Swimming in the Leprosy!

I am a filthy fucking homeless man. I have a rash. Who gets rashes? Homeless men and me, that's who. What kind of scabies-having bag of disgusting am I? Seriously, nothing makes me feel dirtier than having a rash except when I pay hookers to squeeze out a Cleveland steamer on my chest (Thanks, Tenacious D). But even that doesn't make me break out in a rash like this. It's basically on my right arm from my armpit to halfway down my forearm.

I figured out how I got it as well which is even weirder. For Christmas, some friends of mine bought me a new 12-string guitar: a very cool present. So, the other night, I took some time to tune it and, while tuning it and subsequently breaking a string doing so, apparently whatever magic oil they put on brand new guitars got all over my arm and my skin hated it so bad. So bad.

What kind of oil would that be that would make me react like that? I looked it up on Wikipedia and it seems that they rub it down with a mixture of old band-aids and a soup made from blended New York City public toilet seats.

Thursday at work I noticed it and freaked the hell out. I couldn't stop thinking about it. See, my mind is kind of obsessive. I'm not what you'd call a hypochondriac, but probably only if you didn't know what that word meant. If you did know that word, maybe you'd use it to describe me. I mean, I have a goddamn rash. People who live by rivers and eat giraffes get rashes. I live by a Ralph's and eat Cap'n Crunch.

It's going away now, but now I can't play my brand new guitar. I'm going to have to wear a HazMat suit to get my "Since You Been Gone" on.

Four on the Floor!

When I got home from work today, I noticed this on my next door neighbor's door.If you can't read it, it says, "Adam, Will you please not walk around your apartment at 4:00 in the morning? Thanks."

The day that I moved in, there was a similar note on his door asking that he not walk around his apartment between the hours of 10 pm and 6 am.

Now, I haven't heard him walk around, but I've seen him and he's not a big guy; he's a thin Dominican fella. I didn't even know his name was Adam until I saw this note. I just called him Dominican Joe.

So, Adam, if that is your real name, you're not allowed to pee in the middle of the night because, apparently, you do the kickworm across the floor into the bathroom. I'm glad the woman who lives below me isn't such an asshole. My two club feet and the way I always have to move trash cans filled with apples across the room at 2 am wouldn't go over well if I lived in ole Dominican Joe's apartment.

It's a Goddamn Christmas Miracle!

I'm not being sarcastic.

I hate places. You all know that. Places suck and people in them are even worse. But tonight, the Firestone on Ventura Blvd in North Hollywood, California is my favorite place in existence.

See, on my way to work today--yes, work today, Christmas Eve--I heard a rattling/banging coming from my truck bed. I didn't really worry about it until after work when it seemed to not go away. I parked in my complex lot (the parking lot of my apartment complex, I don't mean that the lot is very difficult) and leaned down to pretend like I know anything about cars near the rear passenger tire from whence arose all the clatter. I squinted and poked to see what was the matter. Homage to Christmas, motherfuckers! You like that? Yeah you do. Drink it all down. Mmmmmmm.

Okay, anyway, so I look and I can see that the shock, I think it's called the shock, It's one of the shocks, so it's singular--maybe it's called the suspension, I don't know--but that thing was obviously not connected the way that it should be. And I have a hell of a lot of driving to do tomorrow, so this could be very bad. After looking at it for a minute, I know what has to be done. I need to get the loopy part on top to slide on to this pole and then I need to screw a screw which I do not have into the end of that pole to keep it on.

So I call car places. Of course, they're all closed. But not the aforementioned Firestone. They're open until five and it's only 3:45. I quickly print out directions to the shop three miles away and I depart. I drive like an old lady for the first time in my life so the bed of my truck doesn't collapse down and I somehow end up on YouTube because I'd be openly weeping and stomping my feet on the side of the road while pointing at my truck.

I make it there and pull in at about 4:00. They have an hour to fix a problem which should, theoretically, take two minutes. The woman behind the counter tells me that it's going to be about ten minutes before she can get to me. I tell her I don't care, as long as they do. It's a half an hour and finally she summons a wise old Chinese man named Chen. Yes, those are accurate descriptions. He was old and Chinese and we all know that that means he's wise; it just comes with the territory, like old black guys hating all white people.

Since Chen is 150 years old, it takes him some time to do his work. He jacks my truck up and proceeds to walk over to some work area where he grabs one screw and walks back to my truck. He tries to screw that one on; it doesn't work. Then he walks back to the work area, sets that one screw down, picks up another, and walks back to my truck again. And again it doesn't fit. He does this one at a time thing probably ten times and no dice. He informs me that the tread is stripped inside the hole.

Motherfucker. It can't be stripped.

Then I ask him if he can just stick something in there so I can drive tomorrow and he disappears--this time to another part of the shop--he comes back with another screw and it screws in and fits. The tread wasn't stripped; he stripped me of my hope and that was his Ancient Chinese test. I passed.

He smiles at me and yells in excitement as he tightens it on there. It's now 4:58 and they close in two minutes. I walk inside to pay and she asks Chen how much I owe for labor. He literally waves his hand at her as if to say, "Forget about it." She charges me nothing and I get to go. On the way out, I'm fiddling through my wallet to give Chen $20 and I can't find him. I ask the woman inside where Chen is and she says, "Chen died ten years ago."

Okay, that very last part is a lie. I did give him $20 and he said Merry Christmas.

Then I hit a gong and a dragon swooped down from the sky and ate him. Okay, again, lie.

I mean, that kind of stuff doesn't happen. But it did tonight and that's why the Virgin Mary lied about having sex before she was married so she wouldn't get stoned to death and she'd pass off her son as the Lord and Savior of the world. Thanks for having pre-marital sex, Mary. You're the best.

Last Minute Christmas Gift Idea!

If I try to do anything for my loyal readers, it's provide a service. Whether it's with a recipe, a knowing smile, or helping you to walk your groceries to your car and accidentally rubbing my fingers on your lady-dent, I try to help. Therefore, I know some of you still haven't completed your Christmas shopping and still need ideas and that's what I shall provide.

Take a sheet of paper, draw a dot and write the recipient's name beneath it. Now, fill the page with a bunch of other, smaller, less dazzling dots. Hand this to the person explaining to them that you have just named a star after them. When they inevitably exclaim, "But, wait. You just drew this. I watched you and you asked to borrow a pen. That isn't what space looks like." Say, "How do you know? Have you seen all of it?" At this point, they know that you've given them a true gift: the gift of knowledge.

Merry Christmas, everybody! And god bless us, everyone. I'm kidding. He doesn't exist.

Fictional Conversations of Real People!

First, please watch this video. Warning: It's filled with fucking morons being fucking morons.

And here's how I imagine this happened.

Okay, you know my roof, right?

Yeah. What about it? It's high. Like 10 feet.

12 feet. Yeah. So, how about I hold you awkwardly upside down with your nose near the crack of my ass and stand on the roof?

Okay, I'm with you and this sounds awesome, but I think we can make it better.

Better? What's better than me holding you on the roof with your nose inches from my pooper?

Jump the fuck off.

Tell Barry to get the camera.

Fin.

I fucking love America.

Hat: The Post!

Everybody likes party hats, like those one wears at a birthday party, but I think that they should have funeral hats. Instead of the conical shape of the party hat, it would be a tiny tombstone with a chinstrap.

That way, when you're at the grocery store picking up some more 7-Up for the service and you're all dressed up, you won't run into somebody you know at the store who doesn't realize that you're dressed up for a funeral and they won't say something embarrassing to you like, "Big date, huh? You want me to grab you some condoms?"

They'll see that paper tombstone on your head and know immediately to just buy the condoms for you and give them to you with a somber look on their face as they say, "I'm sorry about your loss. Go fuck the shit out of something."

FUNERAL HATS!

Happy Birthday, Kiddo!

Happy Birthday to you and maybe a surprise guest stops by to say hello as well.

Also, if you would like to invest in the items whose prototypes you see herein, I will be more than happy to entertain offers.


If you want to share the video, you can use this link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PH6ZaPsd9j4

This Title Doesn't Have Anything to Do with the Post!

So, I just went to the grocery store and I only needed to buy two things. I bought an 8-pack of Irish Spring and a microwavable container of chicken noodle soup. I wanted to tell the cashier that I was buying things in alphabetical order.

Hilarious! Soap and soup, get it? Those are very close! He would have laughed so hard and I would have won the grocery store award for the funniest customer of the year! Then I would have won a shopping spree like on Supermarket Sweep and I would have gone to the hoses first because those are the most expensive items. Hoses and turkeys. But if I see that cardboard Jolly Green Giant, I'm running that huge motherfucker back to the checkout counter tout de suite.

