Wednesday, April 07, 2010
Fear of Intimacy
It’s not difficult for a toad like me to surrender to the flow. It’s sort of a prerequisite, given my inanimate state. Sometimes I just feel like the object of someone’s unfunny joke. Visiting a famous performing arts center only to get upstaged while saving a drowning two dimensional duck. This isn’t my idea of fun.
I’ve come to accept this as a way of life, I suppose. But it just seems more and more that I am posed in contrast to one irrelevant and inanimate object or another in ever more foreign lands.
Precisely… An immobile propeller and a do not enter sign could not be more apropos for my current state of mind. It’s come to the point where even drowning my sorrows has gotten old.
But I still give in. And look, we’ve stopped bothering to hide my location at this point! How’s that for dedication?
“To the lees,“ I slur.
I don’t even need to smell the spoetzl, let alone eat it. I’ve cloaked myself so far beneath the sheets that I’ve lost my ability to keep track of time. Stumbling back out into the street, my world is torn asunder.
Could it be.. the one?
Posted by Pooptoad
on 04/07 at 11:49 PM
Monday, March 22, 2010
nennen sie mich auspumpenkröte
Let it be known that I despise winter. I can deal with a dry heat, a wet heat, a wet warmth, a damp chill, a moist sock, or anything resembling the above. Three things I can’t manage: Centigrade, Wind, Cold. And this place has all fucking three of them:
Oh, and it has a guy playing an accordion at a subway station under one of the most popular tourist hotels in the city. When you tip him a euro, he demands two more. I recommend not paying him further—he won’t understand any of your requests and he will show you what he has for lunch. A good beggar shows you NOTHING at this point.
Oh, it also has very efficient trains, so when you lie to him and tell him you have to leave to go to Aying, he’ll (correctly) inform you that you have at least four minutes (and still two Euros) to kill. Ignore him and board the train.
Walk aimlessly around a small village following the flow of traffic. Spot one of your favorite breweries on the planet.
Enjoy the veal sausage, three profound beers, and the charm of families flowing in and out with their well behaved children/pets. Smile and tell the kids that you don’t “sprechen sie deutsch.“ Tip like the foreigner you are and head back to the city for some more fun. Forget your camera.
Posted by Pooptoad
on 03/22 at 11:51 PM
Heard a good one the other day.
A toad walks out of the airport in Rzeszów and picks up his rental car.
And then he realizes he’s painted onto a goddamned canvas and can’t possibly steer the thing. And also, his suitcase is filled with himself and not money. A downgrade is in order.
That’s more like it. It’s at this point that I curse my owner, who only managed to take pictures of me indoors or in the snowy evenings of this fine nation. Case in point:
I had a feeling you guys expected more from my first international journey. Sigh.. What a moron.
Posted by Pooptoad
on 03/22 at 08:10 PM
Monday, January 25, 2010
I’m just goofin’—New boot Goofin’
Well, I guess it’s been a while since I’ve checked in. Rumors of my demise are justified but false. Alas, I was not incinerated in a fiery blaze, but I can offer no proof to the contrary. Where did I leave off? Ah yes.. The summertime. I was invited to some sort of turtle festival. Being a well-versed lover of all things both terrapin and musical, I ingested the required regimen of under-the-table entheogens and proceeded on my merry way to the party place.
Hooboy. I can still smell that hippie stench. That’s not to say I didn’t participate. Or procreate:
I jest yet again. These were a friendly lot, though. It was incredible to see how many people contributed their own individual efforts to the communal artistic vibe of the gathering. I procured some shirts, some beverages, some flowering herbs, and various other ingestibles. At the peak of my experience, I became one with my surroundings:
If you’d polled me then, I would have bet that you would be unable to discern me from my surroundings from a mere photograph sometime in the future. I would have obviously been proven a moron at this point.
I’ve heard some concerns that I haven’t been making enough inanimate friends on my journeys here in the fine American United States of. Rest easy, readers; I was introduced to a finely carved wooden owl whose handlers managed to match my own in spontaneity and inebrity:
The owl was quite pleasant. We were intimate. I may have a child.
