Bite-size morsels from a lightning bug's butt

  • I could spell every word in the English language correctly if it weren't for that gaddamn schwa.
  • If you work from home and call in sick, do you have to go outside?
  • I was going to start a political blog, but I get enough death threats with my musings.
  • For my money, the hardest job in the world (except, perhaps, jizz mopper at a porn shop) is a deejay for a classical radio station. No tour dates. All the artists are already dead. Not exactly the kind of listeners who appreciate innuendo or prank phone calls. So what do you talk about? The various flavors of Grey Poupon Mustard?
  • When I eat diet food, I look at the calories I'm saving, calculate the ratio, invert the faction and then eat however many diet foods to make up for the difference. For example, if a diet brownie has 1/3 the calories of a normal brownie, I jam down three of them and call it even. That's why it's important to learn fractions in school.
  • You know those books that give you recipies for alcoholic beverages. I think a cool title for one of those be "Behind Bars."
  • Just remember: any over-the-counter medication can become a prescription-strength medication if you're willing to exceed the recommended dosage.
  • Have you heard somebody ask, "If the crucified Jesus, what chance do I have?" Well, the answer is, a pretty good one. You see, Jesus was the son of God. He embodied a religion, a code of ethics, a movement against the pagans of his time. You're a clerk at Kinkos; nobody gives a shit whether you live or die. You're not worth the wood.
  • When a deaf man reads poetry, can he tell how well it rhymes?
  • Many cosmetic procedures take on a nationality. You have the Sweedish massage, the French manicure, and of course, the Brazilian bikini wax. Here are a few imported cosmetic procedures I wouldn't have done to me: WW II-era German Botox Injection, a Puerto Rican Embalming, an Arab stoning massage, or a Colombian neck shave.
  • I wasn't the most popular guy in high school. If my school were The Beatles, I was Ringo Starr: Nobody minded if I hung out, but if I left, nobody would miss me.
  • If I were a cloud, I'd do more than just drift by being all fluffy and pretty. I'd form myself into a dirty picture, like a pair of boobs or a old guy's butt. And if I were flexible enough, I'd twist myself into an obscene hand gesture or spell a dirty word. Or, I'd shape myself into an incoming missile.
  • You know those water jugs you see at contruction sites? I like to spike one with laxative. It's fun to watch. At least they'll do something productive during all those coffee breaks.


Kill your television... right after Baywatch

Being a top-notch blogger means keeping your mind it tip-top shape. For mental fitness, I watch a shitload of TV, day and night. For maximum effect, I watch the same reruns over and over again. I've seen each episode of Friends at least a dozen times, to which I account my last 10 I.Q. points.

Yesterday I was watching a syndicated episode of Baywatch when I accidentally pressed the mute button. It was a shame to miss the adroit dialogue so vital to the show's sophisticated theme and character development. But I digress. Once I pressed the mute button, a closed-captioning scroll appeared. This is what it read:

>> CC activated, Baywatch...

>> [Surf, waves splashing, sea birds chirping]

>> Look! There's some boobs. Oooh. Another pair. I love it when they arrive in tandem. Two pairs of boobs. That makes 4 boobs. And they're nice, too. Just look at those boobs.

>> Boobs, more of them. Boobs. More boobs. And... some more boobs.

>> Boobs again. Boobs. Ooh -- thought I caught a glimpse of a nipple. Boobs.

>> Boobs. Boobs.

>> O.K. The boobs are bouncing. Ooh my. Oh gosh. Yep, the girls are running and the boobs are bouncing... NO! Don't cut to the guy drowning in the ocean. Fuck him! He should have waited an hour after eating that hotdog. Pan back to the boobs!

>> Ah, O.K. We're back to the bouncing boobs.

>> Hey, you at home. Are you looking at those boobs? What are you doing reading me? It's tits-galore on the top half of the screen. What, are you queer? Are you waiting to see a shirtless David Hasselhoff give a tough-love speech to young, male lifeguard? You are, aren't you? Fag! Never mind what I'm typing. Check out those canned goods!

>> I'll bet you're not even deaf. Are you? You really should check out those boobs. The nine deaf guys watching and I are flattered you care, but honestly, check out those fun-pillows. You think the deaf guys are reading this? Hell no! They're deaf, not blind. And they're not queer, like you evidently are. Don't fret. David Hasselhoff will take off his shirt soon, butt pirate.

>> Oh, that's it. Man, that Yasmine Bleeth is such a dirty whore. That's it. Oops, you dropped your life preserver. Better pick it up. Better pick it... Oh, yeah. That's it baby, the knees are locked. That red bathing suit can't quite contain your... Whoa! Damn. Hold on. I've got to clean my keyboard....

Needless to say, I've disabled the Closed-Captioning device on my TV. That guy frightens me a little bit, whoever he is.


The best job in the world: US Senator

The best job on the planet is US Sentaor. It's not because of the power, the prestige, the ability to serve your fellow man, or the bright-eyed, naive interns worshiping your dried-up, wrinkly ass. Those things are just the gravy. They're enticing perks, but the reason US Senator is the coolest job in the world can be expressed in a single word: filibuster.

