Philosophy of a Falling Tree

Some people ponder the question, If a tree falls in a forest and nobody is around to hear it, did the tree make a sound?

I'm more practical. I like to ask, If I knocked up a girl while on vacation in Southern California, and I didn't tell her my real name, is she really pregnant?

Some people ask, What would Jesus Do? I ask myself the same thing, only my "Jesus" is pronounced in Spanish, "Hey-Soose." And let me tell you, Jesus does a lot of cool stuff.

Sometimes he slaps his old lady around and drinks a 12-pack of Bud. Other times, when he's running low on dinero, he holds up a liquor store and then drinks a 12-pack. And if the old lady gives him a bum rap about armed robbery, he slaps her around and drinks another 12-pack.

Jesus is the North of my moral compass. I do a lot of things because Jesus would. His counsel gives me a great deal of latitude. I just got a tattoo (on my chest) of a pretty lady with nice, naked boobs because I'm pretty sure Jesus would have done the same thing. I've also purchased a firearm at a local gunshow. It's characteristics are illegal as the muzzle has been sawed off. But again, Jesus would have a gun just like this. And any punk-ass bitch who disrespected Jesus would meet the business end of it. So don't talk any shit, ese, or I'll put my gauge down your sancho throat. Jesus taught me that! He also gave me a hair net and a flannel shirt. I'm wearing them now.

Sometimes late at night after I've been drinking, Jesus encourages me to join a gang. I'm not sure which one I'm going to join yet. I'm inclined to the Crypts because I enjoyed that show, Tales from the Crypt. But the Bloods have a first-rate dental plan. I'll have to ask Jesus what he'd do. He'll steer me right.

Anyway, Jesus says I need to stop acting like a bitch, get off my computer (he plans to sell it for pot and trick the score out to high school kids) and cruise South Sixth for gato. Hey, if it's good enough for Jesus, it's good enough for me.

Te veo, ese.


Love blocks

You know what's romantic? Those sidewalk blocks with all the love graphiti on them. When we were kids, we called them "love blocks." When teenagers found a block of wet cememt, they'd commemorate their love by etching a heart and arrow with their initials and sentiments of love into construction work paid for by our tax dollars. How sweet.

You know what I'd like to see? A sidewalk block 20 years later, in the same neighborhood, where the same people etch how much they hate their former lovers -- and why. We could call it a "hate block." Or maybe an ex-block. Imagine the inscriptions:

"Bitch ran out after 15 years on me and 3 kids."

"Wife-beatin' asshole's finally in jail."

"Joe didn't seem gay when I married him."

"Ralph = cocksucker."

Wouldn't it be romantic?


Three Vignettes a la mode

Old Age

Old age begins at the bottom and works its way up. When you're a kid, your feet hurt from playing. When you're adult, your knees hurt from running. In middle age, your back hurts from struggling. Once your old, things literally becomes a pain in the neck.

But you're never too old or young for a hemorrhoid. I guess that's God's way of reminding us that life can be a pain in the ass no matter how old we are.

The Last Meal

I never understood the tradition of the last meal before the state executes prisoners.

"Well, I've got an hour before they strap me into the electric chair. I'd could really go for some lamb chops and mint jelly right about now."

If I'm ever on death row, you know what my last meal is going to be? A fifth of Everclear. It's nice and flammable. Maybe when they throw the switch I can take a couple of those bastards with me.

Three Coins in a Fountain -- and a little urine

Why bother maintaining vending machines when you can just build fountains? Have you seen the money people throw into these things? I'm thinking about quitting my job and building a big water fountain in my front yard. I figure I can pull down about $450 a week. The fountain in front of the local Cinnabuns makes three times that amount, although it has a statue of a naked kid taking a leak in the thing. Showing the goods always draws a few more bucks.

Some of these people toss a whole quarter in the water. Why do they do that? Are they trying to correct for inflation? Do they think their wish will go to the front of the line? Maybe they make 25 wishes a pop. Who knows? All I know is, there's a lot of money in fountains and I want my piece of the action.


Creative Immigration

I wonder why people immigrating to American do things the hard way: swimming oceans, transversing deserts, jumping barbwire, dodging border agents.

If I wanted to immigrate to America, I'd ship myself there via UPS.

I'm not kidding. I'd find a roomy wooden crate, drill some breathing holes in it, seal myself inside with a Gameboy and a bottle of Gentleman Jack, and mail myself to the nearest stateside topless bar.

Sure, I'd be a little cramped and jet lagged from the trip, but I'd be in much better shape than your typical immigrant. Those people go through hell, risking their lives on the ocean or in a desert. Fuck that! I let some guy wearing little brown shorts haul my ass to the air-conidtioned comfort of a Los Angeles Circle-K, or some other place with a mailbox.

The UPS commercials ask, "What can Brown do for you?"

Answer: It can make me a US citizen where I can get me a job at Red Lobster making minimum wage, then go home an watch re-runs of Friends on basic cable -- the American Dream.

Speaking of illegal immigration, we all complain about "outsourcing" jobs to foreigners. Then we complain about stopping illegal immigration because the aliens do "jobs Americans won't do."

