I Call It The "Murry Show"

I only get my books from three places: 1) The "You cheap bastard, here are some leftovers for you" table at the bookstore. 2) Nana's bookcase:

Nana: "I keep losing my books. Well, I must have misplaced them - it's all part of getting old, I guess."
Me: "Yeah, Nana, that's weird - you should mention it to your doctor."

She's a sweet lady and I'm going to Hell

3) The thrift store. I love giant thrift stores! People are so weird - and the shit they have amassed over the years! I recently purchased a hideous blue poodle sculpture that was made sometime in the 70's and apparently was once used hold rings? I am not sure about this but there is a grimey circle around the butt of the dog where the tail is, so this is my cleanest guess. And the carnival art! I got a picture of TWO unicorns by a giant moon for 75 cents! They are practically giving this stuff away - the lunatics!

This is the Best Thing I Have Ever Seen.

Right, so, I go to the thrift store to do my shopping and I hit the jackpot in used books. So many awesome books (I hope!): Little Children (was great in a "we're all terrible little children in our own way" way), Opium Dreams (worth it for the title alone), Water For Elephants, The Geographer's Library, Grotesque, 44 and a compilation of fantasy and horror stories (so good!). Now, for those of you who also peruse the thrift stores for books, you know that the most common titles are things like "God Doesn't Think I'm Weird : A Christian Teen's Guide Through Puberty" and "Crock Pot Creations by Beverly and Marjory 1975 edition" - not that these books aren't great (I mean, I bought them, right?) but one can only own so many.

I got 7 books for 21 dollars! I do go to the library...but I am weird about books. I must own them. Mainly because I end up paying the cover price in late fees anyway and for what? Supporting a wonderful institution that spreads knowledge and betters society - not this guy! But I digress. This amazing cache of books, all in one pile, makes me think one of three scenarios have happened:

One: Someone saw "Pay it forward" with Kevin Spacey (certainly wasn't me) and did such.
Two: Someone named Kevin Spacey from "Pay It Forward" donated all his own books.
Three: Someone died and Kevin Spacey came to their house to relinquish their goods and "Pay It Forward".

Here Kevin demonstrates the subtle "push your biceps up with your hands" technique that was favored by young boys during the 1980's. You can't teach this - you just naturally know how to do it or you don't.

Grieving Family: Kevin Spacey? Why are you here? Did you know Diego?
Kevin Spacey: Time to Pay it forward, bitches. *Kevin begins to tear through the house*
GF: Please, Mr.Spacey - please these things are all we have of our beloved!
KS: This act alone proves I am not gay - as gay people are never this overtly cruel.
GF: What? Please, stop! Why don't you donate your things? Surely, you have plenty to spare! This can't be what your movie was about!
KS: Don't you ever pretend to understand my work. *picks up books and leaves*

Man, what a jerk that guy was. Way to abuse the aggrieved, guy. I will gladly reap the fruits of this atrocity though. GLADLY.


About the Dog:

Everyone always is on about how dogs are psychic:

"Little Chalupa there can read your mind!"
"Old Drippy Eye can tell if you are going to be sick!"
"Meatbag can predict disasters!"

Like this dog - he knew this asshole was going to show up before anyone else did.

Now, I may or may not believe this (I do) but I think my dog knows that I know that he knows I know he is psychic! He has been messing with me for days. He does weird shit like stand at the back door whimper and claw at it. I let him out again (he already went pee and poop 20 minutes ago) and he bolts to the edge of the yard, paces the length of it and then zooms back inside the house where he then follows me around like a stinky, needy, vacuum cleaner for the next 45 minutes. He is being a creep and he knows it. Or he comes to get me in the way dogs do. They walk in a room and stare at you and as soon as you look - they walk away and look over their shoulder. And it's like dammit Dog! - you better be about to die for me to interrupt the Maury Povich Show AGAIN for you and your weirdness. And then he walks upstairs, stares at the corner for a few seconds and lays down. And he knows my cankles swell up with all this on and off the couch business.
But Paranoid Me makes Annoyed Me follow him while trying to decipher his "messages" - what if he is telling me there is a gas leak? Or that an earthquake is coming? Or a Britney/Kevin sex tape or some other God Awful thing?

He knows this. Knows it all.

I'll only watch it if he insists on wearing that jaunty little cap and she keeps that crazy-glaze on her eyes.