On a somewhat depressing note… in my travels I have missed several connections, most notably Lou Barlow, Penn and Teller, and Montel Williams. My handler is the only one to blame for these oversights. Nevertheless, here I am with an E-list celebrity:
Yes. It’s Wavy Gravy. Yes, you should be underwhelmed. Montel is way cooler. And he smokes almost as much pot.
Perhaps it was the sun getting to me, but I was feeling a bit disoriented. I tried and tried and tried to “come down” as gradually as possible. Nothing was working until these fellows walked out onto the stage:
Guster brought to you courtesy of Pooptoad.
I’d heard them around the house a few times, muffled from inside my handy carrying case. They were much better live. I was relaxed. I tried my hand at the ladies.
Looks like I did pretty well. The only one who didn’t want a piece was third on my list, anyways.
Posted by Pooptoad
on 01/25 at 11:09 PM
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
An Epic Win.
The rest of the night was a blur. I woke up in a posh suite with a bevvy of tiny, lithe bodies surrounding me. I threw out all but the nearest two:
Borrowing from a tip I had learned from a master of ‘standing-up’ on ‘The Comedy Central,‘ I attempted to soothe my hangover with the only method of which I was aware:
I believe my alcoholism is firmly diagnosable at this point, as I began to hallucinate.
Really? The namesake of my website?
Surely, I was either either on the brink of death or insanity, merely waxing self-aggrandized about my blog… What would I see next?
At least things couldn’t really get much weirder, considering all I’d seen in the past few months. I settled down to an evening of amateur stage performances…
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
What have I done?
Posted by Pooptoad
on 09/16 at 11:02 PM
Not a left coast state!
So I took some time off to find my bearings. The balmy shores of Mar Pacífico had truly given me a profound appreciation for both the geographic diversity of this fine land as well as a rare opportunity to get to know a vast cross section of its inhabitants. I assumed that things would turn back to normal as I returned closer to my original adopted home. I could hardly have been more wrong.
I had pretty much had enough of these weird, dressy folk back during my little trip out to the coast, but yet here they were again. At least they seemed a little less fanatical and a bit more social than those I had previously encountered, albeit just as nerdy.
Even with their penchant for the consumption of cerebral tissue, their stomachs remained vacant enough to drink just as much as their Pacific Daylight Time counterparts.
This, of course, can easily be blamed on the presence of the Russians who, as they are wont to do, manhandled me.
If you know me by now, you realize that this sort of thing isn’t exactly my scene. I needed to unwind, so I set off upon the town, my limerick pen in tow:
In need of a smoky treat,
I wandered the local streets,
When I came out to play,
‘twas a leggy display,
and I swear he’d been groping her teats.
Hrm.. That is all.
Posted by Pooptoad
on 09/16 at 08:28 PM
Saturday, September 12, 2009
A Nice Day for a White Wedding!
So apparently a group of people communed somewhere and decided that I would be allowed to dress up like a genuine Vanilla whitey from the 1920s.
Oh, how I obliged them.
I was unsure whether to relax with a cigar or to hike up my trow and go out for a game of Croquet, which was honestly an option at this particular “Four Seasoned” resort, or to manage the whole matter a little more subtly and just be a lot more racist than usual… Kind of a strange idea, considering my skin tone. I decided to embrace my newly found Caucasian side by treading outdoors for a rousing sequence of golf holes.
These sporting events are pathetic. Look at these fools attempt to compete. I kept the mocking howls sewn up within my lips whilst watching them attempt to compete. A putting competition? They were obviously not aware of my rigorous training back home.
I’m not exactly sure what hole this was, because the monotony of draining 20’+ putts had worn my mind to a shiny finish. This was probably one of the two holes where I actually needed to make a second shot.
