Tofu Plankton Meatloaf

Titty Monkeys

2010-08-30T07:08:00.000-07:00

A man who tried to smuggle 18 monkeys by hiding them under his jumper has been arrested by border police. Roberto Zavaleta Sol Cabrera attempted to enter Mexico City International airport with several non-indigenous titi monkeys stuffed into socks and hidden in a girdle strapped around his waist.

Now, I’ve heard of lots of weird things being smuggled before, and in a whole variety of creative ways, of course, but did they say “titty monkeys” and, if so, how do I get me one of these things?

Apparently, these endangered titty (spelled ‘titi’) monkeys were discovered after officials spotted the smuggler behaving “nervously” and detected a mysterious bulge under his jumper. I guess that isn’t very surprising given that the man had about a dozen restless primates shoved down his drawers. That’s certainly bound to make one look a little uncomfortable, isn’t it? Now, the pants bulge part I’m just going to overlook here. I know no one has ever pulled me over at any border crossing for any suspicious pants bulges, so I’m just going to let this one pass.

Furthermore, a spokesman for Mexico’s Public Safety Department said Cabrera became “markedly nervous” when questioned about what he was carrying; as if having a pantsload of titty monkeys isn’t enough to make you a bit anxious. Hell, if it were me you would have seen me coming for the bulge in my pants miles away. My bulge would have shown up for inspection way before I did. But good call for the customs officers for being able to identify people with livestock on their persons nonetheless - nothing gets by these guys! But unfortunately, two of the monkeys were already dead.

And dead titty monkeys is definitely not a good omen.

The 38-year-old admitted that he had bought the six-inch South American monkeys in Peru and then carried them in his luggage on a flight from Lima. He claimed to have hidden the creatures in his clothing to protect them from X-rays in luggage-scanning equipment. Wasn’t that considerate? Wouldn’t want the cramped and suffocating monkeys to be threatened by any harmful x-rays now would we?

No one likes a cancer ridden titty monkey after all.

He was arrested on charges of trafficking an endangered species and taken to the office of the Federal Attorney for Environmental Protection for further investigation. Titi monkeys are a protected species under the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora, and a special permit is required for their legal possession. The Mexican government also just recently placed restrictions on imports of primates, but monkeys continue to be sold along with parrots and reptiles at the Sonora market in Mexico City.

Cabrera said he had paid $30 for each of the monkeys, which can be sold for up to $1,550 in Mexico. He described the animals as “pets”, as Mexico has a deep-rooted tradition of keeping such wild animals as pets. The South American border country is also key trade route for people trying to smuggle animals into the US.

Thirty dollars for a titty monkey? What a deal! That’s definitely less than I would pay locally here. Except that maybe Cabrera should have consider making his fortune selling titty monkeys on eBay instead.

The Sandwich War

2010-08-19T10:43:00.001-07:00

Today, quite possibly, another of the seven signs of the Apocalypse has been turned loose upon us. No, not plagues of locus or frogs raining down from the sky or anything like that, but Burger King did just launch its new NY Pizza Burger in Times Square.

Why is that so bad? The burger, if it can be called that, comes on a 10-inch bun that contains four quarter-pound burger patties, pepperoni, mozzarella cheese, Tuscan pesto sauce and marinara sauce. The burger is then cut into six slices, like a pizza, and served in a cardboard box not unlike a pizza box. It contains 2,520 calories and costs $12.99 US.

Good lord, that’s more calories than most Africans, will see in an entire week for Pete sakes! You practically have to take out life insurance just to purchase one over the counter. I hope some of the proceeds are going towards Third World Famine, as this is just ridiculous. I wonder what those poor starving children would make of these commercials of entire families sitting down to a single sandwich.

Why would anybody need that much food at one sitting? Sure the intent is for the “burger” to be shared and not tackled alone, but, really? I somehow doubt this is how it will play out.

This is, however, only the newest in a long line of new ultra-fatty fast-food meals. Others include the KFC Double Down — two pieces of deep-fried chicken sandwiching cheese and bacon — and the Krispy Kreme Cheeseburger, a bacon cheeseburger that uses Krispy Kreme doughnuts as a bun. Just what the world needs, of course.

How fucking gross is that?

Yes, our precious fast-food joints are literally waging war on each other to create the most least-healthy and lethal sandwiches legally available for sale at any restaurant.

Personally, I blame the Food Network and their recent features about American “Culinary Classics”, like ‘Diners, Drive-ins and Dives” with host Guy Fieri. He’s literally breeding a whole new culture of high-calorie, high-fat, low-nutrition, yet impeccably delicious food. He’s practically taken a spatula and bashed in Jenny Craig’s head with it.

Screw your hoity-toity cerviches, ragout’s, salads and stir-fry’s, its hello sandwiches the size of Rhode Island. Shit, I say throw in an $1.99 for an angioplasty and then supersized for your casket.

Animal Armageddon

2010-07-30T07:55:00.000-07:00

I called it – the bears are up to something.

Not only are the Americans themselves secretly rallying around their anti-Canadian sentiments, but now they’ve also enlisted the aid of bears to help them in their conquest. Bad enough they decided to gas flocks of Canadian Geese in New York’s Central Park, but now they’re turning loose grizzly bears on hapless Canadian vacationers.

This past weekend a Canadian woman from London, Ontario was attacked by a grizzly bear in Yellowstone National Park at the Soda Butt campground close to the Wyoming-Montana border. Deb Freele, an avid fisherwoman was sleeping in her tent when she awoke to find the grizzly bear nibbling on her arm.

Talk about the ultimate buzz kill to any camping vacation, eh?

Granted, the bear also wandered off to attack two other American campers in the park and mauling one to death. But, hey, that’s not really surprising considering that once you wind up a stealth ninja bear, it’s next to impossible to get them to stand down again. It’s a cocked and loaded weapon ready to fire on anyone that comes into its path. But there’s no doubt in my mind that this was intended to be a meditated attack on the unsuspecting Canucks.

Luckily, Freele only escaped with a broken forearm and multiple bite marks down to the bone. Her husband who was sleeping next to a nearby running stream never even awoke.

So the question now is how do we Canadians retaliate?

I say we mount lasers to the heads of our caribou and drive the herds south of the border to wreck havoc. Or maybe we could enlist beaver volunteers to be a bonsai-style weapon by stuffing nuclear explosives in their orifices and then ship them to the major American city centers to detonate on arrival – Beaver Bombs.

Fight fire with fire, or fauna with fauna as it were.

Animal Apocolypse

2010-07-27T06:09:00.000-07:00

I know that most people still view news stories about wild animals caught doing human things as cute, or even endearing. I however – do not. In fact, I have tried time and time again to warn the homo sapien citizens of Mother Earth to be very wary as the animal apocalypse is on the rise.

I warned you about the Senegalese monkeys fashioning sticks as spears and then again when Travis the murderous chimp when on his Xanax induced rampage. And remember those accursed rats being taught to use miniature rakes to retrieve food? Then there was the case of the hippie bear raiding marijuana fields, and the “innocent” elephant junkie. And let’s not forget about the whole teaching monkeys to control robotic limbs with their minds. Shit, we’re practically begging for it. But does anyone listen to me? No!

I am guessing that Walt Disney, Marlon Perkins and even the Crocodile Hunter have succeeded in lowering our collective guards against these rather dubious omens. And, here again, is another example of nature getting a just little too close for comfort to our way of life.

In Denver, a black bear attracted by the smell of a peanut butter sandwich managed to open the door of a car, climb in and got stuck, knocking the gear stick into neutral and sending the car rolling down a slope into trees.

Oh, suuuuuure. A peanut butter sandwich…a likely story.

My guess is that the bear was actually scoping out the car and attempting to hotwire it so he could take a little joyride around town looking for innocent human victims to attack and maul. Maybe Yogi has gotten tired of trolling around the national parks looking for picnic baskets and decided he needed to get himself set up with a set of wheels instead. Maybe he was looking to swipe the car and sell it for crack…who knows. The bottom line is that I do not believe for a second that the bear was just after a peanut butter sandwich.

As coined by the long ago misunderstood rock outfit Great White: “One bitten twice shy, babe…”

Apparently, the blare of the car horn alerted the members of the Story family who realized 17-year-old Ben's Toyota was no longer parked in the driveway of their home in Larkspur near Denver.

When they went to explore they discovered the car and trapped culprit at the bottom of the hill — a giant bear with teeth bared and claws tearing through the car's interior. Sounds like an animal in the crazed throws of a drug withdrawal if you ask me. The bear was apparently trapped inside the car for two hours before police were able to release the animal who then ran off into the nearby woods. Or maybe, the bear was enjoying the unedited ‘Inna-Godda-Da-Vida’ album on eight track in the Story’s stereo before he sobered up and decided to take off looking for another vehicle to break into.

I say that if we are ever going to stand our ground, now is the time to do it before it’s too late. What’s next? Pigeon prostitutes? Antelope running for town council? If we continue to stand by idly and just coo and laugh over these silly animal stories, we’re bound to be their bitch sooner or later.

Remembering Gord's Chick

2010-03-18T11:13:00.001-07:00

I was reminiscing the other day while walking to the office about the changing face of the St. Catharines downtown core. I thought about Gord’s Place on James Str. and the times that I used to waste away there on weekends drinking my face off during my High School and University days.

Ahh, Gord’s. Yes, the den of inequity from which spawned a thousand pubescent substance abuse problems.

Specifically, I was thinking about what might have transpired to the infamous “Gord’s Chick” who also happened to frequent the place. “Gord’s Chick” was your typical Goth girl you see at any “alternative bar” you may wander into; all done up to the nines in retro lingerie, tights, knee high boots, pale make-up and black eyeliner…basically, your average local Siouxsie Sioux rip off. While there – and she was at Gord’s every night – she would dance up a storm to any hard-edged Goth tune the DJ had a mind to play at the time. She was part graceful ballerina; part whirling dervish. She was both scary and exhilarating to watch. It looked as if she was trying to conjure up some wrath of God via a typhoon, hurricane or some other random destructive act of nature…and man, was it sexy!

But where does someone go after being a Goth? What’s the next stage of the fashion evolution once you submit yourself to looking like a zombie corpse? I just can’t picture her in later in life wearing cowboy boots and skinny jeans dancing away at a Taylor Swift concert…but who knows? Maybe she has mellowed out in her old age (or whatever age it is that “old” constitutes itself as when you’re classified as an undead), popped out a few puppies and now lives on social assistance down by the railroad tracks.

You never know, do you?

I prefer to think of her as still raging against the dying of the light - a perpetual benchmark as far as full-time dedicated Goths go. I sincerely hope I see her again at some point. Perhaps at the market trying to buy kitten whiskers for her next witchy concoction, or maybe trying to raise spirits in some deserted graveyard or something. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll catch a glimpse of her dancing away by herself in some abandoned bus stop somewhere without a care in the world as if time had stood still and she was still back on the dance floor at Gord’s.

Jogging Your Mind About Running Safety

2010-03-17T12:19:00.001-07:00

I have been getting more into long distance running as of late, and it seems I’ve been stressing about all the wrong things.

When I originally started pushing the 10-15km mark on these runs, my initial fear was typically in the usual areas: chaffing, cramping, proper hydration, nutrition, pulls, tears, sprains, heart spontaneously combusted inside my chest cavity – that kind of thing. Little did I know that there were much worse concerns that I should have been considering before heading out on these early morning death marches.

Specifically: crashing airplanes.

Robert Jones of Woodstock, GA was recently killed while running along the beach when a single-engine plane making an emergency landing managed to crash right on top of him. Sucks, huh?

But, hello? How does that happen exactly?

Where it’s true about why would a runner ever need to keep his eyes on the sky while out jogging, how on earth can you manage to miss a plane coming directly at you after it has fallen out of the sky? Well, it seems that Mr. Jones had a fondness for his iPod on these runs and therefore did not hear the airplane coming at him. I also assume then that Mr. Jones really likes his music loud.

Personally, I too love my tunes when I run but I doubt I would ever miss the sound of a crashing plane. This sounds more of a case of “stupid runner syndrome” to me, where once a runner begins to experience that euphoric rush of adrenaline, they also make the idiotic assumption that they are the center of the universe, where everything conscientiously revolves around and avoids them (ie. cars, cyclists, and as it were…crashing airplanes).

To this I would advise: turn down the Bon Jovi and focus more on the impending dangers going on around you. Trust that the impossible is possible and that stupid people are everywhere ready to hurtle into at high speeds reducing you to an oily smear on someone’s windshield.

Skull Quandary

2009-03-15T12:24:00.000-07:00

Hey, maybe somebody slipped an asshole tablet into my Corn Flakes this morning or something, but what is up with the recent fashion trend of having skulls emblazoned on everything?

Who shops at Walmart exactly – the undead?

Seriously, on just about every t-shirt, casual shirt, and even dress shirt in the store there is a picture of a skull. Either as the main design across the chest, or small cutesy little skulls sewn onto the breast pocket the skulls are everywhere. When and how did this become the popular designer motif? It's as if the department stores of the world have performed some kind of mass marketing Vulcan mind twist on us all in order to convince us that skulls are, in fact, cool.

I’m sure the teenybopper vitamin-C deficient Goth kids and the greasy meth people you see hanging around at the bus station bumming cigarettes love their skull shirts - but I’m thirty-fucking-seven years old, dammit! I don’t particularly want skulls on my clothes, as I don’t feel that they accurately represent where I am at this stage of my life, thank you very much.

Can you image me wearing skull clothes? What kind of message is that to send out for a single thirty-seven year old man? “Hi, my name is Terry and I may or may not have a body in the trunk of my car. Can I get your number?” I'm not going to coax many dates that way am I? No! I’m likely to have an easier time teaching square dancing to coma patients.

Now, I’m not saying that I’m some kind of a fashion plate or anything – shit, I couldn’t get pussy from a dead cat. Even my fantasies just want to be friends. But if I were to suddenly take to wearing any of these plentiful skull shirts I’d give off all the sophistication of a two marbles rolling around inside a tin can.

Doesn't anyone wear shirts with cute, little harmless alligators or non-assuming horses on them anymore?

Mad Dash of Shame

2008-11-18T07:07:00.000-08:00

There comes a time in every mature adults life where they must endure some single catastrophic event that ultimately humbles them enough to remind them that no matter how bad things can get that they could definitely be worse…a whole lot worse.

And I had just such a near tragic epiphany only yesterday. Yes, if you really want to take yourself down a notch and remind yourself how quickly things can spiral out of control simply try shitting yourself; because nothing says “I’m not in control of my environment” like a grown man standing on his front porch with his pants full of crap.

I must have done some really bad things in my past for fate to suddenly turn around and deliver such a lethal kidney shot to my already damaged ego.

And here I thought things had been going pretty well. I’m still working out and training hard, I’m eating healthily and I’m trying to look after myself. So how then did I end up sprinting down the middle of my street with my butt cheeks clenched tight to prevent the fecal matter from dripping down my pant leg?

If I knew that healthy living was going to come at the risk of spontaneously shitting yourself in mid-dash for your apartment complex then I might have reconsidered that gym membership. Likewise, I might have to ease up on the vegetable salads and bean dips in the future.

I suppose the glass-is-half-full attitude is that because I’ve now become accustomed to running in the evenings I can honestly say that the whole incident could have turned out worse had my mad dash to the front door been any slower. It could have escalated into a total Orange Alert situation instead of the minor toxic leak it was.

Who knew that the “Mechanics of Running” workshop I’ve been attending on Tuesday nights would prove so handy?

Nipping "Jogger's Nipple" In the Bud

2008-11-06T10:23:00.000-08:00

I woke up today with a most peculiar ailment.

Now, I’m used to the aches and pains associated with living out an active lifestyle – particularly now that I’ve begun training in earnest for triathlons – but what I woke up to this morning transcends any level of comfort I had for enduring any sporting injury. You see, I woke up this morning with throbbing achy nipples. And I’m not talking about any slight discomfort here; I’m talking about a nagging pain as if I had spent the entire night breastfeeding a litter of baby badgers.

WTF?!

As it turns out, after a little investigation on the Internet I learned that I am in fact suffering from an acute case of what has become known as “jogger’s nipple”.

Oh goodie.

If having to take special care of the plantar fasciitis in my feet and the bursitis in my wrist – not to mention the developing arthritis in my elbow – is not enough, now I also have to worry about icing my man tits too?

I’m just not prepared to deal with this jogger’s nipple or any other nipple-related injuries for that matter! I think it’s time I rethink this whole healthy living thing!

After all, the remedies – albeit easy enough – just don’t sound too enticing either. Most informational sporting injury sites I visited simply suggested the wearing of and-aids on my nipples when I go for a run.

Pardon? That doesn't sound very masculine does it?

If I remember correctly that didn’t turn out too well for Janet Jackson either did it?

Shit, if I have to start putting band-aids on my nips I may as well just go full hog and get myself a pacifier and take to wearing sparkly leotards and face paint while I’m at it.

Sheesh!

Raking In the Terror

2008-09-10T07:10:00.000-07:00

(This was conceptualized and written months ago but was promptly forgotten about. It was added now in hindsight as further warning of the pending animal apocolypse looming over us.)

A new research being conducted by Japan’s Institute of Physical and Chemical Research (RIKEN), conducted over a 60-day period, has taught 6 rodents to use tools – namely, a rake – to obtain food.

Now, obviously no one has paid the slightest bit of attention to me when I warned you all about the stick-wielding chimpanzees, so here it is again:

SMART ANIMALS ARE A THREAT TO US ALL!

It is not “cute” in any way. This signals another small slip for mankind towards an all out war with the entire animal kingdom for total supremacy of planet earth!

These rodents are actually degus who have learned to use a miniature rake to retrieve sunflower seeds from under a glass fence. This is the first known case in which rodents have been taught to use tools.

Swell.

First of all, shouldn’t the Japanese be more interested in utilizing their best scientific minds to research more important things like being able to take muff shots from outer space, or designing a sleek, fuel efficient automobile able to fold up into your wallet?

