Hot Pussy

(WARNING: This post actually contains no mention or subject matter of vaginas, hot or otherwise, or splayed genitalia of any kind)

My cat has developed a most thoroughly disgusting habit.

Now that the humid weather is upon us, he has searched out the coolest spot in the apartment in which he can escape the heat of the day. Unfortunately, this place also happens to be the bathroom tile located behind my toilet. You can image how disconcerting this is to me.

But of course, I am going to anyway.

For all you single fellas, perhaps even some of you single gals, and definitely you attached girls who often spend nights at their boyfriends, I don’t have to tell you how many different kinds of gross thrive back there. It’s like a germ Xanadu, for Christ sake!

Saddam Hussein wouldn’t hide his weapons of mass destruction back there.

What is it about animals that they don't seem to mind fecal odours? Dogs sniff each others asses in greeting, cats roll in dead bird carcassess, and now my cat has taken to spreading himself out in my latenight slips and drips *. It must have a stink back there that's practically epic. Of course, I can't confirm this exactly, since like most bachelors, like myself, consider cleaning the toilet a faux pas on par with cleaning the barbecue or emptying out the finished coffee cups from the backseat.

But I imagine it's pretty bad.

But regardless, now my cat is venturing into this No Man's Land. Then, after he's all cool and content, he decides that he wants to be, like, all cuddly.

* That's right - I drip. So what? Considering what I'm working with, half-asleep, during my late night bathroom visit, how could I not slosh around just a little? It's like trying to fill a shot glass with a high-powered firehose. It's bound to get a little messy.

Mint Whore (Reprise)

You know, on second thought, why shouldn’t I have eaten that damn mint?

Swayer offers a very plausible defense in that if she really had wanted that mint, why didn't she stick around at the table for an extra minute or so before disappearing to the bathroom to gussy up?

Who could blame me for submitting to man’s most primal instinct to feed? She should consider herself lucky I didn’t club her during dinner to get at her leftover croutons! Believe me, the “healthy” garden salad and barley risotto she ordered for me wasn’t fit to feed a grasshopper. And then there was the whole not wanting dessert because she was getting “chilly” and wanted to go.

I passed up dessert, for Pete’s sake! ME! Passed up dessert! That extra chocolate mint was like waving a bowl of chocolate trifle under a starving child’s nose and then expecting them not to help themselves. Leaving that mint vulnerable at the table as she did, I had assumed, was an open invitation to indulge myself. Besides, if she was so fucking health conscious in the first place, why would she even want it?! That's a wee bit hypocritical, isn't it?

So what does it matter that I ate it? Fuck it. I ate it, it was delicious, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat!

Mint Whore

I was busted today - big time.

While out dining with a female companion it came time to receive our bill, and with it, those complimentary mints. About the same time, my companion excused herself to go to the bathroom to “freshen up” before we settled up and left.

So while she left the table to primp and preen, or whatever it is that women do in the bathroom that takes for-friggin-ever, I decided to look over the bill; and in doing so, helped myself to one the mints.

There were two mints - obviously, one of each of us.

The problem started in that one mint was one of those finer gourmet chocolate flavored mints, and the other was merely just one of those bland generic mints that you'd sooner find at the bottom of any old ladies purse. Of course - being the gentleman I am - I took the less fancy one and left the nicer chocolate mint for her and proceeded to work out the tip.

Quickly, however, I finished my lackluster mint and began to grow impatient waiting for my friend to return to the table so we could leave. The whole time, there’s her mint staring at me from the bill tray – practically calling my name.

I could eat it and she would be none the wiser. I even went so far to craft a plan where I could conceal both wrappers in the dirty plates to be cleared away and immediately attempt to steer her away to the exit before she suspected what was up and that she was leaving mintless. And with that, I gave into my selfless gluttony, hurriedly scarfed down the chocolate mint, stashed the evidence away, and prepared to make the clean break once she returned.

I overlooked one small detail in my plan, however: the fact that I was still crunching away on my ill-gotten chocolate mint when she returned suddenly. Immediately she became suspicious.

“Where’s my mint?” she inquired. Obviously she had been expecting her after dinner mint too.

Uh-oh! The gig was up already. Panic began to set it.

