I've reached my speed limit

I believe the law should guarantee every driver the right to the speed limit.

Let me explain. Let's say you're driving down Broadway, going the speed limit, minding your own business, when some blue-haired granny pulls out in front of you on her way to an early bird dinner. She determines that 29 miles per hour is a dandy speed for current conditions -- even though Broadway's limit is 45 mph. Lacking a passing lane, you grind your teeth, cuss, punch the dashboard and reach into the glove compartment for a firearm, until self-control gets the better of you. Then you just sulk. You and granny drive down Broadway in tandem, taking in the sights, driving at a speed a bit faster than granny's last bowel movement.

Finally, blue-hair reaches the Luby's Cafeteria and, after coming to a complete stop on Broadway, ventures to turn into the parking lot. You're free. But...

You've been cheated out of your right to the 45 mph limit! Here's my remedy: You get to drive faster than the speed limit -- as fast as you please -- until your AVERAGE speed increases to the statutory 45 mph.

Think how beautiful this could be. You'd never get pissed driving in traffic again. Road rage would cease to exist, because every dipshit on the road would give you liberty to drive like the maniac you truly are.


Dude, you got a light?

How many more times do we have to watch those "smoking is bad for you" commercials?

The people behind these ad campaigns believe if kids only knew smoking was bad, they'd quit smoking, or never start in the first place.

Newsflash: they already know it's bad. That's why they do it!

Teens are young and feisty, and they want to rebel. So they take up smoking. How do you expect rebellious teens to express their angst -- by eating all their vegetables at dinner? "I don't care what you say, Pop. I'm going to eat all this cauliflower and broccoli. You just try to stop me."

You'll never stop teens from doing the wrong thing by reminding them it's the wrong thing to do.

I say we flip the script (a little ghetto-speak, there) on these teens. Use a little reverse-psychology. Convince them smoking is good. Tell them tobacco is chock full of vitamins. Encourage them to ask "What Would Jesus Smoke?" Tell them they can't eat supper or watch MTV until they rip through a pack of Marlboro Reds.

In two weeks every teen in the country will quit smoking, cold turkey.



Reading about the Tsunami, I discovered an interesting place: Phuket, Thailand.

Phuket? That's not a very nice attitude for a place that's suffered a major tragedy! I know things look bleak, but surely we shouldn't say, "Phuket."

For those of you who don't know where Phuket is on a map, just look for the town of Ballsweat, then trace south until you see Pissoff. Phuket is a pyubehair east of Pissoff.

Nothing beats 4 great pairs of legs

You know what species must really be pissed? Lobsters. I know I'd be pissed if I were one of those poor fellas. Think about it. If you live on land, you want legs. If you live in the sea, you want fins. God miracled lobsters into the ocean but still gave them legs. Sure, He tried to make it up to them by giving them 4 sets of legs, but it's still a raw deal. They still have to walk through water. Jesus got to walk on water.

If you're a seafood lover, you know that lobsters are a very expensive item. Why is that? They're the easiest creature in the whole sea to catch. They can't swim away. They have to walk! How hard can it be to catch like a million lobsters? You figure a couple drunk Texas fisherman could supply the whole world with lobsters using a makeshift net and a winch. They should be giving lobsters away.

Here's something else lobsters should be pissed about. Everybody eats them despite how ugly they are. Lobsters must be beside themselves about the whole thing.
"Why on earth would you want to take a bite out of me? Look at me. I'm an amphibious cockroach. What's wrong with you? You'd probably have sex with a coral if nobody was looking. Go stick your dong in the Great Barrier Reef, you freak. Hey, leave me and my tail alone. Don't bother killing me before you toss me in that boiling water. I'd rather spend my last few minutes flailing in tap water hell. Thanks, Caligula."
Then lobsters got the ultimate slap in the face when that movie, The Little Mermaid, portrayed the lobster as a Frenchman. Lobsters everywhere were saying, "Geez. I know I'm the cockroach of the sea, but I'm no Frenchman. Do you see any of us running into the net?"

I know lobsters can't talk. But still, they ought to be pissed.