Why don't we split the difference and outsource all the crappy jobs Americans won't do to Mexico? Everybody wins!



Before controversial television shows, you‘ll see this message.

“The views of the host do not necessarily reflect the views of this broadcasting network or its affiliates.”

Translation: We disagree with this steaming pile of programming but we’re going to broadcast it anyway because we make tons of advertising money when you chicken-fried dumbshits buy useless crap like Glade Plug-ins and Chia Pets.

I think the host ought to respond with, “My appearance on this network in no way endorses the useless crap you’ll see advertised during commercial breaks. Most of it is useless crap. Nobody needs a freggin’ Glade Plug-in.”

Give the network a dose of its own medicine.

“Read instruction manual FIRST before attempting to use this product. Only use this product for it intended purpose!”

Translation: When you lop off a finger with our chain saw trying to remove a wart, don’t even try to sue us. Our product isn’t defective. You’re just stupid.

“Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.”

Translation: We’ve installed a magic funhouse mirror on you car because we think it’s hilarious when people crash into each other. Don’t even try to sue us. We warned you.

“Do not exceed recommended dosage.”

Translation: Even though this crap doesn’t work very well, you shouldn’t take 17 of them at once and wash them down with a six-pack of Zima. You might need to have your stomach pumped. The good news is you’ll forget all about your headache.


Two-Martini Musings

Unless you’re a serial killer, why would you buy a van? They’re not as economical as a car. They’re not as cool as an SUV. The only thing you can do in a van is kill somebody and dismember the body. The next time somebody goes missing, we should work from a van-owner list by the DMV.

I wish I were a magician because they can make things in their hands disappear. I’d use sleight-of-hand to make things disappear when paying somebody money, or using a condom. I’d fool the cashier into thinking I gave him a $20, and then slip the money into my sleeve once the coast was clear. I’d do the same if a girl asked me to use a condom. Abracadabra! No more prophylactic. Only I’d pull out early. You don’t want a “rabbit” coming out of THAT hat!

I drink a ton of diet soda. My bladder is 7 times normal size. Scientists have studied it to supplement the Theory of Evolution. And I take a mean whiz, too. If I took a leak in outer-space, I’d accelerate to mach 29!

Here’s a pick-up line for all you single guys the next time you see a cute cashier. “Yeah. I’ll take two milks, two buns and a side-order of snatch.” Make sure you’re looking at her boobs when you speak.

I’m going to open a new bar and call it The Drunken Pilot. Here‘s a list of the drink specials: The Kamikaze, The Down-in-Flames, The Debris-on-the-Beach, The Screaming Stewardess, The Airborne Titanic, The Bermuda Triangle, The Dead Wright Brother, and ValueJet.

I read that the USA is selling fighter jets to Pakistan as a reward for her help with the War on Terror. That’s a great idea. I hope we can get rid terrorism and get back to bombing people like civilized adults. Why do we sell military armament to foreign countries, anyway? Eventually we’ll go to war with the country that bought them! I think we sell other countries weapons so we can have somebody to fight. Otherwise, they’d just have sticks and stones. That’s no fun. How long would a war like that last? So I say, sell them the planes. But first, let’s install a self-destruct mechanism we can activate from the Pentagon. Then, just before we press the button, we have an audio clip of Ashton Kutcher in the cockpit saying “You got punked!” War over.

Might as well drink the entire Slurpee. Don’t think that once it melts, you can recapture the magic by putting it in your freezer. You’ll wind up with a flavored block of ice. On the other hand, you can keep one of those 7 Eleven hot dogs for up to 3 weeks. They’re so full of preservatives that if you don’t eat it, you can use it as a garden tool.

Any well-intentioned parent who buys his/her kid an Erector Set is asking for trouble. And perhaps a trip to a pediatric urologist.

Here’s a tip: you know that $2 can of Red Bull you’re drinking? It’s overpriced Kool-Aid. You want to wake up? Dump some ice-water down your pants. See if that doesn’t give you wings. And some blue balls.

I’ve got some career advice, too. Those of you who didn’t go to college, don’t think you’re ineligible for high-paying jobs. Just write this in your cover letter: “I understand this position requires budgeting and financing expertise. Well get this. I saved $85,000 by not spending 5 years in college learning a bunch of useless B.S. That puts me ahead of every candidate you’ve interviewed! Shouldn’t you hire me?”

With a name like Air Supply, you’d think the band would have written more songs about SCUBA diving or space travel.

Here’s something fun to say in the elevator: “Do you know where the restroom is in this thing? Because I’m definitely not going to make it 38 floors.”

I never understood the term “restroom.” You don’t get any rest trying to pinch that chili dog you ate 2 days ago that has suddenly decided to make an encore appearance a little farther south. There’s no “rest” in the restroom. Hell, some of the hardest work I’ve ever done has been while on the crapper.

I think after a while, those mile-makers on the highway should read, “The middle of fucking nowhere.”

Egypt must have a large homosexual demographic, what with all the “butt-fucking.”

You know those hand signals you learn about in driver’s ed? Well, I’ve been driving 17 years and the only signal I’ve seen involved a finger.

