The Awkward Brief Conversationalist!

I panic. I choke. I can't do it. I've got a split second in which to reply to some stranger and I always screw it up somehow.

When I got home from work tonight, I opened the gate from my apartment parking lot only to see some red-haired fella I'd never seen before in my life walking toward me. I made eye contact because how can you not help but stare at those freakish gingers? I was holding the gate open so he could take over gate door duty on his way out and I knew what he was about to say to me. I had my response all queued up. He was going to say, "Thanks." I knew he was going to say it, so, this time, for once, I would know what to say in that fleeting moment and I wouldn't be the weird guy in the complex people run back inside their apartments and pretend to have forgotten something in order to avoid.

I didn't even have to open my mouth. All I had to do was hum a little and say, "Mmm hmm." You got it, bro. We're cool, right? Peace out.

The door was open, he took it. My mind raced and I cleared my throat a little in anticipation. His line first. Say it, dude. Say thanks.

"How's it going?"

"Mmm hmm."

FUCK!

The New X-Men!

With the influx the past few years of various superhero-related films and television shows, I figure that it's about time I throw my hat into the ring. I present to you The Eh? Men. Yeah, that's all I could come up with.

Snapz
Origin: His mother and father loved each other very much and decided to have a child. That child is his brother. Snapz was an accident.

Powers: He snaps really hard and loud. Like, sometimes, if he does it close enough to your ear, you might look at him and say, "Come on, dude. Not cool."

Pyoo-Pyoo
Origin: A childhood of alone time and pretending created one boy without limits on his mental abilities. Okay, he has limits.

Powers: An uncanny ability to pretend, his specialty is making gun noises with his mouth. Gun noises that a real gun probably wouldn't make. His sister-in-law is the world famous RARRRR! She thinks she's a bear.

The Knitter
Origin: Raised by a pack of old ladies who did nothing but knit and talk about how cold it is in here, The Knitter seeks to help those suffering the same fate.

Powers: With a name like The Knitter, she better knit. Yep, it's a girl. Girls can have superpowers, too, but they have to be related to things that girls do like cook, sew or complain. She's actually not that great at knitting. I mean, she's better than most, but the superhero moniker is questionable. She'll try to sew her enemies into a very tight sweater, but they'd have to hold still for at least a week. You really need to be careful how you pronounce her name, though; she's also black.

Shhhhhhhh!
Origin: Yes, his name has the exclamation point. I know I'm wont to use them, as I do in most every post title, but his name actually has it in there. There's also a way of pronouncing his name that's not like you may think. Having seen too many Jackass-style television shows, a boy decided to use his powers of Jackassery for good, somewhat.

Powers: He mostly just runs around and papercuts people. Hence his name. It's the noise you make when you see somebody else get a papercut, especially in a painful place like in the webbing of the fingers. Yeah. That noise you just made, how you inhaled through your mouth while clenching your teeth, that's how you say his name.

Priorities!

What makes a grown man more excited than the prospect of unlimited all-you-can-hump time with the lady of his choosing?
And it's fucking delicious.

It's Kitty Sunday!

ADORABLE!

Friday Super Stumper: Saturday Edition (Written Sunday)!

Yeah. Sorry. Shut up. I'm catching up.

Here's last Friday's Super Stumper.

Rearrange the letters in the following phrase to form my first words as a baby.

IS IT A SERPENT, ED?

There were some good guesses, much more appropriate and funny than that which I originally conceived. They were: I seen tits raped, Trade Penis Site, Penis Aid Street, and my personal favorite, Diet Penis Tears.

I think it says something about my track record here that three of the four responses had the word penis and that all of them were disturbing.

I'm hesitant to say what I actually came up with because these are all better than my answer which was "I eat presidents." Yeah. You all win this one. You all get the trophy for the week.

This week's stumper will be much more straight forward.

A centaur walks into a bar, says something to the bartender, to which the bartender replies by pulling out a gun and pointing it at the centaur. The centaur responds, "Thank you." And exits. How much money was in the centaur's pocket?

What's Wrong with That Website!

As you all are undoubtedly aware, I'm a genius. It's science; just like how dolphins can see through walls. Every idea I have is good and better than anything anybody else has had. That's why I've decided to lend my genius to web design. Occasionally I will highlight certain sites and what they can do to improve their websites.

Today I will focus on the main page of the White House, www.whitehouse.gov. I have their best interests in mind. You're going to need to click this one. It's big.

I Hate Comics: Billy's Rampage!

When I Think about You I Touch Myself!

A news site I visit often linked to this page which has a transcription of a Mormon guide to self-prevention of masturbation.

I love it so much. I pasted it in its entirety here, but, really, there isn't much I can add that would make this funnier. In fact, you all can have at it in the comments. Though I will take one for myself.

Pray fervently and out loud when the temptations are the strongest.

I need to see this in action.

Billy: "Dear Jesus, please make the boners I get when I'm around Ms. Henderson go away."

Ms. Henderson: "Billy, I can hear you. I'm right here. And stop dry humping your English book please."

STEPS IN OVERCOMING MASTURBATION

Mark E. Petersen
Council of the 12 Apostles

Be assured that you can be cured of your difficulty. Many have been, both male and female, and you can be also if you determine that it must be so.

This determination is the first step. That is where we begin. You must decide that you will end this practice, and when you make that decision, the problem will be greatly reduced at once.

But it must be more than a hope or a wish, more than knowing that it is good for you. It must be actually a DECISION. If you truly make up your mind that you will be cured, then you will have the strength to resist any tendencies which you may have and any temptations which may come to you.