But I digress.

A Japanese scientist may someday also teach an octopus to tap dance, but at least that shouldn’t threaten man’s place on the evolutionary totem pole…although Gregory Hines may be a bit nervous. Clearly the Japanese researchers have not completely thought about the possible consequences of these particular actions. I doubt they’re looking to train a new wave of cheap labor to look after their Zen gardens, no sir! As it was with the chimps using sticks to stab their prey, it’s only a short leap from using a rake to firing an RPG at a school bus full of children.

Don’t put it past the fucking rats!

They already out populate we human’s almost a million to one or something crazy like that. Do we also need to teach them how to use tools? We’re not going to be happy until we just totally hand over control of the planet to our new rodent overlords. In fact, rats multiple so often that within 18 months a rat can have over a million descendents.

That’s a lot of potential rodent terrorists floating around with itchy trigger fingers!

In time, we’ll all just be subservient peons to our new rat masters who’ll be guarded by the militant stick-wielding super monkeys with robotic limbs.

How’s that for a bleak future?

I’d rather take one of those tiny rakes and have some chimp stab it directly into my frontal lobe now than suffer a fate to the Rodent Regime later.

Weightroom No-No

2008-09-09T12:28:00.000-07:00

It’s already been established by this point that I have become a bit of a gym snob. I like my sweaty late night workouts; I like my exercise routines; and I like developing these things I’ve heard people refer to as “muscles”.

Cool.

I’ve even become the kind of person we all hate at the gym. The kind of person who wears all the hip, fashionable workout wear, sports the newest in gym accessories, and knows all the trendy drinks and protein supplements available on the market. A regular Jack Lalanne if you will – only younger and with more pigmentation.

Yep, I’m “that guy”.

That was up until this past weekend, however, when one of my normal gym visits took a rather embarrassing turn for the worse.

There I was, standing in front of all my buff, ripped peers by the water fountain struggling to get the top off my water bottle.

How embarrassing!

Not exactly a good sign when you start your workout by fighting to remove the lid from your water bottle.

Yeah, some tough guy, huh?

So what do you do? Do you ask someone else for help? Do you start tapping the lid with a small dumbbell to loose it, or do you just run the bottle under hot water?

Either way you’re going to look like a colossal pussy.

Kosher Conundrum

2008-09-01T12:15:00.000-07:00

Today, over a ham sandwich, I had a very interesting conversation today with a Jewish work mate who felt the need to educate me on the religious and health ramifications surrounding “kosher” meats.

So I had to ask: what does the Torah have against pigs exactly anyway?

I mean, when I personally think of pigs I tend to think of bacon, spareribs, fall-off-the-bone ham, Wilbur, Ms. Piggy, Piglet, Arnold Ziffel, Porky & Petunia, and lets not forget about Babe, that infamous swine who ran amuck in the city. What’s not to love exactly? Well, I guess there is always that whole “piggies” metaphor for the upcoming class war that Charles Manson had such a hard on about…but I digress. The bottom line where I stand is that pigs are not only cute and endearing animals, but they’re also delicious as fuck.

What’s not to love?

So it confuses me when an entire class of people should entirely refuse to associate themselves with these tender, succulent creatures. So what was it specifically that turned these people against the poor, innocent pigs?

As it was explained to me, any animal that chews their cud and has split hooves will be perfectly acceptable for consumption. However, should the animal miss either of these criteria they are considered to be “unclean” and, therefore, forbidden for consumption. For this reason, the Torah has banned the consumption of camels, pigs, rock badgers, and hares are all deemed forbidden because they lack one of the two qualifying criteria.

Too bad, because everybody knows how tasty camel kebobs can be.

So this basic formula for deciding on whether an animal is fit for eating or not seems to be solely based on cosmetic reasoning. Hey, if God designed cloven hooves for certain animals who are we to say they are suddenly a dietary abomination? Besides, so what if they regurgitate their food or walk on split hooves? It might be different if my honey ham were to suddenly puke up its dinner on my plate but as it is it’s not an issue. Likewise, the fact that pigs can’t fit into a pair of glass slippers is hardly a deterrent either.

Who cares?

They’re dead!

Cartoon Phobia

2008-09-01T11:58:00.000-07:00

I have been trying recently to put my finger on the route cause of my depression lately. I’m seemingly doing all the right things; exercising, eating healthy, what have you. But I still have no idea why at this point in my life at 36 years old I’m so confused as to what my purpose in life is.

Granted I have a life quest to seek out the perfect cheeseburger, but there has to be more than that. Why am I so unmotivated to excel in my personal life? Who’s to blame? Everything else is hereditary so why not depression as well? Surely it can’t be my fault that I turned out to be a 36-year-old loser, can it?

Want to know who I blame?

The childhood cartoons I watched growing up - that's what!

If anything else, I am a product of washed up hippies and their 70’s/80’s children’s shows.

Let’s look at the evidence:

The Smurfs – Little blue three-apple high creatures living communally in magic mushroom houses. How much more fucked up does it get? It’s no wonder they didn’t lock me up and throw away the key right there. Besides, wasn’t it a bit creepy that in the whole entire Smurf village there was only one female? This alone must raise some conservative eyebrows nowadays.

Dr. Snuggles – Okay, this was the crown jewel of fucked up cartoons when I was a child. Originally a Dutch cartoon, Dr. snuggles took it’s prepubescent viewers on a tripped out journey through a fantasy world or talking badgers, wacked out duck umbrellas, walking houses, Treacle Trees, and plots that involved stealing squares of the ocean. Shit, this television show in itself was an LSD trip sans actual LSD. In retrospect, the imagery in this cartoon alone might just be responsible for at least %80 of the flashbacks I have now in my adult life. All that was missing from this particular cast of characters would be the “crabalocker fishwife pornographic priestess”. Goo goo goo joob.

Romper Room – Never mind the spacey chick who looked through her psychedelic looking mirror at children who weren’t there, what else would you expect from a cartoon that features a character named ‘Doobie the Bee’? Case and point!

Today’s Special – Here’s a real prize. Set in an after hours department store, this show depicted the antics of a magical dancing gay mannequin and a mouse who talks in rhyme. Whatever on earth was expected that I should get out of this show besides behavioral problems later in life I’ll never know.

Barbapapas – "Clickity-click Barba-trick”…whatever the fuck that means. The adventures of a family of blob-like creatures who grow out of the ground and have the ability to shape their bodies however they wish. Man, the creators of this cartoon must have really smoked some of the good shit before inking out the storyboard for this particular program.

Hercules – Seriously, it’s no wonder that this cartoon alone didn’t inflict more damage on my young impressionable mind. It definitely helps explain why I’m the warped person I am today. Did anybody else ever wonder why all the beasts always sounded the same or why such a great mythological character of such manly proportions would ever hang around some eunuch centaur?

Polka Dot Door – Now don’t get me wrong. I know that this show has been a respected bastion of TV Ontario programming for many years now, but seriously…what the hell exactly is Polkaroo? This thing makes Goofy seem like a well-documented display at the Museum of Natural History. Besides, why did the hosts always talk to their stuffed animals as if they could actually hear them or give a shit one way or the other? And if that wasn’t a sign of larger psychological problems at hand I don’t know what was. I would have had these guys committed to an insane asylum immediately – not give them their own daytime show. I doubt Bear, Marigold, Humpty or Dumpty would ever care where the male host disappeared to each time Polkaroo reared his head anyway…I know I didn’t.

A Bear Called Jeremy – One the first childhood cartoons that I can recall in the classic old school stop-motion animation style. Except that this bear wasn’t like other bears. He liked to dance and sing instead of stealing picnic baskets. This premise was flawed from the very beginning. But then again, what else did you expect from a Polish animator?

The Secret Railroad – Here was the Holy Grail of all burnt out pothead animation. A boy finds an inter-dimensional train in the basement of his apartment, complete with a girl with star-shaped hair and a guy with a cat on his head. This even made Will-O-the-Wisp seem sensible by comparison.

New Addiction!

2008-08-17T06:12:00.000-07:00

If there is anything better on this planet than women’s beach volleyball I haven’t seen it.

What’s not to love?

There’s a portable sandbox, a raucous audience of beer-guzzling fans in colored wigs, a DJ screaming overtop a thumping techno version of Billy Idol’s ‘Mony Mony’ and a dozen scantily-clad cheerleaders dancing suggestively between play – not to mention four athletic women jumping around in tiny two-piece bikini’s.

Truly, this is the sport of kings!

If this is the modern China that Chairman Mao envisioned than sign me up! It’s good to be a Communist.

Locker Room Horror Show

2008-08-11T11:11:00.000-07:00

I’ve already made it known how I feel about the excess old man nudity in the gym locker room, but today I befell a real horror of horrors, so much so that I am literally sweating at the moment just recalling this tragic event in my mind…even worse than the Oriental pubic gardener from months ago.

As I was quietly changing after a particularly exhausting workout - all the while being careful to observe the special locker-width area restrictions while doing so - I became aware of somebody encroaching on my personal space just behind me. As I turned around to confront this silent trespasser I was greeted with a sight that chilled me to the very bone. Directly in front of my face there hung a naked, purple nut sack just inches from my face as the old man behind me bent over to struggle with his knee-high stockings.

First of all: GROSS!

That’s exactly what I needed to complete my workout today: a donkey-sized scrotum being dangled before my face like some purple veined piñata.

Thanks, Pops!

Seriously, this thing looked like something you’d expect to see a burglar carrying as they exited a bank. All that was missing was a huge dollar sign tattooed on the back of his scrotum.

Second of all: do all men’s nut sacks end up this way? What kind fo unnatural forces are at work in the universe to inevitably turn our Charlie Brown's into this wrinkly freak show?

Because if they do this man is going to have himself castrated before he turns into a walking punching bag. It must suck to have to drag this monstrosity around between your legs.

Not me. No way, no how!

Nuh uh.

"One Ticket to Shitsville, Please"

2008-06-17T17:21:00.000-07:00

Tell, it looks like there’s one more passenger aboard the runaway train to Shitsville.

That’s right, it would seem that a life once devoted to “training, saying your prayers and eating your vitamins” may just land the great Hulk Hogan on the brink of social disaster, based on a recent emotional interview on the ‘Larry King Live’ show. Yep, if Hogan knows anything best it’s how shitty life can get when your wife divorces you for a 19-year-old.

And all this after the Hulk’s son was recently sentenced to eight months behind bars after pleading no contest to causing a crash critically injuring his friend. So while little Hulk Jr. is off playing ‘new fish’ with three other juvenile offenders, Linda Bollea, 48, is off banging some dude too young to even remember the original Bush administration.

Where to start?

First of all, it has to be said: this 19-year-old kid, Charlie Hill, must have balls the size of planets! Imagine being the guy in high school who managed to bone Hulk Hogan’s wife. That's way cooler than growing a premature mustache. Shit, I bet his classmates have already deified him! They’re probably erecting a statue of the guy in their school concourse as I type.

‘Ol Charlie must be hung like a rogue stallion.

Of course, if I were Charlie I’d be totally paranoid about having the 24-inch pythons hunt me out and squish me out of existence. The last thing I need in life is a former 300 lb ex-professional wrestling champion pissed off at me.

I know if I were Hulk I’d be all kinds of pissed off and looking to lay a Royal Rumble-sized beat down on anyone who dared to defile the sanctity of my marriage.

“Wha’cha gonna do, bruther?”

Semper Fido

2008-06-12T18:10:00.000-07:00

Animal rights activists as well as every other human being – apart from this one that is – are in absolute shock over the release of a video on 'YouTube' showing U.S. soldiers pitching a little black-and-white puppy off a cliff for no other reason than it seemed like a good idea at the time.

The grainy puppy snuff footage depicts two U.S. soldiers stationed in Iraq cooing over a cute puppy before launching it into a deep ravine as the puppy is heard whimpering. That puppy achieved a better hang time than Michael Jordan.

Pretty horrific shit, eh?

I say ‘Good for the soldiers’. One less terrorist puppy to worry about!

Let’s face it, this puppy – cute or not – could, quite possibly, have been the next weapon of mass destruction. Ready to walk himself into a soldier’s barracks, or embassy building wearing a little collar stuffed with plastic explosive; resulting in the deaths of dozens, maybe hundreds of our brave soldiers.

Hello?

This is war people! And war is hell, haven’t you heard?

Has anyone considered that our peacekeeping troops have figured out how to spot themselves a dangerous terrorist puppy from a regular puppy by now?

I think so!

Hey, I support our troops! And I support the good ‘ol eye-for-an-eye policy of dealing with all forms of global terrorism - no matter how fluffy or furry. And that goes for all terrorist puppies, kitties, bunnies, chimps…whatever.

It’s about time we took the war to the kennels.

Shock the Monkey

2008-06-08T19:27:00.000-07:00

I heard some rather ominous news the other day: researchers at the Duke University Medical Center in Durham, North Carolina have been able to get monkeys to control robot limbs with - get this – their minds!

Sure. Why not? Just to be thorough, just also teach them to arm heat-seeking missiles, and fire rocket-propelled grenades. Hell, better yet, lets give them the power to shoot Death Rays from their eyes. Plus, ‘Robotic Death Monkey’ would be a pretty radical name for a punk band.

Apparently, nobody heeded my caution months ago about the Senegalese chimps using sharp sticks to hunt for food. I warned you all then about the possible consequences of allowing these clever little bastards develop. But instead, we gave them control of futuristic robotic limbs.
Just fucking perfect!

Now we have the six million dollar monkey to worry about! One sudden movement and he’ll peel you like a banana with his robotic-powered super limbs.

To accomplish this, scientists inserted hair-thin probes into the brains of select monkeys. The technique they used, called "multi-neuron population recordings" was developed to allow a large number of single neurons to be recorded separately, and then combine their information using a computer coding algorithm. Computers then intercepted these electrical impulses and calculated mathematical trajectories in the monkey’s brain, thus activating a robotic arm.

And presto! We have the first of our future robotic-primate overlords.

The monkeys were then able to pick up food and feed themselves*. In fact, they were even able to transmit the monkey’s brain signals over the Internet, remotely controlling a robot arm 600 miles away. Next, I expect they’ll teach them how to pull the pin on a live grenade or point and fire a bazooka.

Honestly, what good can possible come from this experiment?

The scientists claim in their ‘Nature’ journal report that their work could form the basis for a brain-machine interface that would allow paralyzed patients to control the movement of prosthetic limbs. “We envision that this neurochip can become an essential component of the type of hybrid- brain-machine interfaces that may one day be used to restore motor function in paralyzed patients," said Miguel Nicolelis, associate professor of neurobiology. "These activities will serve as the backbone of a new Center for Neural Analysis and Engineering currently being created at Duke."

Yeah, yeah, whatever!

I’m thinking about super-powered, half-monkey half-robot monkey butlers…but I digress.

Medical advances aside; I still think this is still a rather dangerous path for mankind to go down. Take it from Charleston Heston; we’re not ready for the consequences of this dismal future. I, personally, am not ready to make sweet, sweet love to a mutant monkey cyborg lest it should snap my neck like a dry chicken bone with it’s super-strong robotic arms.

Besides, how embarrassing would it be to lose to a monkey while playing 'Tiger Woods PGA Tour' on a Nintendo Wii?

We might as well just end it all now.

Act now before it’s too late.

* Other test monkeys were fatally wounded during the experiment when they used their robotic limbs to masturbate instead.

Fuck Bell!

2008-03-30T17:52:00.000-07:00

“Sound the horns; cue the angel choruses!”

I have finally managed to break free from nearly two decades of indentured servitude to the great, ugly Bell beast. Things already seem…brighter, more cheerful. The very air seems sweeter. Probably because this is the first time in 18 years I haven’t lived life without my nose firmly embedded up Kevin Crull’s ass.

Fuck you Bell, you life-sucking, soulless bastards!

Now that I’ve managed to sever the Bell umbilical cord the company is literally bombarding me with monthly discount specials and invitations for special reconnection deals. I’m sure I’ll get the same rear end shafting from my new telephone provider but at least it won’t be Bell that’s doing the shafting. Bell Telephone has used me like a cell block bitch for the most part. Over the years they’ve managed to squeeze not only the life, but every extra cent I’ve ever managed to scrape together. And now that they’ve posted extra security guards around the wishing pond at the public mall, those cents aren’t totaling up like they used to. Soon, I was going to have to resort to sucking dick just to keep up with my monthly bill.

And fuck those talking beavers, Frank and Gordon too!

I HATE talking animal mascots. How creepy is that?

So while we’re at it, fuck the GEICO Gecko, the Taco Bell Chihuahua, The Budweiser frogs, Tony the Tiger, Tucan Sam, Roy and Karl from Blockbuster, the Trix rabbit, and the AFLAC duck for that matter too! Fuck ‘em all!

So the chances of Kevin Crull, President of Residential Services, winning back my business by sending me heartfelt ‘Have You Seen Terry?’ cards in the mail with those two god-forsaken, flat-tailed, dim-witted water rats are slim to fucking none!

I’ve only just left Bell and they’ve already latched onto me like an orphaned chimp. Only NOW do they value my business now that I’ve left? Well it's too late, you tyrannical cocksuckers! So let’s get one thing straight, dipshits, I’d rather get my telephone service from a hammer-wielding psychopath than ever reenlist my telephone service with Bell again.

So call off the beavers already, assholes.

This disgruntled patron has left the building.

Spring Weening

2008-03-11T16:12:00.000-07:00

Once again, I was coerced into participating in a serious bout of spring-cleaning. Only this time it was initiated my new girlfriend.

I’m not exactly sure how it all came into being exactly. I usually loathe these types of cleansing activities - with or without the girlfriend. But one minute I was showing her my new dress shirts in my closet and the next thing I know we’re sorting and throwing shit out.

Funny how that works, eh? Boy meets girl; boy shows girl something from his closet; girl assumes control and begins throwing shit out. It’s the same ‘ol classic story wherever you go I’m sure.

