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Pavlov's Hair Conditioner is getting a new look on WordPress. For anyone who enjoys reading these posts, I hope you'll enjoy WordPress even more. Please let me know what you think about the new blog by voting in the poll. The Blogger account will stay active a little while longer. I will not, however, be adding new posts. Thanks so much to all my readers.

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The Pathological Liar

I’m a pathological liar, but you’ll never know. People say they’ve figured me out, but I already knew that, because I’m psychic. Then I use my supernatural powers to make them forget, and they don’t bother me anymore. I like to sculpt large safari animals out of marshmallows in my neighbor’s yard.

I’m the son of Charlemagne. Beethoven was my great-aunt, which caused a lot of confusion for historians. My brother is Peter Jackson and my sister is Hermione Granger. I organized the Spanish Armada alphabetically by ship name. It took me seven minutes. I did better the first time.

You think you’ve got me figured out? Well, how could you not believe that I memorized all the books in the New York Public Library, and then created a Private Library in a room I found behind a bookshelf? What about my ability to fly? Boy, are my legs tired. What, you don’t fly with your legs?

I am the oldest human being in the world, but show my age very well. I use the patented Fountain of Youth Fondue Machine I invented in 1843. Friends used to call me Ponce de Leon, but that was back when I discovered Florida. I translated the Rosetta Stone before I found it eleven years later.

I invented the Internet. When humans came to America, I met them at the gates. The pyramids were my idea, along with the aliens I teleported to Earth. Stonehenge was my third-grade science project. I led the prehistoric civilization that murdered the dinosaurs in their sleep.

I could go on, but you already know I’m telling the truth. I know you do. I’m omniscient. One could say all these accomplishments are remarkable for any human. But that’s just silly. I’m half elf.

Until next time, this is Xavier Yes. Stay classical.

My Refrigerator is Running

My refrigerator is running for mayor. I thought, what could the harm be? It’s not going to win. But then my entire kitchen got into it. My oven, very convinced it’s a master seamstress, decided to make the campaign banners. They read, “Beat the Incumbent!” This wouldn’t be too bad, if not for the fact that the current mayor has been repeatedly assaulted with large sticks. The coffee maker tried to make the first banners, but all that could be read was a shaky “4.” It’s not the most intelligent kitchen appliance.

My blender is all about style. It’s a Cuisinart, after all. So it’s now the official campaign costume designer. I told it they don’t call them “costumes” in politics, but it didn’t respond. How rude. Did the Wigs call them costumes? Oh, wait, it’s Whig, isn’t it? Uppity, early-American fools. The blender was doing well until it told the fridge to wear clothes. It’s just not natural for a refrigerator to be clothed. What’s this world coming to when you walk into your kitchen and discover that your food is blocked by a blue jumpsuit?

For spokesman, they’ve selected the toaster. He’s pretty brave, after all. You’d have to be for this job, especially after that scandal with the iron. It branded him with bad puns. The PR guy is my toaster oven, which isn’t as brave, but still gets the job done. The toaster and the toaster oven were joined at birth, but were separated and sold in the “defective” bin at Goodwill.

Finally, they convinced me to drive around with a megaphone and yell, “Fridge for office! Fridge for office!” I can’t tell you how many times people have stopped me and empathized for the lack of refrigerator in my office’s breakroom.

I really hope my appliances don’t get too disappointed when the refrigerator loses. I mean, honestly, who would vote for a fridge? But who knows? Maybe people are tired of Mayor Maytag.

Until next time, this is Xavier Yes. Stay classical.

Why the World Would Be a Better Place if We All Just Got Along

I absolutely detest hating things. Why anyone would be so stupid as to hate anything is beyond me. I mean, honestly? You really want to spend the rest of your life hating on cabbage? Why? What a waste of time.

If you hate things, I must say that you’re an idiot. Nobody should hate things. It’s pointless. When you hate something, it hates you, and that can’t have any good results. As Yoda says in Star Wars, “Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, and hate leads to organized crime.” He’s wise, so he knows. If you were almost a thousand years old, you’d know things, too. All my wisdom I learned from Star Wars. Is that so wrong? Hey, shut up. Talk to the lightsaber.

