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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.

I found my eyeballs in a can of lettuce soup yesterday morning. I decided to wear them to work. When I stopped on the way into the office for a mung soda, a shirt farmer named Stinky McExcrement offered me $20 to shave his bird. So I danced.

When I arrived at work, I noticed that 74.8 percent of my co-workers were aware of their tongues. When their necks stopped laughing, I turned off the shower and went to my desk. Privately, I considered the sanitization complications associated with a team of synchronized swimmers all peeing in the pool simultaneously.

Once my boss realized he was a centaur, he stopped using toilet paper altogether. It was a bit of a mess, to be honest. But I was happy to bring him rancid oats in a tepid monkey head of his choosing. It’s the least I could do to help maintain universal disorder amongst the Giant Flaming Poodles of The Seventh Sun of Zwar.

I checked my e-mail and found that I was out of stamps. My voicemail was similarly ineffective, considering all of my co-workers are mimes. Even worse, I suddenly realized I had totally forgotten that it was National Bring-Your-Favorite-Corpse-To-Work Day. Oh well, digging up Jeffrey Dahmer’s remains may have proven time-prohibitive, especially considering he was cremated. Similarly, it seemed a shame to kill all three Olsen twins just to observe a government holiday.

Lunch finally arrived, and brought its cousin from Tennessee – bit of an odd sort, what with his transparent spandex raincoat and fur-lined sunglasses. Ultimately, however, Lunch revealed to us all that He is the Supreme Being and that we should bow to His will. We all agreed. Then He told us that He was only joking, and noted that four house cats could easily beat up a family of starving sea otters.

My afternoon went somewhat better, but the bulbous singing in my ankles wouldn’t subside. I decided to take a walk and get some fresh air, so I dived into the fish tank in accounting. The hiccupping man in the rowboat told me not to eat any of the little orange rocks and that the treasure wasn’t real. I believed him, because he was carrying a goat made of armadillo cheese.

When the clock finally struck five, I resisted the urge to make a pun about an inanimate object hitting a number. I decided instead to punch my timecard and go home. (Mind you, a timecard can put up a nasty fight.) The elevator called me a liar, and my briefcase suddenly began coughing up hairy lard.

When I got to my car, I saw that I had only 47 more alabaster shin guards left. I knew that would get me through the night, however, and it was about then that the anxious winged pharaohs of Iowa started shaking me, telling me it was time to wake up and go to work.

I awoke and realized it had all just been a dream. And as I bathed merrily, with cars fizzing by me while I barbled passably on the venture capital zoo buffet, I vowed not to buy any more "holistic" mushrooms from that damn hippie down the street.

Contact the writer at kgramone@aol.com. Quick, call the gravy and tell it I’m going to be late for the ritualistic sacrifice.