So, this girl who works at Ikea hates me. For my birthday in September, I got a gift card from a couple friends of mine so I could purchase various items from the Swedish furniture giant. I went out and purchased things in September and, when it came time to pay, I forgot to use the gift card. Oh well, I thought. I can always just use it again later.

Fast forward to today when I bought some more items from Ikea. I was so happy that I found things to purchase which would let me use my gift card. I skipped merrily to the cashier so that she could swipe my gift card and I could walk out of the store without spending any money. As I walk up, she smiles and says, "ATM or Debit only, no cash. Is that okay?" Of fucking course it is. I won't be using cash. She'll be so happy because I'm following her rules.

She scans my items and, lost in a haze of the smell of fresh-cut wood from Swedishstan, I pull out my card and run it through the machine. My fucking ATM card. I swiped it, finished the transaction, and she handed me my receipt. I'm about to step away from her counter and I get that cold bolt of dumb asshole lightning that shoots through me and I stop. I reached into my back pocket, pulled out my gift card and said, "Oh, umm, I forgot to use this. I need to use this instead."

She wanted to kill me and she didn't hide that fact at all. She sighed like she just surfaced after setting the fucking free-diving record.

She said, "Hold on. I have to call a manager."

She was on the phone speaking quietly so that I couldn't hear her, probably calling the Ikeops to come arrest the fucking idiot with the nightstand. After finally hanging up the phone, she turned to me and said, "I'm going to have to give you cash back since you did ATM." That's fine. I'll take cash. It's the same as not cash except it is cash. That's how I reconciled it in my head.

She opened her register and handed me two $10s and about 15 $5 bills.

I'm surprised she was as nice as she was. I would have accepted a tote bag filled with nickels at that point just so I could leave and make the people standing behind me in line stop pelting me with their tiny fucking golf pencils.

Average White Banned!

Hot on the tar-and-feathered heels of the Michael Richards detonation of multiple N-bombs at the Laugh Factory in Los Angeles, some black leaders, whatever that means, have suggested banning the n-word altogether.

I, for one, think this is a great idea. I mean, if it's banned, then people won't say it anymore. Why didn't they think of this before? While they're at it, they should also ban murder and rape. But, first things first. Let's get our priorities straight and make it so people can't say mean things to others first.

I'm actually going to push this further. I'm hoping to ban all pencils, pens, paint, and, well, anything that can be used to write. I don't want somebody writing the n-word anywhere, so we'll just take away the utensils used to write. I mean, it's best to play it safe. I'll gladly hang up my keyboard.

Also, just to make sure, I'm going to try to get Arnold Schwarzenegger's name banned because it's just too close. If somebody trips over their words even a little, then all hell will break loose.

But, you know, I still don't think this is enough. I mean, people could still think the n-word and that, in itself, could be devastating. What if a white person is looking at a black person and starts to think that word? Can you imagine how devastating that can be to both parties? Maybe the white person was just doing the name game song in his head with everybody's favorite bouncing tiger friend of Pooh and got to "banana nana no n...."? That's grounds for suicide. This is why I'm going to fund a program which would require everybody to take a pill which would erase that word from the mind of every man, woman and child on this planet. Oh, and also, any media, books, film, or whatever, containing that words will be stricken from existence. We'll just get together and burn them all.

It's the only way. I'm going to start a group called Kurt's Kulture Klub to help combat this rising problem. I hope you all will join me in the KKK because I will not rest until we eradicate every "nigger" on the planet.

Or, how about everybody lightens the fuck up? When you start banning a word, you're limiting free speech. If somebody wants to use a word like that, let them. They'll get what they have coming to them in the form of public outcry. It's not like Michael Richards was changing minds with his "oh so eloquent" tirade. Non-racist people didn't watch that video and say, "You know what? This Kramer fellah's got a point." No. They did what everybody else did and realized that he's a racist douche bag.

Now the guys at whom he was yelling want to sue him? What a couple of dicks. They're at a fucking comedy club and those are fucking words. It doesn't matter that the n-word is the queen mother of all bad words, it's still just a goddamn word. I once had a comedian at a comedy club spend his entire set calling me "The Taliban." Did I sue him? Yes. Bad example. But, you get my point.

To reiterate, lighten the fuck up, everybody or I'll force feed you all that tuna fish and licorice you people just LOVE to eat. And by you people, I mean all y'all motherfuckers.

Look! Up in the Sky! It's That Turd, David Blaine, It's Stupid, Man!

David Blaine, that guy who used to do magic tricks, has one-upped himself yet again. He's managed to do something even more boring than sitting in ice for a week. In his latest not-a-thing, he was suspended in a gyroscope above the streets of New York city and then he was bound in chains and had to get out of them and land on some pillows.

Okay, magicians, we fucking know you can get out of chains. We get it. You can pick a lock on some manacles. If you're ever arrested in Britain in the early 1800s, they don't stand a chance. You'll run those cobblestone streets willy nilly.

So, he leapt from the gyroscope thing, crashed through a plywood stage and got in a taxi. I was going to make the cliche joke about a black guy getting a taxi in New York being his most amazing trick, but it turns out he's Spanish, Puerto-Rican, Jewish and Russian. So even that is boring.

What kind of a magic trick ends in a magician getting in a cab? The only time that's acceptable is if the cab is on fire and driven by Jesus holding an Ace of spades and the license plate says, "IZTHSURCRD?" and then explodes into hundreds of doves who all poop in unison spelling out "David Blaine" on the sidewalk in dove shit, only it's not dove shit, it's David Blaine semen and all women within ten miles of the stunt get pregnant, and some dudes--it's a magic trick, and then, nine months later, those children are born and they are all holding your actual card because the Ace of spades wasn't actually your card, your card was the eight of hearts and their first words are, "Is THIS your card?" and then, immediately after saying those words, the children are ripped open from the inside and David Blaine climbs out of them and runs off into another waiting cab.

Where's that magic trick?

My magic trick? That totally kick-ass run-on sentence. Suck it, Steinbeck.

The Laugh Plantation!

Michael Richards, Kramer from television's Seinfeld, finally took the post-Seinfeld downward spiral of his career into his own hands over the weekend with a stand-up comedy routine at The Laugh Factory in which he dropped the N-bomb over and over again while also possibly inciting a lynching.
Now that's what I want from my former television stars. You hear me, Jason Alexander? I don't want Bob Patterson and Listen Up from you after Seinfeld. I want three minutes of unadulterated racism. You know who's had a free ride too long, Jason? The Chinese. I've booked you 10 minutes at Wok and LOL in Chinatown to ensure you've got the proper audience. Now, remember, Chinks are the Chinese, Gooks are Koreans, Japs are Japanese. Keep them straight and I'll see you on YouTube.

What's the Deal...

So, what's the deal with this president of ours, huh?

I mean, really! It's like, come on.

Also, how about those other current events? Those are interesting/unbelievable/sad/hysterical and/or frustrating. Aren't they?

And those celebrities and their movies. They're driving me bananas or I am liking it!

Sports!

If I Wrote This...

O.J. Simpson, the man known worldwide for his Hertz commercials and co-starring roles in the Naked Gun films will be coming out with a book called "If I Did It" which is about some murders he was accused of committing some years ago. I'm not sure; I haven't really heard too much about this.

The title of the book is something which I have decided to use to recount "fictional" happenings in my own life. Here are some of my sample titles.

• If I Peed on That One Girl's Butt
• If I Once Lost a Grape in My Own Ass
• If I Was Very Ass-Oriented
• If I Convinced a Homeless Man to Lick Me Clean
• If I Didn't Shower
• If I Tried to Fellate Myself Using a Series of Interlocked, Wet Cardboard Toilet Paper Rolls
• If I Had a Werewolf Buried in My Backyard
• If I Jerked off to an Episode of The Muppet Show on Multiple Occasions
  

K-Fed D-Vorced! K-Fed Unwed! Brit Split!

I could do those terrible headlines forever, but, you've probably heard, Britney Spears and Kevin Federline filed for divorce today.

They cited irreconcilable differences, but, being election day, I know that it had to be purely political disagreements.

This is how I imagine they got to this point.

INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT

BRITNEY
Hey, y'all, you sleeping?

K-FED
What? Hmm? By the way, I'm
just one nigga. Don't call me y'all.

BRITNEY
Y'all, I don't like the War.

K-FED
I do. They got gats 'n shit. Like me.

BRITNEY
I'm divorcing you so hard.

K-FED
Fine, bitch. I'm blowing up the hip-
hop world anyway. I don't need your
skanky ass.

BRITNEY
Y'all are so divorced.

And, scene.

Booby Prize!

A study has been released stating that breastfeeding lowers mental health risks. Then how come when I try to suckle the teats of a woman on the subway, she calls me crazy? I'm just trying to fight it, lady. Now make with the liquid Prozac.

Doc Hollywood!

