Random Variables

  • If a train “derails,” shouldn’t a car be able to “de-road?” Can a pedestrian “de-sidewalk?” Hey, if I’m on the crapper, can I dethrone?
  • Calling in sick for work is a lot like vomiting. You hate doing it. But you feel wonderful immediately afterward.
  • Here’s the difference between Hip Hop and Rap Music: Hip Hop is about what men want to do to women. Rap tends to be about what men want to do to men. And also, Rap tends to use the word “fuck” more.
  • Anybody who’s so fat they have to pay for two airline tickets should -- in all fairness -- be able to drive in the carpool lane legally. I’m just sayin’.
  • You get better customer service from a vending machine than a Taco Bell. How about those little Einsteins, huh? Hey Taco Bell, Inc. Forget the drug test. Make your employees pass an I.Q. test!
  • If we all wore mood rings we’d never have to ask each other how we’re doing. Heaven.
  • It’s funny that our currency reads “In God We Trust.” If we really trusted God, we wouldn’t chase after money.
  • We used to call them “pirates.” Now we call them “seamen.” I’m not making this up. That’s what we call sailors now. No wonder the Navy is having trouble recruiting. Your job title is a synonym for some dude’s spunk. Even a Cambodian refugee has a more impressive title: boat person.
  • I read that safety designers are working on an airbag for motorcycles. I don’t get it. Unless you’re restrained in a compartment of some kind, all an airbag will do is change the direction your body flings. Putting a high-tech jumping castle in front of a motorcycle won’t help the poor bastard: he’ll just bounce backward at 80 miles per hour. Motorcycle airbag = human superball.
  • I don’t understand gift cards. Basically you’re saying “Here. Go pick out your own gift. I can’t think of anything.” Why not just give cash?
  • If time is money, why don’t homeless people have more spare change? They’ve got all the time in the world, yet they keep hitting me up for a dollar.
  • The only advice you can’t give to yourself: Do as I say, not as I do.
  • Everybody knows that Englishmen drive on the left side of the road, but few people know that Englishmen’s hearts are on the right side of their body. In fact, all their internal organs are inverted left-to-right. Also, the French have their heads up their asses.


New Year's Resolutions

Christmas behind us, we’ve directed our attention to the New Year and, of course, our Resolutions. Already many web logs feature the authors’ resolutions for 2006. I’m sure those of you reading are kicking around the idea of a few resolutions if you haven’t already reduced them to writing. Before you draft your Resolutions, I invite you to consider my advice. I’ve been resolving to do stuff for over 2 decades now. Perhaps you can profit from my experience with the New Year’s Resolution. For example, last year I resolved to:

  • Purchase stock in Trident Gum; find the 5th dentist who doesn’t approve; kill him.
  • Get to know my penis on a deeper level.
  • Drink as much diet soda as my kidneys will allow.
  • Divvy up my lottery winnings with all my blogger friends.
  • Find and capture the “real killers” of Ron Goldman and Nicole Brown; deliver them to OJ for the reward money.
  • Clone wife, have threesome.
  • Research my family tree and prune out all the jerks.
  • Figure out the ending to 2001, A Space Odyssey.
  • Take a self-esteem class.

I’m happy to report I’ve succeeded in no less than 3 of the above! You’re probably wondering what elements make for a successful Resolution. I’m glad you asked. Incorporate the following into your Resolutions and you’re sure to have a happy, prosperous New Year:

1) Success begins at home. Get your home in order first.
Example Resolution: Give the wife gentle reminders to leave the toilet seat in its upright position where it belongs.

2) Improve your marketability. Outsourcing and technological advances have made the job market more competitive than ever. You should constantly reinvent yourself and add to your skill set.
Example Resolution: Become fluent in that cool “mizzle fizzle” language that Snoop Doggy Dog invented. Then, make sure to check the “bilingual” box on job applications.

3) Be a patriot. Do something to help your country.
Example Resolution: Train for competitive eating so I can finally beat that Japanese fucker who robs us of our national dignity by eating more hotdogs on the 4th of July than American slobs 3 times his bodyweight.

4) Don’t forget physical fitness.
Example Resolution: Sign up for that auto-fellatio yoga class you read about on that flyer.

5) Give yourself a fashion make-over to go with the new you.
Example Resolution: Bring the Speedo swimsuit back into style. Stuff as needed.

6) Show gratitude to those who’ve earned it.
Example Resolution: Stop by my old anger management workshop and piss in my counselor’s gas tank. And if it’s a convertible, take a dump on the console.

7) Quantify your resolutions. The most effective goals can be measured.
Example Resolution: Send American Idol contestant Bo Bice 30% more hate-mail this year. Encourage him to shave and get a haircut. Stinkin’ hippie. Also, remind him that his goatee looks like Kelly Clarkson’s twat patch.

8) Drop some of those bad habits by scaling back. Research shows that gradual cut-backs are more effective than quitting “cold turkey.”
Example Resolution: Only do blow and rock when I’m at the titty bar. Elsewhere, stick to Nyquil and Epicac cocktails.

9) Improve your performance at work. Success at work means success in life.
Example Resolution: Purchase and apply talcum powder to scrotum every morning so I don’t have to itch my sack 19 times per day. Or instead, quit job at the food processing plant. Either way, stop having to listen to colleagues exclaim “Damn, wash your hands first, man!”

I hope you profit from the above 9 tips for making New Year's Resolutions. Good luck, Godspeed, and Happy New Year!


Santa Claus is blogging to town

Christmas vacation gave us school kids a lot of time to think about the man for whom we celebrate Christmas. No, not Jesus -- He got Easter and every Sunday my parents didn’t accidentally sleep in for church. I’m talking about Santa Claus. Say, who do you think would win in a fight? Jesus or Santa Claus?

Santa fascinated me. I contemplated Santa daily from Thanksgiving until Christmas Morning. I remember asking my parents about Santa Claus -- not if he were real (of that I was certain!) -- rather, why didn't he use his magical, gift-giving powers to pay off our mortgage last Christmas? Or, how about World Peace and a kick-ass Corvette? Why didn’t he cure my uncle’s drinking problem -- or at least transport him out of jail for the holidays? These are the kinds of questions parents face when they allow their child to believe in Santa Claus until he's 15. It’s a good thing my folks finally let me in on the gag: I was planning to ask for a fake I.D. and my very own Taiwanese sex slave that Christmas. And a Nintendo.

When you discover the truth about Santa, you don’t feel disappointment. You feel excitement. You yearn to tell every kid younger than you that Santa isn't real. Five minutes after learning that Santa is really your mom and dad, you suddenly become the Paul Revere of your neighborhood.

[Marching the street and shouting] THERE'S NO SANTA. IT'S REALLY MOM AND DAD PLAYING A TRICK ON YOU. Surrender your hopes and dreams, little ones. Santa is a myth! The Santa you met at the mall is just a recovering alcoholic who squeaked by a criminal background check. Santa isn’t real.”

Nothing brings more joy around the holidays than shattering the dreams of kids a year younger than you.


Macho, macho men

You know who I feel sorry for? The Cowboy from the Village People. Oh sure. He’s got high cheekbones, a cool gun and a wardrobe to die for. But it seems to me the man(?) was cursed with being ahead of his time.

You all know what I’m getting at. It’s this new movie, Tent-Pole Mountain, or whatever the hell they call it, the one featuring two gay cowboys as romantic leads. You read it right: two cowboys -- and they’re queer. And by “queer,” I don’t mean “odd.” I mean beanbags-across-a-stubbly-chin gay. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have a problem with gays or cowboys. And I suppose it’s possible that both things can happen to a guy at the same time -- being responsible for the day-to-day operation of a cattle farm and somehow finding a penis to be just the right object to insert in a rectum. Fine.

I wonder what this movie is about. Is the bunkhouse in desperate need of window treatments and these two cowboys rise to the challenge? Is the Indian Chief not a bloodthirsty savage, but merely a misunderstood loner in need of some male companionship? Maybe our two cowboys can be the bread for the Chief’s beef jerky sandwich? Before paleface make sandwich, must smoke peace pipe. You tell’em, Chief Twinkle Eye.

Now back to the Village People Cowboy: can you see why I feel sorry for him? This guy was poking his ass out of those chaps on stage for 30 years before the protagonists in Tent-Pole Mountain witnessed a desert sunset in each other’s arms. He never got the attention and media hype this movie is getting. Heck, most guys didn’t even catch the subtle fact that the Cowboy et al. were advocating a gay lifestyle. I didn’t realize it myself. Of course I was only a kid. But even the older kids didn’t notice. The local bully would sing “In the Navy” while kicking the crap out of us. Somehow, it just worked. Think about it. You feel more macho when you hear a Village People song. Don’t you? Those guys could have done the soundtrack for Manhood itself. Gay? Nonsense. Back in the 70s, those guys were men’s men. Even Hitler-Revival groups sang along to the Village People. That was good, clean, white, Anglo-Saxon, Christian stuff. Heil Felipe the Indian! I’ll bet there were some blushing neo-Nazis around 1983 when it dawned on us that the Village People were the 1970’s equivalent of Boy George!

The Village People Cowboy must be kicking himself through his ass-less chaps. I’ll bet he’s storming around his classic-six apartment, delivering a soliloquy to the effect of:

“What the hell do I have to do to get some media spotlight? So now gay cowboys are hip? Now Oprah’s telling everybody to go see a couple ambiguous cowboys fasten each other’s saddles in a movie? Where the hell was all this pomp back in 1978? I paved the way for these two breeders. I’m the pioneer. I’m the trailblazer. Me. I’m the one who lubricated the way for these two cowpokes to hump their way into America’s hearts. And it hasn’t been easy. I’ve been dodging the clumsy advances of that greasy Indian. I’ve been poking fake pistols into my package. I’ve dropped thousands of dollars into moustache wax and leather cleaner. And this is the thanks I get? Screw that Donnie Darko Dipstick. You know the producer did. How else do you think he got that part? Ooh, Cowboy, you still got it!”

