At what point did the religious right decide that the corner of an areola is much more grotesque than watching an obese half naked man bob for pig balls in a pool of monkey blood? Who decided that Janet Jackson’s nipple is more disgusting than watching sixteen different angles of Anthony Munoz‘s broken leg in the Super Bowl?
What happened to our common sense? It went right out the window next to Dennis Franz's bare elephant ass on NYPD Blue. Why do I get to watch some millionaire doctor pummel a poor woman’s interior organs while giving her a breast implant but the half falling off nipple is digitally hidden from view? Why am I able to see a breast augmentation of a man trying to be a woman and the nipple isn’t blurred out until the first saline fun bag is implanted and according to the FCC he is now a woman?
Why am I forced to listen to someone on Fear Factor yak a lung on the ground but the actual bile that is spewed is pixilated? How come the words ass and bitch can be said in almost any context on Primetime but the word tit cannot unless referring to a small rodent? How come I can hear the word shit on basic cable but I can’t see the shit? Which one is more natural? The most useful word in the English language, one that can be used as an adverb, pronoun, adjective, verb and noun cannot be said but I can just about see the act on an episode of Nip Tuck?
How come any decent radio show host can literally give you the play by play on a porn with insightful adjectives, analogies and colloquials, but porn is looked down upon by 50% of America while the other 50% have a collection that numbers more than Netflix’s pre-order of Pirates of the Caribbean II? Why? Because America is nothing but hypocrisy and double standards. Much like the ranting politician who tells us that weed is a gateway drug to heroin and homosexuality yet when he gets to his apartment, calls up his underage homosexual lover to bring over a sack, a bong and a 12” vibrator.
Tuesday, October 3
Tuesday, September 26
Playing the Percentages
I love my office building. As I am walking out the front door, a rather large woman was talking on her cell phone and managed to walk into the glass window next to the door. Besides the obvious reaction of laughing jovially in front of her, I also had a thought that how can we expect people to drive a car while talking on a phone when real life evidence says they can’t even talk and walk at the same time.
This spawned a new theory. There are two types of bad cell phone people. The first and most obvious group is women, all of them. Women literally use their entire brain while talking. They pick up on everything from words to intonation to the person’s breath, all while noticing the shoes they’re wearing. Which means that women have zero capacity left in their brains to do anything but listen.
The second group is men, all of them. You see, men only use about 1/18th of their brain when having a conversation. This leaves them with a lot of excess capacity while on the phone. However there are a few other essential functions that a man’s brain must also do at the same time. 1/5th is used to continually process how their sports team is going to make the playoffs. 1/8th is used to think about what food he ate is causing his funky gastrol issues. 1/10th is used by his finger which is currently in either his nose or ear. 1/12th is used by his eyes that are staring at what looks to be a nice piece of ass down the street, but in actuality is a 200lb trannie. 1/6th is used to replay each mind-blowing twist and turn on My Name Is Earl last night. The remaining 3/4ths are used to think about porn or their last failed sexual encounter.
You may notice that those numbers don’t quite add up. You’re wrong. At least that’s what I am told by women who swear men aren’t as smart as they think.
This spawned a new theory. There are two types of bad cell phone people. The first and most obvious group is women, all of them. Women literally use their entire brain while talking. They pick up on everything from words to intonation to the person’s breath, all while noticing the shoes they’re wearing. Which means that women have zero capacity left in their brains to do anything but listen.
The second group is men, all of them. You see, men only use about 1/18th of their brain when having a conversation. This leaves them with a lot of excess capacity while on the phone. However there are a few other essential functions that a man’s brain must also do at the same time. 1/5th is used to continually process how their sports team is going to make the playoffs. 1/8th is used to think about what food he ate is causing his funky gastrol issues. 1/10th is used by his finger which is currently in either his nose or ear. 1/12th is used by his eyes that are staring at what looks to be a nice piece of ass down the street, but in actuality is a 200lb trannie. 1/6th is used to replay each mind-blowing twist and turn on My Name Is Earl last night. The remaining 3/4ths are used to think about porn or their last failed sexual encounter.
You may notice that those numbers don’t quite add up. You’re wrong. At least that’s what I am told by women who swear men aren’t as smart as they think.
Random Rhetoricals II
I am so glad my tax dollars go towards putting annoying, chirping speakers on every street corner so that the blind can cross the street. Blind people, getting hit by cars at intersections was at an all time high.
Thank God that the FAA lifted the ban on liquids. My hands were bruised and bloody from constantly having to go palm one out in the lavatory sans Jergens.
Kurt Cobain was the greatest American Singer to ever stick a shotgun in his mouth.
Why do people call it a “Short Bus”? From all the ones I have seen, they are about the same height as a normal bus. Maybe we should call them the “Not-So-Long Bus”.
Thank God that the FAA lifted the ban on liquids. My hands were bruised and bloody from constantly having to go palm one out in the lavatory sans Jergens.
Kurt Cobain was the greatest American Singer to ever stick a shotgun in his mouth.
Why do people call it a “Short Bus”? From all the ones I have seen, they are about the same height as a normal bus. Maybe we should call them the “Not-So-Long Bus”.