Rush Limbaugh, right-wing talk show host, drug addict and Heffalump, recently claimed that in a campaign ad for a Missouri senate candidate, Michael J. Fox was acting in portraying his Parkinson's symptoms in order to sway voters to vote for her and her support of stem cell research.

I think it's his best work since Back to the Future 3 when he had to pretend to play an 18-year-old when he was 30.

Finally Rush Limbaugh pulled the curtain back to expose this elaborate ruse for what it truly is. Michael J. Fox has been playing all of us, America and the world, all for his own personal benefit. You know, so he could have charity hockey games to support his foundation and, um, speak to congress about raising money for stem cell research and, um, Back to the Future 4: Stem Cellin' It Up in 2155!

To be fair, Rush Limbaugh has been mistaken about other "politcal ploys" as well. He did downplay September 11th by calling the Twin Towers, "A couple of flimsy buildings that were probably going to fall over anyway. Making buildings that tall goes against science. It's in the Bible."

On November 22, 1963, he claimed that John F. Kennedy had arranged to have a good portion of his head blown off in order to lobby congress to pass strict gun control legislation.

Even with the recent Mark Foley sex scandal, Rush Limbaugh had this to say about the page with whom Mr. Foley was accused of exchanging dirty emails and instant messages. "That 16-year-old boy has delicious, supple, smooth and irresistible balls. No man, gay or straight, could be blamed for wanting to roll them between his fingers. The Democrats want you to believe that there's something wrong with it, but I challenge any of you to get within sniffing distance of that beautiful hairless beanbag and not ask the boy if he has jerked off lately."

I have a conspiracy theory of my own. I believe that there is another faker in our midst. Rush Limbaugh must be exaggerating his own stupidity because there is no way anybody could be that absolutely fucking retarded without putting a whole lot of effort into it.

The End?
(cue Huey Lewis and the News song)

Modern Poetry Deconstruction: Fergie Edition!

For those of you unfamiliar with her, Fergie is the transvestite singer in the group The Black-Eyed Peas. You can see her (transvestites always like to be referred to using the female pronoun) on the right. She was on the children's television show Kid's Incorporated when she was a young boy and she followed her heart and stayed a performer.

Well, who knew that that young boy would grow up to be such a prolific lyricist? I will go so far as to suggest she is the most talented cross-dressing writer since Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Her latest hit is a song called "London Bridge." Once you view its lyrics, you will not believe my praise to be without warrant.

As I did before with TLC's masterpiece "Unpretty," I will go line by line and let you know what each delicious turn of phrase means.

Oh shit (oh shit)
Oh shit (oh shit)
Oh shit (oh shit)

Immediately, Mr. Fergie is letting everybody know that things are about to "go down" as they (transvestites) say. Even she can't believe what's going to happen and she wrote these words. It is not uncommon for a writer as amazing as she is to be stupefied at her own work. It is one's natural reaction to such genius.

Are you ready for this?

No, ma'am. We are not. The world is not.

Oh shit (oh shit)
Ohhhhh
It’s me, Fergie
The Pimp!

Here she refers to herself as "The Pimp" which is very appropriate. She is about to treat you to sex, lyricized. I came twice already.

Paulo!
Fergie Ferg, what's up, baby?

She's stepping outside of the realm of her transvestite counterpart, "Fergie Ferg," here and she's channeling her male side, "Paulo." He's saying hello to Fergie to let you know that this song is about him as a woman.

[Verse 1]
When I come to the club, step aside.
Part the seas, don’t be havin' me in the line.
V.I.P., ‘cause you know I gotta shine.
I’m Fergie Ferg, and me love you long time

"Me love you long time" is a well-known phrase from Full Metal Jacket. The line comes from a Vietnamese prostitute. Here, Fergie is playing the role of the Vietnamese prostitute only with a twist. She's not Vietnamese and there's a good chance she doesn't actually have a functional vagina. She may have one of those inside-outsies, but not one with an actual pulse. When she says "Part the seas," that's a euphemism for the creation of her new lady hole.

All my girls get down on the floor,
Back to back, drop it down real low.

What is "it" here? Well, most scholars say that "it" is up to you to figure out, but I contend that "it" actually refers to your expectations for all music after you hear this song: the pinnacle of modern storytelling. In fact, normally I wouldn't do this, but I need you to prepare yourself for the next line. I am not one who uses hyperbole, so when I say that the next line is the single-greatest chaining together of words in this, or any, language since the creation of existence of life as we know it, understand that I mean exactly that.

I’m such a lady, but I’m dancing like a ho,

This is the reason I got into the business of deconstructing poetry. It's like the guy who hunts the Loch Ness monster finally sees Nessie, but not only does he see her, but he totally bones her and gets it all on video. This line is my sex with a mythical Scottish aqua-dinosaur. My previous sentence is now the second-greatest line in human existence next to that which I am discussing right now.

This lyric is the crux of the entire dichotomy of man as we know it. It's like, she's describing the struggle of women in society with these ten words. Not even women, really. Men can relate to it as well. We all have these two sides of our character that we maintain. We have one side we portray to others, and then there's the private side. Oh, my dear, sweet Dutchess. You have hit the nail on the head here. Aren't we all "such ladies, but dancing like hoes?" Aren't we all?

‘Cause you know
I don’t give a fuck, so here we go!

Here, Mr. Ferguson snaps us back into reality. Well, the reality which she portrays. She states that she "don't give a fuck," but with that previous line, we all know the truth. She indeed "do give a fuck." This, as they (vesties) say, is "frontin'."

[Chorus]
How come everytime you come around,
My London, London bridge, wanna go down like,
London, London, London, wanna go down like,
London, London, London, we goin’ down like…

How come everytime you come around,
My London, London bridge, wanna go down like,
London, London, London, wanna go down like,
London, London, London, we goin’ down like…

Sure, maybe that all seems like gibberish to the untrained eye/ear/however you're receiving this information. But, when somebody with a PhD in Poetry from Cambridge like myself reads it, I see brilliance.

What is her London Bridge? This is the question on everybody's mind. I contend, and I will to my dying day, that her London Bridge is a metaphor for her ability to have her spirit compromised in a male-driven society. Well, it's either that or she's going to take it in the ass. I'm 50/50 on it.

There is much more to this song, but I dare not tackle it all in one sitting. Mayhaps I'll revisit it, but people write Master's theses on less.

That's right, theses. Oh shit (oh shit).

Obama Say Obama Saw Ma Ma Ku Saw!

There's been a lot of speculation recently that Illinois Senator Barak Obama may run for President of the United States of America and half of Guam come 2008.

Now, I don't know much about him, but I do know the platform on which he is running: Having an awesome name.

It worked for Millard Fillmore and Rutherford B. Hayes, why can't it work for Barak Obama?

That's why, as a gift for other potential Presidential candidates, I'm going to present to you a list of names you can adopt for your own campaign.

• Festoon Pitypants
• Wham-Chong The Night Warrior
• Kartak Vrrrrrrrrroooooooooom!
• Slom Teardrop
• Marmar 3PO
• Trans Am-Dental Meditation
• Prent Thlarbuck
• Grelbok "Bok-bok" Baroom
• Rnank (pronounced Dwight) El Sharfgom
• Last Name First (Abbot & Costello warning)
  
• Ichi Gichi Ya Ya Ya
• Gnort Gnight
• Dickleberry Dickbag Dickinson
• Particularly Handsome The Daring Private Detective
• Yarf
• Y The Consonant
• Y The Vowel
• Sometimes Y The Ambiguous and Indifferent
  
• Protumb Lapshoe

I can't wait for 2008 and not just because that rhymes, but you guys are also free to use that.

Political T-Shirts for Politicians about Politics!

Sorry about the vague title.

I know that normally Congressmen, Senators, Governors and other public servants wear coats and ties to work (or, for the ladies, lycra bodysuits), but I'm hoping to start a trend on casual Fridays with my newest political t-shirt designs. There is at least one of these that I actually want to make into a shirt.



If you want to order any of these, contact me and I'll take your money.

My Boo Heaven!

Being October, it's only appropriate that I touch on the subject that "haunts" most people's minds this time of year (see how I did that? That's schooling): ghosts.

I've mentioned before how ghosts can't exist because of the fact that there are no retarded ghosts. But, let's say that somebody did manage to meet a retarded ghost and my theory is disproven. Well, then it's time to do something for them--namely, MAKEOVER!

Every time you ever hear somebody describe a ghost encounter, it's always the same. Man or woman (or little girl--there are no little boy ghosts), they're all dressed the same way: in Victorian clothing.

"It was an old woman, she was right over there. She was in all white and a corset and she was carrying a victrola and she was rubbing Dr. Goodbody's One in a Million Lucky Fortune Juice on her elbows."