Of course, this was all a diversion from what really mattered. My handler had traveled to these strange places for several reasons, but the trip itself may not have occurred at all were it not for the fact that it was of the utmost importance that he be there for his sister’s wedding. My brief encounter with her merely reinforced what was implied by his previous chatter, to explain the need for the trip. By means of rumor, I learned that she even allowed for my presence at the wedding, a decree of which I took full advantage by intruding upon the traditional cake-cutting photographs. Here I am upon the groom’s discovery of my intrusion:
Dear lord, how I drank afterwards. I sometimes wish my eyes could close. Even with my sleeping cap on, I couldn’t manage to nestle myself into the arms of Morpheus nearly as easily as some of my compatriots.
For my handler, this marked the end of his vacation, but more adventures would be had.
Posted by Pooptoad
on 09/12 at 01:11 AM
Monday, September 07, 2009
I believe I can fly!
So apparently the foliage behind me is typically on fire; my timing is impeccable. I do think that in this most agreeable of seasons, I blend in quite well.. So well, in fact, that I thought I’d meander over to the right side of the frame to fool you for a bit. That or I may just be moseying off towards the wafting aromas of fine tannins in the summer breeze.
Ah yes, there we have it. I’ll just give it a little swirl, the syrah. I’ll have a little more of this one please. There is nothing finer than a sunny winery, surrounded by the company of friends and strangers alike, all soaking up the various energies the sun has to offer. And what would a winery be without…
Upon closer inspection, these folks seemed to be a rather agreeable lot, but we didn’t seem to be on the same conversational wavelength. But I had other motives for being in this particular place. It was time to meet with family. I will spare you of all but the most perfunctory reunion shot:
It was all to brief, but we caught up as could best be managed. I nearly teared up upon our all-too-soon departure, and upon learning that the winery with the miniature horses was closed.
Alas, mine was not the only family to be reunited on this voyage…
Posted by Pooptoad
on 09/07 at 10:20 PM
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Wait.. Weren’t we just here? This isn’t Canada?
Per my request, my handler left the car running following our departure from our parched environs until we reached a more agreeably location, even when he stopped to eat, murder hitchhikers, cavort with prostitutes of both genders, or whatever my imagination decided it was he was doing. The television programs in this nation are beginning to get to me. After a rather exhaustive journey and a wonderful evening spent within the confines of the Johnson Presidential Jacuzzi Suite. As always, peace did not persist and I was, yet again, jostled into a bit of sport:
At this point, I’m familiar with the American pastime of racing to the point where the thought of it induces unpleasant sensations and irregular bowel movements. Unlike the contents of my colon, my infatuation with it had seem to run its course. That is, until..
They let me in a car. They let me in a car!
THEY LET ME IN A CAR!@$!@$%!
Whatever adrenaline a toad can produce during the course of an eight minute period, let it be known that I produced it. My handler managed to finish in dead last out of six runners, with an average lap time of 35.58s. I, on the other hand, decimated the competition:
The second and third place finishers didn’t even bother getting on the podium. It was that bad. After the obligatory spraying of champagne, which went thoroughly unappreciated by the staff of the racing facility, it was back to the hotel for some wind down and a fine display from a visitor who happened to be in town to film one of those bizarre ‘trick shot’ billiards competitions for ESPN. He invited me onto the table to witness his skill.
I was nervous, but he was apparently proficient enough to manage what he dubbed the “Lipton Two-Pocket Sweaty Teabag.“
Posted by Pooptoad
on 08/12 at 10:05 PM
Whatever Happens Here Involves Animals
I continued to travel North, my handler warning me all the time that I could not fully experience the diversity of profound experiences that this hot zoo of a city had to offer. I did my best to avoid the Bacchanalia of the more densely occupied environs. Not surprisingly, I felt most comfortable surrounded by fauna other than homo sapiens. A zoo it would be.
This fellow just didn’t seem as friendly as the ones at the races. Nor as fast. I was rather bored at this point and, with the dry desert sky parching my sensitive skin, I made haste for more temperate climes.
Oh, how relaxing! And the colors! I fear that this nation is beginning to wear on me. There is no palette you can fail to create indoors and every turn reveals another profound vista outside! If only there weren’t so many ferocious creatures outdoors to keep me inside!
Dear lord, I need to get away from this place! Bears. INDOORS! What heinous creation is this? Who would dare to keep such creatures unconfined?! I need to ground myself yet again.