Monday, September 25
Life in a Bag
Continuing on my recent theme of food and it's quirky tendencies; I have noticed a new phenomonon regarding Chex Mix. Upon opening a bag, notice that there is a pecular secular tendency.
For example, the actual Chex, whether white, yellow or brown tend to group together. They are the peace-knicks of the bag with their fake tolerance and their smug little attitude.
However the large snack crackers tend to always be by themselves. I think they are most likely the Goth kids of the bag, always depressed and alone.
Next up we have the Rye Chips. They are definitely the stoners of the mix. First they are always in pairs, second they like to hide in the darkest reaches of the bag and they are always laying down for naps.
The garlic sticks seem to chill with everyone and they have interesting markings that appear to be the same for all of them but are just slightly different. I call them the sluts of the bag because they have been next to every other shape and the markings remind me of how every slut has the same tattoo on their lower back.
The pretzels are a little trickier. The circle ones are of the "Alternative" lifestyle. They are supposed to hang out only with the square pretzels but instead they choose to "Party" with the garlic sticks (Note how easily one gets stuck in the other). The square ones, noticing that the round ones don't want to do the natural thing, live a lonely life filled with jergens lotion and National Geographics.
For example, the actual Chex, whether white, yellow or brown tend to group together. They are the peace-knicks of the bag with their fake tolerance and their smug little attitude.
However the large snack crackers tend to always be by themselves. I think they are most likely the Goth kids of the bag, always depressed and alone.
Next up we have the Rye Chips. They are definitely the stoners of the mix. First they are always in pairs, second they like to hide in the darkest reaches of the bag and they are always laying down for naps.
The garlic sticks seem to chill with everyone and they have interesting markings that appear to be the same for all of them but are just slightly different. I call them the sluts of the bag because they have been next to every other shape and the markings remind me of how every slut has the same tattoo on their lower back.
The pretzels are a little trickier. The circle ones are of the "Alternative" lifestyle. They are supposed to hang out only with the square pretzels but instead they choose to "Party" with the garlic sticks (Note how easily one gets stuck in the other). The square ones, noticing that the round ones don't want to do the natural thing, live a lonely life filled with jergens lotion and National Geographics.
Monday, September 18
Yet Another Conspiracy
I have blown the lid off the great gum conspiracy. Do you remember 10 years ago when you could buy and 18 stick pack of chewing gum for 50¢? Right next to that would be a 6 stick pack of Trident. You would laugh at the moron that would pay more money for less gum. Well my friend, you are now the moron. Look at the gum aisle next time you are at your local bodega. You will notice you can’t buy that 18 pack anymore. In fact you’re lucky if you can get 15 sticks of flavorless cardboard for less than a buck. Now it is proliferated by “Boutique” gums like Orbitz and Dentyne. Inside these packs are 5-10 pieces that are half the size of the old sticks and you are now paying twice as much. What the hell? Not only that, but the greatest gum of all time is nary around anymore. Of course I speak of Big League Chew. BLC dispensed with the stick and sold itself by the pound. You knew what you were getting and never paid more than 50¢. I challenge you Mr. Wrigley, to develop a long lasting 20 pack of gum and charge less than 75¢. In fact I triple dog dare you. But I know you won’t, mostly because you’re dead, but also because you sir are an oppressor of society and I put you in the same category as Hitler and Stalin (And Rosie O’Donnell). Fess up to your crime or be prepared for the wrath and fury of a fed up nation!
Nose Goblins
This one is not for the squeamish or for that matter, most women. I have had a theory for a long time that I slowly have quantified and now will unleash on the general populace (Or at the least the 3 people in the population that read this shitty blog). I am a firm believer in toughening things up. For example, an athlete destroys his muscles by lifting weights in order to get them to recuperate into an even stronger muscle. The same thing happens with the human immune system. In general the youngest and oldest of the human race get sick the most often. Babies and toddlers are always getting sick and have snotty noses. The old fogeys have been through hell and back through their life yet end up dying of something lame like pneumonia or a broken hip.
This leads to my theory; I call it the Nose Goblin Hypothesis or NGH. All of our children should be exposed to small amounts of bacteria through their formative years. They comply by eating dirt, paste, and toxic materials hidden under the kitchen sink. Every time they do this in non-lethal amounts, it makes them that much stronger. So I get to thinking, what is readily available to any kid (Or adult for that matter) that contains bacteria, is available in abundance and tastes good? That’s right, the good ole fashion booger. Nose Goblins, Green Goo, Nose Mortar, or whatever you want to call it, it is the perfect immunization for all of human kind.
You ever notice that germ freaks, like I have discussed in the past, seem to get sick more often than your average nose picking, fingernail chewing, ass wiping slob? Without bacteria, our systems cease to work correctly. All this anti-bacterial bullshit that is being peddled to you during Oprah re-runs is slowly destroying your immune system. Since most people are stupid and think you have to buy something in order for it to be good for you (IE bottled water), I have decided to mass produce a booger based energy bar. I may sell a liquid supplement as well. This way I can make more money off of stupid people. After all, what’s the point of harvesting nose goblins if you can’t share your crop with the villagers?