When I first heard the word "filibuster" on C-Span news, I figured it was a skate board stunt gone awry and resulting in a testicular injury. Having Googled the term, I can assure the reader it is not. Part of me is disappointed because "filibuster" would be great term for a wayward skateboard in the crotch. But I digress. A filibuster is a device by which a US Senator constipates the legislative process by blabbering about whatever he wants. And here's the sweet part of the deal: all the other Senators have to stop whatever they're doing and wait for the filibuster to conclude -- all the while feigning interest in whatever poppycock is being said. In this sense, the 99 other Senators are kind of like the guy on a first date with a margarita-soaked co-ed majoring in women's studies.

I'd sure like to be able to drop a filibuster at my job. It would be my pleasure. When the boss marched in the office demanding higher productivity, I'd stand up, clear my throat, and launch into an 8-hour soliloquy on how hemp products are superior to synthetic fabrics. When a colleague confronted me with my shoddy work ethic, I'd treat her to every possible conjegation of the word "cunt" I could think of: cuntology, cuntlike, cuntlicious, cuntdom, cuntitude, etc. Or I would read my dirty haikus. Or better yet, I'd recite the dialogue that angry black guy says in that movie, "Pulp Fiction." Everybody would have to wait until I was damn good and ready to stop blabbering jibberish. And as my regular readers know, I'm chock full of it. I might even put in some overtime at work, as long as I have my trusty filibuster by my side.

Yep, the filibuster's one Cool Hand Luke. But that's not all there is to being a Senator. I'd enjoy having the national Social Security fund as my own, personal petty cashbox. At my current job, I practically have to go down on the boss for a stapler. But if I get elected to the Senate, I could wipe myself with hundred-dollar bills, compliments of Joe Q. Taxpayer. And I would, too. I figure if the toilet seat nestling my buttocks cost $600, the paper cruising my sphincter ought to be worth a cool hundred. Just imagine the look on Benjamin Franklin's face. Put that in your Poor Richard's Almanac, Ben!

I think I could hook this Senate thing up, too. Look at some of the people who've become Senators. There's Al Gore. Al Gore is the active ingredient in Tylenol PM. Boring! You've got Dan Quayle. Remember him? Can he even spell "filibuster?" If Dan Quayle were to conduct a filibuster, he'd read the back of a box of Count Chocula -- slowly. And of course, you've got Hillary Clinton. Hey, how can half a million New York freak lesbian socialists be wrong? Hillary's about as endearing as Bengay on a fresh case of jock itch. If I make it to the Sentate, I'm going to wear my finest suit, slap on some Brut cologne and suavely ask Hillary if she's looking for a little revenge. Wink, wink.

Finally, I like the fact that I'll have 99 other people to blame when I screw up. That's the kind of security blanket I need to thrive at my job. How hard would it be to pin your average Congressional fuck-up on that deadbeat drunk, Ted Kennedy? Lack of accountability is a must for any job I apply for.

If you live in AZ, vote LBB in 2008.


Women as sex objects?

My wife always asks me wether she's important to me, or wether she's just a sex object. I assure her she's incredibly important to me. She is, after all, a life-support system for the boobs and vagina. Thanks, sweetheart!

Speaking of sex objects, I've been thinking about all the things women do to be attractive. Consider the average woman's beauty regimen: shaving, waxing, primping, dying, make-up, hair stying, cosmetic surgery, the Thigh Master(!), etc. That's a lot of effort. I'd be ready for a nap after all that. Screw doing out on a date. I'm too tired.

Many women blame men for the absurd lengths to which they must go to appear attractive. Evidently, we're insensitive, shallow, sexually charged brutes. Well, that's true. But men are hardly to blame for what women choose to do in front of a mirror every day. Thank your girlfriends for that. Let me explain.

There's an up-spiraling cycle to female beauty and fashion. First, a woman at random enhances or exaggerates a female sex characteristic through cosmetic means, e.g., shaving her legs, reddening her lips or enlarging her breasts. Second, other women see this and begin to compete: They have to keep up or exceed the new standard. So they embrace this cosmetic enhancement and make it their own. The chain reaction continues until it reaches a critical mass, and then it explodes. The fuel that propels this phenomenon is competition. Women are the Cadillac of the sexes: they keep adding features and upgrades to the point where the car's in the shop more than on the road. Meanwhile, men are watching the thing with a bovine interest. Being simple creatures, we don't ask questions. We decide to find it sexy -- beccause women told us to. And believe me: we do what women tell us to do. Finally, this cosmetic enhancement becomes normal. It's expected. It's the new standard. First, it was weird. Now, you're weird if you don't do it.

But women don't have to put up with this. Imagine if every woman on the planet stopped shaving under her arms. Do you think we men would give a damn? It might seem weird for a couple days, but then we'd realize that we're horny and you're women. Believe me, we'd get over it.

