Some of you–those of you who AIM me and talk to me on the phone–may know that I don’t have a job.  And if you know this, then you also probably know that I hate working.  But I do need money.  I’m have around -600 dollars.  Yes, negative 600 dollars (feel free to donate whatever you can).  So I decided it’s time for me to just suck it up and get a job other than selling photos, which I will soon be doing.
     So I applied at Hooters.  Now, I had never been there before, but I noticed that in all the portrayals of Hooters, like in movies, I’ve never seen any male servers.   So I decided  I’d see how many guys there were working at the one here in Manassas.  Well, there were none.  It’s really strange.  It’s almost as if they only hire females to be servers.  I can’t figure it out.  But I figured that’s as good a reason as any to work there, and that’s why I applied.
     The application form I had to fill out, asked in one of the sections if I have any special talents.  So I wrote down, “Of course I do–my nipples can teleport!”  And I know that’s probably a little confusing for some of you–I’m probably the only person in the world who has teleportable nipples–so here’s a picture I took today, just for you guys reading this:

     Quite a gift, wouldn’t you say?
     I have yet to hear back from Hooters, though.

     You all may or may not recall the previous entry in which I talk about how I woke up that morning with a full set of abs.  If not, here’s a picture of that day:

    
     But now things are just getting weird!  “Please tell us, Chris, please do!” you say?  Alright, then:
     As I expected, my abs gradually flattened out throughout that day, and now they are completely gone.
    

OR SO I HOPED!

     This morning was even stranger!  I woke up this morning with the abs back on, but in totally the wrong place.  Check it out:

     As you can see, the abs have disappeared from my stomach, and are now growing on my NECK!  It’s highly uncomfortable, to say the least!  Let’s hope it doesn’t get stranger….

     Alright, people, something crazy happened to me overnight.  You know how when you wake up in the morning and look at yourself in the mirror, you look a lot skinnier?  Well, this is because when we spend such a long time lying down (overnight), our body actually stretches a bit; gets taller, you know?  This is a fact, I’m not making this up.  And then, throughout the day, we shrink back down to our normal size.  I’m sure you’ve all experienced this; I know a few people who know what I’m talking about.  It’s such a small difference in height, though, that it’s not really worth writing about.
     Unless you experience what I experienced.
     Actually, before I get into it, it bears repeating how I woke up this morning.
     I was lyin’ on the couch on my back, trying to get back to sleep.  The dogs, however, were already wound up and wanted me to follow them downstairs so they could “go-outside-go-baffwoom” and get fed.  So Tracker, my beagle, he jumps up on the couch with me, putting his two front paws on my chest and his two back paws next to me.  And my eyes are closed, you know, ’cause I’m tryin’ to fall back asleep.  Screw the dogs, right?
     Well, next thing I know, I feel this hot, acidic liquid on my chest, and I immediately fear the worst, though refusing to believe it: Oh God, Tracker, you did not just throw up on me!  I open my eyes, and Tracker’s starin’ me in the face, and I look down at my chest, and sure enough, there’s the puke.  And it wasn’t the chunky kind.  It was pure liquid, hot and steamy, and the shirt I was wearing was so thin that the vomit really didn’t have much to soak into.  So the throw-up decided to roll op and over my shoulders, past the base of my neck, and onto my pillow and the very back of my hair.   Quite grand, I must say.  I felt like crying.
     Point of the story is, if you want someone to get up out of bed, throw up on them.  Sure as heck worked for me.
     But back to my main experience this morning:
     Alright, so every morning I wake up and I’m a little skinnier, blah, blah, you know the deal.  But this morning was different.  This morning I woke up with a complete set of abs!  And I’m not talkin’ faint indentations on my stomach, no, I’m talkin’ full-blown, hardcore abs, people!  It was amazing, it was so great, it was awesome!  First thing I did, of course, was have my mom take a picture before they faded with the inevitable shrinkage of me throughout the day. 
     And I know you guys don’t believe me–”Oh, Chris, you’re such a goof with these stories of yours!”–so see for yourself, folks!  Feel free to gawk, drool, and touch the screen, ’cause I don’t mind being an object of desire for a day at all!  Photo is below!