"All I know is that he was standing on those stairs. He had a long, handlebar mustache, a stovepipe hat and was on one of those fat burning machines with the belt that just kind of violently jerks you around. It made his monocle fall out."

What the hell did ghosts look like IN the Victorian era?

"I say, I believe I saw a phantasm, Clarence. She was adorned in black clothing with buckles all about. In fact, she had a buckle on her hat as though it were going to fall off if it wasn't fastened on. Oh, and she was handing an Injun a blanket covered in small pox and yelling in a very scary tone, 'Happy Thanksgiving!'"

If I ever meet a ghost, I'm taking it to Abercrombie & Fitch. If I'm going to be haunted, I'm going to be haunted by the gayest ghost in existence. He won't even say, "Boo." He'll just hiss and make catty comments.

"Nice hair. Oh, nothing. Don't mind me. Did I say that out loud? I just couldn't help it. Umm, hello? 1984 called and the bad guy from Karate Kid wants his feather back. Ugh. Are you scared yet? My legs are tired."

My Wish Is My Command!

I was having a conversation with somebody at work today over Instant Messenger (because that's the only way I have conversations now--Instant Messenger and telegraph) and I realized that there are a lot of things that I want to make happen at some point in my life.

For instance, I'm sitting with a group of people outside a Starbucks and they're having a conversation and I'm just sitting there silent--"Too silent," the survivors would later say to authorities. So, they're talking about how that new show Heroes is pretty good and somebody else is disagreeing saying it's too derivative of Lost. Well, at that point, it's time. I cry to the heavens, "Release the lions!" and bursting through the glass from inside the Starbucks come two full-grown lions who haven't eaten in a week. They both pause and shake glass from their luxurious manes and let out roars that would make the MGM lion quake in his golden frame or whatever that is that his head is in.

I throw my grappling hook (which I also completely need to own and carry with me on a regular basis) to the roof just as I yell for the ferocious animals to come forth and I make a hasty retreat before I am mauled like my former friends.

I would fake friendship with somebody for up to five years if I was promised that, at the end of that five years, I would be able to have this happen. Just a note to those with whom I've been friends for less than five years: You would probably be better off not handling large quantities of raw meat before hanging out with me. Fair warning.

And you all can rest assured knowing that there are plenty more ideas like this where this one came from (the greatest part of my brain: my mind).

Also, one more unrelated thing. I want to thank my friend Ryan for making me the spiffy new banner you all see up top. It only cost me $1,500; it was worth every penny.

Taft to Blame for Lack of Pudding in White House Refrigerator!

In a recent statement by White House spokesman Tony Snow, he has made it abundantly clear that the current President, George W. Bush, is not to be held responsible for the shortage of the delicious dessert on White House property.

"Taft had a notorious soft spot for pudding and neither him nor his staff did anything to rectify the situation. Where were you all 95 years ago when it first became a problem?"

Members of the Senate backed up Mr. Snow's statement. John McCain had this to say on the floor earlier today: "Pudding? You all want pudding? I wanted pudding in Nam when they were sticking bamboo chutes in my fingernails trying to get information from me. The only thing I could think of the entire time? Fucking Taft."

Speaker of the House Dennis Hastert, a man who has obviously seen his share of pudding, had a comment on the situation as well. "Our current administration cannot be held responsible for its refrigeratory actions. They did everything in their power to prevent the pudding shortage, but, let's face it, the deficit left by Taft is too great for any one or 16 subsequent administrations to overcome."

John Edward, the world-famous medium, not to be confused with the former presidential and vice-presidential candidate and Tiger Beat cover boy John Edwards, was asked for his assistance in contacting Taft's Chief of Staff. This is what Mr. Edward said: "I'm getting somebody. His first name, I think it starts with a J or an L or a Q or the number 7. Does that sound familiar? He's sending roses. That means he's showing you his love. He wants me to tell you that he is sorry about the bathtub. I don't know what that means; he just wants me to say that. He also wants me to let you know that--wow, he was stubborn, wasn't he? It's like he's pulling me like, 'Listen to me.' Oh, Taft's chief of staff wasn't like that in life? Well, in death that side of him is really coming out. That happens sometimes. Sometimes they're one way when they're alive and then, when they're dead, they're like a completely different person. It's so weird. Anyway, he also wants me to let you know that it's not Taft's fault. He says Grover Cleveland started it. And, oh, wait. Grover Cleveland is coming through now and he says it wasn't him. It was Millard Fillmore. Oh, wait. Millard Fillmore's here now and he's blaming it on George Washington. Things are getting crowded I--now George Washington is here. All he's saying is, 'Fucking Indians.'"

El Experimento!

I posted this a couple of days ago, and then felt like it may not be funny. But, after hearing from a couple of people, I'm putting it back up. You only have yourselves to blame.

So, here's a video I made. I was inspired by all the other videos on YouTube of guys on their couch playing their guitar, except mine gets me so laid. I'll probably make other videos in the future if I feel like boring everybody again! Watch all the way until the end when you get the surprise twist!

Halloween Costume Ideas 2006!

You have a month to assemble the supplies; I have a month to repent for my sins.

Let's begin.

The stingray that killed Steve Irwin
What you need:

• Sunglasses.
• T-shirt that reads, "Heartbreaker," or "You're welcome, crocodiles," or "I Heart Steve Irwin." That last one will work best.
• Stingray costume.

Mark Foley
What you need:

• Boner.
• Computer.
• A pair of Underoos you must carry around sniffing.
• Rinse.
• Repeat.

Gas Prices
What you need:

• No material items needed, just rape everybody you see.

That Guy
What you need:

• This is my favorite costume. You get to wear your regular clothes and when somebody asks what you are, just tell them, "I'm that guy."

Iraq
What you need:

• Everybody else around you will decide what you should be even though you weren't really too bad off in the first place. Oh yeah, by the end of the night you'll be dead.

Foley Cum Union!

I thought long and hard, no pun intended, about that title. You bastards better appreciate it.

If you haven't heard by now, there's been a big to-do in DC about this Republican Congressman, Mark Foley, and the filthy instant messages he has sent to teenage boys who worked as congressional pages.

I was watching Scarborough Country tonight on MSNBC because I do everthing to the extreme, and he said the following: "[You should] expect the party of Foley to take a pounding at the polls."

Now, say that out loud. Now, think about the context. Needless to say, I rewound my TiVo numerous times and did a little pole-pounding while thinking of the hilarity in that statement.

Also, Foley has now checked himself into rehab for alcoholism. I didn't know alcohol was so bad, but apparently it is. I mean, first it makes Mel Gibson hate Jews, then, it's apparently what had been making Robin Williams not funny for the past 20 plus years, and now it makes old white dudes love young balls. This whole time I thought it was just the hairless innocence. Who knew it was Wild Turkey and Diet Coke?

TMX: The Reckoning!

There's a new Tickle Me Elmo doll on the market and it's taking the world by storm. Its name? TMX. No. He's not a new, blinged-out, off-the-chain version of the old Elmo you're used to. He doesn't have mad rhymes and carry a gat as his name might suggest. TMX stands for Tickle Me Elmo Extreme which doesn't make sense at all. They should call it TMEE or TMEX or nothing at all!

I don't get what's so extreme about it. A guy at my work has one and showed it to a few of us today and, while it made me laugh (yes, my cold, dead heart laughed at a giggling red robot doll), it did not live up to the hype that its name promised me.

I was hoping it would soar across the room on the back of a winged, flying lion on a snowboard while some Limp Bizkit or equally shitty music played. I just wanted something extreme to happen. I had fantasies that, when you prompted him to laugh, he'd turn and beat the shit out of you while screaming, "Who's laughing now?" Maybe the people at Sesame Street got their hands on some proprietary technology that causes Elmo to grow to EXTREME sizes and storm the halls of your work carrying a stapler menacingly asking for your boss and his balls to report to him immediately.

No. Instead, it laughs and falls down. You know what else laughs and falls down? Retarded kids, people with MS and the elderly. And you don't have to wait in line for any of those. You just need to know which wing of the hospital to hang out in. I'm just saying, if store shelves are empty this Holiday season and you can't find the TMX doll you want, all you need to do is bring your son or daughter to the local sick ward armed with a can of red paint and a DVD of White Chicks.

Jihahads!

If I ever opened up a comedy club in the Middle East, that's what I would call it: Jihahads.

There's a car dealership in Columbus, Ohio after my own heart. Apparently they're advertising "Fatwa Friday" when they'll declare a "jihad on the US auto market."

I don't see why people are so upset about this. From what I remember, there have been much more insensitive advertising campaigns.

There was the "Your Mother Is a Cunt, So Buy That Cunt the Douche She Deserves This Christmas" Holiday advertising campaign by Summer's Eve. I don't even know why they would advertise douche as a Christmas gift, let alone one that a child would buy his or her mother. But, I don't know much about the advertising world.