At last. Drinking and gambling.
Tiny horses. I laughed a lot and thought, “There. I am baselined yet again.“
Although probably not in those words at the time.
Posted by Pooptoad
on 08/12 at 09:35 PM
Friday, July 31, 2009
Shiny, happy people.
So, a long time ago I traveled to the nation’s most dangerous and dusty frontier town to gamble. There I met a rather bubbly drunk named Puggy Pearson who took me for a large sum. I vowed to return one day to exact my revenge. One evening, I convinced my drunken handler to aid me in my quest.
That fucking asshole died. This is what I had to deal with. His name was Joe. Not exactly Puggy, mind you, but a world more sociable and surrounded by a far more entertaining lot. Regardless, my handler seemed a bit apprehensive about meeting this particular group… Something about him being inferior in both a logical and social manner—very uncharacteristic, if I do say. Having heretofore never heard such inhibitions, I found myself a little bit intimidated and, thus, bided my time in the corner of the booth of the smoking lounge:
I imagine that it was merely because my mind had been worn from the ride, but my nerves eventually settled and, once I saw the menu, my spirits traveled back in time to the Fourth of July. This was as near to independence as a wealthy toad could manage!
After making my selection, I believe the intention of my associates was to mock me by placing me in a rather humorous location. Being where I was, I expected dollar bills to fly around my incapable limbs. Pleasantly, I was merely greeted by the scent of fine tobacco. For once, I must tip my nonexistent cap to those around me, who both respected my stature and aroused what can only be said is one of my most deeply-held interests:
Regretfully, I only enjoy the contact high of nicotine these days. It was not difficult to avoid the temptation though, because, as the lights dimmed, I was treated to a far more alluring temptation:
I will spare you the details, my friends, but let it be said that no expense was made for the pleasure seen above. Out of respect for my companions, I will also refrain from describing any further intimacies—I will let your imagination run with this one.
To pause for a moment, I must declare that I am not some sort of Romerotic Playtoad who seeks out sexually incompatible females for warmth and compassion. I like to imagine myself as the sort of amphibian who arouses both genders of homo sapiens in an equally asexual manner.
I get the party going.
Sometimes this proves to be rather difficult, and a large part of this I like to blame on my appearance:
Can you sense the horror?
I could not. I do not let it get to me. I am the ever-impervious fecal toad; say what you will—-the insults are compliments. You will warm to me, even if I have to convince your significant other to twist your arm. (I am a devious fellow.)
I don’t even need to make a joke. It just works!
Do you need further proof? Fine…
If the mixture of incomprehension, explanation, and mock understanding was not evident before you read this sentence, it, assumedly, now is.
My bombastic presence is further contemplated.
And in the end, everyone understands.
In fact, everyone genuflects to the sheer amount of knowledge that I possess when they realize they will never obtain such a profound level of intellectual contentment. I hate to be bombastic, but sometimes I let it out upon the written page. I am not normally bombastic…
..I am smug!
Smug men enjoy their meals.
I enjoyed mine.
Posted by Pooptoad
on 07/31 at 11:17 PM
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Excuse Me There… May I Lick Your Boot?
My nerves having again been calmed to the point where I could venture out of the air conditioned guestroom, I decided to accompany my associates to a restaurant that afforded what would be a rather dizzying perspective if viewed in time-lapse form. Our cheery congregation proceeded to be moved out of their initial seating location, as it was supposedly closed. Someone cracked that, given the rotation, couldn’t we just wait for a few minutes to be in the open section? And how many times would we end up moving?
Well, the answer was once, as I put my boot down firmly upon the issue. (ha!)
Do not mistake my intentions, as I am not normally one for the fruit-based drinks, but the prospect of owning such an entertaining keepsake drinking accessory proved to be my Achilles Heel here. (ha!)
What can I say? I wanted the night to get off on a good foot. (ha!)
Okay, I will cease my pathetic attempt at humor. I hopped over and found some squares with whom I could hang out:
Returning to the booth, someone mistook me for an octopus. A blowhard such as myself is rarely at a loss for words, but this was one of those rare moments. I truly took it as a compliment. A while and a few drinks later we decided to shoot a dramatic sunset shot. Ladies and gentlemen, Barack Obama!
