Thursday, June 30, 2005

Reporting from West Point

Hey everybody. I'm here at West Point Military Academy, and I couldn't be more bummed. First off, they burnt all my clothes and gave me this camo thing to wear all the time (really itchy). Then, Sarge bitched out the campus sensitivity officer and made her cry...what a jerk. The food isn't great; mostly spam, spam, spam, eggs, spam, and spam (Tuesday's breakfast). I packed my lucky boxers in case we had gunnery practice, but since they burned it I have to wear these damn hemp briefs. Let's just say my weapon didn't do so well.

Sarge says we can only blog so much a week, so I better stop. Nice to talk to you guys back in Iowa again, see you in a while (after my Iraq tour)..and no open casket, I wanna burn!!

-Private Kulla

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Arnie the Seething Mailman, In...

The Taming of the Lemur

Arnie sat on a metal folding chair in his little cramped apartment, sorting through his waist high stack of Cosmo back issues for the articles. He tore out a handful of unsexy pages and spread them evenly over the floor, watching the lemur he just adopted come walking over to test them for absorbancy.
"Er...you like...Spam?" grumbled Arnie in query, watching his new pet lower his nose to about an inch from one of the pages and begin reading. The lemur continued to read until he grew bored and walked over to another page, tail held high to enjoy the air conditioning.
Arnie scratched his chin a minute and got up, shuffling toward the window to watch the foot traffic on the street below his apartment. A few losers caught his eye, and a respective can of condensed soup to the cranium. Laughing gruffly, Arnie slapped his knee as the elderly woman he just nailed in the chin with a Minastrone went careening into the street. What happened after that was a matter of the driver's insurance.
The lemur had since turned on the television and started watching Fuse, making an odd chittering sound when B.Y.O.B. started. Arnie never really watched TV...violence was his outlet. When he sat down to think he always got angry or bored and decided to assault something. Come to think of it, he didn't own an apartment--so he went to check the name on the key tag to the door and gaped.

BILL

Dropping to his knees, Arnie howled at the ceiling, fists pounding on his chest, while the lemur stared on in stunning relief to a softly fluttering American flag.

Tune in Next Week!!!

Sunday, June 19, 2005

Jed Clampett's Got Nuthin' On Me

Yeah, I know I need to start postin' more...but life's just too awesome right now. Alright, so it's no different than it was a week ago. Well, maybe a little--at least my emotional state has settled down. I'm hornier than usual, which depending on who you are may or may not be a good thing. I don't much mind, who am I to say no anyway? Regardless..I went to the Black Hills and saw a plethora of Westernesque memorabilia, including (but not limited to) Custer's Battle Field, Devil's Tower, The Triple T Truck-Motor Stop (hardly memorable), all of Deadwood, SD (very cool place), Wild Bill Hickock's and Calamity Jane's graves on Mt. Moriah (got pictures, blogger won't let me post 'em), Crazy Horse from a chopper, a train!, and some trees. If that doesn't fix ya, well to hell with you.

I bought a female pal (I had dreams about that knee, INSIDE JOKE) some doo-dads she refuses to collect, much rather be butt-first in the bank of a muddy river than spend time with me wearing hemp pants and black Body Armor. Bought jewelry and said hippie pants and a hippie hoodie for myself..foodstuffs, a book, finished Fahrenheit 451. HELLA good read if you're into things that make you use your brain. If not, well...go ahead and bite down on the capsule.

Made convo. with a long lost friend from Boston who wants to be a Latin teacher..

...Mea usus a valde amplus nervus...

..Yeah, we talked--none of you know her except the one I've informed. If you think I'm crazy, just wait until they legalize the happy grass. It's late at night and I'm...well..rambling. If you want a transcript, write one yourself.

Now somebody make me a f'ing sandwich.

Thursday, June 16, 2005

Back in Action

Okay, so I'm back. Expect vacation pictures eventually, and a new episode of Arnie the Seething mailman soonly. Any questions should be directed to me. Thank you.

Friday, June 10, 2005

Takin' A Break

Dear readers, tonight (Friday the 10th) will be my last night of post-making for the next six to seven days. I'm going to the Black Hills for a little summer vacation, and to be America's unofficial ambassador to the surviving Indian tribes. If any of you care where I am, that's where I'll be. If you want to get in touch with me/drop a line, write it down and tie it to the first bird you can catch (alive). Chances are yelling would work better.