Still not convinced? Go back in time 50 years, before the advent of the bikini wax. Do you believe men minded seeing hair around the pubic region? Hell no. We were happy just to be there. That tuft of hair was our mecca. Our Holy Grail. The Taj Mahal. But then a woman trimmed the thing up, it caught on, and now Eastern European female waxing techs routinely torture women in salons around the country.

What women need is a union. Collective bargaining rights will bring this madness to a hault. If women had a union, bikini waxing would never have gotten off the ground. Imagine a Women's Union where every proposed fashion trend had to be approved by millions of female union delegates. Say goodbye to 4 inch heels and thong underwear. As long as women continue to compete with one another, get ready for some crazy, uncomfortable fashion.

We men are clueless, hapless and helpless in the whole affair. We're the Walmart shoppers of the sexes: we wander around the store looking for the best deal at the cheapest price. Sexual courtship is, after all, nothing more than economics. But we can only buy what the store is selling. We don't ask questions. We just buy what we think the best deal is.


The MOTHER LODE of musings. I've been drinkin'

  • Salt-n-Pepper: 1) edible spices; 2) a female hip-hop group (aka “peppa”); 3) a polite euphemism for gray hair.
  • The tool belt is the man's version of the purse. Unfortunately, tool belts go with precious few outings: the hardware store, a construction site, or a Village People concert.
  • If a triangle is a triangle, why isn't a square a quadangle?
  • If you're ever forced to watch gay porn, do what I do. Just pretend the two guys are warming up for a really hot female who's running late.
  • Don't you feel sorry for the one fry that mysteriously shows up in your order of onion rings? Do you think he feels lonely, an outcast? He probably misses all his old friends. I always eat him first to end the misery.
  • You never really have sex. You just borrow it for a little while.
  • Why does the Devil have a pitch fork? Don't you think the Incarnate of Evil should be armed with something more scary than a garden tool? Sweet Jesus! At least give him a weedwhacker or a Garden Weasil. I think thd Devil lost all respect since we named a chocolate cake after him.
  • Disposable dishware, disposable contacts, disposable diapers, disposable dousche bags. Just remember, everything's disposable if you have enough money in the bank.
  • Here's a new bumper sticker: Bloggers do it while masturbating to a computer screen.
  • I don't believe in milkweed. Weeds can't make milk because they don't have titties.
  • I've often fingered a chick. But I've never thumbed one.
  • Twenty-four-hour donut shops are the emergency room of the midnight snackers.
  • My tao on lying: It's alright to tell a lie. Just don't live a lie.
  • The phrase "connect the dots" takes on a whole new meaning in India.
  • Every once in a while you read about some guy who died of a heart attack while having sex. And your workmate goes, “Well, if you've got to go, then that's the way to go.” I agree, but with a caveat: it had better be after I blow my stones, not before. Otherwise, I'm going to be the crankiest guy in heaven.
  • Ponder this: you go to a foreign country and order a domestic beer. Are you drinking a foreign beer, a domestic beer, or an imported beer. And more important, what's the legal age of consent in this country?
  • Few people are aware of the huge gay demographic patronzing the Weenerschnitzel.
  • Why do we find accents so adorable? I've been so entranced with somebody's accent that I've forgotten what they actually asked me. This leaves me in a tight spot when they demand an answer. I find it helpful to divert their attention by professing my hatred for their native land and threatening to strangle them.
  • But again, why are we so in love with accents? Maybe we just like to hear people butcher our native tongue. But if that were true, all the retards and palsies would be the most popular kids in school. Fat chance.

Georgie Michael Pudding Pie

A Reuters news story reported today that George Michael has said good-bye to the pop world.

I say it's about time. The pop world said good-bye to him in late 1989.

Says Michael, "I just thought it was very important to explain myself before I disappear,"

Well, George, I'm afraid you're a little late. We all watched you disappear over a decade ago. Twenty years ago, your career was glory. Now, it's just a glory hole.

Don't get me wrong, dear reader. I'm a huge George Michael fan. He's loaded with talent, writes great songs and gives a marvellous performance. Hell, I hope they name a wing of the bathhouse after him, or at least a bathroom stall.

The Dukes of Hazzard Ethics Committee

I'll bet when the Duke Boys were around their cousin, Daisy, they wondered to themselves whether it's OK to have sex with a 2nd degree relative.

Yet not one episode showed Bo or Luke inquiring Uncle Jessie whether Daisy was a cousin by marriage, or whether she was a "blood relative." That's something I would have found out during episode #1 if I were a Duke boy! Not that it would matter. Either way, Daisy was going to be "deflowered."

Forget helping Uncle Jessie distill his famous moonshine. I'd be in the barn helping Daisy pick out which pair of denim shorts to wear that day.

Speaking of Uncle Jessie, I wonder if he ever got familiar with old Daisy Duke. Did you see the sparkle in his eyes when Daisy trotted across the barnyard? All it would have taken was a couple sips of moonshine and Daisy would have been dancing on the pole.