After you have made this decision, then observe the following specific guidelines:

A Guide to Self-Control:

1. Never touch the intimate parts of your body except during normal toilet processes.

2. Avoid being alone as much as possible. Find good company and stay in this good company.

3. If you are associated with other persons having this same problem, YOU MUST BREAK OFF THEIR FRIENDSHIP. Never associate with other people having the same weakness. Don't suppose that two of you will quit together, you never will. You must get away from people of that kind. Just to be in their presence will keep your problem foremost in your mind. The problem must be taken OUT OF YOUR MIND for that is where it really exists. Your mind must be on other and more wholesome things.

4. When you bathe, do not admire yourself in a mirror. Never stay in the bath more than five or six minutes -- just long enough to bathe and dry and dress AND THEN GET OUT OF THE BATHROOM into a room where you will have some member of your family present.

5. When in bed, if that is where you have your problem for the most part, dress yourself for the night so securely that you cannot easily touch your vital parts, and so that it would be difficult and time consuming for you to remove those clothes. By the time you started to remove protective clothing you would have sufficiently controlled your thinking that the temptation would leave you.

6. If the temptation seems overpowering while you are in bed, GET OUT OF BED AND GO INTO THE KITCHEN AND FIX YOURSELF A SNACK, even if it is in the middle of the night, and even if you are not hungry, and despite your fears of gaining weight. The purpose behind this suggestion is that you GET YOUR MIND ON SOMETHING ELSE. You are the subject of your thoughts, so to speak.

7. Never read pornographic material. Never read about your problem. Keep it out of mind. Remember -- "First a thought, then an act."

The thought pattern must be changed. You must not allow this problem to remain in your mind. When you accomplish that, you soon will be free of the act.

8. Put wholesome thoughts into your mind at all times. Read good books -- Church books -- Scriptures -- Sermons of the Brethern [sic, Cistern too?]. Make a daily habit of reading at least one chapter of Scripture, preferably from one of the four Gospels in the New Testament, or the Book of Mormon. The four Gospels -- Matthew, Mark, Luke and John -- above anything else in the Bible can be helpful because of their uplifting qualities.

9. Pray. But when you pray, don't pray about this problem, for that will tend to keep [it] in your mind more than ever. Pray for faith, pray for understanding of the Scriptures, pray for the Missionaries, the General Authorities, your friends, your families, BUT KEEP THE PROBLEM OUT OF YOUR MIND BY NOT MENTIONING IT EVER -- NOT IN CONVERSATION WITH OTHERS, NOT IN YOUR PRAYERS. KEEP IT _OUT_ of your mind! The attitude of a person toward his problem has an affect on how easy it is to overcome. It is essential that a firm commitment be made to control the habit. As a person understands his reasons for the behavior, and is sensitive to the conditions or situations that may trigger a desire for the act, he develops the power to control it.

As one meets with his Priesthood Leader, a program for overcoming masturbation can be implemented using some of these suggestions. Remember it is essential that a regular report program be agreed on, so progress can be recognized and failures understood and eliminated.

Suggestions:

1. Pray daily, ask for the gifts of the Spirit, that which will strengthen you against temptation. Pray fervently and out loud when the temptations are the strongest.

2. Follow a program of vigorous daily exercise. The exercises reduce emotional tension and depression and are absolutely basic to the solution of this problem. Double your physical activity when you feel stress increasing.

3. When the temptation to masturbate is strong, yell STOP to those thoughts as loudly as you can in your mind and then recite a prechosen Scripture or sing an inspirational hymn. It is important to turn your thoughts away from the selfish need to indulge.

4. Set goals of abstinence, begin with a day, then a week, month, year and finally commit to never doing it again. Until you commit yourself to never again you will always be open to temptation.

5. Change in behavior and attitude is most easily achieved through a changed self-image. Spend time every day imagining yourself strong and in control, easily overcoming tempting situations.

6. Begin to work daily on a self-improvement program. Relate this plan to improving your Church service, to improving your relationships with your family, God and others. Strive to enhance your strengths and talents.

7. Be outgoing and friendly. Force yourself to be with others and learn to enjoy working and talking to them. Use principles of developing friendships found in books such as How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie.

8. Be aware of situations that depress you or that cause you to feel lonely, bored, frustrated or discouraged. These emotional states can trigger the desire to masturbate as a way of escape. Plan in advance to counter these low periods through various activities, such as reading a book, visiting a friend, doing something athletic, etc.

9. Make a pocket calendar for a month on a small card. Carry it with you, but show it to no one. If you have a lapse of self control, color the day black. Your goal will be to have no black days. The calendar becomes a strong visual reminder of self control and should be looked at when you are tempted to add another black day. Keep your calendar up until you have at least three clear months.

10. A careful study will indicate you have had the problem at certain times and under certain conditions. Try and recall, in detail, what your particular times and conditions were. Now that you understand how it happens, plan to break the pattern through counter activities.

11. In the field of psychotherapy there is a very effective technique called aversion therapy. When we associate or think of something very distasteful with something which has been pleasurable, but undesirable, the distasteful thought and feeling will begin to cancel out that which was pleasurable. If you associate something very distasteful with your loss of self-control it will help you to stop the act. For example, if you are tempted to masturbate, think of having to bathe in a tub of worms, and eat several of them as you do the act.

12. During your toileting and shower activities leave the bathroom door or shower curtain partly open, to discourage being alone in total privacy. Take cool brief showers.

