Las Vegas? More Like Las Gay...Gas! Get It?

I don't even know what the headline means. Nothing "gay" happened in Vegas. It was just your random, run-of-the-mill, three-day bonanza of salad tossing and tongue kissing with boys, Boys, BOYS!!!

But that's Vegas. You know what they say, "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." I hate when people use that expression about any place. "What happens in Delaware, stays in Delaware! Woooooooo!" I heard that about Vegas, and, on the 15 on the way there, there were signs that said that sort of thing, but, let me tell you, that's complete bullshit.

Five things that most definitely do NOT stay in Vegas.

1. The tattoo on my lower back of a unicorn on a pogo stick in front of a rainbow.
2. Thoughts of pedophilia while walking through the midway at Circus Circus. It's not my fault a thirteen year-old with a teddy bear and a hairlip is fucking hot.
3. My new, half-Ecuadoran son, Pepe "El Accidento."
4. Buffet-induced diarrhea. By the way, as an added bonus to having written this thing for over a year now, I've become very adept at spelling the oft-misspelled word, diarrhea.
5. Genital Warts.

Five things that actually do stay in Vegas.

1. Warrants for attempting to fellate a homeless man with no arms or legs.
2. My money.
3. The body.
4. Legal prostitution. (For all you nitpickers, I know that prostitution isn't technically legal in Vegas, but, instead, in a nearby county. But it may as well be legal, what with the gauntlet of illegal immigrants passing out advertisements on the strip like they're the Hare Krishnas of whores. )
5. My ability to say, "I've never kicked a Cher impersonator in the balls" without lying.

The strange thing about Vegas buffets is that there's such a strange mix of foods that you would normally never find in one place, but these places have them all. For instance, at the Mandalay Bay Buffet (pronounced Buffay, unless you're the weird, foreign lady that works there and, instead, prefers to pronounce it as it's spelled, Buffett), you can get fried chicken, soft-serve ice-cream, crab legs, and some pasta all within a nine-foot diameter. This is often the reason that another thing to stay in Vegas is the lower quarter-mile of my small intestine; orange roughy and chocolate cake aren't meant to be eaten within even a week of one another, let alone mixed together and poured down my gluttonous throat in shake form.

People never understand how I can have fun in Vegas since I don't drink, smoke, or go to strip clubs. To those people I ask you if you've ever been stone-cold sober at 3:30 in the morning and seen a midget scream at the top of his tiny man-lungs to a dealer at Mandalay Bay, "Fuck you guys! I'm going to other casinos where it's funner!" and storm out of the room as fast as a midget can storm out of anywhere. He even said "funner." This is the kind of surreal experience that must be had without the hindrance of any substances to make it even crazier. If I was on something, I'm sure I would have had an aneurysm from sensory overload. Plus, I know for a fact that there's no way that this wasn't real.

Interesting thought of the day:
One book left out of the Bible, Tony, tells the story of a single father who takes his daughter, Samantha, and moves in with a woman, Angela, her son, Jonathan, and mother, Mona, and works as their housekeeper. This was kept out of the original text because there can only be one boss in the Bible, and to question it is blasphemy.

You whores better start your commenting again or I'll start posting pictures of extreme close-ups of my newly-acquired genital warts fresh from a day's worth of picking and scratching.

Funny Headline About Las Vegas!

I just got home from Vegas a few minutes ago. I'm tired and my eyes are hot. I'll write more later.

Haircuts and Hairpie!

Alright, so I went to get my haircut today because I saw Scott Baio on a TV show and he changed his hair. As goes the Baio, so, too, go I. Man, that was some Shakespearean-type shit I just dropped on y'all motherfuckas. I'm the oxymoronic juxtapositioner; I'll put a eunuch next to a rape victim.

Anyway, so I went to get my haircut today--which looks awesome and I'm so guaranteed to get the maximum amount of lady this weekend in Vegas--and I got another one of those ladies with a chubby vagina. The weird thing about this phenomenon is that the woman isn't necessarily fat. She's a little thick, but it's like she carries all her weight in her Tuna Canyon Blvd. So, she's leaning over, cutting my hair as a haircutstress should do, and her ladyparts start to poke, ever so slightly, at my arm. It's so awkward because she has to know that she's giving me sweet vagina-kisses on my arm, and I have to pretend it's not happening. I've never been to a strip club before because I think it's weird to pay for stuff like that when I can get it from influential children for free, but it's instinctual, when a vagina is rubbing your arm while you're sitting in a chair soaked in ballsweat, to yell out, "Oh yeah! Bring that shit to papa!" and then punch the woman in the nose. Maybe it's just the way I was brought up, but that's how you're supposed to treat a lady. If chivalry is dying in this day and age, it's the least I can do to try to keep it alive and kicking just a little longer.

