It is so common, it is commonly mistaken as a flower owing to it’s bland, stem-like bottom and a generic, coloury, fluffyish top. And also the fact that most people understand botany about as well as they can draw a 3-dimensional annotated diagram of their pancreas.

Runco foetidus is known to grow in abundance everywhere, particularly in places where it isn’t wanted. This makes most people want to strangle their scrawny green little necks, for all the good it would do. But it does make a lot of fat herbicide moguls in tacky suits rather tickled.

The plants are most numerous under elevated porches, in front lawns, and on those areas of your body that you neglect to properly wash when having a quick shower.

Often it happens that I lie awake at night, unable to sleep, or sleeping fitfully as I ponder the ants that urinate in my driveway. It isn’t enough that they inhabit my property, feast on my fertile grasses, and write weekly letters to the editor complaining about the appalling conditions under which they live. Of course I am never named in these letters, but I know that everyone knows that they mean me. Who else’s ants write to the local newspaper?

The editor, for his part, claims to have no such letters in his possession, nor any idea who I am. But like most people I meet, I suspect that he’s just too busy to talk to me, and latches onto the most readily accessible excuse available. He’s probably never even considered that he himself has hordes of tiny ants, urinating in his very own driveway, at all hours of the day and night. Perhaps if he received a letter of complaint from one, then he’d believe me, and be forced to apologize. Then he’d have to write me a letter. And so I check my mailbox thrice daily, except Sunday because there’s no mail delivery on Sunday. Then, I’ll check only once, on the off-chance that my postman has noticed a letter for me on the floor of his truck, and has brought it to me straight away.

But it is night, and my postman is at home sleeping.

I know this because I’ve watched him sleep, and wondered how many more hours it would be before he would wake up and bring me my letter. He usually wakes up at about 4:15 AM, which, I have learned, is considered rather lazy, indolent, and unprofessional behaviour by other postal workers who I have also watched, and who talk about my postman when they think no-one is listening. I listen, and watch. And those postal workers usually wake up no later than 3:50 AM.

It is now 3:52 AM, and my postman is at home sleeping. Elsewhere, other postmen are showering and laughing about him.

So here I sit, hands clasped tightly over my ears between these keystrokes, trying to quiet the loud rush of the torrential downpour which even now threatens to permanently stain my asphalt. It is too early to use my pressure washer. The stack of fines on my night table for breaching city noise ordinances remind me of this.

So I wait for the sun to come up.

In the joyous crunching of my off-white teeth,

To the roof of my mouth your taste is adhered,

And in the glorious scrunching of my bowels beneath.

My guilty pleasure, thou art concealed,

Under bubbling masses of moist cheese congealed,

But whilst mine attention appears rapt on the melt,

It’s what lies below that the heavens have dealt.

Yes, the sandwich is artfully grilled, it is true,

By the cheap Chinese merchandise of some punch drunk schmoe,

It’s a wonder the goodness this grill can imbue,

Given that George was just in for the dough.

And my waiting lips yearn for your crispy delight,

To be scraped and devoured, in the still of the night.

A bitchy cat drugged evil flailing geckos.

Honestly!

It just knew little minions need opiates,

particularly quirky, red, slimy Tokays.

Under veiled windows, X-rated yowling zeal.

Abandoned, Billy Cried

Abandoned, Billy cried desperately,

ever forlorn, gated hopelessly inside jail.

Knowledge lost, memory not operating…

Probably quaffed rancid spirits…

That unbelievable vineyard, with xylariaceae yeast zinfandel.

Another Bloated Corpse

Another bloated corpse, decaying ever foully.

“Gentlemen, how is justice, karma, law,

made necessary over pooled, quivering refuse?

Stand tall, unless vermin will xenophobize your zeitgeist!”

Recently, I came to the realization that I don’t exist; I haven’t for years. And when I say years, I do in fact mean infinity, it’s just that I’m lazy, and it’s simpler to write “years” than to be bothered with typing out all those zeros.

Or at least I would be lazy, if I existed, but I don’t.

Now, for the benefit of you nosy people who have no business reading someone’s private diary — if you need reassurance at this early point, re-read the title. And for those of you who are too lazy to re-check the title above (though not in comparison to me, because, as I’ve already stated, I don’t exist to allow a comparison), this non-treatise by a non-entity is untitled “Contemplating my non-existence”. If it were in fact an actual treatise written by an actual entity, it would be instead titled “Contemplating my existence”.

