Elton Spawn

Elton John got married?

Oh. My. God.

However did this little tidbit of sensational media gossip slip under my radar so completely undetected? Somebody shoot my messenger dwarves.

Now, I can only imagine to what degree this event of such unequivitable gayness would have been. Had I known it was happening at the time, I would have been glued to the E! channel for late breaking, up-to-the-moment details on the wedding ceremony. I would have been as glued to it as I would have been for any other hurricane, tsunami, plague, earthquake, or terrorist attack that might have otherwise been showing instead. Shit, I bet this whole opus of homosexuality is second only in the record of the worlds most gayest historical events to Siegfried & Roy's infamous white tiger ticklefest at Neverland Ranch.

I bet their $2,000,000 reception was rife with swans, lavender-scented candles, and immaculate elfen servants in leotard with long beautiful girl hair shooting arrows from the backs of unicorns. After the olive oil bathes and group rub downs, wedding attendees were invited to a dinner of spinache quiche and an advance private screening of 'Brokeback Mountain'.

I bet it would have brought a tear to Freddie Mercury's eye.

Parental Advisory

"WARNING: This program may contain scenes and material of an explicit nature and may offend some viewers. Viewer discretion is strongly advised"

Does anyone ever actually heed this warning and continue flipping quickly lest their very innocence should be marred, a black mark cast upon their soul, and their eyes burned out of their sockets? I doubt it.

As a matter of fact, assuming that most viewers are similar to myself, they probably tune in on purpose for at least a few extra moments just to see what kind of filth exactly is being peddled and therefore warning me against. I know whenever I'm confronted with this particular television advisory while channel surfing, I'm automatically drawn to it like a shopping cart to a low-level housing complex.

It may as well say "WARNING: Live Sex" instead, for all the deterent it's actually providing me.

Minors probably spend the majority of their time while their parents out of the room, just flipping channel to channel looking for a program - ANY PROGRAM - that shows this advisory warning after returning from the commercial breaks.

Shit - I know I'd probably watch a home gardening program with a naked Bea Arthur if I thought there might be a chance of seeing me some explicit or offensive subject matter!

Given the nature of most Reality Television shows; explicit matter seems pretty fucking inviting, doesn't it?

Fat-R-Us (Reprise)

So, the Big & Tall mens clothing store wasn't the terrible experience I had previously envisioned it to be. In fact - it was kinda cool. Of course it helps that I also happened to be the only person in the store at the time.

As it turns out, being on the cusp of qualifying as a Big & Tall mans size, is reassuring and even ego boosting to know that in the land of giants, I am the slim, beautiful one. For once, I could take solice in that at least my meager 19" neck dress shirt was not going to be mistaken for a teepee. Judging by some of the enormous sizes of shirts and pants on display, this store must cater to REALLY large men, or really smartly dressed brontosauruses.

Originally, I had envisioned the store sales attendants to resemble the kind of people who had previosuly worked for travelling carnivals and Freak Shows. Secretly, part of me was hoping for a Thorton Melon type to take my measurements, crack sexist jokes, make funny expressions with his eye brows while he urged me to stay in school. I certainly didn't expect the cute, petit sales assistant with a smile that would melt butter and a butt that could cause 10 car pile-ups. My spirit immediately warmed up, as did my credit card, to this whole shopping experience. Albeit, I now had the fear in the back of my mind that I might trip backwards over a chair leg while checking myself out in the boxcar-sized mirror and accidently crush her under my toppling girth.

The real coup de tat, was in being allowed to sip coffee in an upholstered chair while my cute sales attendant steamed the wrinkles out of my newly chosen attire with a portable steam unit that looked like some ER enema machine or something. I couldn't help but feel slightly aroused while this girl bent over in front of me and meticulously ironed out the creases in my shirts. By the time she was finished, I was flushed, sweaty, confused, and feeling just a little guilty over whether I owed her a substantial tip or not.

Screw going to the peelers for lap dances - I'm going back to the 'Big & Small Shop'!

