Maya Sharona!

Mel Gibson's recently held some sort of a something where he talked about the new film he's working on that's about an Ancient Mayan civilization. Whatever. I just like how crazy he looks.

So, I spent much too long in Photoshop for a mediocre mock-up of what I hope his new film will be.

And the following picture is a completely undoctored picture where I'm assuming he's discussing how he plans on rallying his Christian extremist troops to finally "kill all the Jews for what they did to Daddy Jesus."By the way, you guys like the new site description uptop? I ask because I'm an attention whore.

A Tell-Tale Three-Disc Changer!

I'm going to kill myself. Since the music from some party stopped last night, there has been a constant thumping going at about 180 beats per minute. I went outside and you can't hear it there. I can only hear it in my bedroom in my apartment. But it seems like it's coming from the apartment below me.

It's like goddamn Chinese water torture, but without all the fucking fun that that brings along with it. I had an awful night of sleep and now, as I sit here trying to write and think of anything but that goddamn thumping, I can't. I feel like it's still too early (at 10 a.m. I'll go) to go and try to say anything.

Do they not hear it? Am I going fucking insane? But if I was going insane, I'd be able to hear it everywhere I went and not just in my room. Specifically, when I put my ear to the floor (yes, I did this) is when it's at its loudest. It sounds like maybe a CD player is skipping on the same one beat over and over and over and over again.

Maybe it's how Jesus has decided to reprimand me for Halloween. I think I'm just going to go and knock on the door right now and see if anybody is there. Yeah. That's what I'll do.

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump...

Edit 1 (9:45): Well, I went down there, knocked on the door and rang the doorbell. Nobody's home. I flagged down one of the guys who drives around the complex on a golf cart and asked him if there was anything he could do about it. He just said to call the office. So, I did. The girl on the line said she'd send somebody in maintenance over to check it out.

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump...

Edit 2(10:40): It's still there. The maintenance people probably came to check it out, but when they couldn't hear anything from outside, they just left. I'm telling you. I hear it. It's constant. Thump. Thump. Thump. It's like I'm living inside the chest of a hummingbird with high blood pressure. I'm going to pull up the floorboards of this motherfucker and find out what the hell is going on down there.

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump...

Edit 3 (11:20): I just talked to one of my neighbors and she says that the people who live below me moved out last night. Fucking wonderful! But she snooped around and looked through their windows and says that's it's probably their CD player skipping.

Oh my god!

It stopped. Just now. As I was typing this. It stopped. Oh sweet release. The world--it sounds so...alive! I can hear my own thoughts again. Am I dead? I'm dead, aren't I? I have to be. Everything is so glorious. My body is so warm. Never mind. I wet myself. Apparently that thumping was playing the brown note over and over again. I'm up to my calves in a sea of feces and urine--kind of like playing in the ball room at Chuck E. Cheese. I was unable to notice it all before because the brown note only lets you see what it wants you to. It's the sonic equivalent to when a cartoon character is really hungry and sees another character as a giant, steaming chicken leg.

I honestly was worried that it would never stop. It would turn out to be something within the walls of the fucking apartment that they would have had to bust open to find. Then, when they finally found what was making the noise, it was actually an alien baby carrying a virus that would wipe out all of human existence. Everybody but me because I'm immune to it.

Fucking Halloween.

Math problem of the day:
If that thump was going on since about 11 o'clock last night and it stopped at roughly 11 o'clock this morning, if it was going at 180 beats per minute, assuming I heard every single thump, how many times did I hear it?

No looking in the back of the book for the answer. This is an even-numbered question anyway.

Highlight below area for answer.
You're a huge nerd.

Step By Step Guide: How to Be Awesome For Halloween!

Don't have any ideas about what to dress up as for Halloween? Let me help you.

1. Buy a sheet (from Target).
2. Cut eyeholes in said sheet (probably not like pictured).
3. You're not done yet.
4. Place nametag on sheet that reads: "Hello...My Name is Ghost"
5. Make very sure that what will be beneath the sheet is awesome (exactly like pictured).
6. Place sheet over head.
7. Fight off the vagina with a stick.

So I went to a Halloween party last night dressed as this. It wasn't as rousing a success as I'd have liked it to be, but the people that I actually cared about liking it did and everybody else can lick my translucent ghost cock.