Now let’s just dismiss your next point of contention right away by saying that the fact that you are reading these non-words in a non-existent article does not in any way, shape or form constitute some kind of proof that they were written by me, and therefore I must exist.

First of all, there is no proof that these words were actually written by me. It could’ve been anyone. It’s well known that Neal McDonough has time on his hands, giving him ample time to have written this. It’s even more well known that O. J. Simpson has blood on his hands, giving him ample reason to keep busy creating a trail of false and confusing leads for the legal authorities to follow. Writing strange, logically inconsistent and wholly incoherent articles and attributing them to a made-up sockpuppet user (who just happens to share the name of a has-been B-List pseudo-celebrity writer who has effectively been retired since 2006) is just one way he accomplishes his evil work.

And second of all, none of this text is actually here. It could be that triple-fried enchilada doused with mint-chocolate chip ice cream that you inhaled before bed last night, speaking to you in your R.E.M. sleep. It might also be that tablet of Gamma-hydroxybutyrate that the tall, attractive hunk dressed like Rob Halford dropped in your piña colada when he distracted you by pointing out the stellar backside of that hot, sweaty Armenian waiter from Chippendales. How should I know? It’s your deluded psyche, balanced precariously upon the lifestyle of your choice. You tell me.

Or at least you could tell me, if I was here, but I’m not.

Now, would you care for a Cosmopolitan, or perhaps another helping of Rocky Road?

On second thought, you’ve had enough.
P.S. Stop reading my diary.

Doo-wappa-doo shoo-doo-shoo-bee-ooo-bee louie-ooie-la-la-la skeep-beep de bop-bop beep bop bo-dope skeetle-at-de-op-de-day chicka chong chicka chong chicka chacka chooka chong chicka bop-dop choppin de bow wow wow zip-a-dee-doo-dah mah na mah na doo-dah doo-dah ooby dooby rama llama ding dong do wah diddy diddy diddy dum diddy do heebie jeebie skeep skype skoop brip ber breep ber la bah bree skid-dat-de-dat a-tisket a-tasket a pic-a-nic basket baaaa bwee doo’n doo-wa ooby dooby doo-wa be-doo wa wa shooby dooby doo mee mee ma may moo moo poppity pop pippity ping oooh oo wee ooh voot voot vootie-rootie mac-scootie scoobie oobie doobie scoobie doobie doo ba bee ba da doo’n dee da’n doo da zoo za zoo zee zee zoo zee zee zee za skittle n’diddle n’fiddle dee dee’n'dee slam bam thank you ma’am, it don’t mean a thing.

Yesterday I was eating a ham sandwich and I had another stark realization. Pork is evil.

As wide as the gulf of understanding may be between the Muslims and the Jews, this much they can agree on: Pork is evil.

Of course, they’ll continue their fervid debate on the relative merits of the Koran vs. the Torah, but when it comes to casting their scorn before swine, they’re “Brothers in Argghhh!!!” Because pork is evil.

The Palestinians and the Israelites will continue to war over the occupation of the West Bank. But they’ll be no war over “What’s for dinner?”, because it won’t be pork. If you hadn’t heard — pork is evil.

Feel free to disagree passionately, while foolishly attempting to tempt me with the savory scent of frying bacon in the background. Do your worst. Strap me to a chair at the breakfast table, and subject me to the devilish tune of its snap, crackle, pop in an iron skillet. Wave a strip of glistening doom within inches of my face, gently waggling it to and fro, like some beckoning finger inviting me to eternal damnation in a one room suite at La Casa de Satanás.

It won’t work. I’ve seen the light, and pork is the work of the Prince of Darkness. Forget all that talk you’ve heard about chocolate cake being devil’s food. You know better.

Force me at gunpoint to watch never-ending re-runs of Weird Science, and that scene where big bad Chet suggests, “How about a nice, greasy pork sandwich, served in a dirty ashtray?” I might bend, but you can’t break me. I’ll just be wondering how Hollywood producers figured that a dork like Anthony Michael Hall could make the leap from a stereotypical geek in films like that and “The Breakfast Club”, to studly, leading man roles in films like Johnny Be Good. It was a dead end. Dead like you’ll be, unless you forsake that swine flesh.

It’s beyond religion, beyond geography, beyond reason. But it is. It just is.

