Wednesday, December 19, 2012
To quote my favorite ex-high school baseball coach, "Pissed!"
This is how I feel about Edy's discontinuing their Cinnamon Christmas ice cream. (I realize Borden has nothing to do with Edy's but I needed a segue, cut me some slack it's the holidays!)
For a few magical years of Christ's Annual Birthday Explosion, the highlight was spooning my way through a cardboard tub of Edy's Cinnamon ice cream. Then the fat, milky, churned and frozen concoction dried up. Freezers went bare. Children cried. Old women died. The economy went into a poop circling turd spiral.
It's awful. Each day feels vacant. The air tastes of hog slaughter and the water is tainted with rust and tetanus.
I don't eat a lot of ice cream out of the desire to fit into the current flock of pants I own. But, I loved this stupid treat.
For the past 10 years, it was the one thing that I knew wouldn't suck about the holidays. No matter if I got lady's socks (I'm a man), my name misspelled on a gift from somebody I'd known closely for over 12 years, abandoned to spend the holiday in a movie theater by myself in a state full of backwards Vikings, had to travel through frozen winter shit storms with two strangers from New Mexico I met in an airport after my flight was canceled, another JC Penny shit sweater, an overnight bag that was free with the purchase of cologne (I didn't get the cologne), a talking Jar Jar Binks, a 2XL gas station God Bless American t-shirt, (I'm barely a large and not at all a redneck trucker who whistles dixie and farts Budweiser farts), was forced to drink spoiled milk, was nearly poisoned by salsa that expired 8 YEARS AGO, a gasoline gift card, gift cards to stores that don't exist in the state I lived in at the time, cat toys, items from garage sales or broken Christmas tree ornaments, I could count on Edy's Cinnamon ice cream.
But no mas.
I've tried a few other cinnamon flavored ice creams since. No dice. Homemade Pie and Ice Cream Kitchen in Louisville has a version of cinnamon ice cream. It's not good. The ice cream is chunky not smooth and the flavor is spicy, not delicious.
I hear Blue Bunny has a version. But alas, I can't find it in my area.
So Borden, it's up to you. Can you save my Christmas? Or do you want to go ahead and have Elsie the Cow set a bag of her shit on fire on my front doorstep for Christmas morn?
Monday, December 17, 2012
I went to Sunday School and church nearly every Sunday from age two to 20.
But over the past 15 years, my attendance at church has occurred about as many times as the Mayan calendar has promised the world will end. (Which is what, 50 times?)
My original departure from the Baptist church occurred after a pastor lambasted women one Sunday during a sermon. He was angry at women who divorced their first husbands—my mother was one of those women. She divorced the deadbeat sperm donor that I can't even bring myself to call a father and remarried the only father I've ever known.
The pastor then informed the congregation that every day a woman was married to somebody other than her first husband, that woman was living in sin. That murder was a sin and second marriages were equal to killing another individual. (I love that murder and loving family relationships are equal sins. Gives me warm fuzzies!)
This was the beginning of my realization that the Baptist church could be a vengeful, angry and depressing organization. That family values, acceptance and being considerate of your members was in fact not their concern. That hey, if a woman is beaten by her first husband and cheated on, it was her fault and not that of the man. Add this to the Baptist church's views on homosexuality, dancing, abortion and numerous other issues and over time, it has forced me to pull away from the Baptist church almost completely.
George Carlin may have said it best when he said, "I was Catholic until I reached the age of reason." Sadly, this is how I've felt more and more over the years. While I'm not renouncing a higher power, I am renouncing my membership in the Baptist church after the latest antics from the Westboro Baptist Church.
As we mourn the school shooting in Newtown, Connecticut the Westboro Baptist Church has finally made me too embarrassed to call myself a member of the Baptist church.
I awoke this morning to read that the Westboro Baptist Church has decided to picket the funerals and the vigil for the innocent children and victims of the Connecticut school shooting.
What the hell?
What is wrong with these people?
I understand the Westboro Baptist Church wants to push their backwards, insane asylum beliefs. This country was founded on crazy views and beliefs—in fact we might do crazy better than any other nation in the world. But how can the Westboro Baptist Church justify this being the right venue for a picketing? How morally bankrupt do you have to be to justify the idea of protesting an innocent child's funeral as an okay idea?
I realize that the Westboro Baptist Church is comprised of weirdo fundamentalists in the eyes of most Baptist church congregations. But the sheer fact that some governing Baptist body hasn't stepped out more against the Westboro Baptist Church, especially in light of these shenanigans, concerns me and has ultimately lead me to renouncing my membership in the Baptist church.
The Westboro Baptist Church is single handedly ruining an entire religion for millions of Americans. They are rebelling against society, an established semi-governing body of churches and acts of common human decency. I remember another group of fundamentalists who did this same thing. They rejected the Treaty of Versailles, told Germany what it could do with itself and then ended up massacring millions of innocent people.
I don't want to slight genocide and the horrors of Hilter. World War II was the worst event in the history of man. But during, and especially after the war, there was no such thing as a good, "Good Nazi". Every Nazi got lumped into the group of anti-semitic hate mongers, because that's what they were.
This same thing is now happening to Baptists. We are getting lumped into this evil, corrupt, backwards interpretation of religion that the Westboro Baptist church has created.
The Westboro Baptist Church has now caused America at-large to hate Baptists.
I can't say I belong to this religion any longer.
It's a shame that innocent people have to die and nutbags like these Ku Klux Klan wannabes get to live. Oh wait, that wasn't very Baptist of me, that was very Westboro Baptist of me. Ugh, that's it, I'm no longer Baptist.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Today's photo comes from Kyle B. in Georgia.
Whomever scribbled this down has a point, a very good point.
I never thought I'd be able to compare batteries and people in the sense of their life spans but here we go.
The death of both means crying will ensue.
People die, we cry because of whatever reason of attachment we have to that individual.
Batteries die and we cry or at the very least cry out. Usually tears are shed over batteries because when they die in your car they leave you stranded, late for work or your daughter's harvest fest dance and soup drive or you end up dropping an important call or your favorite vibrator leaves you mid-escalation.
People go in the dirt. Batteries go in a dirty landfill.
Burying people has always been weird to me. There's a graveyard in my hometown that dates back to the 1800s. This means there are thousands of bodies that nobody knows, visits or gives two hoots about. Their families have dried up or left town. Yet we're taught these 200 year old piles of bone dust are precious.
Meanwhile, we're tossing batteries in landfills. Why? We had good times with batteries too. We made prank calls together. We snuggled up on the couch and switched back and forth between bass fishing and women's naked indoor lacrosse and basket weaving tournaments. And there was that one time we videotaped our 70 year old neighbor yelling at her grandson's dog as her bathrobe flew open in the spring, Kentucky Derby morning breeze.
