Get going! There is work to be done! Now is not the time to suddenly become aware of and dumbfounded by how stupid your nose looks.

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Merry Christmas. Here’s your doughnut. This and other stories soon/eventually/never.
It’s hard. Times are tough. When you’re gone for the better part of a week, what can remain but the worse part? Oh ho ho. That is the sort of introspective realization that takes five days.

Here’s a tip for you: providers of spectacularly adequate service in Fort Lauderdoodle love to tell you to give them tips. But here’s another: The best thing to do when you catch a cold is to stay awake all night and leave Florida for a part of the northern hemisphere with actual seasons.

The weather’s just been brutal down there.

Thursday topic: I will be going to watch another wedding in a place closer to where I saw the last one than wherever I normally am. It is unknown when I will return or when I will write more junk and appear to have returned after returning.

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Ah yes, ’tis I, your cute and lovable pal Horsehead. Why’d my parents have to go and name me Horsehead? They too had the heads of horses, surely they could have come up with something better than that. Sometimes I wonder if they did not also have the accompanying brains of horses. But, I mean, they named my older brother Crispin Applesauce, which is closer to normal. Sure, he had a proper, human head, and actually I never fully figured that one out. Many people are curious as to what advantages having the head of a horse brings to any task. The answer is none whatsoever. Evolutionarily horse heads developed to be best suited for running across gorgeous wild meadows and romantic sunset beaches for hours at a time, not getting stabbed at some miserable dungeon “palace.” And you can bet they don’t make helmets in my size. Just ask my swamp-dwelling colleague, HELMET HEAD. They call him that because he wears TWO helmets. Did you ever wonder why he has two? Yeah, do the math, Euclid. I remember thinking, when I signed up to guard this place “whoa, I get INDESTRUCTIBLE armor AND this nifty mace? How can I lose? Easiest sack of taters I ever made. Ha ha, plop you, Thunderbird.” What I didn’t realize at the time was that wearing indestructible armor with your head exposed generally leads to your adversaries trying to stab you in the head. They arrive at this conclusion particularly swiftly if your head happens to resemble that of a horse. They will jump to do this. Oh yes they will. What’s it worth to ya? You know I’m only good for fifty experience points, right? You’ll go up a level when you besmirch my statue with your fancy rock anyway, so lay off, why dohncha. You want my key? You could have asked before you took a ginsu knife to my nose. What am I going to clean up this mess with? Not my beautiful curtains! Thunderbird is, coincidentally, both the name of my employer and currently the only imbibable substance capable of making me forget my volcanic headache. Oh drat, just remembered. Thunderbirds are gulp! And that’s not the end of it. I just found out one of those stabby punks stole my candle. My ONLY candle. Yeah, somebody update that picture up there, I don’t have it anymore. It wasn’t even a magic candle, you know, one o therm 60 rupee deals. You think I can afford that? I spent all my money on reconstructive surgery. It was just a dinkity old stupid candle. That kid, I mean, HE can go BUY a candle at the Rauru Wal Mart, and get it in lavender amber scent, even. What am *I* supposed to do? I got a HORSE HEAD, remember? Nobody wants to sell a candle to Horsehead. Also, it’s kind of hard to get to town through that cave in the dark without my CANDLE. Low ceilings and a nearly equal neck length to arm length ratio is a recipe for ouch pudding and I already had dessert. Perhaps you’re thinking now “gee Horsehead, you seem like an intelligent, well-spoken fellow. How’d you get stuck pulling crony duty in a Level 1, which have rated consistently throughout history as the number one places for cronies to get their hides walloped?” The sad truth of the matter is that there aren’t a whole lot of career options for horse-headed Hyrulians who are also named Horsehead. You can be a chess knight and that’s about it. But they’re a bunch of stiffs, you know? I interviewed for that one time and joked that I was surprised they called me in what with my checkered past and all. Nothing. You know, because the board… ehh forget it. Well that’s all for this week. Next time we will discuss the effects of an all oat-bucket diet on a homo sapial intestinal tract. Until then, don’t let the neigh-sayers get you down! -Horsehead Melvin Bodaniel

Note: The above message does not necessarily reflect the thoughts or words of Horsehead. It’s kind of hard to think when everybody’s CHOPPING your BRAIN all the time.