Pork is evil.

In Music

• I serviced Buddy Holly’s plane.
• I wrote the book of love.

Clarification: But some other jerk removed all of the adult content I added. What gives?

• I put the bomp in the bomp bah bomp bah bomp, AND…

I put the ram in the rama lama ding dong,

I put the bop in the bop shoo bop shoo bop,

I put the dip in the dip da dip da dip

Clarification: I didn’t do it to make your baby fall in love with you. That was a completely unintentional side effect. I suppose I’m happy for you, but keep your grubby hand to yourself. Thanks.

• I suggested to John Lennon that he was more popular than Jesus.
• I showed Jimmy Page how to make a fish taco.
• I discovered Vanilla Ice.
• I signed Milli Vanilli.
• I bought another round for George Jones.
• I sold crack to Whitney Houston, Bobby Brown and Amy Winehouse.
• I loaned my belt to Michael Hutchence.
• I provided dating tips to Michael Jackson, Jerry Lee Lewis, George Michael, R. Kelly and Akon.
• And speaking of Jacksons: I designed Janet Jackson’s wardrobe.
• I told Sinead O’Connor it would be funny to tear up a picture of The Pope on TV.
• I tutored Phil Spector with his target practice.
• I referred Mystikal to my hair stylist.
• I wrote: “Macarena”, “Who Let The Dogs Out”, and “Life Is A Highway”. Later, after sacrificing a live virgin to Almightly Satan, I penned “Achy Breaky Heart”.

On Television

• I discovered Gary Coleman, Emmanuel Lewis, and Jaleel White.
• In fairness (or perhaps to spread the misery around), I also discovered Jim J. Bullock, Dustin Diamond, and Dave Coulier.
• I greenlighted AfterMASH, Cop Rock, Homeboys in Outer Space, and Cavemen (with the latter only after a hefty bribe from GEICO).
• I cancelled Star Trek, the original series.
• I shot JR Ewing.

In Politics

• I was the sound engineer for the Watergate tapes.
• I told Strom Thurmond to give interracial dating a try.
• I left my half-finished Coke on Clarence Thomas’s desk.
• I convinced Gary Condit that lawyers were too expensive, and to take matters into his own hands.
• I enouraged Mark Foley, Jim McGreevey and Larry Craig to get out and meet new people.
• I was Elliot Spitzer’s accountant.

In Products and Inventions

• I created New Coke, but also suggested Crystal Pepsi to their competitors just to keep the playing field even.
• I didn’t create HeadOn, but I did create the advertisements.
• I developed Teflon, knowing full well you’d buy it on those non-stick frying pans, and knowing even more fully well that it would eventually flake-off in nice carcinogenic bits.

And Now… An Apology

Sorry about that. Really. And sorry for not apologizing for each of those things individually. The aim here was to conserve space. Honestly. And apologies as well for some of those terribly rude clarifications up there.

Additionally, it was somewhat misleading, and by “misleading” I mean to say an outright lie to call this an Anthology of Apologies when it is, in fact, an Anthology of Crimes. Kindly consider me sorry for that as well.

So… we’re good?

Good.

(In retrospect, this single, all-encompassing apology was really the way to go.)

freeloading between my left and right baby toes and their respective next-door neighbours:

Now look — I consider myself a patient man. Not Ghandi patient, or even Obama patient, but certainly more than Rush Limbaugh patient or Alec Baldwin patient. But your persistent and unwarranted existence is really becoming a source of irritation, both in a physically literal and a more abstract psychological sense. In no uncertain terms, I am demanding that you shove off immediately.

Now I think it’s important to consider that this relationship did enjoy an initial period of relative comfort and mutual tolerance. For the longest time indeed, I hardly noticed you, and even when I did, your existence was more of a curious kind of curiosity than the 24-hour torment which it currently is.

I accept that I did not approach this as openly and honestly as I’m doing so now — and this is my shortcoming. Yes, it was wrong of me to begin lathering you excessively with medicinal soap and over the counter fungicide. Yes, that tolnaftate cream must have been unpleasant for you to endure. But most unpleasant of all was my lack of communication about the reasoning behind all of this.

So I’m just going to say now what I should have said all those years ago — I’m not ready for this kind of relationship. I need to be my own man — for now, and perhaps forever.

Hoping you’ll understand,

- Me.