Don't we need to put batteries in little mini caskets made of old cereal boxes and treat their passing as a traumatic life event?
People piss you off. Batteries piss you off.
Everyday, some person pisses me off—dumb drivers, the morbidly obese who don't understand that their sheer girth plus their cart are blocking the grocery aisle and my path of exit away from their gravitational stink pull, bankers who won't call me back, bathroom attendants at restaurants (I don't need you to dry my hands or my balls), people who talk on their phones on the shitter, Dollar Tree cashiers, idiots who wear shorts all year round in the midwest, the people who make corn dogs, ESPN (too many tickers and it doesn't take 19 people to host SportsCenter), etc.
Batteries piss me off less frequently, but nothing is worse than having a battery operated device and having it stop working suddenly. Then it's a mad dash to the drawer in your house that holds pens, toothpicks, plastic silverware, old Christmas cards, coupons, those warranty cards you were going to send in but didn't and batteries. Only to reach that drawer and find out you either don't have the right size or by the time you get back to your battery operated device, you can't figure out which fucking way the batteries go back into it.
There's 10 minutes of my life gone.
So in the end. I agree with the drama that surrounds batteries. Maybe I'll start a battery casket and tombstone business. Or just turn my backyard into some kind of weird battery cemetery.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
During a meditation class this summer, we were taught to slow down and enjoy all aspects of life, both negative and positive. While I agree with certain principles from the class, when it comes to nightmares, I do not believe this is what Buddha meant.
I've been plagued by nightmares lately and these damn things suck.
In the last week, I've woken up in the middle of the night soaking in sweat twice, punching the air violently once and swearing through a disoriented dream/not-really-a-dream haze more times than not.
Whether it's stress, too many pretzels, too little meat, the change of the season, too much dust from the raked leaves, the mating habits of ducks or just regular insanity, my sleep has been the equivalent of a roller coaster armed with hobos throwing handfuls of shattered glass at its' riders and another set of hobos throwing handfuls of salt.
My skin hurts, my neck hurts, my mind is scrambled and I'm beginning to question whether I wouldn't be better off in some type of good ole fashioned insomnia trance. Just like the good old days where I stayed up way too late and didn't dream because I never had enough time to slip into REM sleep.
But that shit doesn't work either. It just causes me to end up jittery, disconnected and dazed. It also causes wicked diarrhea, cramps, mood swings, bloating, gigantism, bread making, increased levels of swearing and a propensity to sing only Randy Travis songs.
I've had nightmares in the past, but this is the longest stretch I've experienced. It's like being trapped in the entire seven season run of Designing Women—it's just awful, humorless and it smells like an Aquanet convention. Yes, my dreams smell.
Maybe I need to go back to the Peddler's Mall and buy this dreamcatcher to rid myself of these nightmares.
(Seriously, I took this picture at a Peddler's Mall)
And while I usually dream in color, I don't dream about people of color. (Sorry. Please don't take offense, this is actually, probably a good thing.) Knowing I dream of only white people would probably make the Ku Klux Klan member who made this dreamcatcher very happy.
Ultimately, I'm not sure what this dreamcatcher is supposed to catch, but at this point I'll employee any member of any organization that can make whatever demon is tap dancing inside my skull at night stop. I wouldn't join their organization, but I'd at least sit through one of their "Free Timeshare" meetings if they can make this shit stop.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Today's photo comes courtesy of Tha Funky Headhunter, Matthew Hornyak.
As we round the corner and head for Thanksgiving, I question why we still celebrate this holiday.
It's the same damn thing year after year.
Same horrific dish brought by that one Aunt who is 99% smell deaf.
It's like watching reruns of Gilligan's Island for 35 years straight.
Shouldn't we do something to make this holiday fun? Something that makes this Thanksgiving one to remember, something that busts up the regular, mundane bullshit?
Here's my list of things we should all attempt:
- Yell, "Swallow My Kids Bitch" at Grandma.
- Bake an old pair of underwear into a green bean casserole.
- Include a pants down Penis Windmill as part of your victory touchdown dance when your team scores.
- Call your aunt, Hitler. But not not in a normal voice, in the kind of voice you would talk to an infant or a dog to, "Ooooohhhh look at your new purse you cute little Hitler."
- Shot for shot White Rain contest with Uncle Mitch.
- Start complaining that your right arm has been numb for three days then replace your normal glass with a dribble glass.
- Give yourself pink eye then touch your eye before you put your finger in the middle of every dish.
- Wear a raincoat. That's it. Don't remove it. Just wear a raincoat.
- Fill your plate with nothing but butter. Refuse to share it with anybody.
- Upon arrival, turn on the sprinkler or hose. Upon leaving do donuts in the front yard.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Anybody who knows me, knows I have an fat cat. Appropriately named Fatty.
He actually is a former fat cat.
He is a secondhand cat and when I got him this obese bastard weighed 36 pounds. That's right, he was bigger than most 3 year old humans. He now weighs 13 pounds. (The Cat-kins Diet worked for him!)
Right off the bat this fucker was a nightmare.
First week I had him, he shit yellow diarrhea all over my condo. The second week I had him I thought he escaped the condo and had fled to the streets of Chicago. I came home late one night and thought I saw a frightened, morbidly obese pile of orange hair meowing underneath a Hummer with a Gay Pride Mickey Mouse bumper sticker.
When I pulled him out, he scratched the shit out of my face, my ears and my back.
He then ran off. This left me in the streets screaming, "Fine, you fat fuck, fuck you, have fun living in the streets! I hope a rat eats your eyes!"
A half hour later, as I was peroxiding my wounds, a giant fluffy orange mess emerged from under my bed. Seems there was another fat fucking orange cat in the neighborhood I had picked up that destroyed my northern torso. Or this fat fuck has a time machine or invisibility or some kind of ability to walk through walls.
Then, the second month I had him, his bladder got blocked from eating too many carbs. So they roto-rootered his pee hole out and charged me $1100.
Since then he has been on special food, which most days, costs more than human food costs.
He has shit on furniture. Peed on the carpet. Puked on everything. Destroyed the carpet on my stairs, which I won't replace until he dies—and they are threadbare at this point.
One time I watched him have what I like to call "Instant Oil Barron Diarrhea". For example, in "There Will Be Blood", there's a moment when oil erupts from the ground and there's a look in Daniel Day-Lewis' eyes that says, "I'm rich bitch!" Replace the ground with my cat's asshole and the look in my eye with one of impeding vomit and there you have "Instant Oil Barron Diarrhea".