But this particular purging felt different somehow. It almost felt…nice.

Therapeutic actually.

Among the spoils found in the remotest nether regions of my closet this year were bags of gaudy Christmas ornaments, miles of random electrical and computer wiring, half a dozen stained pillows, one broken laser jet printer, a dozen or so unused winter coats and jackets, about a zillion broken computer mouse’s*, and more tacky out-dated beach shirts than you could shake a boogie-board at. Honestly, I alone could probably clothe an entire sellout crowd at any Jimmy Buffet concert.

After I donate all these fashionable threads to the local thrift shop there is going to be some very hip, colorful homeless people walking around downtown let me tell you. It'll be just like Key West under the city bridge alright!

Of course there was a whole host of other ripped, faded, stained and wrinkled articles of clothing that were not even fit for donation. Personally, I’m more inclined to just light them all up in a huge polyester bonfire in the backyard but I’m sure the Fire Department would have something to say about it. I’m sure that burning ugly shirts without a permit is still a chargeable offense.

I guess part of what made this year’s spring-clean almost tolerable was the fact that I had that added assistance from my girlfriend. Suddenly I have that added motivation I needed that I was not normally accustomed to receiving.

I’m a man; I procrastinate – what can I tell you?

But let me tell you, after you witness your girlfriend wrinkle her nose in disgust after having seen the pit stains on your old bartenders uniform that’s been hanging in the back of your closet for the last 10 years, but for some reason you still haven’t been able to part with, well, suddenly you’re more inclined to pitch it like a used car salesman.

Of course, all the laughing, pointing and mocking sure helps too.

I simply needed her to help me cut the umbilical cord on some of these, well, lets just say “bolder” fashion choices. It's motivation at it's most basic. A blind person could have told me that these clothes were ugly, but it took a real loved one to hold my hand while they stuffed it all in garbage bags.

* How many fucking mouses have I gone through? Seriously, it was like where computer mouses go to die.

Winter Blunderland

2008-03-09T16:42:00.000-07:00

There is about 5 feet of snow on the ground this morning. Oh joy.

Somebody just tell Mother Nature that she can go blow herself.

Between all the shoveling I’ve done this weekend (not to mention the bouts of freaky monkey sex), I feel like I would have had I spent the weekend at the gym.

I haven’t seen this much snow in, easily, 15 years. The drifts are literally up to the middle of my living room windows giving the room a total igloo feel to it. Just what I was looking forward to with only two weeks left till spring. What a cruel mistress Mother Nature can be.

This also happens to be the same weekend kicking off March Break for all public school kids. I can foresee then a lot of very pissed off parents who are coming to terms with the fact that their children will be growing roots in front of the television playing video games for hours of end all week.

If I were a parent, I’d force a shovel in their hands and tell them not to come home until they've paid off their first years University tuition.

Now, maybe, I can understand why schools may be closed or why buses may choose to cease running. It still wouldn’t have happened back in my day but I guess I can let it slide this time like the back tires of my Chevrolet Cavalier.

The best part is that THERE’S NO SCHOOL TOMORROW ANYWAY!

Take THAT you spoiled-rotten, snot-nosed pansy asses. Sucks to be you…finally! I have been redeemed. That’s like rain on a Saturday afternoon if you ask me.

And my inner asshole is reveling in every moment of it.

Choosy Morons, Choose Jif

2008-02-18T18:59:00.000-08:00

I have recently learned of a terrible tragedy that has befallen our otherwise peaceful community. A tragedy so heinous, that it befouls the very air merely to speak of it.

Luckily, I’m only writing about it – so let’s have at ‘er shall we?

For some unknown reason, there is a severe shortage of Jif peanut butter on the shelves of local supermarkets and I am left nursing ulcers from imploded rage over it. Jiff peanut butter has been a daily staple for, like, only my whole life! It's the secret to my life force.

In vain, I have visited every store, supermarket, corner shop, and local grocers within a 20-mile radius. I can literally feel my sperm supply dwindling down to nothing even as I type this. I’m not sure how much longer I, or my sperm, can go without my Jif Extra Creamy. And if ‘Little Elvis’ doesn’t get his peanut butter sandwich he doesn’t go on stage, dig?

My junk probably has the consistency of chicken broth by now. What’s my girlfriend going to think?

It’s hard to feel like “the man” when you’re blowing powdered milk during sex. Lord knows I could use all the help I can get! After all the toxic poisons I voluntarily ingested in University, my children will inevitably rival the alien crew of the Starship Enterprise without some assistance – namely, my regular fix of Jif.

Maybe if my mom hadn’t been such a “choosy” bitch back when I was kid I might not have had this desperate affliction in the first place.

As it is now, there is no other peanut butter besides Jif. I’d rather spread dog shit on my toast than use Kraft, Skippy or any of the sweetened no-name brands available at the Bulk Barn. And the unsweetened varieties taste like pure evil.

Come home to daddy, Jif, come home…

"We're Going to Need a Bigger Casket"

2008-02-11T12:17:00.000-08:00

It is a sad day today indeed as celebrated actor, two-time Academy Award nominee – not to mention original Hollywood bad ass – Roy Scheider, died from complications of multiple myeloma (cancer of the blood cells).

He was 75 years young.

Scheider, whom it can be said was best known for his trademark broken nose and weird angular facial expressions will be remembered for citing the infamous movie line: “you’re going to need a bigger boat”.

Here’s a man whose balls were big enough to orbit planets out in space. It’s a little known fact that Scheider was originally slated to play the role of John Rambo in the initial ‘First Blood’ movie before Sly scooped up the part from Hollywood execs hoping to increase the movie’s marketability. Scheider was, of course, best known for his role as small-town New England sheriff Martin Brody in 1975’s blockbuster hit ‘Jaws’. Indeed this was the role that made him notorious.

That’s right, the man killed off Jaws not once - but twice! How fucking cool was that?

Scheider’s other notable performances included renegade police test pilot Officer Frank Murphy in Blue Thunder, the abrasive, street-smart Narcotics Bureau detective Buddy Russo and the eccentric Hollywood choreographer Joe Gideon based on actual life of Bob Fosse in which the former boxer had to learn to dance.

When it comes to famous Hollywood tough guys, Roy eats thunder and shits lightning!

Of course, we will have to forgive him for his part as limp dick Captain Nathan Bridger in SeaQuest DVS – but who’s perfect?

Here’s hoping you get them to bite down hard on that wire in the next life.

R.I.P.

Cyber Stating

2008-01-29T17:53:00.000-08:00

(Originally dated: 07/20/07)

I made my first foray into the mysterious realm of cyber-dating today.

Maybe I did it in response to some sense of impending desperation seeing as how it is only two days past my birthday – which everybody has seemingly managed to forget, yet again, this year.

Whatever, it ended in disaster.

You see, being the dipshit I am, I somehow inadvertently ended up instant messaging the wrong “Jojo” from somebody’s friends list and sent out an innocent invitation to coffee to a - get this - an investigator with the Police forces Pedophile Unit.

DAMN YOU, FACEBOOK!

Just my luck that the first time I attempt to forge a relationship over the Internet it’s with someone who could probably stretch my scrotum over my head in a heartbeat. Being on the Police force, she could probably lay entire worlds of smack down on me the likes of which my body has never experienced.

And despite what some girls may have told you: I need my penis.

But what can I say? I went looking for Mrs. Right and ended up finding Dirty Harry instead. There’s probably an APB out right now for my arrest. All I wanted was in initiate some sort of social interaction with a member of the opposite sex and instead I get profiled as an Internet stalker.

And you think it’s hard to get dates now?!

Try explaining that away at your next Speed Dating.

There's Something About Olga

2007-12-30T11:14:00.000-08:00

I think there might be something terribly wrong with me.

Not in the whole ‘tuck-your-penis-between-your-legs-and-model-
your-mangina-in-a-full-length-mirror-kinda-way’, but in a more ‘Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot-kinda-way *.

I discovered this about myself while engaged in a rather awkward conversation with my butcher this morning. You see; my butcher also happens to be an 87-year-old Polish woman with breasts that look like two grapefruits suspended in a pair of tube socks named Olga. I’ve been “seeing” Olga for all my protein needs now every weekend for the past five years.

She’s the closest thing I’ve had to a steady girlfriend in the last decade.

So this morning, like most other Sunday mornings, I found myself engaged in the usual conversational banter of selecting my weekly meat cuts with Olga. Somewhere during our detailed discussion of fleshy grillables I made the decision to BBQ a nice, fat, New York Sirloin steak for New Years this year. And so we set about the task of selecting my cut.

“Vat kind of sirloin steak are you vooking for today?” Olga asked dutifully.

“A nice, fat one.” I reply coyly.

“Jah! A nice vat one vould be nice.” Olga says as she winks and begins to rummage through the stacks of pink steaks.

A flicker of unholy anticipation begins to pass through my loins.

“It would”, I reply cautiously. Are we still talking about steaks here?

“I am very good at dis you know.” Olga offers conversationally while she pokes and prods the various oblong cutlets, looking for just the right one.

“What do you mean?” I ask innocently.

“I am very good at vinding da vat ones for you, jah? For many years now we look for da vat ones together, jah?” Olga says. “I like da vat ones too.” She points her finger at me from across the display case. “Like you like da vat ones.”

At this point I’m beginning to feel more than a little awkward.

Here I am, getting aroused over a conversation about steak with my 87-year-old butcher. I guess all this talk of “vat ones” is beginning to make me a little randy. I feel like I'm losing control of my kingdom. Any more of this “vat one” talk and I was going to find myself walking across the deli floor to the checkout sporting a full-on erection in my green pajama pants - leading the way like some perverted Irish Pointer.

And I'm sure there would be a 911 call placed shortly afterward. What a way to end 2007!

My cheeks flushed red, and my feet began to shuffle uncomfortably. Suddenly, I was that little 5-year-old kindergarten kid with a crush on teacher. Except my teacher then didn’t have droopy tits and rheumatism in her joints; nor was she rifling through a stack of NY sirloins at the time.

I suddenly felt dirty…very dirty.

I almost dropped my brown paper-packaged shame on the counter and ran for the exit or crash through the front window - whatever was more prompt and convenient. Luckily, Olga then decided to launch herself into a violent spasm of wet coughs that resonated inside her chest and echoed off the deli walls. It sounded like a sperm whales last grasp for breath before dying.

That sure set me right again and restored control of my kingdom in a hurry….

I’ve since decided to go with lasagna for New Years.

* Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot = WTF = What the fuck?…you rube.

Process Protest

2007-09-23T15:37:00.000-07:00

I am announcing to the modern world - here and now - that I am forevermore boycotting the word “process”, as well as eliminating my having anything to do with my being involved in a “process” of any sort.

When did everything in life suddenly become a “process”?

It seems that the word “process” has become the new buzzword for your average business-minded jackass at large. Everybody drops this word around my office place now. Even in my personal life, as well as in my normal every day conversations, people continue to mention and refer to all these on-going “processes” in life for which they are involved.

It’s enough to make you scream.

Life is a series of complex processes it’s true. I won’t deny that. From the cellular level onward, life itself would not exist if it weren’t for the extremely mystical processes that create the natural world around us. Mother Nature is a mad scientist.

But, honestly, when did everybody just stop doing shit?

Nobody actually does anything anymore; everyone is part of a process. The very word “process” itself seems to have become known as another way of saying: “I’ll get around to it. Now quit bugging me, fuckstick”.

What would happen if our little amoeba buddies decided to stop splitting and growing, and instead decided to involve themselves in a “process”? Christ, everything in life would probably end up looking like some genetic freak and take twice as long to get there. Thankfully, our cells commit themselves to the task at hand and do their job from the get go. The people at my work lately are not as diligent.

Lets look at the actual definition of “Process”:

Process (proh-sess) - noun “a series of actions or operations used in making or achieving of something”.

So it seems to indicate that there is supposed to be some final positive end result. Except that there is also an old adage that goes “too many cooks spoil the soup”. Which is to say, the more people you include in performing these specific actions or operations the more likely the chance of something fucking up and going awry preventing any kind of achievement whatsoever.

Personally, I like to get shit done. I need that old fashioned sense of accomplishment to validate my hard efforts.

I don’t contribute to a “process”. Pussies contribute to a “process”. It sounds more like something having to do with making cheese.

But regardless, everything is a process these days. It’s all “process this” and “process that” at the end of the day. The next unfortunate person that asks me to contribute to a process is going to inevitably end up with having my office swivel chair immediately processed up their ass.

Just leave me along so I can get some shit done!

Marriage Wows

2007-09-03T14:23:00.000-07:00

I discovered yet another pet peeve of mine.

I know, I know…somebody call Guinness, right? I might just be the world’s most crankiest individual it’s true, but surely others get annoyed listening to married couples flippantly complain about never getting any sex. Surely I am not alone here? These inconsiderate, celibate bastards must be stopped!

I want to judo kick this particular breed of complainer in the junk. Thanks for ruining the dream for the rest of us!

I mean, what is the holy bond of matrimony if not the license to fuck?

It’s written right into the actual nuptials isn’t it? “With this ring, I thee wed, and with it, I bestow upon thee all the treasures of my mind, heart, and hands.”

Hello? That’s doesn’t sound like a calling to cease and desist having sex to me. Believe me, I have lots of treasures to bestow on the future Mrs. Terry Nash - particularly of the hand variety!

Or how about the whole “To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness or in health, to love and to cherish 'till death do us part” part? Boy, that sure sounds like an invitation to me!

“Gentlemen, start your engines!”

But still, there are plenty of couples out there who insist on publicly announcing their lack of inhibitions. Maybe they didn’t clearly understand what carnal expectations were being made of them at the time. So maybe this part of the wedding vow is a little outdated and is therefore worthy of a little revamping to suit our more modern times.

“I Terry Nash, take you (enter victim’s name here), to be my lawfully wedded wife and sex slave. To have and to boink, day in and day out, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness or in fuzzy handcuffs, to love and to manhandle 'till my heart explodes with passionate desire. And hereto I pledge you my erection.”

That’s more like it.

I don’t know about anyone else, but I had envisioned my married life to be one filled with the kind of sex that would make Ron Jeremy blush. It’ll be a veritable avalanche of pussy!

Married people should be permanently fused together at the genitals for all the wild, freaky sex they should be having. Immediately following the nuptials, the recognized legal union between two loved ones should commence into one, non-stop porno shoot.

That’s the kind of happy, successful marriage I want! One with scats of filthy depraved illegal-in-most-states kind of sex. I expect that come my own wedding, the handwritten signatures on our marriage license will be all shaky and near illegible due to the fact that we were also busy reaming each other at the same time.

What inspiration is there for me in knowing that there are married couples out there all whining about never having sex anymore?

Hell, I already know what that’s like!

Compost Crack-Up

2007-06-27T15:48:00.000-07:00

My neighbors have seen fit to start recycling.

Good for them.

Now where you may at first applaud their environment efforts to Reduce, Reuse, and Recycle, one would also have to wonder why they also saw fit to position their plastic Recycling composter right dab square in the middle of their front yard. How pretty is that?

I can deal with the rest of the discarded wooden skids, rusted furniture, dismantled car parts, tangled Christmas lights, broken and deflated toys, as well as every other conceivable piece of assorted useless trash and crap, but please, I have to put my foot down about rotting waste.

There are times as it is that I have to resist the urge to run next door and make trash angels in their front yard just for fun. And now the whole centerpiece piece d’resistance is a large, mildewed, plastic composter. It’s enough to stop the heart of any avid Feng shui practitioner.

Most civilized earth-conscious planet dwellers choose to conveniently stash away their composters in less conspicuous places like the back corner of the yard, or behind the tool shed.

But my neighbors?

Oh no. They’d rather walk out the front door of their house each day and simply pitch their biodegradable material for two points from the porch.

How classy is that?

It’s like living next door to ‘Sanford & Son’.

Evangelical Epiphany

2007-03-17T12:36:00.000-07:00

This afternoon, I decided to weather out the preliminary St. Patty’s Day ceremonies by staying in with a few cans of Guinness and the documentary ‘Jesus Camp’.

It just seemed to me to be the best way to avoid the green-clad idiots but still participate in something traditionally Irish. And what better way to do that than indulge in a little booze and good ‘ol religious drama? If that doesn’t embody the whole Irish philosophy, I don’t know what does.

What can I say? I was born into blasphemy.

What I learned this St. Patrick’s Day is that these Evangelical children are fucking freaks! You could take a dump in their Cocoa-Puffs and tell them it was God’s will, and they’d just grin like retarded chimpanzee’s and dig in.

I am surprised to learn just how many Evangelicals there are and how the numbers are growing exponentially each year. There are now just under 80 million Evangelicals walking among us and they’re fucking like bunnies!

And that, my friends, is a lot of Bible-thumpers.

Now I’m going to think that every buck-toothed mullet child is a Jesus freak who likes to chant in-groups on weekend retreats and is just waiting for the opportunity to witness me in the breakfast cereal aisle at the Supermarket. I’m a magnet for these Jesus freaks.

Some days I figure I must have “Save Me” written across my forehead. Maybe it’s just my ordinary every day expression of pure unadulterated ignorance that somehow signals to them that here’s someone with some issues to work out.

I do agree with one point made by the Evangelicals in the movie, however. And that’s that “you don’t make heroes out of warlocks”. You’re fucking-A right you don’t!

Pastor Rebecca Fischer – you go girl!

I say we roast that bespeckled demon motherfucker right now for the demon fuckity fuck he is. But, then again, maybe that’s just the drunken Irishman in me talking.

Funny thing is, the more Guinness I have, and the drunker I get, the more the idea of having a mindless army of zombie Christian children sounds pretty cool. Maybe the idiot president is onto something here!

I’d get myself elected and take over the Western World with my “Army of God”.

Yeah, that’d be totally bad ass.

