Safe Sex?

What is “Safe Sex” exactly? Does anybody REALLY know?

Considering the vast multitudes of easily transmittable nasties out there, I think it’s safe to say that “Safe Sex” is truely a thing of the past.

I think that any commonly transmitted STD today would be instantly able to work its way through the toughest protective layer of rubber that the market has to offer like an industrial-sized jackhammer ripping through a week old loaf of pumpernickel.

You think infectious germs today are scared about anything labelled as “Extra Thin” or “Ribbed: For Her Pleasure”? FUCK NO! These germs would still manage to get through and infect you even if you were to sheath your cock in a customized Trojan suit of fucking armor…literally!

Now, unless you’re simply wacking off over a slice of low-sodium Melba toast…any other form of engaged sexual intercourse is just a varying degree of “Unsafe”.

And you can take THAT to the Sperm Bank!

The "Kitty Dish"

For Christmas this year, my landlord gave me among other things, a white crystal kitty-face dish. “Oh, fucking goodie!”

What kind of fucking guy gives another guy a crystal kitty-face dish? It’s not moral, it’s not decent, it’s not natural, and it sure isn’t fucking manly is it? Not unless we were same sex partners named Emilio and Carson remodeling our home together or something anyways. Even my cat thinks it's faggy looking!

What, you invested serious thought into what would be considered as an appropriate and sensible gift...something to be enjoyed and treasured….and you decide on a white-fucking-crystal “kitty dish”? WTF?

Let’s just say that the “kitty dish” isn’t likely to see the light of day very often unless I happen to ever play host to a group of Polish grandmothers or the ‘League of Gay Nations’ or something.

I will never speak of the “kitty dish” again.

Fashion Farse

Why are women so obsesseed with fashion?

Lets face it, any woman at my office place could come to work wearing a green Glad garbage bag done up with an old piece of home extension cord, and she’d still be guaranteed to at least have half the male co-workers around her still willing to slip her Mr. Chubbers if given the chance. Men however; ANY deviation from the set fashionable norm and we’d be instantly marked by our peers as a circus freak.

Fashion is not so forgiving on single men. We are not automatically pleasing to the eye like our prettied-up female and homosexual counterparts. Shit if we were, do you think that we’d still have popular television programs called ‘Queer Eye for the Straight Guy’? No, I think not!

We are scrutinized, criticized, and ultimately ostracized if we present ourselves dressed in anything else other than what’s on the front cover of GQ magazine that month. Women have much more leeway to express themselves openly and publicly on a more grandiose personal level. How else would you explain people paying thousands of dollars for seats to see some waifish thin supermodel strut down a ramped runway decked out in something that looks like it was designed by ‘Black & Decker’, as opposed to some world reknown fashion designer?

Men are not so open, experimental or expressive with each other or the world around us when it comes to fashionable style. We do not approve of deviating from the set fashionable norm. Our poor, creatively stunted, ill-equipped male minds are not capable to process, accept or appreciate such flagrant changes and disregard for the approved Men’s Fashion…except of course when it comes to women. Then we’re completely open-minded depending on what our chances are of “getting lucky” later on. Just as long as that option is still a viable one, she can wear a dress made out of bottle caps stuccoed to her fat, sweaty, naked body for all we care!

Antler Outrage!

What the fuck is with everybody who wears those stupid felt novelty Holiday reindeer antlers with the blinking lights on their heads come Christmas time? Can’t they tell how stupid they really look? These ridiculous things don’t make them look like a reindeer at all. Instead, they just look like some gay Viking or something!

Somebody around the office was wearing a pair of one of these asinine blinking antlers on their head today in an effort to promote Christmas Spirit. But instead of amusing my co-workers with Christmas Cheer, I think he was in fact having the converse effect on people. Suddenly everyone was conscientious about working with ‘Olaf the Bi-Berzerker’ looking over their shoulder. He’s likely to initiate more of a ‘Holiday Homicide’ reaction out of me if he insists on continuing wearing those fucking antlers tomarrow!

“Hey, I get it already. ‘Now we don our gay apparel. Fa, la la la la la la la’….you, ridiculous looking dipshit.”

Hand Lotion Lowdown (Part 2)

How come on any given day I can see all the female co-workers around me sporting their big bottles of lubes and lotions on their desk counters in front of them…and yet, the moment that I decide to cross that forbidden male line and admit that I actually need to use a moisturizing skin conditioner of some sort to prevent my poor hands from flaking away like a stale croissant, that suddenly there is not a single drop of ylang-ylang enriched anything amongst them, anywhere?

Fuck, just yesterday this place was bubbling over with skin creams, lotions, balms, and tropical vitamin-enriched blends of moisturizers of all varieties! It was a virtual Texas oil field for all the pump action nozzles dispensing aloe vera in geysers of white creamy lotion everywhere! All that was missing was a poor dry and cracked mountaineer shooting up a bubblin’ crude.

