Tux Everlasting!

My younger brother is getting married in about a month, so I had to get fitted for a tux over the weekend. Well, he's having his "Companionship Ceremony" soon; his style of marriage isn't legal in California yet. I still don't understand why somebody would want to marry a walrus, but he's my brother and I support him. He said something about he liked how the whiskers tickled his balls. I said that he could just marry an Italian girl if he liked that so much, but he wasn't budging.

Anyway, so my brother, my dad, and I went to Men's Wearhouse to get our tux on. When we got there, there was this homosexual fellow who was talking to us and getting us situated. Now, I'm not a homophobe by any stretch of the imagination--one of my best friends is gay and my brother is marrying a male walrus--but I'd rather have a woman take my measurements. I was sick with anticipation hoping he wouldn't call me when I hear him say, "Bob! I can help you." Yes! It's not me. Sorry, Dad. Some tiny Asian girl measured me for mine. She offered me a "full release" fitting, but I declined because my family was there.

Then, yesterday I went to the movies to see Sin City for the second time (pretty good movie, very different than almost anything). My regular readers know the delight I take in seeing retarded people in their natural habitat. Well, I was witness to one of the best retard-related things I have ever seen. I didn't see just one mentally-challenged pixie, but a gaggle of them (actually, the scientific classification for a group of them is a pride). And, the best part about it is that they were all old ladies. They were like the Retarded Golden Girls. I even got the telephone number of the whorey, Blanche-esque one. She was chewing on the shotgun on the House of the Dead III machine. I knew what she meant by it.

Interesting thought of the day:
Grapes are nature's anal beads.

No Plane, No Gain!

Well, it turns out that the collapse of the World Trade Centers and the terrorist attacks were actually just a huge coincidence and were not connected to one another in the slightest. In a stroke of dumb luck, investigators have found that it was the fireproofing, not the planes that slammed into the buildings, that caused it to collapse on September 11, 2001.

Also, guns don't kill people; people who don't wear bulletproof vests die because of their lack of bulletproofing. We all need to take a page out of 50 Cent's book and wear bulletproof vests everywhere. And, no, 50 Cent doesn't actually have a book. It's common knowledge that he is functionally retarded and can't read. Plus, if you took a page out of his book, he'd probably cry because he wasn't finished coloring it yet.

Interesting thought of the day:
Gay people bleed glitter.

PENIS JOKES!

I hope you pushed your clocks forward over the weekend because it's time to spend all that Government-mandated Daylight we've been saving up for the past six months. I got a little anxious and pushed my clocks ahead two weeks ago. In order to account for this premature clock manipulation, I'm going to turn my clock back for one weekend a month, two weeks a year. It's like I'm a reserve Marine except I get to live.

I was looking for news to write about and I saw this headline and, the eight year old in me (not the boy that is sodomizing me--he's ten) had to comment on it. Pfizer sees long term growth. That's right. It's a story about the people who make Viagra and that's the headline they went with. They passed up the headlines: "Pfizer Doesn't Blow Load Early: Expects Huge Explosion Down the Line," "Pfizer Stiff Competition for Drug Companies," and "Viagra Company Earnings Increase--Balls, Cock, Balls, Erect Penis."

In more news about headlines that bother me, some Florida newspaper reports that some rocket may not be able to take off on its scheduled day. Except, they must have had a goddamn fire sale on the letter 'f' because the headline is "May 15 Liftoff Iffy." The reporter who wrote that spit all over several of his coworkers relaying the story, and they were too polite to say anything. Now they all have Hepatitis.

So, the Pope died the other day. His funeral will be in a few days when he will be burned and will fade away leaving no remnants, other than his lightsaber, behind.

You've probably heard by now about the way that they choose the new Pope. 15 to 20 days after the Pope dies, a bunch of Cardinals get together, in a very secretive ceremony, to discuss who becomes the new Jesus. The way that they let people know whether or not they've chosen a new Pope is through the use of smoke signals. They're like Indians (Woo Woo Indians, not "Thank you, come again" Indians), but without all the cool names or tomahawks. See, if they're still deciding, the smoke billowing from Jesus Headquarters will be black. Once they've decided, the smoke will turn white. It's good to know that the way they decide a Pope is the exact same way Marty and Doc got the train to speed up in Back to the Future 3.

Interesting thought of the day:
If you encounter somebody with a lazy eye and don't know where to look, stop the conversation you're having and say to them, "Which one of those should I concentrate on, Columbo? I don't want to embarrass you, Sandy Duncan." Then everything will be much less awkward.

Somebody's Making a Big-Ass Salad in Heaven!

Sure, I don't believe in Heaven, but somebody somewhere must have needed a whole lot of vegetable to put in a salad because Terri Schiavo is finally dead. Maybe it's insensitive to say 'finally' because she was a human being, but she hasn't actually been a human being for over 15 years. She was a heartbeat with googly eyes that her parents called their daughter. My dog died a couple of years ago, but I'll bet I could have paid a whole lot of money to keep that dog alive for a few years. Sure, the dog would have been miserable and wanting to die, but at least I still had my dog. And that's what's important: what I want.

Anyway, in a dramatic turn of events, it turns out that the Pope is dying. Some people say it's because the Pope's urinary tract is infected and everybody knows that if the Pope's penis ain't working, he may as well die. Personally, though, I think that it's because he was spiritually linked with Terri Schiavo like Bastian and Atreyu in The Neverending Story. Keep your eyes peeled for flying dragons scaring kids into dumpsters.

In news of a death that actually makes me sad, comedian Mitch Hedberg died yesterday. If you don't know any of his comedy, you're missing out. Look him up somewhere and go out and buy a CD or two of his. The thing about his death, though, is that a lot of people thought that it may be a hoax. Dying as a comedian must be tough because, naturally, people may think that you're kidding. There are only a couple other professions where people don't think you're actually dead if somebody says that you are: FBI Agent, Paul McCartney, and magician. Well, also if you're wrestling with somebody and you go limp because you want to scare them. But people don't usually do that as a profession.

Interesting thought of the day:
"When someone hands you a flier, it's like they're saying, 'Here you throw this away.'" Mitch Hedberg

The Tortoise and the Rye!

In news that is sure to set off the battle of the Century, a shop owner has found that an image of Satan has appeared on a turtle's shell. The aforementioned turtle is the only survivor of a pet shop fire. Where's Peewee Herman when you need him? Snakes!!

Now the table has been set. This turtle will face off in a pay-per-view steel-cage match against that grilled-cheese sandwich with the Virgin Mary on it for control of the Universe--or the remote control.

I don't quite understand why people think that these images of religious figures appear everywhere. I mean, when I was a kid, in the bathroom on the tile I could have sworn that there was an image of a scary fat man looking up at me while I squeezed out Spelling Bee-tension-induced diarrhea, but, even at 11 years old, I wasn't dumb enough to actually believe that the spirit of a fat man was in my bathroom.

Even now, if I squint my eyes just a little bit, there's a stain on one of my pants that looks exactly like the ghost of John Matuszak (Sloth in Goonies), but you rarely hear me yelling "Baby Ruth" at my pants.

People's faith makes them believe a lot of silly things. Some people think a guy fit two of every animal on a boat, others think Redneck comedy is funny. Coincidentally, there is a lot of crossover between these two groups. As a matter of fact, if somebody made a Venn diagram of these two groups, it would just be one big-ass circle.

Interesting thought of the day:
It is almost never cool to let your girlfriend's mother know that when you get an erection you yell out, "By the power of Greyskull!"