Boxing Day Fashion Faux Pas

2006-12-26T12:50:00.000-08:00

I passed by some dumbass teenager in the mall today wearing a pink fluffy ski hat with dangley pink tassles. Worse yet, on closer inspection, this walking winter nightmare was a dude!

What kind of retard actively decides to put on a flaming-neon pink fluffy hat to the public mall - with bobbles hanging off it no less! On what planet would this ever be considered as cool, or even acceptable?

Someone do entire male gender a service and take this guy out back in the alley and beat the living shit out of him. At the very least, make sure to permanently revoke this pussy’s “Man License”. Let's show this guy the true meaning of "Boxing Day", and literally box the stupid out of him.

I understand you're what, seventeen? I understand that you feel this strong desire to seek out the attention from everyone around you within one single city block. But do you have to dress like such a sissybitch to do it?

I was instantly driven to kick this guy in the Charlie Brown’s and holler:

“Somebody get Showcase on the phone, I found the next fag for your Queer Eye squad. I hope Santa brings you some balls this year, bitch.”

Super Dead

2006-12-26T12:18:00.000-08:00

In tragic holiday news, the “Godfather of Soul”, “The Hardest Working Man in Show Business”, and the one and only “Mr. Dynamite”, James Brown, died in the early morning hours of Christmas Day at the age of 73. Brown suffered from a heart attack as the result of a “severe pneumonia”.

And Santa brings me one step closer this year to winning my office ‘Dead Pool’.

KA-CHING!

You don’t have to be a Sam Rothstein to figure out that this guy’s number was almost up. Plagued for the past two decades with drug and alcohol abuse as well as numerous counts of domestic violence and arms possession, I think Mr. Dynamite done gone and ignited himself once and for all.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I own and enjoy many James Brown albums and concert recordings. I even followed the progression of Soul music into its future incarnations of rap, disco, and funk. I respect James Brown as a musician, an entertainer, and an innovator, but as a human being…the man was a ticking timebomb.

He loved his over-the-top screeching, his hair, his nicknames, his guns, and bitch-slapping his honeys back to the Stone Age should they ever dare forget the gravy to go with his breakfast biscuits. And lets not forget his 1987 PCP-fueled rampage when he burst into an insurance seminar adjoining his own office in Augusta, then led police on a car chase across the South Carolina border. Clearly, here is a man a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

This morning, CNN broadcast the official coroner’s report straight from Emory Crawford Long Hospital in Atlanta. For those of you who may have missed it, here is a portion of the press release announcement (translated into soul for all my grieving Soul Brothers):

“We regret to inform you that, Mr. James Brown, has died tragically at the age of 73 at 1:45AM this morning.”

(“Hurtsa! Dead at One Forty-Five-ah...gottagetdownnow….HEEEEEY!”)

“His untimely death was the result of a minor heart attack brought on by complications from a severe pneumonia.”

(“Brutha died – YEEEEEEOOOOOWWWW! He had a cold-ah. AH-CHOO!! HEEEEEEY!”)

Personally, I think it would have been more fitting and appropriate had the original Sex Machine met his ultimate demise as the result of a royal Ike Tuner-style ass-kicking by his ex-wives.

James was accompanied at the time of his death by his agent Frank Copsidas, and long time friend Charles Bobbit. His agent I might be able to understand, and correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t this Charlie Bobbit the same guy who had his wee-wee cut off by his estranged wife some years ago? What’s his connection (no pun intended) with the Godfather of Soul exactly?

The Yogurt Monologues (Part IV 1/2)

2006-10-19T18:02:00.000-07:00

Horror of all horrors!

Far scarier than anything else I’ve seen so far this Halloween season was the oriental man I witnessed shaving his nutsack in the member’s lounge at the gym this evening.

There he was: naked and spread-eagled like most of the other old dudes in the locker room, except with razor in hand and in the process of gingerly pruning his pubic hair from the underside of his balls…and on the leather couch no less!

How fucking gross is that? Talk about taking complete advantage of your Members Plus plan!

It’s bad enough that I have to put up with the significant quota of shriveled old man dick that I do in the locker room as it is, but when somebody feels the need to start carving out pubic hair topiaries in full view of God and everybody in the lounge area to boot – well, that’s just going too damn far!

Now, I already knew that oriental dudes are some pretty sick perverted motherfuckers *. They will do twisted weird shit in public that the rest of us here in the reserved Western World would cringe in complete fear over. Perhaps shaving your balls in a public place is commonplace on streets of Hong Kong, but at the local YMCA – not so much.

I literally stared agape at this public atrocity I had stumbled across on my way to the Steam Room. I was dumbfounded. Unfortunately, I couldn’t tear my eyes away either. At first I thought that somebody had slipped acid into my ‘Grape Nuts’ or something. But quickly I realized what was going on.

Was this guy really trimming the hair on his scrotal sack? And for what purpose exactly? Does anybody ever really notice those types of things? How vane does one have to be before they decide they have to primp and preen their pubic hair?

“Hey, Yoshi. Nice do on your nutsack there.”

The questions flooded my brain like the French Quarter levees.

It was wrong on so many levels.

* Hey - I’ve seen some videos and heard a few things, okay?

Ganja On My Mind

2006-10-18T15:25:00.000-07:00

In a single vicious stroke for justice, the Louisiana Highway Patrol has managed to successfully gain a all-too-brief upper hand on America’s ongoing War on Drugs.

That’s right, folks! Willie Nelson’s tour bus was finally raided this past September after a routine pull over. The officers at the scene caught a whiff of something suspicious emanating from the vehicle as soon as the driver opened the door where over one and a half pounds of marijuana and a small bag of psychedelic mushrooms estimated at two-tenths of a pound were found. That’s sure taking a bite out of crime all right!

So Willie likes his ganja. Big surprise there, huh?

According to Willie Williams* of the Louisiana Highway Patrol, aside from the 73-year-old ringleader, citations were issued to his sister, Bobbie Nelson, 75, of Briarcliff, Texas; Gates Moore, 54, from Austin; David Anderson, 50, of Dallas; and Tony Sizemore, 59, of St. Cloud, Florida. Sure sounds like one hard-fucking-core gang of wiley dope runners, eh?

Way to go, Officer Williams - you busted a busload of senior citizens.

Boy! Do I feel safer now! Thank God that good ‘ol country boy is finally off the streets.

If convicted, they could each face up to six months in jail--but probation and/or fines are more likely sentences. Pardon? Isn't six months for smoking pot a bit harsh for 73 year old woman? Glaucoma, arthritis, anaemia, constipation, rheumatic pain, jaundice, asthma, muscular dystrophy, epilepsy, excitability - take your fucking pick! Shit, an old woman should be stoned 24-fucking-7! Being caught smoking pot on a tourbus hardly qualifies them for the Helmet of Rats. Shit, why not just cancel their cable subscriptions so that they can’t get their regular fixes of Matlock and justice will just about have been served.

In Nelson’s defense, Williams added: "No one aboard the bus gave any of our troopers any problems. When the search was conducted, they were very cordial and, subsequently, admitted to being the owners of the narcotics."

What else would you expect from a busload of stoned seniors there, exactly, Schwarzkopf? Jeez, consider yourselves lucky they remembered their name.

* What were the chances?

Magaza Strip

2006-10-03T14:26:00.000-07:00

A new eating establishment opened up across the street from my place of employment the other day called ‘Magaza’ - an Oasis among a wasteland of fast food burgers and greasy Pizza Huts.

Initially I was concerned about being kidnapped and beheaded should I try and enter the place; but upon closer inspection, I realized that it was not a Jihad kind of thing and so I ventured through the front doors.

To my surprise, it was a rather pleasant European-style deli - a real live healthy, home-cooked fare type of joint. I’m not really sure what a “European-style deli” really is, but from the specials I read on the sign I’m led to believe that is means they love their meat and fresh food. Whatever, the Europeans apparently really know how to operate a deli.

Having just recently considered switching to vegetarianism, this discovery couldn’t have come at a more crucial time – namely in stopping my ass from doing anything drastic such as going vegan. You see, I realize now that I like meat. I mean, I, really, love, my meat (and not in the perverted sense). So much so, that when I go to the butcher’s (or a deli in this case), I believe that I don’t actually choose my cut of meat - my cut of meat chooses me!

I am a happy, dedicated carnivore. My appreciation for fine meat is almost spiritual. I confess.

In fact, I think in order to be done properly, there should be some kind of ‘Compatibility Application’ submitted in advance before being allowed to choose your meat cut. Not just any retard should be able to pick out any ‘ol meat cut he wants so that he can just take it home and wreck the shit out of it on a cheap-ass Hibachi.

No, sir! Why not take it even one step further?

How about some speed-dating type of arrangement where you’re seated with a dozen or so types of meat providing you the opportunity to get to know the meat cut first before being expected to make your final evenings BBQ decision?

Imagine that conversational meet-and-greet:

“So, have you ever done this kind of thing before?”

Pork chop: (silent)

“What kind of vegetable do you see yourself being served with?”

Pork chop: (silent)

“Do you like marinade, or would you prefer a dry rub?”

Pork chop: (begins to sweat)

“What’s your stance on Propane vs. Charcoal?”

Pork chop: (silent)

Crikey! (Redux)

2006-09-23T14:23:00.000-07:00

Did anyone else witness the spectacle that was the Crocodile Hunter funeral? Man, after the first few minutes I thought that somebody may have inadvertently slipped some LSD into my Grape Nuts. That was some trippy shit!

Whether it was the stuffed crocodiles, the video montages of Steve Irwin whooping it up petting sea turtles; packing a bush truck with surf boards and sleeping bags; some Australian folk singer performing a rousing rendition of ‘True Blue’; or zoo employees spelling out “Crikey!” on the ground with yellow flowers – I haven’t seen anything that surreal since the 2002 Opening Ceremonies for the Winter Olympics.

The thing that really kills me is that this story received more attention on the news than the discovery of three mysterious objects floating in outer space. Figure that out! Aboriginal Bushmen performing an interpretive dance on the ‘Flight of the Kookabura’ receive a 15-minute dedication on Breakfast Television, and yet, three unknown objects orbiting around the earth’s atmosphere – 15 seconds.

WTF?

Now I’ve seen the opening to Independence Day. So to me, three UFO’s and the possible annihilation of our planet by an unknown alien species deserves a little more focus than just cutting to commercial.

Call me crazy.

Crikey!

2006-09-04T14:07:00.000-07:00

Well, the world got a little bit brighter for me this Labor Day, albeit not so bright for one, Mr. Steve Irwin – the fabled Crocodile Hunter. As much as the death of any noted celebrity is usually music to my ears, this one particularly rings with the sweet sound of cash registers…

KA-CHING!

This untimely demise of Mr. Irwin happens to bring me one step closer to winning my Dead Pool. Now, if only something tragic would happen to Courtney Love, Tom Cruise, or Anderson Cooper I’d hit real pay dirt and do naked cartwheels down Broadway Ave.

Reports are now beginning to circulate that the infamous Crocodile Hunter was killed instantly when his chest was pierced by a Stingray’s lethal barb while snorkeling in the Great Barrier Reef while filming a children’s show called ‘The Ocean’s Deadliest’. Now there’s a way to go! Irwin was swimming along side the Stingray, when the ray got spooked and lashed out with it’s poisonous tail and catching him directly in the heart

YES!

Hey, you can frown on me all you want; but with this guy, it was only a matter of time. The dude has survived more attacks than Naomi Campbell's personal assistant. Whether it be impaled on a charging rhino's horn, swallowed by a Great White Shark, or from just French kissing a Tiger Snake - you just know that Fate had a hard on for this guy!

I realize that this will be met the world over with great shock and sadness, but honestly, are any of us really surprised? The man wasn’t exactly the brightest drongo at the billadong, if you know what I mean. He poked King Cobras with tree twigs, for fuck sakes – how long was this guy expected to live exactly?

I think this is more a case of Mother Nature finally getting a leg over on the ‘ol Crocodile Hunter after all these years of him poking, prodding, and wrestling with all her beasties before a television camera. The Crocodile Hunter has cinematically bitch-slapped more animals for Discovery than Charlie Sheen has done supermodels. Steven Irwin would spit in the face of Tie Domi’s mother and then be all excited when Tie tried to rip his head off.

Mourners have already started to flood the gates of the Queensland Australia Zoo to pay their respects. “The world has lost a great wildlife icon, a passionate conservationist and one of the proudest dads on the planet," John Stainton, Irwin's friend and producer who was on board at the time of the accident said in the statement.

"He died doing what he loves best and left this world in a happy and peaceful state of mind" he said. "Crocs Rule!"

Umm, okay there, Jacko. You gotta love those crazy Aussies.

I, however, am going to grieve in my own way. I will cease from "adding more 'roo to my do" today and rent the entire Crocodile Dundee movie series (except for the third one because it sucked so bad). Furthermore, I will wear nothing but the same tan khakis over the next week in honor of this crazy fucker.

Afterwards, I'll cry myself to sleep in my big bed of pool winnings.

Bisexual Breakdown

2006-08-16T16:24:00.000-07:00

To go all Seinfeld for a moment; what’s the deal with bisexual people anyway? Aren’t they having enough fun with one sex that they have to go back for seconds with the other sex too? Where’s the justice in that?

Save some for the rest of us why don’t you.

How is it fair that these people are getting so much sex? Here I’m struggling to make any progress with the one type of sex, and here’s these people banging anything that moves; be it penis or vagina.

It’s not right. Suddenly, I’m even less popular with the ladies. It's hard enough to get a date as it is! It's bad enough I have to compete with other men but now I have to compete with the ladies too? I might as well have a cows utter stitched to the side of my face for all the pain and humiliation I feel at having lost out to someone of the same sex as that of my latest obsession.

But why stop there though? Why not just claim complete monopoly over the whole sex thing altogether and declare yourself “Omnisexual” – willing to fuck anything and everything; be it vegetable, animal or mineral.

Then perhaps I might consider myself a little more lucky in love when I’m at least having an intimate relationship with my loaf of Wonder bread.

Rules for Men Over 30

2006-08-13T19:24:00.000-07:00

When a man (and I use that term loosely) turns 30 years of age – things are suddenly different. All of a sudden, you’re expected not only to be an adult but act like one too.

So for reference sake, I have compiled a list of 40 things that any man over the age of 30 should never be caught doing or else be forever recognized as a complete and utter fuckwit by the rest of society.

1. Dynotape their name on their lunchbox
2. Go to see an Adam Sandler movie in the cinema…or even rent one for that matter.
3. Give himself his own nickname.
4. Use a wallet, watch, or anything that fastens with Velcro.
5. Bring binoculars to a nude beach.
6. Name their pets after Middle Earth characters.
7. Jokingly flash gang signs when posing for wedding photographs.
8. Wear Disney-theme ties.
9. Air guitar in public.
10. Burp the alphabet.
11. Keep condoms in their wallet.
12. Mist up during metal power ballads.
13. End conversations with “Peace Out”, “Later Skater”, or “See ya, wouldn’t want to be ya!”
14. Build a bong.
15. Shout out a response to “Are you ready to rock?”
16. Request ‘Freebird’ at a concert.
17. Blast Hip-Hop on their car stereo while toodling around downtown with the windows down.
18. Get leglessly drunk in public.
19. Save money by purchasing 2-ply toilet paper.
20. Ever make the “Hang Loose” sign, or offer anyone a little "fist bump action" in greeting.
21. Wave at somebody across the room by wiggling his fingers.
22. Refer to himself in the third person.
23. Refer to girls as “chicks”.
24. Do shots with frou-frou sounding shooters such as 'Slippery Nipple', 'Sex on a Beach', or 'Broken Down Golf Cart'.
25. Refer to cutting up hot dogs into Kraft dinner as “culinary skill”.
26. Use the word “phat”, “sick”, or “ill” when discussing anything.
27. Never tell anyone to “take a chill pill”.
28. Use ‘Star Wars’ bed sheets.
29. Order pay-per-view Wrestling events.
30. Sing along to Billy Joel tunes.
31. Read Harry Potter books.
32. Get a tattoo of a cartoon character anywhere on their body.
33. Drop Simpsons quotes during dinnertime conversation.
34. Consider comic books as valid reading material.
35. Rent porn.
36. Excuse himself to the "Little Boys Room".
37. Be caught checking out girls under the age of 18.
38. Get highlites in their hair.
39. Refer to their penis by a pet name.
40. Post "Top Ten" lists on the Internet.

Seasons Greetings (albeit a little early)

2006-08-01T16:08:00.000-07:00

I'd like to teach the world to sing,
In perfect harmony.

I’d like to give the world a Coke,
...and teach it that corporate sponsorships support militant dictatorships and private interests in Third World countries and thereby advocate the oppression of its peoples through genocide, corruption, and a severely impacted standard of living due to low wage rates, slave labor, and a poor public education system.

Ho. Ho. Ho.

Bracing for Impact

2006-07-30T15:24:00.000-07:00

Okay, time to rethink your retirement plans everyone. The big one is coming!

And I don’t mean that in any pleasant kind of phallic sense, as you’d probably otherwise expect from me. No, I mean the kind of grab your ass and head for the East Coast kinda big one.

Astronomers have spotted an asteroid whose projected trajectory shows that it will pass very close to our planet in 2029, and have a chance of hitting Earth on its next pass in 2036.

Uh-oh!

‘Apophis’, so named for the Egyptian god of death and darkness, if it hits the Earth, would generate an impact that would equal the force of 100 nuclear bombs said noted astrophysicist and PBS "Origins" star Neil deGrasse Tyson yesterday.

Apophis, huh? Way to put a positive spin on it, Jackass. Why not just call it somethng equally arbitrary, like “Death Comet”, and incite total and complete panic around the globe?

“In 2029," Tyson said, "on Friday the 13th in April, Apophis is a certainty to come closer to Earth than our communications satellites. It'll be the largest thing to come that close in recorded history ... and depending on that trajectory, will determine whether it will hit us seven years later."