It was a fairly large party and there were so many Asians there. I have a soft spot in my heart for Asian girls, especially Asian girls dressed as hoochies for Halloween. And, apparently, they all got this memo because tons of them dressed whorish. I later referred to it as a "Category 5 Bootycane" that was heading straight for me.

In fact, to better demonstrate my point, I have created a Venn diagram:While I was at the party, I perfected my new pick-up line: "Girl, I picture us getting you an abortion in the very near future."

It worked on those Asian girls better than a ground-up rhino penis latte.

Some people there had some good costumes, but there was a guy that I wanted to run over with my truck until he stopped being alive. He was a white guy and I guess he was supposed to be Rick James because he kept quoting that Dave Chapelle skit saying, "I'm Rick James, bitch." He's exactly the reason I hate people. That saying was funny the first time I saw it on the show and that's it. For the past two years people have been quoting that like they're the fucking first ones to do it. Like they're a part of some magical get-funny-quick club and all it takes is to say those four mystical words and, instantly, you're not a douche bag frat boy anymore. The more he was saying it, the more my fury grew until I decided to play on his level. I walked up to him and said, "What did the five fingers say to the face?" Then I stabbed him in the throat with my rusty boxcutter.

Two of those girls I wrote about from the previous party showed up to this party and I was never happier to have my entire head covered. Lucky for me, they weren't there for long, but, as they were leaving, one of them came up to me and said, "Nice costume, Kurt." I think this was her way of saying, "Fuck you for not saying hi to me." Then I made the mistake of trying to be nice to one of them when she asked if I remembered her name (which I did--and I made it a point to tell them at the party before that I'm really bad at remembering names--this isn't exactly true, I'm just bad at remembering names of people I don't give a fuck about). I could swear that, as soon as I said her name to her, I could actually hear the vaginal floodgates swing wide open as an avalanche of lady juice spilled forth into her granny panties. She then proceeded to talk to me for a couple more minutes, but I decided I would make it really awkward and just give one-word responses followed by lots of uncomfortable silence.

Don't get me wrong, that last paragraph comes across as though I believe I'm just the dog's tiara (kind of like being the cat's pajamas). I don't believe this at all. But, when confronted with evidence to the contrary, sometimes I like to run with it.

I wound up removing the ole ghost costume a couple of hours into it because the spot I had taken to hanging out in was literally by a blazing fire and I was afraid that, with my limited visibility, I would catch on fire and end up in the "Extreme Videos" section of ebaumsworld by the next morning.

I was going to end this, but let me relay to you what a moron I am.

Ghost costume. Sounds easy to make, right? Not if you're of Forrest Gump mental capacity like myself. I grabbed the sheet and threw it over my head then, for some reason, like a mirror would help even though I couldn't see, I went into the bathroom with a pen in my hand. I stand, facing the mirror mind you, with pen in hand and begin sort of mapping out where my eyeballs are by actually writing on the sheet using the inside of my eyesockets as the template. Without second guessing what a huge lump of near-vegetable-status brain matter I have working for me, I remove the sheet and start to cut. "Easy enough, I think.

Not even close.

The holes that I cut were so far apart they wouldn't even have worked for Rocky Dennis. I had to staple the sheet together four times in order to bring them back into somewhat of an alignment. Surprisingly, I didn't staple my hand to the sheet in this process. I'm worse at tailoring than an army of Thalidomide-tainted babies.

Interesting thought of the day:
If you're a gay man and you want to tell your parents this, it's probably not best to come out to your parents by introducing your boyfriend, Trevor, as your "sodomy pal."

Brooke Shields "Plans to Hate Second Child More Than the First!"

Never one to rest on her laurels, Brooke Shields has announced that she is pregnant again and, in an effort to top her post-partum fueled fury from her previous pregnancy (alliteration is having a fucking field day in this sentence--and in this parenthetical), she is planning on naming her child "Motherfucking Cocksucking Piece of Shit Romijn-Stamos".

She drew the ire of well-known bag of crazy Tom Cruise when she announced that she used medication to level out her mental state while suffering from post-partum depression. I famously sided with Tom Cruise in this matter because somebody as level-headed to believe that a million people were strapped inside volcanoes and blown up with an atomic bomb by an alien overlord is somebody who probably knows a thing or two about medicine for the brain. That guy only needs one medicine for his mental state and it's two parts titty, one part vagina.

"I'll fuck her right in front of you, Oprah. I'll do it because I love her so much!"