Is this some great work place ‘Lotion Drought’ that future generations of employees will sing songs about in memory of these itchy forlorn days of yore?

Or maybe it's just that this particular area I’m working in today is like some weird Bermuda’s Triangle for skin lotion? Phones cease working, the wall clock stops ticking, B-52 bombers disappear off the radar screen…and tubes of hand lotion and moisturizing cream mysteriously vanish without a trace!

Estefag

Who the fuck is this “Esteban” guitar guy on television that has become all the rage lately on all the various different Home Shopping Networks Infomercial programs? And what the fuck makes him think that he’s so fucking qualified as a guitar-teaching virtuoso?

Have you ever heard of ESTEBAN before now? No. Has anybody ever tried to slip you an Esteban album in the locker room and informed you that it was going to “blow your mind, dude”? No, of course not! Did your parents ever confiscated a secret uncensored copy of an Esteban CD from your closet as a teenager? No, of course not! Have you ever played any Esteban while attempting to lure the pants off of some poor girl you’ve lured home from the bus stop? NO, of course fucking not!

So who the fuck exactly is this guy?

He looks like the fourth forgotten blind member of the Three Amigo’s, for fuck sakes! Is that supposed to convince me to make 3 monthly installments for $66.00 a month on his patented ‘American Legacy Guitar Package’…NO FUCKING WAY!

I think it’s pretty ballsy to even believe that people are suddenly going to go all ape shit over learning the art of the guitar from a guy that resembles a cross between Roy Orbison and a gay Zorro.

Not for one second do I think that this guy ever jammed out with Eric Clapton on ‘Layla’, or traded solos with Jimmy Page on ‘Stairway to Heaven’, or even so much as fetched Pete Townsend's cream cheese bagel. Fuck, I can scarcely picture this guy banging out ‘Hickory-Dickory-Doc’ on a fucking Fisher Price piano!

Lentil Poisoning

I discovered today that lentils are in fact the Devil’s food.

Christ, two fucking bowls of homemade Hungarian Lentil Soup last night and my sphincter begins working overtime like the nozzle end of an industrial sized bellow at a medieval Blacksmith shop! This morning, my apartment smells like an ancient Egyptian crypt that has just been uncovered after thousands of years of being buried in the shifting sands.

Holy fuck! I could have been at serious risk of being suffocated in my own bed by my own noxious omissions. How embarrassing! That’s all I need over the holidays is to have my body found by a responding EMS Team on Christmas Day, face down on my hallway floor in a ripe plume of gaseous lentil soup, after I had no doubt attempted to stagger to the bathroom in the middle of the night and lost consciousness along the way.

Either this, or I am about to be visited by the ‘Ghost of Christmas Farts Past’ or something this Holiday Season.

I'm not sure which I am more worried about.

Bulk Barn Blowout

You know you are too becoming too fat when you have to turn your body sideways in order to successfully navigate the massive girth that is your ass through the storefront turnstiles at the local ‘Bulk Barn’ after one too many trips to restock on fruity jube-jubes, licorice nibs, yogurt covered raisins, trail mix, pretzel twists, cheesy puffs, corn nuts, peanut brittle, banana chips, salted cashews, flavored sunflower seeds, peppermint wafers, tropical fruit jelly beans, etc.

You have to learn to read the signs. The writing is on the ‘Bulk Barn’ snack item menu board to your left…”You need to cut down on the chocolate macaroons, tubby!”

I wonder if that’s the actual intended purpose of those turnstiles standing stoically in the storefront like ancient shiny metallic monoliths in the first place? To provide an on-site diet monitoring system for the regular customers to use in order to healthily gauge how often they can continually visit their beloved ‘Bulk Barn’ in search of their plastic baggied bulk goodies.

I can read the storefront window sign now: “Your ass must be LESS that this fat to enter the store.”

The "Little Boys Room"

I have an immediate aversion to any male co-worker who would publicly excuse himself when he goes to the bathroom by stating aloud: “I have to go to the little boys room”.

How gay does that sound? What kind of schmuck is going to openly refer to himself as a “little boy”? Does he think that this makes him appear cute, or charming, or endearing in some way or other? I don’t think this makes him sound cute or endearing at all…I think it makes him sound like a complete fucking pussy!

Drain your lizard, shake the dew off your lillipad, hang a rat, release the hounds, drop the Cosby's off at the pool, use the can, take a leak, shake hands with Mr. Happy, unload a boatful of beef juice in Stinktown, or just plain go and powder your cock, whatever...just be a fucking MAN about it. douchebag!

I don’t think that men like to refer to themselves in any fashion as “little” per se…it just seems unmanly! How can any right-minded man of any self-worth, even coyly in jest, refer to himself as anything less than “extraordinary”…especially when it is something directly related to the use of his penis?

“You can go to the little boys room there, Pee-Wee…but I’m going to continue using the BIG boys room like a REAL man!”