“Umm, what mint?” was all I could muster in response. But my sheepish face must have given me away immediately. I tried to change the topic quickly, “let’s just pay the bill and get out of here.” But she was having none of it.

“You ate my mint, didn’t you!” she pressed.

What could I say? The flesh was weak. It certainly was not one of the prouder moments in the life of your beloved CTRM.

And I wonder why I'm still single.

Maximum Overdrive

What’s the deal with those motorized carts nowadays? Does everybody have one but me?

I remember when those things used to be exclusively for the elderly, the disabled, and golfers.

Now it seems that just about everybody and their brother owns and rides around on these over-sized scooters. They’re simply everywhere - on the sidewalks, in the streets, in the malls, in the store aisles – fucking everywhere!

It’s bad enough I have to deal with regular traffic on the roadways, but now I have to be mindful not to be rundown by some lazy dipshit in a Rascal as well. In fact, the next time someone honks as me in a public building to move because they can’t motor past me in the aisle, I’m going to go ballistic and rain down a wrath of destruction of which the world hasn’t witnessed since Biblical times. Heavens-fucking-forbid should my blissfully checking out the nutritional value on a box of salt-free crackers impede on your fast-paced world.

Since when were cripples and old people ever in a hurry to get anywhere? Where do they have to get to so quickly? They're practically dead, or near death, anyway - what's the big rush?

Chances are, if they can no longer maintain a valid driver's license, anyway, they're not going to fare much better behind the wheel of one of these carts either. But these motorized carts aren’t just for the aged and handicapped anymore. Nooooo! Now you see all types of idiots from all walks of life riding around on the damn things too - old people, not-so-old-people, fat people, not-so-fat people, perfectly fine but still stupid looking people, as well as any ‘ol retard in a sweatsuit too lazy to drag themselves off their damn ass!

The only people who should be driving around in motorized carts are authentic card-carrying senior citizens*, handicapped persons, and Shriners.

Everybody else should be forced to walk, hobble, limp, shuffle, or crawl to their destinations if they don’t already have themselves a car, or some other recognized vehicular mode of public transport available.

* And I mean old enough to remember friggin’ dinosaurs!

Good Morning Little Schoolgirl

The nice spring weather is finally here and I think it can finally said that I have morphed into a dirty old man. In fact, the hotter the weather becomes, the younger the woman I find myself ogling in the Supermarkets.

It’s embarrassing to admit, however, it’s unfortunately all true. I already realize all the psychological mumbo-jumbo that could be employed to explain my progressing sexual interests in younger women, in that my subconscious male desperation to procreate has me unconsciously searching out the most prime candidates with whom to unload my seed and thereby guarantee the continuation of my genealogical bloodline.

Oh, horseshit! I just love me some young supple stripper boobs in tight halter-tops – period.

End of story.

At last, I feel I have to be open about this. I’ve been waiting for Ms. Right to come along since the time I hit puberty, but so far, she has not materialized. Even more evasive is Ms. Right Now. In recent years, the only women to have expressed any interest in me whatsoever have been of the older, haggard, divorced with three snot-nosed kids and all the sex appeal of an old shoe variety.

To say the women my age I meet have “issues” is like saying that Adolf Hitler needed “light therapy”.

Why wouldn’t young women appeal to me? They just have that certain ‘joie de vivre’ that I don’t find anymore with women my own age.

Of course, there is the unfortunate tragic catch-22 in that if I were ever to successfully land me a young nubile goddess with which to bump uglies, my aged male heart would probably explode in my chest mid-copulation.

But, oh, what a way to go!

Debbie Does New Delhi

Even hotter than the current heat wave to bake the Indian and Pakistani areas is the surmounting tension in India after several demonstrators, a policeman and a television cameraman were injured on Monday during fresh protests over the sex scandal that allegedly involved bureaucrats, police officials and politicians.

Hundreds of veiled women, children and men marched through central Srinagar calling for the government to punish those involved in the scandal that has sparked outrage in largely conservative, Muslim-majority Kashmir. The scandal was unearthed after videos and multimedia messages on mobile phones showing nude girls and amateur porn films began circulating in Srinagar. Carrying placards and shouting slogans demanding "severest punishment to the guilty," protesters broke through police barricades, pelting stones and bricks at police.