I was busy on Sunday. Nobody’s sure what I did the last two days. Not this, evidently.

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Is the exclusive McGraw fragrance truly popular or did Walmart just only order one bottle? And why is it in a box? First wine, now this. Is that some Real America market rule that all “sophisticated” items must come in boxes?

Feminine Arousal Fluid also comes from a box. “And so will you” is the official slogan, I hear.

I reckon these are equally compelling reading material.

I dare suggest that is the absolute worst mood to teach peace in.

Other development:

My inability to recall the exact context in which I saw and saved this is rather stressful, I must say.

I’m sick sick weak of hearing about the JD Power and Associates award. I don’t know how many are given out per year, but I hear about and see them in enough indistinct, ubiquitous car advertisings that I just assume every car automatically gets one and I don’t notice when one doesn’t brag about getting one, and they always brag about getting one. I probably have a JD Power and Associates award in here somewhere. The bow tie that won a blue ribbon probably won a JD Power and associates award. And that Motor Trend bent coat hanger award. The incomplete 1800s oil lamp award. As everyone knows, the Motor Trend award was created when some hobo in California started collecting Uri Gellar’s bent spoons out of local waste receptacles and taping them together and magically inherited all his credibility. I think if I buy that car the award should come with it.

The award is small yet in the ads it’s always bigger than the cars. It looks like the people are using the car to sell the award. There was one ad where some oaf drives a big dumb dumptruck car up a mountain and then hoists the award like it’s the lion king or something. Heyza, Not even a politically repressed zebra is going to bow before your shrapnel sculpture. It’s as if the car is trained idiot slut ladies and the award is Bud Lite. I don’t even know if beer ads like that are made anymore but if they were I assume that award would remind me of them. As pleasing as my sudden awareness of my lack of awareness of recent beer ads is, I know that they’ll live on as long as there are videos titled “FUNNY COMMERCIAL” because those almost invariably involve beer, cars, or objectified women in some way.

As far as I can tell, all you need to do to win that tag-sale Tinkertoy towel-rack award is to drive just any old dopey car up a hill or through a field. If I’ve been being shown the exact same driving filmage for the past twenty years of this happening I would not be surprised. I would even be relieved; I hate to think of all the gasoline that’s wasted sending dumb cars to and all over Missouri just because a trendy motorist threw dumpster trinkets at them.

Motor Trend, whatever that is, –as far as I can tell the only trend is to shove that award at me– may have given your car an award, but it didn’t have to deal with THOOM THOOM, THOOM! your awful ads. I think citizens should be allowed to revoke awards from winners who are too proud of them. That applies to you too, Forrest Gump. I won the Kind of Good Artist award at school in 1990 and you don’t see me floating that over the chroma key. Indeed, I reckon you don’t see me at all. And I’ve just realized that I don’t see me too much, either. It’s worrying.

I would be a remix (and that’s usually bad) if I did not mention this rebuttal to my previous rebuttal.
The Iron Curtain writes, on the magical comment form:

Surely Nemitz is at least Elpse’s pal.

When I was a wee lad, I used to think that fund-raisers were in fact known as “fun-raisers”. ‘Twould seem I was far from the only one, as years later when I entered [Rock n’ Roll] high school, there existed some sort of extra-curricular group which would periodically increase its capital by hocking boxes of donuts bearing the words “FUND Raiser”. Personally, I always thought it somewhat inappropriate to refer to any food product as “fun”. Ideally such an item should be pleasant, of course, but “fun” suggests a far more active engagement than the semi-passive activity of eating really seems to merit. I’ll give McDonald’s old “Food, Folks and Fun” slogan a pass, though, if only because most of the associated restaurants feature a so-called “playplace” which could serve to fill the last requirement. Mind, at the time, I actually thought the words were “Food Folks are fun”, the Food Folks in question being the various McDonald’s mascots, most of whom are associated in some way or another with a food product, and who are normally portrayed as being quite the merry bunch. In retrospect, this may have actually been a more effective slogan than the one ultimately used.