His newest thing is a cross between insomnia mixed with dementia. I have the insomnia, he has the dementia. Most nights I have to get up, stumble to the basement and reassure him he is not lost which usually quails the screaming, bloody, cat raping murder tones he's fond of making, usually at a blank wall.
This will be the last cat.
He is too daffy, too needy and way too much of an asshole for me to want another.
Sure he has his sweet moments like when he jumps on my chest and claws my nipples. Or when he goes apeshit and scratches the dog for no reason. Or when he poops outside the box. But this is it. No mas gatos.
Fuck. I need sleep. Hopefully tonight will be caterwauling, cat rape scream free.
Fuck you Fatty.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
I'm calling this Drunk, Stoned & Bike Riding Slimer.
BTW, I have no idea what the artist was going for here. I guess it could be a green football with arms and eyes.
Or it could be a really tired, radioactive kidney bean who like cigarettes.
I have no idea. Go, Go, Ghostbusters!
Anybody else have any guesses?
Friday, October 12, 2012
I've met a lot of trash in my life.
Here's a list of the biggest pieces of trash I've met in no particular order.
1. The pregnant woman I had to cut off from drinking Budweiser. Funny the bar I was working in didn't even sell Bud. She snuck it in, in her purse. She then used that purse to hit me in the head when I kicked her out of the bar.
2. My college neighbor. He was 40. He would drop acid during the day, eat uncooked canned goods and would steal from our neighbors and try to sell their stuff to me and my roommates. I bought CDs off him once. I turned down a Mongoose mountain bike though. Damn, that was a nice bike.
3. Flash. I don't know his last name. He was a camp cook the summer I taught boating. He was on work release. He got caught in a field with $2 million in marijuana, which is why he was on work release. He still grew pot on the campgrounds, not so secretly. Had a cocaine stash and once got put in solitary confinement for calling a rather short prisoner, "a sawed off midget".
4. My cousin. After getting arrested 3 times this summer, mostly marijuana related, he had the nerve to essentially steal a car from my grandparents.
5. Dale the Whale. Kid I grew up with in my neighborhood. He would beat his parents, they were significantly older, until they bought him the toy he wanted.
At one point my mom told me she didn't want him in the house because of his trashiness. So one day we were playing baseball and he asked if he could use the bathroom. I said no because of my mom's comment. So he then took his shoe off and peed in it.
Last time I saw him, he was in working at a convenient store. I didn't buy anything at that convenient store.
6. Mailroom Stacey and his sidekick Mailroom Gary. At one ad agency I worked at we actually had a mailroom. Why it took two guys I don't know. But both guys smoked a SHIT TON of pot. Numerous people would actually buy pot off them. One time we traded a crate of M&M's for a dime bag. (I was just around for the transaction.) Stacey wasn't so trashy. But Gary would wear denim shorts, ball exposing denim shorts. Not cutoffs mind you. Just really short denim shorts.
7. Anybody from North Middletown, KY. If you've never been there—GO! It's the perfect cross section of hog incestuites, dirty nailbedded shit farmers, perm wearing white trash female vagabonds, and slack-jawed, pickled livered fuck ups. It gets my vote for worst town in Kentucky.
8. Steve. (I won't use last names, he was trash but he was kind of a good friend.) He was a rather large fellow with even larger nipples. I mean these fuckers were like coasters and will haunt me until I die. His appearance wasn't helped by the purple shirt that he wore that made him look like Grimace.
He only became "trash" when he got drunk. Which usually led to him punching dorm fridges, kicking out windows, convincing us that his uncle was currently murdering his aunt, throwing up on dressers and not cleaning it up the next day and streaking. He had baby dick syndrome, it wasn't pretty.
9. Cheryl from Wisconsin. Met her through a friend of a friend. She had scabies.
I understand, people get scabies—dirty, trashy, hill people, but still they are people. What made Cheryl trash was how she got scabies.
She worked second shift, as her second job, at a Pizza Hut. One night she gets a call from a dude in a convenient store who wants a pizza. (Why he didn't eat something in the store, I have no idea? Something like, I don't know Pizza?) Her delivery driver was out, so she took it upon herself to deliver the pizza. When she got to the convenient store, she decided to blow the guy behind the counter at the convenient store.
THIS is how she got scabies.
10. Tina. She was a waitress at this hotel I worked at. What made her trash was the fact she broke into an old man's house, tied him up, beat him and robbed him of several thousand dollars of silver and jewelry.
She somehow got work release out of this.
Maybe I need to know less people on work release.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
"No matter how hot she is, someone, somewhere is sick of her shit."
Usually when somebody hands me a loaded gun, I shoot myself in the foot.
Today I'm just going to post this here and leave it at that.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
When you're on the road you see some things. For example, Pink Floyd now has one confirmed male fan who also loves cock.
Pink Floyd to me has always sounded like hot vomit being thrown at an oscillating fan.
Sure there are people out there when you ask them if they like Pink Floyd say, "Sure, they're okay" or "Yeah, I like them." But the weird thing is, I can't fucking find one Pink Floyd Super Fan.
I know people who have collectibles, posters, bumper stickers and t-shirts for other bands like Pearl Jam, Black Sabbath, KISS and even Dave Matthews Band (how does he have any fans left?).
But I can't find one person who has a room dedicated to Pink Floyd. I don't know anybody who has tattoos of lyrics from Division Bell on their arm. I don't even know the last time I saw anybody with a Pink Floyd t-shirt. Hell, Roger Waters played Louisville in June and I don't know one person who went. Nor was a big hubbub raised when he slid into town.
So how does this band still seem to have this mass underground following? Is this one of those bands that only appeals to nerdy high school seniors/college freshmen and 55 year old dudes? If that's the case, is this some kind of weird regression that happens at 55? Do we grow out of Pink Floyd at 21 and the next thing you know we're 55, overweight, sweat pants wearing, Krystal Burger eating, basement dwelling, mouth-breathers headed to midnight showings of The Wall?
Who the fuck is Pink Floyd fan? And better yet, who is the one, the only one, that loves cock too?
Friday, September 14, 2012
Today's photo again come from the amazing Teresa Lasky. It too is from the Bat Bar in Austin.
Follow Teresa on Twitter at @laskyt.
It's Friday and I have no idea what the hell this means.
Cupcake dump? Were the cupcakes bad?
Why are we Selling Billy? Shit. I am so confused.
Okay, I have no energy for a rant today. It's been too long of a week and I've already typed too many words.
So have a good weekend and hopefully you don't choke yourself out.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Today's reader submission comes from Teresa Lasky, all the way from the Bat Bar in Austin, Tay-haas!
Follow her on Twitter at @laskyt
I've been saying this for years! Ask anybody that knows me. It's my mantra.