Odds have been placed on the doomsday asteroid hitting the Earth at around 1 in 38,000. Still not a big enough margin in my opinion. Nobody expected the New York Giants to go 37-8 back in 1951 and force a playoff series with the Brooklyn Dodgers; nobody expected Nicole Kidman to recoup her career and win an Academy Award after being dumped by husband Tom Cruise; and nobody thought the Titanic would sink if it collided with a floating block of ice – so I’m not liking the chances of this asteroid missing the Earth, quite frankly.

Particularly since the impact date falls squarely on Friday the 13th! How many more signs do you fucking need? Personally, I won't be waiting around for God to reach down from the heaven's and give us a big 'Thump's Up' to confirm the collision...I'll be in some dug out bombshelter in the mountains of Nepal with a good book.

We should have been listening to the muppet in the wheelchair all along!

DeGrasse did have some happy news on the subject though: "Apophis, if it hits, will not contribute to global warning. It'll just wipe out the entire West Coast of North America."

Sucks to a Californian though. But, hey, they need themselves a good disaster of Biblical proportions to straighten things out anyway.

Rappin' About Rap

2006-07-26T16:06:00.000-07:00

I think I have figured out why black people seem to be so uptight.

I realize this is a nasty stereotype, but you can’t deny it, black people have a lot to be uptight about - crime, poverty, gangs, discrimination, etc. At least that’s what I’m lead to believe from the many interviews and disparaging claims of prejudice being perpetrated by the white man made by black people in the media during times of crisis. After all, how many white gangbangers do you see running around the ‘hood in Oakland? I’m no expert, but I’ve seen ‘Colors’ and ‘Boyz in the Hood’ – so I know what’s up, dig?

While driving home with a co-worker of mine today, he slipped on a mixed disc on his CD player of his favorite rap songs. Now, he’s no hardcore OG-gangster type, but he sure digs his bustin' rhymes and phat beats. Fair enough. But, literally, every song on that compilation disc began with some sort of alarm, siren, or sound of some policeman barking orders into a megaphone – never mind all the usual “kill whitey” bullshit. Shit, if this is how most rap music starts, I’d be pretty fucking anxious to should I choose to listen to rap 24/7.

Now, granted, I’m no connoisseur or authority on the subject of rap music. But it seems to me that much of what has been released is pretty rife with some pretty tensive sounds. Christ, it’s enough to make anyone more than just a little anxious. It’s no wonder that some black people are so freaked out by the sound of police sirens going by. Plop on your average rap album and it begins with what sounds like the fucking fall of Saigon.

Yeah, I can understand black people being a little jittery.

Smells Like Teen Pussy

2006-07-13T18:18:00.000-07:00

Considering how hot and muggy it’s been this summer, I was forced to make a quick stop for deodorant today at the local pharmacy. Once there, I was simply flabbergasted over the vast assortment of different available scents for sale.

Now, I'm not trying to suggest that I don’t regularly use deodorant, but I have been particularly blessed with a less-than-offensive natural body odor - unlike some poor bastards who end up smelling like rancid roadkill after only a few hours if they don’t refresh their arm pits.

But what did I find on the shelves instead? Silver Ice, April Shower, Arctic Avalanche, Cool Peak, Ocean Blast, Sport Ionic, Clean Slate, as well as a whole host of other nonsensical varieties.

When did everything begin to smell like pussy?

None of these scents do much to make me feel very manly. Don’t they just have the regular old-fashioned non-scented varieties, or is that too passe now? You know, the kind that leave powdered residue and make your armpits look like a bakers counter. They were basic, simple, and smelled appropriately like man - "Eau de Post-Gym Class Shower" if you will.

Damn New Agers and their fancy-pants designer aromas!

All I know, is if I am ever going smell “April Shower”, I want it to be during an actual rainfall in April. Nor do I want to associate the smell at the time with another dude’s sweaty pits. That kinda kills the ambiance *, am I right? Likewise, if I’m ever detecting “Arctic Avalanche” I want it to be while running - post haste - in the opposite direction lest I be buried under a tidal wave of cascading snow.

Imagine me standing on a scenic mountainside somewhere and being distracted by the cool, bracing smell of male perfumery just before being swept away by tons of snow. "Mmm, is that Arctic Avalanche I smell?" We’re talking about valuable reaction time here!

And what the fuck is “Ocean Blast” exactly? I bet that doesn’t market very well in Bande Ache, or New Orleans for that matter. That particular scent is bound to make local residents break out in cold sweats for sure!

Honestly, I decided that it would be the lesser of evils to simply stink this summer than reduce myself to smelling like a feminine douchebag.

* Well, that and the inevitable severe chaffing in the groinal area.

Fucked on Fuck (Fucking Reprise)

2006-07-06T23:18:00.000-07:00

How do you know exactly when you’ve turned into one really crude motherfucker?

When you use MS Word and the really bad words, the ones that absolutely flower with filth, don’t even bother registering anymore as spelling mistakes - that’s how. I’m constantly shocked over which colorful pejoratives of mine show as being grammatically correct. I bet the added memory on my 'Spelling & Grammer' checker in my Tools bar reads like an Andrew Dice Clay script.

So far, I can confirm that the MS Word on my home computer can immediately recognizes the words:

shit
piss
cocknballs
asshole
fucktard
fucknut
dipshit
asshat
cheesedick
moolyak
meatstick

...and a partridge in a fucking pear treeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Christ, I make would any children’s nursery rhyme sound like Glengary Glen Ross.

Kramer vs. Flamer

2006-06-14T14:04:00.000-07:00

(As much as I would love to take complete credit for this post, this was actually discovered in my junkmail. It was just too deliciously bitter to pass up on posting here. And for the record, I’m guilty of at least three of these listed tell tale offences.)

1. If you are over thirty and you have a washboard stomach, you are gay. It means you haven't sucked back enough beer with the boys and have spent the rest of your free time doing sit-ups, aerobics, and doing the Oprah diet.

2. If you have a cat, you are a Flaaaaming homo. A cat is like a dog, but gay - it grooms itself constantly but never scratches itself, has a delicate touch except when it uses its nails, and whines to be fed. And just think about how you call a dog... "Killer, come here! I said get your ass over here, Killer!" Now think about how you call a cat... "Bun-bun, come to daddy, snookums!" Jeeezus, you're fit to be framed, you're so gay.

3. If you suck on lollipops, Ring-Pops, baby pacifiers, or any other such nonsense, rest assured, you are a complete Gaylord. A straight man only sucks on barbeque ribs, crab claws, raw oysters, crawfish guts, pickled pigs feet, or tits.. Anything else and you are in training to suck El Dicko and undeniably a fag.

4. If you refuse to take a dump in a public bathroom or piss in a parking lot, you crave a deep homosexual relationship A man's world is his bathroom; he defecates and urinates where he pleases.

5. If you drink decaf coffee with skim milk, you like a high hard one in the poop chute. Coffee is to be had strong, black, and full aroma. A straight man will never be heard ordering a "Decaf Cafe Latte with Skim" and he will never, ever know what artificial sweetener tastes like. If you've had NutraSweet in your mouth, you've had a man there, too.

6. If you know more than six names of colors or four different types of dessert, you might as well be handing out free passes to your ass. A real man doesn't have memory space in his brain to remember all of that crap as well as all the names of all the players in the Major league, NFL, NHL, college ball, PGA and NASCAR. If you can pick out chartreuse or you know what a "fressier" is you're gay. And if you can name ANY type of textile other than denim, you are faggadocious.

7. If you drive with both hands on the wheel, forget it, you're dying to tune a meat whistle. A man only puts both hands on the wheel to honk at a slow-ass driver or to cut the punk off. The rest of the time he needs that hand to change the radio station, eat a hamburger, hold his beer, or play with his honey in the passenger seat.

8. If you enjoy romantic comedies or French films, mon frere, yous c'est leGay, oui? The only time it is acceptable to watch one of those is with a woman who knows how to reward her man. Watching any of the above films by yourself or with another man is likely to result in SHC (spontaneous homosexual combustion), which is what happens to fags when they flame out too.

Hot Pussy

2006-05-30T15:50:00.000-07:00

(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)

2006-05-27T07:12:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-21T15:01:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-18T17:45:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-12T17:55:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-08T18:00:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-07T15:32:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-05T19:07:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-05-04T18:52:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-02T16:28:00.000-07:00

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.

Going In With a Bang

2006-04-26T16:45:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'm travelling through the winding mountain passes of North Carolina and this news flash comes on the radio, one so freaksihly bizarre that I could hardly believe my ears. Of course, fourteen hours later when I finally arrived home you know I just had to google this motherfucker to see if in fact it were really true.

I was pleased, and even a little more disturbed, to learn that a 44 year old Salvadoran woman was discovered smuggling a military grenade, as well as some marijuana, in a cylindrical container stuffed in her - get this - her vagina!

Holy shit! Now that's what I call a "Boom Box". Ba-dum-bum.

Can you believe that? Now I've known, and know of, some very dutiful girlfriends, but Jesus, stuffing explosives up your hoo-hoo? That's just fucking crazy! The pot I could believe, easily, but thats some other heavy duty ordance she was trying to get past security there. It certainly pushes that "stand by your man" bullshit through the roof, eh?

Here's the really funny part: officials subsequently raised the security level at jails across the country, after spokesman for the La Esperanza prison Alberto Uribe said that the discovery definitely showed that "the inmates are planning something."

Well, gee, do ya really think so, el dipshit? Man, I'm sure glad this guy is on the case.

Lidia Alvarado was visiting two inmates, serving 25 and 30 years. Each had been convicted of rape, robbery and illegal arms possession. Now there's one hell of a gangbang - literally.

Gives you the real warm fuzzies doesn't it?

More Preaching from the Perverted

2006-04-16T16:44:00.000-07:00

Oh Lord, make it all end!

Please allow a speedy delivery for Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise and put the rest of us out of our misery about having to hear about it every waking moment of the day. We're ready to perform hari kare down here if we have to take any more!

Scientology this; and Scientology that. Who gives a flying shit anymore?

The latest news surrounding this celebrity spawning is that 'ol Tommy is going to allow 27 year old pregnant fiancee, Katie, to have her painkillers during the actual delivery of their demon seed. Well thats mighty big of 'ol Tommy, eh? "Whatever the woman wants. I'm not gonna tell Kate … you know, if she needs an epidural, she's gonna get her epidural."

So much for his unbending Scientology beliefs on medicine.

Tom had originally planned for a drug-free and scream-free delivery, as prescribed by his Scientology faith. Of course, it's not his genitalia that is going to be torn open in passing a fetus 10 times the size of the original orfice it came from. Oh, no! It's easy to talk big when all you're doing during the whole birthing process is passing out cigars, eh Tommy? Let's get real here, Tom. Considering the effects of the birthing process - you're going to need Mapquest to find Katie's g-spot once this is all finished and I'm pretty sure she's going to scream like a banshee, with, or without the drugs. But I'd say if you really want a "scream-free" experience, I'd be pumping her full of as many drugs as she pleases, post haste!

In the past he has criticised antidepressants, questioning Brooke Shields's revelation that she took them to help her get over post-natal depression. He even claimed to "know" all about this vicious circle represented by proscribed medications.

So, when it comes to Katie and birfing babies, it seems like 'ol Tom is liking to having his cake and eating it too, huh?

What a hypocritical dipshit.

He's just a know-it-all. No topic is too personal or too indulgent - we're all subject to Tom's open book life. Is the baby going to be born at the hospital, or his California mansion? Wouldn't you love to overhear that particular cellphone debate? "But, Katie, daaahling, I want you to have the baby by the pool. Mmmkay?"

No detail it seems is ever too small or insignificant to spare us.

He plans of eating Katie's placenta as well. Well, yummers. Why not just slap it between two pieces of toasted bread with some raspberry jam? "I thought that would be good," he told GQ magazine. "Very nutritious. I'm gonna eat the cord and the placenta right there." Better yet, why not give Emeril a call and see what kind of recipes he suggests for human placenta? That's an episode of the Iron Chef in the making for sure!

Cruise also spoke of his 'spectacular' sex life. The secret, he confided, is good communication.

"Sex is about the connection. Great sex is a by-product, for me, of a great relationship, where you have communication and it's an extension of that.

"Where it's just free. And that's how it should be. It's spectacular."

Oh, bullshit! He'd fuck a chain link fence if the opportunity should present itself. At least limit us the sanctimonious rhetoric, dude. None of us care anymore.

Go, spawn, and be done with it.

The Devil's Vibrator

2006-04-16T12:35:00.000-07:00

Okay, as Swayer the Player has already noted, I've been a real slacker in updating this website lately. It's not that there arn't enough things to bitch about in this 'ol world - it's just that my computer has decided to take a technical sabbatical.

That is to say: it's crapped out big time.

There's people getting busted in Texas bars for being intoxicated for fuck sakes, and here I am fiddling with the connection settings on my idiots box. The Vice President even shot somebody in the face and all I'm worried about are these ridiculous program errors that keep popping up on my screen like digitalized blemishes. There's a Exxon CEO's being rewarded with $400 million retirement packages and I'm struggling with virus software. Just think of all the missed punchlines and bitter slanted viewpoints that are being wasted here - my head is ready to explode. There's no justice anymore I tell you!

I fucking HATE computers!

In this brave new technological world of ours; I am but a mere technical peon. The sum of all my efforts to fix this damnable devil's vibrator so far have been to poke at it with a stick and wait for the obelisk to fall from the sky.

Fixing computers is apparently "soooo easy" according to everybody else. But for me it's like trying to play guitar while wearing a pair of oven mitts. I'm beyond frustrated. Computers are about as cryptic to me as Dennis Miller covering a Democratic Convention after one too many roofies. And they're even less funny.

I have attempted to seek help from other, more knowledgable computer-types, but I need a damn translator just to decipher what they're telling me. If I had Internet access, perhaps I could lgo to www.speakfuckingenglish.com, or something, to figure out what in the hell they're suggesting. But noooooo, here I am fruitlessly pounding away at the keyboard like a halfwit.

So please bear with me, dear readers, your beloved Skeevy Internet Superhero will be back with a vengenance just as soon as I am able. In the meantime, go forth and leave me behind. Seek out horseshit everywhere and ridicule it for the foul, stinky, news excrament it is.

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light!"

Too dramatic?

Indiversity Day

2006-03-22T16:20:00.000-08:00

Okay, check this out:

Faced again with controversy over plans for a gay speaker, Viroqua High School officials have cancelled Diversity Day.

The event, held every two years since 2000 for juniors and seniors, had been set for Thursday.

Scheduled speakers included Hmong, Jewish, Muslim, American Indian, African American, Latino, Buddhist, gay, physically disadvantaged and economically disadvantaged people.

But it was called off late last week after a legal group raised a potential challenge to include a formerly gay or Christian viewpoint.

Umm, q'est que fuck?

Let me get this horseshit straight - if I am interpretting that correctly, a GAY speaker is refusing to be heard alongside a FORMERLY gay representative? Somebody's just having us on here - right?

When committee members heard that some wanted the ex-gay viewpoint presented, they contacted the homosexual couple who would be speaking and the couple refused to participate alongside the ex-gay viewpoint.

Gregg Attleson, a Spanish teacher at Viroqua who was on the Diversity Day planning committee stated that the currently-gay couple indicated that they would be "uncomfortable" speaking alongwith ex-gays. Now you'd think that they might actually appreciate talking shop with someone who might actually understand, and even appreciate, from where they were coming from. At the very least, there might have been some sparks of romance. So it all sounds like a big case of sour grapes to me.

“Non-positive groups were not what we were going for,” said Ellen Byers, an English teacher on the committee.

But who knew homosexuals were such haters? Just leave it to the gays to go and spoil all the fun.

“Our students are not going to be living their lives out in Viroqua,” said Attleson. “They’ll be out and about in the world - in jobs, in the military, in the university - and they’re going to come into contact with people of different backgrounds. And we feel it would be real helpful for them in a nice safe place, like a high school, to have contact and be able to dispel some of the stereotypes.” Just imagine what the stereotype must be of ex-gays then if they were excluded from Diversity Day!

It was deemed important to have homosexuals represented because a lot of misunderstanding exists about the issue and because Viroqua has gay students. However, I guess once you cross over that line into total Fagdom, there's simply no coming back. You'd think that the good god-fearing people of Viroqua would embrace with open arms anyone who managed to rescue themselves back from the brink of complete homosexuality. It's like the gay Soprano's or something.

Now, the legal group in question, Liberty Counsel*, argued in a fax that “by excluding the Christian and ex-gay viewpoints, the (Viroqua) District violates the Establishment Clause and the Fourteenth Amendment guarantee of equal protection." But here's the best part in my humble oppinion: the fax also stated that Don Greven, pastor of Bad Axe Lutheran Church, and Charles Lind, grandfather of a Viroqua High senior, had raised the concerns about no Christian or formerly gay viewpoints being among the Diversity Day speakers.

You mean it was a Man of God who was complaining that there were no heatherns and former pillow-biters represented? Worlds must be colliding out in the infinite void of space right now because that could very well be the singlemost fucked up thing I have ever heard.

* Which, by the way, is a national public interest law firm with offices in Florida and Virginia. This whole Diversity Day nonsense is just getting too fucking weird now.

Arrrgh, Matey!

2006-03-18T22:35:00.000-08:00

In an unpresidented show of cahones, pirates off the coast of Somalia attacks two U.S. warships while patrolling in the Indian Ocean.

The pirates attacked the USS Cape St. George, a guided-missile cruiser, and the USS Gonzalez, a guided-missile destroyer, in a small wooden boat armed only with shoulder-fired rocket launchers that looked as if they had been recovered from an Al-Quida 'Going Out of Business' sale. Hardly the arsenaul that one would need to take on two heavily armed American patrol ships...even one named the USS Gonzalez*.

Needless to say the pirates boat was disintegrated. One of the pirates was killed and five more were wounded, the Navy said. Twelve suspects in all were apprehended and taken into custody in a skirmish that was over before it ever began.