Ah, but of course! I understand now. Verily, many people these days have too much fun eating their food. I will make the appropriate changes.

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Most of us like to believe that the Obama election will prove to be a comparatively good thing for United Statia, and therefore the whole world which must deal with that, but I don’t like that he’s giving birds ideas. And my disapproval comes not from there being a lone brown bird among a gang of grey birds. What it comes down to is just that birds are not entitled to ideas. Look at them, hopping around on rocks all day. You’re missing the point, birds! They’re like lizards with feathers. I can’t stand it. And then a more important issue arises:

I don’t have a problem with there being a brown bird, just one that seems to think it is a duck. Guess what, bird! You’re not a duck! You’re just a regular, dumb old bird. Why would you want to be a duck? Birds which are not ducks but think they are must not be tolerated under any circumstances. They have lost that privilege. This bird needs to stop using the existence of racism as an excuse for it to act like a duck without consequences.

Try and imagine my uncontrollable discontent when I see a bird, glance away momentarily and suddenly it has no legs. And is floating toward a place it could easily have flown to. What a decadent bird! Why do we allow them to have so many methods of transportation? I would suggest making it an honorary duck, but I don’t like to imply that such a wasteful scoundrel is in any way honorable, nor that any duck could potentially be. And in fact upon reexamination I realize this bears no similarity whatsoever to Tuesday’s vote results. Thinking about ducks breaks my mind, sometimes. Now it only remains for me to decide whether to seek monetary damages or revenge.

Related news: on a previous occasion which might be documented directly below this occasion depending on your local listings, I used the subject line “His chair goes up, his chair goes down, the dentist is my pal” and followed that immediately with a picture showing, in part, NEMITZ in a chair of the sort one might expect to be adjustable. I would like at this time to clarify that NEMITZ is not licensed to perform dental work and more importantly not my or hopefully anyone else’s “pal.” Additionally I would not refer to nemitz with such a specific, personifying pronoun as “he” because the thing does not deserve it and may not meet the qualifications, besides. I decline to more closely examine this situation.

The suggestion that I pal around with nemitz is absurd, irresponsible, and perhaps just a bit offensive. Nemitz is my nemitsis. Arrrgh, I’ll throw a tugboat at nemitz. I think we appeared on the same season of Temptation Island together but that’s it. And this story that I attended a fund-raising event at nemitz’s house is the most ridiculous of all. Nemitz does not have a house. Nemitz lives in an abandoned Geo out in a field somewhere and besides that we didn’t raise much money anyway.

Never-you-mind dental work, I’m not even sure nemitz is licensed to be nemitz. A proposition was recently approved in eleven states making it illegal to be nemitz. Being a dope is illegal in all 50, but one must keep in mind that it’s a lot easier to ban every dope than to specifically ban nemitz. I consider it a victory for democracy.

You don’t want to get to a point where you’re asking people at the borders “are you nemitz?” While sure, nemitz would be dumb enough to respond favorably were nemitz smart enough to say something resembling “yes,” it would be a hassle for everyone else.

The votes have been counted and the people have spoken, if we understand “speech” to mean the minimal blackening of selected regions on paper sheets:

By decreel of 5,419 versus 4,987 opinion units, Madison will not be getting a new library. Better luck next time, Scranty! It may yet be seen how the unavailability of red ink pens in addition to instructions to fill ovals rather than make check marks within squares affected the validity of would-be yes votes.
In retrospect, the plan to renovate the library into a dinkity model was perhaps misguided. How was anybody going to fit in there?

Bimshwel.com/index.php would, however, like to congratulate

Jerry Espenson on making partner at the law firm of Crane Poole and Schmidt. We were with you all the way, Jerry!
Additionally we extend the heartiest, most nutritious of welcomes to

president-elect Oprah Winfrey. We loves ya, Opey!