Just imagine how starfish must feel. They can't even walk. They have to find a place to attach their suction cups and hang on for dear life -- like Tom Arnold did to Rosanne for the last two decades. They shouldn't call them starfish. It's not a fish if it can't swim. They should call them starcrabs. I wonder how their legs taste.


Some more ponderables

  • Do you think Arabian golf courses have "turf-traps?"
  • I have to stop eating Christmas cookies and candy. If I eat any more sweets I'm going to crap a Bon-Bon.
  • On Christmas, most people build gingerbread houses. I was low on cash this year, so I build a Wonderbread house.
  • Why do termites eat houses but leave all the trees?
  • If a judge writes a poem, is it poetic justice?
  • I don't understand the term "soft porn." I hate to point out the obvious, but if it's soft, you can't have sex! About the only thing left to do is order Chinese take out and go to bed early.
  • There's an SUV on the market that comes with a first-aid kit built into the door. What does that say about the safety rating of the vehicle when a first-aid kit comes standard? "We've secretly filled John's airbag with Folgers Crystals. Let's see what happens."
  • If a radioactive element reaches its half-life, does that mean it's middle-aged? Does it start running around with elements half its atomic weight? Does it grow a paunch and a goatee? Does it get depressed: "Geez. My life's half over. And I'll never find love. Everybody acts like I'm radioactive."


Where there's smoke, there's a fire exit. Hopefully.

Add fire exits to the long, long list of things I don't understand.

What's the purpose of a fire exit? Specifically, why do we reserve certain exits for fires only. It's not like we're going to "use up" the exit and it won't be there when we need it. It's a doorway. A rectangle opening in the wall of a building. Fire is only one of many reasons we need exits. Cutting out of work early on a Friday -- without being seen -- is another.

What about other emergencies? What about a flood, an earthquake, a bomb threat? What if they cast Keanu Reeves in another drama role? These are all emergencies requiring a near-by exit. I say we should be able to dart out the firedoor.

Some of you may be thinking, the reason is because an alarm is build into the door handle. Sometimes, yes. But why don't we just put the fire alarm next to the fire door?

Speaking of fire alarms, what's with this "in case of fire, break glass." Great, the fire isn't dangerous enough? Now I've got to punch my wrist through a box of glass shards? I don't think you should have to commit misdemeanor vandalism to sound a goddamn fire alarm. If I'm going to break any glass, it's going to be the window -- so I can jump out of the building.


I feel sorry for dentists

I really do feel for dentists. They don't get the respect they deserve.

Teeth are the only part of the body you don't need to be a doctor to mess with. If you specialize on any other part of the human body, you have to be a medical doctor. You get to put "M.D." after your name and watch a likeness of yourself on hit TV shows such as E.R., Scrubs and Chicago Hope. Hopefully, if you're a doctor, you're not depicted by that little bald prick on E.R. with the attitude problem.

Eyes, ears, liver, skin -- even the feet have their own doctor. But when it comes to your teeth, the medical community got together and said, "Hey. You know what? Don't worry about medical school. They're just teeth. Say, how good are you with a drill?"

I'd like my dentist to be an M.D. You've got to know a lot about the human body. What about that gas that comes out of the happy nose -- nitrous oxide. That's potent shit. Think about it. You need an M.D. to prescribe Viagra. The worst case scenario there is an erection that lasts "more than 4 hours." Nitrous can kill you -- although you wouldn't mind at the time.

My New Year's Resolutions

1) Purchase stock in Trident gum; find the 5th dentist who won't approve of Trident -- and kill him
2) Get to know my penis on a deeper level
3) Drink as much diet soda as my kidneys will allow
4) Divvy up my lottery winnings with all my blog buddies
5) Find and capture the "real killers" of Ron Goldman and Nicole Brown, and deliver them to OJ for the reward money.
6) Start a Dennis Miller Fan Club and recruit at least one other member besides Dennis Miller
7) Clone wife. Have threesome.
8) Figure out the ending of 2001, A Space Oddisey
9) Research family tree and prune out all the jerks
10) Take a self-esteem class


Almost All-Purpose

I've noticed many food and baking products have "All-Purpose" on the label. All-purpose flour, all-purpose baking powder, all purpose seasoning.