Then there was the car company in the 1960s who was cashing in on the Civil Rights movement with this: "Tired of sitting in the back, darkies? With our Honda motorcycles, you'll always sit up front. Free fire hose-repellant umbrella with every purchase."

But, I think the worst advertising in recent history has to have taken place in the early 1940s. Though, I have to give them credit for creativity. There was a German bagel company which sold bagels like fortune cookies. Inside each one was a note you were supposed to save and read at the end of your meal. Once unrolled, it read, "These bagels were baked with loving care in the same General Electric oven as your grandfather. Our secret ingredient? Real Jew tears."

Finally! Proof I'm the Smartest Man Alive!

Just now on Jeopardy I was able to give the correct question when none of the contestants could.

The clue: Appropriately, this word comes from the Greek words meaning "sharp" & "dull."

How do you not know the answer to that if you have any knowledge of words? These are people that know names like Marc Chagall, Peepee the Sophisticated Turd Burglar and Alex Trebek, yet they don't know this?

If you don't know the correct question, you're never allowed to read this blog again.

For those of you who are defying my commands to leave, it's "What is an oxymoron?" I answered it without hesitating like somebody just asked me if I'd ever want to see Rosie O'Donnell's bacon-wrapped vagina (YES!).

By the way, have you tried Red Lobster's Rosie O'Donnell bacon-wrapped vagina? It's to dyke for. Get it? I'm a bigot.

Sexy Blasphemy!

This is the kind of stuff I think about before I fall asleep. As I was lying in bed last night, I couldn't get this idea out of my mind.

A man and a woman are about to have sex for the first time. The man decides to try to use his way with words to keep the woman in the mood.

"Hey, baby. Why don't you take off them panties?"

She does.

"Damn, girl. You have the pussy of an angel."

Yeah. So, the last words to go through my mind last night were, "Damn, girl. You have the pussy of an angel." Needless to say, I had a dream I was fucking Natalee Holloway.

K-Fed Goes Number Two All Over New Son!

Second verse, same as the first. Not quite taking a page out of George Foreman's naming book, but similarly, Kevin Federline and Britney Spears have given their new son the same initials as their previous son, Sean Preston Federline. Immediately after naming their new son Sutton Pierce Federline, K-Fed had this to say:

I gave 'em both da initials SPF because they gonna be needing all that protection from the lyrics I be spitting that are hot like fire.

He was so proud of coming up with that that nobody had the heart to tell him that his reasoning was faulty. One reporter did start to say something about how fire doesn't really give off ultra-violet rays, but Mr. Fed responded with this:

Ultra-violet? My lyrics is mad ultra-violet. I be talking about killing fools left and right with the gat strapped to my inner thigh, son!

I don't know why he carries his gun in the same spot as a hooker from the Old West, but I'm sure it's "like crazy intimidatin' and shit. Popozao!"I could say a million things about the above video, but, honestly, does anything need to be said?

Who's the Big Birthday Boy?

Apparently not me.

This past Thursday was my birthday. Normally on my birthday I don't post anything about it because I don't want to appear to be pandering for the obligatory, "Happy birthday, faggot!" posts. But, this was no normal birthday.

You, being not me and having normal friendships and relationships, would assume that, when you tell somebody that you hate something, they would refrain from subjecting you to said object of hate. However, since I am a terrible person, people feel that, on my birthday, I should have to bask in all that I hate and be made miserable.

I've mentioned before here about a couple of my biggest pet peeves. I hate when I see a girl driving a car that is over-the-top girly--especially when they have that stupid license plate frame that reads, "I'm the Princess, that's why," or "Daddy's Little Princess," or, as I wrote before, "DVDA Princess." Whatever. I just hate the whole princess thing and find it obnoxious, fake and trying too hard.

I also have moaned here about another of the things that bothers me to no end: animals dressed up in clothing. I just don't understand this phenomenon. Animals have been around for longer than humans and they've never needed a wedding dress, a trenchcoat with pocketwatch, or a flapper costume. Yet, once humans domesticate them, they feel the need to humiliate it and dress it up as a pirate. If you want to dress up as a pirate, that's fine (and awesome), but don't hot glue an eye patch on your dog and make it look like an idiot against its will so you can be entertained.

I give you this background because my coworkers felt it necessary to do this to my desk at work (click the picture to see it full size).Pink streamers, a pink boa, pictures of animals dressed in clothing taped on to everything.

A closer look.On my monitor, that's a picture of John Wayne Gacy with a long alliterative sentence. I mentioned to them that I hate alliteration at one point, too. I was kidding about that, but they ran with it.

The crowning achievement, so to speak, and I feel the quintessential item that best reflects what I hate about the whole Princess thing is this.They taped a crown that says "Birthday Princess" on the top of my monitor.

I get to work earlier than the people who decorated my desk, but I must project an air of rage on a daily basis because, being a good sport, I left all this stuff up. They, however, felt that there was a 75% chance that I would tear it all down as soon as I saw it.

So, all day I sat at my desk surrounded by this stuff. Also, there's nothing about the decoration that specifically says birthday in giant writing to somebody just casually walking by, it's just a whole lot of pink and streamers. I work with a lot of people and I don't know many of them, so there's a good chance that a lot of them thought that it was my coming out party.

Also, I sit in a fairly high traffic area and the work that I do for this large Internet search company (Why am I being vague? You can actually see the name of the company in one of the pictures) sometimes requires me to work with all sorts of porn. There's never a worse time to have a greasy dildo on your computer screen than when your desk is decorated like mine.

To give you an example of the kinds of things I have to deal with, in the picture of the Birthday Princess crown above, I noticed this after the fact, but it's Jesus karma that it happened to be there. I blurred out most of the screen to help keep my work confidential blah blah, but you can clearly see the phrase "granny sex toys."

Welcome to my world.

Congratulations, Britney Spears!

You've managed to give birth to two separate children before I've had one birthday. You know why? Because you've got a vagina made out of class.

They haven't announced the newborn boy's name yet, but may I suggest Wyatt Tre Ash Spears?

I Love Robot News!

Google news, as some of you may know, is a site that aggregates all of the most popular news stories and sorts them in order of importance by how many stories there are about each topic. Well, since it's run by robots and no human is actually in charge of them, sometimes there are mistakes that work out for all of us.

This is one of those.
Granted, I did not click through to read the article, so this could be a perfectly legit pairing of image and story. But, more than likely, it's a mistake. Therefore, in order to help google save face, I'll write the corresponding story.

Bin Laden Trail 'Stone Cold'

Chicago, Illinois

It was a battle for the ages. Two teams, one ball, more than eight hours of basketball.

It began just like any other night. It was the homecoming basketball game for the students of Chicago 'Stone Cold' Steve Austin high as they battled the newly-minted Dekalb Osama Bin Laden. Their name is singular, like the Miami Heat or the Orlando Magic, but they represent a group.

One team, the 'Stone Cold,' dressed in jean shorts and jerseys with skulls on them, who dribbled with only their middle fingers while appearing heavily intoxicated looked to be the underdogs going into the contest. However, nobody knew just how far the Bin Laden--who recently changed their team mascot from the Kadaffi in order to keep up with changing times--would take their new image.

Well, folks, this reporter has an answer. Too far.

Dressed from head to toe in robes, turbans and as much beard as a team filled with 16-year-olds could possibly manage to grow, the Bin Laden hit the floor at 5:30 pm for the contest. The assault rifles and bandoliers each boy chose to wear, however, would prove to be too cumbersome.

The opening tip was about as unorthodox as things get. As soon as the ball was thrown into the air, the center and power forward of the 'Stone Cold' kicked the center of the Bin Laden in the stomach and just before they could pull him to the ground for their devastating finishing move, two paper airplanes loaded with dynamite sailed in from the stands and exploded on the two 'Stone Cold' player's faces.

The referee, however, did not call a foul as this has never happened in sports, so play continued three on five until the first timeout.

That's when things really got confusing.

After the first four minutes leading up to that timeout, the 'Stone Cold,' still reeling from the paper airplane incident with their center and power forward, the two seven foot tall boys affectionately known to fellow students as "The Twin Towers," refused to play against the Bin Laden any longer.

Instead, the 'Stone Cold,' in an unprecented move, feeling that their 9-8 score was good enough, ran out of their gym and into a local elementary school gym where they found one mustachioed, beret-wearing boy bullying other students, holding the basketball away from them, acting like he would give it to them, then saying, "Psyche," and so on. Real Bush League stuff, man. Completely bogus.

Now this was a job the coach of the 'Stone Cold' felt like they could handle. The team hit the floor and dominated the bully. It was only a matter of time until these students would be playing basketball by themselves in peace. Or so they thought.

