Guest writer: Uncle Earl!

I'm going to be away from the computer for the Holidays. Since I'm a very devout Christian--I'm going to be visiting Bethlehem--so I am going to have guest writers for the coming weeks. I may take a moment to introduce who they are, but aside from that, I'm going to devote all my time to thanking my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ for being born in an easter basket in the back of a Denny's.

Today's writer is my Great Uncle Earl, an 83-year-old former steel mill worker, now doing odd jobs around town.

Goddamn gooks. God Damn gooks. I swear to Christ, if they would just let me get in a plane one more goddamn time I'd strap one of them A-bombs to it and drop that sonofabitch right in the heart of Japan just to remind those bastards that we ain't forgetting shit. Sixty-three years ago today those motherfuckers went all air-ninja-style on us shooting ninja stars and shit at us while we was keeping Hawaii safe.

I wish that fantastic film--cinematic masterpiece I call it--Pearl Harbor starring Ben Affleck and that black boy from that Tom Cruise movie who jumps around a lot like black people like to do, was on every year. Hell, every goddamn week. It shows exactly what happened to us.

I watch it a lot--every morning when I wake up and look through the paper for people selling military surplus--I watch it. But they say it affects my job. I refill candy machines at the local college. Well, sometimes, when I'm refilling, one of them Japs comes around a corner a little too fast and maybe I get a little fidgety. So, I may have, once or twice, hammerlocked one of them kids and shoved some Good 'N Plenty underneath his fingernails. It's not my fault, the sneaky little fucker wouldn't talk. And no matter what they say, it's not because he couldn't speak English. He understood everything I was saying and he was trying to boobytrap the Mr. Goodbars. I know he was. If there's one thing that those people hate more 'bout us Americans than our freedom (Thanks, George W. Bush for that one--best president ever), it's our goddamn candy. And I'll fight to the death making sure that my fellow Americans that aren't Japanese or remotely slant-eyed in any sense can have their Famous Amos cookie or Milky Way--even for black people.

Now, I hope this thing works, I'm writing it at the Kinkos and there's this older lady who works here who I'm pretty sure wants to do it to me. Maybe I'll get lucky.

Well, turns out I had some mayonnaise on my face. I found that out when I tried to talk to her and she threw up. Well, looks like another night of thrashing around my flaccid penis crying to myself about my wasted youth.

Goonies R Good Enough!

Yeah. This is the Cyndi Lauper song I chose to title this one after. It doesn't have anything to do with what I'm writing about, I just wanted to spite people who thought I'd go with "She Bop" or "True Colors," though "She Bop" would probably be much more appropriate.

Julia Roberts recently had twins, a boy and a girl. And, much like those who have come before her, she has given them names that will more than likely induce their first coke binge.

I haven't actually read any press on the babies, I've just read the headlines, but this is what I imagine they say.

Babies Hazel and Phinneaus marched their way out of the Pretty Woman's vagina early Sunday morning in a Southern California hospital. It wasn't a Pelican Brief affair. One eyewitness reports that the room sure didn't smell like Steel Magnolias or Mystic Pizza after her water burst either. Her baby Phinneaus, The Mexican, slid from the womb landing Full Frontal on his freshly severed umbilical cord. If she were alive, I'll bet this birth would have even made Mona Lisa Smile. Upon Closer questioning, Roberts said that she would like to have many more children. Could this be the new Ocean's Eleven or Ocean's Twelve? I'm going to go take a rusty cheese grater to my jugular now.

I hate when people who write entertainment news write shitty, easy stuff like that with a passion normally reserved only for small children and people who include stuff like "LOL" or ":)" after everything they write online. I actually could have included more of her movie titles in that, but I actually started to enjoy it. It's like a parasite that eats away at me. As I was writing it a commercial for the Blue Collar Comedy show came on and I almost didn't want to hunt down Jeff Foxworthy and sodomize him with a tire iron.

People often email me and ask why I hate retarded people so much. Actually, nobody ever emails me and the only interaction I have with the world is every ten years when I purposefully don't mail in my census form so the worker has to come to my house and help me fill out the form. Anyway, for the sake of this story, people always wonder why I hate retarded people. Well, truth be told, I don't hate them. In fact, I've touched one before.

The following is an actual story of something that happened to me in high school (I've got three pretty good retard stories, this ranks last on the list, maybe some day in the future I'll tell the other two):
It was my senior year and I was excited because all through high school I had seen the signs once a year about the blood drive in the gym. For some reason, I had this fascination with giving blood. I really wanted to give it, but you had to be seventeen or something. Finally, the day came when I could give blood and I quivered with girlish excitement at the thought. In the gym that afternoon, there were a bunch of people sitting around waiting to make sure they didn't have AIDS or tattoos or something and I was one of them. While I was sitting there waiting, my friends were across the gym floor feeding people juice, cookies, and shit (this was literal shit, too--I thought it was strange, but they said that nothing helps regenerate blood cells like a spoonful of recycled butternut squash) because they worked for ASB. The girl next to me, who I had suspected was a retard before she opened her mouth, confirmed this belief once she spoke. She was giving me that all-too-familiar look that I've come to learn: the longing look of a retarded girl who wants to bone me. She said to me, in retard, "Are you scared?"

