3/31/2005

Drive-by's

Fruity Pebbles are so good you can eat them straight from the cereal box.

Nice eyes and a great smile on a guy is like big tits and a short skirt on a girl.

Ice cream should count as a frozen dinner.

Have you ever noticed how clearly you see the world immediately after an orgasm?

Why does fruit-flavored candy taste so much better than the fruit it's trying to replicate?

A bagel is better than toast, but worse than a doughnut.

Most men fantasize about two women at the same time; I fantasize about two women for a lifetime.

If we're our brothers' keeper, why couldn't I copy my neighbor's chemistry test in school?

I think it's cool how "OK" and "KO" mean the opposite things. The first means "alright." The second means "knocked out."

You can tell how friendly a country is by how much barbwire it has around the border.

How come if you paint a picture of somebody naked, it's art, but if you take a picture of somebody naked, it's porn?

I think we could get more gang-bangers to graduate high school if we promised to engrave their diplomas on rims.

I don't care how good they taste, I'm not eating a food called "pork rinds."

I've discovered that you may never forget how to ride a bike, but you sure as hell can forget how to rollerblade.

I saw a car with a bumpersticker that read, "Wal-Mart Sucks." The irony was that his car looked as if he bought it at Wal-Mart.

What do you suppose the smoke stacks look like at the dildo factory?

Too bad breathing didn't burn more calories.

The worst place to jump on a pogo stick is under a ceiling fan. It's also the worst thing to do while naked.

3/29/2005

Behold the Virgin Mary

How come every time the human form appears in an everyday item such as a potato chip, a cheese sandwich, or a rock formation, we assume it's the likeness of a Biblical figure?

I read a news story where the Virgin Mary appeared in a grilled cheese sandwich, and was recently sold on eBay for $12,000!

May I suggest that if the Virgin Mary visited the planet, she'd have better places to hang out than inside a brick of Velveeta?

Have you seen these images? Sure, this latest one looks vaguely like a woman, but why the Virgin Mary? Couldn't it be somebody a bit more earthly, like Ann B. Davis from the Brady Bunch?

In 1983, I ate a Lays Potato Chip that bore a striking resemblence to my 7th grade music teacher. I didn't think much of it at the time. Now I wonder if it wasn't worth a few bucks. The image in the chip was, after all, topless.

I have all the respect in the world for religious people and would never condescend to these fine Americans. But don't pin your faith to a scorch mark on a tortilla!

God bless his soul; the Pope is on the short list for the Big Sleep. And when he goes, we're going to "discover" his image in a variety of food products. Mark my words. I see him as a potato salad man. His skin has a similar complexion and consistency. Hey, that would make a great product: "Pontiff Potato Salad -- a little bit of Pope in every bowl." Keep a sharp eye for him at picnics. And if you do find him, don't let him go over in the heat.

3/28/2005

An open letter from the folks here at Blogger:

Dear Blogger:

Welcome back, bloggers! We're proud to see our Blogger service currently boasts over 4 million members -- and that number is growing every day. At Blogger, we're committed to offering our members a quality blogging experience. That's we we're constantly improving Blogger and adding new features. Here's what to expect:

Some of you may have encountered errors and system failures when trying to post. This isn't our fault. You must appreciate the enormous drain on our system your 3 paragraphs of text on the Art of Farting or Dave Mathews song lyrics causes. Even with today's computing power, no network on the planet can handle that much information in a reasonable time. Broadband Internet and 4th generation Pentiums simply aren't enough. Even NASA doesn't have the computing power to broker an exchange of information between a teenager's daily diary entry and our servers. Please bear with us until we can recruit 5000 Asian 12-year-old computer nerds to teach our dumbass staff how to keep a server running. Most of our programmers are still working through their Windows for Dummies books. We'll keep you posted on how that goes.

Coincidentally, 12 years is approximately the amount of time it takes an average user to successfully post a comment on our new, exciting Comments feature. At Blogger, we know that when you read an exceptionally well-written, entertaining post, the last thing you want to do is let the author know with a few lines of text. Bloggers prefer to work in complete annonymity with no possibility for the exchange of ideas -- or even a simple acknowledgement. You're all much too busy blogging. So, our crack team of programmers has coded a subroutine that will capture your computer's processor and suspend it in limbo indefinitely the moment you attempt to post a comment. We make it damn near impossible to accidentally post a comment. Future versions of our software will automatically delete your family pictures, any online billing records and your favorite porn files while you wait. No need to thank us. It's our way of showing our members how much we care.

