Dec 31, 2009, 8:47 pm – Matty posts final, 52nd bloggage of 2009.

Dec 31, 2009, 11:24 pm Matty begins losing at Yahtzee to the ninja.

Jan 1 2010, 4:24 am – Matty gets a phone call from Sir Andrew Lloyd Weber, asking for help only Matty can provide.

Jan 2 2010 – April 25, 2010: A time of Mystery during which Matty is as absent as your mom’s navel.

April 26, First bloggatry of the year.

—
“Help me, Matty Boom Boom, you’re my only hope”

So were the words of Sir Andrew Lloyd Weber, a mere 22 pizza rolls, 12 games of Yahtzee, and 4 hours into the new year.

“Listen, A&W,” said I, “I haven’t played Streetfighter in years, I don’t know if I’m really –“

“No no, this isn’t about the Streetfighter circuit…although there is this cocky young turk with thumbs the size of …no, no don’t distract me, you rogue, this is important. What do you know about exotic travel shows?” Sir Dubbsy asked.

“Just what unfortunate outtakes I’ve seen on When Animals Attack, why?”

“Well, I’m in charge of a new BBC documentary series about musical theater in primitive cultures around the world. David Attenborough wants to host, but I’ll be doing small professional theater in St Paul before I let that happen.”

I chortled at that thought.

Then I chortled about that time that Chowie fell down.

Then I chortled about the thing I wrote up there about your mom’s navel. Heh. Sneech.

“We can’t let that geriatric honky host my precious program! Boom Boom, you need to challenge him. You need to wrestle David Attenborough for control of my show!”

I didn’t even need to ask Oprah about this one. “Sir Andrew Lloyd Weber,” I crowed, “I’m your man.”

Tune in next time for the thrilling conclusion!

Until next time, I remain,
David Attenborough’s Worst Nightmare

Well, he was on a secret mission. His official agency (real estate, cleansing, or otherwise) had, as yet, been unestablished.

Okay, listen, times are tight. We all gotta do what we gotta do to survive. And that includes working for Sir Andrew Lloyd Weber.

Let me paint the scene for you, with my words. It’s New Year’s Day - technically - 4:26am, January the oneth, 2010. Matty’s throbbing head is situated up his shoulders, occupied entirely with deciphering the method by which the No Refunds Ninja has been beating him soundly at Yahtzee for the last 7 hours (cheating, we decided). When all of a New York minute the phone rings. Which is weird. The phone is actually Leviticus’ mom’s cell phone which she let him use for his internship, which is not, by the way, why it’s weird that it rang. The reason it’s weird that it rang is because only Leviticus’ Mom, Sarah Palin, and the division of the Minneapolis Police directly involved with mail fraud have the number, and they were all there playing Yahtzee (and losing to the Ninja) with us.

Trepidatiously, I answered the phone. “Boom Boom, Darling!” a mellifluous voice lilted on the other end, in a decidedly un-american accent. “I’ve been trying to reach you for simply ages!”

Now, usually, when someone with a foreign accent has been trying to reach me for simply ages, it involves phony magazine subscriptions and the government of Tonga. So I cannily responded…

“Uh…your mom?”

A titter bubbled from the other end “Oh, Matty you Cad! I do believe I’ve been served!”

“Ummm…this isn’t Billy Joel, is it?”

“That loathsome dwarf? Hardly!” guffawed my conversational cohort, “It is I, Sir Andrew Lloyd Weber!”

“Oh. Wussup, Andy Dubbs?”

“Chilling, my colleague. I am merely chilling. But listen, Boom Boom, I’m afraid I am in desperate need of help that only you may provide.”

And then Sir Andrew Lloyd Weber proceeded to lay out his dilemma, which would send me far and wide on an adventure worthy of a Kevin Sorbo movie.

Which I will relate, in the next blog…

Until next time, I remain,
In the service of the queen…as it were.

Yes, yes, it’s been 4 months since my last log-in with the bloggin. And I do acknowledge (against the advice of counsel…by which I mean the ninja) that breach of unspoken, non-binding contract between you, the Adoring Public, and me, the Boom. I make with the funny funny, and you make with the ready-ready. Or, in some cases, the outragey-outragey.

Like alcohol and sports, or Chowie and the Lysol company, ours is a symbiotic relationship. And my egregious absence has broken the circle of life between us.

But here I am, Adoring Public, boombox raised, parole board satisfied, trying to get you at hello. I’m here to build bridges, to heal wounds, to prove to you and the Hennepin County district attorney that I’ve turned my life around.

And the first step is to explain to you just exactly why I’ve been 4 months away. See, Adoring Public, my dog ate my internet connection. I had a flat tire. I lost my fingers to frostbite. Really, it wasn’t my fault.

Okay, no, so really, because I respect you, the reader, so very much, I’m going to come clean for real. Even though this could put me in mortal danger, I’m going to tell you why I’ve been absent like courtesy from public discourse.