So I feel sorry for The Cowboy. This should have been his day in the tanning booth.

Oh, now I remember the name of that movie. It’s called “Brokeback Mountain,” or as critics will soon dub it, “The feel-good movie of the queer.

[Rimshot. Fade out.]


More bullets

  • I’d kill for a little peace in my life.
  • Anybody who can’t see what a nice guy I am must be a real jerk.
  • I’d love to be more optimistic. On second thought, optimism probably wouldn’t do me any good, anyway.
  • How stupid it was for me not to realize sooner how smart I am!
  • Please don’t end your sentences with prepositions. It’s one thing I won’t put up with.
  • Hold on. I’m planning my next act of spontaneity.
  • I don’t have the time to shop for a watch.
  • From time to time I rob Peter to Pay Paul, but I’ll never fool Sallie Mae.
  • If you want see into your future, take a look at what you’ve left behind.
  • If the Lord helps those who help themselves, how come so many car thieves wind up in jail?
  • A bad day fishing is better than a good day at work, unless you’re a professional fisherman, in which case it’s a tie.
  • When you wish somebody a Merry Christmas and they snidely remark that they don’t celebrate Christmas, promptly wish them a crappy one, then, instead.


Firing off more bullets

  • I overdosed on placebos last Wednesday. It turns out I only thought I overdosed.
  • Speaking of placebos, did you know they’re typically sugar pills? Why sugar? You want the placebo to fool the person taking it. You’re not going to fool them if the pill tastes good. Pills aren’t supposed to taste good. They’re supposed to taste like powdered battery acid. If I’m ever in an experimental group and the tester gives me a sweet-tasting pill, I’m gonna give him a double-blind punch in the gut.
  • Sometimes, just to freak my wife out, I’ll take my shirt off, stand in front of our mirror, look myself in the eye and say “Rule #1: Don’t talk about Fight Club. Rule #2: DO NOT talk about Fight Club.”
  • Catch 22: Let’s say you’ve got a cold. You can’t inhale through your nose without nasal spray, but you can’t administer nasal spray without inhaling through your nose. Boogers and whatnot.
  • Due to your municipality’s commitment to the separation of Church and State, red-and-green traffic control devices have been banned around the non-denominational holiday season. From now until February 1st, all traffic lights will shine crimson for STOP, and lime for GO. The yellow CAUTION light will be amber. Drive safely and have a happy non-denominational holiday season.
  • I don’t see why companies install hidden cameras and microphones to eavsdrop on employees. If they want to learn the truth fill the water cooler with gin.
  • When people say they “want nice things,” what they mean is “nicer things than others.” After all, everything we have today is pretty nice.
  • Unless you’re Helen Keller or Tommy, you’re AWARE of AIDS and breast cancer. Now can we stop with the commercials, run/walks and wristbands?
  • I’m never so proud as when I read what I just wrote. I’m never so embarrassed as when I read what I wrote a year ago.
  • I know sometimes it seems that women have to put up with more than men. But ladies, here’s something to cheer you up: it’s much easier for women to simulate a penis than it is for men to simulate a vagina.



  • I object to the phrase “picking one’s brain” unless you’re filming a movie about zombies. If you need help -- seek someone’s counsel, ask for advice, seek somebody’s opinion. Please don’t “pick their brain” unless you’re a member of the undead or a werewolf.
  • Whenever I ride the escalators at the mall I feel like royalty. It’s such a regal activity. Isn’t it? I feel elevated, important, distinguished. I half-expect a concierge to announce me when I arrive at the second floor. It’s never happened. Sometimes an old hag in a white suit will spray me with some Stetson cologne, though.
  • Tofu is to meat as a blow-up doll is to a real, naked girl. They just ain’t the same thing.

Ode to an Old Lady:

Oh my hip! Oh my back! Oh, m’knee!
Gotta shit. Gotta fart. Gotta pee.

Every joint on my bony body hurts.
When I take a crap it shoots in bloody spurts.

I can’t sit up. I can’t lie down. Help!
Every time I try to move I have to yelp.

Take a gander up my dress if you must.
Not much to see. Just a cavern filled with dust.

  • The other day I saw a guy on a motorcycle riding in the carpool lane. Pure balls.
  • I’ve often read surveys that ask men what they first notice in a woman. I answer that question with a question: Is she walking toward me or away from me?
  • The difference between zero and a little is a lot. This idea gives me hope.
  • What do you call a great-looking woman who’s not so bright? A foxymoron.


Could a CAR fit in Santa's bag?

I saw an ad on TV tonight that encouraged buying your spouse a Mercedes for Christmas. A car. A luxury car. For Christmas.

When did a luxury car become a reasonable request for a Christmas gift? I know the economy is doing well. But can people afford cars as gifts nowadays? If so, I’m going to have to get a second job. I’m having trouble scraping together the cash for a remote-control car for my kid.

Let’s say you are asking for a car this Christmas. How do you bring that up to your spouse?

"Honey, this Christmas I’d like a new car. Nothing too fancy. Something in a Mercedes sedan. Oh, and if you have time, can you pick me up a 2-carat diamond ring with a platinum setting, 10,000 shares of Bethlehem Steel, a summer home in Fiji, and a can of Planters Sweet 'n' Crunchy peanuts. I love those."

I'm pushing my luck just asking for a Christmas blow job. But I persist. Last year I got one by convincing my wife that my jism would taste like cookie dough on account of all the Christmas cookies I’d been eating. She fell for it. This is what they mean when they recommend you get “creative” in bed to keep things “fresh.” Take that, Cosmopolitan!

A few Christmases ago, I asked for a GameBoy. The wife eventually caved, but I spent the entire holiday season in suspense. Those Gameboys were pricy. I gave it a 50%-50% chance. I got the Gameboy -- and a Christmas hummer, come to think of it -- but a car is simply out of the question!

If your spouse can afford to buy you a Mercedes for Christmas, then you don't need to wait until Christmas for a Mercedes. You know what I mean?

Christmas is all about toys. Even though I’m an adult, I still want to find toys under the tree on Christmas morning. Today’s toys are more complex than the ones from my childhood. When I was young, we had pogo sticks, Slip-n-Slides, and the Sit-and-Spin. Most of the toys we had involved bouncing up and down or spinning in a circle. The Slinky was a high-tech toy in my day. Here’s some free advice: don’t try to have sex with one of those.

Today's kids are landing 747s at LAX on a Game Cube flight simulator. These little Nintendo-playin' bastards wouldn't know a Sit-and-Spin from a Speak-n-Spell.

I long for the good ole days when toys caused head trauma or vomiting. Nowadays, the worst injury a kid sustains is spraining his Cheetos-laden button finger while killing hookers in a game of Grand Theft Auto.

I feel cheated.



  • Here’s a new word you can use around the holidays: Turquelent (TURK-yoo-lent), adj. 1) The quality or condition of perfectly cooked turkey whose meat is fully cooked, yet remains moist and tender and that falls from the bone with little effort. 2) n., a chick with really nice cans.
  • If Einstein was so smart, how did he miss the i-before-e rule?
  • For every middle-aged woman who discovered her “inner-goddess,” somebody will get cut off in traffic by an SUV with obnoxious bumper stickers on it. Deities should have to obey traffic statutes, too.
  • To Know Her Is to Love Her, but to Buy Her a Drink Is to Sleep with Her.
  • You know those liquor gift boxes you see around the holidays? They include a bottle of liquor and a couple really nice glasses, or a flask, or a martini kit or whatever. They’re nice. I think they should make one with a whiskey bottle and a firearm.
  • I may not be the best lover in the world, but I’m definitely one of the fastest. When it comes to sex, it’s all about efficiency.
  • When it comes to politics, it’s not the people with the best ideas affecting change. It’s the people with the biggest mouths. That's why things get screwed up sometimes.
  • I don’t think plant life should have an advocacy group. People trying to save the “rain forest” or the marshlands should go find an animal that needs saving. Plants are the most resilient form of life on the planet. Remember that meteor that hit the Earth a while back? It killed the dinosaurs and most animals. Plant life thrived. Even cockroaches marveled at their survivability. I can’t even kill the weeds in my backyard and I’m trying to do that. Plant life doesn’t need saving.
  • I don’t believe in “light pollution” or “noise pollution.” How can either exist? To me, “pollution” implies something undesirable that’s accumulating. You get stuck with more of it with time. Light and noise can’t accumulate. Therefore, they can’t pollute. They can be nuisances, but not pollutants.
  • People have $5,000 for boob jobs and hair plugs but they gripe at an $80 health insurance premium. I guess it’s true: it’s better to look good than to feel good.
  • Sometimes I get angry at work. Then some rosy-cheecked optimist will approach me and ask, “Where’s your sense of humor?” After suppressing the urge to strike the person, I usually respond, “I’m all out of humor. I spent it all laughing at my aquital for 2nd degree murder. Tainted evidence.” They usually leave me alone after that.


Chewing the fat

You hear a lot of talk lately about taxing fattening foods. The rationale behind the movement is: fat people put an undue burden on the healthcare industry; certain foods make us fat; those foods, therefore, should be taxed and the proceeds applied to healthcare costs.

