A personal note to Mr. Kile Wygle

By Zeichenpress

Hi Kile Wygle!!!

You made it!! Your silly name is plastered all over the internet!! Congratulations.

Charged with Driving While Intoxicated… On a bar stool.

You rascal! 

I thought it especially interesting that you revealed the potential top-speed of your bar stool to the arresting officer. 38 mph DOES kick ass, Kile Wygle! Where to from here, Kile Wygle? 28 years old and THIS under your belt. 20-somethings always have to show off! I’m sure you are googling yourself (now that you’re out of the drunk-tank) and have run across this blog post. And thank goodness, I have some advice for you:

Do not dismay. There is SO much more to do. Let this bar-stool-DUI be the impetus for a fresh series of Jack-Ass style accomplishments. I have some ideas – you don’t even have to give me credit:

1. Turn an ordinary life-raft into a an inflatable suit. Get drunk. Float down the Mississippi.

2. Dig a 6 foot pit in your neighbors yard. Get drunk. Climb inside and yell for help.

3. Go to the Minnesota State Fair. Get drunk. Offer $5 piggy-back rides to old women.

4. In the middle of the night – in a school parking lot, build a full-size cabin out of Lincoln Logs. Get drunk. Pass out in the doorway.

5. Gain 800 pounds. Pin a note to your bib demanding you be launched into space as the first human satellite. Get drunk. Attend upcoming NASA convention.

DO IT.

Do not disappoint us, Kile Wygle.

“Various Meats, Come Forth!”

By Zeichenpress

There was a story in the news yesterday about a fish-store owner who drove to the airport to pick up a special delivery of exotic fish. The seven-foot long package they gave him did not, in fact, contain $1,000 worth of exotic fish. It contained exactly one dead man – Jon Kenoyer.

Oops!

The dead man was supposed to be delivered to some institute – he had donated his body to “science”.

What the f*ck?

A) Who does that?
B) What does that even mean? What sort of experiments can be performed on a man that has been dead for 5 days?
C) Who does that?
D) Isn’t that whole embalming thing done so that your loved ones don’t have to plug their noses while they kneel in front of your stiff corpse at your wake?
E) Was Jon packed in those cute little peanuts or placed gently in a silk-lined coffin?

More about rotting meat:

We left Minnesota in the middle of a heat-wave one summer and returned to discover a “freezer” full of rotting meat.

The cab dropped us off and we dragged our luggage past tumbleweeds and panting squirrels.
PANTING SQUIRRELS.

That’s how hot it was.

Opening the front door of the house was like opening the tomb of Lazarus.

“Various Meats, come forth!”

Whereupon they that were dead stayed dead. The stench of rotting meat stung our noses. The refrigerator in the basement had lost power and 40lbs of frozen chicken, cow, and pig thawed and rotted. To make matters more delicious, every window had been shut tight for two weeks.

Two steamy weeks.

Also:

I had a dream last night about a really, really smelly raccoon. He wanted to be my “companion” but every time he came near me, I winced – it made him feel bad. I kept apologizing and saying, “okay, I’m sure it’ll be fine this time – come closer.”

Unwritten Rules (Funny, right?? Because I’m about to WRITE them. Get it?!)

Wait just one finger lickin’ minute. Apparently not everyone got the memo:
The memo that was written in cold, black Sharpie on the yellow post-it note of our souls. Maybe it was some sort of clerical error. Like extra toes.

God’s awful busy and I don’t mind pitchin’ in – I have already taken it upon myself to submit several op-ed pieces to the local newspaper – Dressing house pets like little babies is not natural. Neither is naming your daughter after a counter-top. Connect the dots, people. 

In my (day) dream, I saw The (Un)Written Rules drawn in the sand next to Jesus’ footsteps. It was a vivid vision, done in paint-by-number and laminated on a piece of wood-paneling.

The effect was stunning.

Some might call me a prophet. I don’t care much for that fancy-talk, I’m just a God-fearin’ woman with an itchin’ to do good. So, sit back in your La-Z-Boy and listen up:

1: Don’t have more cats than the Humane Society.

2: Don’t get high before appearing on a late-night talk show.

3: Fiber One bars cause excessive gas. That’s not really an unwritten rule – just a warning.

4: Don’t try to high-five a blind man.

5: Never play Pac-Man on your wristwatch during church.

6: Needle-nose pliers are not intended for wart removal. Do you hear me?!

7: Don’t spank your female (or male) employees as they leave your office.

8: Don’t cheat on your medical school exams. In America.

9. Examine your conscience for lice.

10: Don’t fake your own death.