I shot back in her native tongue, "No! I'm actually pretty excited!"

At this point she began to gnaw on a bag of blood on the table behind her and I thought I was done with the conversation. Alas, I was wrong. She said, "Are you sure you're not scared? You look scared."

I was tempted to ignore her because, being the asshole I am, noticed my friends were watching me from across the gym and snickering to themselves. But, for some reason, my heart wasn't in its horribly hardened and dark shape that it is now and I spoke again, "No. Really. I'm fine."

"Well," she replied, "I think you look scared and need a hug."

Fuck! I thought. Please, god, tell me that a hug is something different than actual physical contact to a retarded person--like they're Peter Pan or something.

However, once she stood up, held her arms out, and didn't say, "I'm an airplane made of meat! Whee!" I knew that it was the same thing. I glanced back at my friends for the last time as they watched on with what can only be described as the this-is-the-best-thing-in-my-life-I've-ever-witnessed-and-simultaneously
-I'm-so-glad-that-it's-not-me look on their faces. I stood up and received my karmic punishment for future misgivings that I would impress upon the mentally challenged community.

It was on this day that I learned two things: 1) There is no God and 2) Retarded people smell like a mix between a new He-Man toy and asparagus piss.

Interesting thought of the day:
Mythbusters marathon Sunday is the best day in the history of man. There's nothing like writing two finals papers and watching insect foggers blow up a house filled with homeless people.

Time After Time!

The entire month of December, or until I run out of them, I'm going to title all of my posts after Cyndi Lauper songs. I've got a feeling I'll run out of them by the end of this post.

Anyway, this post will be a huge letdown to everybody who actually reads this thing all the time because I'm finally going to tell a story I've been talking about writing for a while, but kept putting off.

First, let me preface this with the information necessary to understand what I'm talking about. This story is about my grandpa and his wife and the present that they have recently bestowed upon me. I call her my fake grandma because my real grandma died when my mom was a kid. I don't call her this to her face because she would probably cry or shoot me with her infamous vaginal torpedoes. So, when I say "Peggy" or "my fake grandma," they're one and the same.

I don't talk to my grandparents much because they live in Montana or Arkansas or Texas or Kansas. They live someplace far away that grandparents live. Well, the other day, Peggy called and talked to me. It was longer than it normally was, which makes it awkward for me because my Pavlov-like, telephone ringing-induced erection wasn't going away in a timely manner. She asked me about what I was doing for school. Well, in order to make me feel like I was six goddamn years old, after I told her how I was just about to graduate from college, she then told me to repeat the same fucking thing I just told her to my grandpa. She actually said, "Oooh, why don't you tell your grandpa what you just told me." Then, I proceeded to tell the same information about my graduating with a degree in film and a minor in creative writing to my grandpa who, I could tell, didn't give a shit and probably wasn't too sure which of his grandsons I was.

Come to find out, I hear from my mom that my grandparents really enjoyed talking to me and that they were going to send me something. This is unheard of from them because they never send anything to us for any occasions, and we (myself and my brothers) don't send them anything because, well, because they don't deserve anything. What do they do? They just adopt a bunch of dogs and Peggy whines a lot about how she can't wait until my Grandpa dies. I swear to god, he's going to murder her with a shovel one of these days. He's probably not too strong, but that woman will give you the strength of a thousand old people after she has talked to you for twenty minutes about how she's not sure if the new dog that she just got has fleas or not because he's "a little scratchy and she can't have fleas in the house because your grandpa is allergic to their bites and that couldn't be good, that'll send him right to the hospital."

The good thing is that, on top of this "mystery gift" I was to receive, my mom told me that they were going to send me something for graduating which, she says translates to money. I'm pretty sure, though, after receiving the gift, that they don't actually have money.

This is what they sent me:

It's a watch. Yes. But, this watch came in that box you see that it's in and this box was wrapped in a paper that I lost and wish I could find. It said something to the effect of, "Congratulations, Reader's Digest subscriber! You've won this free watch because you smell like Pepsodent." Maybe I'm wrong about the end, but it did say something about how it was free and they won it. I'll even let that slide. But, come to find out that they won two of the motherfuckers. They won two shitty-ass watches and decided to pawn one off on me as a "gift." The watch is complete shit, too. I'm pretty sure that the bands are actually composed of five laminated Glad twist ties. But, the worst part is the gold face has a fucking Pegasus on it and it's sitting in a canoe or some shit. It's like somebody bought a clipart CD and just picked some random shit and was like, "Alright! Now that's a watch face, fuckers!" Pegasus in a Canoe, by the way, is the title for the new Harry Potter book.

Granted, perhaps I'm being an asshole for looking a gift Pegasus in the mouth, but fuck if it's not the gayest gift anybody has received since that time a friend of mine sodomized me with a rolled-up calendar of Lorenzo Lamas shirtless.

Although, as I mentioned before, my mom says my grandparents are supposed to be sending me money, I have a sneaking suspicion, from this previous gift, that it's actually going to be a three-year-old copy of the Pennysaver-Kansas Edition, and a five-dollar gift book for McDonalds with four of the dollars already used (I've actually seen somebody receive this as a gift from their parents).

