To the Mighty Who Have Fallen!

Every once in a while, it is important to pay tribute to those who have made the world a better place for everybody, but are no longer living.

The spotlight today is on Dr. James Thaddeus Helvetica. It is a sad state of affairs when Blogger offers the Verdana font, yet Helvetica is nowhere to be found. Did Rachel Verdana-Gomez ever slay a dragon while riding a genuine Hasoi skateboard? No. Did Klaus Times New Roman do anything besides steam Jewish people? Hardly. Yet they are both heavily represented in the font world.

Dr. Helvetica is the reason that gravity works the way that it does. Dr. Helvetica single-handedly overturned Communism in Soviet Russia. He is the only human being ever known to be able to take flight under nothing but the power of his own flatulence. In fact, he is the only man to have ever birthed and breastfed an entire softball team composed of Centaurs. It is truly sad that a font is what he is best known for, yet we can't even acknowledge him on a regular basis.

As a tribute, I'm going to wear a Helvetica lowercase 't' around my neck. Maybe I'll start a trend.

Interesting thought of the day:
I know this entry wasn't funny, but I'm leaving it anyway to piss you off that you had to read it. That's what you get for reading and not commenting on my last one; that one was hilarious.

Boner Jokes: Redux!

A while back, I commented on the unfortunate wording in a headline talking about Viagra's profits.

Well, this time, the jokes actually write themselves.

Pfizer: No link between Viagra, blindness

In fact, they write themselves so much that I can't actually find the correct way to phrase even one of them. It's a train wreck of masturbation jokes in my head--AND THERE ARE NO SURVIVORS!

But, out of the smoky rubble limps one portly lad with a fresh limp carrying a package he promised he would deliver to his mother. Inside that package? Just this note:

The makers of Viagra announced that they're going to start putting a warning label on all prescriptions of their miracle erection-enhancing pills that it could cause blindness if used alone. This is expected to be followed in the coming months (no pun intended, until I realized how awesome it was) by warnings that it could cause hairy palms and for "God to cry because you touch yourself."

Nobody knows for sure who that little boy was, but some say he had a rather large chin, a squeaky voice, and was followed everywhere he went by a black man holding a jazz guitar who laughed way too hard at everything the boy said.

Other remnants found in the wreckage included:

"...Old Wives rejoice as their tales hit the mass market in the form of Viagra warning labels...but the celebration turns to horror as thousands of backs are broken as a result of their children stepping on cracks."

"...A blind man in Ohio rushed to hospital after funnelling hundreds of Viagra into his sphincter in hopes of reversing his vision problem. In related news, the first asshole boner has been discovered and, according to scientists, 'It's disgusting and soaking wet.'"

Huzzah! Boners!

Interesting thought of the day:
"Foster children" is Australian for "failed abortions."

Baby Geniuses 3: Adult Geniuses!

When I was a kid, I had this feeling that I was smarter than most of the adults that surrounded me. As I grew up and actually became an adult (in age and penis size only), I realized that it wasn't just a feeling, but, instead, a cold, hard fact.

The following e-mail was sent to me by somebody who works in an office, so s/he has to put up with a lot of inter-office memos. If I ever received something like this, I would probably go to the person's desk who sent this and punch them in the head until my knuckles were covered in unused brain cells and barrettes.

Kurt, here is a solid sampling of the intelligence I am surrounded by on a daily basis.
-----Original Message-----
From: This motherfucker
Sent: Friday, June 24, 2005 5:02 PM
To: That motherfucker
Subject: FW: Yogurt in Refridgerator


what is she talking about?? I can write better than that.
-----Original Message-----
From: The Office Retard
Sent: Friday, June 24, 2005 1:20 PM
To: Office people
Subject: Yogurt in Refridgerator


To keep the kitchen mess at a minimum, I put all of this mornings yogurts are in the Refridgerator when I was cleaning up.

Sincerely,

Mungo the Rockbiter

I changed the names, but the message remains the same.

First, if you don't know how to spell refrigerator, don't use it. It's a tough one, so stick with fridge; people will still understand what you're talking about.

Second, if you're only writing a one sentence e-mail to everybody in the department, it can't be beneath you to proofread it once. I understand how, when one is constructing such a complex sentence using one whole comma, that they can lose track of where they are and fuck up a verb tense or even put in a verb where it's not necessary. But, please, if you can't re-read your 24 words one time before you send it out, you should be forced to simply make drawings that convey what you're trying to say.

Finally, I'm not going to harp on the fact that she doesn't have an apostrophe in 'mornings'. I'm also not going to dwell on her ending the sentence in a preposition. Those are both things that some people don't bother to deal with correcting when they're writing (mostly because they don't know that it's wrong). But capitalizing 'Refridgerator'? Twice? Maybe I was wrong that she was misspelling refrigerator, but, instead, was using its proper name that it prefers.

"Refridgerator says he wants some more yogurt. Also, Coffee Maker and Microwave need tomorrow off."

I wish I worked with idiots. Or at all.

Interesting thought of the day:
If one pushes hard enough, they can actually poop out their own lungs.