Okay, so maybe neither of those things were true.
All things considered, it was a cozy little place that afforded us views of the surrounding suburbs. Given that it was our nation’s birthday, I had the foresight to look up the list of local pyrotechnic displays.
There were 39.
Three of us, my handler included, decided to wait it out, while the remainder of the party left to do ‘industrial-strength’ drinking.
We proceeded to get mellow-mellow with some bourbon and, as the night fell, the fireworks began. Everywhere. Unfortunately, the majority of the displays were so distant that it was nearly impossible to get a shot with both them and my hyperluminant self in frame and properly exposed. I think this made the resulting shot only more beautiful:
With nothing left to see, we returned to the hotel room briefly, prior to an hour-long disappearance of my handler and his lone associate for the purposes of karaoke. I sincerely regret having not been brought; should have lobbied a bit harder. That is not to say, however, that I did not get to flex my musical muscles. Upon their return, I was brought to the hotel lobby and we approached the event’s dance party. It was there that, figuratively, my jaw dropped. I was insistent that I let my voice be heard:
Fancy a piano duet?
Seeing the interminable line to the dance party, we regrouped yet again in our quarters.
It was at this point that my handler left for roughly 30 minutes, having spotted a crowd 29 floors below him. He returned, slurring something about having 70 people chanting “chug” while he guzzled 5 shots of distilled blue agave hooka-side during an impromptu last call ceremony. Things immediately degenerated at this point. At some point I was informed that I was in the presence of a genuine celebrity. Someone from something called ‘Spider Person’ or thereabouts.
I warned you that those Filipinos would appear again. No worries, they were pretty cool…
Posted by Pooptoad
on 07/23 at 11:40 PM
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Back to Life, Back to Reality
At a certain point, things can get too strange. This is rarely a cause for the loss of one’s attention. Unfortunately, sometimes, things can entirely lose their point, at which point I being to look for the nearest distraction. In this case, it was a group of costumed individuals racing each other to be the first to consume their respective popsicles. They were surrounded, easily, by over one hundred people. Most of them with cameras.
That is not to say that I wasn’t intrigued for a while. I actually stayed to watch the entirety of the absurd spectacle. Once the competition had reached its end—the gentleman just right of the top center with the blue hair won—I was both incensed at the lack of bravado on behalf of the winner and equally angered at my own patience for maintaining the assumption that the result of the contest would be something that could be objectively considered to be genuinely entertaining. It was not. At this point I suppose I merely needed to put things into perspective.
Bingo! Again! Not to hot. Not too dry. Palm trees. Not a cloud in the sky. As can easily be seen, my sunny disposition reflected the vibrancy of my surroundings, not to mention the radiant sunlight. I must declare that I’m looking rather fit here; I seem to have finally blended into my environs—only the spots of a chameleon could aid me further! Sadly, being an avid follower of the daily news programs, my heart sank as soon as I reached a sight that I knew would deeply affect me once I inevitably approached it:
Where can one begin with the so-called “King of Pop?“ As I watched fan after fan pass by, some of them signing their names upon the ghastly-arranged board of bills, the density of the scene and the gravity of my sorrows pulled me down into an abyss.
I was overwhelmed. Pop songs that had been playing in my head endlessly for the previous week ceased. I could not put words upon why this had such a profound effect upon me. Perhaps it was because I had anticipated a man’s heavily promoted return to form. Perhaps it was because fate had dictated that my first sojourn towards the ‘left coast’ would be greeted by the loss of one of the area’s most impactful residents. Maybe I just really, really, really liked anything he and his songwriters managed to defecate, even on their off days, from “Leave Me Alone” to “Man in the Mirror,“ merely because they were better than most everything else out at the time. But clearly, It mattered not where I went in this strange city—I would only find myself still overwhelmed. I fled back to my hotel room. On the way there, my panic was heightened even further!
