Posts by Gabe the Beaver:
Dear Readers,
Boy is life ever difficult for your learned best beaver friend Gabie. I’ve been reading the encyclopedia for about a month now and boy, are humans ever dull! Nothing but sex, violence, and immorality. I feel like I’m staring at cement, or worse yet, like the first third of Survivor: Pearl Islands.
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Dear Gabe,
Should I go see Elektra?
—Joe Benn
Dear Joe,
Thank you for giving me a chance to rant. I couldn’t have asked for a better question if I’d made it up. Jennifer Garner is the new Christina Ricci (though no one’s yet told the old Christina Ricci). In Elektra, I went expecting to see a blind, martial-arts-knowing lawyer. There were none of those here. Blind martial artists, yes, lawyers, no. And just who were the bad guys? A guy that doesn’t get hurt by metal? A girl that kills everything she touches? A guy with crazy tattoos? Seriously… I hope someone got fired for that… or at least some bad cream in his coffee… yeah, I’m a vicious bitch sometimes, but then again, I have some fox in me and I just can’t get it out. It’s partly why I’m a wooditarian.
Dear Gabe,
My cousin has a nose picking disorder, and recently it has become chronic. He told me that he had a mission to find his brain. I’m concerned for his disorder, and was wondering what could aide my cousin in his mission?
-Derry Aire
Dear Derry Aire,
And you should be concerned for your cousin’s disorder. He’s going about it all wrong. By constantly picking his nose, he’s just giving his fingers a work-out, which makes them thicker. What he should do is get someone else— someone close to him— to pick his nose for him. This, Derry, is your job– nay, your duty, nay nay, your responsibility and privilege to do for him. Let me know how it goes.
Dear Gabe,
What are female beavers called? — Joe Entendre
Dear Joe,
Not chicks, apparently. I don’t know, Joe, and frankly, I don’t care, though I’m guessing ‘Beaverettes.’ I just call them ‘Ex-wives.’
March 7, 2005 at 8:50 pm | In note to self | | No Comments
Dear Gabe:
I have this friend who has this advice blog, you see, but he doesn’t allow anonymous comments on it, so the many people wanting advice, but don’t want their ideas known end up going to some other blog. How should I go about telling my friend that anonymous comments would be handy, even if they are incredibly annoying.
Insinuatingly,
Egging Bulls in London’
Dear Egging Bulls,
I’d say you buy him some brewskies to help smooth it over, then, when he’s least expecting it, you get all of your mutual friends to jump out of furniture (or out from behind furniture, whatever’s easier to arrange) and you have an intervention. For some added fun, you should all be anonymous (i.e. with disguises). Ha ha! He’s have to be an idiot not to get that pun!!
And what’s with the insinuating closing? It makes me feel like…
… wait, the friend was me right? Damn. Just buy me some brewskies.
love,
Gabe
March 1, 2005 at 10:23 pm | In note to self | | No Comments
Dear Gabe,
My cousin has a nose picking disorder, and recently it has become chronic. He told me that he had a mission to find his brain. I’m concerned for his disorder, and was wondering what could aide my cousin in his mission?
-Derry Aire
Dear Derry Aire,
And you should be concerned for your cousin’s disorder. He’s going about it all wrong. By constantly picking his nose, he’s just giving his fingers a work-out, which makes them thicker. What he should do is get someone else— someone close to him— to pick his nose for him. This, Derry, is your job– nay, your duty, nay nay, your responsibility and privilege to do for him. Let me know how it goes.
February 27, 2005 at 11:53 pm | In note to self | | No Comments
The Ind e-Pen
+++vol+1++BT+11+++
Introduction:
===============
This is Gabe the Beaver filling in for whoever sends these silly e-mails out regularly. I wish I could tell you, seeing as he IS my direct boss, but quite frankly, I never cared about company politics anyway. What he wanted me to tell you was that he was bogged down with his personal life and his work was messed up. What can I say? He’s a nincompoop. In any case, I will gladly (for a paycheck) write this silly little e-mail and fill you in on his life up until now. Remember, this isn’t Gabe’s life, this is that other guy’s. Okay?
Oh, and if he asks, say that I sent it out first thing Monday morning. It would look really bad if he ever found out I spent most of the day with his woman…. Hey, I like blow-up dolls too!
On Where I Was
Last week officially began the Indiana University of Pennsylvania’s Spring Break. My plane left from Pittsburgh International Airport at 7:30 so I, being a stupid ignorant human, decided to wake up at 3:30 and leave. Wait, that’s not true, I never actually went to sleep. Humans can’t wake up at will, you know, so we revolve our lives around loud noises and our schedules (which we make ourselves… yeah, I can’t understand it either. And, as far as you know, I’m human).
So, after leaving the Hooka (or Hookah, or Chukkah) Lounge (actually called the “Sheesha King”), I came back to my dorm and watched a movie about a paranoid schizophrenic with multiple personalities who beats himself up and messes up his own life. I believe it is called Fight Club. The movie ended and I, being a stupid human, didn’t know what to do. So I left for the airport, driving my automobile with my opposable thumbs. Ah, it was great!