Jesus Stole My Internet!

Last night, I got home from my old-folks home booty call and, much to my chagrin, dismay, and discomfiture (thanks, dictionary.com), my internet wasn't working. Well, sort of.

See, I have wireless internet that I connect to in my room through the router in my brother's room. When I tried to use my internet, it was connected to somebody else's wireless internet (which is really slow). For some reason, my computer couldn't find the internet available through my brother's room.

I went and restarted the router and I was able to connect. I figured it was just some weird glitch. But, it doesn't end there. Apparently, since I had the connection open and available for anybody to connect to, somebody nearby in my complex decided to do so. I wouldn't have cared if they did that, really. It's not costing me anything extra.

But, it turns out that it was The Jesus that was monitoring my internet activity and I read in the Bible that he really frowns upon hours and hours of video of man-on-man action where they're dressed in suits of armor and/or like peasant boys being downloaded. Because, shortly after I restarted the router, I was disconnected again. Only this time, the name of it had been changed (to GOOD and then LOCKED) and the password was changed. I couldn't connect to my own damn internet.

I eventually was able to get control over it again, but I wanted to run around my complex knocking on doors and beating the shit out of whatever little kid decided that it would be funny to try to take over my internet. Nobody gets between me and my miles and miles of photoshopped pictures of Bea Arthur in a three-way with Estelle Getty and the dead guy from "Empty Nest."

I can't post any of the "naughtier" pictures, but, this is how they all start. They're always in black and white, and they always involve a Victorian setting.


Interesting thought of the day:
If I found a bigfoot in the wild, I would teach it how to kickbox and take it everywhere I went dressed up in a tuxedo.

Diary of a Mad Black Man!

Well, I have absolutely nothing to write about, so I'm going to put my name into google image search, find a picture of another guy named Kurt, and make stuff up about him.

And, here's our lucky guy:

Kurt is a fun guy to be around when he's had a couple of beers. Sometimes--he's so crazy--but, sometimes, he'll stand up on a table and flap his arms like a chicken WHILE wiggling his butt! But, if you ask his wife's permanent limp and broken eye socket, sometimes Kurt can drink a little too much.

The stain you see on Kurt's shirt is "spaghetti sauce." Who knew that spaghetti sauce came out of his wife's nose when she tried to ask him a question while the Rangers were on TV and, appropriately, paid the price.

Aside from that, though, Kurt has three kids. His youngest, Kevin (9), is much too flamboyant for Kurt's tastes (putting him in football and "taking away that faggy ribbon he always twirls around like a goddamn lady gymnast" hasn't helped) and, unbeknownst to either of them, is going to grow up to set the record for most cocks sucked in an hour (surpassing my 62 by a mind-boggling 35!).

His middle child, Kyle (13), is taking after daddy nicely. He goes hunting with his dad once a month and punches the black kid in class "because he has weird hair." In 2015, he will be sentenced to 15 years in prison for armed robbery and beating his younger brother senseless for "being such a queer."

Finally, his oldest child, Katie (16), is only on her second pregnancy. For being in Kurt's family, that's pretty good. She lost her first pregnancy when she had a miscarriage*. It's weird, though, she "doesn't know how she got pregnant, unless you can get it from kissing boys close-mouthed."

Aside from the family, his job selling appliances takes up most of his time. That's why it's understandable that he gets so angry when he gets home and dinner isn't ready. It sure does help to punch somebody in the mouth when you're mad at them. It also solves a lot of problems. He should know; he was a psychology major at the community college until his girlfriend/wife, then 15, had to go and get pregnant. If she would have just listened and let him put it in her butt instead, he wouldn't have had to take the job at the store and drop out of school. It's her fault that his life sucks.

*repeated steel-toed boots to the abdomen by her on-again, off-again, on-again boyfriend, CJ.

Interesting thought of the day:
"Looking all sexy and shit" is the leading cause of rape in the United States.

Nigga Please!

An 81-year-old Klansman was found guilty of the murder of three black guys 41 years ago and was convicted to 60 years in prison.

See, the thing about this is that he knows he's going to die soon anyway, so the 60 year sentence doesn't mean a damn thing. For knuckleheads (I like to seriously understate the names I call people that do horrible, awful things based on prejudice and racism) like this guy, the judge should do a little bit more creative sentencing.

How about all of his granddaughters are raped by black guys while he watches and, this is done repeatedly until they all have half-black children. Now, some of you may say that this is unfair to the granddaughters because they didn't do anything, but they love rape.



Also, while they're being raped, the convicted killer, Edgar Ray Killen (he has 'kill' in his NAME! How did it take 41 years to catch this guy?), is also raped by a tag team of Ru Paul and Lamar from Revenge of the Nerds--all while listening to rap music and eating collared greens.

I should be a judge. If I didn't have the 32 convictions for kiddie porn, 3 for harboring a terrorist, 9 for sodomy of an animal, 15 for sodomy of an inanimate object, 1 for operating a motor vehicle with only a self-issued license (see picture), 115 counts of "making people uncomfortable with his genitals" (this is an umbrella charge wherein numerous, somewhat similar convictions lie), and various other charges, I would probably make a great judge.




