Someone has imprightened me yet again. This time it’s a statistics professor and his ragtag class of ne’er-do-well students who will do anything to not learn about statistics. I don’t blame them. I find statistics is a lot easier if you make up the statistics. Takes a lot of the math out. Anyway they have used a Homie to create a Homie horror movie! WTF don’t you have papers to grade? Keggers to crash? Bongloads to hit? It’s the best Homie horror movie you and I have ever seen. Kudos, friends, kudos.

You can watch it here. You need a Flash player. If you don’t have that already there’s nothing I can do to help you.

The only thing you need to know is that “faen” means “Satan” in Norwegian. It’s used like “daaammmnnn.” I have Norwegian friends who like to teach me Norwegian because, as they say, “it’s the most useful language in the world.” I just like it becau

CRAP!

I INTERRUPT THIS POST TO BRING YOU ANOTHER POST

OK, anyone who has ever worked with me or lived with me or dined with me, know that I spill water every goddamn day. Like if there is a cup or glass or bottle of water, it will be spilled. It will get everywhere and on my lap and it will look like I had just peed my pants which, as you know, is a great way to get with the hotties. I don’t do it with anything else, just water. So anyway as I was writing this post, I moved my hand to get my coffee mug and then knocked over a full glass of water, and then it went everywhere, all over my computer, all over the desk, all over my lap, and all over the CAT which was on my lap. So then the cat hissed and got those crazyeyes and attacked me because it’s a crazy beast and then I flipped out because I thought my computer was going to die. I am cat sitting this week at Aura’s and you should know that Aura just RUINED her computer a few weeks ago because her beast knocked over a gigantic bottle of water onto her computer and she called me on the verge of tears because she is writing her thesis. Damn you water! Why must you be so wet!

Anyway this all literally just happened as I was writing this and as you can see my computer is fine and the cat is very wet and hiding somewhere. I was really stressed out for ten minutes there. Bleah. I need a sippy cup. But it looks stupid if you drink whiskey out of a sippy cup.

A Homie with his pooch, a real-life Homie Hoodz Houndz, go to Minnesota to live with RT. When I think about Minnesota, only one thing comes to mind.

That’s right. Snow. Lots of effing snow. Snow up the butt and out the wazoo. RT takes Homie and the pooch to work. This means having to walk through the effing snow. Note that these pictures were taken in APRIL but that there’s still so much effing snow. Also RT is really slow about giving me pictures, almost as slow as me putting them up.

RT, Homie, and the pooch wait for the bus. In the effing snow. Because that is what you do in Minnesota. Homie complains that it’s cold. Pooch complains that it’s cold. RT says, crap you guys, will you stop the complaining. It’s April, we have at least two more months before this stuff melts and then it’ll be really nice for like a week, and then it’ll start snowing again. Because it’s Minnesota. Suck it up. Homie tries to shank RT but she isnt’ having any of it.

While waiting for the bus in the snow, they read the paper. This is some kind of tribune. They learn about the news. It’s mostly bad news.

They go on the bus. In Minneosta, dogs and Homies are allowed on the bus. I didn’t know that either, pretty aweosme right? Very liberal.

They go to work, but work is work. Let’s skip to the good stuff.

I’ve had a long day at work, says Homie, beers on me! RT says thank you.

I’ve had a long day too, says RT, another round!

Homie, the pooch, and RT play foosball. Because that is what you do when you drink. You do things like play foosball. Actually, foosball and beer go well together, just like Starsky and Hutch. Or Crockett and Tubbs. Or Tango and Cash. Or Turner and Hooch. Or your mom and my jock. HA HA HA.

We’ve come to that part of the evening when you play Buck Hunter. On Bowling Day at the office a co-worker was playing and he was OUTRAGED that you weren’t allowed to shoot does. “Since when did THAT happen?” I was like, dude stop yelling you are harshing my mellow.

OK, thanks RT!

Ravi and his Homie live in San Francisco. He was going to send more photos but couldn’t because he was so unbelievably trashed. On the whiskey.