Except for the times that I got lost, of course.
In any case, I finally arrived back home in New Mexico and sent out that last e-mail.
About what I did:
I spent most of the week with my human friends doing human things like gnawing on wood and building dams (hey, that’s what Al Gore does!). Not much happened that would make a coherent, inoffensive story. Not that my stories are usually coherent or inoffensive, but this week was especially confounding.
And the trip ends how?
This issue of the Pix Capacitor is going to have an article that briefly touches on my fun misadventures with getting out of New Mexico. Here let me take it a step further and bring up some of the details of my trip.
Okay, so I woke relatively early that morning. In time to shower and pack for my flight. When I finished, my human parents called me in to the living room and told me a whole heck of a lot of stuff I didn’t want to hear. Remember kids, when you hear the words “I have to tell you something,” RUN!!! This one was a double-whammy though. It had the “and it’s very hard for me to say.” Which is always about the time you say, “no, no, no, get away” and hope you hear the news through a less trustworthy source later on.
Anyway, my parents and I went to eat before we drove to the airport. After an awful check-in process, we said our tearful goodbyes. They went crying home and I went whistling all the way until the metal detector. This was about the time that I had to take off my shoes and be patted down for weapons. Naturally, they didn’t find anything that posed an immediate danger to any male pilots, so they let me go…
… straight into the smallest plane in existence. A plane that could easily break the Guiness World Record for most people cramped into the smallest place going at the fastest speed in the highest place without visibly exploding. After an hour of this we arrived in Phoenix (which is West of New Mexico).
After a two hour lay-over, they told us that the plane was overbooked and asked if we wanted to stay in the desert an extra day. A few camels and a desert ocelot took the offer, but none of us humans did. Which is why they had to choose the most unattached people to stay. I pretended that the Gatorade bottle I was holding was a baby and they left me alone.
The four-hour plane ride to Pittsburgh (which is East of New Mexico) was uneventful and uncomfortable. In other words, it went as good as it could have gotten. Then we arrived. Then, several minutes later, most of our luggage arrived. With my luggage in tact, I walked to my car and, using my opposable thumb, pressed the “unlock” button on my car keys. Nothing happened. So I opened my car and pressed the power unlock button… nothing happened. So then I tried turning on the car. Nothing happened. I had accidentally left my dome light on during all of Spring Break. My battery was dead.
I asked a half-dozen people for jumper cables before someone informed me that there was a 24 hr. jumping service at the airport. Naturally the phone number was not posted anywhere IN the friggin’ airport. Fortunately, I did get a hold of them and they did give me a jump.
That was when I shifted my car into gear, found the highway I needed fairly quickly and drove off into the night– for 22 miles in the wrong direction. Then I backtracked to Pittsburgh, got lost in Pittsburgh, found my highway, and was stuck at 35 miles per hour for an hour before I finally arrived at IUP– in time to miss the shuttle bus and have to walk a mile to my dorm carrying all my luggage.
Oh, and what my parents told me that I didn’t want to hear? They’re separating. I was the first person to know– you guys are the second through 38th. 
If you think that me saying that is bad, wait until Pix Capacitor…
One last thing:
Good job to Celeste Bocchicchio for kicking the proverbial ass with her answer. It was so good it was probably right. The boss is odd like that. In any case, she gets a free Pix Capacitor (assuming it’s not up to me to send them). Good job.
Last Week’s Question: What’s my excuse for being late and where am I?
[Celeste's] Answer to this week’s question: You are drinking malt liquor with leprechauns in new brunswick and the e-mail was late because you had to get a perm before you went.
This Week’s Question: In what ways is Gabe the coolest (and/or cutest) advice-giving beaver?
March 14, 2004 at 9:52 pm | In ind e-pen | | No Comments
Dear Gabe,
Why don’t you run for Governor? You can’t possibly mess up the position anymore, and lord knows you can’t [expletive deleted] fuck New Mexico over any worse than it already is.
—Joe Voter
Dear Joe,
Well the truth is, Gabie isn’t quite twenty-five years old yet. In fact, by most estimates Gabie isn’t even in his tweens yet (go see the Two Towers!). But Gabie does have some good ideas as to how the government should run it’s finances and wars and whatever else it runs. Here’s Gabie’s three-prong plan:
1) Provide more funding for Beaver-friendly establishments like Sears.
2) Pay for roadwork on a Time vs. Quality basis. The longer it takes and the worse it is, the less we pay them.
3) Have a Suggestion Box.
—Gabie, Prudily
Write To Gabe!
If you don’t he’ll start turning pale. OH MY GOD, NO!!!
“Remember kids!
Those are potato chips, not teeth”
*Now All The Family Can Have Fun Coloring in Gabe’s Teeth!
November 15, 2002 at 12:23 pm | In note to self | | No Comments
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