Low-Q

I would never subject myself to taking any IQ tests as I fear what the possible conclusions may indicate about my character. Imagine getting this result upon completing your test:

"Your intellectual type is 'Bimster'. This means you have the mental capacity of mouldy grapefruit and have the natural fluency of a chronic fatigued wombat and the visual and spatial strengths of a coma patient. Those skills contribute to your complete lack of creative instincts as you are not able to advance beyond eating crayons, sticking popcycles up your nose, and gluing yourself to the desk. You'd be better off serving as a speedbump in the parkinglot of the local shopping mall. You could best contribute to society by ending your life now with a shotgun and thereby ensure the advancement of the species as a whole. And that's just some of what we know about you from your test results."

No, sir! I'm happy living in complete denial of my intellectual failings. Ignorance is bliss!

Infomercial Introspect

I saw an Infomercial today for the new 'Nautilus Abclimber' exercise machine on the television. Here were athletic people, whose ass you could crack walnuts on, working out happily on this menacing looking contraption against a scenic backdrop of beautiful rugged mountains.

What the fuck would you want to prance about like a pansy-ass on a mechanical bike that closer resembles a medieval torture device, goose-stepping like a band major in the local Salvation Army Marching Band, when you could simply lace up a pair of ordinary hiking boots and have the same workout climbing the actual mountain valleys and passes around you and forget about the $129.99 monthly payments altogether?

It's like advertising Liposuction services at a Diet Center. Redundant. I hope the cogs in that Nautilus Abclimber snap and send that slim-lined health uber-freak tumbling down the mountain face where Chuck Norris is waiting to dropkick them in the crotch.

Poetic justice.

Credit Card Cry-Babies

Men who have credit cards and yet still need to seek permission from their wives or girlfriends should be automatically disallowed to have credit cards in the first place due to the lack of testicular fortitude it requires to manage one.

These are are some men who no doubt have their wives carry their balls in their purses for safe keeping as well. "Honey, can I have my credit card so I can pay our overdue utilities bill? While we're at it, could I have my balls too please? I'd like to go hang out with the guys this evening and their wives are letting them bring theirs....puleeeeeease?!" Shit, you have a job, you're the breadwinner of the family, and all the credit cards are in YOUR name. Be a man!

They probably use their credit cards all the time to purchase beer and on-line porn and feel no shame or have any reservations whatsoever, but the moment they are confronted with having to use it in order to make a payment to maintain the necessary services to provide a satisfactory and comfortable quality of life for their families, they have to seek permission from their wife because "my wife looks after all our bills".

So let me see, had I been calling you to renew your subscription to 'European Anal Ho's' you would have been giving me your Master Card number without hesitation, but ask for a payment to keep you from having to take cold showers in the dark, and suddenly the vault door slams shut on the credit card account tighter than a snare drum left out in the Arizona sun. Pussies!

Lint Roller Limp-Wrist

The guy that works in the cubicle across from me keeps a lint roller at his desk. Yes, a lint roller!

Doesn't he have enough to concern himself with already, what with all the bitching, whining, and moaning customers all griping about their overdue payments (or lack of overdue payments), and the fact that they have had no gas or electric service and have been cooking hot dogs over a butane lighter in the dark for the past three weeks, without having to fret about the lint build-up on his trousers?

Besides, what kind of pussy has a lint roller at his desk? "Oh no! I have some fluffy stuff on my shirt sleeve! Calmblueocean...Calmblueocean...Calmblueocean..."

"Two-Hand Agressive"

It was announced today that my workplace would be sponsoring a “two-hand aggressive” recreational football league on the weekends. What the fuck is that? Sounds like what I play every weekend at my apartment already while absent-mindedly flipping through the latest Playboy magazine.

I couldn’t play in any league that labeled itself as “two-hand aggressive”, I would simply get too excited during play like a substitute High School History teacher dancing naked to drum circles at a Summer Solstice festival, and have to stop every 10 yards to spank one out. If I were to actually attempt to contribute to the game itself, out of the sheer volume of necessity I would probably grow a third arm out of my chest to jerk off with so that I could still handle the game ball as well.

Apple Martin?

I have just been informed that Gwenyth Paltrow and Chris Martin named their first child ‘Apple’? What kind of fucking name is that?