Christopher Graham, in his kitchen, is sexy for a day.

     You know how when you scratch yourself on any given area (elbow, thigh, whatever) the area adjacent to it starts to itch?  The itch travels, right?
     Well I woke up early this morning, around eight or so, and I was pretty sweaty.  I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, and it was clinging to me and making me itch something awful!  Well, my arms are only so long, you know?  I can really only scratch my upper and lower back, but even still, my fingernails are too short; I’m a biter.
     So I got off the couch, knowing that the wooden backscratcher we have was still packed away (not that that thing actually works), and looked for something that could do a decent enough job.
     And there, on the cluttered dining-room table, shining it’s holy shine, glistening it’s immaculate glisten, was my savior: the heavy-duty barbecue spatula.
     I lunged, people, I actually lunged for the thing with the grippy handle and the stainless-steel metal with the sharp edges.  And I stuffed it down the back of my shirt and I scratched and I scratched and I itched and I scraped, itched, scratched until my back only itched some more, so I scratched some more, some more, some more!  I could almost feel the dead skin cells being scraped off my back, could feel the spatula peeling away the drying sweat, and it was glorious, people!  The itch was conquered.
     But then my legs started itching.  My fingertips, however bluntly-fingernailed they may have been, were good enough for that job.  So I returned the spatula to the dining-room table, sat on my couch-turned-bed, lifted up the legs of my jeans, and scratched some more.  All over the place, up and down, side to side, digging and clawing.  And the itch was conquered.
     But then my scalp started to itch.  It was quite annoying, to say the least.  So I scratched at it, of course.  The occasional hair came out, along with flakes of dead skin, but the dandruff falling through the air and collecting in a pile at my feet was worth it, the sensation of conquered itch making my entire body tingle and shiver.
     And indeed, the itch was conquered.
     But then it traveled to my dog.  This is getting ridiculous, I thought.  But an itch gone unscratched, as we all know, will only turn into an entity capable of destroying entire cities.  So I scratched my dog.  His back, his ears, under his collar, his flanks, his crotch, his belly…everywhere.
     The itch was conquered.
     But then it just got too weird, even by my standards: the itch traveled to my sleeping mom, all the way upstairs, and that’s when I realized there was only one thing that would make this itch cease once and for all.
     I broke the glass casing on the family-room wall which covered the shotgun designated for just such emergencies.  I stomped upstairs, cursing and cussing and swearing and verbally raping that itch–you know, trying to intimidate it. 
     I reached the top of the stairs, turned down the hall, and kicked in my mom’s bedroom door (which was actually unlocked, but kicking it in was way cooler).
     My mom was in her bed, squirming and screaming, yelling and pleading for the itch to get off her!  “Chris, help!” she screamed.
     “Mama!  Lie still, mama!”
     “I can’t, it itches too much!  Help me!”
     This was not going to be easy, that was obvious.  But I couldn’t let this itch win!
     I took my aim, eye along the barrel of the shotgun, easing the gun to the left, to the right, trying desperately to keep my aim on the traveling itch.  This was no simple task, people.
     With my gun settled into position, I turned my eyes up toward the heavens and asked God to guide my bullet carefully.  If I were a small fraction of a millimeter off, my mom would be dead as Cobain. 
     I pulled the trigger.
     And the itch was conquered.
     Here is a censored photo of the itch:

    