Okay – sorry, but Indian porn? What’s that exactly - some unveiled chick eating a hamburger at a mosque? I mean, really, how hardcore could hardcore Indian porn really be?

They still have the Plague in India don’t they? So I can only imagine then how stringent their testing is for STD’s within the Indian porn business. "No, I'm sorry Ms. Khan, but you tested positive for Bubonic Plague." Now I don’t know about you, but I don’t think that anyplace called Srinagar is going to be featured on any episode of Sin Cities anytime soon!

Poverty and pestilence are not, by any stretch of the imagination, to be considered sexy.

I don’t care how gorgeous or inviting any of the Indian porn starlets may seem – there just isn’t a condom “safe” enough that would ever convince me to penetrate any Indian orifices. I’d probably have an easier time getting aroused in a Civil War field hospital than I would on the set of any Indian porn movie. I wouldn't even dare sport a boner while flying over Indian air space for that matter!

The best part of all this, is the video footage on the late night news. Security forces used high-powered water cannons as well as bamboo truncheons to disperse the mostly burkahed demonstrators, said Hasib Mughal, a police officer at the scene.

Wow – that must have been fun!

At one point, when the cameraman had been knocked off his feet and was being swept away down the street, it looked strangely, like a real live version of Penguin Bowling as women raced away with their sagging signs.

My Cup Runneth Empty

I have a new pet peeve: tin cups!

Just about everybody has his or her hand out for a “tip” these days. Apparently, it is no longer understood that one can perform his or her work efficiently without expecting to be immediately rewarded for doing so.

It’s not the people whose areas of employment warrant a small monetary gratuity after they have performed some exemplary personal service over and above what was expected that I have a problem with – that’s normal. It’s all the other lazy idiots whom believe that just by putting out a tin can requesting tips, that people should be compelled to offer them extra.

Horseshit!

You make a choice every morning when you wake up and put on your stupid paper hat before going into work that you will be expected to perform, while there, some menial service or labor for your employer. And for doing such service, you will be rewarded accordingly with something called a “weekly (or biweekly, monthly, or what-have-you) paycheck”!

Just because you work a minimum wage job and your zits could win prizes at the county fair, does not obligate me to leave you something extra just because you remembered to ask me if I wanted ketchup for my fries. If you expect something extra – earn it!

At the very least tell me how amazing I look, appear thrilled that I have decided to grace your presence, or at least compliment my choice of bedroom slippers when I shuffle in for my late night burger combo meal.

Honestly, there was a woman at the corner store this afternoon checking through shoppers with all the jovial sincerity of a rabid wildebeest, but there was her little tin cup on the counter politely asking for personal donations from those she so callously dismissed with nary a grunt of contempt.

For her cantankerous nature and a displayed skill set about as useless as that of the French war machine, I’d sooner drop my drawers and take a dump in her cup than leave anymore of my hard-earned money.

Yo Quiero Cinco de Mayo

So, another Cinco de Mayo holiday season has passed - this time with hardly so much a taco fart being passed in the streets by a drunken fast food worker. I find that kind of surprising considering all the attention that the illegal immigrants have been making in the news lately.

I was half expecting some mass Cinco de Mayo celebration-slash-protest to erupt in violence over the weekend…but so far, nada. Not even a single walkout from disgruntled Denny’s workers. In fact, Cinco de Mayo pretty much passed unnoticed this year.

Maybe it was the ill sentiment for immigration protests last week being expressed by native Americans, or maybe it was just the fact that nobody really knows what the fuck Cinco de Mayo is anyway. Mexico declared its independence from mother Spain on midnight, the 15th of September 1810. And it took 11 years before the first Spanish soldiers were told and forced to leave Mexico.

So, why Cinco de Mayo? And why should the rest of us savor this day as well? Because 4,000 Mexican soldiers smashed the French and traitor Mexican army of 8,000 at Puebla, Mexico, 100 miles east of Mexico City on the morning of May 5, 1862? Sure, that sounds like a great Antonio Banderas movie and all – but what significance is that for me?

It seems to me that Cinco de Mayo is just an excuse for University students to get catastrophically drunk off their asses and light off fireworks in their Common rooms. The real significance of the holiday has been long forgotten by annual partygoers. Ask any tequila soaked rhubarb you find stumbling around campus who Colonel Porfirio Diaz was and they’re likely to answer that he was Cameron Diaz’s father or something. Certainly not the Mexican army officer who’s combined determination and inspiration could have very well attributed to the overall survival of the United States leading to the defeat of the Confederacy at Gettysburg and thereby ending the American Civil War. No, sir!