All-purpose? That just can't be. I'd venture to say their product serves very few purposes in my life. I don't use Mrs. Dash All-Purpose Seasoning to soothe my jock rash. And I'm not going to clean upholstry with all-purpose flour.

These all-purpose products aren't even for all purposes in the kitchen. How the hell do they know what I'm cooking? Does a TV dinner really require all-purpose, lightly seasoned olive oil?

Incidentally, I made mulled wine last night. It was a first for me, and a last, as the concoction didn't pack a very good buzz. Anyway, the recipe called for whole cloves. I went to Safeway to buy cloves: $8.19! Eight bucks and change! For spice. I can subscribe to the Spice Channel for less than that! And the cinnamon sticks were over 5 dollars. The spices cost more than the freakin' booze! I could have seasoned the wine with illicit narcotics more cheaply than that! Crank-n-Pot Mulled Wine.

They should mix all those spices together, put it in a jar and call it "All-Purpose Rip-off."

To hell with Big Oil and Big Tobacco. I say we lynch Big Spice. Round up all the executives and violate them with their own over-priced cinnamon sticks.

Just a burp

I hate when somebody burps a loud and obnoxious burp, the kind of burp that reveals what he had for lunch that day, and then someone else expresses outrage at the burper. So the burper responds, "aren't you glad it didn't come out the other end?"

Yeah, I thank my lucky stars, pal. How thoughtful you were to belch right now instead of ripping a fart 30 minutes from now when I would have been miles away.

See a doctor already.

How much is that birdie in the bird house

Birdhouses must be premium real estate in the aviary world. Most birds have to build their own houses out of sticks, candy wrappers, string, and whatever discarded items the birds can find. And the congealed mess is their "home." It's the equivalent of a human living in a shopping cart.

But a few lucky birds put in a winning bid for a birdhouse. They have 4 walls, a roof, a doorway, home-theater system.

To a sparrow, this must be Trump Tower.


You wanted it when?

I hate hard-ass bosses who use the following phrase to emphasize the urgency of a situation:

"I want that report on my desk yesterday."

Oh, really? Well, it that's the case, why did you wait until today to tell me about it? You procrastinating jerkoff.

When somebody tells me they wanted something "yesterday," I ask them to tell me about it the day after tomorrow, when I'm less busy.

Or, I say, "I want to hear about your problems the day before yesterday, when I had time do something about it, Your Highness."


Amber Frey?

This is why I hate (most) lawyers. I'm watching this twit in a tailored suit, Gloria Alred, who represents Amber Frey (Scott Peterson's ex-lover, the guy who killed his wife). The Twit-in-the-Tailored-Suit is going on ad-nauseum about how Amber is a wonderful and courageous woman.


Why is she courageous? Because she went bellyside-up with a married fertilizer salesman?

I know. I know. She didn't know the guy was married. Bullshit. Ladies, when a guy you're involved with comes over to your place to poke you once every 10 days, never invites you to his place and only gives you his cell phone number, odds are good that you're the other woman. Come on, Amber. This guy sells bullshit for a living!

This girl, Amber, is no heroine just because she slept with a felon. I slept with a girl who would later light my car on fire. I'm not entertaining any book deals. Hell, every trailor park in the country is chock full of women who've "been familiar" with outlaws. Maybe they should get make-overs, ditch the Marlboros, retain the Twit-in-the-Tailored-Suit, and go on Greta Van Susteren.

I heard Amber's already making the rounds in ritzy Manhattan circles. I know I'd like to meet her: she's got an ass worth killing for. But she's no heroine. She's just a massage therapist who bought the wrong guy's brand of fertilizer.