Interesting thought of the day:
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Unless you're dead
Then I'm probably having sex with your corpse

Love,

Kurt

So Many Pictures of My Penis!

Well, blogger just added an image hosting service to their weblogs, so now I can post a lot more pictures.

Somewhere down the line, I'm going to post my penile tribute to the Presidents of the United States. It's where I dress my filthy junk up like all of the Presidents and perform a one-act play. You should see the tiny wheelchair I made for my cock FDR. It's fully functional (the wheelchair, not my dick--that stopped working in eighth grade when I put on my first jockstrap and didn't realize until after I told my friends that they could hit me as hard as they want in the balls with an aluminum bat because I was wearing a jockstrap, that it actually has to cover your balls and isn't quite as effective if you're wearing it on your head yelling, "Look at me! I'm in GATE!").

But, for now, I've decided that I've always wanted to know what it's like to be homeless and have to wear your entire wardrobe on your back all the time. And, while I couldn't fit all my clothes on my torso, I did manage to put on 12 shirts and 3 jackets.



My eyes look a little cross-eyed in the picture, but I think that just happens when you try to adapt to the lifestyle of the street urchins; you take on their traits. I also rubbed my balls against the crosswalk button for two entire cycles just minutes after this picture was taken.

Since I have such photographic freedom now, is there anything that you, yes, you, my reader, would like to see? Like I said, the penile tribute to the Presidents is already in the queue. Once I stop menstruating, I'll get right on that. Because, right now, the only ones I can faithfully do are Lincoln, JFK, and Alexander Hamilton.

Interesting thought of the day:
Casper the Friendly Ghost wasn't as friendly as some say. In fact, he has the only documented case of Tourette's Syndrome in ghosts. "Boo. Motherfucker. Graham Cracker! Cockadoodledoo! Boo!"

This Is Why They Call It 'Men'struating!

Because men are supposed to do it.

A 15-year-old boy in some place in India (I think, I don't care enough to actually look up where Kolkata is--sounds like a poor and/or retarded man's Calcutta [double-parenthesis, this is a first--isn't Calcutta the poor man's Calcutta?] is menstruating. For those that don't know, menstruating is what it's called when a woman's vagina becomes filled with bees.

The article talks about how his behaviour (goddamn Queen's English) and traits are like a woman. This kid officially now has won the title of the gayest boy in the world! Congratulations! May your vagina-y penis shine with the light of Vishnu!

It also mentions how he didn't tell anybody he was menstruating for a while. So, your wiener is dripping blood? Make sure you keep it a secret from everybody. It's probably no big deal.

If my penis even sneezed, I would take it to the doctor right away. Or I would show it off at parties.

Interesting thought of the day:
If Princess Diana's nickname was Lady Live, she probably wouldn't be dead right now. It was a stockpile of bad karma that offed her.

Liar, Liar, Meaningless Symbol on Fire!

Now, I'm not an America-hater, but sometimes shit just gets too ridiculous.

See, a bunch of people that don't actually give a flying fuck about anything that goes on in the country that doesn't direclty involve their acquisition of as many blowjobs and fancy cars as possible (two things that I, myself, am very adamant about as well), decided that they weren't going to allow people to burn the flag anymore.

To these people (the same ones who actually believe the Pope has magical powers and that John Edwards talks to dead people), if somebody burns the flag, then they feel like that actually, somehow makes less of the United States. I don't want to get all preachy and shit, but that's what makes America good, you fucking douche bags. The fact that people can openly protest the management of the country in which they live and not face any penalties for it as long as it is done without causing harm to anybody else is why America is what it is. Once some goddamn red staters decide that "Every time a flag burns an angel gets raped by a cheese grater," so they're not going to allow it anymore, is the point when America is no longer actually standing for what it should (free porn on the internet and Brownie Batter Blizzards from Dairy Queen).

Once again, I'm coming off like the filthy left-winger that I am, but I can't believe that people in Congress and the Senate actually think that it's about time we stopped allowing people to burn the flag. Because we all know that burning the flag is the gateway drug into burning harder things like American flag t-shirts, bandanas, toilet seat covers, band-aids, and vibrators.

I'm not going to head out and start burning any flags, but what these idiots don't understand is that the flag is merely a symbol. I mean, when you break it down, they're just burning cloth, kevlar, or a sheet of circumsized Jewish baby foreskin, or whatever flags are made from. It's a goddamn metaphor, you retards. They're not flying planes into the White House or wearing explosive British Knights on a flight; they're operating on the same fucking level as Alice in Wonderland.

The simple idea that people are saying that it has a good chance of passing this time (though, hopefully, it will get shot down by the Supreme Court again), shows just how much I have no idea what actually goes on in the minds of a majority of Americans. The Wal-Mart robots of the Red States have control of America right now and it's scary. People who believe that the universe was created by magic are in control of the most powerful nation in the world.

Suck on that one, logic!

Interesting thought of the day:
Autoerotic asphyxiation is a good first and last line for a haiku.

