'Main Course' Suicide

I have another possible candidate for ‘Fucktard of the Year’.

A Johannesburg man was eaten by lions after running past guard into the Kruger National Park at dusk just as the gates were closing.

Clearly this man wasn’t playing with a full deck in the first place. Who in their right fucking mind runs INTO an African wildlife preserve?

Obviously this guy wanted to be the main course. Hey, if he wants to offer himself up as a moveable feast to the wild beasties of Africa – who are we to deny him? I’m sure the lions appreciated the good sport since they were found picking their teeth with his bones come dawn on the following morning by park officials.

But then again; part of me has to applaud the guy. If and when I decide to end it all, running into an African National Park seems like as good a manly way to die as any other. In fact, it’s a death worthy of respect! It sure beats withering away with a crap bag attached to my side in some hospital bed, doesn’t it?

Personally, I'm even now considering diving headfirst into the killer whale tank at the local Marineland should I ever decide that I just can't take anymore of this freakshow we call life.

The Boy Scout Curse Continues

It’s not a good time to be a Boy Scout, is it?

God has apparently developed a recent hate-on for the Boy Scouts in particular and declared it Open Season on anyone wearing a green ascot and who may, or may not, be assisting old ladies across the street. In fact, I’d say that it’s much safer these days to be a crash test dummy than it is to be a member of the fucking Boy Scouts.

Just days after four men were electrocuted at the National Jamboree in Virginia, tragedy has fallen yet again befallen the Boy Scouts when another Scout Leader was killed by a bolt of lightning and a 13-year-old boy left brain dead (which is no major tragedy in itself considering the average intelligence levels displayed by other current Boy Scout members) after taking shelter from a storm in Sequoia National Park.

Doesn’t the all-haloed ‘Official Boy Scout Handbook’ advise against seeking shelter under trees during these kinds of storms? I thought that also was elementary. But I digress…

Who qualifies these Scout "leaders" exactly?

After this summer, if I were a Boy Scout I’d be turning in my merit badges immediately and running faster than Linford Christie with a firecracker up his ass to join something safer, like a Quitting Bee or something.

Global War on Idiocy

It’s official! The commonly accepted term ’Global War on Terror’ has been retooled and replaced by the catchier, more affirmative ‘Global Struggle on Extremism’. It seems the Bush administration feels that the old slogan has worn out its usefulness, because it focused solely, and incorrectly, on the military campaign.

Pfft! YEAH! Do ya think? There’s people blowing up subway stations and flying planes into buildings – that sounds like a fucking military campaign to me! A “struggle” just seems more, well, accepting. You struggle with your weight, alcohol, paying bills, or the urge to jump the neighbor’s wife – you don’t struggle against TERRORISM!

Who’s writing Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld’s press releases – Tony Hawk?

Gen. Richard B. Myers, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, told the National Press Club on Monday that he had "objected to the use of the term 'war on terrorism' before, because if you call it a war, then you think of people in uniform as being the solution."

Again. WTF?

Isn’t that what the “people in uniform” are trained and paid to do in the first fucking place? Is this guy really suggesting that I shouldn’t think of the recent terrorist attacks as a war unless I’m ready to go into the streets myself and help hunt down those evil bastards with my pocketknife?

Gen. Myers continued that although the military is heavily engaged in the mission now, he said, future efforts require "all instruments of our national power, all instruments of the international communities' national power." The solution is "more diplomatic, more economic, more political than it is military," he concluded.

Look, dipshit. Call it whatever the fuck you want to, nobody cares, just quit dissecting it and making excuses and get out there and kick us some fucking terrorist ass!

Ludicrous.

ALWAYS BE PREPARED...Crispy

(Unless you have already purchased your one-way ticket to Hell I would not recommend reading this post. It's humor is most vile and sadly tasteless. I'm even shocked and appalled at myself! But how I do love seeing the sunset reflecting off the 'Lake of Fire' in the summertime...)

A tragedy occurred at this years National Boy Scout Jamboree in Bowling Green, VA when four adult scout leaders were accidentally killed when their center tent pole came into contact with a nearby power line sending, like, a zillion bolts of electricity through their smoking bodies.