The truth, Adoring Public, is that I’ve been on a secret mission.

There. I didn’t want to say it, but there it is, out there.

I’ll even tell you what the secret mission was. But not now. Right now I have to skip out on the bill at an upscale café. Tune in tomorrow to learn the true nature of Matty’s entirely non-pornographic undercover operations.

For his pornographic undercover operations…contact your mom.

Sneech. (I’m back, baby!)

Until next time, I remain,
An international man of mystery.

Which, for me, means lots of time on the 21A Bus.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I eat salsa, I like ethnic crap, Matty’s a citizen of the world. I understand that the French like to smell bad and Germans like to be naked and accept their cultural heritagees. But here’s the thing, if Matty’s craving adventure, he seeks it. It does not seek him. Especially on his morning commute.

So I had this idea as I was sitting behind the guy who smelled like urinal cakes and fending off the woman who wanted to lay on hands and pray for the healing of my sweaty feet. I thought what if I had some sort of cocoon? Like a pup tent that I walk around in. A pod, if you will. Just for me, or, in the first person singular, “I”

An I-Pod.

I can’t believe no one’s thought of this yet.

Until next time, I remain,

On the bleeding edge.

So I’m working again in St Paul. You may remember this from such bloggaries as “War, What’s it Good For?” and “Lexicons”

This time around I’m on a play about Rock and Roll, by some guy Tommy Stopper. Stupperd, Stoppard, something like that. Some talky-kinda guy.

But yeah, talky. Sheesh, does this guy ever talk! He’s gotta have more student loans than me, even!

I’ll put it in Drive-In totals to show you what I mean:

# of characters in play with a P.H.D: 5
# of characters in play who wield chainsaws: 0
# of references to Greek philosophers: 41
# of references to robots, race cars, or pro wrestling: 0
# of times word “ideological” is used: 22
# of times the word “jiggy” is used: 1 (I’m the one who says it, backstage, in a whisper)

So you get the picture. I think we can safely say that unless Mr. Stop-Art shapes up, he won’t be writing for No Refunds any time soon. We have standards, dammit!

On the plus side, the title isn’t, like, ironic or metaphorical or any of that crap (surprising considering the body of Mr. Talky-talky’s play) so the music for the show is pretty bangin. There’s even a Guns N Roses selection. It’s off Use Your Illusion 1, though which is really more experimental/progressive than straight rock.

Until next time, I remain,

Off beat and a little heavy on the treble

10. Haw-haw! (ala Nelson Muntz)

9. Suck it, internet!

8. Ow, my brain!

7. In my pants!

6. How ya like me now, Aught-9? (If that is your real name)

5. Sneech!

4. Again I say, Sneech.

3. Is this ten yet?

2. Where’s that Franzia?

1. Wow, this was anti-climactic.

Until next time, I remain,

Good in the Clinch, and not really any other time.

10. Go there

9. Make something of myself

8. learn to read

7. live to 21

6. last one minute in your world

5. Do 52 blogs this year

4. walk again

3. Amount to a hill of beans

2. have the nerve to show my face here again

1. Understand what “flippant means”

Until Next time, I remain,

One blog short with 12 hours to go.

10. Never use the remote again

9. care about current events

8. two words: lightsaber grooming

7. lead an army of clone troopers against Tonga (those pineapple-eating bastards)

6. Burn my old Bucket List (Jedi don’t need to keep a list of their favorite kinds of buckets, they have cooler hobbies)

5. mind-trick billy Joel into leaving me the f%*!$ alone.

4. Finally take it to those droids who keep pushing me around all the time

3. get to the bottom of this whole “Bigfoot” thing.

2. Use the force to help your mom stand up

1. Finally have an image to maintain

Until next time, I remain

a luminous being, made not of this crude matter

9. peanut butter

8. mountain lions

7. my tax returns

6. the store model ipod

5. acid jazz

4. Lake Street

3. older, moldier, sauerkraut

2. shampoo

1. Communism

Until next time, I remain,

A staple of the German table

10. When the monkey throws poo, it doesn’t want to play.

9. Not quite everything is legal in Montana

8. Never make eye contact with Billy Joel, or else he’ll never stop calling you.

7. Apparently, pigs cannot be used as legal counsel, a primary physician, or a tax shelter. At least according to Johnny Law.

6. Blogging once a week is more work than you think.

5. Picking at it will only make it worse

4. Hot pockets are not widely regarded as solid investments

3. Being Sarah Palin’s foreign policy campaign advisor may be an easy job, but she’ll try to steal your interns.

2. There are situations in which “yer mom” is not an appropriate response.

1. There’s a point at which kicks to the groin stop being funny (certainly haven’t learned this one yet)

Until next time, I remain,

thoroughly resistant to education of any sort