Short and Sweet!

Just like a Vietnam War amputee made out of candy!

Today I decided that if I ever start to drink alcohol, the only way I'm going to drink is by sucking the alcohol from Wetnaps.

My Brain is Broken!

This morning I woke up early (for me) and couldn't get back to sleep because my mind wouldn't stop going. What was on my mind, you ask? The sad part about what I'm going to write is that it is all 100% true.

I couldn't think of the mom's name from "Who's the Boss?". I don't know why I woke up with "Who's the Boss?" on the brain, but I did. I'm going over the names in my head: Tony, Jonathan, Samantha, Mona, _____ . I even get a mental running start by saying the names really fast in my head, and I get nothing.

Then I thought, well, maybe if I remember their last name, that will trigger the first name. Tony's last name is, umm, Micelli. Jonathan's is going to be the same as the mom. His last name is...Bower. That's it. Jonathan Bower. That would make the mom named _____ . I still have nothing.

Having the world's most gay-ass case of OCD on earth, I can't just let it go. I go through each letter of the alphabet. Normally this works for me; not this time. Finally I commit myself to getting up (which means I won't be getting back to sleep this morning) and turning on my computer so I can check it on imdb. As I stand up, my mind yells out, "Angela!"

Fuck you, brain. Who's the boss now, bitch?

I'm not sure what's worse, the fact that I had to know this completely trivial fact so much that I was willing to forego more sleep, or the fact that I can actually name all of the main characters from "Who's the Boss?," including last names, from a dead sleep.

Either way, I'm sure tomorrow morning I'll wake up to naming all the kids from "Just the Ten of Us" in descending order by age.

Interesting thought of the day:
A breakfast burrito is what I call it when I drape my flaccid wiener on my girlfriend's* mouth while she's asleep.

*a magazine cut-out of David Gest

Tom Ka-ruise! (Because He's Ka-razy With a Capital K)

In the endless publicity machine that is Tom Cruise's life, recently some cracks have begun to show in the heretofore seemingly "normal" exterior. A year ago I wrote about Scientology and some of the things that they believe in that makes them all crazy. It turns out that I wasn't being sarcastic like I originally thought, but, instead, it turns out that I'm a prophet sent to warn the world about the impending battle coming. That's right, a battle between good and evil, Jesus and L. Ron Hubbard, Mel Gibson and Tom Cruise. This will be so epic that some may call it a War of the Worlds.

Motherfucker.

He did it to me, too.

VERSUS

That's going to make a kick-ass movie. The Passion of the Samurai. No. The Tim Man (By the way, I haven't seen Tim, but I'll bet that it's ten kinds of awesome). No. Signs on a Wire. No, that's two Mel Gibson movies; that doesn't work. Minority Weapon. No, sorry, that's not a movie, it's a sharpened toothbrush. Whatever.

Recently, though, things have escalated between these two . Apparently, Mel Gibson thought that scientologists operated on the same level as vampires and the girl who stabbed her vagina with a crucifix in that one Disney movie, and had Tom Cruise doused in holy water at the War of the Worlds Australian premiere (Mel's homeland--coincidence? I think not--or it is!). Luckily for him, Tom Cruise has given the Church of Scientology $2,000,000 this year, barely edging his way into the Platinum Package that ensures his protection from "holy water, the heeby-jeebies, and the stink eye."

Geraldo Rivera's mustache tells me that Cruise's underlings, Jenna Elfman and John Travolta, are planning to counterattack by making sequels to both Krippendorf's Tribe and Lucky Numbers and releasing them on the same weekend as Gibson's next film. This box office poison has been employed before when Elfman's Looney Tunes: Back in Action managed to scare crowds away from the theaters and even killed 13 Christians.

Interesting thought of the day:
One time, Webster walked in on Punky Brewster while she was having a three way with Wesley from "Mr. Belvedere" and Vicki from "Small Wonder."

Non-stop Stopping!

Well, if you haven't noticed, I haven't written for two days. I'm going to excuse myself, though, because I've been moving. And since I've forgiven myself, you should, too. But, to make up for it, this one will be kind of big. It's like that double issue of "Shiteaters Monthly" that they do at the end of the year.

I went to a birthday party for a friend last night. As with lots of parties, people have their cameras out in full force (like me and my baby-maker in an elementary school girl's bathroom). Inevitably, I get handed a couple of cameras and asked to take pictures. There's something that always annoys me when I get handed a camera:

"You just push that big button up there."

Really? So that's how you work one of these. I got one of these for Christmas a couple of years ago and haven't been able to use it because I've been completely stumped by it, so I just decorated it with my Bedazzler and forgot about it. I tried chewing on it, saying, "Camera, capture this occasion now!", and pouring milk inside of it (somebody told me that that's what cameras--robots from the future--use for batteries), yet nothing worked.

All I had to do was push the big button on the top of the camera in order for it to take a picture. Who knew?

Next time somebody's over at my house and asks to use the restroom, I'll make sure I let them know that they should aim their excrement into the watery hole in the harshly-lit room on the left and, when they're done, use the pre-supplied soft tissue paper to clean the area from whence the aforementioned human waste came, throw that paper into the porcelain pond, and, finally, push the handle down to evacuate their business.