At first, it was only thought that the four leaders were instead performing a traditional Native American rain dance known as the “Com-on-oh-Great-Leekywan” for the amusement of the other scout diners in the tent and in the hopes of breaking the building heat over the weekend. Once everyone realized that it wasn’t frying bacon they were smelling - the terrible tragedy presented itself.

Pardon my callousness here, but were these the scout leaders for the retarded or what? You’d think that erecting large tents in the vicinity of power lines would be a big No-No in the 'Official Boy Scout's Handbook', wouldn’t you? I suspect that these morons cheated on their merit badges!

It’s too bad that the Scout’s Law of being “trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent” didn’t also include being smart.

"Ay, that's the rub!"

My shoulder has been causing me endless agony. Lately, it’s been as stiff as Pee-Wee Herman on the red carpet at the Adult Video Awards.

Everything I do there is this nagging ache in my right shoulder blade; whether it be sleeping, reading, surfing the tube, or reaching for my bong – it’s there. This constant aching pain is beginning to make me feel like somebody old enough to get into movies at a discount and who enjoys playing petonque in the park. Plus, the Bengay fumes are beginning to burn through my nostril membranes and soon I’ll be bleeding through like a junkie with a two-bag-a-day habit.

It has been recommended that I take myself to have a nice massage to work out the lingering stiffness. That sounds all very well and nice, but am I really the kind of guy that goes for massages? I’m not so sure I’m a massage kind of guy. Furthermore, I don’t think I could even admit that I was a massage guy even if I did enjoy them anymore than I would ever announce that I’m an in-the-closet Simple Minds fan!

I don’t know why massages don’t go over well with me. Don’t get me wrong; I can definitely appreciate the whole old world ‘rub and tug’ philosophy of massage – that’s in keeping with one’s maleness after all. But allowing yourself to have your naked body worked over by an oiled-up stranger in latex gloves with an unidentifiable accent and reeking of Nag Champa – not so much. A "massage" is something you pay $20 for in the back seat of a parked car.

I’m not just that secure in my sexuality, or my nakedness for that matter. The idea of having some detached taskmaster judo-chopping my naked body with a sound like someone trying to drum out the solo in ‘Inna-Godda-Da-Vida’ with two pork loin sausages is too sadomasochistic for me.

I think having someone hovering over me and kneading me like a loaf of unbaked bread. And believe me, there are enough rolls on this body to knead than a Jewish bakery!

It’s can’t exactly be a pleasurable experience for the masseuse either. I can just picture their “magic fingers” blending themselves into the folds of body fat like MSG into Miso soup. Heaven forbid those fucking digits should ever belong to another man! That’s practically wedding night stuff! Eww.

And yet, the lineups for the Massage courses at the local community colleges seem to be continually lined up around the campus into the next millennium. I’ve been in unemployment lines that would seem like the express lane at Safeways in comparison. Why? Because they’re fucking sadists that why!

Imagine the years of pent up frustration and anxiety these masseuses are working out on your prone helpless body? That must be quite the release to be able to go all Jean Claude Van Damme at the workplace and hammer out complex cadences on other people’s defenseless bodies. I just can’t see how my shoulder is going to be healed any by Helmut Fattenslappen who is dealing with his repressed memories of childhood potty training by repetitively punching me in the groin.

It’ll stick to my Tylenol 3’s and Crown Royal thanks!

Morning Egg McMuffin Meltdown

There is no worse way to begin the day at work by walking unwittingly into a monumental stink in the Men's bathroom left behind by one of your fellow co-workers. And I’m not talking about just any stink – I’m talking about a stink so large it could stop a charging rhino in its tracks!

Men, in contrast to the more discrete women of the world (which I don't understand since they must be used to sitting down in order to relieve themselves more often anyways), have no problem sharing their bodily functions with the world at large. Often, it's a matter even worthy of lengthy discussion among other men. Women just don't share this same sense of accomplishment in regards to their bowel movements where men revel in it as a matter of pride. When a man releases a stench into the environment that large, it's something that he will remember his whole life in order to tell his grandchildren about it someday. And believe me, there was nothing descrete about what I found in the bathroom this morning!

So just in case the ritual morning hits on my bucket bong aren’t enough to fry my brain, I’ll also have to contend with dealing with the additional massive toxic high from inhaling too much of this guys post-MacDonald’s Egg McMuffin Meltdown.

That’s a buzz I surely don’t need to contend with, thank you very much! I’d rather sniff a homeless man’s underpants than walk into another toxic cloud of fecal fumage that bad!