Bullyshite! Fat people cost us money, not fattening food, which may or may not attach to your waistline. It depends on genetics, lifestyle, physical activity, and how much sex and cocaine you get.

I personally hate the idea of taxing fattening foods. And I hate that we’re singling out fat people, who deserve as much respect and consideration as any other addict. But that’s the way the wind is blowing. So I have a suggestion:

I say we have everybody scale in on April 15th. We can have a big, April 15th weigh-in down at the local IRS headquarters. The scale prints a weight receipt which you include in your tax return.

If you exceed the standard deduction for weight, you have to fill out a new form. You've heard of the 1040-EZ? Now we'd have the 1040-FF, or 1040 Fat Fuck schedule.

All these fat fucks would pay by the pound -- for healthcare, and for taking up too much space at the local shopping mall. Have you tried to maneuver around these people while passing Cinnabuns? They back up mall traffic worse than cheese backs up Orson Wells’ colon.

How’s that for compassion? If the government wants to insinuate itself into our lives, do it right! Make fat people eat the costs of healthcare. Leave the food alone!


Some more random stuff.

  • I received a letter from my HOA requesting that I remove the “coupling reindeer” from my roof. Screw them! They’re staying until Three Kings Day. Jeez, seems like everybody’s attacking Christmas these days!
  • Scrapbooking is suddenly all the rage. How do scrapbooking and photography co-exist in the same century? Shouldn’t the former have gone out of style in about 1880? If I would have known it would still be around, I’d have worked harder in Arts and Crafts. Scrapbooks typically have a theme. You know what would be a good theme for ladies? Ex-boyfriends and Failed Romances. You could paste old condom wrappers, restraining orders, positive pregnancy tests, the word “cocksucker” pasted in little beads and glitter, beer bottle caps from that night he went “domestic.” Sweet nothings.
  • If this is the information age, how do “psychics” stay in business? And what’s with “palmistry?” It sounds like a good place to go for a hand job.
  • Those of you who champion diversity should remember our college campuses are severely lacking in midget lesbian neo-Nazi professors who drive SUVs with naked lady mudflaps.
  • The more health food supplements you take, the sicker you are. Also, the more psychotherapy a person has completed, the crazier the motherfucker is. I know a guy who after 5 years of therapy can’t handle the emotional turmoil of assembling a ham sandwich. Also, people who take St. John’s Wort are real douche bags.
  • When TV programs came over the airwaves, it was free. Then they started using cable. Now it costs money. Sure you’ve got more channels. But they’ve got more commercials, the economic incentive for television. It should balance out.
  • Why can you say so little without getting in trouble, but you can write just about anything and people love it? I find this doubly strange; once you write something, you can’t deny having said it!
  • When I’m interviewing for a job and I realize I don’t want the job after all, I ask the recruiter “so, what’s your policy on long lunches, frequent sick-days and kicking the shit out of the boss?”


Grammar school blues

When I was in grammar school, sometimes I’d erase a mistake and the smudge wouldn’t lift from the paper. So then I’d really have to work that eraser back and forth. Wichick wichickwichick wichickwichick. Suddenly the paper would rip. The tearing sound would break the silence of the classroom and the whole class would look at me and laugh. Screw you guys and your perfect penmanship.

Here’s another thing that aggravated me in grammar school. Milk cartons. My school furnished each student with an 8-ounce carton of milk at lunch. My mom registered me for white milk, but I always took chocolate (LBB: 1, Mom: 0. Ha ha!). Anyway, I always had trouble opening the milk carton. They glue those little cartons shut with the same stuff that holds heat shields to the space shuttle. “Open Here” my prepubescent ass! Anyway, I’d bear-claw the thing until I eventually ripped the top off. Then I had to drink milk from a cube. The cafeteria lady would see me drinking from my cube and remind me that I should be in “special ed.” Hey lady, your husband should be in the school-for-the-blind if he’s doing you.

When it came to the pencil sharpener I was an artisan. A Great Master. I could sharpen a pencil finer than a laser beam. I knew just the angle, insertion-force and torque to apply to the device. I could compensate for different pencil thickness, lead hardness and caliber. I could even handle those big fat bastards that required you to dial the the entry housing up a notch. But no matter how gentle my touch, nor how adroit my hands, I couldn’t prevent my perfect tip from cracking onto the paper and spraying graphite shrapnel all over my arithmetic.

I have other fond memories of grammar school. Gym class was a blast: all the fun with no jock straps or showers. Plus, girls were still roughly the same shape and size as you, so you could put the ass-whoop on them free from guilt or consequence. Nothing made you feel more like the BMOC then catching Kelly McMasters in the gut with a speeding 4-square ball. Strange how when you’re a kid, you express your affection for a girl by inflicting small amounts of pain.

We overlook our grammar school janitors. But for them our schools would decay under oceans of child vomit. Kids puke a lot so the janitor always kept a cache of Disinfecting Vomit Dust at his disposal. The puke was gross. But the Dust made it tolerable. In fact, I found the Dust had a delightful bouquet. I’ve never been able to find that stuff in any supermarket. That’s too bad because it was magic. Any product that could negate the smell of kid-puke would be welcome in my home. Hell, I’d induce vomiting in my kids just for an excuse to use the stuff!


TECH-nically speaking

Ever since Judd Nelson jokingly addressed the janitor as a “custodial engineer” in the movie “The Breakfast Club,” people have ridiculed pretentious title-inflation for ordinary jobs. I’d like to contribute to this fine tradition.

Here are a few examples: teachers who’ve become “educators” or “facilitators;” the junk yard owner who ascended to the position of “landfill superintendent;” and my least favorite, the rock star who now fancies himself an “artist.” Artist? Given most of the crap they’re recording today, I think we’re being generous calling them “musicians.” It certainly isn’t art. I’ve got a suggestion. How about “audio defecation technician?”

Everywhere we’re inflating job titles. I blame the whole self-esteem movement. Gen-Xers couldn’t live with themselves if they were cooks, landscapers, drivers, cashiers, secretaries, etc. After all, they’ve got college degrees and $60,000 in student loans to account for. So everybody in the world became a “tech.” Everyone’s a technician. Have you noticed that? When did we all become so scientific? Is it that I-Pod I keep reading about?

Don’t you miss mechanics? Nowadays, all you can find are automobile technicians. I guess that’s why labor costs $79 per hour. No longer is the mildly retarded kid at the end of the block replacing your muffler. That’s Dr. Robert Oppenheimer under your Buick. Right after he’s done draining your oil pan, he’ll get started on the nuclear propulsion unit. He’s a tech, after all.

Everybody in the car repair business is getting in on the act. We have tire techs, wheel-alignment techs, lube techs, brake techs. Malarkey! You don’t learn to fix cars in a college laboratory. You learn the trade in a greasy garage with a girly-calendar from a guy with 9 teeth missing named “Cooter.” No science involved. Most of these guys got hired on a Wednesday and started working on Thursday -- fully trained. We assume, of course, that they squeaked by the drug screen and criminal background check. Here’s a rule of thumb: if you can rip through a 12-pack of Old Milwaukee and still perform your job reasonably well or even better, you’re not a tech. You’re a grease monkey.

Mechanics aren’t the only culprits. Recently I saw an employee name badge that read Customer Service Technician. What technology do you need to direct Mrs. Smith to the canned peaches on aisle 12? Behind the cosmetic counter, I saw a cosmetology tech. I guess counseling customers on which shade of lipstick won’t smear on a cockshaft is pretty scientific stuff! Actually, it’s not. But what noble work!

Technicians are people who have spent at least a couple of years in an “institution of higher learning” (college!), hold a credential and do something vaguely scientific. If the tools of your trade are a computer, a compass and draftboard, a calculator or a microscope, you’re probably a tech. If you could have done your job before they discovered electricity, you’re a clerk. Some jobs just aren’t high-tech. Nothing wrong with that. So be proud.


More ah-musings

  • A burst of laughter is like a baby orgasm. No wonder women want a man with a sense of humor.
  • Why do they call them “wisdom teeth” when you typically get them at the age of 17, when you don’t know anything? They ought to call them “MTV-watching, know-it-all-punk who can’t take out the garbage teeth.
  • Did you hear the actor who played Mr. Sulu on Star Trek is gay? We may want to reconsider the phrase “beam me up, Scottie.” No wonder Mr. Sulu was so concerned with Klingons hanging around Uranus. “All ahead, full?” Try, “all behind, full.” I’ll stop now.
  • If dinosaurs could talk and travel forward through time, they’d tell us, “Screw global warming. Worry about all those fuckin’ meteors.” I also think they’d be happy to see that we’ve found a productive use for their decayed flesh.
  • Progressive minds discourage the celebration of Christmas because they feel the holiday excludes non-Christians. Or that we’re trying to ram our religion down others’ throats. They’ve got it all wrong. Chirstmas isn’t a religious holiday. It’s a warm, sentimental, festive season whereby we remind everybody that Jews killed our savior and that non-Christian pagans will burn in hell for eternity. Merry Christmas!
  • If it’s one thing I hate doing, it’s something.
  • I’ve noticed that car salesmen offer to finance those with “unusual” credit. What they mean by that is bad credit. Ironically, bad credit isn’t all that “unusual.”
  • You know that guy who reminds you to “do something you love for a living and you’ll never work a day in your life.” Well, he’s full of shit. First of all, there’s only a few things I love doing -- and none of them is something somebody’s going to pay me for: eating Oreos, watching cartoons, drinking Ten-High, ejaculating. I haven’t seen any of these activities listed in the want-ads.
  • If a porn star becomes impotent, can he collect disability? What if he just has a case of crabs -- can he use a sick-day?
  • How come the more dietary health aides a person takes, the sicker they are?
  • Psychiatry in the Animal Kingdom: “I can’t explain it, doc. I know I’m the alpha male, but on the inside I feel like a beta. And I’m too self-conscious to take a dump in the field. I know I‘m going to sound paranoid, but sometimes I swear I see an upright-walking, hairless ape filming me with a camera. Also, it seems that all we do is chase prey, mark territory and mount females. Isn’t there more to life?”
  • When somebody tells me to “do the math,” I tell them “it doesn’t add up.”
  • We call each other “mother fucker” as if it were a bad thing. Really it depends how mom looks. Is she married? Is she a good cook. It might not be a bad thing at all. However, “mother fucker” is a harsh term. Perhaps we should call each other “matron courtier.” Up yours, matron courtier! Has a nice ring to it.
  • If I suddenly became rich, I’d see how many times I could say the word “douche bag” at work before they fired me.