The thing that was weirdest about this particular woman's area, was that it was dense, like a goddamn black hole. It felt like an elbow, not a soft, tender babymaker. Maybe she's just really fit down there and it was all muscle and she was flexing--you know, trying to show off for me. So I pulled the apron-thing tight enough to show a little male cameltoe--and they kicked ME out of the place? My "Well she started" defense didn't really hold up when she pulled down her pants to reveal that she, in fact, had a 100 percent robotic hairy hatchet wound made of solid gold. All my questions were answered.

Since I'm going to Vegas this weekend, I want suggestions as to what I should do while I'm there. I'm not going to heed any of this advice unless the advice is to go to sleep early, drink lots of milk and visit all the churches in the downtown area because that's what I'm already planning. This is just my way to get you all to comment again since, apparently, I scared everybody away with my song. I don't really have a retarded girlfriend, idiots; she is very AIDS-y, though.

Interesting thought of the day:
Bronchitis is one of the words that actually sounds like what it means. A word that doesn't do this? Sodomy. It's such a poetic sounding word for something so wretched, vile, and awesome.

$22.60?

With the modern age being so fucking moderny, all the shit in the world is getting faster and better and smelling more like caramel than it ever did before. The Drive-Thru is no exception to this rule except for the part about the caramel. It tastes like caramel, but doesn't smell like it--just like my poop.

So, tonight, as I pass by the Jack in the Box drive-thru on my way home from being awesome all night, I see one car in the line and it's sitting at the order window. Cool, I think, I'll be getting out of here fast. There's only two people in that car. Now, this is where I went wrong. I actually thought that something in my life could go right, but my life's like a poster of a kitten covered in water, "It's just one of those days." I pull behind the big car (I'm not good with car names, makes or types, I'm just positive that it was a car because bicycles only have two wheels and only grown Mexican men or the little people I like to call, "My Van Buddies" ride those) and assume this will go quickly. The car pulls away, and I look at the new-age screen that shows your order and, in this case, the order before me and it's at that point I know I'm fucked. How do two people order $22.60 worth of food from Jack in the Box? You know what that comes to? The guy in the drive-thru actually reaches through the window and gives you a hand job with his fist full of french fries. Don't knock it 'til you try it. Now, the thing I don't like about this screen is that I know, if I was in the situation as the fatasses in front of me, and knew the person behind me was seeing I spent that much, I'd try to justify it. I'd lean my head out the window and yell, "It's not all for me. I'm buying a lot of food because I'm giving it to a bunch of babies with jaundice. You probably didn't know that they need nine monster tacos each, but they do. You can look it up, motherfucker. That's called a medical fact."

I also like that screen because it lets me know that they heard me the first goddamn time when I said "No mayonnaise." This way, when I get home and discover the mayonnaise on my chicken sandwich, I'm absolutely justified when I go back to Jack in the Box and poop in their cash register. And that's going to be my excuse when I finally come to trial for it. The news was calling me the Registurder. I hate the people on the news; they're bad with names and not funny at all.

I have Inside the Actor's Studio on in the background right now and Charlize Theron just said she did commercials for Africa that were "anti-rape." I haven't seen all the pro-rape commercials that she's fighting against, so I think she's fighting a battle that doesn't exist. I'm going to come out with my own line of commercials that are anti-eyeball-biting. I'm going to put a stop to all the lobbying I see on TV that promotes the biting of eyeballs. I just get sick of it.

And now, a word from Katie Couric.

Hi. I'm television's Katie Couric. The next time your child wants to play "Eye Spy" with you, bite their eyeballs off their face. That's something you both will learn from.

The More You Know music and swoosh fly across the screen making everybody feel completely smart and enlightened.

To close out this motherfucker, since Inside the Actor's Studio is still on, I want you all to participate in James Lipton's closing questions with me.