That must have been some good shit those pirates were snorting before they decided that they would take on the Yanks in their armored sailing vessels in a classic David vs. Goliath style naval battle. They must have been feeling better than invinsible! These badasses must have spent the morning sprinkling China White on their Corn Flakes and watching 'Pirates of the Carribean' for the zillionth time before they went all Tony Montana.

But still, you have to admore that kind of blind aggression. It's good to know that todays pirates don't descriminate among who they attack and plunder. In this case, Polly just bit off more cracker than he could chew.

* This particular name was chosen over other such strong possible classy ship names as USS Raoul, USS Enriques, and the USS Samuel L. Jackson.

The Amazing Disgrace (Reprise)

2006-03-18T21:52:00.000-08:00

I have cast my ballot for this years 'Insensitive Retard of a Spouse Award'.

One of my secret shames is my addiction to 'The Amazing Race' on Tuesday nights. It amuses me to no end to watch stupid Americans stumblefuck and bitch their way around the globe. This past weeks episode offered me a true opus magnus of this stupidity when the team of Ray and Yolanda arrived at the Chaika Bassein in Moscow.

Ray himself even stated for the record as his girlfriend stood trembling atop the 10 meter diving platform like a scared puppy "she (Yolanda) said before we began this race that she didn't want to do any water challenges."

So having arrived at a huge outdoor Olympic training pool and recieving their next "Pit Stop" challenge, ominously entitled "Take a Plunge" - who do you think immediately volunteers the poor Yolanda? That's right. Ray.

Good play, retard. Why not just volunteer her to jump into an active volcano?

Likewise, the team of Wanda and Desiree decided to pool their collective brain power to conclude that Wanda, who suffers from deep water aquaphopia, should be the one to "Take A Plunge". I would think this clue, along with the specifics of this particular setting, gave a pretty damn good indication of what could be expected in the next challenge, wouldn't you?

Even a coma patient could figure out that encryption!

But unfortunately, both women avoided drowning and the teams were able to continue on in the race. On the fortunate side, however, is that so far, all the uber-annoying teams have been eliminated off the cuff including the nagging homosexuals and the token middle-aged bible thumpers who managed to drag themselves to the finish line in last place two weeks ago reeking of piss. They may have had God on their side but the cabbies sure didn't seem too thrilled about having Betsy-Wetsy leaking all over their back seats.

On Strike!

2006-03-15T15:39:00.000-08:00

Palestinians are now protesting in Gaza and the West Bank after the recent jail attack and seizure of one, Ahmed Saadat, by Israeli forces in Jericho...

...by going ON STRIKE?!

Will somebody explain this to me please? Even trying as hard as I might, I still can't wrap my brain around this most peculiar political strategy - not that I've ever fully understood anything of Middle Eastern policy in the first place mind you. But this just seems so perfectly warped that it is just too juicy to pass up.

Arn't Gaza and the West Bank pretty much prison states as they are in the first place? So what are they going to strike with exactly? I'm not sure the whole concept of "strike" is one hundred per cent crystal clear to your average Palestinian. But then again, these are the same people who, more often than not, settle disputes by strapping bombs to children and sending them to play at the mall. You already know they're not playing with a full deck. Nevermind sending U.N. troops and medical aid - send them disgruntled GM workers! They'll get their political shit together!

What are they going to withhold on this "strike" exactly? They live on a pile of rubble last I checked. Are they going to keep their dust and suicide bombers all to themselves? Because that would be a real tragedy.

"And if that doesn't get the Zionists attention," said Hamas spokesman Mahmoud Zahhar, "We will start kicking each other in the balls!"

Personally, I've had it to the nines with practically the whole Middle East. To me, the answer is about as easy as Tara Reid after a few Long Island Ice Teas: just supply them with as many guns and explosives as they want and then revert all our funding and assistance programs to building a huge blast-proof dome overtop the entire area and then just wait for the dust to settle.

"Would you like to touch my Hairy Lobster?"

2006-03-13T19:20:00.000-08:00

STOP THE PRESSES!

Just nine hundred miles south of Easter Island in the middle of the Pacific, marine biologists have plucked a brand-spanking new lifeform from the oceans depths.

How exciting!

That's right, folks! A US-led team from the Monterey Bay Aquarium Research Institute in California managed to find themselves a genuine hairy lobster.

Is anybody else giggling to themselves? It sounds to me like something you'd find being marketed at any gentleman's club on the outskirts of town.

But, unbelieveably, it's all true.

Kiwa hirsuta, or the "Yeti Crab", as it has been dubbed*, is white and 15cm (5.9in) long with an usual "surprising characteristic": the animal's pincers are covered with sinuous, hair-like strands. It is thought that the hairy pincers contain lots of filamentous bacteria to detoxify poisonous minerals from the water, allowing K. hirsuta to survive the deep sea hydrothermal vents, which spew out fluids that are toxic to many animals.

Alternatively, the animal may actually feed on the bacteria that live in the hair-like strands.

Whatever, my lower extremities are all-atingle just talking about it. Merely mentioning the "hairy lobster" makes all the dollar bills in my wallet jump to attention.

Nevermind the fact that already it looks like a huge fuzzy vagina already.

This new species is just bound to be all the rage as a menu du jour for lunch buffets and garden parties world round. I mean, who wouldn't want to order themselves a hairy lobster?

* Yeah, because that sounds soooooo much better!

Tim Horton's Horrorshow (Reprise)

2006-03-06T18:45:00.000-08:00

I have clearly articulated before that I am already skeptical of anything to do with Tim Horton's. In fact, I'll even go on record to add that I now can't even stand people who frequent Tim Horton's either. They're like mindless zombies in that they simply cannot function adequately unless they have their beloved Timmy's in hand.

I'd rather allow myself to be used as the love toy for a Greek army battalion than be forced to work in the near vicinity of any person who fixates on their Double-Double's in the same way that zombies seek out brains on which to feed.

I just consider it bad mojo.

I was almost mowed down today at an intersection by some idiot behind the wheel of his SUV as he tried to "Roll up the Rim to Win!" instead of focusing on the road in front of him like he should have been. Heaven's forbid that I should ever come in the way of his winning another large coffee and bagel! I hope that underneath the rim of his coffee, instead of the usual contest disclosure, he found the following warning:

"Watch the fucking road, jackass!"

Valentine's Day Lament

2006-02-11T16:35:00.000-08:00

For all forsaken single schmoes, such as myself, the dreaded day of all dreaded days, looms just around the corner - Valentine's Day. The single most hated day for all us embittered nay-sayers of heartfelt romance.

Being so spiteful of this holiday as I am, I almost stapled the girl from the 'Social Committee' to the bulletin board at work today when she innocently propositioned me at my desk to purchase a cutesy "Candy Gram" for someone special in the office.

"Honey, unless you're taking orders for steak and a blowjob this coming Tuesday, I suggest moving on to another cubicle immediately".

Homey, clearly, don't play dat.

How did this stupid schmaltzy holiday ever evolve when it did anyways? For me personally, the month of February itself is about as big a turn on as fat free bacon. It's cold; it's icy; it's bone-chillingly windy, and you probably wouldn't even be able to achieve an erection in the first place without the use of electrical muscle stimulators. I don't know about anybody else, but my penis retracts deep into my chest pretty much from early January until late March like a hybernating groundhog. It doesn't thaw out enough to be of any functionable use until at least June.

It's hardly the weather for romancing if you ask me.

Besides, whats worth celebrating exactly? The fact that I once touched a boob back in high school and that it's been all downhill from there? Talk about your premature ejaculations! I could easily stand to avoid all the commercialized Valentine's Day traditions erupting around me by just staying home, drinking maple syrup from the bottle and wacking off to LavaLife advertisements by candlelight.

Brokeback Moaning

2006-02-09T19:02:00.000-08:00

Is there anybody else out there that totally doesn't give a shit about ever seeing the critically aclaimed movie 'Brokeback Mountain'?

I'm already sick and tired of what seems like everyone telling me about what an incredibly amazing and sad story it is. Well, duh! No shit, Sherlock. The thing is, in my current state of permanent single loser status, I'm not too eager to just run out and proceed to make myself all sad and depressed by viewing a movie about the forbidden man love between two lonely ranch hands. Excuse me, but that just doesn't sound like an ideal Saturday night for me - what can I say? I'm likely to end up experiencing some sort of bizarre Stockholm Syndrome and wind up purchasing a pair of leather chaps and going on vacation to some 'Men Only' Dude Ranch.

Plus, it really annoys me how everyone feels that they have to articulate to me about how incredibly sad the ending of the movie is. I'm a little insulted here! It's a movie about two gay cowboys - how fucking happy could it really be? Think about it: how many cheerful cowboy songs have you heard in the last 30 - 40 years? Cowboys, even the straight, studly ones, are still a pretty fucking depessing bunch. The fact that these two particular cowboys in 'Brokeback Mountain' are homosexual is just the icing sugar on the puff pastry.

I simply can't picture a happy movie about gay cowboys and their secret desires for hot man ass out on the lonesome prairie. I just don't really need to see this movie to already know how it's all going to turn out in the end (no pun intended).

Likewise, I probably won't be bothered to go see the sequel, 'Fag Hill', either.

"Brangeletus"

2006-02-05T17:51:00.000-08:00

It would seem lately like there is either a serious shortage of condoms or somebody has slipped something into the Hollywood water supply causing a sudden increase in the number of recently announced celebrity pregnancies - because the headlines of just about every celebrity gossip magazine on the rack these days is featuring some juicy tidbit about the upcoming birth or pregnancy status report of some famous celebrity schlup or other. At the very least there is a photo of some pot-bellied primadonna sporting a Starbucks caffeinated beverage.

Tis the season to be knocked up and wired I guess.

First, the celebrity baby buzzboard was set afire with the news that Katie Holmes had been successfully impregnated by her leading man fiance Tom Cruise. Tabloids began to lap up the news when 'ol Tommy went so far as to even buy a sonogram machine in order to monitor the development of his unborn child growing in Holmes' womb. I wonder how God, "the Scientist", feels about Cruise keeping regular tabs on his divine handywork with his unborn fetus? Isn't that a little too - oh, I don't know - Dr. Frankenstein? If Tom's not careful, God is likely to give his precious newborn gills; or heavens forbid, a mangina.

Not to be outdone, there's also the preganancy announcements for Matt Damon and his wife Luciana Bozan, singer Gwen Stephani and rocker Gavin Rossdale, as well as fashion model Rachel Weisz and her fiancé-slash-director Darren Aronofskgwen.

But to top it all off, there's “Brangeletus” - the child expected by actors and all round beautiful people, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. My god is this child going to be fucking gorgeous or what?! Think about it, with such striking specimens for parents as Brad and Angelina, this child is simply bound to be too fucking beautiful to even gaze upon when it falls from Angelina's loins like a ripe tropical fruit. Brad Pitt's spuzz alone is rumored to cure cancer, eliminate aging wrinkles, as well as granting eternal youth for fuck sakes! He's like the Holy Grail of sperm in Hollywood.

When the time of birth arrives, this Golden Child will spit forth from Angelina's vagina in a wash of intense white light to the herald of trumpeting angels and followed by a twleve piece marching band to mark it's arrival into this world. It'll be the fucking birth of the century! Cattle will low; shepherds, wisemen, and Hollywood movie producers will trek from miles around after following a bright start in the West sky, to offer their greeting and tributes of gold frankincense and modeling contracts.

This child will be the perfect prototype if ever there is the need for the salvation of the human race following some global disaster of magnus proportions. We could create clones of this beautiful newborn and repopulate mankind as a race of perfect beings.

Elton Spawn

2006-01-24T15:57:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-23T16:26:00.000-08:00

"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)

2006-01-22T13:21:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-22T08:32:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-21T16:16:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-07T20:52:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-07T17:11:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-07T08:51:00.000-08:00

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)

2006-01-06T17:13:00.000-08:00

(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

2006-01-05T17:20:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-05T16:06:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-03T18:10:00.000-08:00

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.”

Demystifying Boxing Day

2005-12-26T18:16:00.000-08:00

What the hell is Boxing Day anyways?

All I know for sure is that the words ‘Boxing Day’ are only ever used nowadays in conjunction with the word ‘Sale’ and that it’s the one-day of the year that I wouldn’t dare venture into any public shopping mall without a fully fueled flame-thrower. Venturing into the shopping malls on this day, December 26th is like committing willful suicide. Shoppers frantically scour the aisles for discounted savings and pick off any and all leftover merchandise still on the shelves like locust. Often you will find said shoppers engaged in full on hand-to-hand combat over cheap-ass Bargain Bin merchandise that they wouldn't ordinarily have been interested in had they not been so overcome with Boxing Day-mania in the first place.

It is entirely possible to witness people duking it out gypsy-style in the aisles over chipped ceramic candy plates and loganberry-scented candles. Normally, these type of items wouldn't be fit to give to homeless people; but on Boxing Day they are the Holy Grail of discounted purchases!

One only needs to poke their head through the front doors of any Shopping Center to get a sense of the madness that rages within. You can almost smell the desperation wafting from frenzied shoppers still hoping to save themselves a few pennies on new electronic devises that will inevitably break by February. It is expected today that every shopper on the average will spend about $350 extra dollars on themselves.

That’s a lot of 'Soap-on-a-Rope' people!

But surely there must be a larger picture at work than special one-day merchandising discounts and clearance sales. The Boxing Day tradition began in Britain possibly as early as the Middle Ages; with regards to its origin, there are two main schools of thought. Some historians maintain that it began as a holiday tradition where house servants, who always had to work on Christmas days, were rewarded the day after. Their employers would put gifts such as food, clothing, or money in “Christmas boxes,” which the servants would then take with them as they departed for family visits. Others say that Boxing Day is so named because churches collected money for the poor in wooden boxes and usually opened them to hand out alms on the day after Christmas. Whatever the case, the bottom line is that somebody always has their hand out for something – and most recently in today's day and age, stores use ‘Boxing Day’ to offer bargains in order to clear out their year-end merchandise on savings-hungry customers. Reduced to the simplest essence, its origins are found in a long-ago practice of giving cash or durable goods to those of the lower classes. Sounds identical to what still happens in the aisles at your local Walmart if you ask me.

Most notably, Boxing Day also happens to fall on the ‘Feast of St. Stephen’, the martyred deacon who was stoned to death by an angry mob for his devoted piety and faith in Christ. But lets face it, Boxing Day is about as Christian as Coca-Cola. But if this still isn't enough of a reason to spend money on discounted iPods and cell phones – I don’t know what is.

"Holy Nipple Shots, Batman!"

2005-12-25T08:01:00.000-08:00

I spent Christmas Eve last night inside on the couch with a bowl of homemade soup, a roasted garlic cheese ball, and Katie Holmes' nipples.

You see, I decided that I just wanted to spend the evening quietly with some rented movies in order to mentally prepare for the tide of insanity that would inevitably follow the next day as part of the regular family Christmas. As was the plan, I settled down to watch ‘Batman Begins’ and was amused to learn that the biggest stars of the movie were not the actual actors or actresses themselves, but the two erect nipples of Katie Holmes that would continually steal the scenes in this otherwise lackluster action blockbuster. I was suckered into this movie like a moth drawn to a flame.

Yep, there they were sticking out from underneath Katie’s chosen blouses every so often like little Hershey Kisses underneath a satin sheet. What really cracked me up is that these shots had to have been planned out that way from the beginning as there was just no mistaking their freakish presence throughout the movie. It was absolutely shameless!

Director Christopher Nolan must have had tons of ice chips taken from authentic ice-bergs floating in the Arctic circle being flown in just to keep Katie’s nipples hard during filming. Aside from the ninjas, high-tech gadgetry, and flashback sequences, the most amazing show-stopper was the shot of Katie Holmes and her two pointy nipples turning and walking off into the sunset. Hows that for dramatic effect. Fuck knows what else was happening in the scene; I was too hypnotized at that point to care.

I wonder if those nipple shots were written into Katie Holme's movie contract, like Tom Cruise's* contractual butt-shot addendum, or whether Nolan just wanted to add some erect nipplage to his otherwise flacid adaptation of Batman to keep his audiences attention? Either way, it was the most ridiculous thing I have seen in film since King Kong went ice-skating in Central Park not long ago. It did however give me excuse enough to exercize the freeze-frame on my remote control.

* Who, along with Kevin Costner and Jean Claude Van Damme - the big three of cinematic man ass - forms the powerful 'Triumvirate of Ass' in Hollywood; apart from all the other popular male actors.

Chill Out

2005-12-15T18:10:00.000-08:00

The first winter weather warning was issued this evening in anticipation of a possible large snowfall over the next few days. Suddenly, if the current media coverage of this developing weather pattern is anything to go by, we’re on a state of provincial readiness in anticipation for this possible horrific winter disaster. The provincial government and city officials are all but calling in the National Guard just because someone spotted a snowflake over Lake Ontario.

Umm, yeah….and?

Excuse me - it’s fucking SNOW people! We live in CANADA…remember? Snow is practically part of our national heritage. It’s every fucking bit as Canadian as back bacon, Molson’s Canadian and Wayne-fucking-Gretzsky!

Seriously…what’s the big whoop? When did we Canadians start getting all panicky over just snow? Thank you CNN! Christ, next we'll probably be building fallout shelters the next time the weatherman forecasts heavy rain.

I remember standing outside in the backyard with my toboggan on winter evenings; looking up at into sky and just praying for an extra snow day. I remember tunneling out of my front door as a kid during the infamous Blizzard of ’77 for Pete sakes! Of course I understand now that snow has lost all that childhood luster of fresh innocence that it used to have for me. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that I like snow about as much as I like a good root canal. But I’m not exactly going to freak out and go all ‘Orange Alert’ just because some weatherman predicts “possible heavy snowfall, and temperatures falling below freezing”.