I'm glad somebody finally put this on a bathroom wall. Can we get t-shrits made?
Maybe I should start offering screen printed t-shirts of each post—minus the copy, because nobody would really read that anyway.
Alright, work calls.
Everybody, get back to smoking and eating!
Friday, September 7, 2012
Sorry, I haven't posted in a week.
To make up for it, I'm deeming today, "Fuck That Shit Friday!" A national holiday where, I at least, am going to air out a bunch of things that have been pissing me off.
Feel free to add to the list in the Comments section. Without further ado, here we go...
1. Lesbians on energy cocktails—Recently, I got into it with a roided up lesbian at the gym. She yelled at me about a TV not working and then later she proceeded to bump me while I was walking to get a drink of water. I also think she was foaming at the mouth and howling like a wolverine. The next time I see her, I'm going to, well I'm not going to do anything, because she's a woman. I can't hit her or even insult her.
Fuck That Shit.
2. Piss soaked rental car seats—Sure. You say your cars are clean Enterprise. But guess what? That ring stain in the back seat that smells like piss—is piss. Maybe next time at least try to cover it up. Oh and also, never ask me again when you show me a car with piss soaked seats, "So do you want it."
Sure, because I love driving around in piss. Next time can you mix in some ejaculate?
Fuck That Shit.
3. Elephants—We get it, you're large, your skin is thick and you never forget anything. Not even that time my mom caught me masturbating. Thanks for bringing that up you dick!
Fuck That Shit.
4. The designers of my Jeep—Hey fuckos! It shouldn't take 35 minutes to change a fucking tail light. Really? A 15/32 socket is the only socket that will fit those fucking bolts. The ones you crammed in about a 14/32 space. Who the fuck just has a 15/32 socket laying around? Yeah, they're real common.
Fuck That Shit.
5. The chairs at the Hyatt—For 5 hours yesterday, I sat in a chair that has left my spine crooked and combusted. It feels a hobo has been kicking me in the lower back with his supermarket feet for days. I mean, shoes and socks off and his filthy feet just whacking away. Then midway through his trouncing, the fuck left a toe nail embedded in my spine.
Fuck That Shit.
6. My Dog and My Cat—The dog has started peeing in the basement. Why? I'm not fucking sure. Jealously? She also got her own treat from the Cat Shit Salad Box Bar this morning. The cat is just a bitch. He hates it when I am in the shower and proceeds to yell at me the entire time I'm in there. Look you tubby bitch, either get in here and wash where you balls used to be or shut the fuck up.
Fuck That Shit.
7. Penn Station Subs—I've never felt worse after a meal. Don't get me wrong, it tasted great. It just left me feeling like a sawed off midget had poured concrete down my throat for a day and a half. Fuck. I think I'm still sweating cheese.
Fuck That Shit.
8. The bitch who can't count at Speedway—Guess what. Your bill was $2.73. The $3 you handed the cashier covers that. There is no need to dig in your purse for an additional 52¢. And you know what, fuck the cashier for not telling her that her bill was $2.73 before she spent three minutes digging past the Depends, chapstick and Judy Blume novel in her purse unnecessarily.
Fuck That Shit.
9. White People—There's no way a black man came up with the concept of Applebee's.
Fuck That Shit.
10. The Chicago Cubs—Somebody told me this week that their relative just passed away. Said they were life long Cub fans. Never got to see them win a World Series. The fucking longer I'm on this planet, the fucking less I think my chances become of ever seeing this happen. One more season down the fucking drains.
Fuck That Shit.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Today's photo comes from Cap'n Syphilis Pin Cushion, aka Matthew Hornyak.
Sorry for the lack of posts this week. It's been murder on the keyboard. So let's get right to it.
I have no transition from Drag the River to the Drag Queen Bar Where I Was Sexually Harassed By My Male Boss And Nearly Fired At The Same Time other than the word "drag" is in both.
Several years ago, I was working for an ad agency in Chicago. I had three gay bosses.
I only mention this because, anybody who is employed has multiple bosses they have report to, but who has three gay bosses? I have no problem with the fact they were gay, it was just an anomaly—kind of like finding a kitten that can speak Portuguese.
Anyway, for a company party, the head boss decided he was going to take us all to a drag show. This was no big deal to me, nor was it anything new.
Hell, I rang in the new millenium in drag bar that served 25 different kinds of mashed potatoes. While the spuds were exploding on my plate and Dick Clark's synapses were exploding in his head, crossdressers were trying to keep their sausages from exploding out of their gaffs.
So again, nothing new.
But what made the company outing drag show different was having my boss tell me, "unless you get up there and tip that dancer, you're fired." And he wasn't kidding. I asked several times, just for clarity.
This wasn't the first time he threatened me with sexual harassment. On other occasions he told me:
- My "boys" looked nice in a pair of pants I was wearing.
- My "boys" looked nice in a pair of short I was wearing.
- He would fire me if I didn't come to his birthday party, where he promptly grabbed my ass.
- To "get your sweet ass over here" at a party.
I wasn't the only one he sexually harassed. He also reached up another employee's shirt to "feel how much of bear your are", tried to kiss another employee at a gay bar and got way too close to another employee at a urinal—to the point where he asked if he could "shake you off".
The employee he tried to kiss ended up shoving him down a flight of steps. The "bear" grabbed him by the throat. The "shake you off"guy pushed him into a wall. I ended up tipping a Jessica Simpson look-a-like tranny—hey, he had great legs—and then quitting.
Oddly enough HR was aware of his behavior and did nothing. And I mean nothing. All of us went to complain. All of us considered suing the agency but backed off for no real reason other than common decency.
Which is more than he showed us.
I need a shower, I feel dirty.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
"The Gods shall liberate us from the machines."
Okay, I think this is French, however I do not know French.
I did a Google search and this is as close as I could get to a translation. Google Translate was useless oddly enough. Of course I could be really, really wrong. But for the sake of me having something to write about today, let's go with this translation.
I seriously doubt the Gods could or would want to free us from the machines. Ultimately, this would mean they would have to give them up too. Right? Because, at this point, our Gods are just as addicted to technology as we are.
If they shutdown Ma Bell, how in the hell are Zeus, Jesus Christ and Chalchihuitlicue going to group message one another? They're not going back to string and tin cans for interstellar communication.
You're telling me Athena is up there using an abacus and a clothes line to balance the checkbook and dry her clothes? Bullshit. She's got a Kenmore washer and dryer and an MIT Asian graduate student to help her with her checkbook. (Hey, at this point, Asians might as well plug-in and be rechargeable, because Americans suck at math.)
You think Ganesh is waiting on an oven to preheat for a slice of warm pot roast? Hell no, he's got a top of the line convection microwave.