Once I learned how to operate the camera, I just needed to learn exactly how to know what I was taking a picture of--perhaps there was something I could look through.

Baby steps.

I respond to reader's questions:
Anonymous writes:

Having read how annoyed you are by idiots on the radio, I had an epiphany (sp?). Radio could be a really good career for you. You are quick witted and always have a funny story to tell, and as they say... "you have a face for radio!" But seriously, have you ever considered it? I think you would be really good at it!

First, whoever you are, you spelled epiphany right and, for that, I'd thoroughly enjoy bumping uglies with you be you man or woman. I appreciate the compliment about me being "quick-witted," but, I'll have you know that these entries take me roughly four weeks to finish (well, from concept to first draft, second, third, and final). Unless, of course, you know me in real life and you're saying this from your experience with me there (because we all know the internet isn't "real life," this is where I get to come and pretend I'm a grown man who doesn't have a problem controlling his erections at inappropriate times). In that case, I'll have you know that everything I ever say and do has been thought out by a team of people I've assembled in a Voltron-like fashion to assist me in trying to divert the attention from my "face for radio." Jerk. Well...you have...a...face for...stupid...face. Sorry to be so harsh; let's just call a truce.

And, second, I would love to do radio. I haven't really tried to get into it that much because that takes some effort; I wouldn't know where to start. I did contact a guy at the talk radio station I mentioned before who does a show during the day and I sent him some stuff I wrote and told him I needed a job. He said he thought my stuff was funny and may get me a job, but that was over a year ago now; two more years and I'm going to start thinking he forgot.

Interesting thought of the day:
Bologna is the meat equivalent of that drink that bartenders make that's composed of all the runoff from the rest of the alcohol throughout the night.

Outlook Not So Good!

I listen to a lot of talk radio. There are many reasons for this, the foremost of which is I'm a huge nerd (Beauty & The Geek's Richard kind of nerd).

Anyway, there's this one show that's on late night on the local FM Talk station called, simply, the John & Jeff Show. Coincidentally, the two hosts are named John & Jeff (except the guy known on-air as Jeff is actually named John and vice versa--they took this show over).

Suffice to say, it's a horrible, horrible show. The guys who host it are just idiots. An example of their idiocy is during their pre-recorded opening they say such hack things as "ugly people should not have kids."

Sometimes, however, people even more retarded than they are call in. Their show doesn't really have a format; people just call in and talk about whatever they want. They have a "Magic 8 Ball" that people can call in and ask a question. So, one guy calls in and, while this is a written medium and I cannot recreate his voice, just imagine if Napoleon Dynamite was hit in the cerebellum with a miner's pick.

This is basically how it went down:

Yes, I'd like to ask the Magic 8 Ball a question please. I have recently joined a basketball team in my local area and I was wondering if you could tell me if we're going to win our first game.

The 8 Ball said "More than likely" or "Balls deep in grandma's snatch" or something; I just know that it implied yes. They hung up on him before I could hear the reaction, but I'm positive that there was a full-on robot chubby going on in his pants as he pumped his fist with glee.

This entire story bothers me on a lot of levels. I hate that the guys that host this show actually get paid for their awful senses of humor and bits from the 1980s. They're like frat guys, who I all wish would die in one huge toga-fueled fire, but they're grown up and they have a radio show. Their goddamn telephone number is 1-800-PARTY-15. Dude, PARTY! Party! Woooooooooo! Spring Break '98!

Now that I've written this, I realize that it doesn't do this story justice. I guess that the essence of the character really comes from his voice and cadence, so if you're really interested in exactly what he sounded like, then you should probably re-evaluate your priorities.

Interesting thought of the day:
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush (and one case of avian flu that will kill 30% of China!).

Action Jackson!

Phil Jackson has decided that, after a year away from the Lakers, he wants to have sweet make-up sex with Kobe Bryant (so awesome that somebody just may get indicted again).

But the situation's a little strange. See, Phil Jackson left the Lakers on bad terms. His relationship with Kobe Bryant was so bad, that he wrote about it in his book (and about how he would never coach Kobe again).

Now things are awkward. It's kind of like when you break up with a girlfriend and tell everybody how much of a skank and whore she is (and how she has a birthmark on her vagina that makes it look like it's got a black eye); then, the next week, you're back together.

In this situation, Kobe has the Mike Tyson vagina and Phil Jackson is you.

Interesting thought of the day:
Pregnant women throw up during their first trimester because they're not used to the amount of semen they've been forced to ingest because their husband was freaked out by the thought of a baby grabbing his penis.

We Did It!

The AIDS odometer has finally flipped here in the U.S. 1 million AIDS victims! Hooray!

Granted, Africa is still miles ahead of us, but it's a step in the right direction if you ask me. I think if we really try, we can pass Africa by 2010. But I think that's only because by then Africa (renamed in 2008 to AIDSville) will have no more people.

In other news: Boners for everybody!