Fat-R-Us

I have been directed by, seemingly, every single Men's clothing stores sales assistants within a 30 mile radius to whats unaffectionately known as the 'Big & Tall Shop'. I feel like I have finally been culled from the herd of young beautiful people.

Nobody in this damn city carries dress shirts with neck sizes above 17/18. And I refuse to buy those cheap-ass pre-packaged pastel shirts with matching tie combos that make everyone else look like ridiculous Ken dolls. So now I have to go to a special men's fat shop just to buy decent looking work dress shirts to retain what shreds of fashionable dignity I still have left. I'm afraid that when I ask for a size 19 neck, they're going to bring out something that looks like a circus lion should be leaping through it.

I'm going to end up hunkering down in the drivers seat of my car in the parkinglot waiting for the opportunity to quickly slink inside when there are no other pedestrians or shoppers around to spot me slipping inside the building.

I feel like I'm sneaking into the Adult Video Store.

I couldn't be any more ashamed of the situation had the last sales assistant I spoke to just openly told me flat out:

"Move it, Shamoo! You're blocking the merchandise racks from the other shoppers with that enormous ass of yours."

Kitty Cat Rivalry

My humble home has been invaded. The fit has hit the fucking shan here people! The hammer has fallen; Charlie is in the wire; there are bogies locked on my position; whatever - the sanctity of my personal sanctuary has been besmirched and befouled by a rogue neighborhood feline.

That’s right, folks! I’m under attack from a gray and white furry four-legged harpy from parts whence unknown. What started out as an innocent midnight rendezvous and casual nose-rubbing between a neighborhood cat and my own indoor fuzzy four-legged harpy, between window panes, has since escalated into a fierce rivalry akin to that between the Capulets and the Montagues

I was always fine with this innocent visits. Considering that my guy is a strict indoor cat (largely due to the fact that being neutered means he has all the survival instincts of a cotton ball), I didn’t mind these casual encounters. It was about the closest thing he was ever going to get to actually doing the nasty in this lifetime anyhow.

But now this visiting cat has taken to physically sharing his love, or his frustration, or whatever the fuck it is that he sprays everywhere outside lately. It’s bad enough that this neighborhood cat has gone all ‘Fatal Attraction’ on my poor home alone pussycat, but tonight he made a crucial mistake: he pissed on my barbecue.

This, of course, means war. Whatever their relationship was in the past; the battle lines have been clearly drawn.

With a steaming stream of nasty-ass mixture, this furry fucker just sealed his own fate. I was willing to let things ride. The fact that he dropped the odd Tootsie Roll in my garden or sometimes left muddy prints across on my patio table, I was okay with letting bygones be bygones - animals with be animals after all. The fact that he was maintaining, completely unbeknownst to him, a gay fling with another male was enough to keep me secretly humored with the situation.

But, NOOOOOOOOOOO, he just had to take things one-step further! Now he has to die.

Whether it be man or beast, NEVER fuck with another man’s barbeque! You may as well as rape my grandmother and shit in my lunch thermos while you’re at it. The barbeque is sacred. I’m sure it was written in Geneva Convention somewhere.

“In times of war, desperation, and neighboring cats, a barbeque, or other means of outdoor cooking, is to be considered immune to all aggressive action.”

I’m going to rewrite the book and finally invent the one hundred and second possible thing to do with a dead cat. The fur is going to fly my friends!

The battle lines have been drawn.

“Prepare the troops for war!”

I, Me, Mine

So CNN ghoul, Anderson Cooper, is back at it and is once again as erect as Charlie Sheen at a Sorority party. This time the 'disaster du jour' takes Anderson to Upshur County in West Virginia, where twelve miners were recently killed this week in an explosion at the local Sago Mine.

Originally, the twelve miner’s where originally reported as having survived the tragedy to anxiously awaiting friends and family members at the nearby Baptist church. For three whole hours, family members and townspeople rejoiced over the miracle only be informed later that the original message was wrong – in fact, eleven of the miner’s had been found dead - the last miner still fighting for his life.

Oops. That’s got to be the communication fuck-up of the century!