So you say these Gods aren't real or aren't as important as "God"? That "they" can use technology but our one true overlord would never do such a thing? Well let's look at what he's up to with his Radio Shack credit card.
For a person that is supposed to be all knowing tell me how he does it if he isn't using security cam feeds to spy on us picking our noses in traffic, murdering hobos behind Wendy's dumpsters and stripping naked to try on bras at Victoria's Secret?
Sure, back in the day when it was just Adam and Eve, he had no problem keeping an eye on them. I mean there were two of them. The fucking Duggar's watch what, like 30 kids at once? But anything past say 100 people has to necessitate some type of live feed, video monitoring system with a team of angels watching 24/7. He can't keep track of us all by himself, I mean I can't keep track of a 12 pack of socks.
You think God doesn't have a Hi-Def TV? You think he doesn't want to watch the waves he sends destroy entire seaside cities so he can have a good giggle? Or that he doesn't want to see every detail of the flies on the faces of starving African children? Oh and what about porn? I mean porn in HD has to be the coup de grâce for him—he gets to see his greatest creation from an asshole camera get rammed for 25 minutes before a backside splash zone occurs.
Also, if God isn't using technology, then why in the world are there constantly better iPhones coming out? Dang white bearded perfectionist.
Friday, August 17, 2012
Thursday, August 16, 2012
The level of the graffiti I find varies. I often question why somebody would write certain things. More often though, I applaud the unknown person for their doodle or witticism.
But this is just awful.
I live in Kentucky and unfortunately we are never going to escape the whole Jim Bob thing. No matter how hard I try, I am reminded daily that I live in Kentucky by some type of antic that can only happen here.
For example, here are three things that happened in the last couple of days that prove I live in Kentucky—America's Short Bus:
1. Cancer, is it in you?
Needed some cereal this morning. Instead of going out of my way and hitting a grocery store, I swung into a Walgreen's. Grabbed my breakfast and a bag of snack mix for lunch—with 60% less fat than potato chips, how could I fucking not! Stood in line behind a girl who bought two jugs of Gatorade and a pack of cigs.
I was not disturbed by her purchase combination. She was obviously trying to recover from a Wednesday night, tequila induced vomit frenzy. The kind where her vagina was used as a reverse human piñata for every frat guy in a five block radius. What was disturbing was the total of the sale—$5.27.
Are you fucking kidding? I can get cigarettes and two Gatorades for under $6! I'm gonna starting smoking and gonna get me one of those vaginas. (gonna)
Not more than a mile from me is a billboard for Hank Williams Jr. He's playing the Kentucky State Fair.
I have thought about going. Not for the music so much as the pageantry.
Bocephus at the Kentucky State Fair has to be the equivalent of World War II Victory Day for the slapnuts of this state.
Rednecks are gonna be out wearing their finest overalls, chewing the finest chewing tobacco and drinking Mountain Dew out of goblets.
I would have to think White Rain or Aquanet must be underwriting this whole event.
3. "Beards and Queers"
(I mean no disrespect to my homosexual/gay friends. I used this title only for the slight rhyming scheme. Please free to taunt me with chants of "Breeder, breeder, breeder!", if you like.)
During a Dirty Projectors show this week, my friend and I realized that Louisville has a love affair for two types of men—the bearded type and the dances and sleeps with other men type. Many of the latter also had beards, which created some type of superfecta.
No other state in the south would allow these two groups of people to mix. There would be fights, tears and glitter showered in the eyes of the innocent.
(again, no offense.)
And now—weak ending.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Short post today.
Elton John is greater than? I would actually flip the greater than to a less than symbol.
I am not a huge Elton John fan. In the grand scheme of piano playing pop rockers, and I'm only including Billy Joel, Leon Russell, Ben Folds, Randy Newman and Elton, I'll choose Ben Folds every time.
This may totally be a generational thing.
I do think Elton lost a lot of cred during the Disney years. Same goes with Phil Collins. Disney also raped us of a Genesis reunion by making Phil sing Adult Contemporary pop fuck songs instead of letting him go back to drumming.
I do love how these fuck songs are the core of most Disney movies. So while mom is getting excited, her 4 year old is watching a montage of mermaid talk to a fish.
Disney, you're a fucked up company.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Before I start, I know neither Ed Vanetten or Barefoot Danger (Dancer? Shit, we'll get to this in a bit.). I mean you no harm and hope you can settle this greater than/less than debate without the use of rusty butcher knives or tossing chili powder into each others eyes.
Business car trips usually spur interesting discussions.
I've discussed everything from dildos to taxes to gun laws to strip club buffets to the art of dinning and ditching from said strip club buffets to you name it.
Debates are also naturally going to happen when you put three or four people in a car who don't spend their days mucking out port-o-potties or stocking a bread aisle. (My apologies to the Wonder Bread folks, your knuckle dragging stockers are ironically not like your bread.) Last week was no different. During a long car ride back from Atlanta, a debate raged on about how fuct, yes fuct, the American school system truly is today.
One of the most interesting areas that popped up in this debate centered around penmanship.
As a child, and still to this day, I have abysmal penmanship.
When I was in elementary school my teachers were constantly on me about the sloppiness of my writing. Notes were sent home, bottoms were spanked and every day after school while my friends would be play in their yards, I would be strapped to my desk or the kitchen table practicing penmanship.
Did five years of this make a difference to my handwriting? No.
Whether it was cursive or print, it never, ever, ever improved.
The only real thing that improved was my love of snacks and hatred for exercise—thanks Mom.
Anyway, while I would practice, my mother would sit over my shoulder. Every once in a while she would grab the pencil and my hand and try to "help" me form letters and words that didn't look like an abortion on my Big Chief Paper Tablet. Sure there would be a few words that would look okay—but more or less, everything I churned out was on the level of hoodrat graffiti.
It's not that I was a dumb kid or didn't get the basic shapes of letters and numbers, I just hated the idea of having to make every letter perfect.
This frustrated my mother to no end. She had no idea why she had been stricken with a script-sick dolt. She yelled, begged, pleaded with me and cried to the heaven's above, "Why dear Lord? Why have you cursed me with this child who as far as I can tell has the penmanship of a drunk bear? I'd rather have a morbidly obese child with a hair-lip and webbed feet than this sin to letters and words."
Then, my mother, a nurse, had the thought that enters all parent's minds when their child's handwriting is borderline special ed-equse. "He's going to be a doctor. Doctors have shitty handwriting, this is a sign! Sure he'll never be able to write a paragraph that is decipherable but he'll fix aortic valves, cure cancer and never have to put enemas up old women's cakeholes."
