AAIIEEEEE!! SHAAAARK! SHARK IN THE WADING POOL!! WHHHAAAUUGGH I AM BEING SAVAGELY MAULED!!! SWEET MERCIFUL WAYNE GRETZKY SAVE ME FROM THE ENDLESS AGONIZING PAIN!!! AAAAAAAAAA-

Third Editor's Note: It was at that point that I was abruptly cut off. This was terribly inconvenient for me as I still was short of enough filler to finish this week's column. So, I decided to take matters into my own hands, and attended a party that was being thrown by some classy friends of mine. Well, they're not so much friends of mine as friends of a friend of mine. Okay, to be truthful, they were not so much friends of his as people who paid him to mow their lawn a couple of years ago. But I feel like they're family to me, and as my friend had stolen an extra key to their garage, I decided to RSVP myself. While there, I had an encounter that moved me to write this final short.

I recently had the good fortune to encounter a most unique woman at a cocktail party last week. Now, I know what you're thinking. “Since when has the editor of world-renowned international heartthrob renegade Tangmonkey columnist Dan gone to something as banal as a cocktail party?” A fair question, I must say.

This woman gained my interest from the moment I laid eyes on her, passed out on the floor under the punch table, her face embedded in a box of “Cheez-Its.” She was dressed in a dainty moose costume, coquettishly accented with a pink cowboy hat and a bandolier of empty Smirnoff bottles. My instincts told me that this woman had a story to tell.

So, bored with all the supermodels and ninjas at the party, I crawled under the table with this strange woman and proceeded to partially rouse her by dumping my Pepsi Blue down her antlers. This sort of worked.

“Whuzzat?” she slurred. I made a mental note not to light a match in her prescence.

“Say, did you know that harmonicas were once used by the ancient Chicagoans as part of their funeral rites?”

“I had no idea.” I sincerely replied.

“S'true!” She paused to take a swig of some “Old Spice.” “They used them to call the giant robot Mechagodzilla, who would, of course, destroy Tokyo. Now, the ting about Tokyo is that they got this ripoff of the Eiffel Tower. And as we all know, “Eiffel” sounds kind of like “Waffle.” And I am currently a bit tipsy, so thinking waffles makes me nauseous, and that is why I am going to vomit on your shoes BARRRRF.”

“Ick” I replied.

Fourth Editor's Note: Fortunately, the shoes were not terribly expensive. Though, if you were the woman at that party, please, call me?

Anyway, God willing Dan will be better by next week, as I am running out of tripe.






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