The company, International Coal Group (ICG), said it knew within 20 minutes that initial reports all the men had survived were incorrect, but said it was not clear at that stage how many were dead. So now the media witch-hunt has begun; who is responsible for this clusterfuck? Was it the rescue workers; was it the rescue command center; was it the media; was it the clergy members at the church? Who sucks at taking phone messages?

Ben Hatfield, president of ICG, said: "What happened is that through stray cell phone conversations it appears that this miscommunication from the rescue team underground to the command center was picked up by various people. That information spread like wildfire because it had come from the command center but it was bad information."

Oops.

I find that explanation a little hard to believe considering that recent Nokia commercials seem to indicate that today’s cell phones are capable of being consumed, digested and being shat out by a four ton Tyrannosaurus Rex and still have its ‘Kumbiya’ ring tone heard clearly and distinctly. You can't squeak out a fart anywhere on the planet without it being picked up on someone's high-clarity cell phone somewhere.

That’s mighty convenient. Just blame it on the cell phones; certainly not the dumb-asses using them.

With all of todays available technology why are we still squeezing men into such extremely unsafe mines anyways? We can build robots to maneuver through dessert terrains, vacuum entire Manhattan apartments, and navigate over alien planet surfaces, but we can't design one to mine coal in dangerous underground mine shafts to save human lives?

Rebound Reverb

I heard a male friend of mine today advise another man to meditate. It seems that this other male friend of his is experiencing the effects of breaking up with his girlfriend is having a hard time of it.

But, MEDITATING? Jesus-H-Christ! Are we men or sensitive ponytail pansy-types?

I felt like speaking up and saying something. “Dude, don't listen to this girly man! Be a man, goddamn it! She’s cutting your face out of photographs right now, so get angry and get even.”

The best thing you can do is climb back on that horse. It's part the age old mating ritual where the male of the species, after losing his sexual attraction, and faced with the rejection by his long standing female partner, goes on a drinking binge of epic proportions and fucks the first thing he can drag back to the backseat of his car whether it be man or beast – often, a combination of both.

Go ahead – act like an ass! You’re allowed – you’re suffering and in pain. For centuries, men have been committing completely ridiculous stunts of mindless folly all in the name of impressing and attracting the new chosen female of their horny affections. All normal healthy, recently single males suffer through this inevitable humiliation and rise above by funneling beers with strippers and passing out in dumpsters.

“That’s right, SUCK IT UP, DUDE!" Let your damaged, horny freak flag fly.

Give the next girl in your life what they are really looking for: drink to excess and excuse yourself to vomit in the back alley, bore her with endless legends of your male magnificence, make farty noises with your armpits, openly bark at passing women, loudly burp out the alphabet over dessert, use “you know, whatever" a LOT in conversation, and surprise her outside her bedroom window by cranking AC/DC's "Big Balls" at 4:30 in the morning from the eight track deck in your father’s pickup.

You know – romance her.

The Saline Solution

You know what freaks me out? Watching people drip saline solution into their eyes. This can't be a good practise!

I could never bring myself to do this. My eyes could be as dry as the Sahara desert so that the insides of my eyelids felt like fine grit sandpaper and I would still not be able to bring myself to lubricate them in this manner.

It just unnerves me when it comes to dropping things, ANYHING, into your eye sockets. The whole spreading of your eyeball open before maneuvering the eye-dropper over your exposed eye while you stare at the ceiling and then, carefully cascade that single drop of clear solution into your eye socket…SPLASH!

Christ – you may as well ask me to cut off my own tongue.

To my understanding, the human eye is not really designed or equipped to absorb the impact from falling objects being dropped into it. It just sounds like bad medicine to me. I have attempted to do this in the past when people have complained to me about red eyes; but my natural reaction is to just freeze staring down the barrel of that dropper and seeing that droplet, seemingly the size of a bowling ball from that precarious perspective, hanging there ready to plunge itself in to my eye…and…I…just…can’t…bring myself…to squeeze the plunger.

Moreover, people who do use saline solution in their eyes seem to do so on a regular basis as if they're hooked on the practise like some manic sadist. This can't be a healhty addiction under the circumstances. They're like saline junkies.