13. Arise immediately in the mornings. Do not lie in bed awake, no matter what time of day it is. Get up and do something. Start each day with an enthusiastic activity.

14. Keep your bladder empty. Refrain from drinking large amounts of fluids before retiring.

15. Reduce the amount of spices and condiments in your food. Eat as lightly as possible at night.

16. Wear pajamas that are difficult to open, yet loose and not binding.

17. Avoid people, situations, pictures or reading materials that might create sexual excitement.

18. It is sometimes helpful to have a physical object to use in overcoming this problem. A Book of Mormon, firmly held in hand, even in bed at night has proven helpful in extreme cases.

19. In very severe cases it may be necessary to tie a hand to the bed frame with a tie in order that the habit of masturbating in a semi-sleep condition can be broken. This can also be accomplished by wearing several layers of clothing which would be difficult to remove while half asleep.

20. Set up a reward system for your successes. It does not have to be a big reward. A quarter in a receptacle each time you overcome or reach a goal. Spend it on something which delights you and will be a continuing reminder of your progress.

21. Do not let yourself return to any past habit or attitude patterns which were part of your problem. Satan Never Gives Up. Be calmly and confidently on guard. Keep a positive mental attitude. You can win this fight! The joy and strength you will feel when you do will give your whole life a radiant and spiritual glow of satisfaction and fulfillment.

The State of the Union Is Delicious!

The President's sixth State of the Union address is tonight and I've decided to write a speech for him the same way he would--as a Mad Lib done by a child.

Using excerpts of last year's speech as a template, here's how I feel it should go. The substituted words are in red.

The State of the Union 2007

Every time I'm invited to this bar mitzvah, I'm humbled by the boogers, and mindful of the peepee we've seen together. We have gathered under this Capitol dome in moments of national partying and national more partying. We have served America through one of the most totally kick-ass periods of our history -- and it has been my honor to serve with Edward James Olmos.

In a system of two parties, two chambers, and two elected branches, there will always be differences and masturbating. But even tough bicycles can be conducted in a civil this Mad Libs book, and our differences cannot be allowed to harden into cooties. To confront the great issues before us, we must act in a spirit of Power Rangers and respect for one another -- and I will do my candy. Tonight the state of our Union is delicious -- and together we will make it fatter.

Our work in Iraq is poopy because our enemy is poopy. But that poop has not stopped the dramatic poop of a new poop. In less than three years, the nation has gone from poop to poop, to poop, to a poop, to national poops. At the same time, our coalition has been relentless in shutting off terrorist poop, clearing out insurgent poop, and turning over poop to Iraqi security forces.

It always degrades so quickly. You're welcome, Mr. President.

Unsolicited Commercials!

Hopefully this becomes a semi-regular thing. I'm going to conceptualize and sometimes write commercials for products that probably would do themselves a favor by adopting my marketing ideas. I'll be glad to take product suggestions as I would love to lend my genius to companies deemed fit by the masses to receive such a gift.

Here's the first. You'll find out what the product is.

INT. KITCHEN - DAY

A WOMAN looks through cupboards in a huff. Her CHILD, a boy, 7, looks on.

BOY
Mom, I'm hungry. When's dinner?

MOM
As soon as I can find something
to cook.

BOY
But, Mom. My tummy hurts.

MOM
Fine. We'll have whatever you
want. Just name it.

BOY
Umm, I want...

He pauses, thinking deeply about it.

MOM
See? It's not so easy, is it?

BOY
I got it.

MOM
What'll it be?

BOY
Potatoes!

MOM
Potatoes?

BOY
(matter of factly)
Potatoes!

MOM
(shrugging)
Potatoes.

Tight shot on boy's face.

BOY
(yelling)
POTATOES!

Tight shot on Mom's face.

MOM
(yelling)
POTATOES!

Tight shot on boy's face.

BOY
(yelling)
POTATOES!

Tight shot on Mom's face.

MOM
(yelling)
POTATOES!

Tight shot on boy's face.

BOY
(yelling)
POTATOES!

Tight shot on Mom's face.

MOM
(yelling)
POTATOES!

The boy starts punching himself in the face.

BOY
(yelling)
POTATOES!

Mom throws glasses repeatedly to the ground.

MOM
(yelling)
POTATOES!

The boy is now openly weeping, slamming his head into the counter.

BOY
(through tears, sobbing)
Potatoes!

Mom vomits while laughing maniacally. Through her laughter and upchuck she yells.

MOM
(yelling through gurgling)
Potatoes!

The boy takes a few steps back and then makes a running leap through a nearby sliding glass door. In mid-flight, right before the glass breaks, he cries out.

BOY
(yelling)
POTATOES!

Screen goes black.

Scrolling title card on screen: Carrots. Unlike potatoes, they won't drive your family insane at the mere thought of eating them. Next time, save your family's life and pick up some carrots instead. Well, unless you hate your family.

God Damn I Love the Japanese!

This video hits very close to home. The first time I ever dropped a deuce in a public bathroom, I was terribly disappointed when candy didn't drop from the ceiling. To this day I still look at a nonexistent camera and say, "Yatai!" when I finish. If anything, it at least lets the next guy know I'll be out in a minute; I just need to wave goodbye to my adorable turd.

Encyclopedia Brown and the Donut Dilemma!

When I was in sixth grade there was this huge motherfucker named Tanner (heretofore to be known as such). Tanner was that kid who hit puberty when he was eight and could grow a full beard by 11. Teachers were afraid of him. And, to top it off, he was an assholiolio. That's made-up Italian for asshole.