According to the article, Viagra helps decrease pulmonary hypertension in children. I have to disagree. Nothing makes a kid's heart beat faster than a raging erection that just won't go away. Trust me. It makes teachers very uncomfortable, too.

Interesting thought of the day:
I told you Michael Jackson wouldn't be found guilty. Finding him guilty of a crime is like giving a retard the death sentence. Too bad Neverland Ranch isn't in Texas.

Faux Pas! (Not How You Address A Redneck's Father's Day Gift!)

Last night there was a little shindig for my older brother's birthday at ESPN Zone in Downtown Disney. One of his friends who he only sees once every couple of months showed up with his girlfriend. This girlfriend has an obvious physical characteristic that one wouldn't want to accidentally bring up because it could make others uncomfortable.

Needless to say, one of his friends, while making a joke about how the menu had changed so much since my brother had worked there, accidentally did. It was glorious, and the line went a little something like this:

"It's way different, huh, James? You're looking at it all crosseyed."

ZING!

I tense up for a second and shoot a glance at Ms. Sammy Davis, Jr. sitting on the other end of the table and look away before both of her eyes have time to catch me.

And, of course, as soon as they leave, I make it a point to tell my brother's friend the absolutely wonderful mistake he had made.

It's not like you can't notice her eye. You can see that it's on a lunch break from across the room. And you know she had to notice him saying it. It's like if you had something about you that made you different--like bear claws instead of human hands--if somebody made a comment about a delicious pastry that they would enjoy for breakfast, you would notice it and wonder if they said it because of your grizzly mitts.

It reminded me of this one time a few years ago when I was in Vegas. I was standing back and watching a few friends play blackjack (because I'm cheap in Vegas and spend about eight bucks a day), and they were getting killed. This tiny Asian chick was pulling five-card 21s, blackjacks, whatever. Finally, she lost and, in my excitement, I yelled out, "Oooh, a chink in the armor!"

Right after that, she pulled out a sword, made me some tea, ate a dog, got into a car accident, and did my homework. I felt like such an idiot, and I don't even know if she caught it, but I think she did when she went out to her car and found the word "Chink" scrawled on it in Sweet & Sour sauce.

See, I accidentally made an insensitive racial remark, but I hate making accidents, so, instead, I wanted to convince her that I really meant it.

Interesting thought of the day:
Princess Di fought against land mines, but only to save face after she thought she was leading the charge against bland mimes and didn't want to feel embarrassed by dropping the cause when she found out what it really was.

Quick and Dirty!

I don't have much time to write today, so I'm just going to relay a note that I wrote on my desk.

People who pronounce the 'h' in herbs are omos.

Poker? I Hardly Know Her! (Besides, She's Not Dead Yet!)

When I started my one-month, non-stop Blogtastic Blogapalooza, or BlogGate, or whatever, I said that the reason I had stopped writing was because I was busy playing online poker.

Well, I started playing again and told myself that I could as long as I kept up my writing. So, last night I played in a 343 person $11 tournament (plus rebuys--those that know poker, know what I'm talking about, those that don't, don't worry about it). I ended up getting third place without rebuying once. I won $1500.

The exchange rate from U.S. Dollars (USD) to Unemployed Dollars (UD) means I won roughly a million dollars.

So I've been looking around at houses and I've already bought a Lamborghini (I know nothing about cars except when I was a kid I either wanted a Lamborghini or the Delorean from Back to the Future). I have paid off all of my family's bills and I bought the moon*.

*Lunch!

Anyway, I was thinking about Ancient Rome and I was wondering how tough it would be to have a fake ID there.

Bouncer: So this is you, huh? When's your birthday?

Tiberius: September X-I-V, umm, C-C-C-L-X-X-X-X, wait, III Xs, not IV Xs. Wait. Okay, let me start over.

Bouncer: Well, how about your address.

And, scene.

Interesting thought of the day:
Molestation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Where's the Beef?

I'll tell you where: in lockdown, bitch!

Police in Nigeria arrested a cow after it killed a bus driver who was peeing on the side of the road.

First, Nigeria really needs to change its name. It's one 'G' away from getting its ass kicked by Ghana and the Sudan.

Second, it's a cow! If you get killed by a cow, then you deserve to die. This includes the people who do the running of the bulls and rodeo things. It's a big-ass animal and, while it's probably pretty powerful, it's not like a cheetah that can sneak up on you; you can see a cow coming from a long ways away.

Finally, if a cow does manage to kill somebody because it's gone crazy with a fever, and the only cure is more cowbell, then just go ahead and kill it. Don't arrest something that, if you kill it instead, it can be delicious. This is why I hope after Michael Jackson is convicted (he won't be), they kill him instead because he probably tastes just like cotton candy covered in pounds of semenless boy ejaculate.

I'm going to start an all-boy dance troupe called Semenless Boy Ejaculate.

Interesting thought of the day:
The Passion of the Christ is one of the most historically inaccurate films ever made. A lot of people don't realize that Jesus wasn't even crucified. Instead, he just got really drunk one night and everybody wrote on him while he was passed out. See what 2,000 years does to skew a story?