This leads to my theory; I call it the Nose Goblin Hypothesis or NGH. All of our children should be exposed to small amounts of bacteria through their formative years. They comply by eating dirt, paste, and toxic materials hidden under the kitchen sink. Every time they do this in non-lethal amounts, it makes them that much stronger. So I get to thinking, what is readily available to any kid (Or adult for that matter) that contains bacteria, is available in abundance and tastes good? That’s right, the good ole fashion booger. Nose Goblins, Green Goo, Nose Mortar, or whatever you want to call it, it is the perfect immunization for all of human kind.
You ever notice that germ freaks, like I have discussed in the past, seem to get sick more often than your average nose picking, fingernail chewing, ass wiping slob? Without bacteria, our systems cease to work correctly. All this anti-bacterial bullshit that is being peddled to you during Oprah re-runs is slowly destroying your immune system. Since most people are stupid and think you have to buy something in order for it to be good for you (IE bottled water), I have decided to mass produce a booger based energy bar. I may sell a liquid supplement as well. This way I can make more money off of stupid people. After all, what’s the point of harvesting nose goblins if you can’t share your crop with the villagers?
Thursday, September 14
The Scarlet Neck
My interest in the degradation of American society is extremely vast. I enjoy wondering why our country has turned into a giant bedpan with 300 million little turds floating in it. From cell phones to fat asses, we are a lazy, laxadazical, wastrel of a country. Another perfect example of the patheticness of our society is our second most watched “Sport”. Don’t jump to conclusions; I am not referring to the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest (Which interestingly is always won by a Japanese guy. You would think we would have the market cornered in piehole stuffing.). I am referring to the neck burning “Sport” of NASCAR.
There is nary a sport as strenuous as racing. Anyone who has spent even 20 laps on a road course will agree. So I am not raging against the drivers here but instead the fans. Those lovable, trucker hat wearing, jolly, Santa like rednecks with their oh so stylish rainbow colored t-shirts proclaiming their love for a driver who would rather put a tire mark on their forehead than talk to NASCAR-fan. The fact that close to 100,000 of these sheeple gather at each race amazes me. Can you imagine how many cans of Schlitz must be consumed at these events? I’ll bet the local possum community declares a red alert for the weekend. Nothing beats a good deep fried possum, except maybe a deep fried Schlitz.
Turn Left, turn left, turn left, turn left, repeat 3-400 times and you have a winner. Chiropractors should set up booths at NASCAR races; they could make a killing fixing “Left Neck”. Of course 90% of the spectators don’t have insurance, but they can pay the $100 a pop duckets to get in. And if they are really lucky they can go home with a drivers tire. Yes, that is considered a souveneer. Not a hat or the aforementioned t-shirt but a fucking tire.
Hardcore NASCAR fan complains that people only watch for the crashes and doesn’t appreciate the skill it takes to race. I think those people are hoping that a car ends up in the stands to take out NASCAR fan in a fiery crash. Then there taxes would go down because there would be 20 less welfare cases in the state. At least NASCAR fan saves a little money by actually driving their home to the race and living in the infield for a week. Yee Haw.
There is nary a sport as strenuous as racing. Anyone who has spent even 20 laps on a road course will agree. So I am not raging against the drivers here but instead the fans. Those lovable, trucker hat wearing, jolly, Santa like rednecks with their oh so stylish rainbow colored t-shirts proclaiming their love for a driver who would rather put a tire mark on their forehead than talk to NASCAR-fan. The fact that close to 100,000 of these sheeple gather at each race amazes me. Can you imagine how many cans of Schlitz must be consumed at these events? I’ll bet the local possum community declares a red alert for the weekend. Nothing beats a good deep fried possum, except maybe a deep fried Schlitz.
Turn Left, turn left, turn left, turn left, repeat 3-400 times and you have a winner. Chiropractors should set up booths at NASCAR races; they could make a killing fixing “Left Neck”. Of course 90% of the spectators don’t have insurance, but they can pay the $100 a pop duckets to get in. And if they are really lucky they can go home with a drivers tire. Yes, that is considered a souveneer. Not a hat or the aforementioned t-shirt but a fucking tire.
Hardcore NASCAR fan complains that people only watch for the crashes and doesn’t appreciate the skill it takes to race. I think those people are hoping that a car ends up in the stands to take out NASCAR fan in a fiery crash. Then there taxes would go down because there would be 20 less welfare cases in the state. At least NASCAR fan saves a little money by actually driving their home to the race and living in the infield for a week. Yee Haw.
Wednesday, September 13
Ode to Pops
Everybody loves their dad. He is that guy who will do just about anything for his kids. Anything that is, besides changing his wardrobe.
At what point does dad go from being a hip twenty something guy to a fashion deficient source of jokes.
At what point does wearing a NASCAR shirt, replete with 26 different colors, become the epitomy of fashion?
At what point do you regress from shoes with laces to shoes with Velcro?
At what point does the thought of keeping the leisure suit forever come into his mind? At what point does the leather jacket with patches come back in style?
At what point does he feel that his pants pockets simply are not big enough and he needs to resort to a black leather fanny pack?