This picture is an actual photo taken at a shoot shortly after the birth of her first child. Rumor has it that she plans to keep this next baby inside her vagina for two years until she's over the post-partum depression. She says that she'll occasionally let it pop its head out for air and to watch The Blue Lagoon on DVD, but that's it.

Interesting thought of the day:
Before the invention of balloons, clowns had to entertain children at parties by tying links of ox sausage into various shapes. This is where the saying, "Like the scent of ox intestine on a clown" comes from.

This Just In: Cake Is Delicious!

In an interview that would have only shocked the same people who were surprised to find out that Rosie O'Donnel and Ellen Degeneres were gay, a WNBA player, Sheryl Swoopes, has "finally" come out of the closet. Isn't being in the WNBA declaration enough? Do you actually need to come out and say it.

There are a lot of things in this world that go without saying: If you're in the WNBA or LPGA, you're probably a carpet-muncher. A sneeze at the AIDS walk is paid a lot more attention to than a sneeze at a different venue. And all midgets love to be picked up and passed around like the Stanley Cup.

She said she has no idea how the announcement is going to affect her future in the WNBA. Well, I'll take a stab at it. Nobody gave a fuck before, but now, now that it's confirmed that she's a bonafide roast beef wrangler, nobody gives a fuck.

People aren't going to finally watch a WNBA game because they think there's a slight possibility that Sheryl Swoopes is going to mouth-rape a girl on the other team. That's a technical foul; it was made a rule as a result of the forced oral copulation that "Pistol" Pete Marovich practiced in the NBA and the ruleset just carried over.

Interesting thought of the day:
An unreturned "high five" is grounds for a duel and has been since Jonas Salk, upon first producing the Polio vaccine, was "left hanging" by his lab assistant in 1952.

I Hate Comics 4!

My Resumé!

It's a wonder I don't have a job. So, I applied for this freelance gig I saw on craigslist where they wanted ideas for online commercials for their online casino and this is what I sent.
INT. STUDY - NIGHT

A MAN (30s) sits at his computer with the poker software
running. He loses.

A close-up on the screen shows his account balance at $0.

LOSER
That was just unlucky.

FADE OUT.

INT. STUDY - NIGHT

The man sits at his computer the next night. The door opens,
a WOMAN (30s) peeks her head in.

WIFE
Honey, do you know what happened to
that painting? You know, the one
your parents got us when we got
married and has hung over our
fireplace for the past ten years?

LOSER
(distracted)
What? Oh, it's not there anymore?

She pulls out a piece of paper with a hand-drawn picture of a
man standing in front of a house.

WIFE
This was hanging in its place.

The man squints at the picture.

LOSER
That's not it? You sure?

She crosses her arms.

LOSER (cont'd)
It's a professional-quality forgery
then.

She closes the door.

He loses again. The account balance is back to $0.

FADE OUT.

INT. STUDY - NIGHT

He sits at the computer playing. He's losing.

His wife enters in a huff. Their daughter (7) enters holding
her mother's hand.

WIFE
Honey, quick. Somebody's driving
off with our car.

LOSER
Nothing to worry about, Sweetheart.
I sold the car. You know, because
gas is so expensive and because of
my love for Mother Nature. Instead,
I got us all bikes.
(to his daughter)
Isn't that exciting, Jenny? A new
bicycle! Awesome! Who's the best
dad in the world?

JENNY
My tummy hurts.

She holds up three fingers.

JENNY (cont'd)
I haven't eaten in this many days.

WIFE
Yeah, Jim. There's no food in the
house and all my money was stolen
at work. Well, I thought it
happened at work.

LOSER
Relax. Everything will be fine.
We're just a little short on money.
It'll turn around.

The door closes. His account balance reads $0.

FADE OUT.

BLACK SCREEN

Text: (Online Casino Name and/or Logo)

VOICEOVER
(Online Casino Name). Hey, maybe
you're playing against this guy.

INT. STUDY - NIGHT

The man sits at his computer playing. His wife bursts in the
room.

WIFE
(distraught)
Oh my God. Honey, where's Jenny?

FADE OUT.

That's solid, baby! What company wouldn't want to hire me to write for them? Granted, this is along the lines of "viral marketing," but still, I think it's pretty okay.

Interesting thought of the day:
"Los Locos kick your ass. Los Locos kick your face. Los Locos kick your balls into outer spaaaaaaace." If you don't know what that's from, then you better not consider yourself a connoisseur of fine cinema.