I'm sure Dweezle and Moon Unit Zappa are thrilled though since they've only been waiting 30 years for the opportunity to harass someone else about their silly birth names. I can only imagine what the future names of Apple's brothers and sisters may be: Lynux, Windows98, and Rutabaga Martin.

But who am I to jest? If I was born into wealth such as that generated by these two super-parents, my mom and dad could have named me 'Horses Ass' and I wouldn't have given two shits what anybody else thought at all.

Pet Transference

It is sad that I'm living vicariously through my pet cat. The more I am unable to follow my doctor-prescribed regimented diet, the more Miso is going to excel on his similar health program assigned by his veterinarian. If I can't do it, I'm sure as fuck making sure he's going to! Every pound I gain, is one more pound that Miso looses.

I can't help the fact that I need to deal with my own personal insecurities by willing those same inadequacies upon my own beloved pet. In essence, I'm transferring all my denial and lack of self esteem onto an oblivious, unsuspecting furball who licks plastic bags for kicks.

At the current rate of fast food consumption I am experiencing, Miso is proportionately becoming uber-healthy in comparison and will no doubt outlive me. I can see the newspaper headlines now: "Mr. Terry Nash was found dead face down in his bowl of Coco-puffs from a massive heart attack derived from unhealthy lifestyle decisions. Mr. Nash is survived by his healthy, fit house cat, Miso."

Choose Your Own Demise

When I die, I don’t want to pass away in a sterile hospital bed attached to a crap bag and hooked up to enough wires and electrodes to make Darth Vader nervous, while I wither away like a stalk of broccoli left out in the sun. I want to go out with some dignity when my time comes to shuffle off this mortal coil.

I think once we all get to the point in our aged lives where we’re shaking hands with the Reaper, that we should be given the opportunity to choose our own end; to consciously decide on our own fate and the way in which we meet our Maker. I know I would rather choose something more “manly” and worthy of respect by my surviving family and peers. Something that would inevitably make for a much more interesting read in the Obituary column of the local paper afterwards.

Who would want to die lying in a puddle of their own released fluids when they could just as easily choose and plan a more dignified fashion to end their lives? Consider the possibilities: having the tar beaten out of them by a professional heavyweight Prize Fighter, suffer a massive coronary attack while banging some blonde Swedish teenaged vixen into the next millennium, mauled while wrestling crocodiles in the Florida Everglades, throwing themselves on a live grenade to save a group of nuns fleeing religious persecution, executed as a hostage in a major bank heist, eaten by a school of piranha while skinny-dipping in the Amazon basin, beheaded by a tribe of headhunters while exploring the darkest regions of the Southern American rainforests, plummet to earth when their parachute fails at 60,000ft, trampled by stampeding elephants while on safari in the African Plains, attacked by a Great White Shark while surfing in the Great Barrier Reef, shot while dueling pistols with a handlebar-mustachioed Italian man over a snooker score, commit Hara-kiri in an ancient Samuri pact, stepping on a forgotten landmine and being blown to Kingdom come while strolling through the French countryside, or slamming into the wall of a NASCAR racetrack at 210km/h.

I want to go out like a MAN!

Imagine the improvements made in the death announcement written for the Obituary’s: “Terry Edward Nash, aged 98, was regrettable lost this past Monday afternoon when his jet-propelled rocket wheelchair crashed into the side of Mt. Dumbass after becoming airborne immediately after launch for almost 32 seconds. Mr. Nash’s last words were heard to be: “Cancer can kiss my rocket ass!” as he was careening off uncontrollably into the horizon. Terry will be long remembered not for his losing bout with Prostate Cancer, but for his complete lack of sanity and incessant desire to make a complete schmutz out of himself."

Classical Synchronicity

How did synchronized swimming and rhythmic gymnastics ever become Olympic sports? I don’t figure that the ancient Greeks were ever caught dead paddling around the flooded Coliseum arena like a bunch of decorated sea monkeys in sparkly bathing togas, forming Water Wheels and Eiffel Tower formations in unison and high-kicking out of the water to lute music. It just didn’t happen!

“Appolonius and Hadrian, son of Theolonius, are about to perform the ‘Blossoming Orchid’ part of their routine. Now, this requires them to hold their breath underwater for an entire three minutes. This is quite difficult, even for a team of veteran swimmers like these two. Shhhh, let’s watch! Isn’t that wonderful? Pass the garum.”