Everyone should know that Ravi hosts Annietown out of the goodness of his own heart and he is a swell friend. He does things like takes me to the airport in a Zipcar but then when he gets to the Zipcar to take me to the airport he discovers the battery is dead and then it is like a mad dash to the airport where we are like OMG OMG OMG NO TURN RIGHT NO TURN RIGHT OMG OMG TRAFFIC OH DEAR GOD THERE IS TRAFFIC. Ravi cooks a lot, and he is good at it. Once he complained that his fridge was filled with clarified butter. I don’t think anyone has ever complained of such a thing before. He has very high cholesterol. Ravi explains that it’s genetic and not the fridge full of clarified butter. He is obviously high on his own supply (of butter) but that’s OK.

So thanks Ravi, for not being a dick.

Helen lives in South Australia. To give you an idea of where that is, think about Australia. Then think south. Now combine the two. Got it? Sweet. Homie is a proud chicana americana. But now she is a proud chicana americana de Australia del Sur. Or something. Whatever. I don’t know Australian Spanish. But I do know that South Australia is really far from the barrio.

Chicana discovers that South Australia has many ferns. They are pretty these ferns. But Chicana decides she wants to kick back with a fatty. She takes a few leaves and blazes up when Helen is not looking.

Chicana burns incense to cover up the dank sticky herb stank because she doesn’t want Helen to find out. Helen finds out anyway after she discovers Chicana is smoking all of her herb. WTF Chicana? Get your own.

There are also strange-looking natives of South Australia. She says slowly HELLO…NATIVE…MY…NAME….IS…CHICANA. And the native says, listen, I’m not deaf, there’s no need to yell, and just because I am pink doesn’t mean I am stupid. Chicana apologizes. She did not mean to offend.

Chicana meets more natives. They come in many different sizes. Chicana smiles and says, hello natives, my name is Chicana. The dolls do not respond. They stare at her a little confused. Helen explains that the dolls are deaf and, quite frankly, a little stupid, so she needs to talk louder.

In a horrible communication error, the deaf South Australian natives decide that Chicana is an unfriendly perpetrator coming to take away their land and herb. The natives summon the rats. They are the cutest rats Chicana has ever seen.

Thanks, Helen! You are representing the Homie who has traveled the greatest distance.

Michael goes to Australia. He thinks, oh golly, I hate traveling alone, I better take my Homie. Michael doesn’t actually ever say “oh golly” but he does in fact take his Homie to Australia.

This Homie is a Baller. That means someone who plays ball. As in any sport that involves a ball, including basketball, football, the other football, baseball, table tennis, bowling, shotput, pinball, cricket, you get the idea. If there is no ball involved, Baller does not care for it. For example, he thinks Frisbee is for the weak. Why don’t you throw a real ball? he asks. It is a good question.

Michael takes Baller on a car ride because when you go to Australia that is what you do. You don’t go see the bush or taunt wombats or look at kangaroos or avoid all the poisonous snakes that live there. You go in a car and you sit and then occasionally you fall upside down.

While on the customary car ride in Australia, you see signs. That is what Australians do all day. They sit in their cars and look at signs.

The other thing you do when you visit Australia is drink beer. Baller drinks beer. He thinks its delicious. Michael tried to make him eat some Vegemite on toast but Baller instead told him to go suck it.

Thanks, Michael!

Remember Pec? He lives in London with Pedro. Pedro decides to take Pec to Finland. “Sinun henkäistä haistaa kuin löylyttää -lta by entisaikainen herra.” That is Finnish for “Your breath smells like the socks of an old man.” It’s obviously correct because I translated it online. The internet never lies.

Pec is confused. What? Huh? NO ONE TOLD ME FINLAND WAS COLD. What is this snow bullshit? Someone remove all this snow and replace it with either A) sunshine or B) money. Please hurry.

Pedro and Pec go to a museum. There are giants in this museum. One tries to eat Pec.

(Note: I am slowly realizing that everyone wants to eat Homies, it is getting ridiculous. Next time I will send everyone pretzels.)

Pedro takes Pec to a meeting. Pedro is designing a building that transforms into a robot that makes really good espresso. Pec thinks Pedro is totally wasting his time. Finland doesn’t need a building like that. It needs HEAT. GOOD GOD, IT NEEDS HEAT.