     My mom and I just got back from our first visit to a Mexican restaurant called <a href=”http://www.donpablos.com”>Don Pablo’s</a>, which has been here since we moved here in 1990.  I’m not gonna  make this a short entry, but I just wanna say something interesting about this place: there were NO Mexicans in the entire place.  There was a HUGE variety of races there–whites, African Americans, crackas, blacks, Caucasians, and niggers–but zero Mexicans.  The servers and the host–all white.  Okay, fine, yes, there were a whopping TWO Mexicans in the place, but they didn’t count: they were a table washer and a dish cleaner.
     It should also be noted that Manassas, the city I live in in northern Virginia, is unofficially called Mini-Mexico, because there are more Hispanic people here than there are whites.  This place has never been NEARLY as ugly and dangerous as it is now (ooh, snap!).  You see, there was once a time when English was the spoken language in America.
     Now, for any girls reading this post (that is, all of you), I know you’re wondering what my favorite food is so that you can each take me out to eat on a date sometime and pay for my meal, so I’ll tell you this much: Mexican food is not the best.  I don’t like spicy things.  Also, Mexican (my word for “Hispanic”) food has all the same ingredients: tortilla, cheese, lettuce, peppers, boom! you’ve got every Mexican dish on one plate.  Kind of like Italian food: pasta of some kind covered in cheese and sauce, bam! you’ve got every Italian dish on one plate.  I’ll also say this: God bless Taco Bell.  I’m not even saying this to be funny, but Taco Bell really is my favorite foreign restaurant.  Everything there has a distinguishable taste from the other meals there, and they come in all shapes and sizes:  Taco: semi-circle; Crunchwrap Supreme: hexagon (six sides, kids!); Mexican Pizza: floppy circle; Cinnamon Twists: helix; Quesadillas: triangles with curvy bottoms.  I mean, come on, people!  It’s brilliant!  Plus, if you do magic to a Taco Bell employee, his head explodes, and then he gives you an extra bag of Cinnamon Twists.  Hey, don’t ask me how it happens, I just know that it does.

     I started writing this entry about five minutes ago, but I only got a few words into it when suddenly I had the most overwhelming feeling of having to poop.  I stood up (literally!) and ran downstairs (fast!) and opened the bathroom door (literally!) and pulled down my pants (hey, fella!) and sat down on the toilet (cold seat!) and let ‘er rip.  Or at least I tried to.  The thing wouldn’t come out right away.  I had to sit there for a few.  But the fact that the urge to poop came on so suddenly, without gradual warning, leads me to believe that I am either a man of science, or very magical.  I prefer to believe in the latter, of course.  I don’t know what I ate, but man! that was spectacular!
     But the point of this entry is not to relate the Adventures of Chris and His Bowels to you, but to tell you that I just had the worst Slurpee of my life and in the universe.   It was Orange Mango Fusion (or maybe the fruits were reversed), and it was tart, which is good, and when I tested it at the 7-11 by fountaining some off onto my straw, it tasted fine.   (Normally I would have chosen Coke or Cherry or something green, but they were all too watery.)  So I filled up my twenty-eight-ouncer, paid the Vietnamese woman behind the counter, who eyed my buttocks longingly, and set off back home in the car, drinking my new drink.  I gave up about four sips later.  It was too much.  It tasted like aspartame or saccharine or some other gross sweetener.  Actually it tasted exactly like Zipfizz , which my mom was once talked into buying at CostCo by this health-freak salesman who was giving out free samples, and which is nauseating.
     End.