I was very small in junior high. I was the exact opposite of Tanner. But I was lucky and I didn't really get picked on. I don't know why. I would have picked on me.

Well, one day I had just left the cafeteria where I had purchased a nutritious lunch consisting of a six pack of Hostess donuts. I took the package and started to walk somewhere when I was accosted by that huge motherfucker Tanner. And it was a situation exactly like you'd think. Here I was, this tiny, adorable boy with a grin from ear to ear because I feel like a grown up and I get to eat whatever I want for lunch (except soup from a Thermos), and a guy who looks like somebody's uncle who spent time in prison corners me. I believe he also had a henchman with him as well.

"Gimme a donut," Tanner said.

"Darrrrrrr, yeah. Me want one too," his cohort added.

That was a seemingly reasonable request. That huge motherfucker Tanner and his buddy wanted 1/3 of my lunch. Only one donut each. I was mulling it over when SNATCH.

That huge motherfucker Tanner took my donuts. He started to open the package.

"Fine," I say. "I'll give you each a donut. Here." I put out my hand not really expecting him to hand me the package back, but he actually did.

"Okay, good. One each, remember."

"Yeah. I know." And, in a flash, I took off running. That huge motherfucker Tanner and his thug chased after me and, while I lacked the testosterone that he did, I was nimble and fleet of foot like a gazelle with chapped lips.

I didn't know where I was running, but I was running and they were pursuing. How can I eat my entire pack of donuts without them getting any? I want my goddamn donuts. They're mine, dammit. I looked around and found this old yard duty that everybody called Grandma. Grandma was my goddamn salvation and she wasn't even aware. She didn't even know she worked at a school. She thought she was in a factory putting together airplanes for our boys overseas.

My arms were pumping, my fingers tightening around the package digging into the sextet of preservatives. I could still hear them behind me. Grandma was 50 feet away. I was going to make it.

I stopped behind her and didn't say a word. She didn't even know I was there. But I stared as that huge motherfucker Tanner and his thug stopped, unable to penetrate the invisible forcefield that a yard duty emanates. I was within her protective zone and they couldn't do a damn thing about it. I opened up the package and pulled out a donut. I placed the entire thing in my mouth and smiled at that huge motherfucker Tanner as I chewed. Knowing me, I probably also rubbed my belly as if to say, "Oh, this is so delicious. It's a shame you can't have any."

I finished the rest of the package in the shadow of Grandma. By the way, "In the Shadow of Grandma" is opening up for The Foo Fighters at the House of Blues in March.

Friday Super Stumper 2!

First, I'll recap last week's question.

A man lies dead in a room. He's covered in paint. There are no doors and one window, but that window is 40 feet in the air. There's a hairbrush, a National Enquirer and a pouch of half-eaten Big League Chew on the ground. In the man's wallet is an unfilled prescription for heart medication. There's a gun in the corner with no bullets fired from it because it's made of chocolate. How did the man die?

Hint: The man is dead.

There were some very good guesses. Phil's was the most well thought out which is to say that he's over-thinking the problem. That's not to say I don't enjoy when the guesses are as convoluted as the problem itself, it's just probably not going to be right.

The actual solution is: The man isn't dead at all! You can't believe everything you read. He's just taking a nap inside his apartment. All of the rest of the descriptions are lies. Boy are you all stupid!

The original answer was going to be natural causes, but Ryan guessed it and, thus, blew that whole thing.

Today's Super Stumper:

Rearrange the letters in the following phrase to form my first words as a baby.

IS IT A SERPENT, ED?

Show your work.

This Star Is Going to Be Huge!

Donald Trump, finally recognized for his amazing contribution to the business of show, recently received a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

Known for his boastful nature, the Trump addressed the crowd.

"I don't think I'm overstating things when I say that this moment right now is the single most important event to happen in the history of all existence."

"This star, the one you see on the ground before you, you better come to know it well. They used to say that there are only two things in life that are certain: death and taxes. But now there's a third thing to add to that aforementioned list of things: that I, Donald Blitzen Trump, am the biggest celebrity in the world. Oh, and that Rosie O'Donnell is a huge lesbo. Grade A dyke-bag."

"Seriously, though, back to me. How do I know I'm the largest star in this galaxy of stars encased in concrete? Because none of those other people has their own line of water. Well I do. And you know what it's called? Trump Water. Why pay a PR guy to come up with a name when you're born with the greatest name in the entire genealogical tree?"

"Next season's Apprentice will be held entirely on this star. We're going to take 16 contestants and have them face off in various challenges that will see them having to perform various tasks such as, clean my star, clean the stars around my star because I have to keep property value high, and point at my star and look at other people and say, 'Oh my god. That's Donald Trump's star. I can't believe it.' How could people not watch that show? It's captivating. It captivates present progressively."

"In conclusion, never forget this day because, from this point on, all things will be different. Food will taste better. Night will never fall. Babies won't cry anymore when they're born because they'll know that they're being born into a world where Donald Trump has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame."

Looking down at the two stars surrounding his, he shouted out, "Hey, Jackie Gleason and Tony the Tiger, you're fired," as he smiled and gave the crowd two thumbs up.

Cream of Childhood!

Okay, that title sounds a lot grosser than I intended.

When I was a kid I always wanted to carry soup in a thermos to school, but I never did. It always seemed so cool to me. One lucky child who wasn't me would sit down, unscrew the top to their thermos and pull out a spoon and I fucking knew what was coming.

"What do you have there?"

"Oh, nothing. Just some soup in my Thermos instead of a normal beverage."

"Man, that sounds so good. It's delicious isn't it?"