I Am the King of Halloween!

Before I get to why I completely and totally rule All Hallow's Eve, I have to get really nerdy for a second.

Serenity is an awesome movie. It's kind of like cowboys in space, but not the Brokeback Mountain kind of cowboys. It takes place in the future, but people carry around old-school style guns and shit. At some points the writing was a little cheesy, but, for the most part, it was like watching puppies dipped in chocolate sitting on top of a rainbow.

Now, on to business.

I went to a Halloween party over the weekend and I was racking my brain trying to think of a good costume. I had some ideas, but I didn't really have enough time or money to put them together. So, what I did--and feel I kind of got away with--was I just dressed in my regular clothes and put a giant white soccer sock on my arm. Because I was wearing a jacket and the party was outside, I had my hands in my pocket so, upon first glance, it would appear as though I was not in the holiday spirit. But, when confronted and the query was put forth as to what I am supposed to be, I removed my sheathed appendage from my pocket and went, "Ooooohh" in a spooky voice.

"My arm is a ghost! I have a ghost arm. It died of avian bird flu and is back to haunt me."

And people actually laughed and the conversation ended with that. It's called commitment, bitches. If you bring commitment to whatever lackluster, half-ass costume you have, people will actually buy it.

But, this coming Friday and Saturday, I have two different parties to go to. I don't think I'm going to do the ghost arm again because, for one, some of the people at one of the parties will be overlap friends from the one I've already attended and the charm of "ghost arm" will be lost on them. Instead, I'm going to heed my friend Ryan's advice and go as a ghost.

Yep. A white sheet with holes cut out for the eyes. Who the hell actually goes out as a ghost? Me, motherfuckers. Me.

The only thing that's going to suck about wearing a sheet over my head the whole time is that I'm probably going to get kind of hot and all the ladies at the parties will not know the glorious wonder that lurks beneath the 300 thread count costume (I have no idea what a "good" thread count is or if 300 even exists, so, if it's wrong, blow me).

Speaking of women, I was lucky enough at the party last night to catch the eye of half a softball team of ladies who the hostess of the party told me thought I was "cute" and wanted to know if I was single (amazingly, at that exact point when they asked, I became not single and, instead, had a girlfriend, Jessica Marie Baker, who couldn't come to the party because she had to work--she works at BJ's where she's been a waitress for almost two years while she finishes up school getting her degree in Psychology--this immediately queued up in my head and was ready to fire at a moment's notice). Granted, it's always flattering to hear that somebody finds me to be something less than an awful beast of a man, but I'll be nice about it and simply say that I was not attracted to any of the ladies in the herd and, therefore, that made it awkward for the rest of the night when I would see them at the party. I guess I kind of exacerbated the awkwardness when I would point at them and yell out, "SHE LIKES ME! YUCK! COOTIES!" Then I would start masturbating in front of them interrupted intermittently by me pointing at them, pointing at my wiener, then sternly shaking my head 'no.'

I'm pretty sure that at some point, because I'm such a jerk, somebody's going to get a hold of the AIDS virus and inject it straight into my urethra.

One other thing about the party. There was a guy who--and I can't stress this enough--was NOT wearing any sort of a costume, yet he was the most awesome guy there. This guy was a Cops episode from the late 80s in the flesh. He was sporting a picture-perfect mullet. He was wearing one like it never crossed his mind that it could possibly be the worst hairstyle in history. I was only able to get one picture that is semi-decent and it's him walking away. You can't see the business in the front, only the party in the back, but, trust me, he's all fucking business from the 12 o'clock.

I had a few other ideas of costumes I wanted to do, but either pride of lack of effort/funds was the reason they didn't come to fruition. My favorite idea was to go as Britney Spears' baby and carry around a baby bottle in a brown paper bag. But I didn't know where to get a "onesy" from that would convey the fact that I was supposed to be a baby.

I also thought that I could be Hurricane Katrina and just have a bunch of black people following me around crying, but I thought that may be a little insensitive. My friend Robert suggested to go as FEMA and just wear a suit and walk around flipping everybody off. It's a good idea, but I don't have a suit--or hands (they're both ghosts!).

New word of the day:
Gorgy (gôr'j?)
n., pl -gies

1. Many people fornicating in a group setting all while eating tons of bad food (i.e. very greasy fried chicken): Hey, look! A gorgy.

Horoscopes I Want To See!