Whew!! I feel better. That Fiber One bar was like a Snake In a Nut Can.

Shhhhhhhhh. Don’t tell Facebook I’m over here!!!

Damn you, Facebook! Your games and wily ways suck me in.
You prey on my need to be heard, to not feel alone in the universe, to reach out to my fellow man and say, “hello, fellow man – perhaps you’d like to know 25 Random Things about me.”

1. I come from a large Catholic family, I am the fourth of eight children. Mealtime made me scrappy, constant teasing made me self-deprecating.

2. I wore a short-sleeved blue leotard as a swimsuit for two summers. Some sort of hand-me-down although I never saw anyone else wear it.

3. I was a small child and until I was 13, I was sure I’d be a jockey. At age 13, I discovered boys and riding a horse seemed silly.

4. Until I was 13, I was not very interested in bathing or showering. (See sentence #2 of item #3)

5. From ages 10 thru 18, I spent whole summers at our house in Cape Cod where I learned the art of the Vacation Drama and later, Brooding.

6. My first apartment was above Ribizza, my clothes always smelled like pizza and there were no doors or shower. I washed my hair in the tub with a cup from Super America: The Big Gulp 44.

7. I had my first child when I was 19. I hated the term single-mother and wouldn’t always correct strangers that assumed I was babysitting my little brother. 

8. I didn’t get my drivers license until I was 29 and I will not drive on the highway. One time I was unexpectedly spit out on the highway and the expression on my face was exactly like Beaker from The Muppet Show.

9. I taught myself how to hand set type and operate antique letterpress equipment. I know, I know… Sexy.

10. I own a design and letterpress studio and have a line of of greeting cards sold around the country. I won’t stop until Zeichen Press makes a million bucks even though it’s all just silliness and my time would be better spent holding crack-babies. I’m so self-centered/I suck. (See sentence #2 of item #1)

11. I wish it was acceptable to challenge friends or strangers to a running race.

12. I own a kayak that is docked and locked on Lake of the Isles. The combination is: 8675309.

13. I find a live, wild bird almost every summer. Usually Sparrows but occasionally a duck or a Robin. When I share this information with people I speak with an air of nonchalance and mystery.

14. I hustle to leave a very dark room alone. And would only enter a very dark room alone if I absolutely had to. If I have a child with me I force them to enter first.

15. I have had 15 pets, including a parakeet named Pepper, a newt named Scoot, a cat named Atticus, a Siberian Dwarf Hamster named Couscous, and another Siberian Dwarf Hamster named Couscous II.

16. I have terrible eyesight and have worn glasses for 31 years. I’m afraid to get Lasek because I think it will take away my special powers.

17. I get really, really excited if I think I’ve discovered a secret passageway or compartment. 99% of the time I’ve discovered nothing but still feel like I’m “getting close.”

18. Every single one of my dreams has a scene that involves me and a toilet.

19. I usually have some debilitating or terminal illness but also have a phobia of doctors, making diagnosis difficult.

20. I don’t recycle cans or bottles but I DO recycle glad tidings. Wink.

21. I smoked a pack of cigarettes a day for 6 years. It was the best six years of my life.

22. I absolutely panic when I come across a large centipede in my house but I’m not afraid to bike alone in the dark. In the city. Nude.

23. I said, “Nuuuuuuuuuuuuude.

24. Are you still reading?

25. I love when people read what I write.

Done.

Trim The Fat –> Fat-Ass

Hey, let’s make a game! We’ll call it, Don’t Touch My Motherf***ing Wallet.

The rules are simple: Neither you nor anyone else is allowed to touch your motherf***ing wallet. Why? What happens if I do? Or if someone else does? How do I win? How do I lose? First of all, if you are going to be a big baby about this I’m not even going to play with you, so sac up and let’s do it.

The inspiration for this game came at about 3am Thursday morning when a twenty-something woman rang my doorbell. She rang my doorbell, my dog went cuckoo, I stumbled downstairs. She wanted $23 dollars. FROM MY WALLET.

What? The? F?

She said that her sister just got in a fight with her boyfriend and needed cab-fare to come from Hastings. As I stared at her in disbelief, she offered to shovel my walk for the rest of the winter. She offered me “dvd’s”. Why dvd’s? Is that some sort of late-night currency? Why would I want her copies of Wall Street and Glitter? I told her that her story was full of holes. She didn’t even try to disagree. Are meth-addicts agreeable? Good-natured? What is this new form of beggar?