Some thougths on Thanksgiving

Every Thanksgiving I get to thinking about the Indians. I wonder if they celebrate Thanksgiving. I don’t imagine so. The way I see it, Thanksgiving is like their Pearl Harbor Day -- nothing to celebrate. Let’s just hope Indians don’t retaliate with an atomic bomb like we did! Ah, why worry? They’re way to poluted with "fire water" to split an atom. Good luck, Chief Tumbling Dice!

Being a paleface, I love Thanksgiving. I enjoy the way we celebrate with lots of food. Thanksgiving is the time of year I wish I had 4 stomachs, like a cow. That would be great. As long as I had a crapper near by, I could eat non-stop by circulating my four stomachs. Come to think of it, better throw in a couple extra poop shoots. You don’t want to bottleneck the system. If I break off the bigger part of the wishbone, I’m going to wish for that -- and for my enemies to be in pain, and a bigger penis if the wishbone can get around to it.

I love the kinds of food you find at a Thanksgiving feast. Turkey is traditional fare. Cooked correctly, it’s lean, tender and juicy meat. Some people claim an ingredient in turkey acts as a sedative and induces slumber. I’m skeptical. I account the after-meal drowsiness to stuffing one’s gullet with a lawn bag-full of food, and all the hooch in the egg nog. Here’s a tip for this year’s feast: marinating the turkey in Rock Star and seasoning with crushed No-Doze offsets the drowsiness. After all, you’ll need your wits for those inevitable family fights -- another Thanksgiving staple. I always pocket a shard of wishbone in case I have to stab my drunk uncle in the neck and make a quick getaway. That’s another tip I’d like to share.

I love egg nog, too. Eggs, milk, cream, sugar, and your favorite liquor. It’s chock full of calories. I drank two glasses of egg nog last Thanksgiving and didn’t recover my appetite until Cinco De Mayo. It’s filling stuff. We could nourish the entire continent of Africa with a few pints of egg nog. Happy Kwanza, Kunta Kinte. Drink up. Incidentally, I pride myself on being a non-judgmental person. But if Africans celebrated Christmas instead of Kwanza, God wouldn’t let them starve.

After a huge meal, the family has to unbutton their pants to accommodate full bellies, all except my uncle, a Class 2 sex-offender who remains under court-order not to unbutton his pants within 50 feet of a minor. Unbuttoned pants are the hallmark of a good meal, aren’t they? That, or a really good adult website. I can barely move by Thanksgiving evening on account of my alimentary canal being full of food. But who needs to ambulate when you’ve got all those wonderful Christmas specials on TV? Every time I watch Macaulay Culkin get his genitals caught in the food processor while watching himself in the mirror, I laugh my ass off. “Agggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” It just keeps getting funnier every year. Some people think it’s the cologne he applies to his face. Not true. This year, pause your TiVo and look at the bottom of the screen. Freggin’ pervert is copulating with a Proctor Silex Salad Pro.

Anyway, I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving this year. Enjoy, Turkey.



  • I saw a sign on the freeway that advertised the “mobile home lifestyle.” Lifestyle? That’s an overstatement. When I hear the word “lifestyle,” I picture a Jag in the garage, a vacation home in Fiji and a sugar bowl full of cocaine on the mahogany nightstand -- not a guy in a wife-beater tee shirt blasting beer cans with a pellet gun of his single-wide porch. Maybe I read too much into things.
  • If “mother fucker” is “mofo,” should “butt fuck” be “bow foe” instead of “boo foo?”
  • Is it possible for a hole to exist without a rim? Or must a hole by definition have a boundary, a container, or a butt?
  • Have you noticed that in movies with aliens, the aliens speak English? Why is that? English speakers compose a small percentage of the Earth’s population. Why don’t aliens speak Chinese or Bangladeshi? I think it’s because they would just look stupid.
  • I was sad to learn that John Ritter died of an aneurysm. So tragic. But I think God was smiting him for living in sin with those two young ladies back in the early 1980s. He’s watching, you know. I wonder what He has in store for that guy who played Larry.
  • Why does Cedric the Entertainer go by the name “the Entertainer.” Awfully presumptuous. How does he know he’ll be entertaining and not merely amusing? I think he should “entertain” the idea of retirement. Or at least going on a diet.
  • Drunk Driver Rate of Exchange: “a couple of beers” = a fifth of whiskey and a 12-pack.
  • When I was a kid, life was a game. Now I’m an adult, and life is a job. And from what I can tell, once you grow old, life is a joke.
  • Microsoft charges $79 per hour for technical support. Think about this. If you have a moderate-to-serious problem with your PC, it’s probably cheaper to buy a new computer. Might as well make it a Mac.
  • If Volvo is so concerned with safety, why don’t their cars come with helmets? And why do they sell them to old people and Asians?
  • A difference between men and women: When a girl sees a guy with bad teeth, she focuses on his nice eyes, sense of humor and sense of style. When a guy sees a girl with bad teeth, he thinks to himself, “that mouth isn’t getting anywhere near my penis.”
  • Here’s a tip for girls: If a guy shows you a wallet picture of his penis, ask him if that’s his I.D., because he’s definitely a prick.
  • Bascially, a business merger meeting is a long-winded, hyped-up discussion that boils down to this: “Why are spending all this energy trying to fuck each other when we can get together and fuck the consumer?”
  • The only time I don’t want to save time in a bottle is when the song “If I Could Save Time in a Bottle” is playing on the radio.


Nobody move! Don't try to be a hero, either.

I don’t understand why bank robbers pull nylons over their heads.

I can think of better things to conceal your face during the commission of a felony. Nylons have the circumfrence of a lady’s thigh. When you pull them over your head, they smush your nose, bloat your cheeks and blur your vision. You basically look like Andy Rooney in the throes of a bowel obstruction. Sure, you’re identity is hidden. But you look ridiculous.

I wonder if the pantyhose mask is just an excuse for bank robbers to wear women’s clothing without being mocked. Maybe they’re transvestites, deeply conflicted, who divert their inner-rage into felonious crimes and pulling women’s undergarments over their heads. I’d like to see a study on this.

Even if you have the proclivity to wear women’s clothing as a mask, why not wear something more fashionable -- and something that breathes, for God’s sake? After all, you may have to run from authorities. You’ll lose your breath quickly unless you accessorize wisely. How about a Hanes-Her-Way brief across your brow? Or, for the naughty bank robber, a lacy thong. Something that says, “Just because I rob banks doesn’t mean I can’t be sexy.”

I’d like to consider us victims for a moment. When a guy with a nylon head bursts into the bank, are we supposed to be intimidated by this guy? I know I’d start asking questions before I coughed up my wallet.

“Say, I can’t help noticing you have a lady’s undergarment pulled over your head. Maybe instead of that gun in your hand, you’d feel more at home with a dildo."

"Hey, if your head is in panties, what part of your face is the crotch? It would have to be your mouth, right? Why don’t you complete the ensemble and stuff a tampon in there?"

"You should have removed your earring first. You ladies know how easy it is to start a run in pantyhose.”

Has anyone noticed the irony here? One of our soldiers at Abu Graib is spending several years in prison for putting ladies’ undergarments over a prisoner’s head. How bad can that be if bank robbers do it to themselves?


A conversation

Guy #1: Hey, you! Over there?

Guy #2: Who? Me?

#1: (Heavy sarcasm) No. The guy behind you.

#2: (Actually turns to look behind him. Sees no one) I’m sorry but there is nobody behind me. I’m the only one here.

#1: (Heavy sarcasm) Now you’re catching on, Einstein. I’m talking to you.

#2: Oh. Oh, I see. You’re implying that I’m stupid -- that somehow I should have been at once certain that you, a complete stranger, were addressing me and only me. What a moron I am!

#1: Yeah, something’ like that. Moron!

#2: You’re the one talking to imaginary friends. I’m just the unfortunate soul who wandered into the middle of a moron sandwich. Why don’t I leave you two to the task of together equaling the brain power of a normal person.

#1: You know, you’ve got an attitude. I knew you were an asshole as soon as you opened your wise-ass mouth. Why don’t you go piss on a fuse box?

#2: Why don’t you go drink another can of turpentine? I think you have a few good brain cells remaining, each of whom long for a cheap buzz and the companionship of a well-hung, sexually confused sailor.

#1: Go fuck yourself, pal.

#2: Same to you, dir sir. Adieu.

And so was last Thanksgiving at my grandmother’s house. Ah, memories.


A few for the road

  • Somebody told me that 40 is the new 20. I believe this is poor counsel. Thanks to pilates, 30 may be the new 20, but thanks to our hurried lifestyles, 40 is the new 50.
  • Here’s some advice that came to me in a dream: Have as much as you can, but need next to nothing.
  • Some people are know-it-alls. I’m a vaguely-familiar-with-it-all. I find that not knowing too much about anything is a good policy, especially when it comes to women, government and the ingredients of a Slim Jim.