I’m not sure my lungs or remaining brain cells could withstand that kind of shock. Maybe now I'm leaning more towards the more girly tendancy to save these particular kinds of personal activities until I get home, or at least somewhere not so public.

The Truth About Asparagus

I have developed an unhealthy and equally unholy addiction to asparagus lately. In fact, I’ve had asparagus four times in the past week alone and pretty soon the reek from my own piss will have to be registered as a Weapon of Mass Destruction.

On my first bathroom break at work today, a toxic asparagus stench emanated from my stream of piss so thick that it hung in the air like a fine mist. Once I let loose that valve in my Johnson and began taking my leak, it was like being transported directly into the middle of the battlefield at Ypres without my gas mask. My nose instantly recoiled from the direction of the urine like a starving jackal from an elephant turd, and my lungs burned with each inward breath – it was the absolute worst torture that one could self-inflict upon oneself. Even a thrill-seeking gastroenterologist wouldn’t dare venture into that potent bathroom gas chamber without a full radioactive fallout suit!

Now, if you’re sitting there wrinkling your nose at the computer screen and saying to yourself “but my pee doesn’t stink when I eat asparagus” – then consider yourself fucking lucky. It has been discovered that only 22 per cent of the population actually possesses the physical ability to detect the pungent methanethiol compound created by the digesting of the asparagus in the body. Lucky-fucking-us!

If that’s the case, when it comes to asparagus, I have the nose of a hungry Mako shark; able to detect the tiniest hint of methanethiol per billion liters of piss. I could sniff out trapped survivors from the rubble if an asparagus factory if one were ever to collapse in on itself. How fortunate am I? This is one skill that I’m surely not going to be bragging about at the local watering hole, although I may start including it on resumes.

I guess God was really running low on personal “gifts” by the time he managed to work his way down the assembly line of life to me. By this time, all the useful, cool gifts like the ability to sketch life drawings, create beautiful music, burp the alphabet, or breaking 2x4’s with your face were all handed out and he must have been getting to the bottom of the barrel indeed.

“And to you, my son, will have the glorious ability to detect asparagus in your pee…don’t waste it, jackass!”

Hey thanks. What a fucking rip!

Happy Birthday to Me!

Today I turned 33 years old. Whoopee shit!

There have been those well-wishers who relish in trying to get me to believe that turning 33 years old is some kind of special occasion since it’s a “double digit” birthday. Huh? Perhaps if you’re a multiple of eleven you may be excited, or say, a porn star to whom “double digits” might be a little more, shall we say, stimulating; but to me “double digits” means “Snake Eyes” – and that doesn’t sound too fucking special or lucky to me!

I mean, I already feel fucked enough that I don’t need any additional double digit finger-banging courtesy of life in general. The only double digits that I give two shits about today are the two fingers of whiskey in my glass and the double figure count of grams of fat that I’ll be packing onto my ass after each of my extra-sized slices of Duncan Hines ‘Deep Double Chocolate Fudge’ birthday cake that I baked myself to celebrate.

To cap off the celebrations this evening for my 33 years of accumulated experience in this lifetime, I’ll smother myself face first in the cake remains after lapsing into a diabetic coma upon stuffing too many fistfuls of chocolate fudge into my mouth at once.

Do I feel any different? Well, apart from an extra years worth of wear and tear, aches and pains, as well as one more barrel roll of girth around my waistline – I don’t feel any different at all. A little more bitter and twisted perhaps, older definitely, but “different” - no, not exactly.

I feel like soon I’ll have to start wearing my belts up around my chest, mow down bowls full of Viagra just to get any reaction from my rusted, underused manhood, and take to asking people if my adult diapers make my ass look fat.

Happy 33rd indeed!

Men's Fashion Faux Pas (Part Deux)

Why are men suddenly wearing clam diggers?

When did this become a popular fashion trend? Nobody ever actually goes clam digging!

These ridiculous looking baggy pants with the ¾ cut pant leg and draw string at the cuff (for synching shut the pant legs when you're out MUCKING FOR FUCKING CLAMS!) are not what I would consider to ever be a good look for men, unless you’re, say, Errol Flynn maybe.