Dress Code Diatribe

A co-worker today is wearing a graphic concert t-shirt for some hard thrash-death-metal * band called "Cannibal Corpse". Sounds pretty inviting, doesn't it?

The front and back designs for this particular concert t-shirt are rife with disturbing and gruesome images that you'd more expect to find as part of some Clive Barker-style wet dream...complete with leashed she-beasts, hacked-up bloody corpses, and an alien monster being expunged from some poor womans gaping vagina. Fuck, these kinds of images would be enough to send Tori Amos back into crisis counciling for another fucking decade! Even H.R. Giger would be compelled to look away with modestly.

If she can get away wearing this kind of horrorshow getup and still be considered "Business Casual", then I'm equally sure that I could just show up tomarrow to work wearing nothing but an animal skin loin cloth, a purple strap-on dildo, and swinging a dead midget above my head and nobody would give two shits, or so much as even look at me twice.

* This had to be clearly explained to me lest I should misinterpret these frightening images as those of some traditional old-timey folk singer instead. What, do I have "Dumbass" written across my forehead or something?

Hand Lotion Lowdown

The girl working in the cubicle beside me today must be the designated hand lotion Refilling Station for all the other female co-workers in this entire fucking Call Center!

Every few minutes or so, another poor dry-skinned girl will sidle up and help herself to a fistful of ‘Intensive Care Moisturizing Vaseline’ and then proceed to give herself a thorough rubdownas she departs down the aisle again like a skilled surgeon sterilizing herself before entering the hospital Operating Room.

The thing is, now the entire area around me smells like a Roman Orgy Room! And to make matters worse, constantly witnessing all these hot, available women all lubing themselves up with lotion is making it next to fucking impossible to concentrate on my work at all when all the blood is constantly being redirected from my brain to my enormous erection every few moments!

Veterinarian Cat-astrophy

I took my cat to the veterinarians this past weekend, and I have it now on authority that I am the proud owner of the world’s healthiest cat. Of course, in order to receive this official confirmation of my pets excellent health condition from a notarized professional and further validate what I already knew before taking the little beast to the vets in the first place…it was to cost me $160!

Along with the usual bevy of tests involving the poking, the prodding and all the necessary vaccinations, etc…I was then informed that my cat is an “above average cat”. WTF? “Above average"? For $160 fucking dollars I’d better be told that my cat is a fucking feline superstar! Did I really need to spend $160 to find that out? Shit, I could have saved myself the $160 and told you that already! My cat lives a better quality of life than I currently do, so why shouldn’t my little furball be anything other than the perfect fucking picture of health? “Thanks, Dr. Doolittle! Your check is in the mail!”

Even the little turd sample I was requested to provide seemed to generate little to no extra excitement whatsoever! In fact, nobody even really cared that I had a ziplock baggie of cat poop in my pocket at all! I was hoping they were going to pin it up as part of the kitty collage on the ‘Community Bulletin Board’ behind the secretary’s desk. But, oh no!

I wonder what kind of results I’d receive if I were ever to have spent that $160 on myself instead for a medical checkup? The tests alone would probably have had me wisked away to some underground military research facility in the Nevada dessert somewhere with about a dozen locked up howler monkeys and a team of scientists in air-tight radioactive containment suits!

Worst Job Ever!

Being the possessor of one of the worst all round shitty jobs on the planet, I am always keeping an eye open for other even less-than-fortunate workers that occupy lowly positions even further down into the darkest, nastiest bowels of the regular Employment World…and I think I have finally found the granddaddy shitty job of them all ~ the “Product Sales Assistant” found in the aisles at the local ‘Smartfresh’, ‘Freshsave’, ‘SafeFresh’, or whatever the fuck the nearest local Biggie-sized grocery store in your community is called these days.

You can see it in their eyes as you are helping yourself to one of their little paper cups full of bite-sized product samples: they are looking at you like they were staring at you through the crosshairs of a semi-automatic hunting rifle! Maybe it’s the fumes from the vegetable sprays in the Produce section, or the fact that they’ve listened to Annie Lennox one too many times that day already…but their eyes are lifeless and empty as they continue to routinely dole out the prepared portions of ‘Farm Fresh Snausages’ and insert the customary toothpick. These are the type of people whose names you will read in future newspaper headlines in a few years time when they suddenly snap and run berserk in the Frozen Food aisle with a dull carving knife.

And who could blame them? They DO have the shittiest job in the galaxy after all! Imagine the stimulating conversation they must have over the course of their 8 hour shift with every basic life-skilled, nose-picking, coupon-cutting, moolyak that maneuvers a shopping cart past them? “So, what are these snausages made from? Are these REAL snausages? How do these compare to the other cheaper No-Name Brand snausages?”

Yeah, I’d choke myself to death by stuffing entire boxes of snausages down my throat to put myself out of that kind of misery.