One FLU over the cuckoo's nest

Somebody help me understand what the big damn deal is with these flu shots. It’s all anybody can talk about. It was a big part of the 2004 presidential debates. And a year later, we’re still panicking about a disease that’s been around since Eve befriended a snake.

Now the big hubbub is the flu shot shortage. I never even heard of flu shots until the mid-1990s, which begs the question, how did we survive the first 6 millennia without them? You'd swear the flu was a guaranteed death sentence -- like a game of spin the bottle with Magic Johnson.

These last couple years the flu shot has been harder to find than a sober Bush offspring. Evidently you have to wait in line to get a flu shot. If I have to wait in line, it better be for something cool like a new Star Wars movie or an all-nude peep show -- not immunization. Come to think of it, depending who I bump into at the peep show, immunization might be a good idea.

I'll tell you why we have a shortage of flu vaccines. Everybody's heard of Big Oil, Big Tobacco, Big Food, etc. But I'll bet you haven't heard of Big Nyquil.

Yep. You can thank Big Nyquil for the flu vaccine shortage. Follow me on this. If nobody gets the flu, nobody buys the Nyquil (notwithstanding dumbass high school kids looking for a buzz). And Big Nyquil's executives see less titty-bar money in their bonus checks. They can't have that.

Don't believe me? Remember what the excuse was last year for the shortage of flu vaccines? The flu vaccines were "contaminated." Contaminated? No duh! It's contaminated with flu virus! That's how the hell it works. Any other germ in the stuff is going to die of the flu.

In summary, remember these two things.

1) The flu is no big damn deal. Just enjoy your time off of work and remember it won't kill you unless you’re on the brink of death anyway, like old people or that super-skinny Olson Twin.

2) The guys at Big Nyquil are jerkoffs. Boycott them and make homemade Nyquil. Here's the recipe: 2 aspirin, 2 antihistamine tablets, and 2 shots of your favorite 80-proof liquor.



Oil, War and Sex

  • To all the “it’s all about oil” people: Unless you walk to work and your I-pod is solar powered, you’re a beneficiary of the war in Iraq. Now go write George Bush and all of the troops you “support” a thank-you letter. And at the bottom, sign it “Formerly Ungrateful Hippie.”
  • Speaking of oil, I say we add the clause “cheap oil” to our Bill of Rights. That would resolve a lot of arguments. Wouldn’t it be nice to have the Supreme Court arguing about how to procure cheap petroleum instead of useless shit like whether kindergartners have the right to fornicate on public-owned land? And while we’re tweaking the Bill of Rights, why not add a “not-to-have-my-ass-incinerated-by-terrorist” clause, too. Am I alone in believing that being dive-bombed by an airbus is as great a violation of one’s civil rights as being called an epithet?
  • Speaking of Iraq: Fighting in Iraq, bad. Fighting in Bosnia, The Balkans, Grenada, Panama, Lebanon, Kosovo, Korea, Liberia -- all good. Moral: butchering thousands of people is palatable as long as there’s no oil or other discernable American interest.
  • If a 42 year-old, white software engineer can be held accountable for slave owners living 160 years ago, Iraq can own up for its contributions to terrorism.
  • You haven’t seen somebody eat crow until you’ve listened to a feminist explain why a rich, powerful, white man should be able to lie and conceal his sexual escapades in the workplace to avoid responsibility for a sexual harassment lawsuit. Choice!
  • Speaking of the whole Clinton thing, how unfortunate that spunk on a dress was Bill Clinton’s Achilles’ heel. No wonder Hillary wears pantsuits.
  • How come corporate profits are evil until Uncle Sam loots them? If I steal a Barry Manilow album, it’s still bad.
  • Human beings are part of the ecosystem. Spotted owls build nests. Beavers build dams. Man builds Wal-Marts. What’s the fuckin’ problem?
  • Would people still be against prayer in schools if the kids prayed for George Bush to be impeached?



  • Gary Coleman makes a perfect mini-me for Richard Pryor.
  • I read a quote that says rather than curse the dark, one should light a candle. Useless! Here’s some practical advice you can use in the bathroom: Rather than curse the odor, light a match.
  • The more I watch my 401-k, the more I think my best retirement plan may be to die early.
  • Here’s a warning that should be on the package of sunflower seeds: “Warning. Consuming this product may cause sharp debris in stool.”


Diarrhea of the keyboard

The first step toward insanity is giving a damn.

I often wonder why family members insist on being present during a pregnant lady’s ultrasound exam. They want to witness the “miracle of life in the womb” or some shit. “Oh my God. Look at that tiny little baby. It’s a miracle.” I think family members should wait outside in the lobby. After all, were they present when the child was conceived? “Look under the sheets. Look at the way his ball sack ricochets off her ass cheeks. Look at him pile drive that shaved bush. Isn’t it a miracle?”

It’s true what they say, “The truth shall set you free.” And it’s a good thing, too. You’re going to need freedom to flee from all the enemies you’ve made telling the truth.

“Wealth” is a relative term. Consider: Thirty years ago the richest people in the world didn’t have cable TV, the Internet, or The Clapper. What the hell good was money?

Recently China sent two of its astronauts around the earth in a space orbit. On behalf of America, I’d like to welcome China to 1958.

My favorite thing to wish on bad drivers is for them to “wrap it around a telephone pole.” I don’t know why. I want every dipshit on the road to collide with a telephone pole. The telephone pole seems to me to exact the greatest justice.

We’re always encouraging kids to read. At every school is a campaign asking kids to “read more.” Have we considered that the best-selling books are ones that instruct you how to talk with the dead, how to lose weight eating nothing but steak, how to coax a man to love you by imposing silly, arbitrary rules on the entire gender, and John Grishom novels. Maybe reading is overrated.

I’m amazed at the devastating litigation borne from silicone breast implants back in the 1980s. I won’t comment on the merits of the class-action lawsuits. I’ll only say that vanity sometimes comes at a price. Imagine if men tried to sue if suddenly penis implants made by Dow Chemical started causing cancer and other health ailments. Of course that would never happen because all of us men are so well endowed. But hypothetically, would the jury feel sorry for these guys?

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. My client had a penis implant back in 2001. After a particularly wild night at the Jug Shack, it broke. Since then he suffers from fibromyalgia. Plus it burns when he urinates. Admittedly, that could be a case of the clap, but we feel Dow Chemical had a hand in it either way, which is why my client deserves 5.2 million dollars.”

The jury would probably think, “What’s the matter, pencil dick? You had an elective surgery to become a tripod and now there are some complications? Tough.”

I’ve always been lazy. But now that I’m getting older I realize that I only have two things pulling me off the couch: fried chicken and pussy.

Let me get this straight. Credit card companies can advertise lifestyles filled with romance, adventure, parasailing, travel, 5-star hotels, fine dining, jet skis and jewelry -- with no consequences to your financial security -- yet McDonald’s can’t offer to “supersize” your #3 combo without being sued for billions? All right.

I’m not saying the guys at my neighborhood gas station are unfriendly, but recently they posted a sign over the “self-service” notice that reads, “Pump your own fuckin’ gas, maggot.”

In 40 years, we’ve gone from “Ask not what your country can do for you…” to “I have a right to free healthcare, a college education, a government-sponsored pension plan, and reruns of Friends on cable 6 times per day.”

Those obsessed with fairness should remember that if an asteroid fell from the sky and killed all of us equally, it would by definition be “fair.”

I think those guys who deliberately park so that they take up 2 parking spaces (so nobody dings their pimped-out Hyundai) should have to pay double for vehicle registration tags. Oh yeah, and we should castrate them, too.

I don’t believe the world is overpopulated, but I do believe that it would be a better place if we exterminated the right 78% of people.

One of the silliest things teenagers do is identify themselves by the kind of music they like. They’ll ask each other things like, “Are you a metal-head? Are you goth? Are you into country?” We don’t do that when we’re younger. I never asked my 3rd grade classmates “Hey, what kind of cartoons do you watch?” “Oh, I don’t like to label myself. I used to get into Woody Woodpecker. Then I tried some Casper, but I found that whole scene passé and derivative. Superfriends is so politically incorrect with their patriarchal social structure. Right now I’m into Scooby Doo. Very progressive.” Pretentious spoiled brats, these teens. The only music they should be talking about is the choir music they hear in church -- after they do their homework and finish their household chores.

I never understood the popularity of boxer shorts underwear. The purpose of underwear is to keep your junk in one general locale. I need snugness down there! For God’s sake, I wear scrubs to work. I wore a pair of boxers once and felt like a great dane at a stud auction. I know tighty-whities are the new Underoos and everybody ridicules you for wearing them. So compromise and wear boxer-briefs. All the fashion sense of boxers with the utility of briefs. And by “utility” I mean holding your junk in one place when you ambulate.

Here’s a little-known fact: You know those tinted headlights? Those are the nighttime equivalent of rainbow bumperstickers. Yeah, it’s how queers identify one another at night. Fast and the Furious gayboy fuckers.

I watched my first episode of Nip Tuck last night. Strange thing. There’s no guy named “Tucker” on the show and there’s no Japanese guy, either. Go figure.

The business world puts a high premium on employees who welcome change, which means having employees eager to develop brand new ways to fuck things up.

You know what would be cool. A hurricane whose eye passes over a BB factory. That would be one deadly hurricane.