Finally, in perhaps the biggest news of all, it brings us great joy to herald the arrival of

Mobil Mart’s new breakfast burrito. It’s about time you guys replaced that thing! It was starting to get an attitude. If there is nothing else, I would very much like to get back to poking what I presume with my complete lack of anatomical competence is a swollen superior deep cervical lymph gland, which may indicate syphilis. Good night and good mandible.

Bright pink and yellow cupcakes lend an air of class and dignity to any place of vote-doing.

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Ehh, I’ll pass. Isn’t this the same way they got Ted Stevens? I know better than that. Nice try, lizard. And by nice I mean horrible. I own a magic dictionary.
The background is to distract you from how boring/lamentable the subject matter is. Ordinarily in a situation like this there would be a land mine about to be stepped on, a rogue incoming boomerang or something of that nature, but times are tough. And the tougher they are for me, the easier they are for loathsome lopes. I will have to settle for a fashion disaster.

But they got some problems there in Alaska, too, you betcha, by gum, by cracky.

From everyone’s favorite canid data depository, hunted by the British and so All American by default, Fox News:

‘Palin, who as governor of Alaska will appoint Stevens’ interim successor if he steps down, initially sidestepped calling for the senator’s resignation, saying, “I’m confident Sen. Stevens will do what’s right for the people of Alaska.”

But later, the McCain camp released a statement from her saying that even if he wins his re-election, he should quit for the good of the state.

“I’m confident someone from the campaign will release a statement saying what I think about this.” even in stories about other people Palin’s a goof. But this kind of thing is stupid anyhow, but not in a way that makes her look smart because she probably doesn’t realize it’s stupid: why is hinting that someone should quit a job different than “calling for” it? People are always calling for resignations, like it’s pizza or a singing telegram, and now they call for someone else to call for resignation. I hate the word “resignation” here, as if it’s a simple choice. Ooh, I just felt like resigning. No! You did something extra bad and additionally won the “possibly get held accountable” lottery and now even the creeps who liked you have to act like they don’t! There should be a different word for when somebody gets tired of a job and when somebody is essentially fired from one. Get to work on that. You may not use my magic dictionary.

With all this emphasis on mavericks I can’t help wishing Obama had selected Megaman X as his running mate. The problem, of course, is that polls in several key swing states suggested discomfort among white voters regarding Megaman’s connections to his brother Malcolm.

A popular question, with all the reason to exist as “boxers or briefs”: what candidate would you rather have “a beer” with? Do I wanna get my inebriation on with my old bowling partner Barry Ob and Joey B or the local pariah, son of the town drunk Johnny Mick and Sally P? I personally would prefer a president who does not drink beer at all. Even if our current master no longer does so, you can bet he’d be worse if he still did.

What I just realized last week, is whoever wins this election –my hesitation to call this for Obama days in advance is consistent with my unwillingness to respond to “see you tomorrow” with anything stronger than “you just might.”– I will likely continue seeing for another four years. Of course I knew that, but I didn’t really know that, no. If I’ve had enough schlub man thin lady romantic reefer revellin’ comedies, I’ve had enough of this lot and comedic impressions of them constantly. Also, now I understand, with that long awaited V for Vendetta sequel, W, that we have the technology to make feature film length impression exhibitions while the oafs are still in office. It’s rather worrying.

Doesn’t he look worried? I bet he’s calling the suicide hotline. Or maybe he’s just calling for my resignation after such a stupid joke. Fortunately, the only way to reach me is by radio and he has repeatedly denied knowing the frequency. In fact, my resignation is requested with great frequency (one of the best), so one more won’t besmirch my bucket. Board the windows and bust out the Cracklin’ Oat Bran (“More please”), bimshwel is here to stay.

On the subject, with all the marijuany media these days, it will not be too long before, rather than beer, we start getting asked who we’d rather share a joint with. And then we would elect the other one. The pot president isn’t getting much done. Unless…

Ah, well you didn’t say that before. Note that I apparently find it more hypothetically plausible that America accepts a toketastic layabout candidate before it allows one from a third party.

And I say to you that they have no idea what a thing they’re missing.