I don’t believe “personal growth” to be a worthy goal. I spend an hour a day at the gym trying to shrink a bit.

A brief study of American history will unearth two useless decades: the 1960s and the 1970s. All the crap we deal with today was defecated during these two decades. I submit the 1950s and the 1980s were our finest decades. The 1990s sucked because we tried to relive the 60s and 70s. But it’s been pretty cool since 2000 because we’re tying to relive the 80s. And as we all know, the 80s were just the 50s, with cocaine. Don’t believe me? Try this thought experiment: Mix Danny and the Juniors with cocaine and you get Duran Duran. And wasn’t Reagan just like a coked-out Eisenhower? If you want to know what’s good about America, just look at the 50s and the 80s.


We come in all shapes, sizes and colors.

This dude's blog promises to be demented, offensive, off-color, tasteless, angry, crude, brass, crass, lewd, lascivious, racy, obnoxious, sarcastic, contrarian, inconsiderate, hostile, vexing and devoid of class or decorum.

I like it already.

Take a gander. He's a colleague.



Conclusion to An Unfortunate Course of Events.

For those of you who missed Part One: Scroll down past the picture of the chick pointing at the dude's junk and read "An unfortunate course of events."

And now, Part 2

“Pervert!” “Sick-o.” “Ass-pirate.” “Sigfreid and Roy’s personal ball washer!”

The insults ejaculated from the ladies’ mouths. They stood resolutely in their attack postures. A rumble loomed. This went beyond a cancelled gym membership. I feared for my life.

The cardio room fell quiet except for the 70’s porn soundtrack. An odor of Elizabeth Taylor Diamonds perfume mixed with chick sweat hung in the air. I had managed to step off the elliptical trainer and wander to the center of the room. The ladies had encircled me like a pack of hyenas. We were in a stand-off. I made an attempt at levity:

“Say, what do you tell a woman with two black eyes?” I asked with forced magnanimity. “Nothing. She’s been told twice already.”

[I should interject that a herd of martial arts-trained women doesn’t warmly receive humor that could be construed as sexist.]

The women launched their attack. I had 2 bogeys approaching from my 12:00. From the corner of my eye I spied a clandestine flank formation. The first bogey charged! She jumped in the air with a mighty cry . I suddenly found myself on the business-end of a cardio jumping sidekick. I ducked and rolled to the side. She missed me. The Jumping-Jane Fonda caught nothing but air as she sailed past me and into an exercise bike. Jacked her shit up, too. I think she caught a handlebar in the gash.

Everyone halted briefly to contemplate my deft maneuver. I even impressed myself. I dodged that kick like a pro. I felt a surge of confidence boil my blood. After all, I wasn’t just some muscle-bound oaf. I spend a good 20 minutes with the heavy bag on Tuesdays and Thursdays (Thank you, Billy Blanks Tae Bo tape!). If these chicks wanted to rumble, I’d oblige them. I hit my best ass-kick pose and eyeballed several of the ladies. I had to show these fem-bots who they were messing with. I might just have to open myself a can of ass-whoo… Suddenly my right leg buckled like John Kerry at a gay-rights rally. One of the kick boxers caught me in the back of the knee with a sharp kick. Cheap shot, but effective. As I stumbled, a Brittany Spears stunt-double moved in and delivered a reverse punch to my solar plexus. I heaved and collapsed to the floor. I withered for a few seconds as I labored to catch my breath.

I have to admit. Brittany can pack a punch. The ladies’ morale was high. Suddenly I heard a battle cry: “Finish him! Ladies, execute Defense #7 GROIN ATTACK.” I was contemplating just lying on the floor in a ball and letting the situation dissipate. But the thought of 30 feet taking turns trampling my beanbag prompted me to spring to my feet, a la Karate Kid fight scene. The ladies’ contempt gave way to blind rage. They converged on me. I had to think fast. I darted to the wall and grabbed a cardio barbell -- 12 lbs of rubberized death in trained hands. Recollecting a scene from Enter the Dragon, I twirled the barbell in a brilliant kata. It impressed the women enough to maintain a respectable distance. I was able to establish a 3-foot radius of safety around my person with my makeshift staff. I slowly advanced toward the exit. The hyenas followed in a tight circle. They searched for the slightest hole in my defense. I had to talk some shit to let them know I wasn’t intimidated. “You want some of this, beeee-YACH?” I was taunting them now. “I can pop a silicone breasts in 3 milliseconds with this muthafucka.“ As I spoke, I made my way toward the exit.

Then I heard her speak: “I’m gonna fuck you with that barbell, you Nick Lachey looking’ mother fucker.”

Huh? I strained to see the person who uttered the threat. The voice came from down the hall, in the shadows. I peered through the blur of my spinning staff. I was able to distinguish the silhouette of a very large female form -- or else my health club was now enrolling marine mammals. I couldn’t be sure. To my horror, a woman emerged. And she was the biggest bull-dyke you ever saw, dressed in stretch pants and a polo shirt, Doc Martin’s and several sweatbands. She twirled a whistle in her left hand and held a clipboard in her right. Over her shirt pocked read “Instructor.”