"I don't know. I guess. Stop staring at me so much."

And then the bastard just pours the rest out when he can't finish it. That's soup, motherfucker! Don't act like it's nothing important. It is the single greatest thing one can have in their thermos that isn't pudding. But who puts pudding in a thermos? I'll tell you what. I fucking would.

I need to get a real life version of Hiding Out going on. I have no problem being Jon Cryer if it means I have access to soup or pudding any time I want. I'll bet the real Jon Cryer also can have pudding or soup whenever he wants. I wish I was Jon Cryer.

Your Hat...

I like your hat. It looks like something I would wear if I wore hats. Why don't I wear hats? My head is shaped weird. It's like a pile of mashed potatoes filled with Skittles and Milk Duds. While that sounds delicious, it is anything but uniform in shape.

Back to your hat, though. I like it. You look like one of those kids who stands on the corner yelling, "Extry! Extry! Read all about it! Henry Ford's new autocars fueled by dinosaur blood!" That is ripped verbatim from turn of the century (20th, not 21st) headlines. It's like an episode of Law & Order: Special Leeching Unit.

What's this post about? Nothing really. Well, your hat. Don't change the subject. I want it. I know I told you earlier that I don't wear hats, but I would if I had your hat. No. I don't want to know where you bought it. I won't go out and buy one. I want your hat--the one on your head right now. Come on.

Okay, fine. I'll buy it from you. What do you mean it's not for sale? Everything is for sale. How do you think I got this shirt? I bought it, duh. Well, oh, now that I look at it, I didn't actually buy this one. Yes. I know it's not technically even clothing. I fell into the barrel of glaze at the Krispy Kreme. If I don't move much, though, it doesn't flake off. It's scaly; I feel like a lizard who haunts diabetics' nightmares. At least for once the sprinkles I put on my junk every morning don't seem out of place.

Your hat is stupid anyway. I mean, what kind of hat has a button in the front? That's a hat that wants to be pants. Well, hat, I have some bad news, you're not pants. You know what are pants? These. Oh, glaze again. Whatever. Yeah. I don't want your hat. You couldn't pay me to take it. In fact, I hate it. I wish that it never even existed, like Josh Hartnett. I hate your hat as much as I hate Josh Hartnett. If you knew how much I hated him, that would mean a lot to you.

What? I can have it? No way! Awesome!

Blunderdome!

I worked on that title for like five minutes and that's what I came up with, so how about you guys stop judging me and, instead, screw off, hot shots? That's the way Dr. King would have wanted it.

Some more people were hanged in Iraq for being brown and knowing other brown people. But, this one was a little more fun. Saddam's half-brother, Barzan al-Tikriti was hanged, but his shoes were too heavy.

This is how an Iraqi spokesman tried to mend the situation.

So what? His head fell off. It happens all the time. He was old. Old people's heads fall off every day. My grandfather, he was only like 60 at the time, he was at the market, bit into an apple and, next thing you know, his head falls right off.

I saw an episode of "House" like that once, too. There was this girl--a little girl, she was seven--playing on the playground, skipping rope and then her head just fell off into the dirt. It was some sort of Peruvian flu. I don't really remember.

But, honestly, it was just a coincidence. Right as we were going to hang him, his head was all loose and wobbly like those bobbleheads or what would happen if you took all the rings off those African girls' necks. We knew that it was a good possibility. In about five minutes his head was going to fall off anyway. Seriously, dudes.

In conclusion, for reals, you guys, please be cool about this.

Cop out Video!

I don't want to write anything today, so, instead you all get this video which struck me as very, very funny. Maybe it was just the right timing, but I found this to be one of the funniest videos I've seen in a long time and I can't really explain why.

Please watch until the end.

Catch you on the flip side, 2005!

Boom! Get That Mail, Bitch!

I don't know where it came from, but all of a sudden I just got this "song" in my head called, "Boom! Get That Mail, Bitch!"

Now, it's not an actual song in that it doesn't really exist outside of what's behind my face, but it is a great song. It's kind of like mid-90s party music. Here's how it goes:

Boom!
Get that mail, bitch!
Yeah, get that mail, bitch!

Boom Boom!
Get that mail, bitch!
Yeah, get that mail, bitch!

Tell me that that's not stuck in your head and I will tell you that you are the worst liar I've ever met or haven't met.

Friday Super Stumper!

When I was in GATE as a child, we would have something every Friday called the Super Stumper. When we got into class, the problem, normally some sort of riddle, would be up on the board and the first one to answer it correctly throughout the day would get to take home the trophy for the weekend.

Well, I answered the last Super Stumper ever, so I got to keep the trophy. Forever. I still fucking have it. I wish any part of that was a lie. Okay, I don't. I'm proud of my Super Stumper trophy.

So, in honor of whatever, I've decided to do that for an indefinite amount of Fridays. Except this is going to be a little different. Instead of a trophy, you all will receive nothing if you answer it correctly. Also, I'm going to make the thing up and it probably won't have a real answer and, if it does, it won't make any sense--like my last blog.

Without any more of that ado-ing, here it is.

A man lies dead in a room. He's covered in paint. There are no doors and one window, but that window is 40 feet in the air. There's a hairbrush, a National Enquirer and a pouch of half-eaten Big League Chew on the ground. In the man's wallet is an unfilled prescription for heart medication. There's a gun in the corner with no bullets fired from it because it's made of chocolate. How did the man die?

Hint: The man is dead.

Top Ten List!