As you regular readers may know, I'm sort of a skeptic when it comes to anything that's based on "magic," "blind faith," or "voodoo." Anything I can't see, I don't believe.

Like gravity. Fuck that make-believe shit.

Anyway, so all the stuff like numerology, astrology, and psychics fall under the same New Age label of bullshit to me. It's all as made up as Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise's relationship.

If I was in charge of writing the Horoscope section of the newspaper, though, maybe I'd try a few different things than you normally see.

Virgo

Today isn't the best day to go bow and arrow hunting with your father in the Australian Outback. But, you should go some time soon because he has cancer. That's right. He has throat cancer. Your father, Dave Lewis from Providence, Rhode Island, has throat cancer and he will die on the 25th of December this year. Merry Christmas.

Libra

How about you treat yourself to a special day and go fuck yourself? All day long, you Libra piece of shit.

Leo

Long time no see, jackass. Reading your Horoscope today hoping things will finally look up? Well, they won't. Not like you deserve it anyway. Think I don't know about the incident with the neighbor's son? I know everything. I'm the Horoscope, bitch!

Sagittarius

Two words: The clap.

Taurus

You know that co-worker you have a crush on? Go for it!

Cancer

A very homely co-worker will ask you out today. My bad.

Gemini

I loved you in American Gladiators! Nobody could touch you in Powerball or Assault. Well, until Wesley "Two Scoops" Berry came on the scene and made all the gladiators his bitches. But, you'll always have the pre-Two Scoops era.

Aries

A spaceman from the future will visit you today, but he won't tell you outright that he is from the future because he is on a very covert mission. He will simply say, "Excuse me." That is your cue to answer back with the phrase that will let him know that you know who he is: "I poured ten ounces of maple syrup into my anus. Would you like some pancakes?"

Pisces, Capricorn, Aquarius, and Scorpio

Blow me, blow me, blow me, and blow me.

Interesting thought of the day:
Science conducted an experiment, because that's what Science does, and found out that things, indeed, are.

Giant Baby Put On Trial!

At least I'm assuming that it's a giant bearded baby I see in all the pictures on TV when they're talking about Saddam Hussein appearing in court.
Because there's no way that they would put a grown man in a cage like that unless he was Hannibal Lecter or fucking Magneto.

Maybe that's it. Saddam Hussein is a superhero and that's why they've surrounded him with this barrier; the positively charged ions produced by the fence completely nullify his powers. Or something. One of his highly-noted special powers is making everybody in the world believe he had Weapons of Mass Destruction. It was a goddamn Jedi mind trick.

He's an X-man and a Sith Lord all rolled into one. Motherfucker. No wonder it was so hard to find him. Osama Bin Laden must be like a real-life version of Harry Potter only taller and much less gay then because even Saddam Hussein and all his infinite fucking powers can't find Osama. The Iraqi Wondertwins were on the case, but they couldn't really do much because they both can only transform into sand.

"Wondertwin powers activate. Form of--you guessed it--some fucking dirt."

I can't wait to see what kind of contraption they'll put Osama in if they're ever able to actually put him on trial. I'm hoping it's a replica of the WonderWheel from The Toy that they handcuff him to and just roll him wherever they want him to go.

Interesting thought of the day:
The ever-malleable (and ever-present in this entry) word "fuck" comes from Medieval Times (not "Dinner and Tournament," but the actual time period) when the great wizard Gargamel banished the term "smurf" from his land.

I Hate Comics 3!

Cat-astrophe!

Something terrible happened and now there's another entry up at The House of Spanks. Be careful: It's about to get adorable!

Why Your MySpace Sucks!

For those of you not familiar with myspace.com, it's a place where millions of people from around the world "network" with their friends and future friends in an orgy of bad html and chubby girls wearing cowboy hats.

What myspace has done that has revolutionized the network-of-friends industry is that they have given the user the ability to customize their personal page in basically whatever manner they want. And, apparently, everybody wants to make their web pages look exactly like the internet circa 1997.

Here is my myspace as a comparison to those you're about to see.

1. There's nothing more effective than a big-ass picture as your background that never moves. It makes things so easy-to-read.

Offenders:
This ogre.
Hawaiian cowboys forever!
Even my own friends aren't immune to this!
I think this guy likes cars.
I HEART MIKE JONES! Whoever Mike Jones is.

2. The more friends you have, the better a person that makes you.

Offenders:
This chick.
Another attention whore.
And, the greatest myspace attention whore of all, Dane Cook.

