My Blue Heaven!

When I die in a fiery bus crash at the age of 45, I'll have led a wonderful life full of do gooding and straight and narrow walking so that I will be admitted into the Club 33 of the afterlife: The Christian Heaven.

This is how I imagine it will be.

As soon as I die I'm coated in glitter and angel wings (it's tar and feathering for the Chosen Ones) by one of the Saints. Then, everything comes into focus and I'm in a white void. A flock of pixies straps me onto a Tony Hawk skateboard (except it won't be a skateboard, it will be a hoverboard like in Back to the Future 2 because in Heaven, those really exist) and I fly into a hotel lobby. But this is no ordinary hotel; it's Hotel Heaven.

I arrive at the counter where I'm checked in by a talking zebra wearing a bellhop's hat (which is weird because Andre the Giant is my bellhop, the zebra only works the desk). Mr. The Giant leads me up to my room giving me a tour along the way. The fire juggler accidentally hits me with one of his flaming pins, but I don't get hurt because there are no burn victims in Heaven. A mermaid who lives in an aquarium filled with chocolate pudding in the middle of the lobby peeks her head out for a moment to say hello to me. Then, because it's Heaven, I make a request to have sex with the mermaid which is immediately granted nine times.

Once at the door for my room, Andre the Giant sets my bag inside the door. He informs me that it works like the bag in Mary Poppins and that I can pull a six foot tall lamp from it if I should so desire. I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet to tip him and I realize that I don't have any money. I ask him what I should tip him with and he informs me that the currency in Heaven is hugs or coupons for backrubs. He tells me that he would prefer the latter. Reluctant to give Andre the Giant a backrub, I tell him I would rather hug him. He proceeds to beg for a coupon. I shout, "No backrubs, I mean it."

"Anybody want a peanut?" he replies. On sheer cleverness alone, I give in and give Andre the Giant a backrub which turns into my first gay sexual experience with a dead wrestler over seven feet tall (I take that back--I gave The Undertaker a handjob at a truckstop in Phoenix).

Luckily there is no pain in Heaven because the aftermath leaves me capable of shitting bowling balls. This isn't hyperbole. You can do whatever you want in Heaven and that's what I decide I want to do. Not only do I shit bowling balls, but I bowl a strike with them every time. I tie all of the former amputees bowling their hearts out at the alley. In fact, Heaven is kind of like the Special Olympics, everybody ties and there are tons of hugs. Except there aren't any retards. Those soulless bastards go straight to Hell.

Like a billion flaming shot glasses filled with doll hair!

I was reading an article today about this new glue that was discovered (I lead an exciting life--this is right after I knocked a one-eyed, thieving multimillionaire off of a beam 400 feet in the air where we had just sword fought) that is the strongest adhesive known to man. The thing that was interesting to me about the article, though, was the way they described how strong it was.

It says, "The adhesive can withstand an enormous amount of stress, equal to the force felt by a quarter with more than three cars piled on top of it."

This is distressing news because I was under the assumption that all my loose change which is buried beneath 800 back issues of Black Tail magazine was the most secure way to guard my money. Now I learn that people are piling automobiles on top of a single quarter. And, to top it off, the only way I can afford that kind of tri-vehicular security is to spend all of the money that I'm trying to protect. Oh, irony, you filthy bastard.

After further reading, I have learned that cars piled on top of quarters isn't the only strange unit of measurement the scientific community uses.

When conducting a study measuring the amount of sweat exerted by a person exercising over the span of ten years, doctors at Harvard said that it's equal to "nine fish tanks filled with golden tiaras."

A scientist described the distance to the moon from the earth as "roughly equivalent to 245,000 average erect penises stacked end to end." The description alone got me so excited that I was ready to start the game of phallus Jenga.

Zero degrees Celsuis was first described by the inventor, Anders Celsius, in terms of how frigid things were in relation to the mammary gland of a spell-casting malcontent.

The famous Raisin Bran slogan of "Two Scoops" was not the original term of measurement used. Initially it was, "Like four sweaty slave hands full of raisins."