If somebody says “no,” they mean “no.” If somebody says “absolutely not,” they mean “yes.”


Three more vignettes

Got pics?

I don't understand why we put missing children's pictures on the back of milk cartons. The only people still drinking milk are kids!

I guess some adults still drink milk. It's perfect with dessert, after all. Still, we should remove all the missing kids' pictures and replace them with pictures of misbehaving children. Much more useful.

Have you seen this kid? His name is Tommy. He's 5'1" and 80 pounds. He's not missing, but he can be a real pain in the ass -- ever since he didn't get a PS-2 for his birthday. Some blame it on ADD, but really, he's just a brat. IF you see him, run like hell and lock your kids inside.

Bowtie Baffoonery

Somebody needs to tell TV lawyers and politicians that bowties are for little boys. Before the age of 10 or so, bowties are cute. After the age of 40, they're a sign of senility -- unless, of course, you're a 40+ clown, in which case it’s work attire. Although many clown companies allow traditional neckties on casual Fridays.

Why don't these bowtie guys accessorize? Work that little bowtie. How about a pair of red suspenders and a lollipop? Wouldn't a lollipop tie things together? One of those big, round swirl pops.

And they could skip to and fro. Maybe wear one of those beanie caps with a propeller. And skip.

Too bad there aren't more accidental strangulation deaths from bowties. The most useful thing about a bowtie is its potential to strangle its owner. Too bad that usually doesn't happen.

Let's just go back to the necktie. And not those 80s, thin, Duran Duran ties. I mean the 1973, wide-body, Brady Bunch ties. Those are cool.

Super Duper Heros

I read that a comic book (The Green Lantern, I think) has featured its first HIV-positive character. This is the first character in the history of comic books to have the disease.

It's about damn time! Did they expect us to believe that all these men prancing around in tights never contracted a little something in the Gothum Bath House?

Comic book heroes make the Back Street Boys look butch. I haven't seen more tightly wrapped packages since Xmas '82. And Batman #389 give new meaning to the term "Battle of the Bulge."

I wonder if now that one of the characters has HIV, we'll start seeing other super heros develop AIDS as well. You know how they are. If one has it...


Leonardo Da Vinci's genius

Perhaps the most famous sketch in the world is Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man. I'm sure you've seen it. It's that naked guy inside the circle.

Scholars agree The Vitruvian Man celebrates the genius of Leonardo Da Vinci -- his mastery of anatomy, depiction of the Divine Proportion, the canon of the human form.

I look at that same sketch and think, "Put some freakin' pants on, weirdo."

This guy's "master-piece" is front and center, and the look on his face is like "so check out the package." No humility at all on him. I’ve seen great danes make more of an effort to hide their junk. Peewee Herman was looking at VM and said “Damn, dude. Tuck that shit under for a while.”

If I were posing for an artist, I wouldn't stand naked, legs akimbo, with my junk on display for all of posterity to see. Although I'd give a whole new meaning to the term "Divine Proportion."

They really let it all hang out in the Renaissance Period. Have you been to The Louvre? It's like a naked bomb exploded in there. Nothing but oil genitalia and boobs. Everybody on the walls looks like they're headed to an Abercrombie photo shoot.

Girls Gone Wild -- the Renaissance Period!

With all those naked people running around, you think a couple of those fellas' sundials would be pointing north. The entire European population must have been drunk or gay.

If I were an art critic, I'd write about things like this professionally. But I'm under court order not to “engage in artwork involving nude models or the depiction of human nudity of any kind” ever since the sculpting “incident.”

Stupid model couldn't take a joke.



  • Some guys are hung like a horse. I’m hung like a steer.
  • Gastric bypass: the chastity belt of the culinary world.
  • There are two reasons I’m glad I’m alive today: I don’t have to wind my watch and I don’t have to get up to change the channel. It’s important to be grateful for the little things.
  • Why do we pay the phone company? We don’t need them anymore. The wires are already in place. Screw those guys.
  • Ethics question: You get married. You have a wonderful marriage. Thirty years later, she dies. You remarry. You share 10 wonderful years with your second wife. She dies. And then you die sometime later. Do you get to have a three-way in Heaven?
  • When a woman gets angry, she’s “empowered.” When a man gets angry, he’s “abusive.”
  • Of all the fast food places, I love Subway the most. But not because the food is any better. I like it because I feel like royalty. I march up to the food bar, fold my arms across my chest and declare: “I’m hungry, my royal subject. Make me a sandwich without delay.” Then I scrutinize the employee’s work. “Not too much oil, you greasy dago bastard.” Some employees discourage my use of racial epithets, but I promptly remind them that I’m the customer. “Your green visor is your mark of servitude, and you shall address me as Lord. Now make my 12-inch roast beef with haste, you Hoagie Minion.” Then I demand a free cookie for my inconvenience.
  • You know what Hell is for a liberal? Non-stop, 24 hour shifts as a Wal-Mart employee with lunch breaks at McDonald’s.
  • If I were a kid, I’d put a bumper sticker on my bicycle fender that reads, “My parents have a vicarious obsession with my making the Honor Roll.”
  • If your job is causing thoughts of suicide, embezzlement, grand larceny, substance abuse, criminal damage, arson, homicide, felony assault, helplessness, financial ruin, inferiority, fraud, or pissing in the coffee maker, you’re taking it too seriously.
  • I’m going to found a mutual fund that buys and sells goods on eBay. And a hedge fund that speculates on hotdog cart vendors. Mail your 401-k money to me.


Laughing gas, dentistry and air traffic control

Everybody knows how stressful being an air traffic controller is. Here’s proof. I just read that air traffic controllers and dentists have the highest rates of suicide. I can understand air traffic controllers. But dentists?

This is an alarming statistic. Air traffic controlling and dentistry are last two professions in the world that should employ suicidal people! How long do you think it will take some air traffic controller to figure out that a cool way to kill oneself is by navigating a 737 into the tower he's working in?

“Attention Delta Flight 502: make your heading 274 and maintain an altitude of 30 feet. And 502, don't mind the radar blip straight ahead. It’s not the tower. It’s just some interference. And speaking of interference, do you ever feel that your mother's interference with your childhood has forever sucked the joy out of your life?”

I don't know why dentists are so depressed. What’s a bad day for a dentist? Did all the patients eat Milk Duds and Oreos before their appointments?

Don’t get me wrong about dentists. I’m sure their jobs suck sometimes. Retrieving popcorn kernels from underneath gum lines all day isn't fun, but it can't be all that bad when you consider you have unfettered access to laughing gas. That’s right. Dentists have all the nitrous oxide you could want. No calories, no hang-overs, doesn’t show in a urine test. Talk about a perfect drug! That happy nose isn’t just for the patients, you know. I always offer my dentist a hit when I'm getting work done just to be considerate. I don't want an uptight dentist doing my root canal. And I certainly don't want a depressed person with a tray full of sharp instruments around me while I'm unable to articulate consoling words because of the gauze in my mouth. If I were a suicidal dentist, I’d strap that happy nose around my face and turn the dial to “whiney brat.”

Dentistry and air traffic control both sound like good gigs to me. So why all the suicide? You don't see burger flippers dipping their heads in the fryers or janitors drowning themselves in the bucket. I don't mean to disparage these or other menial labor jobs. They are necessary and even noble. But these poor fucks have to be more suicidal than dentists!


In the newd today

I read in the news that about 100 people stripped naked and rode a roller coaster together.

It's not enough these naked people are making political protests. Now they have to soil roller coaster seats with ass. Remember the good ole days when people stripped naked in public to fornicate?

Anyway, the last place in the world I want to be naked is on a roller coaster. First, the G-forces are going to pull unsecured appendages beyond comfortable dimensions. The ride operators would have to amend that "keep arms and legs inside the ride at all times" caution to include gonads.

But more important, my dong is going to shrink to the size of a cocktail wiener during that first initial drop. That's scary shit.

And every once in a while a roller coaster makes an emergency stop. Sometimes it takes hours to rescue the passengers. How would you like you and your genitals on display for an entire theme park -- and the blazing sun? Sometimes you're stuck upside down! Ass-end up. And most of today’s coasters are suspension rides. That means sun-burned ass.

Call me a prude. But you should leave your clothes on for the roller coaster -- and take them off for the bumper cars.


A philosophical bent

  • If it satisfies you, it’s a virtue. If it leaves you wanting more, it’s an indulgence. If it eclipses all other wants, it’s a vice.
  • If we were to deem weeds desirable, they would wither and die without delay.
  • Humor is the essence of creativity. Objectivity is the foundation of intelligence. Dependence is the root of indignity. Unitelligibility is the cause of hatred.
  • How can I hate bars and love booze at the same time?


How many fingernails am I holding up?

Have you seen those guys who let one of their fingernails grow way longer than the others? Why do they do that? Do they have an itch that's just out of reach? Maybe they're tired of not having a screwdriver when they really need it. I think it would be easier to just carry an all-in-one tool with you. How do they decide which fingernail they're going to grow? And why stop there? They've already got a screwdriver. Why not let a couple of nails grow on the other hand? Then they'd have needle-nose pliers!

These are the same kind of guys who wear their hair short, but let that one little rat-tail grow out the back. I abhor this pathetic attempt to look hip. If you want to be a freak, show some commitment for Christ's sake. Grow your whole damn head of hair like one of the Ramones. Let all ten of those fingernails grow into twisted little freaks of nature like Howard Hughes. Grow your hair like a real hippie, and then go get it caught in a piece of machinery that decapitates you. Freak.

I know. That’s mean-spirited. And we all know how loving hippies are. Please don’t bother pointing out the irony with your freakishly long fingernail.