At what point do Wrangler jeans, that are two sizes too small, become the hip new accessory to said fanny pack?
At what point does the cell phone become a fashion accessory for your belt?
At what point does the trucker hat go from being a cool head piece for kids to the bat signal for dorky dad?
At what point do you no longer update your eyeglass style from hipster to wire and bottle cap?
At what point do Tevas and socks become cool?
One question I do know the answer to: At what point does wearing tight khaki gym teacher shorts become cool? The day you became a teenager and he was too afraid to get neutered. So instead he decided to slowly strangle his nads.
At what point does dad go from being a hip twenty something guy to a fashion deficient source of jokes.
At what point does wearing a NASCAR shirt, replete with 26 different colors, become the epitomy of fashion?
At what point do you regress from shoes with laces to shoes with Velcro?
At what point does the thought of keeping the leisure suit forever come into his mind? At what point does the leather jacket with patches come back in style?
At what point does he feel that his pants pockets simply are not big enough and he needs to resort to a black leather fanny pack?
At what point do Wrangler jeans, that are two sizes too small, become the hip new accessory to said fanny pack?
At what point does the cell phone become a fashion accessory for your belt?
At what point does the trucker hat go from being a cool head piece for kids to the bat signal for dorky dad?
At what point do you no longer update your eyeglass style from hipster to wire and bottle cap?
At what point do Tevas and socks become cool?
One question I do know the answer to: At what point does wearing tight khaki gym teacher shorts become cool? The day you became a teenager and he was too afraid to get neutered. So instead he decided to slowly strangle his nads.
Friday, September 8
Brown Tide
By now every cubicle camper knows that when you get a bunch of women working together, you get the dreaded red tide. For whatever reason, pheromones, hormones, or just to be angry together, they all start to go with the "Flow" at the same time of the month. This can be quite horrific for men (Unless they're hermies) and wonderful for women. Up until today I never thought that this miraculous phenomonon could occur in any other species until I walked into the bathroom at 8:00 am. You see, I always use the bathroom at 8:00 am and if I am lucky, I get my second "Wind" after lunch. The last few days though, my schedule has been stopped short by a full facility. It seems every other guys dog is scratching at the backdoor at the same time. Even worse, I am noticing guys making the walk of shame through the hallway and I find myself hurrying to get the coveted handi stall before the "Game" is sold out. Maybe there are pheromones in a mans brown eye, who knows?
Wednesday, August 30
Death of a Good Citizen
As you already know, I am not one to be speechless but I think it may have finally happened. You see yours truly had to go to traffic court. Due to my own laziness and a lack of accurate info from the obviously confused Panchorelli wannabe, I ended up having to spend an hour or so in Hells sixth level. Stick with me here because this folk tale is longer than my usual diatribes. Let’s start with some background, shall we?
Imagine rush hour traffic moving along at a hasty 25 mph. You are in the middle lane in your, new to you, car with tinted side windows (A big no-no in California where you can legally smoke weed for your glaucoma while being married to your dog). You notice a motorcycle highway patrol on the side of the freeway writing up another deposit for the State’s general fund and decide to roll down your windows knowing that your felonious tint could get you a ticket. You pass by and all is well until the fireworks go off behind you and you start imagining the curb seat scenario that is to come. Long story short, I get nailed with a fix it ticket that I can allegedly get signed off on by any officer of the law.
Weeks later I attempt to get it signed off on by 3 separate law entities before getting someone to put their chicken scratch on the bottom of the ticket. I mail it in on time and forget all about the inconvenience. I come back from a vacation at the Happiest Place on Earth (No not the Bunny Ranch you sickos) to find a warrant for my arrest in the mail. Which seems a like a strange way to inform someone they have broken the law. I was half expecting the SWAT team to batter down my door any minute with the tone and wording of the letter. Being a law abiding fellow, I go to the Sheriffs department the next day to turn myself in. In actuality, I just signed a paper saying I would go to court in 2 months. 2 MONTHS!!
Being I am an upstanding citizen, I am a little nervous going to traffic court. So when the day finally comes I leave work early to go to what is the equivalent of the DMV mixed with the Principals office with a dash of used car dealer thrown in. First off I have to pay to park. This is in the fucking suburbs for God’s sake, why am I paying to park, to waist my time, to be around God’s forsaken, and I am sure to pay a fine. As I am walking through a sea of dilapidated human movers, I notice that everyone I see has decided to dress up in their Sunday lawn mowing best. Since I am early and quickly find my department, I decide to head in early and get a preview of the proceedings. Think of it as a Flea Market full of excuses.
A few initial observations. Most people are here for some sort of ridiculous fix it ticket like myself. Some examples being the aforementioned tinted side windows, no front license plate, broken lights and windows, and loud stereos or exhaust; Basically a ricer’s dream. However, 90% of these morons got these tickets while driving on a suspended license or without insurance (Real bright). Second, people are freaking poor. Almost everyone would rather do 6 days community service than pay a $600 fine. Personally my time is worth 2-3 times that much so I would just whip out the Amex Centurion card and get the fuck out of there. There were also quite a few people who had no problem just doing straight time. To you felony virgins, that means going to jail. Yes, jail. How’s that for a shitty day? You go to traffic court and leave in cuffs and a jump suit.