Nowadays we know a football field's length is 100 yards, but, before Superbowl III and the widespread use of the Polio vaccine, the field was marked off by a length of 200 dead babies.

A student at UC Berkeley doing an experiment measuring the amount of water in all the world's oceans by the year 2015 at the current rate of global warming described it thusly: "It's like, if you kicked a pregnant woman in the stomach until stuff started falling out of her vag, if you filled up 300 trillion kiddie pools with that stuff and cooked it on high for 45 minutes, that's about how full the ocean would be."

"How long have you been standing there?"

Every once in a while, I'm going to give myself some random sentence, and build a first-person narrative off of it. It's an idea I stole from something my friend Ryan had to do for an improv class he's taking and I think it may spawn some fun stuff. I don't want anything too specific, but if you have suggestions for starter sentences, go ahead and comment them.

How long have you been standing there? It doesn't matter. It's not like I didn't think you'd find out about this. You're a smart girl and I'm probably the smartest guy you've ever met.

So, this is the real me. Are you surprised? You shouldn't be. Everybody's doing it anyway. Sure, maybe me being naked is unnecessary, but it helps me to concentrate. I don't have the constraints of clothing or whatever society would have to say about me to judge me simply based on what I'm wearing or how they "perceive" me to be.

I'm just me. This...is me. Some may say I do it because something is missing in my life--that I'm trying to fill a void. Well, who the hell are you to judge me? I'm doing something that hundreds of thousands of people do in the privacy of their own homes. I've seen people doing this in public. Maybe that's what made me want to try it, a kind of silent peer pressure. Parents do it. Some even do it in front of their kids. At least I'm not doing this in front of ours. I'd be lying if I didn't say I was thinking about getting them involved. Clothes on, of course. I'm not that much of a pervert.

No. I'm not sweating because I'm nervous. It's this; it makes me sweat. It's a side effect. Are you crying. Look, we can work through this. It's not that big of a deal. I don't need to do it every day. I can quit whenever I want, I just don't want to.

Why are you yelling at me? I don't need this shit from you, Carol. I already heard it from Jerry and a couple of guys at work. Yeah. They knew before you. Boo-fucking-hoo. You're really overreacting to this whole thing. You know, I heard rumors that the President of the United States used to dabble. No, I'm not saying that makes it okay, but--well, yeah, I am saying that that makes it okay.

I'm done talking about this. Now will you please leave? You're messing everything up. Yes. I'm going to keep doing it. It? Why do you keep calling it, "it," like it's a dirty word? Just call it what it is, Carol: it's Dance Dance Revolution.

Master of Disaster!

It was just announced that President of the United States (and honorary Hardy Boy--so says his decoder ring) George W. Bush has named David Paulison as the new head of FEMA. Yes, THAT David Paulison. The one whose pictures you have hanging on your wall courtesy of Tiger Beat magazine. Paulison was a former firefighter and is, surprisingly, much more qualified for the job of "disaster relief" than his predecessor Michael Brown who was an Arabian horse judge before acquiring his position.

I did a little background research on the other candidates and somebody must have made Bush pick this Paulison fellow because the rest of the others were as much, if not more, unqualified for the position than Michael "That horse's balls hang too low" Brown.

The following is a list of the occupations of the other nominees for the head of FEMA:

• One-armed semi-pro bowler
• A Tyrannosaurus Rex
• A professional dirt looker
• A guy who teaches a class on how to milk your prostate (as seen on Real Sex 117)
  
• Saddam Hussein
• A box of banana clips that was donated to Goodwill from the Belinda Carlisle estate
• Belinda Carlisle
• The guy who played the singing apple in the Fruit of the Looms commercial
• A woman who performs quality checks on Lunchables
• Hurricane Katrina

That last one is just plain irresponsible.

Katie Holmes and the Case of the Librarian's Vagina!

I'm imagining that Scientology is going to be putting out a new set of young detective books in the vein of Encyclopedia Brown, and this is what the first one would be titled.