'Tis the Season

  • My daughter worried whether our dog would bark at Santa when he shimmies down the chimney this year. I told her to relax and reminded her that Santa never leaves the North Pole without his tranquilizer gun.
  • I'm amazed at the things people can sculpt from Christmas food products. Gingerbread houses, locomotive trains, trees, faces, and of course, genitalia. Nothing says Christmas like a cookie shaped into a guy's junk.
  • This year I asked Santa for a titanium-shaft, computer-designed, $300 golf club -- so I can hit the ball 10 yards farther into the woods than I usually do.
  • Do you think Santa ever had his reindeer "fixed?" After all, there's only 8 or 9 of them. How about the elves? I guess we'll know if Mrs. Clause ever craps out a 3-foot, pointy-eared kid with lime-green skin and a penchant for building toys.
  • I hate these people who insist they caught a buzz off the Christmas rum balls. Yeah, the thimble of liquor in the candy caused you to strip naked and whiz in the punch bowl at the Xmas party. You think the 7 egg nogs might have had a hand in it?
  • I'm listenting to Elvis' Christmas just now, and I've got an idea. I'm going to design a Christmas ornemant of Elivs, dead on a toilet, with the a banner reading "I'll have a Blue Christmas..."
  • If everybody gains ten pounds during the holidays, how come we don't lose any weight during Lent? It doesn't seem fair to me.
  • For my money, the best Christmas food of all is a nice, kosher Christmas ham.


Some quick hits

The crappier the show is on television, the farther the remote control is from where you're sitting.

Little-known fact: those with honorary doctorate degrees can perform surgery on judges.

If they call it a "nutcracker" why is the vice-grip thing at his mouth? They should call them "mouth crackers."

Serial killers, by definition, work from a list. But how rigid is that list? When I go shopping, sometimes I buy what's on sale, instead. Do serial killers ever get tempted by "impulse shopping?" What if a serial killer encounters a hitchhiker on his way to the post office? Or some twins walking down the road. That would be like a 2-for-1 sale.

Almost all the gold ever mined is still in use today -- just like all the fruitcakes ever baked are still being used as a Christmas gifts.


Attn: All white males excluding John Travolta

It's a fact. Women love men who dance. That's always been true and it always will be. The guys who brave their way to the dance floor will win the affection of female onlookers. And you don't have to be any good. You can go out to the center of the stage and do your best impression of an epileptic seizure and some girl will be telling her girlfriends, “I don't know. I think he's kinda cute. Look at the way the foam trickles from his mouth.”

Men complain that dancing makes them feel stupid. Wrong! You don't just feel stupid. You look stupid, too. But don't blame yourselves. Dancing is a stupid ritual. Don't believe me? Go to a disco, look at the dance floor -- and then cover your ears.

What the fuck are those people doing? Most of them look like they're trying to step on a cockroach and hold back a fart at the same time.

Of course you feel stupid while dancing. That's why the only people dancing are drunk. I needed 4 martinis just to slow-dance with Mrs. Ward, my 8th grade music teacher, at my junior high prom. I was sporting a tromboner that night.

Anyway, women love when men dance. But it's not for the reasons you think. You're not sexy. You're not spontaneous or romantic or fun-loving. You're not fooling women when you gyrate on the floor like Star Jones straddling Michael J. Fox on a pound of crank. It looks pathetic. And therein lies the answer. That's why women love when we dance. They love to see men willing to humiliate themselves to get laid. You're the type of guy she's looking for. If she can get you to dance, she can get you to do anything. If you look like a jag on the dance floor, you'll put a jag in the garage -- just for her.

Guys, you see all those girls smiling at you when you're dancing. You know what they're really thinking? “Oh yeah. There's a guy I can spend the rest of my life manipulating for my own amusement. I think I love him.”


Fine Print

I can sum up the problem with Corporate America in two words: "Fine Print."

Whoever invented fine print should be forced to copulate with a motorized kitchen appliance.

Why should I get fucked into paying 29% interest because I forgot my reading glasses?

After all, what is the purpose of a written contract? To make things crystal fuckin' clear. Specifically, it prevents both parties from trying to butt-fuck the other, and in the event one does, remedies for a reach-around handjob protect the fuck-ee. This is Contracts 101, people. Reading between the lines and hidden messages are the stuff of poetry, religion and people smoking dope, not those entereing into contract.