Keep in mind, back at the 'Stone Cold' gym, the game hadn't been called because, as the 'Stone Cold' left the gym, the Bin Laden disappeared as well. Some people think they went under the bleachers, while others felt they could be in the locker room or hiding beneath the snack bar counter by the Jujubes. A ref and a few fans were still there just sort of milling around wondering if the 'Stone Cold' were going to come back to finish the game or what.

Now, with the bully removed, the 'Stone Cold' felt it would be easy to leave and let the rest of the students continue their game. As they went to leave, however, the newly freed students shouted back in anger and started to throw rocks (which is weird that they were able to get their hands on some since this was inside a gym, but whatever) at the 'Stone Cold' and their coach. See, what the 'Stone Cold' didn't realize was that, when the bully left, he took the only basketball they had. Without a basketball, they didn't know what to do.

At the deadline of this writing, the 'Stone Cold' are still trying to teach the previously-bullied students how to play basketball since, as they came to learn, they had never actually even played basketball before; they'd always just sort of complained about the guy who had it.

That leads us to the title of this article, "Bin Laden Trail 'Stone Cold.'" See, technically, they do. They're down 9-8, but, the longer it takes for the game to start in that gym again, the more it's this reporter's opinion that they'll never get back to the game they were there for in the first place.

To: Katie Couric's Lazy Ass!

As you may know, Katie Couric has recently started to anchor the CBS Evening News. By the way, since she's a woman, I don't think she should receive the title of anchor. How about dinghy or arm floaties? She arm floaties the CBS Evening News.

Well with her first act as the new arm floaty, she has asked you, the audience (I seriously doubt I share any demographics with evening news) to come up with a way for her to sign off from the news.

You know how Walter Cronkite would say, "And that's the way it is"? Well, she wants something like that but less jowly.

With this in mind, I have decided to lend my brilliant writing mind to her cause.

• May the reaper take you in your sleep.
• Goodnight and bite my vagenis.
• So, we done here? Good. I gots to get my freak on.
• I give tonight's news two titties up.
• Have you forgotten yet that you've seen the inside of my asshole on national television, America?
• Do you really think I'm a whore now, Daddy?
• Hugs, kisses and handjobs.
• I hope you all don't get Hep C tonight.
• So suck it, Matt Lauer!
• Peace out, my niggas. (She stresses the "as" part of niggas very hard so they know she's using slang and not being racist--though, off camera, she is very racist. She owns ten slaves and has named them all "Al Roker" one through ten)

Those are just a few ideas. It's hard to think of overtly sexist or racist comments to use since I've just unleashed them on my black girlfriend whom I just beat the shit out of. (Not ending this sentence in a preposition is impossible: whom I just beat out of the shit? Granted, we normally race knee-deep in shit on Fridays to the Coldstone Creamery down the street, but not today.)

Oh, Me So Suri!

Vanity Fair, the magazine that I've never read, but I assume by its name that it's about people dressed in corsets and knickers discussing their most recent bloodletting, will finally have the pictures nobody has been waiting for: Suri Cruise and two complete strangers.As you can see by the photo, she has Katie's eyes and L. Ron Hubbard's soul. The reason Tom is holding her in his jacket like so is because she's covering up the writing on his shirt, "I'm not gay, but the balls slapping against my taint are." That shirt is counterproductive to the image he is trying to maintain--just a startlingly poor choice for a photo shoot.

I can see by the cover photo that they've decided to recreate the exact way that they stole this child from the hospital and out of the arms of her real mother in the first place.

I Hate Comics: Blowout!

I couldn't think of anything to write about since I can't bring myself to make fun of The Crocodile Hunter's death. So, as a tribute, I'll go old school in spades.

Modern Poetry Deconstruction!

Many people are familiar with so-called "classic" poetry such as Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken, O Captain My Captain by Walt Whitman, and Horton Hears a Who by Dr. Seuss, but these are all works which have been deconstructed over and over by scholars throughout the world.

That is why I have taken it upon myself to usher in a new era of poetry analyzation. Kicking off the series will be what I consider the quintessential modern poem: Unpretty by TLC.T-Boz:
I wish I could tie you up in my shoes
Make you feel unpretty too

The first two lines of this song give you the essentials. You learn who she is talking to and what she wants to discuss. It is obvious, from the first two words, "I wish," that she is talking to a genie. So she has found a magic lamp and her first wish is to have the genie wear her shoes. At first the reader may be thinking, "But why would she waste it on making a genie wear her shoes?" Well, it's common knowledge that genies do not have legs, hence no feet; they are a constantly-hovering torso composed of smoke which flows from a lamp. This request is a catch-22 in the world of geniedom and more than likely would result in the genie becoming mortal and dying of old age immediately.

Only two lines in, and T-Boz slayed a genie already. Powerful stuff, people.

I was told I was beautiful
But what does that mean to you

This interrogative is meant as a rhetorical question. Ms. Boz does not want an answer from the dead genie body. She's being ironic because it's hard to believe anybody could find an old genie attractive (except for Barbara Eden's husband, am I RIGHT?)

Look into the mirror who's inside there
The one with the long hair
Same old me again today (yeah)

Who is inside a mirror? Well, obviously T-Boz has been hauled into the police station for questioning concerning the gruesome murder of an ancient wish granter and she's calling out the people who she knows are watching her from behind the glass. She's a clever girl. She's getting inside their head. She creeps them out even more when she specifies that she's talking about "the one with the long hair." It's like when psychic mediums say they're getting a message from "Joe" from the other side. You know a dead Joe, don't you? Spooky. The final line is her preparing to make an insanity plea. If you notice the use of parenthesis, you'll obviously realize that she is agreeing with herself--classic schizophrenia.

Chilli:
My outsides look cool
My insides are blue

She's letting you know who is saying this part. Her name is Chilli and she's describing symptoms one may have when they are, in fact, chilly.

Every time I think I'm through
It's because of you

A warlock is putting words into her brain via telepathy.

I've tried different ways
But it's all the same

I think she's saying, "Once you go black, you never go back." Admittedly, however, this part is over my head.

At the end of the day
I have myself to blame
I'm just trippin'

"I'm just trippin'." Do you feel that? The goosebumps? It's this scholar's opinion that that line is the modern "A thing of beauty is a joy forever." My man John Keats said that. John Keats! That's my man.

Chorus:
T-Boz & Chilli:
You can buy your hair if it won't grow

This is a risky move. In the middle of the song, they've decided to target the alopecia demographic. Risky, but I think it works. What say you, America?

You can fix your nose if he says so

This is obviously a call upon the old saying, "Don't cut off your nose to spite your face." They're updating by saying, "You know what? DO cut off your nose to spite your face, but only if he tells you to." Who is "he" in this case? Jesus.

You can buy all the make-up that Mac can make

This is a trick statement because everybody knows that Mac is actually a bearded old cobbler and he doesn't even manufacture make-up.

But if you can't look inside you

Yeah, idiot. Can't you look inside you? They're calling upon the reader or listener to disembowel him or herself in an act of defiance against X-ray specs and also those bullies at the beach who kick sand in your face in the back of comic books.

Find out who am I to
Be in the position to make me feel so damn unpretty

This is where the ladies bring it home. It's basically a reiteration of their mantra, "Once you go black, you never go back" with the addition of "The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice."

Look Who's Talking (about maybe touching another dude's balls)!

Okay, so there's this. Apparently a picture was taken, as you can see, of John Travolta sharing a kiss with his "man-friend." Now, not that there's anything wrong with being a gay, but I must do this.

I've decided to have my own headline contest concerning Mr. Travolta's questionable sexuality using plays on his television and movie titles.

• Get Shorty! Indeed! (When you say "Indeed" you raise your eyebrows suggestively and maybe drink out of a straw)
• Battlefield Girth
• Suck Face/Off (okay, I just needed more of them)
• Gulp Friction
• Grease!

And, finally, the only reason I even made this post...

• The Boy in Elastic Butthole

Also, any comments on the new blog layout? I can always change it back if it frightens you.

Best Supporting Asshole!

Hold the Mayer!

I realize that there is a lot going on in the world right now what with John Mark Karr being freed of charges in the JonBenet case, the Emmys taking place last night and The Little League World Series coming to a close, but there's something that's been bothering me for a long time and it was set in stone for me last Saturday.

See, I had VH1 on in the background (I'm not justifying this, I'd have it on in the foreground, too, bitch!) and there was some sort of a Top 20 video show happening. The special guest on this episode was none other than Grammy-winning singer-songwriter John Mayer. I've always felt that there was something a little off about this gentleman, when it finally hit me.

John Mayer looks like a monster.

I have compiled a series of pictures which I feel illustrates my points (well, point, really--he looks like a fucking monster). To help, I have included John Mayer's thoughts as the pictures were taken.I also think he kind of looks like Sean Young.Therefore, by the transitive property of mathematics, Sean Young also looks like a monster.