Everyone has heard the term that excuses are like assholes. Let me tell you that there are a lot of assholes with excuses too. That’s what I love about the judicial system; these people skate through life because everyone else has too much to do to actually make them face the music they deserve (I prefer Celine Dione as a great punishment). Here, the judge doesn’t care that you had to drive because your kid and your babies momma were sick and you had to go get some heroin, errrr, I mean medicine. Plus they dole out fines like a fat chick at Starbucks. “I’ll take a Venti driving on a suspended, with extra no insurance, light on the speeding, with two pumps of DUI. Thanks.”
The degradation of society is also on display. However, here you have to answer to the judge or the bailiff. Two men, dressed in wife beaters that they must have bought for the occasion since they still had the fold creases in them, were chewing gum. They had the gall to get riled up when the bailiff asked them to spit it out or the judge would get upset when she gets back. Another douche nozzle’s phone rang during the proceedings, clearly illiterate since there were at least sixteen “No Cell Phones” signs and twelve “No Talking signs”. Luckily the bailiff simply walked them out of the room and gave them a Failure To Appear on their record.
After an hour and a half of waiting, it was my turn. I simply walked up to the podium and explained that I had sent in my proof of correction but the postmark was a day late. Interestingly, all of it was mailed back to me plus copies of the envelope. I am sure it took 20 minutes to put the package together and mail it to me. Thus costing more in labor than the fine I paid. The judge simply said to go to the Fines Room and pay the original fine. Sweet, done and done.
Maybe not. Have you ever made a wrong turn leaving a ball game and end up in a part of town where the locks on your door all of a sudden seem as safe as a Ming vase in the hands of an epileptic? That’s how this room was. One long winding line that could have easily been a waiting area for a Police lineup and I was the token white guy. I just closed my eyes like a new prisoner getting his first shower rape and waited for it to end.
Imagine rush hour traffic moving along at a hasty 25 mph. You are in the middle lane in your, new to you, car with tinted side windows (A big no-no in California where you can legally smoke weed for your glaucoma while being married to your dog). You notice a motorcycle highway patrol on the side of the freeway writing up another deposit for the State’s general fund and decide to roll down your windows knowing that your felonious tint could get you a ticket. You pass by and all is well until the fireworks go off behind you and you start imagining the curb seat scenario that is to come. Long story short, I get nailed with a fix it ticket that I can allegedly get signed off on by any officer of the law.
Weeks later I attempt to get it signed off on by 3 separate law entities before getting someone to put their chicken scratch on the bottom of the ticket. I mail it in on time and forget all about the inconvenience. I come back from a vacation at the Happiest Place on Earth (No not the Bunny Ranch you sickos) to find a warrant for my arrest in the mail. Which seems a like a strange way to inform someone they have broken the law. I was half expecting the SWAT team to batter down my door any minute with the tone and wording of the letter. Being a law abiding fellow, I go to the Sheriffs department the next day to turn myself in. In actuality, I just signed a paper saying I would go to court in 2 months. 2 MONTHS!!
Being I am an upstanding citizen, I am a little nervous going to traffic court. So when the day finally comes I leave work early to go to what is the equivalent of the DMV mixed with the Principals office with a dash of used car dealer thrown in. First off I have to pay to park. This is in the fucking suburbs for God’s sake, why am I paying to park, to waist my time, to be around God’s forsaken, and I am sure to pay a fine. As I am walking through a sea of dilapidated human movers, I notice that everyone I see has decided to dress up in their Sunday lawn mowing best. Since I am early and quickly find my department, I decide to head in early and get a preview of the proceedings. Think of it as a Flea Market full of excuses.
A few initial observations. Most people are here for some sort of ridiculous fix it ticket like myself. Some examples being the aforementioned tinted side windows, no front license plate, broken lights and windows, and loud stereos or exhaust; Basically a ricer’s dream. However, 90% of these morons got these tickets while driving on a suspended license or without insurance (Real bright). Second, people are freaking poor. Almost everyone would rather do 6 days community service than pay a $600 fine. Personally my time is worth 2-3 times that much so I would just whip out the Amex Centurion card and get the fuck out of there. There were also quite a few people who had no problem just doing straight time. To you felony virgins, that means going to jail. Yes, jail. How’s that for a shitty day? You go to traffic court and leave in cuffs and a jump suit.
Everyone has heard the term that excuses are like assholes. Let me tell you that there are a lot of assholes with excuses too. That’s what I love about the judicial system; these people skate through life because everyone else has too much to do to actually make them face the music they deserve (I prefer Celine Dione as a great punishment). Here, the judge doesn’t care that you had to drive because your kid and your babies momma were sick and you had to go get some heroin, errrr, I mean medicine. Plus they dole out fines like a fat chick at Starbucks. “I’ll take a Venti driving on a suspended, with extra no insurance, light on the speeding, with two pumps of DUI. Thanks.”