Even Emperor Nero, the pansy-ass aficionado of arts that he was, would have fed them to the lions for their displayed weak femininity if they ever dared to grace the Coliseum in matching sparkly terra cotta bathing caps claiming to be “athletes”.

Synchronized Swimming and Rhythmic Gymnastics are not likely going to be part of any legitimate sporting competitions that I’m going to into, but instead should be made a part of a separate ‘Alternative Lifestyles Olympics’ to be aired before the even the ‘Special Olympics’. Other noted ‘Alternative Lifestyle’ events to be included would be: Freestyle Gloryholing, Catwalking, the Scratch n’ Kick-aton, 100m Cross-Dressing Dash, Synchronized Taibo, the Decorating Decathalon, Ballroom Dancing, and the Poodle Toss.

Third World Conditioning

However did Third World countries develope such a high standard in the Olympic diving competitions?

My guess is that these complicated and graceful maneuvers have been developed naturally back in their homelands after repeated attempts to sumersault, twist, and pike their way over the barbed-wire fences that line the various Concentration and Death camps in which they have lived for the majority of their wretched lives.

"Ohhh, that was an excellent triple-sumersault with a twist! Quiong Ho has indeed perfected this particular dive during his repeated attempts for freedom over the infamous North Wall of the 'Khmer Rouge Rehabilitation & Correction Facility' back in his native hometown of Kompong. The judges are bound to be pleased with that dive!"

I suspect it's the same theorem that explains to me why the Third World countries produce such successful marathoners. What else is there to do when you live in complete squalor but practise running away from it? It's just the natural conditioning process. If I were to walk a mere two city blocks to the corner store for Ding-Dong's and the monthly Swank magazine, my heart would probably spontaneously combust inside my chest. But these poor Third World people probably have to run 200 miles each day just to fetch useable firewood or suitable drinking water. Of course, they're going to be better conditioned. Their very lives depend on it!

"Hey, how ya doin?"

You know who really piss me off? Those people who constantly ask me how I am doing throughout the day. I'd really like to smack them square in the face with a coal shovel.

"Hey, how are ya?", "Hi again, how ya doin?", "Yo, what's up?", "Eh, anything new?". My God, why all the constant pressure? What is it about me in particular that is so interesting that you feel the need to inquire about my well-being regularly throughout the day? I don't mind being asked once upon our first initial greeting, that's only civilized and polite among higher functioning primates. But every 20 fucking minutes? What could possibly have happened to me in the last 20 minutes since they last asked how I was? "I had a piss, I scratched my ass, thought about what I might like to have for lunch. Whats it to ya, fuckstick?"

Maybe I am just a bitter and jaded individual whose soul is blacker than the starting line of the Olympic Men's 100m Sprint final, but I don't want to continually feel obligated to keep everyone posted on my current mental state of mind. I am a self-contained, efficient organism who doesn't need the constant monitoring from some other annoying and intrusive Penis Maximus.

Organic Manure?

I saw a roadside sign this weekend advertising "Organic Manure: $7.00/bag". What the fuck is "organic manure"?

I mean, is there another variety of man-made manure that was generated synthetically through a less than natural means? Is there a another variety of more cosmopolitan, perfume scented cow shit being manufactured in a Nike sweatshop somewhere in Taiwan?

I would think that shit is about as organic it gets. The very fact that it has been squeezed through the asshole of Guernsey cow automatically qualifies it as Organic Manure in my book! And if that means it qualifies for being sold at $7.oo per bagful, then so be it.

Superstore Throwdown

You know who should get more “props”? Whoever is responsible for spinning the turntables down at the ‘ol neighborhood Grocery Superstore. Whoever DJ’s that place is totally down with busting grooves and making backbones slide through mad break beats thicker than discounted canned gravy. It’s can’t be easy setting the proper vibe for those who are trying to route out the freshest cantaloupe in the Produce aisle or those struggling to decide which variety of baked bean best compliments their brand of packaged hot dogs.

There are some serious skills being laid down in the many superstore aisles and departments during the day. Certainly it’s by no devine accident that Prince’s ‘Oh, Sheila’ was segued nicely into the A-Team theme just as I was collecting my numbered ticket at the Deli. Now, THAT’S what I want to be listening to as I pick out my sandwich meats!