What is your favorite word? Douche

What is your least favorite word? Consent

What turns you on? A hairbrush in the colon

What turns you off? Not a hairbrush in the colon

What sound or noise do you love? The sound of somebody lighting Prince on fire (I haven't actually heard this, but it would make me so damn happy).

What sound or noise do you hate? The sound of boiling breast milk burning my scrotum.

What is your favorite curse word? Motherfucking scurvy, bitch! My fucking scurvy is acting up like a motherfucker. You got a motherfucking orange I can eat?

What profession other than yours would you like to participate in? The guy who invented the rubber vagina.

What profession would you absolutely not like to participate in? Fluffer on a porno starring lepers.

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say as you arrive at the pearly gates? Fuck cunt shit ass cock snatch bitch whore ass bukkake.

Famous sayings explained:
"Stick in the mud," commonly used to refer to someone or something that hinders a good time, comes from the following. Long ago, like, thirty years or something, a man was running erands for the king or caesar or assistant manager, when he was asked for a strange favor. He was asked to carry a bundle of small pieces of wood from one spot to another while it was raining outside. He had specific directions not to get any of the wood wet and dirty or else he'd pay a great price. So, after working for hours or minutes, the man was almost done when he slipped and fell with one of the pieces of wood landing in a pile of wet dirt. In a panic, the man tried to cover his mistake, but it was too late, for the shiek or mall cop or mayor saw the man's mistake and told him he would now pay the price. He opened a box sitting next to him, pulled out the body of the man's dead grandmother and repeatedly jammed his ever-erect wiener in her balloon knot while yelling out, "What's wrong grandma? Got a stick in the mud?" So, remember, next time something's hindering your fun time, at least your dead grandmother isn't being sodomized in front of you.

Holy crap, that's retarded. But I wrote it and I'll deal with it because I'm way more of an adult than you'll ever be.

Ladies Love Cool James

Time and again, I get questions from my readers, "Kurt, you seem to have the women flocking to you, how do you do it?" Well, anonymous and completely fictional reader, I'll tell you how.

But first, are you tired of those messy shitstains on the back of your pants or the front if you put them on backwards or shit out of your belly button (or maybe you have the very rare "ass-cock syndrome"--not to be confused with "ascot syndrome" which causes people to wear really gay-looking scarves)? Well, if you are tired of those unsightly poopstains, don't forget to try this new product from the makers of "The Peedazzler" and "The Semen Demon." It's called "A Sweatshirt©." With this device, made of space-age polymers and created in NASA's labs, you can hide those embarrassing splotches in seconds. With the twist of some cloth, this "clothing from the future"--disguised as something you can wear over a shirt without much notice--can help out even the most incontinent person (I'm talking to you Laura "Volcano-Ass" Bush). Imagine saving yourself the humiliation of messy pants with the flip of a shirt. Could life get any better? Only if your wife decided she loved you again and your kids stopped telling you they wished you were dead.

For only four easy payments of $99.99 or one payment of $1000, this "Sweatshirt©" can be yours.
The best part about it is that you won't stick out and nobody will know you're wearing one of our "Sweatshirts©" because of your unbelievable inability to control the stool dripping from that hula hoop you call an anus.

We also have "Sweatshirts©" available for women who have experienced a sudden visit from their Aunt Flo. That means they're on their period. This inconspicuous sweatshirt can be seen here.


If you buy now, you will receive a free "Toothbrush©" for those situations when your years of smoking crack need a little covering up because CPS is knocking on your door. And, if you call within the next ten minutes, we'll send you our brand new "Box©." With this handy device, you can store things, move them around, or even sit on it. Its many uses haven't even been discovered by our scientists or by the team of monkeys and Cuban refugees we drug and make play with our products to make sure children won't die because of us.

If you'd like to order a "Sweatshirt©" you can go to The Official Website, or call our toll free number at 1-800-784-2433.

Well, looks like we're out of time. For all my love tips, you'll have to tune in next time or kill yourself because, really, nobody will ever love you.

Interesting thought of the day:
One day, I'm going to open up a place that teaches self-defense but also serves delicious bagels; I'll call it Tae-Kwan-Dough. Or, maybe I'll sell warm, tasty, flavored beverages instead of bagels and call it KaraTea. Never mind. Instead, I'm going to hang myself with my 25-year-old umbilical cord I've been saving in a jar filled with mayonnaise for having written those horrible, horrible puns.