The degradation of society is also on display. However, here you have to answer to the judge or the bailiff. Two men, dressed in wife beaters that they must have bought for the occasion since they still had the fold creases in them, were chewing gum. They had the gall to get riled up when the bailiff asked them to spit it out or the judge would get upset when she gets back. Another douche nozzle’s phone rang during the proceedings, clearly illiterate since there were at least sixteen “No Cell Phones” signs and twelve “No Talking signs”. Luckily the bailiff simply walked them out of the room and gave them a Failure To Appear on their record.
After an hour and a half of waiting, it was my turn. I simply walked up to the podium and explained that I had sent in my proof of correction but the postmark was a day late. Interestingly, all of it was mailed back to me plus copies of the envelope. I am sure it took 20 minutes to put the package together and mail it to me. Thus costing more in labor than the fine I paid. The judge simply said to go to the Fines Room and pay the original fine. Sweet, done and done.
Maybe not. Have you ever made a wrong turn leaving a ball game and end up in a part of town where the locks on your door all of a sudden seem as safe as a Ming vase in the hands of an epileptic? That’s how this room was. One long winding line that could have easily been a waiting area for a Police lineup and I was the token white guy. I just closed my eyes like a new prisoner getting his first shower rape and waited for it to end.
Friday, August 11
Thank You Mr Science Teacher
When I was in elementary school, every year we had the same stupid science project where we stuck some kids baby tooth into a glass of cola and watched how, in 3 weeks, the tooth started to decay. My question is; who the fuck is leaving soda in their mouth for 3 weeks?
Odiferous Safes
America’s energy woes are long and increasingly becoming worse. One major cause is the heating and cooling of buildings, both residential and commercial. Which makes me wonder why buildings are not constructed in the same manner as elevators. Have you ever noticed that elevators wreak? How is it that a smell can stay in an elevator for so long? There are a few common odiferous stenches, ranging from the very common cigarette smoke to the stinky onion sandwich and of course the fat man spewing pools of rancid underarm sweat smell. My point is, if these smells can live in an elevator that opens and closes constantly, why can’t we create our living spaces out of the same type of insulation?
Monday, August 7
Why Not Argyle?
I have a shirt in my closet that I wear all the time. It is comfy, simple and goes with everything. It’s almost as if it is an extension of my skin. So much so, that I think I may get a tattoo of the shirt on my sleeve. If that sounds absurd, think about how absolutely trashy the concept of a tattoo sleeve is. Why would anyone permanently adhere the ugliest artwork onto their arms for all to see? It is the same reason people buy ridiculously overpriced designer clothes. So someone will ask them about it and they can feel cool explaining where they got it and how much it cost. Plus it is so anti-establishment.
How do you get that high paying job, or any job for that matter, that you would wear a short sleeved shirt? Much like the chicken and egg, which comes first, the dead end job or the tattoo sleeve? When you are at a bar, do you roll up your sleeves hoping the girl notices the naked pictures of your ex-girlfriend, in order to start a conversation? Isn’t this just like the rich guy who makes sure his Rolex is always front and center? So many questions. Maybe I should tattoo them on my arm so I don’t forget them.
How do you get that high paying job, or any job for that matter, that you would wear a short sleeved shirt? Much like the chicken and egg, which comes first, the dead end job or the tattoo sleeve? When you are at a bar, do you roll up your sleeves hoping the girl notices the naked pictures of your ex-girlfriend, in order to start a conversation? Isn’t this just like the rich guy who makes sure his Rolex is always front and center? So many questions. Maybe I should tattoo them on my arm so I don’t forget them.
Friday, August 4
Fattys Must Pay
Put down your Egg McMuffin’s and tune in, this ones for you fattys. In America, we have a great system of freedom and punishment. You are free to do what you want as long as you are willing to take on the punishment of your actions. Smokers can smoke (At least for the next couple years), drinkers can drink (Irish unite), and fattys can stuff their piehole’s with, well, pies.
We have a severe problem in America with healthcare. You see if you don’t work, don’t make any money, and suckle on the tit of Uncle Sam (Dude has huge areolas by the way), you can’t get healthcare insurance. At least that’s my take on it. I notice that smokers pay higher premiums than non-smokers. This makes sense since they will be dying soon by slipping in a puddle of their own phlegm and choking on their own lung lymphoma. But why don’t we make fattys pay more for insurance. This is pretty easy. No tests to take, no mouth swabs, just use your peepers. If the patient has 3 chins, gets winded getting up on the exam table, or tries to eat the tongue depressors, then they are red stamped on their chart and maybe their forehead for good measure.
Why can’t we do this? Because we don’t want to offend the fattys of America. After all, they stimulate the economy with their insane insuppressible appetite for food and Lane Bryant sales.
We have a severe problem in America with healthcare. You see if you don’t work, don’t make any money, and suckle on the tit of Uncle Sam (Dude has huge areolas by the way), you can’t get healthcare insurance. At least that’s my take on it. I notice that smokers pay higher premiums than non-smokers. This makes sense since they will be dying soon by slipping in a puddle of their own phlegm and choking on their own lung lymphoma. But why don’t we make fattys pay more for insurance. This is pretty easy. No tests to take, no mouth swabs, just use your peepers. If the patient has 3 chins, gets winded getting up on the exam table, or tries to eat the tongue depressors, then they are red stamped on their chart and maybe their forehead for good measure.