Our eyes locked. I continued twirling my staff. The bull dyke instructor wasn’t impressed. She smirked at me and revealed a neglected set of teeth. Then she spoke out the side of her mouth. “Fall in ladies. Grab some bench. Today’s lesson is how to defend yourself against a pole attack, and then fuck the assailant in his punk-bitch ass with his own weapon.”

The women responded at once. The fell in along the perimeter and sat as instructed. I felt less easy against The Instructor than the 15 Barbies. But I didn’t have a choice. The Instructor wanted to snap into me like a Slim Jim. It was just like that scene in Romeo and Juliet when Tybalt and Romeo duel. Only in this case, Tybalt was a big, bull dyke with a hair lip and too much Brut cologne.

The Instructor made her move. Faster than I could notice, she flung her clipboard at me like a greased throwing star. It made a beeline for my throat. Luckily my staff intercepted the projectile. Unfortunately, the force of the clipboard upset the balance of the twirling staff. Several milliseconds later, the end collided with my crotch. Flop! Ugh. Nothing like a shot in the grapes to remind you that you’re in a death match with a man-hating lesbian karate instructor. I heard a thump. Julio had fainted. He spilled his mango-orange protein smoothie on the cardio floor. You’d swear he was the one who took a shot in the beanbag. Oh well.

Immobilized from pain, I could only watch The Instructor charge. She saw her chance. I knew if she caught me in her grasp, I’d be 198 pounds of hamburger meat working its way through The Instructor’s alimentary canal. Never! I collected myself as best I could. I had one shot. I cocked the staff behind my head and hurled it like a javelin into her sternum. My weapon found its mark. Thud! The Instructor froze. Her head cocked. Her face grimaced. She looked like she was trying to hold back a nitro methane fart. Then, she collapsed.

The room fell silent. Even the gay sailors fell silent, although not because of my amazing feat of athleticism; it was a cuddling scene. I guess gay porn has those.

I leapt over The Instructor’s carcass and darted out the exit. Tomorrow, I’m looking into a Bally’s membership.


LBB's News Service: Unearthed Gitmo Pic

originally uploaded by BugsButt.


An unfortunate course of events

I confess. I can’t enchant my readers with Old West Lore like Latigo Flint. Nor can I wax poetic on the vagina like Blog Ho. Lacking computer expertise, I can’t dazzle my readers with graphical parodies like Bennet, 8ZERO8 or KICKASS. And I certainly can’t titillate like ChickenStrip, YGWIN, Grace, Toni or the other fabulous girl bloggers. Usually, I dive into the bowels of my imagination in search of fodder for a post. And when I unearth something that doesn’t stink too badly, I crap it onto my laptop and upload it to Blogger. Hopefully, my dear readers don’t have to hold their noses while they read.

I may lack the tools of the trade when it comes to blogging. But I can recount a story as good as anybody, especially when it’s the gospel truth. And I’ve got a humdinger of a true story for you tonight.

Today I went to my local gym. I’ve been going a few months now. I find the elliptical trainer is more than a match for all the fried food, sweets and booze I cram down my gullet. So I go to the gym 5 days a week and spend an hour like a hamster on a wheel. In exchange, I spend the next 23 hours not being a fat slob, which surely would come to pass should I discontinue my exercise regimen.

My gym features satellite television in the cardio room. I find it a welcome distraction from the monotony of the elliptical trainer and the sweaty swamp at the convergence of my boxer shorts and ball sack. You haven’t had a sweaty crotch until you’ve spent an hour on the elliptical trainer. But I digress.

The television is usually locked on FoxNews. That’s fine with me. Fox broadcasts business news at noon, and I always enjoy getting a heads-up on which industries are on-deck to fornicate my financial sphincter. Lately, it’s been Big Oil. Once Oil busts a nut, some other Wall Street bruiser will accept the tag and position itself squarely behind me. Anyway, today Foxnews wasn’t on. Instead, some gay-ass soap opera was blaring and polluting the gymnasium air. Luckily, the satellite remote was near. I grabbed it. The thing looked and felt unfamiliar in my hand, just like that evening with my counselor at summer camp back in 1982. I have cable TV. I couldn’t make sense of the satellite remote. But I asked myself, how different can it be? I figured I’d surf my way up to FoxNews and then hide the remote, perhaps in the aforementioned swamp between my legs. The only one who would dare look for the remote there would be Julio, the cafĂ© clerk. No lo puedes tocar, Julio!

I started pressing buttons. Through a series of fumbles and over-corrections, I had conjured a category 5 shit storm. The TV had a couple different pull-down menus, 3 picture-in-picture frames, the programming guide, and a Friends rerun going simultaneously. Damn that condescending prick, Chandler! Worse, I somehow managed to crank the volume up to levels not known since the last Iron Maiden concert. Several club members registered their impatience with glares and sighs. I felt a hot blush wash over my face. I was in a pressure cooker now. I had to navigate my way out of this shit storm fast. I was pressing buttons like a school girl with a Bon Jovi CD cover. I no longer cared about FoxNews. I’d settle for anything. Hell, I would have settled for Oprah, Emeril, Murder She Wrote, even the Teletubbies -- that purple gay one. Push, push, push. The TV screen looked like a Grand Finale, or that climactic scene in the movie War Games when the WHOPPER is fixing to blow up the world. This was going from bad to worse.

