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?