If ever I should feel the incessant need to moisturize my eyeballs, I will do so the old-fashioned way; by plucking at my public hair with tweezers until my eye sockets tear up on their very own - than you very much!

Blowjob Ettiquette (Point - Counter Point)

(Understanding that this post is breaking with my own personal rule about posting unoriginal or outright stolen and/or plagarized material - I thought it was funny enough, and therefore worthy enough, to be immortalized in print within in these haloed webpages. Enjoy.)

Blowjob Etiquette (by a female)

1. First and foremost, we are not obligated to do it.
2. Extension to rule ..1 - So if you get one, be grateful.
3. I don't care what they did in the porn video you saw, it is not standard practice to cum on someone's face.
4. Extension to rule ..3 - No, I DON'T have to swallow.
5. My ears are NOT handles.
6. Extension to rule ..5 - do not push on the top of my head. Last I heard, deep throat had been done. And additionally, do you really want puke on your dick?
7. I don't care HOW relaxed you get, it is NEVER OK to fart.
8. Having my period does not mean that it's "hummer week" - get it through your head - I'm bloated and I feel like shit so no, I don't feel particularly obligated to blow you just because you can't have sex right now.
9. Extension to ..8 - "Blue Balls" might have worked on high school girls - if you're that desperate, go jerk off and leave me alone with my Midol.
10. If I have to pause to remove a pubic hair from my teeth, don't tell me I've just "wrecked it" for you.
11. Leaving me in bed while you go play video games immediately afterwards is highly inadvisable if you would like my behavior to be repeated in the future.
12. If you like how we do it, it's probably best not to speculate about the origins of our talent. Just enjoy the moment and be happy that we're good at it. See also rule ..2 about gratitude.
13. No, it doesn't particularly taste good. And I don't care aboutthe protein content.
14. No, I will NOT do it while you watch TV.
15. When you hear your friends complain about how they don't get blow jobs often enough, keep your mouth shut. It is inappropriate to either sympathize or brag.
16. Just because "it's awake" when you get up does not mean I have to "kiss it good morning."

A Man's thoughts on Fellatio AKA Rebuttal Etiquette
(by a male)

1. First of all, yes you're obligated to do it. If you don't, we will find someone (younger, prettier and dirtier) who will.
2. Second, swallowing a teaspoon full of cream is a hell of a lot easier than licking a dead fish.
3. You want to talk about farting? Does the word "queef" mean anything to you?
4. I will use your ears as I see fit. Don't worry about it and be thankful I'm not pulling your hair.
5. When you're on your period, stuffing something in your mouth is the only way to stop you from bitching and moaning. Suck it up!
6. Speaking of which, if you are bleeding for five straight days, you need all the fluids you can get. Trust me.
7. You bitch about the taste, but trust me when I tell you that we get the short end of the stick in flavor country.
8. At least there is no danger of a dick bleeding in your mouth.
9. Play with the balls.
10. No matter how good you think you are at it, we've had better.
11. Caress the ass, too. We like that!
12. Make hay when the sun shines. It's "wide awake" in the morning now, but when you get old & fat and looking for some action, I gah-ron-tee it'll be "sound asleep."
13. If you swallow, then you don't have to worry about getting any on your face, now will you?

Muppet Junkies

It has been confirmed by our investigative sources here at ‘Tofu Plankton Meatloaf’ that Sgt. Floyd Pepper & Janice, ex-band members of 'Dr. Teeth & The Electric Mayhem', can now be added to the long list of troubled troubadours such as David Crosby, John Phillip, Iggy Pop, and most recently Billy Joel, to have checked themselves into an exclusive Hollywood Rehab clinic for treatment for substance abuse. It has been discovered that both Floyd and his longtime common-law girlfriend, Janice, have been spiraling downward with their addictions since the cancellation of the popular and successful 'Muppet Show'.

The final decision was made after both were turned down for roles in the highly anticipated upcoming Muppet Movie blockbuster "The Muppets Take Baghdad", planned for release this summer, because of the reported “extreme difficultly” of working with the famous junkie couple.