Hopefully they'll answer some of my concerns in the upcoming movie.


The tao of remote control

If you give me 5 mintues with a new remote control, I can master the entire keypad. I can operate it in the dark, blindfolded, with the skill of a microsurgeon. I can operate up to 5 different components at once without so much as a single typo or a sprained thumb. I can redirect signals, switch visual settings, toggle between stereo and surround sound. I can operate one remote in each hand like a pair of six guns. I'm the Billy the Kid of the remote control.

And yet I still can't type, and I've been practicing for 20 years. I don't get it.

Anyway, have you ever gone into a hypnotic trance while watching a steaming pile of TV programming? I mean something awful, something so bad you wish the writer's family a case of the clap. I'm talking Murder-She-Wrote awful, only Jessica Lansbury is topless and it's cold outside. (That show did suck, didn't it? I secretly hoped they'd change the name to "Suicide She Committed. The last episode.")

So you're writhing in mental anguish, in the death throes of a TV-induced conniption, when suddenly you remember you have the power to stop it. You're not a floating piece of debris in TV land. You have... the remote control -- and 72 other cable stations. The torture's over. With a flick of your thumb you can end the misery. And it's the most wonderful feeling in the world, like when you rouse from a nightmare and realize it was just a dream; your pecker is still attached to your body.

That TV hypnotic trance is tough to break. I've fallen victim to it many times, and digested more TV crap than I'm comfortable discussing. Last night, I watched Becker for over nine minutes! Finally I broke free from the tractor beam and made a quick getaway to the Discovery Channel, but I still had to shower before I felt myself again. That show is like one continuous kick to the groin. They ought to pipe Becker into the cells at Abu Ghraib. Five minutes of watching Ted Danson labor through contrived repartee with that nurse and the terrorist will draw us a map to the WMDs and renounce the Islamic faith.

So keep the remote near and the batteries fresh. Some sniffing salts might help, just in case you come across Becker, Murder She Wrote, or any of the CSI's.

Tilling the soil

I've been trying to flush the potty humor on this blog, but I've got a fart stuck crosswise and I need to talk about this crap because it pisses me off.

I don't like the expression "soiling oneself." It's a euphemism we use to describe defecating one's person. To put it delicately, I'm refering to an act of shitting one's shorts.

Soiling oneself is a rare thing, indeed. In fact, unless you've eaten a wheelbarrow of dirt, it's physically impossible to soil yourself. Sorry Grampa. You didn't soil yourself. You've shit your shorts. However, you did soil my day. Congratulations. I'm sure there's more where that came from.

"I apologize for the odor. I seem to have soiled myself. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to plant rudabagas in my boxer shorts. With a mulch like this, these babies are going to win an award."

There. I've purged the final turd of potty humor from bowels of my mind. If I crap out any more of this feces, please piss in my ear.

Milk, milk, lemonade. 'Round back is where the fudge is made.



Will you be my Valentine?

Well, guys, it's Valentine's Day. As you know, women love gifts with a personal touch (above the waist). So you may do well to write her a love letter. If you do, feel free to use one of my Valentine's Day Sentiments:

"Dearest [her name here], Yours is the Bush to my Dick Cheney, and tonight you're going to get screwed by the government."


The weekends are for pondering, my ponderlings.

  • Alarm clock: Trusted friend by night, dirty bastard by morning.
  • The cashier at the grocery store asked wether I wanted to give a dollar to fight prostate cancer. Lacking any spare cash, I asked her if she could just jam her finger up my ass instead and check the thing out.
  • I saw a bumper sticker that read “Think independently.” How independent are your thoughts if they're stamping them onto bumber stickers?
  • Why doesn't anybody knock before entering the house on television? Just once I'd like to see the neighbors catch Mr. Jones humping Mrs. Jones on the kitchen table. Or else I'd like to see them get mistaken for burglers and accidentally shot.
  • If I were dating a young-looking 18-year-old girl, I think I'd have a lot of fun refering to her driver's license as my "Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free" card.
  • Imagine if narcoleptics had wet dreams.
  • One good thing about insomnia: you'll never know the agony of a morning boner.
  • Missouri is the "Show Me" state. I wonder what their sex-ed classes are like. I hope the teachers are reasonably attractive.
  • Tranquility: the midpoint between constipation and diarrhea.
  • After 8 years of marriage I'm beginning to worry about my sex life. The other night while my wife and I were making love, we left the TV on. And she answered a Jeopardy question -- correctly. I'm balling my brains out and my wife blurts out, "What is metamorphic rock, Alex?" What impressed me is how she was able to follow the gameshow while programming our TiVo.
  • When teaching adolescents about sex, adults often refer to the talk about "the birds and the bees." Why is that? Birds and bees don't fuck each other.
  • When I see people lying in the sun they're wearing sun glasses, applying sunblock, and cooling themselves with water misters and portable fans -- and I think to myself, why don't you go inside? It's cool, shaded and pleasantly lit.
  • If a man thinks with his dick and he pops a boner, is he suddenly twice as smart? If it's really cold out, does he become dumber? If he has herpes, is his thinking rash?
  • Gas prices have risen to the point where it is cheaper to fill your tank with Starbucks coffee. Fill it up with mocha-latte, my good man.
  • People say a college degree is just a piece of paper. So is bathroom tissue, but it comes in very, very handy from time to time.
  • As a means of political protest, a burning effigy is ineffective. If you really want to affect change, try the burning bag of crap on the doorstep. That'll get their attention.