My mother has spent decades describing to me the intimate details of having to fish fecal material out of old women's rectums. Maybe my handwriting was my family's escape from this level of near serfdom.
Somehow my imperfect "q"s were going to elevate our family from the type of people who removed the final remains of last week's summer squash dinner out of Old Lady Henson, to the type of people who directed others to remove the final remains of last week's summer squash dinner out of Old Lady Henson.
But this never happened.
My handwriting is still often described as "piss" by friends and family members. My mother finally realized I was never going to be a doctor when I was around 14. One day my dad needed something from her while she was working in the emergency room in our county hospital.
I walked into the hospital and I saw blood. I then proceeded to throw up. Which caused me to pass out in my own throw up. Unfortunately, my mom had to clean it up.
Besides the sight of blood, touching anything described as "festering" really gives me and inward boner. Not cool.
So I decided to go to journalism school. Now I am a Creative Director and despite my horrid penmanship, she thinks I turned out "okay". That said, penmanship is an outdated methodology and it's not sad for me to say texting, typing and emails have replaced it.
Nothing requires you to use penmanship anymore:
- Nobody turns in a book report today that is handwritten.
- Nobody writes love notes—it's love texts, love emails or just flat out sexting.
- Nobody posts cursive proclamations to church doors anymore.
Teaching penmanship in school is as useful as teaching kids how to run a loom, how to breed
passenger pigeons or how to drive a steam powered thresher.
I would rather the time American schools spend on penmanship be used, well, for ANY fucking thing that makes our kids slightly smarter! Shit, spend penmanship time on math. We could fucking use a generation that understands math. Because my generation is horrible at math, all of us—but fucking shit do our printed "G"s look amazing.
Isn't that right Barefoot Danger? Dancer? Shit! I can't tell.
Friday, August 10, 2012
It's no secret, I hate a lot of things—children, babies, near-strangers hugging me, cheap flip flops, anything made by Budweiser, cabbage, the country of Italy (it's mutual, so this is okay), Zimmer & Kohl contractors, Celine Dion, abbrevs, hollow Easter bunnies, that "snooty section of town", racists, Mexicans, homeless people who really aren't homeless, midgets who refuse to wear costumes daily (come on, you're already so small and we're already laughing at you anyway, go ahead and put on a lion costume), Minnie Driver, Andie Mac Dowell, Reeboks (have always thought they sounded like a synonym for vomit—"I just Reebok'd that corndog from lunch."), Gregory and Appel Insurance, Discovery Benefits, etc.
But as I woke up this morning, I realized there was one more thing to add to my list—hotel rooms.
Everybody has a different bitch against hotels. Most center around the level of cleanliness or the level of ejac smeared on everything in the room or discourteous staff.
None of these are mine.
Cleanliness is cleanliness. I found a half eaten rotisserie chicken under my bed in St. Louis one time—and this was after I had already spent the night in this hotel room. Was I mad? No. And now I can tell everybody I found a half eaten rotisserie chicken under my bed. Who else can say this?
As for the level of ejac on the pillowcase, pillowcase, nightstand, alarm clock and evvvvvvverything else—eh. Who cares? The world is covered in jizz. Anytime we stay at a hotel we just happen to be sleeping in the Hall of Fame of Spunk. Consider yourself lucky. If you're in a hotel room right now, you could be rolling around in Giovanni Ribisi's ejaculation. He was good in that one movie.
The staff is the staff. You put a bunch of high school dropout lunkhead whippet do'ers together in one facility and you're lucky if it doesn't turn into a prison.
My complaints against hotels are in the following areas:
All hotels today look like they were decorated by the same unimaginative white man. Beige walls, non-descript everything, fake plants, paintings that nobody would ever hang up in there home except white folks, etc.
This needs to change.
One time I stayed in a hotel shaped like an abstract turkey. It was circular. It was odd. It was awesome.
Why don't more hotels do this? Yes, they can claim cost and blah, blah, blah. Shut up.
Make me a hotel where each of the rooms has a theme. Go over to the non-white sections of town and do some damn shopping. I want to stay in the "El Paso Suite". I want stay in a room where the only thing separating the bedroom and the bathroom is a beaded curtain. I want to look fondly at little brown people statues riding donkeys and pricking their fingers on cactuses on my damn coffee table. I need to see Aztec wallpaper border on the walls and sombrero ashtrays on my nightstand.
Get me some velvet paintings, some mirrored Scarface mirrors, some phones that look like giant lips and white furniture trimmed in gold beading.
I'm the traveler, you owe me some entertainment dammit.
Too soft? Too firm? No. My problem is too many.
Every hotel now has 30 on the fucking bed. You can spend money providing us with 29 pillows we're never going to use, but I make a request for some mirrored tiles on the ceiling and you scoff?
How about this—just have a vending machine in the lobby that works with your keycard. You use your card to select the two pillows you want—D1 Soft, B4 Semi-firm. Two. That's all you get. No more. You want more? Go sleep in a fucking Sears.
The other solution here is dragging your pillow from home. Right.
The car ride alone would rob me of whatever safety and comfort I would have bringing my pillow. Odds are I would be taking it in a rental car that has either had children (grubby little germbags), old people (shitty big germbags) or the morbidly, morbidly obese (they all masturbate when they drive) in it.
I want hot water that is going to scald my skin off. I want my back to look like I've been in a mobile park meth fire.
I think every hotel has to, by some stupid ordinance, limit the temperature of their water to, "The temperature of a grown man urinating on me."
Fuck your tiny soaps, let's work on getting the temperature up to "The temperature of Satan urinating on me."
Just quit. I am in a hotel room this very minute with six lamps. SIX! Why?
Who is going to a hotel room these days and setting a mood? Are we making out in our high school girlfriend's basement? Where is the Dave Matthews button? Will she enjoy this strawberry truck stop condom I picked up? Shit, I hear her dad.
I can never figure out how to turn these lamps on. Is there a wall switch? Is there a knob I'm supposed to turn? While I'm trying to figure them out, I've stubbed a toe and dropped the beer I'm trying to keep cool in the undersized ice bucket. (Just give us coolers already.)
And the lamps that have the plug-ins for your cellphone or laptop. Fuck these. 9 times out of 10, I plug something into them to charge. Only to forget you have to turn on the lamp in order to get that cell phone, iPad, iPhone to charge.
To paraphrase Brick Tamland, "I hate lamp." And while we're at it, "I hate hotel."
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Sometimes I take photos with my cell phone sober.
Sometimes I take photos with my cell phone after two beers—which is also known as sober.
Sometimes I take photos with my cell phone after 10 beers—which is also known as sober but maybe it's not a good idea to go mano y mano with my cat in a game of Russian Roulette. He's part Russian, so I always think he has the upper hand. Got dang commie.