To whom it concerns (Brittney, so ya better read this)--hang in there, baby. As for me, we both know I'm nuts. If it's any consolation, I might have a straighter head when I get back. If not, at least we've got conversation pieces for the foreseeable future. Nobody should be overly concerned by the poem I just posted--I'm just very neurotic. Britt, don't do anything I wouldn't do...it's not like it really matters what I think, but I care about you...I don't want any bad shit happening when I'm not around (or when I am, for that matter). Have fun in practice/games, work hard, but not too hard. Remember the things I've told you, and have faith that it's real. I love you, girl...take that with how much it's worth to you.

Au revoir, people--hope I don't get scalped!

-Joshua "Schizoid Schmitty" Kulla, Ph. D, Th.D, K.B.E., Manic Depressive Nutjob

Disclaimer: Depressing Poem

If rain could wash tears away
Then this night I would be free
But the heavy drops only chill the flesh
Make wet the garments speckled crimson
And little do they know
How much their clouds resemble my heart in colour.

Alone in this place, walls beaten with hail
And thunder singing off the heavens
I consider each word carefully as I type it
As I consider the taste of steel, and bitterly reject it.

Wine no longer keeps me, only poetic words
That humans would find...deranged, even false
So far as that the truest friends would doubt me
Hell hath no fury, the heart burns hotter.

Come on, you thunder...where are you when I need you?
I walk in defiance of you, pelted by the drops
And yet you strike me not, are you so much better
Than the animals huddled on the earth beneath you?

If I sat in a suit of steel and held antennae over my head
Would you release me from this fleshen prison?
Is this the hour, can I see what sits on the other side of sky
Or must I wonder, and drink tears?

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Arnie the Seething Mailman, In...

Arnie Goes To Work

Viciously angry, Arnie staggered up the sidewalk toward the front steps of the post office he worked at. His hair and clothes were in blackened shreds, he was missing an eyebrow, and someone had applied lipgloss to him during his bin Laden-induced coma. Now he would taste sweet sweet revenge, entering the post office and letting out a great and wrathful cry...
"WHERE'S BILL?!"
The seven people in the post office and those employees that were awake turned to see Arnie seething in the doorway, fists clenched, nostrils contracted.
"WHERE'S BILL?!"
Nobody named Bill worked at the post office, and the attendant at the front desk approached Arnie to inform him of this. The attendant was pierced by many javelins. The customers began the panicing ritual--running in circles and screaming to their respective Marys, Allahs, and Jesuses. With a great and terrible laugh, Arnie vaulted himself over the front counter and grabbed the surviving mail sorter by the hair, weighing and measuring the sobbing young man. As the terrified customers watched in trembling yet pious agony, Arnie neatly wrapped and taped his victim and helped him into a mail truck, in which he would be sent to an elderly hot dog company owner in Bismarck, ND.
The post office exploded. Arnie lept from the remains of his former place of work and tore what was left of his shirt off, stomp kicking a telephone pole and crumpling to the ground with a seriously damaged right foot.

Who will sort and deliver the town's mail?? Who will save the postal worker from a premature visit to North Dakota?? Who will ARNIE KILL NEXT?? Tune in next week, when Arnie adopts an orphaned lemur!!!

Monday, June 06, 2005

Fresh Air

Hello, everypeople. It's Monday night, seventeen minutes from being Tuesday morning, and I'm going to blog about my last couple of days. For starters, I'm in an oddly good mood just now--might be the fatigue, too much iced tea..one of those. Looking through other peoples' blogs, I decided that my posts have been somewhat impersonal lately, like I've been preaching or ranting with no...average thoughts or personal events. Well that's about to change, amigos.

Yesterday, which was Sunday in case looking at calendars on the Sabbath is against your religion, was a very nice day indeed. Saturday night I arranged to go fishing with my crazy snugglekins (Times Kulla Has Typed Snugglekins: 3) during a semi-cool storm of sorts. In reality, it never stormed in Audubon, but some would have it that there was hail. Alas. My grandfather tossed together a collection of fishing-related necessities the following morning (being Sunday) after finishing his tour of duty at the Flight Breakfast/Hicks' Tribute to a Century of Aviation. I bought a fishin' license so the Man wouldn't have to cramp my style later on, watched the black clouds roll by, and journeyed out to the very edge of the Black Land of Fiscus.