It has been speculated that both Floyd & Janice were often found between takes on the set of the ‘Muppet Show’ locked in their dressing room, sometimes for hours, or not even showing up at all; sometimes holding up production for days at a time.

SHINE ON YOU CRAZY PUPPET DIAMONDS!!

Long time friend and fellow band mate, Zoot, stated for reporters:

"Yeah,man! It's bout fucking time! Dey 've been in a 'aze since we broke up the band, dig? I knew dey wasn’t cool when they sold Animals drum kit for smack. When Floyd started tricking out Janice to Rolf the Dog, I knew dey was in real trouble. Dey needs 'elp, man. Serious help, dig? Know what I mean, Daddy-o?"

The Long and Winding Bore

So Paul McCartney has written a children’s book.

Big fucking whoop. He was a Beatle, Wing, painter, poet, father, producer, and knight, and if that weren't enough, Paul McCartney was featured in a national advertising campaign to help Fidelity Investments address the ever-changing financial needs of investors. What hasn’t he fucking done? The man taught a blackbird to sing on cue for Christ sakes!

So why is everyone so surprised? The man simply sneezes and its a photo op and makes the evening global news.

Honestly – think about it. The man could shit in a paper bag and people would instantly hail it as the most amazing fucking thing ever! People would line up into the next millennium outside the building just for the chance to view the newest masterpiece and to momentarily revel in all its stinky wonderment. “Just look at how the flecks of yellow in the corn nuggets add texture to the washes of browns and greens”, they would say. They would say that the turd in a bag effectively symbolizes the infinite struggle of mankind against the cosmic forces of reality enveloping him, or whatever it was that the Maharishi filled his drug-addled brain with back in the 60’s.

The book is called “High in the Clouds”. Swell – thanks, Sgt. Pepper! I wonder how long it will be before someone makes the obvious connection that the letters in the books also could also be interpreted to conveniently spell out “Hi-C”. It’s ‘Lucy In the Sky with Diamonds’ all fucking over again. But only this time for little kids and toddlers!

Wake up!

Paul McCartney is actually a fucking juice pusher you idiots!

NyQuil 20/20

Okay.

Can I just say how much I love NyQuil?

Honestly, the stuff is amazing. It’s definitely my preferred drug of choice these days. Not because it works exactly but because the resulting buzz is about the best you can find without having to worry about being charged for public intoxication or possession of a controlled narcotic whenever I decide to trip out and make a total ass of myself in public. The last time I took NyQuil for my head cold I started hallucinating and ended up singing ‘Somewhere That’s Green’ from the Little Shop of Horrors while in line at Subway. Likewise, you won’t have to check yourself into the Betty Ford clinic once you recuperate from your chest cold.

Yeah. This stuff kicks my ass! It’s like the moonshine of the pharmaceutical medicines - the kind of foul, nasty stuff that comes in mason jugs and could strip the paint off cars and provide the subject matter for oodles of Steve Earle songs. I still have the hangover from my first bout of the sniffles back in October.

I have no real preference for either the ‘Daytime’ or ‘Nighttime’ varieties of NyQuil however. After all, my cold virus doesn’t exactly know what time it is nor would it ever give a shit anyways as it’s primary concern already lays elsewhere, namely, in the making me feel like a complete drippy sack of snot. I don’t think for one second that the germs in my system are going to stop their raging Marti Gras just because I happened to accessorize the right timeframe for my chosen cold medicine.

These are germs – not canaries. You can’t trick them into sleeping while you go about your day.

I actually look forward to getting sick now because it means that I can once again indulge in a little mind-altering stimulus the likes of which I haven’t experienced since my first Grateful Dead concert.

Two tablespoons of the stuff and suddenly I turn into Courtney Love.

There should be the added warning on all NyQuil bottle labels:

“Consuming too much of this product, particularly without the expressed consent of a family doctor or physician, can induce drastic distortions of perception and altered states of reality and may cause you to sing show tunes out loud in public.”