10. Waffle irons
9. Fluorescent windbreakers
8. The Treaty of Ghent
7. Amniocentesis
6. "Me? You should have seen the other guy!"
5. Area 51
4. Two dimes, three nickels, four pennies and one quarter
3. Belize
2. A guy in a shark costume

And...

1. The number 2

A Bedtime Story!

There once lived a boy named George. His daddy was one of the strongest daddies of all the daddies in the whole wide world. Little George was made fun of because his ears stuck out a little and he wasn't the smartest child in his class.

As he grew up, George would look at his daddy, so strong and smart, and tell himself that one day he'd be just like his daddy. Then he'd accidentally poop in the shower again.

At school one day, George was playing Dirt. Dirt is a game where George would roll around in the dirt and yell out, "Look at me. I'm some dirt. Hehehe. It's me, George. I'm some dirt." Some of the other kids came running to George because they needed help.

"George," they said, "One of the trees on the playground caught on fire. We need your help to put it out."

He sprung up and brushed himself off. Normally, under no circumstances would George let anything interrupt a good game of Dirt, but George knew this was it. This was his time to shine. He was going to make his daddy so proud.

The rest of the children ran back to the flaming tree. They hurried back and forth between the water fountain and the blaze with mouths full of water trying to put it out.

This was working; the fire was going out. But then George approached with notions of showing everybody what a hero he is bouncing around in his head.

He quickly gathered as many twigs, branches and other kindling as he could. He took one of the branches he had gathered, lit it on the wilting fire and placed it in a nearby tree, causing that one to become engulfed in flames.

"Look at me, everyody! I'm a firefighter," he shouted.

"George, what are you doing? This was the only tree that was on fire and now there's that one that you started," a child with long hair, sandals and an overall smell of bongwater and Doritos yelled. George didn't like this boy very much.

"Didn't you see? This tree was about to catch on fire, too. It was pre-emptive." George didn't actually know what pre-emptive meant, but while he was gathering the sticks, his friend Karl told him to say that if anybody asked. Karl was an eight year old with a combover and potbelly.

This new tree was different, though--it was a magic tree. As the children spat their water on it, the fire just grew in intensity, getting larger and larger, burning the children with its flare-ups.

The new fire, now raging in both trees once again, was keeping all of the kids occupied as they tried to put it out, but to no avail.

"But that tree was going to catch on fire," George said. "I mean, it was kind of close to the tree that was already on fire and I have reason to believe that it had weapons of mass destruction."

"You shouldn't state the allegorical intent of the story in the middle, sir," Karl said while cutting open a puppy and spilling its blood into his ever-parched, unquenchable mouth.

"I mean, that tree was going to 'splode and kill everybody, like for serious."

"But, George, trees don't explode. It was just sitting there. Sure, it was ugly and the squirrels who lived in it didn't really like it, but what did it do to you? Now it's on fire and anything we do to try to put it out only makes it worse," that filthy, malodorous boy replied.

"Lalala. I can't hear you." George covered his ears and stomped his feet. This was obviously the only rational response.

The rest of the children kept yelling at George and telling him that he was wrong to set that other tree on fire. Unable to form a good explanation for the fire on his own, George decided to do something about the fire. It was time to call in the snow.

"Mr. Snow. That's his name." George told the ever-increasing crowd of children. "You guys will talk to him now, because I'm done with you. I'm going to keep staring at this fire I started and telling myself that my daddy is so proud of me because I'm as strong as he is and that it was the right thing to do and you guys tell Mr. Snow whatever you want because I can't hear you. Lalala..."

"Listen to me, children," Mr. Snow started, "George is a firefighter and his daddy is very, very strong--his daddy could beat up all of your daddies. Sure, to you it looks like he's making the fire worse, but you all aren't looking at it correctly."

"But, I got an owie from it," one girl said.

"And Josh is fucking dead," another child cried.

After what seemed like an eternity of the raucous crowd yelling at Mr. Snow, he decided to tell little Georgie that maybe he should do something about the fire instead of just looking at it and making it worse.

"Maybe you should do something about the fire instead of just looking at it and making it worse." I told you he said that. I'm not a liar. I'm not even involved in this story. Leave me out of it.

"You too, Mr. Snow?" George huffed. "Fine. I'll put out the fire. I'm still right. This tree was going to 'splode so bad and be all, 'Kapooey.' But, fine. I know the best way to put it out."

Not realizing that it was a magic tree and that the water only fueled the blaze, despite everybody telling him that that was the case, George decided to do the only thing he could do. He called in a favor from his daddy.

He gathered all the children around. "See? My daddy tells a lot of people what to do. So, I will get this fire put out if it's the last thing I do."

Just then, the sounds of a helicopter could be heard on the playground; it was one of those firefighting ones that carries the giant bucket of water beneath it. It was approaching quickly.

"George? What are you doing? That's just going to make it worse. And that much water--it will kill all of us, all of us who have been trying to put it out because you told us to, even though we know it's not working. You're just adding fuel to the fire," all the children shrieked.

"What? Nonsense. You're welcome, America." George nodded his head contently.

As the water dropped from the helicopter, the children tried their best to scatter--all of the children except George who let the water rain down upon him as he whimpered, "Do you love me now, Daddy?"

Mr. Freeze Vs. Doctor Warming!

This is the showdown we've been waiting for since 1997's Batman & Robin. Arnold Schwarzenegger has announced his plans to fight Global Warming.