I took this after two beers and after some photoshopping, this is the best this thing is going to get. So I fuct, this shot. Fuct it. Took two other shots of this same thing, they were noticeably worse.
As I am knee deep in some Georgia shit right now, this trip will produce one of two things. One something semi-interesting to write about, or two boredom. Hang in there. Hopefully this blog will get interesting again.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Instead of being longwinded and ranty, I'm just going to let my main man D. Cheques do the talking today...
Smells like baby powder
tell me about yo three kids
Best to write you a check
gurl. What yo name is?
Shit gurl, "tell me about yo three kids"!
I'm out. Have a good weekend and don't whiz on the electric fence or the third rail.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Sometimes things just don't make sense.
Was the author going for "Penis" and mis-stroked a letter? Or does he just have shittttttty, "N" to "I" transitions? Or is "Pems" the nickname for his junk?
Maybe it's a cute little abbreviation, sorry an "abbrevs", for his cock.
Speaking of abbrevs, I hate this shit. Out of nowhere, people—ahem females—are unnecessarily abbreviating words.
While I don't think any of the females reading this blog are responsible for the proliferation of this movement, I have to warn you. I am going to make a bunch of grand sweeping statements in the following paragraphs about females and this fad.
I am only making them about females because, no male has yet to approach me and say:
"Oh, I had Qdobes for lunch."
"Oh, I had Qdoba for lunch."
Qdobes? You didn't even actually "abbrevs" the name of the restaurant. You actually made it longer! Did you need to cute up Qdoba? It's already a pretty cute word. Could you not handle the fact that you just face planted into a 1300 calorie burrito? Does Qdobes have an application process, because you should fill it out. I see in your future a job as tortilla warmer.
No guy has also ever said to me:
"You should totes do that."
"You should totally do that."
I enjoy the English language and I abuse it daily, but saying this to anyone makes you sound like a Danish sailor with a hairlip. At some point you will get punched in the face if you utter this phrase. Somebody somewhere will have had enough of you talking about your My Little Pony collection and how you haven't had to poop in three weeks, you will utter this phrase and you will get punched in the face. $5. This is happening.
"I love Grey's Anatomy, that one doctor is so adorbs."
"I still watch Grey's Anatomy because it's the only thing that I can pick up in my trailer park and I totally have every copy of every magazine 'that one doctor' has been in. I also masturbate to them."
I realize the translation here is a little longer, but using adorbs in this instance really is a space saver. It also makes you like a maniac who wears Bugles on your fingers so you can scratch your three cats backs.
So maybe "abbrevs" does have a use? It's a good guide for cutting the lunatics out of your life.
Back later with legit post.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Today's reader submission comes from the Grand Wizard, Keith Raines. Keith has been sending me good shit for months on end. Which makes me question how much time he's really hanging out in bar and truckstop bathrooms.
Today's post is going to be a little low on humor/excitement. Sorry. But it promises to be a bit enlightening, maybe.
I've posted this type of post before, but it's always interesting to me to see how people come across this blog. I don't publicize it too much. I toss a link up via Twitter usually twice a day whenever I post. I have a few friends I email it to occasionally. And every once in a while, people forward it on to their friends.
I'm not doing this to make money. More or less, it's to keep me writing something other than the usual drivel I turn out. At some point, I might like to actually grab all these photos, re-color correct them, redo a bit of the copy and have a coffee table book made—but that's a ways away.
Anyway, from time to time, I look at the back end of the blog to see how people are getting here via web search.
Take a look at Saturday's traffic...
9 of the 10 ways people got here is via a swear word.
This makes me laugh. It also makes me happy—as I swear a lot.
I love that "bear tits" got two different people here and "tits trucker" got one person here.
I am not sure I have ever used the phrase "tits trucker" before. Maybe I need to put this on a hat?
Anyway, here's to hoping, "I Fucked Yer Mom", gets me some traffic.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Today's photo comes from the Randy Travis of Creative Directors, Troy Burkhart. He snagged this gem on a recent trip through West Virginia.
West Virginia has taught me three valuable life lessons:
1. "Medford Drivers Suck Dick." This must be true because it was written on a condom dispenser in a men's bathroom—the official truth teller of the male world. Who needs Fox News? We have condom dispensers for our up to the minute, late-breaking, accurate news. If you can't trust the news you read on the same machine that will sell you a French Tickler what can you count on?
Before I move on to my second valuable life lesson, I would like to take this opportunity to commend the drivers of Medford. Not only do you gobble pole like candy at a diabetic convention, you have made national news for your ability to do so. Congrats! Your crown is in the mail.
2. There is a chain of restaurants called Tudor's Biscuit World. More like biscuit heaven! Just go ahead and hook up the gravy I.V. (I chose gravy I.V. even though I don't like gravy. It just sounds better. I will mouw down on some biscuits—like Medford Drivers on a dick.)
Sorry for the aside from the condom dispenser. Back to it.
3. For the rest of my natural born life, I'm only buying condoms from gas station condom dispensers. Why not? I'm 35 and I've lived a very strategic life of trying not to have children. Maybe it's time to get a little reckless? And what could be more reckless than strapping on a thin piece of rubber that's been sitting in a sweltering, piss-soaked bathroom for lawwwd knows how long?
I'm certain that these condoms are also of the highest quality and completely unlike the "irregular socks" left over at a sock factory. I have faith that whomever assembled these sheaths was trained way more than the dude at El Socko Gigante who just made a sock with two heels and no toe enclosure.
Also, who likes the idea of walking into a CVS or a Walgreen's and buying a box of condoms? It's always been a semi-embarassing act. Yes, it says, "Hey look at me, I'm going to take these home and use them on something I picked up at a Rafferty's." But usually the person behind the register is either your grandmother's twin or a 16 year old who can't control his laughing.
Gas station condom dispensers are private and again an excellent source of news. So, ladies, be warned, I have a mind that is full of knowledge and current events, a handful of quarters and pocketful of French Ticklers. Otherwise, I guess we could just use an irregular sock.
Monday, July 30, 2012
This weekend officially cemented one thing about my mind, my body and my life, "I am fucking old."
Having friends in from out of town is a good way to prove this to yourself. Go ahead try it.
It starts out all fun and easy with a few beers on a patio somewhere and the next thing you know your empty beer cans are duct taped together end to end and you're doing Karate Kid crane kicks.
I am with Charbles Brewkowski on this one, I drank all the beer and a bottle of Viskies (no clue) and it sucks.
Today, I am alive but I feel like I've taken ten years off my life, got dang crane kicks!
Friday, July 27, 2012
My experience with the state of Virginia has been fairly limited to this point in my life.