It's Raining Men!

A Long Island Special Education teacher found an unpleasant surprise yesterday morning when she looked into her backyard and saw a human leg. Apparently she heard a loud bang as the leg slammed into her roof after plummetting from the wheelwell of a South African Airlines jet where, presumably, a stowaway was trying to hitch a ride.

Authorities assured the woman that it fell in her backyard because "she is doing the Devil's work by teaching them retards to read and talk."

From the article:

"I guess it was some poor soul who dreamed to look for his freedom," [the lady who found the body] said. "I'm hoping he wasn't in much pain."

Yeah. Having your body ripped apart at 30,000 feet is equal to a tummy ache in the pain department.

If he really wanted to get out of Africa, he should have come over by ship like all the rest. That worked out well for them.

Interesting thought of the day:
I cheat at CandyLand with color blind children. "It's not red, it's green, bitch! Now get your mommy to change your diaper because your shit stink is giving me a headache. Damn."

Were You Not Entertained?

Russell Crowe, mostly known for his now-defunct band 30 Odd Foot of Grunts (and I didn't even have to look this up), and somewhat known for his acting career, was arrested the other day for throwing a phone at some motherfucker who got all up in Maximus' Maximus's his face.

I have a lot of questions about this situation:

1. Why doesn't Russell Crowe have a cell phone?
2. Why is this concierge guy even messing with Russell Crowe?
3. Was the phone one of those old-timey ones where you hold the one thing up to your ear and you have to talk into the phallus sticking out from the box and say things like "Guv'na" and "Tally ho"?
4. Do you think I could beat up Russell Crowe if I tried really hard?
5. Shouldn't Russell Crowe have just urinated on the concierge and told him, "Don't you know I'm a celebrity? Technical problems don't happen to celebrities."
6. Is throwing a phone at somebody's face Australian for beer?
7. Why does Russell Crowe's $3000 a night hotel room think that it's better than me?
8. Do you think getting hit in the face by a telephone thrown by a celebrity hurts more or less than it happening from a mere mortal?
9. Do you think that if the concierge guy was the Last Dragon he would have caught the phone with his teeth?
10. (Follow-up) If the concierge guy was the Last Dragon, did he move-a his feets-a to Daddy Green's Pizza (or, alternatively, was he like hot melted butter all over my body)?
11. How tall is Russell Crowe (the only unit of measurement I use is in terms of how many Oreos high something is)?
12. Do you think that if Evie from "Out of This World" was there, she could have reacted quickly enough to stop time before the phone hit the concierge in the face?
13. Would she have wanted to? (I heard that that guy is a dick and totally deserved it)
14. Does it also bother you that the television show "Punk'd" uses an apostrophe in its name instead of spelling the whole world out?
15. If Russell Crowe threw a phone at 40 miles per hour, and the concierge threw one at 25 miles per hour and they were standing 20 miles apart, how far away from Russell Crowe would the two telephones collide? (Show your work)

Please answer some or all of the questions in the comment section below. I will be grading these and those that fail I will humiliate in front of the class.

Interesting thought of the day:
No matter what your parents say, being the harp player in the marching band is never cool unless you always wear a leather jacket and have your smokes rolled up in your sleeve.

No Wonder the Globetrotters Were on Gilligan's Island!

I'm not a very tall man. I'm 5'9" on a good day. But at least I know that I'll probably live to be pretty old. Tall people, on the other hand, all must die in basketball accidents, from falling when somebody asked them to reach something, or from state-mandated execution for murder when they finally tire of being asked "Do you play basketball?" or "Can you get that down for me?" because you hardly ever see tall old people.

And when you do see a tall old person, it's almost like seeing a witch. You get a weird feeling in your stomach and you know that, as soon as possible, you have to burn them at the stake or stone them to death (with stones!). In fact, Shaquille O'Neal is an eighth level sorcerer in the black arts (or, maybe I'm making a racist joke about rap).

With the recent "death" of basketball legend George Mikan, it has become obvious to me that tall people don't actually die, but, instead, they are sent to an island where they have to play basketball against robots made of coconuts for eternity.

Interesting thought of the day:
The least popular of all flavored jellies is Smucker's DNA Delight composed entirely of a cornucopia of semen from ethnicities from around the world.

Like a Fat Girl Drinking a Diet Coke!

There are certain things in this world that you always see. The title of this article, for example, is something that's unavoidable. If you see a fat girl drinking something, you've got an 83% chance of it being a Diet Coke (7% chance of it being a shake, 10% pure melted butter--these are the ones that know they're not fooling anybody).

Another thing I always see and it bugs me more than I can possibly describe in words, heiroglyphics, or my award-winning mime act, is the girl driving the Volkswagon Jetta with her High School Graduation tassle hanging from the rear view mirror, slightly covered by the Community College parking pass for the school that she's attending until she gets her clothing line off the ground. She's the same girl who has the Tinkerbell sticker on her back window and the license plate frame that references something about being a princess ("I'm the Princess, that's why!" or "Daddy's Little Princess" or "Princess on Board" or "DVDA Princess"). She giggles a lot and right now she's seeing this guy who is "totally hot" because he wears bracelets with studs on them and he dyes his hair jet black. She has definitely shown her boobs to other people while she was drunk and she will make out with another chick if enough guys are watching. She is pretty sure that she's the best looking one of her friends but she would never admit it outright. Instead, she buys the same outfit that one of her friends has and tells that friend how many compliments she got while wearing it. "Oh, I didn't know you had this same thing. Weird!" She says slapping her friend on the arm.