Get a hold of yourselves! Chill out – literally.

Fiber Fibber

2005-12-14T17:25:00.000-08:00

Put down your bran muffins everybody...

Recent research has now cast doubt on whether or not a high fiber diet, including fiber-rich vegetables, fruits, and whole grains actually reduces a person's chances of getting colorectal cancer.

Dietary fiber has long been hypothesized to reduce the risk of colorectal cancer. This research team however, led by the Harvard School of Public Health, combined and reanalyzed data from 13 previous studies involving 725,628 adults and found that a person who ate 30 or more grams of fiber each day, the equivalent of more than seven servings of oatmeal, had about the same risk of getting colorectal cancer as a person who ate less than half that amount. The results were adjusted to take into account other risk factors, such as red meat consumption and age.

Huh? Wait, you mean I’ve been shitting entire cornfields for the past two decades because I thought I was beating cancer?

FUCK! I demand somebody’s head on a platter! I feel duped. I suppose all this is just God’s way of retaliating for us having discovered that wacking off decreases your chances of getting prostrate cancer. Just fucking terrific!

I mean honestly – who really likes high fiber diets anyways? I need more diuretics like I need a fucking hole in the head. To think how many dollars I’ve wasted on those bran muffins from the cafeteria vending machine and the most good I was doing myself was in dislodging turds the size of pork loins from my bowels...and don't even get me started on all the low back pain I experience from the extra maintenance I have to peform periodically in the bathroom as a result!

Blazing Down the Campaign Trail

2005-12-14T16:56:00.000-08:00

Well, the Canadian election campaign is well under way and all parties have come out swinging.

Now, I know that for most of you readers, the topic of Canadian politics is about as enticing a topic as low fat ham. Hell, I’m Canadian and the whole upcoming election is about as daunting as leaping into a pit of dyspeptic hyenas. But this particular election campaign has already started off with an unusual bang as David Wilkins, the U.S. Ambassador to Canada, addressed Canadian political party members in an impassioned speech regarding the current developing campaign trend of sniping the White House in an effort to carry favor with disgruntled Canadian voters. Wilkins accused Prime Minister Paul Martin of using overheated political rhetoric, at America’s expense, in order to get reelected.

I have only one question: Who the fuck is this Wilkins guy anyways and when are we going to collectively kick his ass?

I may not be a devout Liberal supporter, but I respect the fact that Paul Martin has firmly stood his ground on political agendas such as improving cross-border relations, the Kyoto Protocol, and most recently, the climate change conference in Montreal. In response to Ambassador Wilkins, Martin quipped, “I will defend this country as I am the Prime Minister of Canada”.

I’ve said it once before and I’ll say it again: Fuckin-A, Paul!

Martin was unrepentant Wednesday, saying he wouldn't be "dictated to" on the subjects he can raise. And the fact is, Canada often figures in American election campaigns as well. In 2004, some Republicans widely portrayed their northern neighbor as the source of unsafe prescription drugs and a threat to American jobs because of the free trade deal. So what if we got some bones to pick and the shoe has now fallen on the other foot?

DEAL WITH IT!

Shit, we're blamed for just about everything as it is now! Wasn't there even a song 'Blame Canada' nominated for an Academy Award for fuck sakes! So why shouldn't we be serving them a thick slice of bitch cake in return every now and again?

Sure, it also just so happens that Paul Martin is the chief rat in a den of thieves, but who hasn’t been caught with their hand in the cookie jar at one point or another? The bottom line here at the moment is that our Prime Minister doesn’t take shit from nobody – not Bob Geldof, not Bono, not the fucking Danish, not even ‘ol Dubya himself!

He’s not afraid to stand up for our country and has the cahones to speak his mind. And if that means repeatedly pointing out some of the more retarded political agendas being perpetrated by Big Brother south of the 49th parallel – so fucking be it! Crying foul is just the political equivalent of picking up your net and going home?

West L.A. Giveaway

2005-12-03T08:24:00.000-08:00

In a sad, sad, state of groovy affairs, house appliances and other items from Jerry Garcia’s former home will be auctioned off on Ebay by a nonprofit group hoping to raise more than $100,000.

It looks like hippie’s that have any money still left burning holes in their pockets will be offered the chance to bid on precious Garcia heirlooms such as his dishwasher, his freezer, his stereo cabinets, cupboards and even the mans own toilet. I wouldn't be fucking suprised if you could bid on his drool pillow as well!

Is nothing sacred?

Henry Koltys, chairman of the Sophia Foundation, the organization auctioning off the appliances, bought the Nicasio, California home of Garcia in 1997, two years after Garcia died of a heart attack. And all this time he’s just been sitting on (as well as sitting and dumping in) this goldmine of Jerry collectables, and rubbing his palms together fast enough to start forest fires in anticipation for the big auction day. Garcia sold his home after only using it for a few months. Basically, he moved in, made himself comfortable, took a crap, and by the time he came back down to earth after his first house-warming hit of sunshine LSD, moved out again.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I LOVE Jerry Garcia. There was a time when I'd have crawled across broken glass to stick flags in his shit if I were ever so lucky have the opportunity while he was still alive. If you don’t know who he is at this point you should really read no further, step away from the computer, and go hang yourself in the broom closet with a leather belt. Clearly, you are not worthy. You were probably among the ones out on Friday nights getting drunk with your Laser Tag teams when the Deadheads rode into town and took over your Walmart parking lots. I am not, however, going to cheapen the man, or his memory, by spending money to purchase his blender or toasting oven.

Now these same obsessive tie-dyed traveling freakshows will have the chance to spend all their hard-earned life savings from working at the Denny’s Drive-Thru window and purchase an authentic home appliance owned by Captain Trips himself. They can store books on shelves where Jerry may have kept his bong collection, or warm their buns on the same toilet seat that Jerry himself may have dropped deuces from, or recline on something Jerry perhaps also made himself comfortable on while being serviced by his own personal team of professional Swedish fluffers.

It’s sad, but it’s true. Deadheads will spend their money on just about anything stupid.

Usually, stoned out tour hippies love their sparkly or glowing objects and will trade their entire life savings if it just looks pretty enough in the sunlight. You see, hippies also have the good financial sense of a pine needle. Shit, you could polish up a dog turd, say it has “healing properties”, and you’ll probably find an easy sale by the time you reach the back bumper of your parked VW mini-bus. They’re like magpies in Birkenstocks. And if Jerry happened to wash his crack pipe in it, or shat on it, or preserved minute steaks in it - hippies want it and will pay good money to get it. Put it all up on Ebay to the greater public - and it'll generate a bidding frenzy that will make the Japanese stock market floor look like a fucking Nana Mouskouri concert!

Snowboarding Snowjob

2005-11-24T15:23:00.000-08:00

I have a friend who has recently expressed an interest in snowboarding.

While I am excited that she is interested in expanding her interests and support her trying new experiences, I am regretful to inform her that this is an interest that I don’t feel I will ever be able to share with her. From past experience, I have learned that my particular body type is more aerodynamically designed for bouncing and rolling down mountainsides out of control than it is to rocket down them at the speed of light. Besides, I don’t exactly have a body that would ever appear flattering dressed in tight flashy ski pants.

My idea of winter sporting is more on par with sitting in a hot tub at some mountaintop Chalet and sipping a highball until I pass out in a delirious stupor - call it “Extreme Hot-tubbing” if you will. Apart from that, my idea of winter activity is to curl up on the couch with a heating blanket and watching M*A*S*H reruns until my eyeballs explode in their sockets.

I’m not much of a thrill seeker I’m afraid. Life moves fast enough for me as it is that I don’t feel the need to throw myself off the tops of mountains with only yard sticks strapped to my feet. If I ever needed to experience that kind of thrill in my life, I would simply pay somebody to shoot me between the eyes and just be over and done with it.

Why place innocent trees in harms way by risking having my stupid ass slamming into them at 200km/hr?

Death to Geraldo Rivera

2005-11-22T16:21:00.000-08:00

I have a new pet peeve when it comes to the popular media. Move over Anderson Cooper, there’s a new Chief Dipshit in town.

If ever there was a complete tool bigger than Geraldo Rivera on television I haven’t see it - and I’ve seen some pretty big tools…umm, you know what I mean. I’m talking about those ghoulish news media devils - those who perpetuate the on-going cycle of fear - not some oiled down beefcake with a penis the size of a stuffed pork loin inside a purple banana hammock.

Suddenly Geraldo is everywhere again as you surf channels. He's the Dark Lord of Warpedness. Killer nurses, escaped serial killers, neighborhood pedophiles, crib deaths, traumatized Gulf War veterans; no subject matter is too morose or passé. Fuck, I’d sure hate to live in this guys ultimate world of doom and gloom where ever minute could be your last before the safe lands on your head.

Power, lies and corruption – oh my! Geraldo Rivera is like the modern world's version of Chicken Little; constantly crying out that the sky is falling, or at least is poisoning you in your sleep, and generating as much panic among the mainstream masses as possible. The whole world is careening towards to Hell and 'ol Geraldo is at the wheel!

This recent series of investigative exposes aired on CNN are only half hour portals into the mind of a truly paranoid individual. I’d rather go on a Christmas fishing trip with Scott Peterson than have to endure any further Geraldo Rivera Investigative Reports. Not because I’m still pissed off at him over wasting my time in opening Capone’s hidden vaults all those years ago, but because if you ever take anything that Geraldo offers up as truth you’ll only end up completely deranged and living in a cardboard box under some bridge.

If Anderson Cooper was the purveyor of media sensationalism; then Geraldo Rivera is the official concierge for Dante’s 9th Level of Hell. Any of Anderson's 360 program spiels is like honey from the lips of an angel compared to Geraldo's paranoid delusions.

I wouldn't watch ANY Geraldo Rivera Investigative Report's, unless maybe, he features an insiders look into a penthouse suite with Paris Hilton, Kobe Bryant, and Elvis impersonator, and a midget named Little Earl.

Now THAT'S investigative reporting!

"Pass the Viagra, Grandpa."

2005-11-08T17:23:00.000-08:00

It was mentioned to me today by one of my new recruits, that he had been married for exactly half of his life. And most peculiarly – he said it with something of a smile on his face. Now, I will give this gentlemen total credit here, he seems like a perfectly genuine individual with more than just acorns rattling around in his noggin – I can see where being married for half his life could be something of a real accomplishment…

…but it just scares the living shit out of me!

After all, I know how old I am now and I know what double that is. And the thought that I should ever make it to the point in my life where I too could say that I’ve been chained to the same person for half my life just makes my nuts shrivel. By that stage in my aging process I’ll have all the sex appeal of an iron lung. I won’t be able to get a hard-on in a wind tunnel much less ever make love to my partner.

Now, about this gentleman to whom I was referring, he’s still considerably less in age now than I will ever be at the time when I too should ever be able to accomplish such a monumental plateau of marital bliss. This whole scenario is such a bizarre concept to me. It didn't so much as snowball out of control in my fragile male psyche as it totally careened towards the edge on a lubed up bobsled.

As it is, I’ll dance in the fucking street should my cat ever outlive my African violet that sits on the bathroom windowsill! Seriously! I’ve had bouts of indigestion that have lasted longer than some of my relationships.

Hillbilly Weddun (Reprise)

2005-11-07T17:51:00.000-08:00

Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore were married over a month ago and the celebrity rumor mill is still buzzing like a hive of angry bees. Well, more correctly, they're no longer buzzing any longer so much as I’m just now getting hip to this particular current Hollywood event.

I know, I know – I must live in a bubble. What can I say? I have purposely ignored the last three or four Star magazine covers while checking out at the supermarket and therefore I find that I’m entirely out of the loop.

One such unsubstantiated juicy rumor had it that Demi didn’t actually want Ashton’s family present at their nuptial ceremony because she feared that they might not exactly be “sophisticated” enough.

Now pardon-fucking-me for asking in the first place, but for the wedding of a 43-year-old cougar (making her 15 years Kutcher’s senior) and one of the jack-morons from ’Dude, Where’s My Car?’ – wouldn’t Ashton’s family have perhaps the perfect level of “sophistication” to attend a wedding of this caliber?

Are you fucking kidding me?

I bet the Kutcher family trailer looks right in place at Demi’s L.A. mansion driveway. And I’m equally sure that it was a lot of fun for everybody involved too, what with all the Kutcher’s painting themselves up and dancing around an open fire at the reception before cooking up varmints for the big weddun’ feast.

What else can you say? I doubt highly that someone with children named Rumor Glenn, Scout LaRue, and Tallulah Belle has any just cause to be picky about anyone else's social trappings. Shit, her kids sound the roll call of red-necked freaks working for any traveling carnival. And either of these three kids wouldn't have enough sophistication to rip even Jeff Foxwothy's ticket at the ‘Tilt-o-Whirl’!

Likewise, people who have previously banged Emilio Estevez should not throw stones in glass houses.

Weekend Genderbender

2005-10-23T22:33:00.000-07:00

Lesson learned this weekend.

NEVER leave a copy of your May 2000 edition of Mojo Magazine lying around on your bedside table when you leave your apartment to a female friend for an evening.

This particular issue of Mojo features an in depth expose of exposed rock stars in all their raunchy backstage nakedness. Like it's any real suprise that this more sultry side to rock n' roll exists. The article triumphantly proclaims: "From 'Shake and Roll' to 'Get It On' rock n' roll has always been a sex thang." It also boasts a full frontal nude photograph of Iggy Pop in all his withered schlongness. I guess this is where the setting gets unsettling. Not exactly the kind of browsing material you really want to unwittingly stumble across when invited to sleep over in a friend’s bed I suppose.

Oops.

Apparently this was found to be “disconcerting” to my female friend and I suppose I can’t blame her. If I were a girl and I were ever to find an 8x12” glossy of a naked man by a man's beside, whether it be Iggy Pop or whoever, I might have serious deliberations about his masculinity too.

However, dear readers, rest assured to you all that I am innocent on all suspected charges. What’s the big deal anyway? So I have a picture of Iggy’s dick within reach of my bed…it’s not like it was lying next to box of Kleenex was it? It's IGGY-fucking-POP! Not some lewid beefy calender model. Iggy is the Godfather of Punk not Pansy. This is the same dude that gave us 'Fun House' and 'The Idiot' - two of the most monumental balls-out rock albums of all time! So he has a penis. Wasn't that a given already? It honestly doesn’t bother me in that Iggy's body is basically one big walking hardened vein anyways…one more exposed before the camera's eye isn’t anything to get excited about.

Of course, if the magazine had featured a cover photo from the inlay of ‘Electric Ladyland’, or 'Blind Faith', or maybe something from a Led Zeppelin hotel room instead, there would have been no instant concern that I’ve been rubbing out kittens to aging punk stars. Oh no, I would have been just another pervert short on the Jergen’s lotion.

Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Me

2005-10-15T22:05:00.000-07:00

Okay, I’ll bite.

It appeals to my innate love of making lists. I couldn’t complete each and every list that people have either sent me or that I have read recently, so I’ve included a sampling of those certain lists that interested me the most in no particular order or formatting for anyone who gives a shit about these kinds of things:

Seven Things You Plan to Do Before You Die:

1. Get that gag photograph of Mickey Mouse being shafted from behind.
2. Play guitar in front of thousands of screaming people. I would even settle to play the electric triangle.
3. Piledrive Patrick Swayze.
4. Climb Mt. Kilimanjaro and snuggle up to a mountain gorilla.
5. Publish my life’s manifesto: “Life, Universe & Why I Hate Everything In It”.
6. Solve the scientific formula for turning broccoli into gold.
7. Retire to an isolated island in the middle of Georgian Bay and dedicate my life to the study of feline behavioral psychiatry and M*A*S*H reruns.

Fifteen Albums I Would Take to a Dessert Island (Plus 5 more because I couldn’t decide):

1. John Mayall – Bare Wires
2. Van Morrison – Astral Weeks
3. Talk Talk – Spirit of Eden
4. Primal Scream – Screamadelica
5. Rolling Stones – Exile on Main Street
6. Byrds – Notorious Byrd Brothers
7. Miles Davis – Jack Johnson
8. Happy Monday – Thrills, Pills & Bellyaches
9. Spiritualized – Live at Royal Albert Hall
10. Tom Waits – Closing Time
11. Blue Rodeo – Five Days In July
12. Rheostatics – It
13. Verve – A Storm In Heaven
14. Jimi Hendrix – Electric Ladyland
15. Johnny Cash – Live at San Quentin
(honorary mention: Vince Guaraldi Trio – A Boy Named Charlie Brown)

Seven Physical Traits I Look For In the Opposite Sex:

1 boobs
2. boobs
3. boobs
4. butt
5. eyes
6. panties
7. and, oh yeah - boobs. (does this make me shallow?)

Five Favorite Movies:

1. Little Big Man
2. High Plains Drifter
3. Jaws
5. Fear of a Black Hat
6. American Flyers (Added not for any great cinematic significance, but simply due to the fact that I have seen this shameless mauling of an early Kevin Costner role more times than I’d like to admit.)

Five Last Books I Have Read:

1. David Sedaris – Me Talk Pretty One Day
2. Ernest Hemingway – A Moveable Feast
3. David Boyle - WWII In Photographs
4. Tim Willis – Madcap
5. The take-out menu for ‘Mary’s Chinese Food & Donut Emporium’

Three of Your Everyday Essentials:

1. My journal
2. Orange Pekoe
3. Green Onions (both the vegetable and the Booker T varieties)

Five Favorite Music Bands/Artists:

1. Grateful Dead
2. John Mayall
3. Tom Waits
4. Verve
5. Bob Dylan

Three of Your Favorite Songs (at the moment):

1. Little Feat - Fat Man In the Bathtub
2. The Beta Band – Dry the Rain
3. New Fast Automatic Daffodils – Fishes Eyes

Three Dream Jobs:

1. Author
2. Medicinal Marijuana Tester
3. ‘On Hold’ Soundtrack Compilation Specialist

Seven Things I Say Much too Often:

1. What the fuck?
2. Huh?
3. Dude
4. Fuckin-A
5. Pardon?
6. Told ya...
7. Blow me

Two Truths and a Lie (in no particular order):

1. I spent time in a Turkish prison
2. I own more than three Eagles albums
3. I once sneezed on Liam Gallagher at a CD signing and forcing him to cancel Oasis’ first planned North American tour due to a bad case of the sniffles.