Please disregard rumors some irresponsible news sites are publishing about a class action lawsuit against Blogger. This rumor falsely reports that over 3,000 perfectly reasonable people have fallen into a stark raving conniption fit and demolished their computers with their bare hands after repeated attempts to use Blogger. [One of our members, known only as Lightning Bug's Butt, has organized a Blogger Sucks/Legalize Hemp rally currently on display in a residential area where several Google exectutives reside. Authorities have arrived and a naked, intoxitcated LBB is under arrest] This alleged acute mental breakdown has already acquired the moniker “Going Blogger.” Our legal team at Blogger wishes to inform all of you there is no truth to this class action suit nor the mental episode alleged therein.

To the 17 of you who actually succeed accessing Blogger today, we at Blogger wish you Happy Blogging!

3/25/2005

The Critical Mass of Knowledge

I'm developing a theory. Here's the thesis:

Upon reaching a certain age, you've observed so much that everything you enounter in the future is either a derivative or facsimile of something from the past. In other words, nothing's original. It's just the same rehashed crap. Everything and everybody will remind you of something or somebody else once you've reached the Critical Mass of Knowledge.

If you're old like me, you'll agree. If you're young, you're likely to say aloud, "This fucker's whack." I'm not whack, and when you reach your thirties, you'll agree.

Those of you who've attained the Critical Mass of Knowledge have probably experienced its effects while watching television. While everybody around you is enjoying the program, you're asking yourself why this steaming pile of programming is recycling mediocre plots from the 1970s. All these CSI programs are just rehashed plots of Magnum P.I. and Matlock. All they did was ditch the Ferarri and that old dude from Maybury. If I were Tom Sellek, I'd press that moustache to the phone and start calling copyright lawyers. Again, those of you in your thirties will agree. If you're young, you'll ask, "Who the fuck is Magnum P.I.?"

I've reached Critical Mass with people, too. I know so many people that every stranger I see looks like someone I know. I want to ask everybody, "Aren't you that jerk who cut me off in traffic? Then you must be the person who short-changed me at the register? No? How about that guy who farted in the elevator and by the 39th floor most of us were in seizures? No, you're not him. Wait! I've got it. You're the fella who flashed me outside the pet groomers. Boy, it must have been cold out that day! Nice to see you again, tripod. My chiuaua is hung bigger than you."

Fashion is another choice example. You know these low-cut jeans? They're just a tube-top for the lower half: mildly arousing, but mostly sleazy. Likewise, those midriff tops are the mini-skirts of the 1960s. They just approach the muffin from differnet directions.

Consider celebrities? Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg bear resemblences to Lionel from Sanford & Son and J.J. from Good Times. George Michael? Errol Flynn. Britney Spears? Marcia Brady. See?

And because everybody reminds me of somebody else, they quickly annoy me, just like their doppelganger jerkoff predecessors. I've had my fill of somebody even before I meet him, thanks to the Critical Mass. Most of the people I know have proven themselves to be lying bastards or incorrigible pricks. So I try to avoid people. When I listen to somebody talk, I get to thinking either "this guy's full of shit," or "this guy's an incorrigible prick." So I don't listen to anybody anymore. I nod my head and think to myself, "I killed a guy just like you back in 1997 and they never found the body."

Movies, television, politicians, fashion, restaraunt themes, strangers in the grocery line -- they're all reheated leftovers. Yuck!

Thinking on Drinking

The shape of things

Sometimes the shape and design of the glass aren't just cosmetic. They're functional, too.

Do you know why martini glasses are shaped like little, upside-down cones? To give the martini drinker -- who inevitably is drunk -- an easier target for his drunk, numb lips. Martini glasses have a relatively large circumfrence for the rim. So, drunks have a better chance of hitting the rim with their lips.

The same goes for margaritas. If you're drinking margaritas, the chances are you're all fucked up. You might believe the huge rim is for the salt, but that's coincidental. The primary reason for the rim is so you can find it with your drunk-ass lips.

Think about it. Have you ever been so fucked up that your mouth can't find the rim of the glass? Of course you have. That's why you should stick to martinis and margaritas. You're bound to find the rim eventually.