     I have beef, and it’s with someone on Xanga.  I won’t say Julie’s name, but you should definitely go to her site.  She and I were talking on the phone today, and she had the nerve to yell at me.  We were talking about something or other (or maybe it was something else, I don’t know), when suddenly she yells at the top of her lungs, full of hatred, “I have to go!  God!“  And then she just hung up on me!  Can you believe that?  So I think everybody here should definitely go to her site and reprimand her, condescend her, yell at her, insult her for yelling at me like that.  And I’m such a nice guy!
     On another note, do any of you, my loves, recall the blog I wrote about the scientist who discovered proof that God was and is actually a penguin?  Well, as it turns out, he didn’t have proof at all.  He just had an opinion that wasn’t based on any fact, and he believed it because he wanted to believe it because he’s a loser.  This can only mean one thing: Grinchism is the true religion.  Let me explain Grinchism for you:
     Grinchism–the believers of which are called Grinchists–is the true religion.  I founded it when I realized that if a scientist with proof that penguins are God is proven WRONG, then the Grinch (or simply “Grinch”) must actually be the true God.  And if you think about it, it makes perfect sense.  See, Grinchists believe that The Grinch created life in his image, but because of some sludge that he accidentally spilled into his batter of life, the results were very random and mutated.  That is why nobody actually looks like the Grinch unless they are very, very lucky.
     The beliefs of Grinchism, aside from Grinch The Creator, are logical yet simple.  We believe that every being He made was meant to be mean and hate all things joyful.  We understand that the Grinch allowed himself to be brainwashed by the Who’s, and that’s why he’s nice now.  It would seem, then, that Grinchists should be mean since that’s what Grinch intended, but I figure, If the Grinch allowed himself to become nice and patient and caring, then we should allow ourselves to be nice and patient and caring.
     Aside from all that, there are a few customs.  Well, right now I’ve only come up with one, but there will be more to come.  The one I came up with is a no-brainer, really.  It says that on December 25, for dinner, Grinchists should roast a beast of some kind, calling it a roast beast.  Actually, I just came up with a second thing: December 25 won’t be called Christmas, but Chrismas (without the t).  The reason for this is, well, reasonable: Christ followed God and formed CHRISTianity, and eventually CHRISTmas; I follow Grinch and formed Grinhism, and now the holiday CHRISmas (because my name is Chris). 
     If anybody would like to convert to Grinchism (really, all one of us are/is nice!), just send me a message or comment.  I will soon be forming a blogring for Grinchists, but, being the first Grinchist, I am quite busy.

     In Grinch,
     Chris

     Dogs have tails.
     I do not.
     Instead of a tail, I have a butt crack.
     And at the very top of my butt crack, it seems as though I have muscles.  Why does it seem like I have muscles?  Well, first I must explain how a dog is able to move its tail.  Dogs have muscles in and around the base of their tails, yes?  They voluntarily move these muscles in order to make their tails move, in much the same way that a human can suck in his anus to stifle an impatient turd. 
     So a dog has muscles at the base of its tail (above it’s butthole) that allow it to move its tail.
     I think that I have muscles above my butt crack that would, I believe, allow me to move my hypothetical tail.  Here’s why I think that:
     I can sort of feel muscles moving down there, and I think I can feel myself moving my non-existent tail back and forth.  Up and down, even.
     In fact, I’m doing it right now.  Right…left…down, down…up, down…right, left, right, left, right, left.  It’s so simple! 
     So my theory is that if God suddenly turned me into a dog–or if He simply gave me a dog-like tail–I would be able to wag it almost immediately.  I wouldn’t have to practice it like all the other humans would have to.
     In short, I’m better than the rest of you.

     I just read a comment that AreYouThereGodItsMeEmily left me a comment in which she described how her cat ate some tinsel, and at one point there was a ten-inch tinsel-strand hangin’ from the bung o’ the cat.   Which reminded me of something similar that happened to me…unfortunately.
     A while back I was attempting to do a magic trick for my now ex-girlfriend, a trick in which I swallow a rope and pull it out of my belly button.  The rope was about a quarter of an inch wide and three feet long.)  Well, after the rope did NOT come out of my belly button, I researched belly buttons and found out that belly buttons are in fact sealed off from your insides.  So it’s not an actual hole, believe it or not!
     So for a few days, I didn’t have to poo. 
     But then: it came.  I kid you not, I swear, dead serious, no joke, it took 18 trips to the bathroom in the span of 6 hours for that sucker to come out of me (and NOT from my belly button, if you know what I mean). 

Details

I would sit down on the toilet, poo, and the rope would come out a few inches.  When all the contents of my bowels, aside from the rope, were released, I tried pulling on the rope.  Let me give you some advice: the next time you swallow a rope and poop it out, DO NOT PULL ON IT!  I tried this, but the pain was totally unbearable.  So I had to let it come out on  its own, and, like I said, that took 18 trips to the bathroom in about 6 hours.  In between The Poo Sessions, the rope was hanging from my hole and going down my left pant leg.  By 8:00 that evening, the rope was free.
     The rope now hangs in a frame above the fireplace mantel.