Movie magic

I'd like to discuss a couple of things that keep happening in movies that bother me. They wouldn't bother me if they only happened once in a while. But they happen far too often. The first is how the good guy in the action films always gets shot -- in the shoulder. The bad guy shoots hundres of bullets at the good guy and, miraculously, only grazes him in the shoulder. So now, the good guy comes off as a brave and rugged hero who takes a bullet for the good fight. At the end of the movie they throw his arm in a sling and he strolls off with the hottie.

But when the good guy shoots the bad guys, every shot is dead center and fatal (a la Latigo Flint), even if he makes the shot with a pistol from 120 yards while summersaulting over a barrel. Come on. That just doesn't happen.

The other thing in the movies that in my opinion is just overdone is the fireplace poker scene. At some point in every horror film the protaginist reaches for a fire poker to defend himself. Why do they always do that? Unless your oppenent is an Ent or is attacking you with a log, the poker won't get you very far.

If I ever get the chance to write a horror film, I'm going to have the guy grab the blower, that thing you squeeze that blows air into the fire. You could really distract an assailant with one of those. Blow that in his face. He'll be stunned and he'll have dry, irritated eyes for several minutes. Perfect if you have to make a getaway. Or else he can grab the log grabber thing that extends when you clamp it shut. You can grab the guy's throat from down the hall and choke the bastard with one of those things. Or you can grab his gun when he least expects it. Imagine how that would embarass him. Then you can grab the phone and call the police without getting up from the couch. The heroes in these horror films need to get more creative.


I'm finally a member of the mile-high club!

I'm proud to report I'm a member of the mile-high club. My personal initiation into the club is unusual. I actually did it while parachuting. I wasn't expecting anything to happen. This beautiful blonde drifted into to me during free-fall and asked me whether I wanted to make love before we touched the ground. I had 42 seconds to kill, so I figured, what the hell. So I air-humped this hot honey in mid-flight. It was the best I ever had, and not just because of the added thrill of hurling toward earth at 120 mph. I fell in love with this girl even as I fell to the ground. Having carefully disengaged my member, I pulled my rip cord and promised myself I'd propose to her once we finished our descent. We all landed. I located her parachute and ran to her. It wasn't long after she pulled of her goggles and helmet I discovered that she was a great-grandmother celebrating her 85th birthday by sky diving.

Them old broads sure know how to party.

Near-death experience in a stool

Have you ever sat in a chair which had one leg slightly shorter than the others so that for a split-second you thought you were going to tip over, then, after things stabilize and you realize you're not going to die after all, you have to pretend you were just stretching instead of flailing your arms for no reason like an idiot?

Me too.

Your car has nothing to do with the weather

Have you ever heard these guys who claim the reason it rained is because they just washed their cars?

How self-centered can you be? Not only does the world revolve around you, but when you're busy, it revolves around your car!

It rains because of clouds. Mother nature doesn't care if you just waxed your faggy, low-rider rice burner with the ground effects.

Guys like this are to blame for movies like The Fast and the Furious.

Dudes, the car doesn't make the man. The car just gets you to your job at Burger King. And you're gonna have to flip a lot of burgers to pay for those rims you threw on a '96 Nissan Sentra 4-door.

The next time it rains, I hope the puddles slide these Fast and the Furious Fucks into the nearest telephone pole.


A fresh batch of homemade musings

My last couple of posts came off a bit pretentious, so I baked up these simple, homemade musings using my secret recipe. Eat them while they're still warm!