And then it happened.

Porn. Pornography. Yep, a freggin’ porn channel blaring through the gymnasium. Liquid sex oozing from the Zeinith 27 inch and into my personal hell. And not just any porn. It was gay porn. I guess if you’re going to go down, you might as well go down in flames, huh?

The shock of the scene and my sweaty hands conspired on a cruel joke. I fumbled the remote. It fell to the floor and ejected several batteries which rolled under the elliptical trainer. Helpless and hapless, I looked up at the TV. At the moment, several sailors had stolen away into the boiler room. Evidently it was so hot they had to remove their pants and shirts. It occurred to nary a seaman to remove their hat or kerchief. But again, I digress. A loud scream brought me back to the nightmare of my situation. I turned to the source of the scream and spied a middle-aged soccer mom with a look of abject horror on her face. Her right hand covered her gaping mouth. Her left raised and pointed at me, accusing me, as if I chose this course of events. Calm down, soccer mom. Like you’ve never seen a sailor before!

Currently my problems were compounding. The soccer mom’s screams alarmed a class of female cardio kick boxers. As luck would have it, today’s lesson focused on how to counter attack and disable a sexual assailant. Swell. Women in Spandex and midriff tank tops jumped, tumbled and back-flipped into the cardio room. They glanced at the TV screen, then at the soccer mom -- petrified and still pointing -- and finally at me. I could only shrug my shoulders at the kick boxers while I calculated a reasonable explanation for the gay orgy currently featured on the television. While I can give me readers a perfectly understandable account of how this happened, at the time, under duress and several naked sailors, I managed to mutter a single word: “N-n-n-nnn-news.”

I didn’t interpret their attack postures as a good sign. I hadn’t a single compassionate ear in the gymnasium, save Julio, who had evidently heard the ruckus and sprinted to the cardio room. In Julio’s eyes I spied the sparkle of compassion -- and a bit of excitement. But he was no match for the 15 angry, martial arts-trained women who currently encircled me. I realized now that things would come to fisticuffs…

Dial in next time for the exciting conclusion.


Truth Serum

We don't use enough truth serum. Truth serum is the best invention ever -- especially with all the bullshit in the world. Yet we hardly ever use it. If it weren't for the movies, I wouldn't even know it exists.

Think of all the money we could save the justice system (lawyers, judges, expert witnesses, jury summons, never-ending trials). We could side-step 90% of litigation with a truck-load of truth serum. Of course, if we all drank truth serum, the divorce rate would skyrocket, and then the courts would fill up again.

Just imagine if we required political candidates to drink truth serum before debates! We'd have a lot of people jumping ship for the Reform Party! How about job interviews? Bad idea -- nobody would get hired. Maybe the boss should have to take the truth serum before the interview. I know I'd have a few questions about illegitimate sick days and the blogging-at-work policy. Here's a good question for a future boss on truth serum: "How little can I get away with doing and still keep my job?"

Imagine the OJ Simpson trial with truth serum. No courts, no judge, no witnesses. Just OJ, a cop, a pharmacist, a little wooden chair and a lightbulb hanging from the ceiling.

First they pop OJ in the ass with a syringe of truth serum, then comes the testimony.

"All right OJ. Spill it."

"I told you before. I didn't kill her. I love my ex-wife and I'd never do anything to har... uh.... er, uh... I KILLED THAT BITCH AND THE WHITE BOY WITH THE SUNGLASSES."

We could have saved Johnny Cochran one heck of a headache. Poor bastard. Anybody who works that hard to convince himself that OJ was innocent is going to develop a brain tumor. It's medical scientific fact.

He's just another victim of the lack of truth serum. Let's start using it.


Nicknames and Boxing

I think boxing is cool because all the boxers have hip, cool nicknames. "Iron" Mike Tyson. Evander "The Real Deal" Holyfield. "Hit-man Hearns." "The Italian Stallion."

I wish this tradition existed in other lines of work. Nicknames would make the workday easier to bear. And it would put some fun in new-employee orientation. Imagine starting a new job and instead of learning where the cafeteria and bathrooms are, you instead learned all the cool nicknames. You might even get one of your own. Hopefully, it wouldn't be "Errand Boy" or "Jizz Mopper." Names like that could disgrutle an otherwise star employee. I think I'd hate "Uni-ball," too. It would be because of my snazzy Uni-ball Bic Pen. But I'd have to live down the inevitable connotation by flashing everybody my junk at the water cooler -- just to set the record straight. Of course then I'd run the risk of earing the name "Flash," or "Pencil Pecker." I'd be going from bad to worse.