Ferris Bueller Neighed Off!

I...couldn't...help....myself.

Matthew Broderick fell off of a horse.

The Adventures of Pluto, Nah!

You've probably heard by now, but today it was officially ruled that Pluto is not a planet. I've been telling people this for years.

"Pluto isn't a planet." That quote is taken straight from five years ago--from me.

People are upset that this is going to ruin the mnemonic that they learned when they were children to help them remember the order of the nine planets. I learned My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas: Mercury Venus Earth Mars Jupiter Saturn Uranus Neptune Pluto.

Now what are our very educated mothers going to serve us? Whatever it is, we certainly won't be getting nine of them anymore. The science community has single-handedly reduced our food consumption by 889%. Maybe this is all an elaborate solution to the obesity epidemic.

According to the article, Pluto's status has been demoted to "dwarf planet." That's much cooler anyway. It's the only planet that gets to grow a beard, carry a battle-axe and fight goblins.

This is probably the biggest change to happen to society since they decided to start keeping track of the year by number.

"Hey, Dave. You know yesterday?"

"Yesterday? Sure."

"Yeah. Well that's one."

"One what?"

"I don't know. But I'm feeling pretty good about this."

JonBenet It Ain't So!

In case you haven't heard, ten years ago a tiny swimsuit model/cowgirl/mermaid/hula dancer/Roaring 20's flapper named JonBenet Ramsey was found dead in her parent's house. Recently a man named John Mark Karr confessed to the world that it was he who was responsible, but her death was an accident.

First, let me preface this by saying that I don't believe he did it, but that doesn't mean I can't make fun of him for it.

How do you accidentally kill a little girl? I once accidentally clotheslined a six-year-old boy who was running by me in a Family Fun Center and he didn't die and I'm probably the strongest person I know.

But this guy allegedly broke into the JonBenet family HoUse (if they can just throw capitalization in the middle of a word like that, so can I) got her out of bed, and they told jokes, giggled and he accidentally hugged her to death. In his defense, little girls are made of sugar and spice. They're like tiny gingerbread men just begging to have their neck snapped.

Actually, they're already working on a movie about this whole thing, it's called Brittle Miss Sunshine.

Yeah. The whole lead up was for that joke.

The Terrible Ten!

Warning: It's another long one.

Last night I went to my 10-year high school reunion. I wasn't one of those people who really stood out in high school aside from looking like a newscaster from the 1980s.Therefore, I wasn't sure how I felt about going. Granted, there were a couple of people I was hoping would show up so I could catch up with them, but, for the most part, I thought it would be five hours of awkward hugs and "So, what are you doing now?"s.

Surprisingly, it wasn't anywhere near as bad as I had thought. In fact, I had fun. The veil of dark, evil cynicism that constantly hovers over my cold, black heart was lifted for one night as I got to see what kind of havoc ten years had wreaked on my former classmates.

I'll start from the beginning (I've been told after years of studying writing that this is normally the best place to begin). Though I'll give you a little foreshadowing of how it ends: Me wearing nothing but a "Class of 1996" sash draped across my pasty white body jumping into a spa full of people who I'd come to find out this morning were not, as I had thought, my classmates but, instead, two elderly couples from Arizona who were out here for a wedding. Now I'm really curious who gave me the handjob.

So, I'm such an eager-to-please nerd that, while driving to the reunion, I was thinking of stupid answers to give people when they ask the inevitable, "So, what are you up to now?" After debating answers like Ultimate Fighter, artificial seahorse inseminator and the all-new "Time to Make the Doughnuts" guy, I settled on Explorer.

"Yeah. I'm an explorer. You know, like Amerigo Vespucci and that guy who gave the Indians blankets covered in baby sneezes? I'm the last one in existence. I actually have like 9 flags in the back of my truck just in case."

Of course, I didn't really use that answer because, as I found through the one-night-in-ten-years thawing of my heart, I actually wanted to know what some of the people I hadn't talked to in years were up to (Yes, this sentence ends in a preposition--on purpose).

So, when I got there, it was cool because a couple of people that I still hang out with from high school had just gotten there as well and they were busy filling out the information which was required of us. I did write down on the card that I had nine kids and am a professional explorer. I used it there at least. Nine kids! What a card I am! Nobody has nine kids. Hilarious. I'm thinking about asking them to take that card to the 20th reunion just so I can white out that stupid, stupid answer.

As we checked in, we were given a burlap-ish satchel with the school logo on it that was filled with various goodies. Now, when I say goodies, I don't literally mean that they were good. I just don't know what word could possibly convey just how terrible these little knick-knacks were. Don't get me wrong, I understand that it took time and planning and I do appreciate that, but, just wow. As I'd later say to people as my heart began its gradual re-freezing process, "It's like somebody went to their local low-rent amusement park and played Skee-Ball for four hours and cashed in the tickets." Although, I actually used a local place, Castle Park, as the reference, but you don't care.

It contained a pen that would fall apart with the slightest sign of any sort of pressure, you know, like what you might have to use when you'd use it as a writing implement. It had a tiny yellow pad of paper, which I'm guessing we were supposed to use in conjunction with the brittle-bone-disease-having pens in order to play Hangman or you can use it as I did and make an animated flip book of yourself as a stick figure finally getting retribution ten years later making sweet love to the former Prom Queen. Then, if you didn't like to use pens, they did give us a pencil--well, sort of. See, unless you carried around a knife to sharpen the thing, you were shit out of luck, or as I like to say "sool." You were sool. And, finally (I think that's all--my bag was looted), we were given a key chain with a two-tone cutout of our school mascot (a mighty, Thor-fearing viking!) in a transparent window. Total cost of loot in the bag: $.35. But it's the thought that counts as people who receive shitty gifts like to say.

But, forget the perks, it's all about the people, right? Who got fat? Who got better looking? Who got a sex change? Who gave you a way-too-long hug and may have accidentally (you hope) licked your ear?

I'll just kind of run down the various things that I noticed.

First, there was a guy who was kind of a nerd in high school who showed up looking completely unrecognizable. And, well, I think that was the problem. Nobody knew him in high school and, therefore, nobody really knew who he was last night either. Granted, he looked like a tough guy last night, but nobody really cared. In fact, he was awkward. While everybody else was sitting down at their tables as announcements and the slideshow they put together were going on, he stood in the back of the room, arms folded, like some sort of weird cop from the future who drew the short straw and got the shittiest assignment.

"Listen, Detective, you're going to be sent back to the year 2006 and..."

"I'm going to have to try to prevent the impending war between Hezbollah and Israel? I'm on it, sir."

"Well, no. You're going to have to make sure everything's cool at this high school reunion in Southern California."

"I'm too futuristically old for this futuristic shit. Future. Bleep bloop."

It was fun to quietly berate him sporadically throughout the night.

Speaking of that slideshow that they created for us. I do mean to toot my own horn here. I mentioned earlier, and provided solid, scientific evidence, that I was a nerd in high school. Now, maybe I'm playing up my nerdiness a little, but I feel pretty good in saying that, if a war broke out between the cool kids and the nerds at my high school (and no warriors from the future were sent back to prevent it), that I would probably have wound up on team Magic: The Gathering. But, when the slideshow came on, they had pictures from high school time, then they showed pictures of people in 2006 prefaced by their names. They had said they may take pictures from MySpace and they took one of mine. And, when I came up, people, dare I say, cheered. And I was really one of the only people for whom this happened. It blew my mind. For a brief, shining moment I felt like, "Was I cooler than I believed? Do these people really like me?" But then that all came crashing back down when I began to think, "They're being condescending aren't they?" I don't have any sort of emotional issues at all.

Speaking of me. Since that's what this whole thing (human existence) is really all about. Reactions to me ran the gamut last night. By that I mean, people said various things upon seeing me for the first time in ten years and I don't know how to take it. I got, "You look exactly the same." And I also got, "You look totally different." I even had somebody who I was in classes with for four years who had to look at my nametag. I'd like to believe that I look a little different than that picture, but not, "I went from geek to chic--I'll show them" either.

And, as I figured would be inevitable, there was a group of people there who sort of had not left the high school mentality behind. I was sitting right by the table with the alcohol on it and I heard this, "This shit's too expensive. Let's go outside. I have a bottle of Jack in my trunk." That pretty much sums up those people (and, by "those people" I'm not being racist--that comes later). They still had that "too cool for school" air about themselves, although, ten years later, that vibe doesn't quite work and it's more sad than anything. So, I was happy that that contingent was there as well.