Five Hobbies:

1. Blogs. What? Is nobody playing attention here?
2. Live music trading
3. Baiting squirrels across the street in front of cars with peanuts.
4. Mocking my fellow man
5. Perfecting the perfect peanut butter and banana sandwich

Ten Guilty Pleasures:

1. Judge Judy
2. My cat
3. Cracker Jack flavored rice cakes
4. Jim Croce
5. Survivor
6. Homemade scented soap
7. Emily Bronte
8. G. I. Joe comics
9. B-movie horror films
10. BBQ-ing naked

I feel so...ALIVE!

One Flu Over the Cuckoo's Breath

2005-10-08T16:25:00.000-07:00

It seems like the good people at CNN have finally found their next great breaking story aimed at scaring the bejesus out of all its viewers. If you listen to Anderson Cooper, Larry King, Wolf Blitzer, or any of the other regular CNN media mandroids, we’re all poised to meet our maker at the hands of the next deadly overdue pandemic – the Avian Flu.

Reports are indicating that the world is overdue for another epic outbreak of something or other that will kill over %50 of the world’s population as quickly as a case of herpes through a Turkish prison. Of course, never one to be melodramatic, Mr. Cooper makes this next possible pandemic something that would make the Bubonic Plague seem more like the spread of Athlete's Foot at the local YMCA.

Hasn’t CNN given us enough to worry about already without raising fears about possible future outbreaks of diseases? I still haven’t finished digging the bomb shelter in my backyard after their last NYC subway bomb threat or taken the boards down off my windows after Hurricane Rita, Stan, Billy Bob, or whoever it was that was last reported blowing this way off the Gulf of Mexico. Now I have to contend with the fact that I may die a horrible death if my pet cockatiel happens to sneeze on me while I’m changing his cuttlebone?

Where does it all end? Where is the life worth living? If you were to believe in every CNN report, you may as well pull the trigger now and end it all before your toes drop off and your lungs begin to bleed out of your ears. Christ, the more I watch CNN the less likely it is that I will never leave my apaprtment again!

Everglade Gutbuster

2005-10-06T19:34:00.000-07:00

Just in case I ever needed another reason not to venture into the Sunshine State of Florida, I read an incredible news story about a 13-foot Burmese python that had literally burst while trying to swallow a live, six-foot alligator whole. WHOLE!

Holy shit! That sounds more like the plot of some B-movie sci-fi flick from Monster Island – not the Florida Everglades for god sakes! Just when you thought it was safe to back to Walt Disney World.

It seems that pythons are periodically abandoned in the Everglades by former pet owners and have managed to survive just peachy. In fact, it seems that they have survived about as well as Dom DeLuise on a desert island of rigatoni trees and beaches of chocolate bonbons.

The gory evidence of this epic struggle, the fourth documented in three years, was photographed last week by a helicopter and wild life researcher. Of course, how exactly one manages to take clear nature photos while still piloting a helicopter above the remote swampland are beyond me…but that’s not what’s really cool here. The snake was found with the eaten gators hindquarters protruding from its exploded midsection like a leather cocktail wiener.

The real fear is that these displaced pythons are eventually going to pose a serious threat to other reptiles (such as alligators), otters, woodstorks, squirrels, sparrows, and possibly even humans who unwittingly stumble into their feeding grounds. Remember; this is a state of slow, elderly, retirees who's hobbies include laying in the sun and beating brush looking for lost golf balls. It's a veritable smorgasbord for the like of a hungry python!

It was originally hoped that the alligators would help control the populations of abandoned pythons. But this recorded example apparently proves otherwise and that these pythons are pissed and ready to bite off more than they can chew – literally! It’s bad enough that I’m waiting for Mother Nature to use me as a chew toy or that there are still terrorists and evil-doers lurking around every corner, but now I have to also contend with enormous ass snakes ready, set, and able to swallow me whole?

Fuck Disney World! This year I’m vacationing in the safe, python-free confines of my own locked apartment.

In fact, as silly a childhood phobia as it is, I may never be able to take a peaceful shit again without worrying about some mammoth python taking a melon-sized bite out of my ass.

Kill Martha Stewart

2005-09-28T18:50:00.000-07:00

Martha Stewart blows donkeys. How’s that for a powerful opening statement, huh?

After wasting an hour of my life on ‘Martha Stewart: Apprentice’, I have this incredible urge now to burn things to the ground. What can I say? She really brings out the barbed contemptuousness in me. If I had the opportunity to crash a plane into some remote mountain, I’d have Martha Stewart strapped outside to the nose cone riding that sucker all the way in*!

Fuck Martha Stewart and the sandalwood-scented cornucopia she rode in on!

I annoyed me no end, pained me even, to hear her final overall assessment of the inevitable elimination boardroom drama at the show's end: “I worked hard; I never quit; I went to jail and ended up even richer and more celebrated; I could take a shit at the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro and wipe my as with a mountain gorilla and people would still make the pilgrimage to sniff the insoles of my Himalayan hiking shoes which have been craftily stitched together with genuine panda pubic hair.” Shit, this crazy bitch is one step away from professing to have died for our sins! C’mon, a little kerosene and a book of matches sounds pretty tempting right about now, huh?

I hate to burst your bubble there, bitchcake, but what about the whole going to jail for insider trading thing? Or how about that other little slice of humble pie – obstruction of justice? Camp Cupcake? Anyone? Hell-ooooooooooooooo?

Here's a scrupleless, materialistic opportunist who leapt at the chance to sell her faithful stockholders down the shitter just to make another kajillion dollars. What with all those past lies and calumnies, why are we still allowing ourselves to be brainwashed into putting so much stock in Martha’s haloed business acumen? That's like taking gambling advice from someone named 'Dallas'. You're just asking to get fucked.

And just where is all this “creativity” and "uniqueness" that Martha is so renown for anyways? The world needs another reality-based boardroom soap opera like it needs another Black Plague. Seems to me that her whole show is really just a gay man’s ‘Apprentice’ with Donald Trump.

Do us all a favor Martha, and just stick with folding dinner napkins into exact little likenesses of the Pyramids at Giza and making statuettes of penguins out of fuscilli, ‘kay sweetheart? Leave the real executive boardroom brouhaha’s to the rich assholes in toupee’s.

* I have already reserved the cockpit for the ‘Barenaked Ladies’.

Katrina Tribute

2005-09-23T20:17:00.000-07:00

You know what I love about natural disasters - the bevy of benefit concerts and charity fundraisers that inevitably take place afterwards.

Oh sure, these hosts of talented musicians and celebrities really care about the cause they are rallying in support of, but I’m also sure you could just about drag any significant musician out of the woodwork no matter how eccentric, removed from normal society, or just plain mbittered they have become in this point in their lives. Shit, Michael “Freakshow” Jackson has even enlisted the aid of both Snoop Dogg and R. Kelly to help him with one such charity fundraiser project for the victims of Hurricane Katrina. Great! Both a known and a suspected pedophile and an OG gangster; doesn’t that just set the 'ol heartstrings a-tingle? Yay! Break out the “Jesus Juice” - it’s time to PAR-TAY!

I bet you could even convince Johnny Lyden out of hiding these days if you were to just tempt him with the right amount of distraught tragedy-befallen refugees. Who could refuse such a promotional bit?

However, because I am poor and because I usually live too far away from these one-off charity benefits and profile concerts, I have decided instead to create my own perfect musical compilation so that I can just sit at home on my ownsome in front of my stereo and still feel like I'm lending my support for the victims of the Gulf Coast devestation.

My “Katrina Tribute” would play as follows:

When the Levee Breaks – Led Zeppelin
New Orleans Is Sinking – Tragically Hip (could also use ‘Nautical Disaster’)
Riders On the Storm – The Bores, err, Doors.
It’s Gonna Rain – Violent Femmes
Shelter From the Storm – Bob Dylan
River Deep, Mountain High – Ike & Tina Turner Revue
Stormy Monday – The Allman Brothers
Texas Flood – Stevie Ray Vaughn
Fixing A Hole – The Beatles
Run For the Hills – Iron Maiden
Alabama Getaway – The Grateful Dead (Or possibly even ‘Hell In a Bucket’)
Goin’ Mobile – The Who
Drown – Smashing Pumpkins
Five Feet and Rising – Johnny Cash
Why Does It Always Rain on Me? – Travis
Here Comes the Rain – Eurythmics
Dead Shrimp Blues – Robert Johnson
Sail Away – Styx
Who’ll Stop the Rain? – Creedence Clearwater Revival
Let It Rain – Derek & the Dominoes

Honorable Mention: ‘I Ran’ by Flock of Seagulls. (Just because I love clever anagrams)

I Am Man; Hear Me Oink!

2005-09-21T17:58:00.000-07:00

I’ve become obsessed lately with a particular girl’s breasts. I just can’t help myself. I’d say that it was like staring at a train wreck and not being able to tear my eyes away, except that no train wreck ever looked this delicious and inviting. Call me a pervert, call me a typical male chauvinist pig, whatever; just don’t block my direct view of those sweet jiggly hills of Shangri-la.

Surely, at my age, I could have expected to have grown out of this pubescent fascination with women’s jubblies by now; but, apparently not. Here I am everyday drawn to those two luscious mammaries that peek out from her usual selection of low-cut tops like two loaves of freshly baked bread cooling on a shelf at a bakery. I couldn't be happier that exposed cleavage is finally coming back into style if pubic hair topiaries were also to become fashionable.

At this point, I think that my eyeballs are more drawn towards her chest due to the immense gravitational pull that must emanate from these two planetary-sized hooters than from either their bountiful femininity or elegance.

I could try and defend my lack of self-control, but why bother? Who would believe me? Rest assured, she can similarly feel free to stare at my crotch in retaliation if that pleases her to do so. No worries. Fair is fair. I am an equal-rights pervert if ever there was one.

What can I say? Oink!

The Big Chill

2005-09-21T17:20:00.000-07:00

I have been labeled by a few of my work colleagues as a “chill” kind of guy. Good grief! “Chill”? Who am I – Frosty the-fucking-Snowman?

Apparently to them, if I'm interpretting this correctly, “chill” means that they see me as an easy-going, relaxed, fun kind of fellow with whom they could feel comfortable with and enjoy sitting and working beside – which in this zombie wasteland, is both quite an accomplishment and a compliment.

However, this whole “chill” label thing amuses me no end. Sure, on the exterior they see the cool, calm and collective free-spirit hippy guy with whom they’d entrust their daughters and sisters with (I feel it worthy to also note here that I have noticed a severe lacking in the offered daughters and sisters as of late as well); but on the interior I’m a much different beast indeed.

Little do they know that in my mind I’ve killed them all off – at least twice! On some particularly rough days, I have passed the time by imagining new and inventive ways to bump off my fellow work peers. Who doesn’t? Surely I’m not the only one. Of course, I may be the only one announcing this fact in an open forum for all to behold.

No demise is too exaggerated, too insignificant, or too unworthy. Depending on the particular workmate, they may have been killed off by a stampede of albino water buffaloes, to merely choking to death on a lima bean. There are varying degrees of mental murder for each specific work mate around me. Someone who keeps to themselves and doesn’t hassle me all day with unnecessary griping about their unfulfilled work lives for eight hours a day may be spared a brutal slaying and merely suffocated in an avalanche of throw pillows, where some dipshit who continually pisses me off by snapping their gum and beginning all his verbal communiqués with me by first stating “Question”, could expect to meet their maker through a more painful and grizzly means like being stuffed into a wood chipper or fed to hungry piranha.

What can I say? Believe it or not it keeps me sane throughout the day as well as preventing me from me acting out any of my random aggressions and end up sitting on Death Row for crimes against humanity.

E=MCfat

2005-09-14T19:01:00.000-07:00

When did dieters also become wizards of mathematics?

To me, most dieters look tense and emaciated; the type of person you wouldn’t expect to add two coconuts together correctly. And suddenly, in the blink of an eye they can calculate - in their heads no less – their daily calorie intake and total body fat production and somehow equate it to E=MC2, the Pythagorus Theorum, and the Caramilk Secret for fuck sakes.

Are tofu and bean sprouts giving them incredible mathematical skills or something? Shit, if that's the case, I'm quitting this diet before I turn into Rainman! I wonder then how many apples Isaac Newton had to munch before he devised the Laws of Gravity anyways?

It just seems that most dieters have this sudden amazing ability to work out complex equations while fondling particular grocery items in the aisles of their local supermarket. It’s almost like they have an actual superhuman power or something - a nerd’s version of an actual X-Men, if you will. They may not be able to otherwise work out a %10 gratuity without taking their shoes and socks off, but put a bag of Kettle chips in their hand, and suddenly they become so smart that Steven Hawking himself would stand up to give them a bow.

Minton's Silver Hammer

2005-09-09T18:34:00.000-07:00

I believe I have found the most likely candidate to win the prestigious “Insensitive Twit of the Year” award. Sgt. Michael Minton, the official left in charge of dealing with the current stray dog problem plaguing the area of St. Bernard’s Parish in the hurricane stricken city of New Orleans.

In a move that completely disregards the noble namesake of his local Parish by shooting peoples left dogs and pets right between the eyes in the city streets where they roam, sleep, sit, beg, and shake a paw. Not only did Sgt. Minton be seemingly only to happy to accept the task at hand, but to also allow himself to be filmed doing it as well – right down to his running over of some dog in a truck; turning it into a mere poochie pancake left smeared on the pavement behind him. Is that 'Dirty Harry-thorough' or what?

Atta boy, Mikey! Way to demonstrate to the rest of the world at large what a completely disturbed prick you really are. Bravo, sir! In an odd kind of way, you almost have to respect someone who unapologetically looks Lassie in the eye and says: "Hasta la vista, Benji". Thats some COLD ass shit going on there I tell you!

You’d think it was this guys calling in life or something to shoot these poor furry refugee’s. He’s almost giggling with glee as if he’s been waiting his whole life for this very moment – security guard vs. beast. Mano et K9.

About the current lackluster government rescue efforts and the clearing of bodies from homes and city streets, Minton had only this to offer: "I don't gots tha time to be talkin' bout savin' no peoples and colleckin' tha dead when dere's dogs ta be shootin'."

I bet he even amuses himself in his labors by inventing new and creative ways to “humanely” wack the entire local abandoned pet population. I half except to see another news update on CNN featuring Sgt. Minton stuffing poodles into pillowcases and smacking them against tree trunks; and all the while - whistling while he works.

I hope the dogs can get it together enough to form packs in order to hunt his ass down and feast on his kibbles and bits

I, Cauliflower

2005-09-06T19:34:00.000-07:00

Day Four of my self-imposed diet.

I think my body is dealing with the severe hunger pains and dieting stress by shutting itself completely down every time I enter into any prone position for more than 30 seconds. I thought this whole “eating healthy” thing is supposed to make you more energetic and revitalize your entire zest for life? Au contraire, I feel about as hollow and lifeless as a deflated basketball. Even simple everyday thought processes resonate in my ears lately like ice cubes being dropped into an empty tall glass.

Why is that? Lately, I need a three-hour nap after even nibbling a single serving of broccoli. I think vegetables are actually sapping my bodies energy, or more correctly, fat and cholesterol where what was really keeping my body functioning in the first place. I’m afraid if I were ever to eat an entire bowl of garden salad I may actually lapse into a Rip Van Winkle-esque coma once and for all!

Medics would find me unconscious on the kitchen floor in front of the refrigerator (where I no doubt made my last ditch attempt in vain to reach sustainable empty calories) and attempt to revive me by ramming peanut butter sandwiches down my throat.

“Eat, you fat bastard, EAT!”

How embarrassing would that obituary read?

“Terry Nash, aged 33, died of Anaphylactic Shock brought on by the eating of too many raw fruits and vegetables and a distinct lack of stabilizing grams of trans fat. His life could have been saved and another tragic early death could have been avoided if only responding EMS officials had been able to get a rack of ribs to him sooner.”

Dieting would suck donkey balls, except that those are probably too salty or fattening and unhealthy. So dieting sucks cabbage balls instead.

When the Levee Breaks

2005-09-05T12:14:00.000-07:00

Okay, somebody has to say it: what the fuck is going on down in New Orleans?

Hurricane refugees are running amok in the streets and are now even shooting at police and National Guard officials, rescue workers, relief volunteers, anchormen, camera crews, each other, and anything or anybody else that should dare twitch a muscle or, heavens forbid, wade out into the open. I just don’t fucking get it. Don’t these people want help, or are these just the morons who when hurricane Katrina hit shore, decided to down all their toxic snortables, smokeables, and consumables in order to keep it all out of harms way – and they’re still riding the intense god-like high?

In hindsight of this tragedy, I can understand the victimized people looting to a point; I mean, who wouldn’t want to throw a garbage can through the front window of an electronics’ store if given the opportunity? I bet that shit is a real scream when the world is falling to pieces around your ears. But what I can’t understand is why go so far as to hinder rescue efforts by using rescue officials as target decoys? Where the fuck is the good sense in that?

Somebody explain this to me…please!

When all this is over, said and done, I hope the media pictures of all these armed vigilante assholes who are living out their “Gunfight at the OK Corral” fantasies in disaster areas by shooting at those trying to aid and assist others in need will be postered on every post office and corner shop wall until they are all hunted down like the scum they are and had their genitals fed to hungry wolves.

P.S. In a stroke of good fortune, the Neville Brothers have been located and are reported to be safe and unharmed. They were spotted by a rescue plane in the area floating on a make-shift raft, which later turned out to be Dr. John wearing a pair of water wings.