If we truly are entering a NEW Depression, I want hobos. Tattered, moonshine-soaked, roll-your-own-cigarette-smoking, flea-bitten, train-hopping, harmonica-playing, morally-questionable-yet-somehow-lovable-and-wise, hobos. I want a hobo to come to my farm (I don’t live on a farm) and teach my boys about riding the rails and how to make art out of wooden matches and tin cans.

My point? The OLD Depression had class. It had style! Nobody expected to have any money in their wallet – and somehow that thinking created a generation of innovators. Need a table? No Problem, that old door will work just fine and a tree stump’ll make a fine seat. Need pants? Grab that flour sack! A pillow? Pluck the chicken! Skin infection? Try packing on a heaping spoonful of maggots! See? STYLE!

Ditch the wallet. I mean it. Throw it in a ditch. It’s just full of plastic anyway. Don’t pay for take-out food, make it! Don’t pay for vegetables, grow them! Don’t pay for sex, knock the prostitute out with a telephone and run from the motel! I’m just saying – be resourceful. Nobody needs to get hurt.

Okay, forget the prostitute. 

Ready, set, go.

PS: Party idea: Make our own play-dough and brush each others’ hair!

Presto Manifesto

By Zeichenpress

Do you find it difficult to articulate your thoughts and feelings on nearly every “soft” subject?

Do you want to learn to speak off the cuff?

Do you ever think, “Hmm. I don’t actually have an opinion about that”?

Are you tired of nodding in agreement but having no idea what you are agreeing with, or to?

Help is finally here for you, my friend!

Presto Manifesto takes all of the fuss and muss out of forming your own opinion. With Presto Manifesto, there is no need for guesswork, no need for research, no need for applying wishy-washy methodology. It’s simple, really! If you have completed the fourth grade you are ready for Presto Manifesto.

Step one: Print out the words below on a sheet of paper. If you don’t have access to a printer, get one.

Step two: Using a pencil, fill in the blanks with appropriate parts of speech. (Take your time, this is not a race.)

Step three: Recite “your” manifesto in front of a full length mirror.

Step four: The real deal. This is the most complicated step and requires a bit of concentration: Study the faces of those around you; are they looking at you? Are they ready to hear what YOU have to say? Say it. Say it loud and say it proud (but not too loud or too proud…I mean, don’t be an asshole about it).

This might be at a cocktail party, a bus stop, a rally, a groom’s dinner. The opportunity will present itself and you will finally be ready. No more mock-coughing, slipping contacts, ordering another drink when you aren’t even thirsty.

“Yes, well. I couldn’t say it better than (non-controversial famous historical figure). He/she certainly had his/her finger on the (noun). If only we could all take a step back and look at the big (noun). That’s what we all need to do. Pitch in. (exclamation)! [Pause, look around. Smile.] I mean, I don’t want to sound like a know-it-all [wink] but sometimes it just boils down to a little (noun). [Read the faces: if they are nodding in agreement, proceed.] Do your part. (verb) it! [If your audience is looking at you with confused faces, excuse yourself. If you feel you must give an explanation, say simply, "I need to go take my medication."]“

Whew. Remember, practice makes perfect.
*Note: Try out your manifesto on a fresh audience whenever possible.

Prepare For Impact

By Zeichenpress

THANK GOD I wasn’t on that plane.

I’m not saying that for selfish reasons, I swear. It’s just that I know, I’m FULLY aware, of my limitations. The entire outcome would have been different. Focus would have been taken off of the heroism of the flight crew and placed on the hysterical woman.

“Brace for impact” are three little words that, in my mind, are not in the least bit romantic. Upon hearing those words I know I would’ve started screaming like a maniac. The passengers would have lined up to  slap me, a la the film Airplane…the chaos and my screams would’ve been too much for the frightened cabin and crew – a haphazard mutiny would’ve resulted, and with no leader there would’ve been absolute bedlam; a strong man tearing seats out of the floor, flight attendants guzzling those teeny-tiny bottles of vodka, an old lady using her head as a battering ram to knock out her window…seat belts transformed into makeshift nooses for self-strangulation.

All in under a minute.

The plane hitting the water would’ve added a new dimension to the confusion; the opportunity to throw me overboard rocketing to the top of everyone’s to-do list. Just the notion of the pleasure of it would’ve taken hold in the minds and hearts of the other passengers, and it would’ve become the collective goal of Airbus A320… to murder me. My fate would be similar to that smothered “chicken” in the farewell episode of M*A*S*H. 

The pilot, God help him, would’ve been the only one with the presence of mind to subdue me, no doubt using a technique known as a field lobotomy. Very rarely performed, but thanks to a grandfather clause, still in training textbooks under chapter 23: Subduing an Irrational Passenger. 