Then there was my surprise of the night. I wasn't expecting to spend too much time talking very much to people I hadn't seen for years (aside from my friend Ryan who I had known since second grade and his wife). I thought that I'd kind of stay talking to the people with whom I'd actually kept in touch. But there was a girl (woman--I know, but if somebody's my age, I still call them a girl--shut up) there who I dated briefly in high school. I won't break down my entire high school dating life, but let's say that it was mostly hampered by an unrequited crush I had on this other girl (who I would come to find only too late had a heart darker and more terrible than my own). Needless to say, I spent a couple of hours of the night talking with her and finding myself regretting the fact that she was now married and that I had broken up with her in high school because of the aforementioned ill-fated, dim-witted crush. By the way, want to know what an awkward, ridiculously immature guy I was in high school? I had the girl who I had the crush on call this girl in high school and break up with her for me. Yeah. That's probably one of the worst things ever. I'm sorry for being an ass, planet Earth (and she whose name shall not be writ).

So, overall things were actually pretty fun. There was some cleavage that I was able to look at (preposition!). My clothes got covered in glitter. I actually had entertaining conversation. People cheered for me like I was Lucas. And I got to relive the white-trashiness of my long-lost youth. Speaking of that, I'm not lying when I say that, once the party was over, it continued for a small time in the parking lot in the form of a case of beer on the ground. Ain't no party like a classy party! Whoo! Whoo! Whoo Whoo!

Which State Is Fucking All the Other Ones?

You know which state has the lowest self-esteem? West Virginia. I mean, look at its name. At least North Dakota and South Dakota and North Carolina and South Carolina are diametrically opposed to one another. But West Virginia is the state that wants to hang out at the party because she knows somebody.

"Hey, you guys. What are you doing? Is that weed? Are you smoking weed? Whatever. I've smoked it before. No big deal. I like your hair. It's really pretty. Who am I? Well, you guys know Virginia, right? I'm Virginia's cousin. You didn't know Virginia had a cousin? Weird. That's me, though. Seriously. My name? You know what? Just call me West Virginia."

What other state wants to be known only in relation to another state's existence, yet the original state from which it took its name doesn't even acknowledge it? Only goddamn West Virginia.

You know what West Virginia's biggest export is? People who thought they were moving to regular Virginia.

Their college sports team has a mascot, you know what they are? They're the University of West Virginia Texans.

This is their state flag featuring their state motto.The only thing worse than West Virginia will be in 2010 when Wyoming will change its name to West South Dakota.

Two Parts Air Quotes, One Part Best Buy, All Kinds of Ridiculous!

Warning: This one's long.

This past Friday my mom came up from Mexico (where she lives) and so I drove down to Corona to meet with her, eat lunch, and help her to purchase a laptop from the Best Buy there.

It starts out like any other Best Buy trip. We enter and pass by the guy at the front door who, at least half the time, tosses a grunt your way while he's trying to spit game to the girl who works in Cell Phones ("You know, I can control all the cameras in the store from here. Awesome, huh?").

I take my mother to the computer section where she and I pick out a laptop for her. Easy enough. Before she ponies up the dough to pay for the computer, I ask whether or not they can transfer the data from the hard drive on her old computer (which we have in the car) to the new laptop. I know that the "Geek Squad" can do this, but I want to get a monetary estimate. Beforehand I told my mom that a hundred bucks or less would be acceptable, but $100 is the ceiling. I've done data transfers before, and they're easy. The guy asks us "What kind of data?" I tell him there's not much on there, it's mostly pictures. "Oh, okay, that's $99." Well, that's about what I had figured, so my mom bought the data transfer thing.

See, normally I would do it, but we were in Corona and she was heading back down to Mexico that day and I wouldn't have the time to do it so that she would be able to have it all ready for her to take home that day.

Everything up to this point is going just swell.

So, we take the newly purchased laptop and her old computer to the "Geek Squad" counter so that we can get her information transferred. Then we meet Chris. Chris is a disgruntled man who's probably pushing 40 and looks like if he wasn't working the "Geek Squad" counter at Best Buy he'd probably be watching his 12-year-old daughter's friends go swimming while drinking a beer and sporting a raging erection. As we walk up, Chris has a sneer on his face like his wife just told the girls that it's time to go home. I tell him that I need to specify how I want the information transferred to my mom's laptop. Before handing me the necessary paper to fill out, he jerks off and as he climaxes he yells out, "Okay, Becky, I can drive you home," then he starts crying and mumbling about how he's a terrible man and needs to go to prison.

I explain to Chris that I just want all of the stuff on my mom's old computer to be transferred into a single folder on the laptop and that I'll work out setting everything up. I write the same thing on the paper I'm given.

Chris relays that information to somebody in the back who then has him come back out and tell us this.

"That's going to be $169."

"$169?," I ask. "But we were told it would be $99."

"Yeah. That's for up to 9.9 gigs of data. If you want the whole drive transferred over, that's going to be more than that."

"But nobody told us that," I respond.

I can see the panic in his eyes. He knows that the manager is going to have to come out in a minute and he hasn't thrown away his tissues.

I ask to speak to the manager and, after a couple of minutes, Chris comes out flanked by Ryan. Before I continue, let me explain to you a little bit about Ryan.

Ryan's an alpha-nerd. To the naked eye, it's easy to tell that he's a nerd. He has a faux-hawk and a pale, doughy face. But Ryan has an edge. It's the edge of somebody who is pissed off that, at 27, he's amounted to charging old ladies $75 to put RAM in their computer--an act which takes all of five seconds. He also convinces them that they need to buy a battery backup, uninterruptible power supply, and a cryogenic freezing chamber for their computer so they don't lose an email from their Grandson about his baseball game. So he hates himself.

Ryan stands across the counter from me. He's flanked by two other employees, the aforementioned Chris and the guy who originally sold us the laptop who I'll just call Chip because I don't care about him enough to give him a name that isn't condescending. They flank him like giant, flesh bookmarks for one empty, stupid fucking book.

Ryan explains to me that, though I was told it would be $99, that was because I said that it wasn't much, just some pictures. But now that I've said that it's the whole hard drive, he says that's going to be more than the 10 gigabyte limit which I was never informed of in the first place.

I explain to him that Chip never said anything about a limit and that, since I was sold a data transfer for $100, I wanted it.

This is where Ryan loses it.

I ask him why it costs $70 more for anything over their pre-determined, arbitrary limit.

"Well, it's a totally different process."

"A totally different process?" I ask. Only, when I said "totally" I used my hands to make air quotes.

Ryan's not a fan of air quotes. In fact, the anger which arose in his eyes when I used them makes me believe that air quotes raped his mother in front of him when he was a child.

The tone in his voices changed and he starts to sweat.

"What's that about?"

"What's the totally different process?"

He then describes two processes which sound very similar to one another about transferring hard drive data which I won't bore you with. Needless to say, they aren't totally different processes.

"Well, since you want to copy your whole hard drive, copying your Windows folder onto one of our hard drives for the transfer can corrupt our systems."

This, my friends, is a complete fucking lie. Do I look like an 80-year-old woman? So I call him on it.

"That won't happen."

"Look," he says, "I've been doing this for ten years."

"So have I." I respond. I've had my own computer since 1996 and have assembled my own for nearly as long.

"I've done data transfers before, it's not very hard."

"Well then why don't you do it?" He asks me.

"Because I don't have the equipment. I live in LA and she lives in Mexico and we need to get this done."

Keep in mind, the whole time he's staring at me, unblinking, his face beet red. The faces of his shoulder gargoyles, Chip and Chris, never shifting their gazes from me.

And I wish I could remember what I said, but I was blinded by a haze of anger and an eight ball of coke that my mom and I split as our dessert from the lunch we had at Chili's. Regardless, whatever sarcastic remark I said next sent him over the edge.

"Forget it." He pushes the newly-purchased laptop sitting on the counter toward me. "We're not selling this to you." He storms away and toward the back, his two henchmen closely behind.

Figuring that this was where it was headed, my mom was already over at the counter on the other side talking to a cashier.

The main manager of the entire Best Buy comes over to refund the money to my mom. I don't remember this guy's name, but this is all you need to know about him. He comes over to my mother and I, and I begin to explain the situation to him.

"So, we bought this data transfer and we weren't told that there was a 10 gig limit and..."

"Woah, woah, woah, woah." He says to me. "Look, I don't know anything about computers."

Yeah. The manager at a store with various computer-related themes and products readily admits he doesn't know a thing about computers. What the fuck?

"Great place for you to work, then." I reply, sealing my fate as the guy who almost gets physically removed from Best Buy for his rampant use of sarcasm.

I decide that I'll give my mom my laptop and I'll just take her computer to my apartment in Burbank and transfer the stuff there, but she'll have to wait to get it until the next time she heads up here.

On the day after the incident, Saturday, I transfer my mom's hard drive into my computer so that I can then transfer that information onto my computer's hard drive and then finally to my laptop and, to my surprise, I see that her hard drive only has 7 gigs of space taken up on it.

Motherfucking Best Buy.