Pec thinks Finland is kind of sweet and charming. If you disagree, Pec will shank you.

Pedro brings Pec to dinner and introduces him to all of his friends. They are like, we thought you’d be a lot taller in person, no offense. None taken, Pec says, I’m tall where it counts. Just ask your mom.

Mmmm Finnish beer. Tastes great with reindeer and whale. Burp.

Thanks, Pedro!

Meet Mitch. He rocks the bongos. He used to be in an underground death metal/emocore band (with bongos) but due to creative differences and the lead guitarist’s addiction to crack cocaine, Mitch left. VH1 Behind the Music was going to do a profile on them (”and then…the bottom fell out”) but the producers decided that their story had been “done” before and decided instead to do a profile on The Lohan because her story is so much more unique and timely. Mitch takes the bongos very seriously. So when the lead guitarist decided he loved crack cocaine more than music, Mitch threw in the towel, which happened to be soaked in death metal/emocore bongo sweat. You don’t love the music anymore, Mitch cried, you’ve changed. I don’t even know you anymore. So Mitch left. He launched his solo bongo career.

His latest tour called BONGOS ON FIRE (IN MY PANTS) 2008 took him to Durham, North Carolina with a stop at Tracyene’s House of Bongos n’ Oysters. Ah, bongos and oysters. Two great tastes that taste great together.

Mitch quickly makes himself at home. It is the nicest home he’s ever had, because when he was on tour before he’d have to stay on the bus so the band can save money so the lead guitarist could then take the money and buy crack cocaine. Crack cocaine is one hell of a drug, kids.

Tracyene, the owner of Tracyene’s House of Bongos n’ Oysters, is a classy Southern dame. She makes Mitch breakfast because that is what classy Southern dames do. It’s part of that whole hospitality thing.

Mitch loves eggs. But if he thinks about where they come from, he kind of gets grossed out. So he decides to never think about that.

Before Mitch takes the stage, he takes a walk outside. Durham is nice, he thinks. He likes people’s accents too.

Mitch ROCKS OUT ON THE BONGOS. He plays the crap out of them while world-renowned NON-emocore guitarist shreds on the guitar. Mitch gets his mind blown. He says, hey Dylan, we should like totally be in a band. And Dylan was all, ok, dude, let’s get the led out. So they jammed until their faces melted from rocking.

Thanks Tracyene!

Speaking of rocking: Last night we had band practice and as we left our practice room there was a dead mouse on the floor. WE ROCKED THE MOUSE TO DEATH. I was like dude. We rocked the MOUSE TO DEATH. And Heather and Jeff and Andy were like dude, we ROCKED THE MOUSE TO DEATH. And we were totally stoked by our powerful rocking. And then I did this: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! And then jumped over it and shook my head like that famous scene in Flashdancer except I was more disgusted than Jennifer Beals. Anyway I told the practice space manager guy, hey we rocked a mouse to death and he thought I was kidding. I was like no man, clean up aisle 6. You can’t miss it. It’s the DEAD MOUSE THAT IS DEAD FROM THE ROCK.

I sent a Homie to Kansas. Because I thought Kansas was a safe place. A place where a Homie could leave her gang-banging days behind and live the rest of her days in peace and happiness and harmony among the fairies and butterflies and wood nymphs and satyrs and all that other gay shit (I mean gay as in overly happy not gay as in homosexual, I don’t know how else to describe Kansas. Flat? Rectangular?)

Guess what? My good friend Sarah took her Homie and used it as a “toy” for her asshole cat who is like literally three thousand years old and unable to catch shit that actually moves. Poor Homie! The injustice! Homie thought she was escaping to an enchanted retirement community for Homies just like herself. She was wrong. Dead wrong.

Magic is an evil, evil cat. Also Magic is very hungry. HUNGRY FOR HOMIES. Much like Mike in Hawaii. LISTEN, if I send you a Homie can you guys please REFRAIN FROM EATING IT? Seriously.