The written contract was a splendid device, right up until some jag-off invented fine print. The presence of fine print should void a contract and entitle the solicited party to give a free kick in the crotch to the contractor.

In the place of fine print, contracts should feature a singing telegram like those Hallmark cards have. When you unfold the thing, a little electronic speaker plays a melody and sings, "Forget what you think you signed; we're going to fuck you out of your assets and ding your credit all to hell."

When you care enough to screw the very best.

As a rule, the more finely printed the contract, the more fucking the consumer sphincter will endure. And what has the most fine print? Warranty contracts! Warranties are printed with letters so small they could print War and Peace on the Olson Twins' collective buttox. The only thing anybody guarantees is their committment to fucking the consumer over in the event of a dispute.

An offspring of fine print is the TV commercial disclaimer. You know that off-white blurb of bullshit that appears at the bottom of the screen for 7 microseconds and contradicts all the claims that the big, pretty color pictures are making? I love how they try to slip that past the viewers. A ferret with a pound of crank in his system couldn't catch all of that message.

Fine print is the scourge of Corporate America.

You can trust me on that!


Car Fool Lanes

When I drive to work, I never get to use the car pool lane. That's fine with me. I'd rather be alone in one of the other lanes than with some guy riding shotgun and bending my ear off.

As long as we're reserving lanes for certain drivers, I'd like to see a lane for people who have something else to do while behind the wheel. I have a lot of things to do and I might as well do them while driving to work. I'm all about efficiency. You see, how many people you have in your car isn't a good determinate for which lane to use. How willing you are to risk your life is.

For example, last week I was trying to each lunch on I-10. I had a slice of pizza and a coke. I'm here to tell you it's hard to manoeuver around slower traffic with a slice and a coke in either hand. The other week I was eating cereal and I almost Cap'n Crunched the car in front of me. Anyway, back to the pizza. The car pool lane was out (although the soda cup I was using was big enough to pass for another person). I suddenly longed for a lane where me and all the other traffic diners could drive without having to deal with the stop-and-go of downtown traffic. Is that too much to ask?

Think of how many things you could attend to while driving: personal hygene, programming your cell phone, playing Nintendo DS, cleaning your gun -- all fine examples.

Also, how about a lane for Road Head? We need a lane like that. And sudden braking would be illegal while driving in this lane. If you rear-end somebody, you get the death penalty. Sounds harsh, but you'd have to be that strict. I know if my dong is in my wife's mouth, you better not be riding my damn bumper.

In conclusion, we need 3 special lanes: car pool, multi-tasking, and road head. And maybe a forth one for Nick Nolte and Glen Campbell.

Little cuss in a school bus

When I was a kid, I used to enjoy riding the bus home from school. Who wants to go straight home after 7 grueling hours at school? I'd rather spend 50 minutes packed in a diesel-fumed hot box dodging wads of gum and bullies twice my size.

Actually it wasn't that bad. If you were lucky, you got that seat above the wheel well. Just prop your feet on the hump and you've got yourself a diesel-powered foot massager.

They'd pack us in good and tight, 3 per seat. We'd all bounce around like popcorn balls. It would be a nice, hot spring afternoon, with the sun beating on the bus. 85 degrees. And all the windows would be cracked down about 1 micrometer -- Polish air-conditioning. That's what the driver called it. I swear to God. These were the days before political correctness. She wasn't racist, though. Although she did insist that all "polacks" sit in the back of the bus. And the retards.

They herded us like cattle in those buses. If we wanted fresh air, we'd have to stick our snouts out the 1 micrometer breating hole windows like you see horses do when they ride down the highway in those trailers. And we had no seatbelts. In an emergency, you had to employ your backpack as a makeshift airbag. The problem was, if you put the pack pencil-side outward, you became a dangerous projectile. So in a major collision, the polacks and retards would have the last laugh.

You never got a good look at the bus driver's face. Did you ever notice that? I think it's because the majority of them feared being recognized.

I always wonder how the driver exited the bus at the end of the day. Who opens the door for her? How does she operate that little door-opener lever thingy? And how did she lock up afterward? I'd like to see her pull that trick off. That device can severe a limb if trifled with. The driver told us kids that.