Why can’t we do this? Because we don’t want to offend the fattys of America. After all, they stimulate the economy with their insane insuppressible appetite for food and Lane Bryant sales.
Wednesday, August 2
Cracker Monkey
At what point did we become completely inept at discerning reality? I am writing this while eating one of my favorite snacks, Animal Crackers. So I look at the bag and notice numerous omissions and downright mis-truths. This is bothersome because I do not like to be lied to, especially by a monkey hanging from the “S” in “Crackers”. Let’s start right there, shall we? These are NOT “Crackers”. These are cookies. Anyone who thinks crackers have nonfat milk in them should be forced to eat Ritz crackers in a cereal bowl for breakfast. But “Cracker” sounds so much more healthy (If not a bit racist) than cookie.
Now the previously mentioned monkey is holding a balloon that says “Low Fat”. Really? So you’re telling me these “Crackers” are actually good for me? Sweet….err I mean salty, after all they are “Crackers”. Flip the bag over though and 1 serving gets you 10% of your daily carb count but no fat. Last and least are the warnings. When did Animal “Crackers” need a warning? Aren’t they about the most non-threatening snack ever made? Even the Lion looks like he parties with the kids. But since we have produced a mountain of mutant children (Thanks to our lack of Darwinism), we have to tell you that there are trace amounts of peanuts and tree nuts in these. I thought we established that these are “Crackers”? What “Crackers” have peanuts in them? I smell a conspiracy. I think Congress must subpoena the monkey and have him testify to the fact that these are not “Crackers” but in fact cookies.
Note – I consumed approximately 25 “Crackers” while writing this and have used up 25% of my daily carb intake. Fucking lying monkey!
Now the previously mentioned monkey is holding a balloon that says “Low Fat”. Really? So you’re telling me these “Crackers” are actually good for me? Sweet….err I mean salty, after all they are “Crackers”. Flip the bag over though and 1 serving gets you 10% of your daily carb count but no fat. Last and least are the warnings. When did Animal “Crackers” need a warning? Aren’t they about the most non-threatening snack ever made? Even the Lion looks like he parties with the kids. But since we have produced a mountain of mutant children (Thanks to our lack of Darwinism), we have to tell you that there are trace amounts of peanuts and tree nuts in these. I thought we established that these are “Crackers”? What “Crackers” have peanuts in them? I smell a conspiracy. I think Congress must subpoena the monkey and have him testify to the fact that these are not “Crackers” but in fact cookies.
Note – I consumed approximately 25 “Crackers” while writing this and have used up 25% of my daily carb intake. Fucking lying monkey!
Monday, July 31
Story For Today
Allow me to set the scene like a Shakespearian Maestro.....
Your humble narrator is walking down a downtown street in "Any City", USA and is approached by a fine, upstanding street citizen. Let's listen in.....
Citizen Dirt - "Do you have any change?"
{Narrator digs around in pocket and jingles numerous coins in his hand for effect}
Narrator - "Actually, yes I do"
{Narrator continues walking past Citizen Dirt}
The End
Your humble narrator is walking down a downtown street in "Any City", USA and is approached by a fine, upstanding street citizen. Let's listen in.....
Citizen Dirt - "Do you have any change?"
{Narrator digs around in pocket and jingles numerous coins in his hand for effect}
Narrator - "Actually, yes I do"
{Narrator continues walking past Citizen Dirt}
The End
I Know How Lance Bass Feels
For once, the crazy butt cheek puckered liberals of America may be right. Hold your gasping breath gentle reader for I have said the ghastly simply to prove a point.
So here I am, finishing up the last leg of a truly great American pastime; Selling something on EBay. The process is so delectably simple. Post your ad, pay your fees, wait, wait, wait, sell item, print shipping label, box and mail the item. Ahh, that last one gets a little hairy. Since my box is just slightly heavier than 16oz drop weight, I have to take it to the local Post Office (I realize I could take it almost anywhere to drop it off but I am lucky enough to work across the street from the oldest Post Office in town. It’s quite quaint and charming, more on that in a second).
I stroll in to the light morning air and across the busy downtown street to the sight of many metaphorical killing jokes. Through the golden doors, which interestingly are automatic even though the doors must be 80 years old, and into the lobby where upon a metal detector has been installed. I am all for safety and hate terrorism just as much as the next patriot but this seems a little much. No bother, I empty my pockets and place my non-ticking box on the conveyor belt. Now gentle reader, I know you will be shocked to here that the detector went off, alerting everyone to my evil plot of mailing an inert package. After a brief wanding and a latex enema, I am on my way. America is safe. Of course I cannot just drop off my package. No, packages might contain 2 tons of manure and ammonium nitrate, so I get to wait in line for 10 minutes to tell the lady that I have removed all plastic explosives from the box before I taped it up.
Is this really necessary? Is a medium sized city’s Post Office really a target for anything other than nerdy stamp collectors? Do we really need this much protection? I for one emphatically say yes. Now excuse me while I pull that latex glove out of my ass.