The ¾ clam digger pants are normally accessorized with a loose poofy shirt that gives off that, oh so casual, Pirates of the Caribbean look. Great if you’re vacationing on a private Cuban beach; not if you’re just some schmuck at the bus stop on the corner of 5th and Main.

I’ll stick to wearing my sarong thanks, Captain Highliner. Try and not to get any tartar sauce on those ridiculously large cuffs you pansy-looking ass clown.

Men's Fashion Faux Pas

There is a team manager working today that is wearing a new dress shirt that would have otherwise been pretty snazzy, except that it had these huge fucking monster cuffs on the sleeves wrist.

Is this the new style of men’s dress fashions – because these motherfuckers were as huge as they were ridiculous looking?!

It looks like some exaggerated superhero’s costume where the cuffs jut out at the wrists and double as a set of wings. I bet if I threw this manager off the roof of the building he’d probably be able to glide back down to the curb safely.

Honestly, they were that huge! For adequate sized cufflinks, you would've needed two bocce balls on a tether.

You know who looks good in huge cuffs - WONDER WOMAN, that’s who! Not dudes in pastel colored dress shirts and power ties – they look like something that you’d see climbing out of the back seat of a tiny car with a dozen other clowns.

Nanny Nonsense 911

There is another reality television show that I have learned to despise (well, actually it came pretty naturally – I didn’t have to force it up at all) – ‘Nanny 911’. What a ridiculous piece of network horseshit this is.

I hate just about everything about this program; but then again, watching Walt Disney’s ‘Mary Poppins’ is prone to induce violent episodes in my subconscious causing me to go all 9/11 like a disgruntled Irish MP with a two pack a day smoking habit.

The entire premise of this asinine television show is to find some runaway train wreck of a family and then dispatch some snotty English crumpet in a red frock from ‘Nanny Central’ to point out all their shortcomings and inadequacies as a family before millions of television viewers, cure all their problems, and generally make the world a better fucking place one suck hole trailer park family at a time.

How demeaning would that be to have some foreign broad with bad teeth who reeks of tea to come into your home and criticize all your parenting skills? The only 911 necessary for this house call would be the one to the Emergency Medical Services should any English prig decide to get too ‘Dr. Phil’ uppity with me, because I’ll beat her senseless with her own umbrella before opening it up her ass for good measure.

If she’s such a fucking expert with kids, how come she’s not a parent herself and off raising her own litter of stuffy Von Trapp children, instead of commenting on everyone else’s? Besides, who decided that the English were the leading authority of childrearing and parenting anyways? Didn't they use to shove little children up chimneys at one point in time?

The last episode of this reality tripe I witnessed involved sending 'Nanny Deb' to a household of 13 screaming little booger monsters and attempt to restore something resembling order and sanity to the household by making stricter recommendations in order to change the current state of chaos existing within the home already.

THIRTEEN-fucking-children? Shit, the first fucking recommendation I’d make in a situation like that would be to lop off daddy’s babymaker to prevent him from manufacturing any more screaming little booger monsters. It’s friggin' elementary! I’d just kick in the front door, walk into the family room with a pair of gardening shears and head straight for Pop’s jewels.

Problem fucking solved - literally!

“Alright, gov’na. Now lets see about that tallywacker then, shall we?”

I mean, shut off the source of the problem right at the leak, dig?

No More Fears

I am going to petition the ‘Johnson & Johnson’ company to change their shampoo marketing slogan “No More Tears” to something a little more befitting of the whole experience of shampooing with their product; something like, oh say, “Stings Like Fuck!”

"No More Tears", my ass!

As I rubbed my palms into my eyes in searing pain, I felt like a lab rabbit at a Guillette research facility. What a crock of lies these bastards at 'Johnson & Johnson' been feeding us all these years in those televised commercials with giggling babies and innocent looking bubbles and lather.

I can’t believe they expect us to shampoo babies in this shit! After that nasty experience this morning with the supposedly safe “No More Tears” shampoo, I’d be more inclined to wash my hair in battery acid than risk burning my eyes out of their sockets again with this fiery hell storm in a bottle!

"Lets get ready to RUUUUUUUUUUUMBLE!!"

(Okay, so I fell for it. So what? Don't read it then!)

Here’s something directly out of the world’s “What the Fuck?” file:

“Spectators cheered as entire Cambodian Midget Fighting League squared off against African Lion”.