Considering that thousands of migrant workers had just finished marching in protest to rally support for their cultural only the previous Monday, celebrations this year were considerably subdued.

I, for one, celebrated Cinco de Mayo this year by dusting off my stash of Herp Alpert vinyl albums, tipping the drive-thru attendant at Taco Bell and returning home to spend the rest of the evening watching midget wrestling on the SPIC Channel.

A real trifecta of authentic Mexican culture, eh?

Anyone for Tennis?

The American media is currently having a lot of fun at the expense of Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, Al-Qaeda’s head honcho in Iraq, after the release of three more propaganda video tapes from Al-Qaeda leaders.

The videos were released to Islamic Websites just recently in an attempt to embarrass the West by showing that the terrorists were still able to communicate with their followers, despite the intensive efforts to capture or kill them and the $25 million bounty that is on each of their heads.

More videotapes of angry, bearded guys in turbans – just what this world needs more of.

This time, however, it seems that some outtakes from these particular videos were found during a routine military raid in Afghanistan that depict some rather entertaining scenes involving al-Zarqawi

Uh-oh, somebody found Osama’s private terrorist Blooper Reel.

One video that the American media is having fun with is one that shows al-Zarqawi having trouble firing a machine gun for the camera. It seems that the mighty terrorist leader doesn’t know how to unjam his own weapon. Some killer.

Oops. Is this thing on?

However, I would like to caution the media (like they would ever listen anyway) about making too much light of al-Zarqawi. After all, if he’s such an incapable, bumbling moron, as they seem to be suggesting…

…HOW COME YOU HAVING FUCKING CAUGHT HIM YET?!

Capeesh?

It has also been suggested that al-Zarqawi, instead being the seasoned, war-hardened veteran that he portrays himself as is, in actuality, someone who clearly can’t handle his firearms.

That’s an interesting comment considering Vice President Dick Cheney just finished shooting some guy in the face on a quail hunting trip! Umm, hello?

Perhaps, we could settle the whole crisis in the Middle East with a skeet shooting competition between al-Zarqawi and Cheney. Of course, given the marksmanship of both leaders, perhaps it would just be easier, and quicker, to just duke it out on the dessert battlefield as is currently happening.

World diplomacy demands that these two dipshits face each with dueling pistols at dawn. And no matter what the outcome of this contest may be - at least it's safe to say that everyone would come out a winner.

Wet Behind the Ears

Does anyone really give a shit about magician David Blaine?

Not me - thats for sure.

To date, the man has performed some pretty bizarre stunts including his being buried alive for seven days, being frozen in the world's largest cocktail ice cube for 61 hours, perched atop a 90 foot pole for 35 hours, and dangled above the ground for 44 days.

These arn't calculated works of performance art - these are the works of a complete retard. At the very least, someone with a pretty severe Death Wish. I once spent 4 days confined in my bathroom after eating some tainted deli meat but you don't see me bragging about it, do you?

Blaine's latest public stunt, aptly namd "Drowned Alive", is to stay submerged in a human aquarium for an entire week. For what purpose one can only fucking imagine. At the end of this trial by water, Blaine will attatch himself to a 150 lbs of chain and remove his breathing apparatus before attempting to escape his specially-designed aquarium.

Is anybody still awake?

Seven days of him bobbing around like a comatose jelly fish - thats a hell of a long period to wait for the Grand Finale. Can't we just shackle him, switch off the oxygen valve, and just get it over with now?

Sure, levitation was a neat palor trick - so are his multiple card tricks - but if this guy really wants to impress me, stage something a bit more, well, dangerous. So he's on view outside the Lincoln Center in Manhattan, N.Y. for all to see...

*yawn*

Forget hanging in a glass bubble outside the Tower of London, or risking severe shrinky-dink in a human sized fish bowl - take a chainsaw to your nads, juggle cobra snakes, bungee jump into a tank of dried concrete, or at least do something a little bit more spontaneously shocking, and therefore, news worthy of a complete suicidal asshat such as he is.