So here I am, finishing up the last leg of a truly great American pastime; Selling something on EBay. The process is so delectably simple. Post your ad, pay your fees, wait, wait, wait, sell item, print shipping label, box and mail the item. Ahh, that last one gets a little hairy. Since my box is just slightly heavier than 16oz drop weight, I have to take it to the local Post Office (I realize I could take it almost anywhere to drop it off but I am lucky enough to work across the street from the oldest Post Office in town. It’s quite quaint and charming, more on that in a second).
I stroll in to the light morning air and across the busy downtown street to the sight of many metaphorical killing jokes. Through the golden doors, which interestingly are automatic even though the doors must be 80 years old, and into the lobby where upon a metal detector has been installed. I am all for safety and hate terrorism just as much as the next patriot but this seems a little much. No bother, I empty my pockets and place my non-ticking box on the conveyor belt. Now gentle reader, I know you will be shocked to here that the detector went off, alerting everyone to my evil plot of mailing an inert package. After a brief wanding and a latex enema, I am on my way. America is safe. Of course I cannot just drop off my package. No, packages might contain 2 tons of manure and ammonium nitrate, so I get to wait in line for 10 minutes to tell the lady that I have removed all plastic explosives from the box before I taped it up.
Is this really necessary? Is a medium sized city’s Post Office really a target for anything other than nerdy stamp collectors? Do we really need this much protection? I for one emphatically say yes. Now excuse me while I pull that latex glove out of my ass.
Sorry About That
So that last post about a month ago not only wreaked of effort but it was also a month ago. I am working on a more consistent approach for my devout reader (Singular, please note that). So here goes.......
Thursday, June 1
Metro Pimp Player
Rollin on four-four’s wit no tread
Up and down da block like Barney and Fred
Kidneys bouncing cuz I couldn’t afford
The shoes to go on my ’86 Ford
I spew rhymes like a cunning linguist
Vocabulary so limited
Nothing rhymes with Linguist
Dammit
My condo is blowin up from the heat
Of a hot day, A/C is nothing but an extra treat
500k doesn’t go a long way
Here in LA
I’m a Metro pimp player
Matching khakis with my I-Pod, Love that John Mayer
Head bouncing, like I’m in the groove
Real gangstas comin up the street so I better move
To the other side before they shank me
Headin to the clinic to test for the HIV
I’m a Metro pimp player
Buyin rounds of cosmos at the local pub
Braggin on my new double dubs
Ho’s think I’m harmless
Guys think my hairs a mess
They don’t understand it’s the new style
Of the metro pimp player
I’m a dying breed among the uninitiated
Maybe its time for a new look
Emo, Punk, and grunge are so played out
The metro pimp player is what I’m all about
Up and down da block like Barney and Fred
Kidneys bouncing cuz I couldn’t afford
The shoes to go on my ’86 Ford
I spew rhymes like a cunning linguist
Vocabulary so limited
Nothing rhymes with Linguist
Dammit
My condo is blowin up from the heat
Of a hot day, A/C is nothing but an extra treat
500k doesn’t go a long way
Here in LA
I’m a Metro pimp player
Matching khakis with my I-Pod, Love that John Mayer
Head bouncing, like I’m in the groove
Real gangstas comin up the street so I better move
To the other side before they shank me
Headin to the clinic to test for the HIV
I’m a Metro pimp player
Buyin rounds of cosmos at the local pub
Braggin on my new double dubs
Ho’s think I’m harmless
Guys think my hairs a mess
They don’t understand it’s the new style
Of the metro pimp player
I’m a dying breed among the uninitiated
Maybe its time for a new look
Emo, Punk, and grunge are so played out
The metro pimp player is what I’m all about
Tuesday, May 30
Germaphobes
Bird Flu, AIDS, and Herpes of the mouth have nothing on this new disease of the mind. I have never seen so many intelligent people fall victim to something so utterly stupid in my life. Tulips and internet stocks had more legitimate reasoning than germaphobia. You see it everywhere, public places, restrooms, doting moms.
Of course my favorite is the public restroom. The germaphone goes into the bathroom without touching the handle on the door, does their business, washes up, uses the towel to open the door back up, but never thinks about all the bacteria in the air; the bacteria that is hundreds of times worse than bacteria on porcelain (Which has been proven to be minimal). Maybe a gas mask would be in order.
The other is the mom who is constantly cleaning their kids with anti-bacterial soap, wipes and acid baths. The kid needs to be exposed to germs or they will never develop an immune system. I say let the kid be Farmer Fred and go pick some nose goblins. Then swallow them down with the pride of a fat man at an all you can eat Crisco buffet.
Of course my favorite is the public restroom. The germaphone goes into the bathroom without touching the handle on the door, does their business, washes up, uses the towel to open the door back up, but never thinks about all the bacteria in the air; the bacteria that is hundreds of times worse than bacteria on porcelain (Which has been proven to be minimal). Maybe a gas mask would be in order.
The other is the mom who is constantly cleaning their kids with anti-bacterial soap, wipes and acid baths. The kid needs to be exposed to germs or they will never develop an immune system. I say let the kid be Farmer Fred and go pick some nose goblins. Then swallow them down with the pride of a fat man at an all you can eat Crisco buffet.
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