  • Why does music sound so much better when you're drinking? I swear I could become a Barry Manilow fan if I drank enough alcohol.
  • I like Protestants. Basically, they're saying: “Look. God's only son, Jesus, was tortured and crucified for our sins. If you don't believe that, you'll burn in a fiery damnation for eternity. But gee whiz! Let's not take things too seriously.” And by the way, why do we drop to our knees to pray? If you want to show God your conviction, do a headstand.
  • You know that expression where you ask somebody who doesn't get what you're saying, “Do I have to draw you a diagram?” I'll bet Leonardo Da Vinci said that a lot. “Take a look at this drawing, here. It's called a water screw. This is what I was trying to tell you about, you dumb dago bastard.”
  • You would think that people with shitbox cars would be the first to tint their windows. I know if I drove a '74 Pinto with a broken tail light, I'd want to remain anonymous.
  • Technology being what it is, I think car horns should say actual words instead of just beeping. And just like ring tones for your phone, you could download different phrases depending how things are going on your daily commute. “Nice turn signal, jerkoff.”
  • Why do gay celebrities like Ellen receive so many accolades for “coming out,” like they're pioneers. Didn't these critics see Culture Club back in 1982? Boy George must be screaming at his television, “Hello?” In fact, anyone who thinks gayness has just stepped out of the closet wasn't watching MTV in the early 1980s. And they sure didn't catch a performance by Menudo. Hell, A Flock of Seagulls “came out” 5 times a day on MTV alone.
  • What's so special about Special K cereal? It has no fruity flavors. It doesn't snap, crackle or pop. It has no marshmallows shaped into charms or monsters. I've never found a toy in the bottom of the box. From where I'm standing it looks like a pretty goddamn regular K. And get this. I opened the box: no Ks! Not even an ordinary K. Just a bunch of flakes. They ought to rename the cereal “Another Box of Ordinary Flakes.”
  • Speaking of cereal, just remember, kids: Any flaked cereal can be “Frosted Flakes” if you add enough sugar.
  • I worry we're encouraging cannibalism in kids by feeding them Flintstone vitamins. By the way, you know who probably has a lot of trouble eating Flintones? Those people who survived that plane crash in the Andes mountains. You know, the ones who had to eat the dead to survive? “Ah. If I've got to eat one more person, I'm gonna puke -- even if it is just a multi-vitamin.” I suppose we could use gingerbread men and Flintstones to curb cannibals off of people. And maybe some lady fingers.
  • My wife just informed me she gave up intercourse for Lent. I informed her that I'll be fucking her in the ass for the next 40 days. Everybody wins!


A queer outing is a gay ole time

Please understand I have no problem with the current sport of “outing” supposed homosexuals from the gallery of historical figures. That is, I begrudge nobody his or her homosexuality. Any man who can satisfy his sexual appetite without women is, in my estimation, lucky. If I begrudge gays anything, it is their capacity for happiness; for they only need induce another man to engage in sexual conduct. A challenge indeed.

But I digress. The merits of homosexuality notwithstanding, I object to the multitude of homosexuals leaping out of the historical closet: Alexander the Great, Newton, Da Vinci, Einstein, Hitler, Shakespeare, Tinky Winky -- all fags, according to homo-intelligentsia. Given enough time, gay advocates will discover every historical figure was, alas, queer. We need only consider the facts. Once we do, the veil of heterosexuality concealing historical figures will vanish faster than Elton John's pants in a bath house.

I don't doubt some of our historical figures were gay. It stands to reason. Gays are passionate and innovative creatures capable of great things. Let not this essay besmirch a single queer nor his contribution to his posterity. But most of these outings -- strangely synchronous with politically correct politics and the prominence of Will and Grace and The DeGeneres Show -- are conjecture. Let me explain.

I wouldn't dare impeach the sincerity of those advocates who assure us most of our historical figures were gay. But zeal and advocacy make one prone to subjective observation. In the extreme, they make one prejudice. I ask my readers to consider all the tights and wigs in history. Of course the men looked queer: they were wearing tights and wigs, and sometimes rouge make-up. A casual trip through a high school history textbook might feature what looks to the modern reader like a drag-queen prom. I saw an artist's rendering of the signing of The Declaration of Independence and I swore I was looking at an excerpt from Queers Gone Wild, The San Fransico Episode. Consider, for example, any production of Romeo and Juliet, written by an alleged homo, Shakespeare. You'll recall the impassioned duel between Mercutio and Tybalt? That was the real “Battle of the Bulge.” The Renaissance Period would have benefited greatly from the jock strap. But I digress.

This is brings me to my point: by viewing history through the prism of modern American culture, everybody from the past looks like a flaming homo. Wigs, tights, rouge, elvish shoes and bulges -- this attire could make Stone Cold Steve Austin look queer. And a flaming queer at that! That sculpted body, that smooth, bronzed skin, angry eyes, posing trunks... ah, but again, I digress.

I implore the reader to consider the mores of history before concluding that each and every prominent figure from our past was a butt pirate. They were, as we will someday be, victims of contemporary fashion.

On C-Bombs

I'm happy to see the word "cunt" coming into style. "Cunt" has established a firm foundation in the Blogosphere (see Blog Ho) and is currently creeping its way into modern colloquial English. I'm certain you agree. Given these facts, it becomes incumbent on the cunt pioneers (namely, us bloggers) to publish and upkeep a lexicon deliniating the usage of "cunt" and its several conjugations.

This endeavor extends beyond the scope of a single blogger. I need your expertise. Please feel free to contribute your findings to the cunt lexicon. Happy researching.

Remember that "cunt" applies to women and men. After all, if men can be pussies, they can be cunts, too.