There were a few horrid family vacations that ended at Virginia Beach. I think I might have even went there once on a marching band trip where I marched in a wool prison suit in 85 degree weather.
Long story short, I've never had a reason to go there for anything serious.
I've always thought of Virginia as Florida's less successful brother. The kind of brother that goes to a two year community college, flunks out, still somehow marries a beauty queen, has three kids that all end up with drug arrests and beat up old ladies for crack money.
My perceptions were not far off after this trip.
I think the whole experience can be surmised with what occurred at an Applebee's.
First, I know, Applebee's. Between Chicken Poppers, Fish Flingers and the Horse Meat Supreme Nachos—Applebee's sucks. It's a rancid chain usually frequented by people who tuck in polo shirts and have jobs that sound way more important than they are. But when you're in the land of Jerry Falwell's homosexual hating ghost, your options are limited.
So after pulling in and finding a bar stool, the adventure began. We were immediately greeted by Delta Burke's less poignant cousin, let's call her Kristy. (I use the "K" Kristy instead of "C" Christy to help paint the picture of what we were dealing with.) Right off the bat, we could all see through Kristy's shirt. Which prompted one member of our party to ask, "what's that?"
Kristy kindly said, "oh that's my tattoo." Then proceeded to pull her shirt down, pop out her boobs and show us her, "Got Milk?" tit tat. Not kidding.
As I could see the edge of a nipple skirting her bra and cresting on the row of pint glasses directly in front of her on the bar rail, she informed us, "I used to have Fs, then I lost weight but only in my boobs." From there she proceeded to tell us about how she used to have both of her nipples pierced but have to had the bars taken out after she got MRSA. This is a staff infection from dirty needles, usually. I have no idea if the dirty needles came from drug use or the piercing. I'm going with drug use.
As the Nine Pound Hammer song, "Rode Hard & Put Away Wet" danced through my head, we encountered a woman named "Sweet Tea'z". She informed us she is Lynchburg, Virginia's official queen of karaoke. While we had just missed her 3 hour performance at this particular Applebee's she invited us to visit her the next night at the Moose Lodge.
Yes, this woman makes a living going from bar to bar to bar, signing karaoke. She doesn't really share the mic with anybody else as far as I can gather, she just sings renditions of songs she likes. I think she has a set—probably a little ABBA, a little Dolly and a little Tammy Wynette.
She gave me her business card and told me to call her the next time I was in town and she could arrange for a private karaoke session. To which I shuddered, shit myself and rolled around in the floor like a stuck wombat.
The whole evening ended with one of the members of our party screaming Cindy Lauper's, "Time After Time" at the top of his lungs. No there was not karaoke playing. It was not on the radio or TV. I have no idea why but he serenaded Kristy with his lovely, slurry version of this 80s pop classic. She in return made her tits clap as we walked out the door.
Thanks Virginia, I'll be back!
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Today's photo is a reader submission from the Bearded Wizard of Funk—Keith Raines. Ladies watch your labias! This handsome chap shall be invading The Vile this weekend. Call now and schedule your appointment.
With the 4th of July passing and yet another contest of grown men & women deep throating hundreds of hot dogs—I want to start a movement.
First, I want to cancel the hot dog eating competition next year. Sorry Nathan's but we no longer care about your tubes of mismatched beef.
Second, I want to turn Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest into an ass eating competition.
Hot dogs no longer say enough or anything about America really. I know they are supposed to symbolize—well I don't know why this nation takes any pride in eating subpar food that really should be fed to hogs so we can make more subpar food.
How did the hot dog become a symbol of freedom and justice?
Freedom and justice is watching two chicks bang nine dudes while everybody is wearing chicken costumes and the remaining munchkins from the Wizard of Oz jerk off in a corner.
If you were to ask the random American pervert, which is most of the people reading this blog, what is more American today, porn or hot dogs? 20 out of my 23 readers would say porn.
Porn is everywhere these days. The internet, your nightstand, in that box your wife doesn't know about behind your ceramic life size Lionel Richie statue, etc., etc., etc.
So, I say we get the porn industry involved here. They can can provide tons of sponsorship opportunities and hell the asses that will be eaten. The rules will be simple, you have to clean as many assholes to a judges satisfaction in 15 minutes. You may choose a blindfold if you like but, your hands must be tied behind your back at all times. This means you can only use your face to dig in.
At this point, I know what you're thinking, "But those hot dog eaters depend on that competition for money and that's how they buy their children school clothes."
Well just to prove I'm not a heartless, those fine folks are all invited back. Sure. I don't want them to starve, I just want them to eat the assholes of disgusting, worn out, stretched out porn stars instead of eating the lips and assholes from hogs and cows.
Let's get carnivorous!
Monday, July 23, 2012
I am fairly anal retentive when it comes to keeping my house in order.
This is odd to me for several reasons.
If you look at the other parts of my life, they are anything but tidy.
My desk is littered right now with papers, projects, cords, empty water bottles, a real stuffed dog wearing a captain's hat that I bought at a thrift shop and a mysterious stain that I'm going to guess is from a Taco Punk taco. Hold please, let me check.
Yes, it's left over black bean drippings from last Thursday.
I also keep my car in a state of havoc. Mainly so anybody who would ever want to steal it, HA!, decides not to because it looks like a homeless man is living out of it. There are t-shirts, shoes, socks, a busted ass lawn chair and a funk that is a mix of gym fumes, gasoline and creeping death. I think I cooked a squirrel family last week inside the motor and didn't know it.
So with all the crap I have to deal with, I hate coming home to disorder, cat vomit on the floor and dishes piled up in the sink.
While I can't stop my ancient, dementia-riddled cat from throwing up, I can stop the dishes in the sink from happening and try my hardest to never leave even a spoon in the sink.
So, while I was cleaning up the house after my divorce, I noticed a few odd things. Let me say this, I am not bashing anybody here, all I am saying is I have NO idea where/how/why what I'm about to write about happened.
After sweeping up several rooms of the house, I gathered these...
Yes, this is a fuck ton of safety pins. There must have been 150. This is only about half of what I found and they were everywhere. I mean everywhere. Corners, shelves, drawers, floors, cabinets, stuck in the molding, I think I found one inside the bowl of my ceiling fan.
I have no idea how you accumulate this many safety pins and never notice it. It's as though I went to bed one night, there were two safety pins on the dresser and when I woke the two safety pins had just finished an epic evening of tantric sex. I am to only assume that these were the discharges from their marathon session of metal banging.
How the hell do you not notice this many safety pins?
Since then, I've instituted a house ban on paper clips, safety pins and clothes pins. I don't want to be ganged up on while I sleep and find myself punctured, pinched and organized.