Holy shit, and I thought that my job sucked the balls! At least my boss doesn’t throw me to the fucking lions on a sporting whim!

Are employment opportunities so limited these days for the vertically challenged that they desperate enough to take on a pissed off lion in a cruel and vicious bloodsport? Weren’t they just casting for the new ‘Charlie & the Chocolate Factory? Is this what happens to unsuccessful midgets in this world? I mean, where else do you go in life as a midget when you can’t pass an audition to be an Oompa-Loompa?

Apparently, you join the Cambodian Midget Fighting League (CMFL) and pit yourself against a starving lion. Not since Emperor Nero tossed pesky Christians to the savage beasts during the main event at the Roman Coliseum (or, even more recently, Little Beaver vs. King Kong Bundy at Wrestlemania III) has there been such a ruthless sporting spectacle.

The fight was slated when an angry fan contested Yang Sihamoni, President of the CMFL (a position of high esteem I’m sure, even more than being the Chairman of the Board for the ‘Loatian Lesbian Kickboxing Association’), claiming that one lion could defeat his entire league of 42 wrestlers.

Pardon? You mean, some toothless Cambodian rhubarb (what kind of person would take the CMFL so seriously anyways?) challenges your reputation on some ridiculous bet and Sihamoni just willingly offers up his midgets to the kill like he was betting at craps? Nice guy.

The fight has been sold out three weeks before the much-anticipated fight, which took place in the city of Kampong-Chnang. Shiamoni conveyed in his advertising campaign for the CMFL, which he helped to create, that his midgets would “…take on anything; man, beast, or machine.” Shit, I guess he should have started off by pitting them against a riding lawn mower first, huh?

The real shocking thing is that the Cambodian government allowed the fight to take place, under the condition that they received %50 commission on each ticket sold, and that no cameras would be allowed in the arena. Gee, that’s too bad because the memorial post card sales of little ‘Tiny Duk Kim’s’ body being flung around the ring like a rag doll would have generated some impressive global revenues for PETA!

The fight was called in only 12 minutes, after which 28 fighters were declared dead, while the other 14 suffered severe injuries including broken and lost limbs rendering them unable to fight back (not that the primary assault was very impressive either).

It must have been absolute carnage as the lion mawed his way through the front line of midget wrestlers like Dom DeLuise at an ‘All-U-Can-Eat Pasta Buffet’.

Shiamoni was quoted before the fight stating that he felt his fighters numbered the lion 42-1, that they “…could out-wit, and out-muscle (it)”. Hey, this isn’t ‘Survivor’ you fuck up!

This guy definitively wins the ‘Ass hat of the Year’ award.

Big Brother is Watching!

The list below contains many of the keywords that the Government Spooks search YOUR email and chat for (numerical gobbledygook and encoded encryptions were excluded). Likewise, I have highlighted those words that struck a particular sense of fear into my own heart:

Explosives, guns, assassination, conspiracy, primers, detonators, initiators, main charge, nuclear charges, ambush, sniping, motorcade, IRS, hostages, munitions, weapons, TNT, picric acid, silver nitrite, mercury fulminate, presidential motorcade, salt peter, charcoal, sulfur, c4, composition b, amatol, lead azide, lead styphante, ddnp, tetryl, nitrocellulose, nitrostarch, mines, grenades, rockets, fuses, delay mechanism, mortars, rpg7, propellants, incendiaries, incendiary device, thermite, security forces, intelligence, agencies, hrt, resistance, infiltration, assault team, defensive elements, evasion, detection, mission, communications, the football, platter charge, shaped charges, m118, claymore, body armor, charges, shrapnel, timers, timing devices, booby traps, detonation cord, silencers, Uzi, HK-MP5, AK-47, teflon bullets, cordite, biscuit, napalm, law, Stingers, Air Force One, M60, RGP, Walther PPK, subsonic rounds, ballistic media, special forces, Information Security, HALO, Information Warfare, IW, IS, Privacy, Information Terrorism, Kenya, Terrorism Defensive Information, Defense Information Warfare, Offensive Information, Offensive Information Warfare, National Information Infrastructure, Reno, Computer Terrorism, Firewalls, Secure Internet Connections, DefCon, RSO, Hackers, Encryption, Espionage, NSA, CIA, FBI, Secret Service, Military, White House, Undercover, Tanzania, mixmaster, Military Intelligence, Scully, recondo, Flame, Infowar, Bubba, Sundevil, jack, Investigation, spook words, Bugs Bunny, Verison, Secure, Lacrosse, Bunker, Flashbangs, bird dog, Echelon, Dictionary, WANK, Colonel, domestic disruption, nitrate, Pretoria, M-14, enigma, Clandestine, Counter Terrorism Security, Rapid Reaction, C3IP, Corporate Security, Police, sniper, Security Consulting, High Security, Security Evaluation, Electronic Surveillance, Counter terrorism, real, spies, eavesdropping, debugging, interception, Amherst, Broadside, Capricorn, Artichoke, Badger, Emerson, quarter, Cornflower, Daisy, Egret, Hollyhock, Jasmine, Sphinx, Stephanie, Reflection, Spoke, Talent, Trump, FX, Covert Video, lock picking, Beyond Hope, Competitor, EO, Chan, Pathfinders, SEAL Team 3, Nash, executive, Event Security, Mace, Cap-Stun, stakeout, ninja, Tie-fighter, Time, Cable & Wireless, Embassy, ETA, Fax, finks, Fax encryption, white noise, forecast, import, rain, tiger, buzzer, pink noise, top secret, Unix Security, VIP Protection, sweep, Harvard, Satellite imagery, force, Cypherpunks, NARF, replay, redheads, RX-7, explicit, Anonymous, W, Sex, chaining, codes, Nuclear, 20, subversives, SLIP, toad, fish, data havens, unix, c, a, b, d, the, Elvis, quiche, sneakers, counterintelligence, industrial intelligence, Juiliett Class Submarine, Locks, loch, 64 Vauxhall Cross, Ingram Mac-10, watchers, Keebler, contacts, Blowpipe, Kilo Class, squib, Becker, Nerd, fangs, Austin, Speakeasy, zone, Keyhole, SARS, Rand Corporation, Starr, cocaine, Small Pox, Internet Underground, BX, Retinal Fetish, mania, Chicago! Posse, spook, keywords, Weekly World News, Zen, World Domination, Dead, Salsa, 7, Blowfish, Ft. Meade, press- release, burned, Indigo, wire transfer, e-cash, Bubba the Love Sponge, Enforcers, zip, SWAT, Ortega, crypto-anarchy, AT&T, Middleman, Blackbird, Texas, jihad, Fort Meade, supercomputer, bullion, 3, Propaganda, ABC, Satellite phones, Planet-1, South Africa, Montenegro, cryptanalysis, nuclear, Canine, Stanley, FBI, Panama, fissionable, Sears Tower, NORAD, Delta Force, SEAL, virtual, secure shell, screws, Black-Ops, Area51, basement, data-haven, black-bag, rack, TEMPEST, Goodwin, rebels, garbage, market, beef, unclassified, curly, Taiwan, guest, utopia, orthodox, gorilla, Bob, Fukuyama, Marx, Pseudonyms, NARF, Gray Data, mega, Sugar Grove, Cowboy, Gist, Platform, 911, veggie, Oratory, Pine Gap, Mantis, 1984, blow out, Flintlock, Electron, Chicago Crust, condor, Firefly, E-Bomb, government, speed bump, BOSS, ladylove, freedom, Larson, pipe-bomb, Oz., cocaine, $, impact, credit card, fraud, virus, anarchy, rogue, mail bomb, Chelsea, 1997, Whitewater, MOD, York, plutonium, William Gates, clone, BATF, Nike, Atlas, Delta, TWA, Kiwi, silicon pimp, Lynch, Skytel, Yukon, sardine, bank, snuffle, package, Armani, frog legs, HoHoHo.com, Aladdin, chameleon man, Vanuatu, Templar, Maple, Tokyo, Mexico.

Some jokes just write themselves.

Boy, do I feel safe now just knowing that my governing powers-that-be responsible for my homeland security and well-being are on the lookout for subversive elves (Keebler), French cuisine (frog legs), cartoon haracters (Bugs Bunny), Beatles tunes (Blackbird), fiery women (redheads), Christmas porn websites (HoHoHO.com), newly invented sex positions (ddnp), evil vegetables (Artichokes), and guys named Bubba.

The world is too fucked up to even make any sense anymore!