  • cunt
  • cuntlike
  • cuntitude
  • cuntdom
  • cuntificate, cuntificator, cuntificating, cuntificated
  • cuntality

Example: She's a consummate cunt. I despise her cuntlike rantings. Her cuntitude will never find boundary. She reigns supreme in her cuntdom. She uses her blog to cuntificate on various subjects. She's a cuntificator with an opinion on everything. I hold this degree of cuntality in contempt. Cunt!


Random musings of a spotless mind

  • Do you think the guy who runs the money-printing machine gets paid in cash? What a let-down either way: "Gosh. I printed 2.8 trillion dollars this week. And I got to take home $487.50, after taxes and FICA."
  • It's nice getting paid under the table, but I prefer getting blown under the table. And if the blower is one of my debtors, then I'm killing two birds with one stone.
  • I saw a recent interview with the original members of Kiss, the rock band. I'm beginning to understand the make-up.
  • The RIAA can bitch and complain about MP3 downloads all they want. I say we still owe them for the whole Milli Vanilli incident. It's their comeuppance.
  • You know who would make great firemen? Strippers. Look how well they can slide down a pole. Imagine how well they handle a hose.
  • What did the garbage disposal say to the vacuum? "You suck." How did the vacuum reply? "Don't talk trash."
  • Imagine if trees had to mate like animals in order to reproduce. That would give a whole new meaning to the term "morning wood."
  • I drink so much soda that my bladder has evolved to a camel back hump.
  • Why do they attempt to control riots with tear gas? Why not use laughing gas? It would be much more effective, and people would be so bitter afterward. Have you tried to get upset about a social injustice while wearing the "happy nose" at the dentist? Good luck.
  • I don't care how much success comes the way of Tom Arnold. The poor bastard still had to sleep with Rosanne.
  • Why does the waitress always wait until you have a big wad of food in your mouth before she springs from the shadows and asks how everything is? I just spit crumbs at her. She'll learn.
  • Can somebody tell the people at my gym that spandex is not mandatory. In fact, we discourage it in members over 50.
  • Which one do you think is more painfully boring: waiting for channel 3 cable TV guide to srcoll down to to the bottom, or waiting for Windows to re-boot?
  • I think it would be really cute if a milk truck and a truck full of Corn Flakes crashed into each other and the wreckage fell into a bowl-shaped ditch.
  • How did cartoonists convey when their characters had a great idea before the invention of the lightbulb? A candle?
  • I'm not saying my mom lacked good judgement. But when we were kids, she helped us spell dirty words with our Alphabits cereal. Yep, mom liked to drink in the morning.
  • I read in the news that a woman just gave birth to 9 healthy baby boys. She plans to name each after one of the planets in our solar system. But she'll refer to each as her "sun."
  • Solution for getting fucked at drive-thru fast food restaraunts: see-through, cellophane bags.


Bible Royalties

Why doesn't The Bible have a slip-on cover like the other hardcover books you buy? You know what I'm talking about? That sleeve that slips over the cover that has "About the Author" and peer reviews and stuff.

About the Author

Jesus lives in heaven with millions of His children and His Lord, God. His best-selling book, The Bible, has sold millions of copies and has been translated into almost every surviving language. In his spare time, He enjoys carpentry, healing the sick, and blogging. His lastest work, The Bible Part 2, will be in Barnes and Noble everywhere during the Second Coming.

I know Jesus is a great Guy, and very forgiving. It's kind of His schtick. But He's got to be pissed that He's not getting any royalties for The Bible. That book has sold a bunch of copies. It's second only to Michael Jackson's Thriller. You know the corporate swine who cheated Jesus out of His royalties have a first-class direct flight to Hell. I say good!

I know David must be pissed, too. He wrote a whole chapter of The Bible and he hasn't seen any bling bling, either. Although we can all see HIS bling on that Michaelangelo statue. At least David got that. But still, Jesus, David and the rest of the Bible collaborators should have had a better agent. Ten percent is standard for a best-selling novel.

I hope Jesus writes another book. He worte that huge best seller, and then He disappeared into obscurity, just like J.D. Salinger. I think he's got a couple more top-10's in him, even if the New York Times refuses to review His work.

The 2005 Lexus Crapper BM series

With all the amenities coming standard in today's automobiles (e.g., GPS, climate control, television, etc.), I'm surprised they don't offer an in-car restroom. After all, you're already sitting down. Why not install a shitter in the chair? I talk on the phone in the car; I talk on the phone while on the shitter. Why not talk on the phone in the car on the shitter? Efficiency.

An on-board crapper would be a good marketing tie-in with those 100 oz. drink holders that now come standard in most automobiles. Take it from me. If you're drinking that much Dr. Pepper, you're gonna need a restroom break.

And think of the fun you could have when the police pull you over:

"Do you know how fast you were going?"

"No faster than usual. I usually just let it flow naturally."

"What? I asked you how fast you were going?"

"Going? Well, uh. Let's see. I finished pinching a dookie on 29th street. Then I had a tinkle. I'd say, uh... 3 minutes. Was I going too fast, officer?"