I'm serious about nicknames at work, though. Accountants, wouldn't it be fun to share a cubical with Cliff "The Embezzler" Feldman? I'll bet he'd be a blast to work with. Just don't let him set up your 401-k. How about a butcher who goes by the name "Jake 9-digits?" Or a proctologist named "Butterfingers?" A garbage man named "Stinky." He does his route with Trash-talkin' Stan the garbage man. One day we'll elect a president who goes by the name, Duke Nuke'em Something or Other. And I'll bet nobody fucks with us for at least 4 years. France will be tripping over itself to kiss our red, white and blue ballsack.

It's all in the name.


New warnings for alcoholic beverages and fun with cliches

Alcoholic Beverage Label Warnings

Warning -- may erroneously inflate odds of winning a fistfight against the strip club bouncer.

Warning -- Mixing this product with all-you-can-eat chicken wings may produce skid marks.

Warning -- This product does not include bail money.

Warning -- High doses of this product may cause instances of public nudity.

Warning -- When under the influence of this product, women may appear more attractive than they actually are. Do not view sex partners procured while using this product when sober.

Fun with Cliches

That defecates the purpose

A girl in the hand is worth another girl's bush

You can't judge a hooker by her lover

Don't kick a gift horse in the crotch

Here's one for the wives to say to their husbands when making love: Are you fuckin' hard or hardly fuckin?

Good fences make good neighbors peek from the balcony.

Why buy the cow when you can fuck her all you want right now?

The road to hell is paved with old New York Times editorial pages.

You draw more guys with money than ministers.

Watched pot never gets you high.

The freaky heel has a boil.

Imitation is the mildest form of battery.


Vignette Triple-Play

Pay toilets

Pay toilets are the zenith of capitalism. Can you think of a more pure, undiluted expression of capitalism than making somebody who has to take a squeege cough up a quarter? Give me some money or shit your shorts.

This practice is, of course, the oppoiste of socialism, where you're allowed to take a dump wherever you please, and then keep it, because it's also your paycheck that month.

I could have been a fashion model

It's true. I could have been a male model. Many suggested that I give it a try. So when I was in my twenties, I went to a Sears Robuck recruitment for underwear. They were looking for a new BVD "it boy" for the latest ad campaign.

I fit the part perfectly. They told me I was just what they were looking for. The job paid $130 per hour.

But then I received some bad news. According to the Sears photo editor, I "sport too big of a bulge." There went my modeling career in a flash.

Damn this abnormally large member of mine!

The Young, the Old and the Restless

We're always telling little kids to slow down. "No running." "Slow down." "Take your time." "Be patient." No matter where a kid is going, he's in a hurry to get there.

So why can't we tell old people to hurry the hell up? With the limited amount of time they have, you'd think they'd be the ones in a rush. I waited over a minute -- 60 seconds -- for an old lady to fill her soda glass at McDonalds. I know she was old, but how long does it take to decide between Mountain Dew or Iced Tea? They don't have Metimucil-flavor, Grandma. Stop looking and fill your damn drink!

We put kids on Ritilin to calm them down. Why can't we force old people to take amphetamines? Pop'em full of crank before they go out for that Sunday drive. Christ! They're taking a dozen pills every morning as it is. Why not give them one that actually helps?

Little kids have all the time in the world and they run like it was their last day on earth. Old people take their sweet ass time even thought they could die at any minute. Why?


A few more crumbs from my conscience

  • Do you think kids with the name “Jesus” have to call their dads “God?”
  • Here's a list of cool names: Biff, Stretch, Skip, Gage, Huck, Dutch. Names that are also verbs are cool.
  • Attention parents: when your child misbehaves, you don't have to get angry. When your teen-ager acts inconsiderately and fails to show you an ounce of respect, you don't have to despair. Just do what I do. Whenever your kid acts up, go to the bank, take $50 bucks out of their college fund and buy yourself something nice.
  • I like the kid in the anti-drug commercials who tells his pot-smoking friends that he won't try drugs. Then he says something like “I don't need drugs to be cool.” He should say something closer to the truth, like “Forget this great party. I'm going home to jerk off all over myself and then read a science book.”
  • I don't understand the term “going down” on a girl. You can't go down on a girl unless she's standing up! I think we should use compass coordinates to describe the act of cunnilingus. For instance, let's say she's lying so that her her head points north-by-northwest. You can ask her, “Hey, baby. Do you want me to go south-by-southeast on you?”
  • Bill Clinton sure has gone downhill quickly. Six years ago, he was gulping down Big Macs, partying with Hollywood celebs and tagging cooter half his age in the Oval Office while he talked to world leaders on the phone and his wife read in the next room. Fast-forward 6 years. He looks like a ghost. He's lost 50 pounds. His heart's on the fritz and he's jetting around the country with an 80-year-old man talking about tsunamis and libraries.
  • Things change once you get married. When I was single, women didn't know I existed. I was like the invisible man with a body odor problem. I was like that retarded kid selling roses off the expressway. But once I got married, I guess my dick became cherry-flavored, because now they all want a lick.
  • If Earth is truly my mother, will somebody kindly point me to the tits?
  • Why do you have to be a medical doctor to perform an autopsy? Your patient is already dead! Hell, you don't even need to be CPR-certified. Just count the stab wounds and bullet holes and call it a night. A janitor can do that.
  • True story: stopped at a traffic light, I saw this bum. He looked at me and started rubbing his stomach -- to gesture that he was hungry. I kept watching. He rubbed his stomach again. I just stared. He rubbed his stomach a 3rd time. Still trapped at a red light, I looked right at him and patted my head. Then I sped away.
  • Barring economic hardship, why would anybody eat a bologna sandwich?
  • I find the best way to placate an angry drunk is to remind them they're an alcoholic and that nothing they say really matters. Oh, and you might want to suggest that's why they lost their job and ceased being a real man.
  • I keep reading about same-sex marriage. Isn't all marriage “same-sex?” You get to have sex with the same damn person the rest of your life.
  • The world is getting so politically correct that criminal suspects now have their own euphemism: “person of interest.” They're not people-of-interest. They're suspects. The cops suspect them of a crime. Nelson Mandella is a person of interest. J-Lo is a person of interest -- at least the bottom half is. John Wayne Gasey was a suspect.
  • Here's an idea for breakfast cereal: sweetened oat-bran pieces shaped into obscene body parts. Name of the cereal? Alpha-Tits.