"To quote myself from the 1997 ultra-blockbuster Batman & Robin in which I played diabolical supergenius Mr. Freeze, 'You're not sending ME to the COOLER!' Global Warming.""Wait, no. At first I will be like, 'Ice to see you.' Next I have to let Global Warming know what it's in for and just how much of its ass is going to be so kicked by me, so I say, 'Allow me to break the ice. My name is Freeze. Learn it well. For it's the chilling sound of your doom.' And then I put a grenade inside Global Warming's mouth and pull the pin and say, 'If revenge is a dish best served cold, then put on your Sunday finest. It's time to feast!' And then, finally I say that whole thing about not sending me to the cooler as I shoot Global Warming out of a cannon through a thousand sheets of ice where, at the end, he gets eaten by a hundred lions covered in bees. And California is saved and I smoke a cigar on top of the Empire State Building."

A reporter interrupted, "That's in New York. That's not in California."

"Fine then. I smoke a cigar on top of a replica of the giant building that will be built in the shape of me, Mr. Freeze. There will be a Planet Hollywood inside of my face where you can eat and look at the actual fake belly I wore in the movie Junior."

"It's going to be amazing like driving a monster truck out of a plane and into a volcano that's on fire and covered in guns which are also on fire."

A Sick Note I Wish My Mother Had Written for Me!

Sorry Kurt couldn't be at school on Monday - motherfucker got gout n' shit.

The Accidental Touracist!

I need to know if I'm a racist.

Last night, I was with some friends and we were pulling up in front of his apartment complex after we were finished hanging out. It wasn't too late; I work Sundays. So, we pull up and we sit there for a minute saying goodnight--handjob daisy chain, etc.--and when I open my door to get out (I was in the back right), a black guy walks up to the door.

Startled at first, I lock eyes with him. He says, "What's up, homie?" We're friends, awesome. But, I'm still a little weirded out. I pull my door back some and pull my foot inside. I'm seeing what develops because I don't know this guy even though we're instant homies, just add water. Other people in the car are a little confused, too. An audible, "What the fuck?" fills the air.

While I'm still trying to figure out exactly what's happening, the guy starts to reach into his waist area. I close my door quick as hell and lock it; because locked doors stop bullets. My friend's fiance says, "Go! Go!" Before we can pull away, we hear the guy say, "Oh, my bad. Wrong car." I look at him and he had pulled his phone from his waist; he has a laundry basket with him and there's another black Camry a couple of cars behind us with people inside.

Now, either this guy was about to go do laundry and decided to do an impromptu backseat carjacking (a backjacking), or I'm a goddamn racist.

Am I a racist because of this? I know. You're going to say, "No, Kurt. You're racist for other reasons, like your 'That Hitler Sure Was on to Something' diorama you made in fourth grade." Seriously, though. I need to know if I'm a shitty, shitty person (for this, fuckers).

In Arms Way!

I had a strange dream last night. I don't remember much about it, but I do remember that I was participating in wrestling. Not Greco-Roman wrestling, but professional wrestling, like Hulk Hogan-type stuff. Yes, that's possibly homo-erotic, but I think when you see where this is going, you'll agree that I'm not gay, just afraid of dinosaurs.

The guys I was wrestling against all had baby arms. In fact, that's what I was calling them in my dreams. I was saying things like, "Why do I have to wrestle baby arms?" And I was saying this to their normal-sized faces. I have balls in my dreams which I do not have in real life.

Like I said, I don't remember much about it, but I remember enough to know that you better not put me in a wrestling ring with somebody who has baby arms because I'm not touching that shit.

When I used to deliver pizzas when I was about 19, I had a couple of run-ins with a baby arms. It was always awkward. I would get to his door and tell him it was $16.15 or whatever and then I didn't know what to do. He would hand me a $20 from his infant fist which I would take and he would probably tell me to keep the change because he's a nice guy and I'm an asshole who can't get over his T-rex arms eight years later. But then I wouldn't know what to do. How do I give him his two pizzas? It's always two pizzas. I mean, based on physics alone, he's not going to be able to hold the boxes in his frail hands. If I offer to set it somewhere for him, though, then I'm the condescending idiot who doesn't let the handicapped do things for themselves. For him, though, holding a pizza box is like you trying to lift up a table from one end with a wet pair of pliers. Why wet? I don't know.

What I'd end up doing is putting one end into his active but minuscule mitts and then sort of supporting the other end with my hand lowering it as it just sagged and sagged to about a 60 degree angle and then I'd just let go hoping that's what he wanted me to do. To his credit, he's got some powerful little tentacles; he never dropped a pizza. Well, not that I saw. I left quickly every time. He would always hiss at me like a velociraptor and chase me to my car.

Old English Muffins!

No, I'm not talking about muffins made from malt liquor. I'm talking about the goddamn Entenmann's English muffins that I bought from Ralph's no less than a week ago. Well, like one of those time-lapse videos you see of mold growing on various shit, as soon as I set that six-pack of delicious on top of my fridge, the mold started growing in fast forward. I got to eat three before the rest of it succumbed to the sickness. Three of six. And I ate two at once one time. Come on, time! Cut me some slack. The Entenmann's bread that I buy lasts for like a year, but the shelf life of a pack of their English muffins is worse than a newborn in the Donner party.

The Ghost of Shitsmas Past!

I had a really weird thing happen at work today. As you all know, I can't go pee at urinals because I don't like the idea of somebody staring at my back while I'm urinating. So, I went in the bathroom and entered the first stall and it stunk. Now that's kind of normal for a men's restroom. But this is when things got weird. Not only did it stink, but, as I was standing above the toilet finagling my dingaling from twixt my legs, this cloud of angry shit-heat wrapped itself around my head. I couldn't escape it. I tried moving my head away from the area directly above the toilet, but it wouldn't work. There was no getting away; it was so hot. I needed to call an exorshitst. Yeah. Sorry about that; I had to go back to the well with the shit puns.