3. You're awesome with your shirt off.

Offenders:
This douche, who captioned his picture, "yeah abs still on point !"
This guy probably constantly has sex because of his awesome physique!
And it's probably with this guy who has eight pictures on his profile and he's only wearing a shirt in two of them.

4. You took a survey? Please, tell me all about it!

Offenders:
This abortion of a page shows you basically every offense I've talked about so far. It's almost beautiful in its hideousness, like Frankenstein's monster.

5. What kind of music do you like? Oh, never mind. I'll find out in a minute because the nine videos and songs on your page are locking up my computer.

Offenders:
Another guy in my own network.
Holy shit! My computer just slapped me in the face for trying to open that page.

Anyway, you get the point. Stop being such gargantuan douche-holes, people. Just because you have 30,000 "e-friends" doesn't mean anybody actually likes you. Your parents were still right; you're useless. Also, I don't give a fuck about your abs, your 400 pictures embedded in your page of that one time you got to meet Jean Claude Van Damme at a Starbucks, or what kind of fucking Care Bear some survey says you are.

Interesting thought of the day:
Asian people see everything in letterbox.

Beethoven Bitchslaps Tupac!

Tired of Tupac Shakur's reputation for releasing records posthumously, Ludwig van Beethoven has decided to strike back. Nearly 200 hundred years after his death, a new 80-page manuscript has been found and will be auctioned. Said Beethoven, "Nyaa narrr nerrr maaaa beeeorrr."

Coincidentally, that's exactly what Peter Mayhew, the actor who played Chewbacca will say when he finally becomes a United States Citizen.

Speaking of old school making a comeback, a bunch of Amish kids in Minnesota are keeping it real by coming down with some Polio. According to the Amish community's publicist, they're also planning on contracting the Plague and scurvy some time in the near future.

Upon hearing news of scurvy making a comeback, pirates around the world were quoted as saying, "Yarrr."

So was Beethoven.

Interesting thought of the day:
Muhammad Ali was not the first name Cassius Clay settled on when joining the nation of Islam. He first chose Punch-Punch the Ouch Machine.

In Communist China, Farm Animal Eats You!

So, a guy who I'm assuming for my own mental glee looked exactly like the "Green Eyes" guy from Big Trouble In Little China, became the object of my own Yakov Smirnov-style jibing when the bears that he was raising so he could sell their bile consumed him. And, no, they weren't hungry an hour later. I refuse to make that joke.

Sure, I guess being eaten by bears is better than having a knife thrown at your head by Jack Burton or exploding, but it's still pretty rough. But this guy deserves it even more than Roy deserved to have his lion, Montecore, eat his face. At least Roy was trying to entertain people, this Chinese motherfucker left a tube in these bears' stomachs and would drip their porridge into a catheter bag that they had strapped onto them. This was all so he could sell it to people who believed that, aside from being quite alliterative, bags of bear bile serve medicinal purposes.

I haven't been so happy about somebody being attacked by bears since I saw the alternate ending for Erin Brockovich that I made up inside my head.

The bile supposedly is used to help cure fever, liver illness, and sore eyes. I'm sorry, but if you're at the point in your illness where you're sucking the stomach acid from a man-eating beast in order to find some relief, you're GOING TO FUCKING DIE.

Interesting thought of the day:
Sex is like a picnic, it's fun to have until you get ants in your vagina.

I Hate Comics 2!

Interesting thought of the day:
Life is like a box of chocolates: on the surface, it kind of looks like shit, then you smell it and it's delicious. But then you bite into it and it's got a fucking disgusting raspberry filling.

Incestus Africanus!

Just a quick post to talk about the most disturbing search that led to somebody finding my website.

Somebody in Nigeria searched Yahoo! for 'grandma loves masturbating in front of her grandsons' and I was the tenth result.

Now, I know I've been accomodating to other searchers by including doctored pictures of Kevin Eubanks shirtless, but I just can't help this person.

My favorite thing about this search is how the word 'loves' is used. It's not just a search for 'grandma masturbating in front of her grandsons,' but she has to love it or it's not a website worth going to. I mean, I've seen thousands of elderly women pleasuring themselves in front of their grandchildren, but most just look bored like they're going through the motions. What I'm looking for is one who thoroughly enjoys it. Those, my friend, are few and far between.

Comic later on today.

Store-y Time!