I worked the clock

Hey guys! I had sex with my wife on the eve of Daylight Savings Time. I'm happy to report I was able to make love to her for an hour and five minutes.

I always knew I had a marathon man in me. Now my wife has it in her!

Dr. Seymour McCrack, Politically Correct Gynecologist, 4th

And now for the forth installment of Dr. Seymour McCrack, Politically Correct Gynecologist.

But first a note to my readers: It has come to the author's attention that several readers have mistaken Dr. McCrack for a competent, licensed clinician. Acting on his counsel, these readers have suffered consequences detrimental to their health. Understand that Dr. McCrack isn't real. He's a product of my imagination. He's a work of fiction, like “women doctors” or the Holocaust.

Fresh quotes from the office of Dr. Seymour McCrack:

“I haven't seen lips that big since J.J. Walker in Good Times.”

“Off with the socks, show me the box.”

“As much as I enjoyed the pictures in my medical textbooks, nothing comes close to the live show.”

“When I was a boy, my momma told me if I press this button, I'd start World War III.”

“Why gynecology? I'm glad you asked. Hmm. Let me think. I guess I'd have to say all the pussy. No, seriously. Growing up with 3 sisters, I noticed these things are high-maintenance. These things are like Jaguars -- always breaking down. Anyway, I figured if the auto mechanic can make six-figures, imagine what a good gynecologist could pull in (other than the speculum).”

“It's a good line of work, overall. But every once in a while I have to dive into a cooter older than many rock formations.”

“Normally, I don't violate patient confidentiality. But I've got this crazy patient who swears he has a vagina. Goes by the name 'Blog Ho.'”


Good Lord. Read this Want-ad

The Roman Catholic Times

Classifed Section

Wanted: The Catholic Church is accepting applications for a Pontiff whose responsibilities include executive office of Catholicism and overseeing the Faith of 800 million Catholics. Will function as liaison between God and Mankind. Must work well with Christian Deities, Holy Spirits and Saints. Experience with Biblical sermons a must. Must be able to type 40 Biblical verses per minute. Must meet quarterly collection plate quotas. Some travel necessary.

This position requires the occassional wearing of a bulletproof vest, an encumbering hat, bulky robes. You must be physically fit enough to wear these items while wielding a scepter. Must be willing to make gesture of blessing and wave Holy Hand for several hours at a time.

Gererous Benefits package includes: a personal chauffeur, free robes, adolation of millions of Christians, a staff of cardnals at your disposal, lifetime supply of Bibles, guaranteed reservation in Heaven.

Fax, send or miracle your resume to Catholic Church Headquaters, C/O Board of Cardinals. All applications must include prayer that you get the job.

Employment pending drug screen and criminal background check.

Protestants and Jews need not apply.


The Best Orphans

For my money, the best orphans are British. They're the lovliest little creatures. Whether in movies or real life, you can't beat a British orphan (well, you CAN beat them if you're the headmaster of the orphanage. Touche!). Imagine one now, with his angelic face smeared with coal dust from the mine he labors, soiled winter coat, galoshes, and an outstretched hand covered in a holey mitten, hoping for a spare shilling.

"Pardon me, dear sir. I lost me dad in the coal mines and me mom's dead of consumption. I'd be ever so grateful for a spare pound so I might eat."

Ah, it makes me wish I had a little British orphan shining my shoes right now. I'd gladly tip the little fella.

Oprhans from other countries aren't nearly as pleasant. Those from the Middle East are busy burning effigies of George Bush. Those in Asia are likely planning to kill you for your bodily organs (you can get 50 thousand American dollars for a kidney). Even orphans in America are obnoxious little tuffs. They wouldn't remove their I-Pod earpiece to hear you beg for your life during a car jacking.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: the best orphans are British.

A misallocation of resources

I hurl a lot of inanimate objects at my television, especially when I'm watching the news. I hate the news. But if you don't watch it, you can't complain about stuff. So I stay locked in 14 hours per day.