That's the only explanation I can come up with since, I'm sure you've heard by now, but "bitches ain't allowed to make a peep whilst shitting kids out their hairy hatchet wound, yo!" (Dianetics: Chapter 18)

Tom Cruise has had bride-to-be Katie Holmes fitted with an "adult pacifier" that she can bite down on so she doesn't scream out and frighten the baby. I'd suggest drugging and knocking her out alltogether, but that would be too similar to how she got in this situation in the first place. ZING! FUCK THOSE GUYS! I GOT 'EM! I DID IT!

I did a little searching on the internet and was able to uncover a few more facts about this very secretive religion that you may not be aware of (you can't end a sentence in a preposition in Scientology either; it's a crime punishable by being strapped inside a volcano and blown up by aliens). Along with not being allowed to yell, scream, or otherwise make noise that may traumatize the baby, these other precepts must be followed:

• No touching the ground while walking.
• If you blink, ever, you have to drink a boiling pot of ghost alien soul soup (no crackers).
• You must own a sailboat and christen it the Battlefield Girth
• If you ever have a song stuck in your head, it has to be La Bamba, but translated into English (the official language of Scientology and the Winter Olympic Games)
• When losing an argument about anything that "they" consider to be "fact," just call them "glib" a lot. Dinosaurs weren't actually robots controlled by ponies with a twelfth-level intellect, Matt? You're just being glib.
• Taco Tuesdays! (I don't even know what this means)
• All underwear worn must be made of terry cloth and have Alf embroidered on the backside. Is that an alien in your pants, or are you just...oh, it is an alien.
• No breathing while inhaling.
• No laughing during humorous occasions.
• No goddamn picnics.

Pictures from the Future!

This picture comes directly from the first birthday of my as-yet unborn child. I can't wait!

La and Border!

Admittedly, I don't read the news a lot, so, could somebody please explain to me what Mexicans did recently that made old white guys in Washington DC so angry at them?

Wait. Don't tell me. I'll guess.

• They set off a car bomb in the parking garage of the largest building in the world.
• Maybe they strapped explosives to their chest, ran into a place filled with innocent civilians, and blew themselves, along with whoever happened to be in the blast radius, into tiny pieces.
• No, wait, I got it. They hijacked some airplanes and flew them into prominent buildings along the East Coast.
• What was I thinking? Of course. The Mexicans must have been slaughtering hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians in Africa leaving millions hungry and homeless resulting in the worst genocide in recent history. That has to be it.

It's not? They what? The Mexicans did dishes, cut lawns, picked fruit, and helped take care of American children? You're serious?

It's worse than I thought. Now I understand what all the fuss is about. How had I not heard about this terrible epidemic before? It's true what they say, young kids have no idea what's going on in the world today. I mean, the World Trade Center bombing, near-daily suicide bombings, 9/11, and the mass genocide in Darfur is nothing when you realize that we've got people attacking us here within the borders of the United States by working 70 hour weeks bussing our tables and sending that money--AMERICAN MONEY--back to Mexico so that the rest of their family can have food (probably the traditional Mexican breakfast of spicy kitten soup that I'm assuming these terrible people eat).

I hope you won't think me liberal, but I say we need to pull our troops out of Iraq now so that we can have them where we apparently really need them: in the kitchen at Olive Garden.

We Interrupt...

We interrupt this regularly-scheduled blog post to bring you a picture made months ago that was never posted of Optimus Prime fucking a bulldozer in a junkyard. We now return you to the blog post already in progress.

...and even though she was retarded, and I probably should have known better, I proceeded to make sweet, sweet love to her until I was sure that the moans coming from her mouth were from ecstasy and not just your random, run-of-the-mill retard moans.

I almost deleted that because it was too mean. But then I figured, since I had already thought of it and typed it, it was out in the ethos. There could be no coming back from it. Now you're all just as guilty as I am because you read it and you sort of laughed, perhaps. You heartless sons of bitches.