Homie is pissed. She is sad. And maybe a little desperate. She just wanted to get away from the violence of the barrio. Instead she got a three hundred pound, three hundred year old cat chasing after her. So she and her dog run away and escape to a large lake.

She thinks it’s the strangest lake she has ever seen but that is maybe how people do it in Kansas. Just as she makes the plunge, Magic, that asshole bastard cat, swoops in.

Homie is a prisoner. Magic is like Jabba the Hutt. Which means Homie is Princess Leia. And I guess her dog is that other little Muppet animal with the big, hairy ears that hangs out witih Jabba, you know what I’m talking about. Don’t pretend like you are too cool for school for Return of the Jedi. You love the movie as much as I do. Shut up.

Homie awaits a hero. There will be no hero this time.

Sniff. Sniff.

Thanks Sarah. Come visit me. Now.

Ian received a visitor in San Francisco. The visitor is a Homie. The Homie happens to be an alien. It is clear that the good people over at Homies, Inc. ran out of characters and decided to make an alien just to keep things spicy and flavorful.

Even though this Homie is an alien, or rather, this alien is a Homie, he still enjoys doing the things that Homies like to do. Like skateboarding. While listening to his iPod Mini. Or his WALKMAN. OMG. Homie busts out with all of his mixtapes his ex-girlfriend Sad Girl used to make him. Homie listens and then cries. He misses Sad Girl. He heard she ran away to Portugal and lives with a lesbian couple. He thought they had something special.

This Homie is also an accomplished tagger and knows how to represent his peoples.

He also works out three times a week. It is hard to see in the picture, but trust me, this Homie has a permit to carry the GUNS he calls his biceps. He will squeeze your head like a little grape.

The Homie sees Ian’s extensive VHS collection and realizes that Ian lives in the year 1991. Homie wants to tell Ian everything about the years 1992 through 2008, but decides, hey, let Ian figure it out himself. He’s a smart guy. One piece of advice from the future, Homie says, don’t buy Laserdiscs.

Dude. DISKETTES! WTF!!!! The good news is that there are thirty of them which is how many you’ll need to load up one Word document.

Word up, Ian. You live in a museum.

Stephanie received her Homie, named Lil’ Ghost. Lil’ Ghost has always been an East L.A. kind of guy or maybe even a Hawthorne or Echo Park kind of fella. To be honest, he finds the west side a little too laid back with all that sunshine and beachy stuff and all those vegan/raw/macrobiotic restaurants. Why would you eat vegan when you can eat bacon, he asks. He also thinks the west side can use more in the ‘hard’ department since everyone likes to rollerblade with fanny packs. Lil’ Ghost knows that if he wore a fanny pack in Hawthorne he’d get his Lil’ Ghost ass kicked back to Van Nuys.

But Lil’ Ghost goes to Santa Monica. Guess what?

He loves it. The beach isn’t so bad. In fact, it’s kind of OK.

He gets a tan so he can change his name from Lil’ Ghost to Lil’ Tanorexic.

He goes to the pier, to pick up on the hotties. Woo hoo! Hotties! Hey, you know a good vet? Cuz my PYTHONS ARE SICK. Lil’ Ghost wishes he could flex his biceps because that joke only works if you flex your biceps. Otherwise, everyone thinks you are a douche.

He rides the carousel. He does not like it. It makes him nauseous. What a stupid ride, he thinks. It just goes around and around? On the east side, you’d spin around and around and then someone would try to shoot at you because only a non-hard douchebag rides on a stupid horse wearing jewelry. And what is up with that music? Like an organ fell out of a SIX STORY WINDOW WITH ANNIE’S COMPUTER.

Lil’ Ghost is confused because on the west side there are dinosaurs that spit on you. One, he thought dinosaurs were extinct! Two, spitting is unladylike, even for a dinosaur. Three, he thought dinosaurs were extinct!

Lil’ Ghost decides he likes Santa Monica. He likes to be buried in the sand and chillax. He is far away from the hood. He thinks this is a good thing. He thinks he’ll buy one of those metal detector things all the homeless old men use to look for dimes. That’d be fun. He falls asleep.

He wakes up with a sunburn.