And howabout the philosophical conundrum's I was forced to confront and ponder upon listening to Pink Floyd's 'Another Brick In the Wall' while attempting to choose a loaf of bread from the Bakery racks. Who am I? What am I doing here? What kind of bread best exemplifies me as an individual? What if I choose the wrong loaf of bread? What if... "All in all you're just another brick in the wall". Before you know it, my brain has undergone a complete and total meltdown and I have instantly become a mere mindless cog in the spokes of life's banality, unquestionably leaping forth into life's figurative meat grinder with my Marble Rye proudly tucked under my arm.

Here is a guy that I want to see the resume for: “Total of three years experience Disc Jockeying weddings, community raves, High School dances, Clothing stores, Department stores, and Bar Mitzvahs. Maintains an up-to-date knowledge and appreciation in the styles of AM formatting and kitschy Hip-Hop dance rhythms. Completed Masters Thesis on the positive effects and coexisting relationships between 80's dance music and Produce. Possesses an understanding of the vast musical requirements for the casual ambiance necessities for the ages 14 through 40, and is able to successfully adapt to ever-changing environments."

Going Postal in the Vets Office?

You know who must have a lot of pent up violent anxiety? The Veterinarian's Receptionist, thats who. I wonder if they ever just get sick and tired of hearing peoples pet stories?

Absolutely, everyone feels the need to tell their beloved pet stories to the Vet's receptionist. It's a requirement upon each vist. Each meow, each purr, each bark, each shaken paw or other stupid pet trick, and every uber-cute pet habit whether it be the way it plays with it's sparkly toy ball or the way it licks it's own ass. No story is too boring or too stupid for the poor veterinary receptionist. Hell, I expect my vet's receptionist to get excited simply over my cats stool samples I bring in as if she was recieving an early Christmas present.

I wonder if every now and again, the poor veterinary receptionist has a bad day and just snaps suddenly while listening to some 73 year old woman rave on about her Mr. Cuddles and begins screaming: "It's a cat, god dammit! It sheds, it eats, it shits! I get the idea! Now unless you want to introduce Mr. Cuddles to Mr. Python waiting in Examining Room #2, you'll sit down and shut the fuck up until the doctor is ready to see you!"

Maybe to get away from it all, veterinarian receptionists go on secluded safari's and hunt stray dogs and cats. More than likely, they already have kitten posters on their dartboards at home and bear traps in their flower gardens.

Chippendale Query

Why did they name male stripper's "Chippendale's"?

What the fuck have two cartoon chipmunks have to do with the gratuitous exploitation of proud male machismo's? I mean, I love these cute Disney characters as much as the next person, but I'm not exactly going to be drawn to stuff dollar bills down their G-strings.

Besides, how impressive can the schlongs of two teeny chipmunks be anyways? If I were a horny and desperate housewife, I don't think I'd be too impressed with the exposed cocks of puney rodents. Well, not unless these particular puney rodents have cocks the size of pork loins that flop out onto the stage floor with a deep resounding *THUNK!* once they drop their sparkly cut-off shorts.

The Fatman

My inability to stick to any prescribed diet plan and therefore lose any significant amount of weight has me feeling lately like a less than popular character from the 'Wizard of Oz'.

Now, there would be 4 losers trapsing along the Yellow Brick Road with Dorothy and Toto: The Tin Man, the Scarecrow, the Cowardly Lion, and the Fatman.

"I could while away the hours
Conferrin' with Suzanne Powers
Gobblin' up the Luprinol
And my stomach, I'd be churnin'
While the calories were a slowly burin'
If I only had self control..."

Dating Disaster

I once took a girl to see 'Schindler's List' on a first date. I thought it would be a good way to coax her into my arms for comfort. How romantic, right?

Well, she sat there for the entire movie stone-faced as the Jews were marched off to their tragic demise. She didn't even so much as bat an eyelash. In fact, I think she was secretly cheering on the Nazi's instead. I even seem to remember a slight upward curling in the corners of her mouth into a Grinch-like sneer.

Me? I balled like a blubbering 180lb baby. "No thank you, I'm fine. I just have popcorn salt in my eye".

Disabled Deadbeats

How come whenever someones bill becomes overdue they suddenly become "disabled"? This has replaced "the check is in the mail" as the new deadbeats swan song for the this millenium. "I'm disabled, my husband is disabled, my children are disabled. Hell, even my dog walks with a limp".

