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Brain Farts was a weekly humor column that ran in the Louisville Eccentric Observer from mid-2000 until the summer of 2002. It was, well, eccentric. And occasionally satirical. And sardonic. Some liked it, some hated it; some just didn't get it, and that's OK. There were times when I didn't get it either. I've compiled here some of the archives from Brain Farts for the enjoyment of friends, family and anyone else who happens by. I also have written some new Brain Farts, and added some links and other trivialities that you shouldn't be too concerned with.

Unless you're as bored as I am.

Well, the police finally took Grandma away; this will be the first Christmas we’ll be without her. I told the whole family that keeping her in that freezer in the garage wasn’t a good idea. When they brought her out again for Easter dinner, her left hand snapped right off and the dog grabbed it and buried it in the yard.

Wouldn’t you know, the cable guy found it and turned it in. Now we have to pay for cable, which really sucks. Hard to believe Grandma’s been dead 14 years now.

But Christmas will go on. This year we’ll trim the tree while watching a very special Christmas edition of “Cops.” Cousin Dale said they just might re-run Dad’s least favorite episode again, the one where they caught Dad staggering out of that corner bar on Christmas Eve and then beat him with a giant candy cane. I don’t know why Dad still carries that thing around.

This year, Aunt Rose brought her homemade fruitcake and insisted that everyone try a piece. Dale’s youngest, little Annie, only 18 months old, had to have her stomach pumped. I’ve never seen that shade of gray-green before. Then Aunt Rose got mad when Grandpa said, “That must be what evil tastes like.” Old guys really bleed a lot when they get hit in the head.

Oh, and Aunt Bean creeped us out by bringing her new boyfriend along. His name was Zwahaarilagi or something like that, and he called Cousin Gilley an “American pig-creature who is without soul or deodorant.” The guy talked to himself, too. Every time someone opened a colorfully-wrapped gift, he mumbled something about “capitalist infidel swine” and “the glorious day of reckoning” that apparently is near. You should have seen his face when Gilley asked him if he works at that 7-11 up by the school.

Speaking of Gilley, the last thing I want to do is accuse him of being something sub-human, but I really don’t think the man is right in the head. His 7-year-old, Samantha, is an alcoholic. Poor kid can’t even put two words together, so her dad makes fun of her all the time. I mean, he’s the one who started putting tequila in her formula all those years ago as a joke, which is what caused the brain damage. Ha ha, very funny. Asshole.

We haven’t seen Cousin Shelby in four years, but we hung her special “Acquit Scott Peterson” ornament in her honor. We hope 2006 is the year they find her body.

I don’t know why I even go back every year, to be honest. Masochism, I guess. When Mom announced it was time for the Circle of Unthinkable Pain to begin, I actually pooped a little. But I joined the ring anyway. Here’s how it works: Each person takes a turn being “The Subject of Family Scrutiny and Unmerciful Judgment” and stands in the center. Everyone else then makes as logical a case as possible why The Subject should not live to see Christmas Day.

Every year, when I’m in the middle, someone brings up my intestinal issues. This year it was Emmy, who’s five. She said, “Uncle Kevin makes the bathroom smell like my cat’s butt! Kill him!”

Jesus, it’s no wonder I poop too much. Merry Christmas, Emmy – enjoy the severed cat head Santa’s going to bring you. And let me know if it looks familiar, you unimaginable little bitch.

E-mail me at kgramone@aol.com. Oh, and Merry Christmas to all Brain Farts readers. I guess.