Thursday, December 9, 2010

Fertalize Me baby *wink wink*

Fertilize me....

I’m making it public today. That’s right you lucky little grasshopper you, the search is over. I am THAT GUY, THE guy, if we were stranded on an island, and you were the last woman alive, blah, blah, blah. The rest of you losers are off the hook. No, you may not have my physical address. You suck, I rock. Deal with it.

On a daily basis, 7 days a week, 365 days a year, random people take precious time out of their day to contact me, and that phrase is repeated over and over. Fertilize me.......You can just imagine how inflated my ego is right now. I won’t even lie and tell you that other things aren’t also inflated right now. Nope, won’t lie.

Ooh, hold on. Here’s a giggle. Imagine if I were a woman and walked around saying Fertilize Me to people. I’d get strange looks for sure, albeit my Friday and Saturday nights would be booked up for months. I’d be the next OctoMom!

Don’t be a hater, girls. You know you laughed, too.

But, as a man, with a loyal following of precious dirt groupies, who ask me on a daily basis to fertilize them, I feel slightly all powerful. Not ALL all powerful. Just slightly. I’m doing my best not to let it get to my head. I get that a lot, people wanting my special additive for their crops. For some reason they think my juice is extra special. People request it probably 10 times a day, maybe more, but I have to set limits here people. I own a vineyard and produce the best quality wine and vinegar (yes, better than yours apparently). I sell it for thousands a bottle. (Wish I had THAT in the bank.) I raise all kinds of crops, plump and plentiful. I have several friends who count on my bountiful plots of land for their co-ops, and they know exactly how many plots of land I have, and what I have planted on those plots, and to whose co-ops I belong. It’s weird, and a bit intrusive, but they do. I swear they all must keep a secret journal where they write this stuff down every day. My very own virtual crop stalkers. I am the man.

Later on, after I finish sowing my seeds.....and everyone elses...... I’ll whack a mobster, and not in the fun explanation necessary. I get 13 -14 requests a day to support peoples gangs and join their squads, be their hit man, get-away driver or pimp. Not really qualified to do the pimp thing. Well, I wouldn’t say I’m not qualified. I’m definitely qualified bee-otch. More like, I’m not allowed. My wife said no. She’s no fun. Seemed like an easy way to pay for a Disney vacation to me, but I don’t make the rules.

She is, however, perfectly comfortable with me being a knight (how romantic), farmer (very noble), or best of all, some mutant animal hybrid thing living in a strangely rockin’ house (the wife and I should probably talk).

That's the one that bothers me the most, probably; those creepy emotive animals with their purple (or any other color you choose) hair, abnormally large horns and ears, freakishly large eyes, obscenely large heads, and tiny, tiny bodies. They need to be put down, if not for us than to save them all from a horrible, embarrassing death. First of all, we need to start having some regulation of color here. Let’s keep the available colors limited to shades of brown. That way no one feels like they don’t fit in. We can start weeding out all the rebellious genetic mishaps and send them to one of the magical lands they all seem to have hidden in their attics. After we’ve taken care of the misfits, we can start dealing with their physical limitations. Their bodies are so small I’m amazed they don’t all just flop around on the floor with their legs flailing in the air, squealing like baby pigs. They have to be amazingly top heavy. The strain on their spines must be immense. Like Anna Nicole immense. They would starve to death, unless they could figure out how to roll on the floor like a beach ball, until they reach their food bowls. But it would be their luck that they would make it to the food bowl, but be incapable of rolling back out, subsequently suffocating in a bowl of kibble. If we can provide all of our mutant babies with killer homes, appliances, food, cars, yards, friends and magic..... Why can’t we provide them with health insurance? Something for the powers that be to think about. Get these poor, sad little creatures head reductions! Hmmm, I know a few real live people that need that procedure as well. Hell, have you looked at my Avatar?

I have killed over a thousand fish on another game that I get a crap ton (yes, that’s a real rate of measurement) of social spam from my friends and loved ones every day. They love you so much, and because they do, you are thereby obligated to assist them in their plot to dominate the world, or something. He (or she) who hath the biggest and most fish tanks wins. I say whoever can hatch the most eggs, and then let the little buggers starve, en masse, is top dog. And the dirtier your tanks are, the better. Please, send me fish. Send me plants. Send me little plastic statues of deep sea diver dudes. My tank is just not cluttered enough. In fact I can still see glass in the upper left corner. Oh, never mind. I’ll just wait a few hours. It’ll be covered in a coat of lovely green algae in no time.

And by the way, I can’t even get my own damn dog to lay down on command. Why in the world would you trust me enough to ask me to help you train your dragon? I’m liable to teach him how to prepare your taxes, followed by a bit of fire breathing wherein you become nice and crispy, paired beautifully with some lettuce and tomato on toasted rye bread.

All across our great nation these days so many people are out of work, out of money, and out of luck. But I just don’t think most people see the big picture here. You can be anything you want! Don’t you want to be the Fertilize Me Man in your own neighborhood? You probably already are and you don’t even realize it, you stud! Wanna be a contract killer without all the bloody messes or the rap sheet? Want a pimp paycheck without all the ho slappin’ or a pissed off wife? Want your very own dragon you can name Petunia Marigold? It’s easier than you think.

Go check your messages. Be a hero, a hired gun, a geneticist committing genocide, a fish murderer and a plastic plant hoarder, all in one day. Anything is possible if you believe. Ring a bell, clap for a fairy (or is it slap a fairy?), wish on a star, close your eyes, hold your breath, and truly BELIEVE that all things are possible. You CAN own your very mutant critter. You can make him any color you want. Give him huge eyes, disgusting horns, leather pants, and a playground in the backyard. Next week, buy him a stand mixer and a red Vespa. Because you can! And in that universe, you have all the control!

Don’t let the current state of our union get you down. Get online with the rest of America, and live your dreams! And when you’re done doing that, live somebody else’s dreams! Everyone is doing it. But don’t forget to ask the wife for permission. And if you need an explanation for the “Fun way to whack a mobster”, perhaps you’re too young to read this blog. Go ask your Dad.

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