I'm in love with my car

We love our cars, don’t we? We love cars. We derive a sense of identity from our cars. What we drive is who we are. Some guys love their cars so much that after they buy them, they join a car club. You know this guy, don’t you? He wears a baseball cap with the name brand of his car on it. He’s got the matching key chain, belt buckle, coffee mug and boxer shorts. He budgets a weekly detailing service while his child-support falls into arrears. He masturbates to Hot Rod Magazine. And he’s a member of the car club. He wears his car’s name brand hat to the meetings. Sidenote: you don’t see baseball caps with other name brands on them -- Viagra. Nobody wears that one.

What is the purpose of a car club? A bunch of people get together and celebrate car ownership. Call me a spoiled sport, but I don’t think owning a car requires a weekly celebration. After all, I own a house, but I don’t meet with all the other homeowners once a week and discuss the new ceiling fan I installed. I do have an HOA, but they just complain about the length of my weeds and my nude newspaper retrieval. It’s not the same thing.

Car clubs would have been cool about a hundred years ago, before everybody owned three of them. In 1905, you would have been one slick dude if you were cruising around in a Ford. “That’s right baby, I’m a Model “A” man. And all the ladies want my phone number. I got a top end of 22 miles per hour and a sweet-ass chrome crank starter. Wood-spoke rims, standard, beeeotch!” The 7 guys who could afford a car had something to celebrate. But this is 2005. Who gives a shit about your tricked-out Hyundai? Shouldn’t you be getting thrown out of a titty bar right about now?

A recent car commercial shows other cars dimming their lights and bowing to the featured car. You read this right: bowing -- presumabley out of respect to the superior automobile, as if the car were royalty. Who’s buying this steaming pile of advertisement? Cars bowing to each other? It’s a sedan, not the Pope! Why should my car bow to some middle-aged pencil-dick in a Lexus? If my car is bowing, it’s not out of respect. It’s because I rear-ended a Hybrid with a “Buck Fush” bumpersticker. I never cease to be amazed at what advertisers want us to believe.

Some cars are so cool that they have a motorized rear-view mirror. When headlights shine into the mirror, a sensor activates a motor which moves the mirror into “night-driver” mode. What inspired this? Maybe some guys are so excited about their cool cars that they can’t remove their hands from their penises long enough to adjust a mirror. Honestly, though -- do we really need a motorized rear-view mirror? What’s the matter? Are you all tuckered out from activating the crusie control? You know what these mirrors should have? A message that reads “Vain jerk-off in mirror is gayer than he appears.”


So many ideas, so few readers

  • Maybe I lacked self-esteem as a kid, but when adults asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I explained that it would be hard enough to get anybody to want me for anything, let alone for what I wanted to do.
  • “Some assembly required” = “some cussing required.”
  • Here’s the problem with life: It’s tough to get a realistic view of something into you’ve jumped into the middle of it, but by then, it’s too late to decide you didn’t want it. For example, I’ll bet your career sounded cool when you started out. How’s it treating you now?
  • “Lifetime guaruntee” = “guarunteed to sit on shelf for a lifetime.”
  • Here’s all you need to know about Social Security. Two generations of American workers, Generations X and Y, involuntarily pay into a system they know will either offer them a pittance, or nothing at all when they retire. The Baby Boomers -- 65 million of them -- will make sure they get everything promised no matter what it costs. Therefore, not only are the rest of us paying for a benefit that won‘t be there, payroll taxes will increase throughout our working lives. Social Security isn’t failing. It has failed. We have 535 congressman. Not one will admit this. In conclusion, not only will the dildo fucking you in the ass increase in diameter, but when you roll over for your retirement reach-around, you’ll get a kick in the nuts, instead. God bless FDR.
  • “Limited warranty” = “limited to the time it takes us to ship it to you.”
  • We tell rich people “you can’t take your money with you.” We all know that. But it’s important to remember the same applies for your debts, too. Yay!
  • Some people hate money. I think they’re should be a hate crime for people who hate money. Who should be prosecuted? People who buy Glade Plug-in air fresheners. What are these people thinking? “Gosh, is there a way I can waste money and electricity at the same time?” And what’s with this Oil of Olay shit my wife keeps buying that costs $29 for a shot glass-full of cream. I couldn’t jerk off with the amount they put in those small bottles. “But I like the way it makes my skin tingle.” Well go buy a bottle of Jergen’s and mix some Bengay in it. Save me $20. And how about Starbucks? STARBUCKS? I know, everybody jokes about how much their coffee costs. But they love the coffee. If you drink Starbucks, you don’t love coffee. You hate money! Brew your own coffee and throw a scoop of ice cream in it.
  • “Some restrictions apply” = “we were completely full of shit just now. Please disregard.”
  • Corn is God’s greatest miracle. You can do anything with corn. Cornflakes. How do you make a flake out of corn? It’s a miracle. You can make oil out of corn. You can magically turn corn into a nut. Corn nuts! Amazing.
  • “Buy one, get one free.” = “we overpriced this shit by 100%.”
  • If you want a first mortgage, you have to prove you can afford it. Then they give you a second mortgage to ensure you can’t afford it.
  • Have you noticed when a company wants to improve its image it shows pictures of African children’s faces. It doesn’t matter what they’re selling. They just need to show those little faces. They could be selling plutonium-tipped baby seal clubs to the KKK. As long as they imply that they’re helping Africa everything’s OK.
  • Capitalism is like the Betamax video recorder. It’s a superior product. It works the best. The only problem is, nobody’s buying it.


Workplace DEFCON System

When I start a new job (and I've had to start quite a few) I resist the temptation to become a “company man.” I don’t acclimate to my new work culture. I don’t memorize the mission statement. I don‘t familiarize myself with the organization’s goals. And I don’t sharpen whatever skills my new job requires of me.

All of the above will forge you into a first-rate employee, but they require a lot of hard work and time -- neither of which I have in abundance. Luckily, I’ve found an alternative. When I start my new job, I scan the office for the jerks and nitwits who are on the verge of getting fired. Then I make sure I look a tad better than them. That's how I know the boss will stay out of my hair. He's got bigger problems than me! Basically, my workday is walking single-file behind a guy in a minefield: I’ll know just in time time that I'm headed for trouble! Let me explain.

Most people like and respect good workers. You know the type -- great attitude, award-winning work ethic, knows the job, willing to help you out, puts the company first. Personally, I have no use for these people. They're only going to make me look bad when I'm knocking them over on my mad dash for the time clock at 4:58.

You know whom I love? The deadbeat, I-don't-give-a-shit type who squeaked by a background check in HR and has done next-to-nothing productive since he started 5 years ago. I love his type because I know he's going down before I do. He serves as an early warning system for termination. He's the canary in the coal mine. If I show up to work and he's still there, conditions are safe. And if you have 4 or 5 of them in an office, you can use them like that DEFCON system the military has. “Whoa. They finally fired Bill for taking a dump in the coffee maker. Take us to DEFCON 3.”

I like to insulate myself with as many as these people as I can. It gives me a sense of security. I figure I'm never going to win Employee of the Month, but I can make myself look pretty good next to the cranked up ex-felon passed out on his desk in a puddle of his own vodka-laden drool. I'm Lee Iacocca next to this motherfucker.

Speaking of firing people, who escorts the security guard out of the building when they fire him? The cafeteria lady? And why do they need security to escort professionals out the door, anyway? What's a 42-year-old pussy boy software engineer going to do when he gets the axe? Control-Alt-Delete the email server? Questions like these are part of the reason I have to start so many new jobs.



  • I wonder about people with the “Free Tibet” and “End Apartheid” bumper stickers. “Liberate The Congo.” I’m skeptical of hand-wringers who fret over places 10,000 miles away. They don’t even care about their own cars. When’s the last time you washed that thing? Yeah, you’re worried about a drought in Central Africa but you can’t clean the ass-marks off your hood. Hey buddy, if you want to liberate something, start with the food particles between your teeth, or those 3-week-old, funky-ass dreadlocks.
  • People like Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton never really annoyed me. But then again, it might be because I only give what they say three-fifths of my attention.
  • Wouldn’t it be nice if it turned out your purpose in life is contemplating what your purpose was? I don’t believe one’s purpose is so hard to find. The problem is, none of us is prepared to discover how lame it is. Sure some people are here to discover a new planet, develop a new vaccine, or lead a country from despair to prosperity. But most of us are here to gain weight, work menial jobs, watch reality TV shows and die early. Think about it. Most great people in history discovered their calling very early in life. Whatever you’re doing right now, guess what. That’s your purpose. It’s much like those people who believe in reincarnation and who also insist they were somebody important and admireable. But you don’t hear anybody say, “Yeah, in my past life, I was Caligula -- either him or the Nazi who captured Anne Frank. I’m not sure which.”
  • My 2nd grade teacher used to ridicule us students when we copied each other. She’d recite: “Monkey see, monkey do.” She said it all the time, in a condescending tone. Contemptuous. One day I worked up the courage to add to her saying. She said “monkey see, monkey do,” to which I replied “scratch my balls, fling my poo.” How’s that for original thought, teach? Is that independent-minded enough for you? Cunt.
  • Here’s the difference between childhood and adulthood: Childhood is all about choosing what you like most. Ice cream or cake, a bike ride or rollerskates, Barney or Sponge Bob. But as an adult, you have to ask yourself what sucks the least. “Which career field will suck the least, yet still pay my stinking bills?” “Which of these lovely ladies will be least likely to be named on a restraining order?” “Which bill collector will let me slide another month before submitting my account to collections?”
  • Grey hair and wrinkles make a man look distinguished, but rust and bald tires make a car look old. It’s a man’s world.
  • Have you ever been eating food so good that you suddenly wish you had two stomachs? Or maybe a valve that could divert the food away from your belly and through an escape hatch. Some food tastes so good, I want to eat it alone. I don’t want anybody around who might talk to me and interrupt the mouth-loading process. Don’t talk to me. I’ve got a bucket of bite-sized cream puffs. Vocal communication will reduce throughput by 30%.
  • Why doesn’t the government give poor people lottery tickets instead of welfare checks? Why not fix the problem once in a while? Or at least cut out the middle-man at the Circle K.
  • I like that bumpersticker that reads “I’d rather push a Ford than drive a Chevy.” First of all, you’d probably have to. But back to my point: That’s some brand loyalty there! I wonder if they feel the same way about condoms. “I’d rather knock her up than use a Trojan.”