Okay, wise guy. I suppose you’re perfect, and don’t hate anything? Well, jolly good for you. I loathe the likes of you. You people who think you’re so perfect. Who think you’ve got nothing to hate. It disgusts me. Everyone hates something. Except for me. I’m perfect. So there.

Oh, so you want more? You do? All right, you Heavens-to-Betsy elephant fool. Oh, you don’t like being called that? Well, neither do I. But that’s the only thing we have in common. That and the fact that we’re human. Beat that. With a large alarm clock.

All right, fine. You win. This time. But your comment about my choice of footwear was totally uncalled for. So, anyway… You wanna go to the Greenpeace meeting with me tonight?

Until next time, this is Xavier Yes. Stay classical, you jerk.

Psychiatric Readings

I have regular psychiatric readings. Believe me, I need them. Some would call my psychiatrist a bit unorthodox, but I like him. He says I’m special and gives me free lollipops. Sometimes we arm wrestle. When I tell people about him, they think I’m crazy. Well, of course I am. Otherwise, why would I need him? Right?

Let me give an example of one of our sessions. I know this all happened because he tapes our meetings. At first, having seven cameras in the room pointed at me from various angles made me a bit nervous, but he assured me that the only people who see the recording are him and his YouTube audience. So I figure it’s okay. But this one session, I was telling him about the time I balanced on a line of dental floss stretched between the Empire State Building and the ground below. I told him a lot of people had accused me of lying. He said they were crazy.

“But wait,” I said. “You told me crazy was the normal state of being.”

He glared at me. I thought he was going to call me a liar, too. But he lowered his gaze and looked at his notebook. Then he looked up at me and said, “You’re a liar.”

“But-but-but…”

“See, I told you, liars stutter. It’s a simple fact of life.”

“Okay.”

“And just so you know, crazy is the normal state of being. Time’s up. That’ll be $300.” He kicked me out after that. It hurt.

He wouldn’t be a decent psychiatric reader if he didn’t read. He says he can tell me everything about myself by feeling my toenails. After several sessions of toenail reading, he told me he had come to a conclusion. “Your toenails say your deepest desire is to pay me $100 more per session. That’ll be $400.” This time he actually escorted me to the back door. Then he kicked me out.

You may think my psychiatrist is a bit unusual. You may even call me crazy. But that means you’re crazy. Which is what I am. Which would mean you’re correct. And crazy is the normal state of being, so I’m normal, but you’re crazy, which means you’re normal, but it takes one to know one, and – carry the three – I should pay him $50 more per session. That’s a miracle of modern medical science. Oh, look, someone e-mailed me a YouTube link.

Until next time, this is Xavier Yes. Stay classical.

(P.S. My psychiatrist says he approves of my blog’s title, and would like to try something new next time.)

The Importance of Eating Ethically

I’m a strict carnivore. I am radically opposed to the merciless slaughter of countless fruits, vegetables, grains, and the general floral population. Cows, chickens, pigs, mongooses, they at least have a chance of running away. But what about wheat? It’s rooted in the ground. Then the farmer comes with a giant thresher and tears them all to pieces. It’s brutal, I tell you. Just think of the callousness required to shred defenseless organisms to bits while they’re still alive. Terrible, terrible. When I was on a hiking trip, I was generally vegetarian/vegan. At least, until I thought of what I was condoning.

If any of you out there are vegetarians, please hear me out. While I respect the fact that you would prefer to eat helpless living things that are murdered in a hundred-acre genocide, I must say that this just isn’t the lifestyle for me. I feel much more comfortable eating something slightly closer to my species’ intelligence than devouring the lowest of the low. So please, if there’s anyone out there, next time you dig into a big plate of dead chlorophyll, think: Do I really need these essential nutrients?

Until next time, this is Xavier Yes. Stay classical.

If I Were a Poet

I’m not a poet,

So they say.

And though I know it,

I’m still cliché.

I’ve written verse

For many years.

My words are terse,

Bring some to tears.

If this makes you sigh,

You’re not the first.

If it makes you cry,

You’re not the worst.

If this wastes your time,

Then I’m to blame.

‘Cause how can I rhyme

With a name

Like Jeremy Allmendinger?