To Live and Walk in LA

You know, what the fuck do you have to do to get convicted of a crime in Los Angeles these days anyways? Michael Jackson, OJ, Robert Blake, Rodney King – shit, you must literally have to perpetrate the crime literally in FRONT of the jury for them ever to find you guilty.

That’s it! I’m moving to Los Angeles; look out Rodeo Drive, here I come!

To hell with your meager laws, they just get in the way of having some hearty fun. I’m going to do whatever I damn well please when I get there since there doesn’t seem to be any negative legal repercussions to your actions whatsoever.

I’m going to snort lines of crushed glass and film hardcore porno movies with Charlie Sheen and abducted thirteen-year-old girls and then make public statues and art works out of euthanized puppies and dead hookers, and nobody will give two shits because no jury would ever convict me.

Hell, they'd probably give me the key to the damn city!

It’ll be paradise!

Tom Snooze

Do you know who I’m really getting fucking sick of hearing about - Tom Cruise, and his new fiancé Katie Holmes! Christ, they're on practically EVERY magazine cover, not to mention each and every page inside them as well. Between jumping on couches, and aping for the paparazzi, these two “blissful” moolyaks are just fucking EVERYWHERE!

I suspect that they show up to these events just to playfully hug, make goo-goo eyes, and kissy-kiss for the camera anywhere where there’s either a celebrity gathering, or just some geezer standing with a beaten Polaroid.

Holy shit, trying to calculate out their travel schedule based on the limitless number of celebrity photos of them attending some special soiree or another, you’d need a fucking NASA computer!

I can understand that Tom Cruise is eager to pose for the camera in order to show off his pretty new 26-year-old boff buddy and kick more dirt in Nicole's eye; but dude, enough is fucking enough! Granted I haven't seen 'War of the Worlds' yet, but if you fuck that up for me too, I swear I'll kick your ass all the way to fucking Mars myself!

Personally, they’re grossing me the fuck out with their never-ending saccharine sweet suckiness. It makes me want to piledrive the both of them into the red carpet and then go out and piss on a church of Scientology…just to celebrate.

Power to the Penis!

I am obsessed with my cock - I admit it openly and without shame.

Call it whatever you want: blue-veined microphone, boney maroni, the chromosome snake, crank, cum gun, ding-a-ling, Cockzilla, Captain Winkie, ding-dong, dipstick, El Firmo, fuck stick, fur-seeking meat missile, giggle stick, heat seeking moisture missile, jizz cannon, joystick, John Thomas, knob, love club, love missile, love muscle, love pump, lunch box, magic wand, main vein, manhood, man-sized manicotti, mean meat, meat whistle, Mr. Happy, one-eyed trouser snake, passion pole, pecker, peter, pee-pee, pink torpedo, pleasure scepter, pork sword, pud, purple helmeted love warrior, pulsating python of love, purple-headed mushroom-capped yogurt slinger, veined clarinet, skin flute, skeezer pleaser, schlong, schwanz, stiffy, spam javelin, thrill hammer, trouser weasel, wanger, wang-dang-noodle….or my personal favorite - the king. Whatever, I love my cock!

However, I suspect that this phallus obsession of mine holds true for just about every other red-blooded dude on the planet.

Now, considering that just about every man likes to think that he has a magnificent cock that would be worthy of be mounted on any sportsman’s wall, I think it’s literally impossible for any man to actually make any decision without using his penis. It governs over our entire lives *!

I know personally, I consult my penis before making any decision in my life, no matter how simple or insignificant. In fact, I would wager that the total number of times that I consult my penis over the course of a normal day would be impossible to be calculated by any of the world’s leading mathematicians – or super computers for that matter. There are just no words for numbers that infinitely large!

Everything from deciding what to spread on my toast for breakfast in the morning, to what to watch on television, to what type of shoelaces I should buy at the Dollar-Rama store are first pondered and filtered through my penis. I even doubt that we men would even be able to exist if we couldn’t utilize our penises to assist with our complex decision-making processes.

We would just be standing on street corners and at bus stops drooling over ourselves like mindless zombies.So next time a woman remarks that your “thinking with the wrong head", just instead inform her: “Yeah, so - you think my other head would ever allow me to bang you?”

* Not to mention: larger salaries in the workplace, greater chances for promotion, an natural inclination for BBQ, as well as extortionate car insurance rates.