Sometimes when I hurl an object at the newscaster, it's because they switched to a Spanish accent when they pronounced a word derived from Spanish, even though it's still English. It's enchilada, not “Ain-Chee-LAtha.” Save it for Telemundo, lady. But most of the time I throw things at the TV because the news reminds me of all the problems in our country and our ineptitude for correcting them. After I whiz the remote across the room, I can only shake my head in disgust. The aggravating thing is, we don't have to put up with these problems; we're just misallocating our human resources. We're putting the wrong people in charge of fixing our national headaches. Let me explain.

Per the Constitution, all money bills start in the House of Representatives. That means congressmen spend all our tax money. No wonder NASA has to calculate the national debt. Your average congressman makes Michael Jackson look frugal (and sexually prudent). You know who should be writing our national budget? Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart will make the numbers balance. Wal-Mart can sell you a color television for 29 bucks. Congress will buy a crapper for $600 and then use it to flush your social security money. Who do you think will balance the books faster?

Furthermore, Wal-Mart should hire and manage all government employees. Everyone knows how overpaid and under-worked government employees are. Wal-Mart will change that faster than Anne Heche's sexual orientation. Wal-Mart will squeeze them all into blue smocks and have them punching clocks and pushing brooms for $8.00/hr. And all those wasteful government benefits? Try 10% off retail price and two, 10-minute breaks per shift. Now go clean the Capitol Building shitters. Wal-Mart will ride our government employees' asses and get our money's worth, although we may have to get comfortable with government workers lacking several teeth and/or being 89 years-old.

Immigration is a humongous problem -- again, because we employ the wrong people to do the job. You want to know the solution to illegal immigration? Titty-bar bouncers. Yep. I say we round up all the bouncers in every titty bar in the country. Then we line them up along the Mexican border and leave them out there with a basket of buffalo wings and some steroids, and those tee-shirts that read “Security” on the back. Just picture a line of titty bar bouncers in a row, shaved heads, goatees, barbed wire tattoos around their arms, chests puffed out, watching ominously with their arms folded. Nary a vato would make it across the border. I'll guarantee you that. It would sell politically, too, because nobody would be using firearms or taser guns -- just a line of bar jocks tossing little vatos back across the border, and an occasional Budweiser-fueled shoving match. “Sorry Gentlemen. You can look, but you can't touch.” “Settle down now. You don't have to go home but you can't come here.”

Plus, bouncers already know to check I.D. ”Sorry, Pedro. Unless you're a 62 year-old Chinese lady with a corrective eye-wear restriction, you're not getting in the club.”

Dead-beats are another problem, and we've employed the wrong people to deal with them. I don't just mean people down on their luck, I mean dead-beats getting a free ride at somebody else's expense: parents whose child support is in arrears, greedy business executives who've embezzled millions, doctors who don't pay their student loans, Winona Ryder, people like that. You know who we should sic on them? The IRS. Nobody can get their hands up somebody's financial skirt and into the honey pie faster than the IRS. Let these bloodhounds track the dead-beats. They'll find the money if they have to shake them by the ankles. Problem solved. Oh, and if the job gets too big, let the mafia do some per diem, contract work. Or organize a job-share. The IRS gets Monday through Friday. The Dagos work the weekend shift.

Here's another problem with the wrong people trying to fix it: Homeland security. Right now we have a bunch of white, middle-aged slugs who wouldn't notice a potential terrorist unless he stole an agent's ham sandwich. Who should be in charge of homeland security? Follow me on this one: Drug addicts. Pot smokers, meth-heads, coke-fiends -- these people are just paranoid enough to catch every twitch a potential terrorist makes. A terrorist won't be able to sneak out a fart without one of these guys jumping 7 feet in the air and calling the cavalry. Regarding homeland security, paranoia is a virtue. Who's more paranoid than a chronic pot-smoker? And the best part is, we can pay these guys off in crank and Doritos. Everybody wins! Sure, some paranoid agent on a 3-day binge might finger an 82-year-old grandma with a knitting needle, but that's the price we pay for security.

Illiteracy -- another huge problem in America. It's no surprise, though. Most teachers can't pass a reading competency exam anymore. Unless MTV starts featuring a Phonics Reading Hour after Yo MTV Raps, the problem isn't going to get any better.

I know this is ironic, but we should put Asians in charge of teaching English. Have you ever met a first-generation Asian immigrant? They learned English in like, 4 days, from reading street signs and McDonald's lunch menus. You can give an Asian kid a Bazooka Joe comic and they'll start speaking English at the college-freshman level. They're amazing -- and national test scores prove it. They can speak English better than anybody. You just can't understand them, but that's alright. We have to suck it up, man. We have to check our pride at the door, because foreigners speak our language better than we do. In fact, we might as well let Asians teach mathematics too, and maybe cooking. Those Chinese make a wonderful fried rice. In fact, let's have them teach all our classes, except Drivers Ed! [Note: I realize I've just lost several Asian readers. Let me take this opportunity to tell you how much I'll miss your visits and I hope legal action won't be necessary.]

Heck, we've solved some major problems over the last several paragraphs. That's why bloggers should be running things. We're the ones who have all the sound, common-sense ideas.