No toilet paper? Try US currency.

I read a news story about a guy who had to pay a traffic ticket and decided to get revenge. Let me summarize. I swear, this is a true story:

Evidently, this guy felt he didn’t deserve the ticket. So he registered his complaint by tainting dollar bills with his own feces and paying the fine with it.

Yep. He wiped his ass with the money and then mailed it to the municipality. I would have killed to see the look on Benjamin Franklin's face!

This gives new meaning to the phrase "tendering" money.

Think how pissed off you have to be to wipe your ass with dollar bills before paying a fine. That's undiluted anger, folks.

But that's not all. I found this tidbit interesting: the guy who did this is a fuckin' clinical psychologist. That means he's treating people with mental disorders (in between wiping his own ass with US currency, I presume). I wonder whether he specializes in anger management.

Imagine what his therapy sessions are like.

"Look, Bill. I understand how upset you can get while driving in rush hour traffic. But you have to breathe deeply and relax, get a hold of your road rage. And when you get home, wipe your ass with a $20 and mail it to the city. It's very therapeutic."

They're charging this guy with a crime. But what law did he break? In high school I knew this one guy who stuffed a roll of quarters up his ass. They didn't arrest him. Seems like a double standard to me.


Rationalization, coffee and candy bars

Rationalization is the American way of life. We want what we want, but our guilt gets the better of us. Americans feel very guilty. A history of slavery, an 11 trillion-dollar economy and the career of David Hasselhoff leave us feeling downright ashamed. Consequently, we don’t feel entitled to the things we want. So instead of seizing our desires, we inch our way discretely toward them as hyenas approach a lion’s kill. Stealthfully and ashamedly.

Think about coffee, for example. Coffee is a so-so beverage. It's just a step up from hot water. Just a few dissolved coffee beans. No calories, no fat or sugar. It needs help! So most people add cream and sugar, and by doing so approach what we really want: a milkshake. But milkshakes are bad so we can't drink them. Enter Starbucks and the designer coffee craze. The people at Starbucks understand human nature. We like things that taste good, and we enjoy spending gobs of money. Starbucks delivers on both. In go the sugars, syrups, creams, foams, flavorings, opiates and all the other crap we need to satiate our craving for a milkshake. We're drinking 47 teaspoons of sugar and as much fat as in a lawn bag of pork rinds -- but we still get to tell ourselves we're “only drinking coffee.”

Still not convinced? Think about it. How far away is Starbucks from offering the new Choco-Milkshake Latte? And tell me if this is a coincidence. Dairy Queen has just introduced a line of coffee drinks. That's right. Dairy Queen. I don't know about you, but when I'm hankering for a cup of coffee the first place I think of is an ice cream shop!

We rationalize with other foods, too. Here's a food product chain-of-evolution that illustrates human nature beautifully: Rice cakes. Remember rice cakes? Rice cakes became granola, which became the cereal bar, which became the health bar. The first was a low-calorie health food and effective dietary supplement. Each successive evolution masqueraded as health food, but was increasingly bad for you. And the final species in this evolution, the “health bar,” is just a Milky Way with a multi-vitamin crushed up inside of it and a picture of a wild animal on the wrapper.

You see? All we really want for a snack is a candy bar. We just can't admit it. We feel too guilty. Thankfully we can have all the tasty goodness and tell ourselves it's “health food.” Give me a break. If a health bar is “health food,” then Kia is a “luxury car” and David Hasselhoff is an “actor.”

Beware of rationalization when you see “hybrid” SUVs, “low-fat” brownies and Six-Second abdominal exercisers. That’s all I’m saying.


Mental clusterbombs

  • Every so often some rich jerk with too much time and money decides his next challenge will be to climb Mt. Everest. This feat has been done to death. It’s passé. Anybody can climb Mt. Everest with the entire Eddie Bauer catalogue at his disposal! If you want impress me, climb to the top without a jacket.
  • I exercise a lot, but not because I’m a fitness buff, and not because I enjoy it. For me, exercise is an apology to my body for all the jacked-up shit I do to it. It’s like giving flowers to your wife because you were a jerk all week long. “Baby, I know I’ve been pouring gin gimlets and Oreos down your gullet for the last 3 days. And then on Tuesday, I won that free dinner by eating a 84 ounce steak. Here you go, baby. Here’s 20 minutes on the stair-stepper. This will make it all better. That’s my sexy little liver. Who loves ya?”
  • If an unemployed guy owes a creditor, we issue him welfare checks. If an unemployed guy owes the ex-wife, we issue him an arrest warrant.
  • Why are corporations the enemy and Mother Earth the victim? I don’t see Wal-Mart creating any hurricanes.
  • How did they ever get Clint Eastwood to do those Any Which Way… movies? Clint is a huge star. He was the Leonardo DiCaprio of the 1970s, only without the sexual ambiguity. Anyway, how did they approach Clint with a script like that? “Mr. Eastwood, sir? I’ll cut to the chase because I know your time is valuable. Basically, you’re this redneck degenerate who will be trading lines with a hairy-assed ape for an hour and forty minutes. Oh, and have to get him -- the ape, that is -- laid. So of course we thought of you.”
  • Every once in a while I get the nagging suspicion we get exactly what we’re willing to settle for.
  • The greatest power in the world is the power to walk away.
  • You know what the worst thing about a policeman pulling you over is? Those lights! How embarrassing! They’re like big hands pointing the finger at you. Jeez. I failed to yield to oncoming traffic. That doesn’t make me John Dillenger. You know what they should do? Replace the siren lights with disco balls. Make the experience festive and fun. Make passers-by jealous. I’ll bet people would like cops a lot more, too. It would be like a 1970s retro party. Just don’t break out with the cocaine.
  • I think welfare recipients should have to write thank-you notes addressed to “American Taxpayer.” If you show up at a government office looking for a check, you need to thank those sacrificing part of their paychecks for you. Remind everybody where it comes from.


100% Angus BS

Grocers and restaurants advertise where their beef is raised -- and even what it ate before it went to the slaughterhouse.

“100% Angus beef, corn-fed, aged for 14 days, aerobized and massaged daily at the local health spa.”

Big whoop! I don't care where my cow grew up or what it liked to eat. It's bad enough I have to listen to my dates' life stories. Now I have to show an interest in the piece of meat on my plate, too? Hey, I don’t care what you slaughtered. Just serve me up a steak!

We justify eating animals by claiming we're more evolved, more sophisticated beings. I agree. Do you believe that if lions, bears and wolverines were smarter than we that they’d respect our “right to life?” Hell, no. What good is evolving upward on the food chain if you can't eat the poor, dumb species you climbed over? But we should be careful with that logic, because one day aliens who are more evolved and sophisticated than us might deem us a delicacy. If that ever happens, I hope people who grew up in the Midwest aren't considered “premium, choice-cut human.” I hope instead that the aliens prefer those fit, lean, golden-brown people on the West coast. Put those people on the menu. “Tonight's special: California-raised, vegetarian, hi-colonic Human baked golden-brown served with fruit.”


Cowboy bar tenderfoot

A bit on that absurd piece of Americana, the cowboy bar.

Cowboy bars are basically masquerade parties where everybody chooses the same outfit. Oops.

When I see a 41-year-old cell phone salesman pop out of his leased BMW in a cowboy hat, boots and Wrangler blue jeans, it reaffirms the notion that men will do anything to get laid, no matter how dumb it appears to onlookers.

Pretending to be something you're not (to get laid) can be an honorable tradition. I understand this tactic and subscribe to it. But something about cowboy bars offends my sensibilities as a realist. I'm willing to exaggerate my salary or suck in my gut when I talk to a lady, but I refuse to play cowboy. That and playing doctor. You've got to leave those behind with childhood. After all, you wouldn't go to a cops-and-robbers bar, or a hide-and-go-seek lounge. Would you? And consider this, if a bar is chock full of cowboys, wouldn’t it make sense for a few of us to come as Indians -- just to complete the motif? And every bar has the police show up eventually. Throw in a construction worker and you’ve got yourself a Village People tribute band. Pretty gay. But I digress.

Cowboy bars are pathetic clearinghouses of archaic, macho bullshit. Frankly, it's embarrassing to listen to a guy in full cowboy garb affect a southern twang and fake chivalry in the presence of a barfly in a tube top. This is the 21st century; there are no cowboys! We don't drive cattle across the desert plane. We drive hummers with mini-plasma TVs across town to the salon for a manicure and hi-colonic. Who are you trying to fool, Tex? I hope you accidentally two-step your genitals into a branding iron, tenderfoot.

If I'm going to a masquerade party, I'll do it in style. I'll sling a longbow around my shoulder and squeeze into a pair of tights showcasing my bulge and present myself as Shakespearian nobility. Why only go back 120 years?