I just got back from the grocery store where I had to purchase toilet paper, shampoo, and a gallon of milk.

If I was a clerk at the grocery story, I would make up a story about the people that go through the Express Line based upon what they purchase.

For instance, in my case, I would be severely lactose intolerant. So lactose intolerant (or, as my friend Ryan likes to say, 'not lactose tolerant') that I needed to buy a 24 pack of toilet paper because things were about to get messy. The fog of feces and half-digested milk would be so thick, so stew-like in the bathroom that my hair would stink of it afterward.

The guy in front of me was buying Axe Body Spray. That was the only thing he had on the conveyer belt sandwiched between two separators promoting the election of a local congressman. But, this guy's story didn't end there. He also asked the grocer for a pack of Marlboro Reds, hard pack. Now things were getting interesting. Obviously this fellow was so self-conscious about how his smoking made him smell that he wanted to be able to cover it up with the cologne that apparently makes any woman a dick-chafing nymphomaniac. I should be the guy in charge of ads for Axe Body Spray. Anyway, then the guy asked for $40 cash back. Now the story is complete. This guy is going to get a hooker and hope that she finds him so irresistible thanks to his forboding scent that he doesn't have to pay, but just in case, he's ready with the $40.

The old man behind me was buying what looked like 2 bottles of Fifth Avenue Seltzer. Don't ask me where he got them from because I thought that they discontinued it about ten years ago, but that's what it looked like he had. His story is that he's a man from the future who was so obsessed with Fifth Avenue Seltzer that he spent his entire life building a time machine just so he could spend one more evening with the Crystal Pepsi of its generation.

A time traveler, a John, and me, a not lactose tolerant man who spews diarrheac (the adjective form of diarrhea) mist from his anus. I am Shitstorm and with the help of a scientist hooked on beverages from decades past and a smoker with a penchant for getting freebies from streetwalkers, we travel through time and hearts defeating evil and injustice wherever it stands.

Two Guys, A Guy, And a Time Machine coming next fall to CBS.

Interesting thought of the day:
Volcanoes are Mother Nature's genital warts.

Bush Blames 'Make-Believe' for Iraq War!

That's right. In a surprising move (and something I fucking wished I was making up), George W. Bush has decided to blame god for the war in Iraq.

I honestly don't even know where to start. First, though, a disclaimer: This is all speculation because the actual video where he says this hasn't been released yet. But, I just talked to god myself, and he said that it's absolutely true, so I'm free to proceed without caution.

Well, without anymore caution.

God would tell me, `George, go and fight those terrorists in Afghanistan'. And I did, and then God would tell me, `George, go and end the tyranny in Iraq...' And I did.

So, he's taken to calling Karl Rove 'God' now. ZING! Hey, if the shoe fits! A-Oooga!

Knowing that he said this is absolutely terrifying. The person that is in charge of the most powerful and fattest nation in the world makes his political decisions the same way that serial killers pick their victims: based on what the make-believe voices in their head tells them.

At least the Son of Sam had some sort of physical manifestation for the voices he heard.

I'll never understand how the "majority" of the country could have voted for somebody who operates their life on this level. If you're religious, that's fine; it's your choice. But to put the lives of thousands and thousands of soldiers at risk in Iraq because an unseen, completely faith-based, absolutely impossible-to-prove-it-exists entity told you to is worse and scarier than anything a serial killer has ever done because at least a majority of people can agree that what the murderer has done shows that they are batshit insane.

But this motherfucker says he talked to god and god said to fight a war? That's exactly the same line of thinking as the Taliban. They're crazy people, though. We're much more sophisticated.

I want to drop a car battery on GWB's balls so badly.

Interesting thought of the day:
About 90% of Americans believe in a god. I do not. Therefore, the other 10% of Americans and I cause all of the problems.

Katie Holmes' Vagina Just Got a Whole Lot Crazier!

Aside from the everpresent eyepatch and miniature feather boa, Katie Holmes has added a new accessory to her five-star birth canal: Tom Cruise's bonkers-ass scientolo-gism.

That's right. The spirit of L. Ron Hubbard finally has a vessel in which he can be brought back to Earth and reborn in the name of Xenu.