Cheaper and longer lasting (like, forever) than a tranquilizer gun, this neurosurgical procedure can be accomplished anytime/anywhere and requires only an ice-pick and something to act as a mallet. With me successfully catatonic and drooling, the crew would then have proceeded to evacuate the passengers, my limp body left behind, passengers stepping over it – ashamed of their own baseness.

My madness would’ve turned a cross-section of America into would-be killers. I would’ve single-handedly pushed the panic button that without me, was invisible.

The people on that plane acted in an orderly, ethical way. They evacuated the women and children first, disciplined as private-school students filing out of the classroom for a field trip. Had I been on that plane, my ranting and raving would’ve created a mob mentality.

Thank GOD I wasn’t.

Oh, I’m also saying that an ice pick can be handy. AND I’m saying that you can never trust a four pound bird.

Level III Sex Offenders

Doesn’t that sound awesome? It sounds so prestigious – like, really goal oriented.

Do the level III’s get together and chuckle over their silly dibble-dabbling days as levels I and II? How they had to pay their dues, climb the ladder? Days spent in shadowy creek banks making inappropriate gestures towards teenage girls, nights spent making one-handed, moaning phone calls to the lucky ladies listed in the White Pages? Oh, such silly, simple days! Now they’ve gone and raised their own bar, so to speak. The neighborhood has been notified, the cops are watching them – mug shots and details of their dark and dirty deeds are available to any curious person with a computer. Does this temper a Level III? HELL NO! They’ve been honing their craft for a lifetime and delight in the challenge. DELIGHT.

Every city has at least one thickly settled population of Level III’s. It’s high time they got organized. Little Italy, China Town, Level III Land! Think of the souvenirs… THINK OF THEM. And the food – so authentic! Armour brand Lasagna with Meat Sauce – in a can, anything made by Frit-o-lay, Buddig meats… YUMMY. We can stop living in fear and go right TO THEM in their natural habitat. More like a zoo. A petting zoo.

In Minneapolis, how about the corner of Franklin and Park? There’s a vacant lot, that could be thrilling after sunset! A rape kit would, of course, be included with the cost of admission. A rape kit and a how-to book on forensic sketching. During peak-season (May-September, PLUS Halloween) Level III’s are most active. The Winter months are primarily spent indoors trolling the internet for “dates”, watching re-runs of Xena: Warrior Princess and fantasizing about mythological Level IV Status – rumored to be achieved only by Jeffrey Dahmer and Ed Gein.

Hey, you Level III’s: dim the lights and leave your door open. We know where you live ( http://familywatchdog.us/ )and we’re dropping by for  some shenanigans.

-zeichenpress

F*** Facebook

You heard me. I don’t normally swear (yes, I do) but it’s time for some tough love. 

It’s time to free ourselves from the shackles of this social networking monster. We are ignorant prisoners, dragging our metal cups across the bars while our warden stuffs his fat face with naturally- cased wieners. We are school children, wandering like Wii avatars, waiting for the bell to ring only to be called in to diagram sentences. We are the Israelites crushed by our taskmasters, waiting for the supernatural smiting by the Egyptians. We are the short-skirted cheerleader getting banged in the locker room, wondering why we don’t have a boyfriend. 

Rise up, people. Stop rowing the slave ship. The candy tasted so good before we got in the van, but now we must be deprogrammed. Make no mistake about it – this is some sort of Stockholm Syndrome. Oh, the candy… so sweet, so forbidden, so Turkish-Delighty. Facebook, the modern equivalent of “if you show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

Facebook, damn you!

Not only have I lifted my skirt for you but I’ve flushed my precious time down the toilet. Time I’ll never get back. Just like the year I got hooked on Party of Five – those orphaned Salingers led by their gorgeous brother/carpenter, Matthew Fox…

Oh, but it’s done now. No point in looking back. Friend requests, status updates, profile pictures – word combinations unwittingly added to the English lexicon! I’ve got a word for you: insidious. Never has there been such a tool, such a divisive tool. It wears a party hat and mixes the strongest drinks, watching the party-goers behave like jackasses. Why?

Ask son-of-a-dentist/billionaire, Mark Zuckerberg. Mr. Zuckerberg was unavailable for comment during the writing of this, and it’s no wonder. He’s in Palo Alto, counting his drug money. I’m booking a flight to Palo Alto and am either going to personally punch him in the face or flatter him until he hires me as his “personal secretary.” The second scenario is obviously more lucrative. The point is, I will no longer be in this creepy symbiotic relationship.

I will be free. (cue the MLK footage)

-zeichenpress