Touche, annoying girl. Touche.

Interesting thought of the day:
People who fall under the Astrological sign Cancer, have a higher chance of getting cancer than those who fall under any other sign. Also, those who believe in Astrology have a 100% chance of being complete fucking idiots.

Hack And Splash!

Earlier this week, a girl diagnosed with "mermaid syndrome" had her legs separated from one another by doctors with the help of a singing lobster and a Sea Witch.

Doctors have overstepped their bounds now. Just because something doesn't look like what you're used to, that's no reason to make it conform.

How do you think unicorns became extinct? All of the medieval people who were busy fighting dragons, wizards, and their insatiable thirst for incest removed their horns because they thought that these horses had unicorn syndrome (not knowing what magic and wonders unicorns were capable of--like the ability to figure out if your son was gay)! The same thing happened to centaurs and Robocop.

Interesting thought of the day:
In an emergency, a Mexican person's blood can double as hot sauce.

Hit Me Baby One More Time (Then Pee in My Butt)!

In an effort to completely gross out every person who ever thought she was attractive, Britney Spears has announced via syphillis-infected carrier pigeon or whatever, that she thinks that her pregnant sex is best.

For a while, Christina Aguilera held the crown of the skankiest of the pop singers (it's an actual crown given out by the tabloids fashioned out of used condoms, cans of Miller High Life, and aborted fetuses), but ever since Britney Spears hooked up with somebody else's baby's daddy, she has fast become that girl that you all knew in school who you heard banged the entire football team in one session just to see if she could do it without her vagina exploding.

By the way, if I wasn't supposed to keep my tingly arm straight as much as possible, I would Photoshop a picture of that crown on Britney Spears' head. So if somebody else wants to do that, feel free.

Speaking of my tingly fingers, it's doing better today, but it wasn't this morning around 4 a.m. I woke up and my left palm, pinky, and half of my ring finger were tingling up a storm (Tingling up a Storm was Milli Vanilli's follow-up to Blame It On the Rain after their lip-synching fiasco). I was so freaked out by it, I got up from bed, turned on my computer and wanted to make sure I didn't have prostate cancer or anything like that. So, after I took the computer out of my ass after having it check my prostate, I went to google and learned that it's just a compressed nerve in my elbow. My funny bone is sitting weird right now and that's why I need to keep my arm straight, so that it falls back in place. If these entries haven't been funny, now you know why (because I'm not funny!).

On a lighter note, it turns out that "In Many Parts of the World, AIDS Is Winning." This is good news for fans of AIDS. The San Antonio Spurs are expected to face off against AIDS in the NBA Finals beginning next Friday.

Interesting thought of the day:
Condoleeza Rice has taken it upon herself to put an end to the war between Coke and Pepsi. Shasta, upon hearing this, has sanctioned the use of suicide bombers to ensure this doesn't happen.

The One Month Spectacular!!

Thus begins the non-stop blogathon brought to you by Johnson & Johnson Baby Shampoo and the new gum Splatz! (the only gum with a surprise filling inside every time--it could be watermelon, pudding, or bull jizz!)

It's been a couple of weeks since I've written and I need to stop being so damn lazy. So, as payback, I'm forcing myself to write something here every day for the next month straight. This will go until July 2, not for just four weeks. Four weeks isn't a month; February is like the adopted Korean brother of the rest of the months that they have to treat nice because he was born with one leg on backwards.

Here's some fun news! Starting last night, I started to get this tingling in my pinky and ring finger on my left hand. I looked it up, and it looks like I have some sort of ulna nerve business going on that's contributed to me sitting on my doughy ass all day and playing online poker. So I need to start sitting better or my fingers will tingle themselves to death; tragically, tingled to death is the exact same way that silent film actor Fatty Arbuckle was killed.

Eyeballs McGee was recently fined and sentenced to 120 hours of community service for saying that people kidnapped her when, in reality, she ran away from her own wedding. Her community service will consist of modeling giant novelty sunglasses for the underpriveleged and using her sonar to detect illegal aliens with the Minute Men patrolling the U.S.-Mexico border.

In other news, Denise Richards delivered a baby fathered by soon-to-be-ex-husband Charlie Sheen (known man-about-town). Not surprisingly, it turns out that Denise was not the mother, but, instead, blood tests revealed that it was a prostitute from Santa Ana named Mandii. The 6 pound, 10 ounce baby girl, Emilia is doing fine and is expected to take on a different last name from father and sister, Sam, in order to pursue a career based on her own merits.

Interesting thought of the day:
In the Catholic Religion, Saint Bernard is the Patron Saint of beastiality.