I ended up ducking my nose and mouth into the neck of my sweater, but I fear that that was only a temporary remedy. I'm afraid that it's going to stay with me. It's like the end of the Haunted Mansion ride at Disneyland, only, instead of taking home a ghost with a top hat and beard, I've got some Asian guy's hot, haunted shit.

By the way, "finagling my dingaling from twixt my legs" is both the most poetic and disturbing turn of phrase I've written in months.

Tomato - Tomaballs!

CNN recently accidentally captioned a photo of Osama Bin Laden with the phrase, "Where's Obama?" Barack Obama, the likely presidential candidate, has recently accepted their apology for this slip-up, but not without noting that, "the 's' and 'b' keys aren't all that close to each other."

All of this commotion is coming from a guy whose middle name is actually Hussein. I think he has other things to worry about.

But, I do know where he's coming from; I've been a victim of an unfortunate typo as well. I mean, I've forgiven them for the mistake, but I think when typing up a high school diploma, that "the 'n' and 'r' keys aren't all that close to each other." Not too many people can state that they were called "cunt" by their principal via loudspeaker in front of their friends and family--I'm thinking it's just me and Paris Hilton.

I struggled with whether I should give away the joke in that last sentence or let you all figure it out. But, I came to the conclusion that you all are border-line retarded and that I should probably do the work for you.

You're welcome.

DAY 2!

It Begins...

Well, I know I'm two days late, but starting today I'm going to post at least once a day for the next year (extenuating circumstances not withstanding). I'm not promising it's going to be good, but it's going to be something.

Sure, maybe I'll forget one day, but when I remember, I'll backdate like a motherfucker and make it look like I'm posting on that day. Nobody will ever know. Besides, 80% of my hits are from people searching google images for "guys making out." I wish any part of that was a lie. Why couldn't I be the number one result for "funny blog?" Never mind that I'm not funny. At least it may take people reading a line or two to understand that they're in the wrong place. With the other thing, it's just dudes with boners scrolling down the page as fast as they can to find the picture they so desire. My writing is actually a hindrance to 80% of the people who visit. That is no way to live my life. Now, I'd delete the post that's pulling in all the hits, but, in a weird way, I'm hoping that somebody will find my site looking for guys making out, but stay for the hilarious jokes about burn victims. That wouldn't bother me one bit.

So, I had what can only be described as one of the weirdest experiences ever happen to me. Now, this story doesn't have a satisfying conclusion--it barely has one at all--so I apologize in advance.

The other day I was driving down the freeway stuck in some terrible traffic. I'm in L.A., so I know that this comes with the territory; that doesn't mean I have to like it. I look to my right and I see a car with two Asian guys inside and on the door is written, "Show me your boobs" in what looks like black magic marker. Oh yeah, them being Asian has nothing to do with it; I'm just racist. Actually this whole part really has nothing to do with it. Well, you'll see.

So, I'm driving, kind of, since the traffic is basically stop and go, when this car full of four guys passes me. And, when they pass, they all, in unison, nod their head at me. I don't let them see my reaction. I just kind of look away and think to myself how weird that whole thing just was.

Then I start to feel looks from other drivers on the road. Everybody's looking at me. Maybe these guys made me paranoid, but I know everybody's looking at me, taking pictures, laughing.

At some point I passed the guys, because they come up from behind me again. Keep in mind, this isn't a car full of gay guys. They look like the kinds of guys I hate. They're four guys all wearing hats who were probably on their way to some club or Lake Havasu or to rape a stripper. They're those kinds of guys: 'Bros."

Well, they pass me again, only this time, the guy in the passenger seat is holding a notebook sideways out the window at me and on it, in block letters written with pencil is the single phrase, "Hollah!" As they pass, he makes sure to tilt it so that I know it's intended for me. I'm the one that they are requesting to "Hollah!"

Soon after that car, a truck passes by me and I hear somebody in the truck yell out, "Woooohoooooo!" Now, if not for the previous situation, I'd think nothing of it, but every goddamn person on the road is looking at me. I know they are. Why are they looking at me?

There's something on my car isn't there? Those Asian guys didn't know that they had "Show me your boobs" written on their car, did they? Somebody sneaked around all stealthily and shit in the traffic and wrote on people's cars. What a dick thing to do. Who wrote on my truck and what the hell did they write? I'll just get where I'm going and then I'll look there. But every car that passes is looking at me. I fucking know it. I'm not just being paranoid.

I finally can't take it anymore and I decide to pull my truck over to the side of the road in the midst of all the traffic. I'm going to find out what the hell is wrong with my truck.

I pull over and flip on my hazards. This town's not going to make me look like an idiot. I'm putting an end to these fucking shenanigans right now. I step out and rush to the back of my truck to pull off whatever sticker is on there and...nothing. There is not a goddamn thing on my truck. WHAT THE FUCK? I'm sorry. When I get mad I rhyme.

I checked thoroughly and there is no sign of anything being on my truck. It's just the back of my truck. There's nothing on either side. There is no fucking thing on my truck. Why the hell was everybody on the road looking at me?

I don't think I'll ever know what really went on that day. I can't give credit to the four douche bags in the Nissan Sentra because there is no way that they intended to completely destroy my psyche. Maybe they thought I was a girl they could rape.

Yeah, that was probably it. I'm very rape-y.