This may hold true in all cases, so I'm going to make note of it. Don't always assume that the front door of a farm house is the door that looks like a front door, because it sometimes isn't. In this case, it wasn't. Five minutes I knocked, hearing voices on the other side of the door...I embellished momentarily and had a lapse of insecurity, thinking that they were avoiding opening up because they knew it was me. Eventually, the sibling answered the door, let me in, and led me up a hill toward the site of a small camper and a fire used for Pagan offerings. I received a tour of the farm, saw several cats (one dead, R.I.P.) and two dogs, and some nice coniferous/deciduous trees. I am also absolutely confident whose house it was (inside joke).

And then the sitting in the tree. My pretty psycho (ooh, cool name for my own line of dolls for female children) and I always have mucho bueno conversations, but in the sunlight, in the breeze, with the boughs and grass waving and whatnot, it was great. The whole time was great, even though my ass became as numb and unresponsive as Mike's... When we came down from the tree we started throwing together ideas and kindling for that night's bonfire, and did so until roughly the time that it was good to go fishing. And so we fished, under a bridge a jont east of the farm, and I caught a respectible carp. She caught many small, chubby fish, to which she spoke with a level of kindness and affection any human child deserves--even as a hook was removed from one fish's eye. (Random Explanation: 'She/crazy snugglekins/pretty psycho' has not been properly named heretofore due to legal reasons, and that I forgot to ask her if she wanted her real name ((not an alias)) published on my blog) Fishing went on, and I discovered a fun thing to do with field grass. And then we returned, and then we visited a potential lakeside hangout, I straddled a wooden pole and reminded myself of my masculine limitations. Then the going back to the timber and rebuilding the fire, eventually pork was eaten, then marshmellows were 'marshed' over a roaring blaze. Good times were had fireside, good talks were had. Gays should be able to marry without guilt, so there. Monsters lingered in the dark woods, the Blair Witch made an appearance, and I played murdering hobo much to the joy of three adolescent people who talk too much (my mockery is friendly). And yes, all nights end.

Smelling of smoke and multiply-hugged, I left the grounds with a smile. God I love that girl...

Saturday, June 04, 2005

A Long Respite in the Valley of the Dull

A Saturday by any other name would be as boring.

Hello, friends. This was a boring day; an oddly long and boring day. I worked a bit for my dad, played a little X Box, made several dozen trips between various other rooms and my computer, and watched my messengers for signs of my drug. Never had I noticed before how slowly time goes when you're looking it in the face. Occupy yourself with something stimulating, spend time with someone you love--time vanishes in seconds. But pine over someone you love and find nothing to do and a day becomes a year. I believe there's a Christian music thing near Exira tonight...in about an hour, to be more precise. I think I'll wait here and dorkishly hang on AOL/MSN for another ten hours. Maybe I should get a real job.

Last night I wrote two poems, both of which I'm fond of. The first is a semi-disturbing piece based on a conversation Her Craziness and I had yesterday about the idea that those we lock in asylums are the sane and we (society) are insane, trying to keep those who could teach us something meaningful locked away. The second is a rhymish one, sort of a satire about a boy (this one?) seeing a shrink.

I hope you all liked my introduction to the Arnie the Seething Mailman series...I enjoyed writing it. Oh randomness, how I love thee...

Thursday, June 02, 2005

Arnie the Seething Mailman

One fine day in early June, Arnie the Mailman was trekking his usual three mile route between town hall and Mrs. Jenkins's, who was the crazy cat woman that year. Everything was lookin' good, and Arnie was feelin' fine. That is until...just as he was about to drop a small box wrapped in brown paper into a mailbox, it exploded. And out jumped Osama bin Laden, laughing wickedly and rocking back and forth.
"Now I will bring jihad upon you, Arnie the Mailman!" sneered Osama, waving his wand of Saudi evilness and casting a glowing beam of green fire at Arnie, who collapsed into a pile of his own charred clothing screaming in torment.

Several hours passed, as did many local children, but none of them stopped to help the badly-burned and trembling mailman. They stole his mail--even his hat--but not a one of them would lift a finger to get him to a burn ward. Slowly, Arnie the Mailman gathered the strength to get up, dressed in the roasted remains of his postal service uniform and a badly-robbed mailbag.
"Agh!! I am uncommonly and infectiously ill-tempered!!" howled Arnie, slavering and scowling at everything that moved (at that moment, a pigeon). He threw down his mail sack and stormed up the street seething, headed toward the post office with teeth bared.

Tune In Next Week!!!