Upon reaching its destination, Tom Cruise's sperm was seen jumping on top of the uterus shouting, "I love this magnificent embryo, Vulva, and I don't care who hears me say it!" The rest of the sperm around it laughed politely at first, but then realized how fucking insane it was when it wouldn't stop. One sperm was overheard saying, "That was more over-the-top than a production of The Odd Couple as performed by Andy Dick and Ashton Kutcher for a room full of near-deaf retarded children. Sperm have a surprisingly dry sense of humor.

Tom Cruise has two other children both whom he adopted with ex-beard Nicole Kidman. Beard is Australian for wife, nothing more; I saw it on a Foster's commercial. I mean nothing else by this at all, Mr. Cruise or his lawyers.

But, for the first time, there will be a child born that actually shares his genes. I hope he tells his adopted children that this means that he will love this new kid more. You know, it's like when somebody helps you do your homework, you feel pretty good about it, but when you do it yourself, you just love it more and can't talk to your other homework anymore.

I'm just excited for the day in the coming months when Katie Holmes' vagina cracks open like the fabled volcanoes in the history of the legend of Xenu and out pops a baby--and that baby looks just like James Van Der Beek.

I Hate Comics!

I think Tuesdays will be comic day.

Interesting thought of the day:
In a bizarre design choice, tampons were originally made from Silly Putty.

Bush Goes Promotion-Happy!

Since being able to fill two Supreme Court positions in as many weeks, President Bush has decided to fill some more slots as he sees fit. Whether they were vacant or not.

• He has replaced Judge Judy with his wife.


• He has replaced all three judges from American Idol, Randy Jackson, Paula Abdul, and Simon Cowell, with Tito Jackson, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, and the cartoon chipmunk Alvin. Yes, Alvin.
• He has replaced Judge Dredd with Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot.
• He has replaced Judge Reinhold with Fred Savage.
• He has replaced CourtTV with Animal Planet on his "List of my Most Favoritist Channels to Watch" in his journal.
• He has replaced legendary musical group The Supremes with Ace of Base.
• And he has replaced the saying "Order in the court!" with "What would Jesus do? Now y'all calm down."

Overall, I'd say most of the changes will probably be for the better in the long run. I just hope Judge Judy doesn't mind getting fucked by the President. Now she'll know how all those people in New Orleans feel. (Striking personal commentary! Amazing! - David Starr, The Philadelphia Gazette)

Yes, I realize that's two Vice Versa references within about a month, but this one had to be done.

Interesting thought of the day:
The labia is named after Labius, the Greek Goddess of roast beef.

SNL Only Does It To Me Because I Deserve It!

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Apparently I'm insane because I keep expecting Saturday Night Live to actually be funny even though, for the past three years, it really hasn't been.

It's still funnier than MadTV, but watching a puppy drown in the flood waters of Hurricane Katrina is funnier than MadTV. You'd think that, as a season premiere, when writers have the entire summer to come up with something funny, that at least the first episode would be good. Admittedly, I laughed at one or two sketches, but, for the most part, it was terrible.

The Morgan Stanley commercial spoof they did was funny. But all of that delicious goodness was wiped away by the rest of the show, especially when I saw Horatio Sanz sitting next to Amy Poehler for Weekend Update. Don't get me wrong, I love Amy Poehler and would probably give up my vow of not having children if she wanted to be the father of my babies, but watching Horatio Sanz try to read a joke from a TelePrompTer is like that uncomfortable moment in class when the teacher would call on the kid with the bad stutter to read a paragraph from Superfudge. You're reading to yourself along with him, not really paying attention to what he's saying, but just hoping that, in some way, since you're reading along with him, it will make him hurry up and put you out of your misery. You're screaming in your head: "I already finished that sentence twice! What the fuck is taking him so long?"

I completely lose track of what Horatio Sanz is saying because I'm too busy wondering why they put him in glasses. It's like putting a tuxedo on a retarded kid and sending him to Prom. You're not fooling anybody.

Of course, though, I'll still watch every episode this season since it takes exactly a week for me to get over how awful the show was the week before.

"Maybe this week it will be different. This host should be interesting. They were just lazy after the summer break. What? No, SNL didn't do this to me. I fell down the stairs."

Pop Quiz of the Day (Answer Sheet):
Teddy Roosevelt is one of only two presidents to always sit down when he peed. Can you guess the other one?

While Geena Davis was a good guess, the answer is actually James K. Polk. Geena Davis, in order to feel like an equal to all of her predecessors, stands up when she pees and uses the fat catcher from the George Foreman Grill to funnel her urine into the toilet. Ahh, technology!