Interesting thought of the day:
Harry Potter and the Pegasus in the Canoe hits store shelves in March of 2005. Be there when Harry begins his downward spiral into the dark underworld of mythical beastiality films. Be there as KY Jelly greases up the horn of a unicorn and the series changes forever!

The "Too Much Pumpkin Pie" Shits!

That's what I'm sporting right now. I've eaten, over the past two days or so, four-sixths of a pumpkin pie. By myself. Now, I could have reduced that fraction to two-thirds, but then you'd probably think, Damn, man, you eat some big-ass slices. No, I don't. You do, bitch! I've had four slices, each of which was one-sixth of the pie (roughly, I didn't have my T-square, level, and protractor to make sure I was exact). Pumpkin pie is absolutely delicious. I especially like the part in the middle where the candle is.

Coming up is my last regular week of school, then finals week next week and I'm done. Hooray for looking for a job in the entertainment industry. At least it's really easy to get a job there. I mean, I'm sure as soon as I start to look I'll find one. Glad I picked a field that nobody else ever tries to get into--not one of those crowded job fields like Professional Baton Twirler or Pee-Wearer.

I think I'm going to start wearing a full suit of armor wherever I go. I don't have a "thing" that people recognize me by. For instance, there's this albino black guy at my school and if you ask somebody, "Do you know the black albino guy," they'll always say that they do. Or, "What about that girl with the hunchback that she always puts a Santa hat on?" Check. I want to be "That guy who always wears a full suit of armor to class and also, in something completely unrelated, has a huge package." I'm halfway there, I've already got the testicular cancer.

I almost saw National Treasure this week, but I couldn't bring myself to it. My friend and I had nothing to do, so we decided we were going to kill time and go to see a movie. He suggested National Treasure and, at first I said no because it looked absolutely shitty, but then, out of boredom I said that we should go. But, by the time it came around to committing to it, I had to back out of it because I couldn't go see a movie that works on the premise that there's a goddamn treasure map on the back of the Constitution that can only be seen when you look at it with Nightvision goggles or some shit. I just couldn't. That same friend went and saw the movie a few days later and said that he walked out. It was only the second movie he'd ever walked out of in his life, the first being Clifford.

My Jay Leno audition joke of the night:
You hear about this? According to recent tests, George W. Bush is officially overweight. The staff chocks it up to a faulty scale, but wow, even the White House scales are weighted in the President's favor. (Kevin Eubanks plays a shitty guitar riff and the audience commits mass suicide.) Makes you think.

I hope I actually do get hired to write for the Tonight Show. Though I mock it, I'd take that job in a heartbeat (I hope it's not Dick Cheney's heart beating, it could be his last. HAHAHA. God dammit! I'm a shoe-in for that job!).

Laotian's Eleven (minus five)!

I couldn't really come up with a good title for this, so it's a stretch, bitch, get over it.

Some of you may have heard how some crazy Asian guy (he was from Laos, hence the title) who really loves deer, or just hates Brett Favre, shot and killed six people that were trying to get their animal murder on in Wisconsin. Now he's trying to claim that he was shot at first, oh, and also that he's a 13-year-old black girl from Harlem.

Anyway, I bring this oh-so-hilarious story up because on the radio on the way home there were some guys talking about the shooting. One of the guys on the radio station referred to the shooter as "a jerk." Oh, really? You don't want to get a fine from the FCC there, buddy, you sure you don't want to retract that? Would you go so far as to call him "a knucklehead" or "a real humdinger?" I haven't heard something that understated since George W. Bush, on a speech regarding September Eleventh, said, "Oh, we will find Bin Laden, we're slightly miffed. A little P-O'd."

As everybody who reads this weblog knows, I have a passion for two things in life: grilled-cheese sandwiches and the Virgin Mary. It has been brought to my attention that, finally, these two have come together. Some online casino actually bought a 10-year-old, partly-eaten grilled-cheese sandwich that supposedly has a picture of the Virgin Mary on it, for $28,000. What the fuck? I can buy a 10-year-old, partly-eaten Vietnamese child who will do anything I want on the Black Market for $500. I guarantee you I'd get a lot more use out of Baby Charlie than anybody would get out of that goddamn sandwich. And, you can't fuck a grilled-cheese sandwich...more than once. You especially can't fuck one that supposedly has the Virgin Mary on it. Catholics would get all up in arms saying things like, "He's fucking the Virgin Mary." Then I'd say something classy like, "She ain't a virgin no more." Because that's what I am, class. I'm like Oprah but male, white and sexually attracted to hoagies. Potato, potato. Man, that expression doesn't work in type at all. It just looks like I'm saying potato twice, which I am, but I'm pronouncing them slightly differently. You get it? Don't patronize me. Say so if you don't. Fine. It's like that song, "You say potato, I say potato. You say tomato, I say tomato." That one. You've never heard it? Well, turn off your shitty Limp Bizkit and listen to something else for once.

Favorite new joke of the week:
What's blue and has sex with lots of children?


Me in my lucky blue suit.