As long as I've descended to potty humor and automobiles, I've got to ask about "traveller's diahrrea." When I have diahrrea, I can only travel about 15 feet from the toilet and still feel safe. They should call it, "homebody's diahrrea."


Dr. Seymour McCrack, part 2

And now, as promised, the second installment of quotes overheard at the office of Seymour McCrack, Politically Incorrect Gynocologist:

"Hey, what happens if I press this button?"

"Whoa, to hell with the probe. Nurse, get me my gas-powered weedwhacker. You know darlin, the 1970s are over."

"In my office, the term "five-finger discount" takes on a whole new meaning."

"You're pretty spacious. Have you considered renting this place out? I have another patient who converted hers into a lovely time-share."

"Wow. This box is so hot it could make gay men straight. Get it? Men-strate?"

"You know? I've lost three Rolexes since I took this job."

"This job does have its drawbacks. When the wife throws hers in front of me, I reflexively ask what insurance she has."


I've got a dirty little secret for "progressives" everywhere: Starbucks' cappuccino steamers destroy the ozone and their coffee beans are picked by 32-cent-per-hour child labor in foreign countries that steal jobs from our labor unions.

Now will you shut the hell up and drink your coffee?

Oh, that reminds me. How come when Styrofoam contains a Big Mac, it's a crime against nature. But when it holds designer coffee, it's suddenly cool?


You know how when you count something down, you and your partner need to be sure whether to go on "one" or "zero?" Well, at no time is that more important than when in a pistol duel.

People in the old days must have been really angry. Every confrontation, however innocuous, prompted a duel. Can you imagine living like that? I'd be pissed off, too, if I'd lived before cable TV. But I'd like to think I could get through the day without fighting to the death for something stupid like taking cuts in line at the bank.

"I beg your pardon. Did you cut in front of me?"

"On the contrary, dear sir. You cut in front of me."

"I'll not tolerate you insulting my honor. I propose a duel. We draw at 10 paces."

(Here's where reason would get the best of me)

"Uh, nah. That's alright. You go ahead. No, really, it's fine. I'm on my lunch hour, anyway. I've got plenty of time. In fact, here's some of my money. Just go fill out a depost slip. I'll wait."

Nowadays, we keep our duels respectable; we reserve them for the freeway, a la road rage. Idiot drivers notwithstanding, there's no reason to shoot anybody. What's the worst thing that could happen to you in the Old West? You step in some horse plop? Just shoot the horse and make some glue.

And why did all the cowboys carry two guns -- one in each holster? How many people do you plan to shoot that one gun isn't enough? I figure if you kill a couple of people, you ought to be done for the rest of the afternoon, anyway. Even if you have to double-tap 2 or 3 guys who poked fun at your 10-gallon hat, one gun will do. Trust me, when you're committing an act of vengance with a firearm, less is more.

People challenged duels for every the slightest offense. Basically, it's all about honor. If somebody insulted your honor, you had to challenge them to a duel. I'm glad we've renounced that tradition, because on a typical day, my honor gets insulted 10 times before noon. Between work, morning traffic, my family and the clerk with the attitude at the coffee shop, I don't have any honor left to kill for. On a really bad day, so many people hack away at my honor that I wish somebody would just go ahead and shoot me.

Hey, maybe I should challenge somebody to a duel after all!


Blowing Dust Area?

My favorite road sign has to be "Blowing Dust Area."

Wouldn't you know about the dust before you read the sign?

"Hmm. I seem to have entered an atmosphere with trillions of tiny suspended particles. Either that, or I've grown a cataract in the last 20 minutes. What could this be? What does that sign read? Ah, dust you say. Fascinating phenomenon, this 'dust.'"

Thanks for the clue! Now if we could just get signs to warn us where the idiot drivers hand out. "Warning: possible jerkoffs next 20 miles." Come to think of it, we should just plant those signs every 20 miles along every paved road in America.


I'm positive that positive thinking doesn't work

The positive-thinker types remind us to focus on the things we do have, not what we don't have. I believe this is poor counsel. What if you have a case of the clap? Or a really bad head cold? What if you have a nagging wife who makes Rosanne Barr look agreeable?

On the other hand, sometimes it's good to focus on what you don't have. Right now, I don't have an appendage caught in a piece of heavy machinery. I'm pretty damn happy about that. In fact, I can cheer myself up just by reminding myself of that fact. Plus, I don't have the clap. Now I'm grinning ear to ear!

These are the same people who tell you that a sense of humor is the most important thing. This is only patially true. If you're rich, you don't need a sense of humor at all. You can afford to take life as seriously as you please. You can pay somebody else to do your laughing for you! Working-class people are the ones who need a sense of humor, especially on payday. You want proof working class people have a sense of humor? Look who they vote for.

And these same people, the positive-thinker types, stress the importance of smiling. "Remeber to smile. It makes everything seem better." This is a canard. Sometimes, especially with women, the bigger the smile, the bigger the thought of "I hate you" hiding behind it. What is a smile, after all, but the bearing of teeth?

So much for positive thinking.