About once per week some kid would puke in the bus. You could hardly blame the poor little cuss, what with all the bouncing around. The driver seemed to take it personally, as if the child was registering a complaint against her driving. Sorry lady. Puke happens.

I hope you all enjoyed this trip down memory lane. Feel free to share you school bus experiences.


Real-life GI Joes?

I often wonder about the gentlemen I see wearing camouflage jackets -- not enlisted servicemen, but civilians decked out in camo.

Do they fear being seen? Do they labor under the delusion that others are hunting them? Perhaps Martians would fix their lasers on them if only they could distinguish them from the forest. Maybe they're just trying to blend in. Or, am I uninformed on the latest fashion trend: urban camouflage.

Actually, the jackets are pretty cool. I like to call them "Columbine Letterman's Jackets." I know if I were taking a squeege in the woods, I'd like to do so under the cover of camouflage. But then again, my ass would be the only thing without camouflage. And it would make a swell target for hunters. I guess I'd better hold it until the rest stop down the road.

Robot, where art thou?

I was a kid in the 1970s. The computer age was on the horizon. They were going to change the world. Along with computers, another technology promised to change our way of life: robots.

Robots were going to revolutionize our lives. They were going to do everything for us: cook, clean, drive, serve drinks at dinner parties, do yardwork, play chess, offer companionship, change diapers, displace our manufacturing jobs, etc.

Well here we are in 2005. Where are all the robots?

We have one "robot." You've probably seen the commercials on TV. It's called the Roomba. It's a little floor vac that zips around your house and does a mediocre job of sucking bread crumbs off the linoleum. In the commercial, this old guy exclaims, "It's a robot." Maybe to your generation, grampa. Likely story from a generation of people who never successfully programmed a VCR!

This represents 21st century robotics? It's a freggin' disk. A giant Lifesaver on wheels. It runs around the house like a chihuahua trapped under the dogbowl -- slightly amusing, but mostly pathetic.

Where are the arms and legs? Where's the head? Where are the laser-beam eyeballs and jet pack? Where's the vague fear that after a short-circuit in it's programming, it'll kill me in my sleep? This isn't a robot. It's a clearance item from the K-Mart toy aisle!

Does anybody else feel jaded? This is almost 2005. I want my freggin' robots!

A few crumbs from the brain of an Everyman

  • Everyone knows about women's biological clock. But few people know men have a biological clock, too. I have one. I have to pop a load at least once every 24 hours. And around 10:30, I usually crave a bag of Doritos. You women thought you were under pressure!
  • Apple computer users have a one-button mouse. One button. I can't get used to the idea of one button on a mouse. It's like dating a girl with one boob.
  • You're always hearing about pre-meditated murders on the news. But I prefer my homicides to be spontaneous; otherwise it just feels contrived. Call me a romantic.
  • What is the ozone, but the sunblock God rubbed on the Earth?
  • I'd rather have sex with a cactus than listen to the latest Kenny G Christmas album.
  • I love all these cutesy names for alcoholic beverages -- orgasm, blow job, pink nipple, sex on the beach, etc. The irony, of course, is that drinking too many of them will sap a boner.



This holiday season, my family and I watched the latest round of Christmas commercials on TV, which included the latest in plasma televsion technology.

I had already stunned my brain with gluttony and a few spiked egg nogs when Hitachi revealed its new plasma screen on television.

"Wow," I thought. "That's a beautiful picture. I want to watch a TV like that!"

I'm sure all the sober readers see the flaw in my thinking: that picture -- the one I just fell in love with -- is on the TV I have right now! I don't need to spend $6,000 on a new TV; the one I have is already knocking my socks off.

I can blame my temporary stupidity on tryptophan and alcohol. What's Hitachi's excuse? After all, they're trying to show me how beautiful their picture is on my Walmart 36", Korean-made TV. That's like trying to explain how hot Marcia Brady was by showing a poloroid of Jan.

I'm keeping my television and staying drunk. It's cheaper than a new plasma.