So fucking what! I bet Steven Hawking pays his bills. So you'd better wheel your ass down to the neighborhood employment agency, or to the "Community Job Listings" board at the local YMCA and find yourself a regular source of income or I'm going to disconnect your disabled ass!

Scientific studies now suggest that the most popular excuse phrase in the professional debtor’s handbook is “I’m disabled”, finishing just ahead of “I have a 3 month old baby”.

This excuse has now officially replaced “the check is in the mail” as the new Millennium’s preferred deadbeat swan song.

Other noted popular excuses from history include: "My wife takes care of all our bills", "I never recieved my bill", "But I was told I didn't have to", and "the guards made me do it".

Childhood Reminisces

I miss certain things about being a little child.

For example, I miss people getting all excited and cheering for me each time I had a proper movement in the bathroom. I wish I could still have a team of cheerleaders for moral support each time I take a shit now. "Push it out, pull it out, waaaaaaay out!"

What I didn't like so much as a child was when my dad went away for a few days and informed me "you're the man of the house now, son". Mom never reacted very well when I told her to get her lazy ass in the kitchen and make me something to eat. She was even less impressed later on when I met her in the bedroom wearing a leopard print smoking jacket and leafing through a Hustler magazine.

Roadhouse Rhubarb

If I had to choose my all time Worst Movie, I'd have to go with 'Roadhouse' starring Patrick Swayze as a rough n' tumble bar bouncer who cleans out a seedy Missouri saloon.

I mean, it was cool being able to witness Kelly Lynch getting nailed up against a barn wall in a checkered hoop skirt, but the rest of the film leaves me wishing I could leap through the television screen into the next foray at the 'ol Double Deuce in order to stab pretty boy Dalton in the throat with a sharpened cocktail stir stick.

On Having Afro Hair

I am getting tired of being commented to about having "foofy" hair and at being constantly asked why I haven't bothered to trim my ever-growing afro hairstyle.

I am just going to begin informing these fashion conscious critics that I have to keep my big hair on top to properly accentuate the overgrown dense foliage growing around my monster schlong down below.

Yeah, bitch...oink!

Scientific Fact for the Gents

Prolonged exposure to episodes of "Sex & the City" will increase your chances of growing ovaries. If this occures, studies have also proven that regulated doses of "Orange County Choppers" will return your rapidly disipating masculinity.

Don't over do it on the custom designed motorcycles however, otherise the sudden increase of testicular fortitude will give you Elephantintis of the balls.

TGIF

"Thank God It's Friday"!

What kind of asshole came up with this slogan? Do you still have to get up out of bed early? YES! Do you still have to go and slave through a complete shift at your mind-numbing place of employment until your brain dribbles out your ear as per normal? YES! So why then are they so fucking thankful it's Friday?

Perhaps we need another kitchy slogan more appropriate to the actual weekend sentiment like 'TFIS': "Thank Fuck It's Saturday!"

Why I Hate Reggae

I don't understand the fanatical facination that some people have with Reggae music. Reggae blows!

To me, reggae tunes all sounds like different variations of Rolf Harris's 'Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport'. "Watch me wallaby's feed, mate. Watch me wallaby's feed. They're a dangerous breed, mate. So watch me wallaby's feed. All together now! Tie me kangaroo down sport..."

Any prolonged exposure to reggae music would reduce me to nibbling graham crackers and drooling over myself on the bench outside the local Sanitarium. I'd rather listen to an audio recording of Lionel Ritchie being circumsized with a snail fork. I'd rather listen to a herd of Musk Ox gang rape a Brazilian Howler Monkey. I'd rather listen to Cyndi Lauper perform the Moonlight Sonata with her armpits. I would rather listen to Yoko Ono perform with the Blue Man Group. Hell, I'd even prefer to listen to constipated sealions squeeze out bowling balls.

"whoopWHOOPwhoopWHOOPwhoopWHOOPwhoop..."

Reggae is music for the soul ~ whatever. "Jah Love" my ass.

Why I Quit Smoking

People are always amazed to hear that I managed to quit a three pack-a-day cigarette habit and they always inquire about what inspired me to finally manage to kick such a nasty addiction. I simply inform that eventually I just realized that I was paying an extorionate amount of money regularly to support a bad habit whose only real benefit was that it was slowly killing me. I decided then and there that there were other bad habits that I could still indulge in for guilty pleasure but which would save me lots of money in the long run.

Like sodomizing baby bunnies.