My handler, up until this point, had brought me much closer to the American pastime of “bases ball” and, in my spare time, I was taking a great liking to the game. I knew of this man—he, being aggrandized in this hyperactive city for cheating of all things. This image revolted me. If anger is a stage of grief, I accelerated to such a place very quickly and, rather opportunely, found myself in a location that could serve greatly to alleviate such emotions:
Back to baseline I went.
My inhibitions diminished, I decided to piss off a couple of bears:
Yes, it was probably a bad idea.
Posted by Pooptoad
on 07/22 at 08:13 PM
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
People and Bright Colors
After a brief panel during which I attempted to bolster my knowledge of the Japanese-to-American media localization industry by determinedly conferring a rather immense scrawl of notes to my mental folio, I proceeded to an exhibition hall of what was shaping up as a relatively psychedelic event that fans of my Bufo brethren would greatly appreciate. I still insist that my pupils were dilating as I progressed deeper into the mass of hybridized humanity. I even managed to begin to weasel my way into the photographic opportunities of others, at least one of whom had decided to pose with a friendly robot:
Shortly after this photograph was taken, the automaton’s chromed head began to rotate and the young woman was thrown to the floor.
Into the exhibition hall strode yours truly and, if I was not already overwhelmed by the distracting sights before me, such a statement could no longer definitively be made at this point. That is not to say that sight was the only saturated sense I possessed at that point; nay, I was almost immediately accosted by some friendly men with a rainbow flag who seemed simultaneously repulsed and aroused by my presence:
Sensing something awry, I left without actually managing to ever figure out exactly what “yaoi” meant. I needed to find some women. In absurd costumes. With diverse facial expressions.
As I have heard uttered multiple times during animation from their culture, bingo!
The only unfortunate thing about this sort of setting is that the average duration of an encounter is about 30 seconds… or 45 if you forget to take off the lens cap. I personally regret not having informed my handler to bring his telephoto lens so as to zoom unsuspectingly upon the bosoms of several of those in attendance. Then again, given my appearance, it is unlikely I could even get as close to such a lot as I did to these scantily-attired dolls:
Note the inverse relationship of price to the amount of clothing on the dolls. These chaps surely know their market well. Then again, there clientele is likely the sort who marries the type of wife who forces them to artificially inseminate them like a studded racehorse for fear of what sort of fantasies might be imposed upon them.
Curiously enough, the exhibitionist aspect of the exhibition hall continued to prove to be rather true, albeit with one exception—the only ones afraid of having their wares photographed were the purveyors of fine works of sword craft. Clearly this was nothing if not an example of the subconscious male phallic compensation, but I cannot wax too editorial about either of these two strange examples, for I shortly found myself lying upon the cozy lap of a noted figure in the gaming industry:
Pot? Kettle, touché. My inhibitions shed and cheeks still more brown than red, I decided to edge closer to my silly hat quota for the trip:
Immediately, I was informed that, too, I would be exhibited at this fine event. Little did I realize that a price was soon to be placed upon my flesh:
At this point, I’d pretty much reached my limits. I am not merely some piece of art or worse, meat, to be sold at well below market cost. My ire about to brim over, I was saved at the most opportune of times by a jolly fellow in a rather spirited costume:
You people seem to know my weak points all to well.
Lord, this dancing thing can be tiring.
Posted by Pooptoad
on 07/21 at 09:08 PM
Friday, July 17, 2009
Forgetting the first few hours of the morning and, luckily, sleeping through the rest, I was awakened to the presence of associates to which my handler had failed to find the sobriety to indroduce me.
First and foremost amongst these was Mr. Already. Our first meeting was documented in the previous entry, but we shared many a great moment together. Despite his size, he did not eat me, although I must admit that I tempted both him and others:
I proceeded to whore myself to the backs of further patrons of Cap’n Lee:
Having engorged ourselves upon our respective phalli, we headed off for the center of entertainment.
After paying entrance fee, I was merely sucked in futher. Kawaii!
Dare I follow the path?
It was roughly at this point that I began to lose focus entirely upon my increasingly overwhelming environs. There is only so much my tiny amphibian mind can take, after all.
Posted by Pooptoad
on 07/17 at 12:09 AM
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