Conversely, they pour weak, girlie drinks in those tall, thin glasses, because you'll never get drunk enough to need more rim! Example: the Sloe Gin Fizz. It's a girl drink, so they serve it in one of those penis-shaped glasses.

Beer bongs.

Can I suggest that if you're power-injecting an alcoholic beverage down your gullet, you have a problem with alcohol?

Of course the Mule-Piss Light or whatever cheap beer college kids drink necessitates bypassing the taste buds somehow. A beer bong serves that purpose.

These college kids need show some conviction. If you want to make a spectacle of your drinking, screw the beer bong. Tap a pressurized keg with an enema tip and jam that thing up your ass. Then have a couple butt-buddies pump the crank and shoot about 6 liters of beer up your colon. It packs a great buzz and you'll be the talk of the frat party. And when one of your buddies pokes you in the butt, he'll get a contact buzz.

3/24/2005

Blogosphere Contraindications

Warning: If you're reading this, you've entered the Blogosphere. If you wish to remain in the Blogosphere, please disregard this wanring and continue. BEFORE YOU DECIDE, please read the following list of contraindications to Blogosphere surfing. If you have any of the following, immediately highlight the address bar in your browser and type "disneyland.com," or some other faggy, pussy-boy site that wouldn't dare publish anything offensive.

Blogosphere Contraindications:

1) The word "cunt" or any of its conjugations offends you.
2) You prefer your text devoid of spelling errors, grammar infractions, or unnecessary ellipses (...).
3) You hold any politically correct sentiments, such as environmentalism, women's studies, or kindness to those less fortunate.
4) You take offense to ethnic slurs.
5) You take offense to writing of an explicit, sexual nature.
6) You take offense to song lyrics reprinted without explicit written consent of the copyrighter.
7) You object to Internet psychological test results of people you don't know personally.
8) You object to posts in list or diary format.
9) You insist on doing something vaguely productive with your time.
10) You avoid work by authors named "ho," "bitch," "poop," or the posterior of an insect.
11) You prefer the work of sober writers.
12) You eventually tire of sarcasm
13) You object to lewd, lacisvious pictures Photoshopped together for comedic value.
14) Your employer allows only "business appropriate" subject matter while at work.
15) You don't understand intitials like "WTF," "OMG," or "ROFL."

Sidekicks

Why do talk show hosts have to have a sidekick? I'm tired of this tradition. Fuckin' parasites, these sidekicks. Let me get this straight. They spend 10 minutes under a producer's desk, and rest of their career sitting next to the host doing next-to-nothing? Sign me up!

What's a sidekick's job, anyway? To laugh. To laugh at some guy's dumb jokes. Women have been laughing at their dates' dumb jokes for centuries and the best they can hope for is surf-and-turf -- and a few seconds' warning before he shoots a load in her mouth. It doesn't seem fair to me.

I think the host should have to carry the show by himself. Fuck this sidekick shit. The last useful sidekick I can remember was Tanto, and that was only because of the delicious sexual tension between him and The Lone Ranger.

3/23/2005

Vignette sale: 2-for-1. No refunds.

In line at the grocery store

We are the least friendly when standing in line at the grocery store. We avoid eye contact, stand resolutely next to our basket of merchandise, load our items on the checkout conveyor in an orderly fashion, and speak to nobody except the cashier. "Paper or Plastic?" are the only words we're comfortable with. When we feel the pressure to make small talk with fellow shoppers, we thumb through a magazine or fumble through our coupons. I think I know why. We're embarassed by what we're buying. When you're unloading a basket of control-top pantyhose, hemorrhoid cream, jock-itch medicine, horoscope booklets, box wine and obscenly shaped vegetables, the potential for embarrasment is too much to bear. Better to keep things to yourself.



Missiles: size doesn't matter

Some people believe warfare is all about penis size. They substantiate their claim by observing the shape of bullets and missiles. "Just look at the shape of the missile, man. It looks like a penis. See? That proves it."

Bullshit. That doesn't prove anything except the laws of aerodynamics. What are we supposed to shape them like -- vaginas? How far off the ground would a big vagina with a rocket motor get?

The penis does make us do a lot of stupid things. For instance, when I see a middle-aged guy drive a 7000 pound, 4-wheel drive truck that gets 1 mile per gallon to his job at... The Sunglass Hut, I suspect a penis has a hand in things.

Penises make us do some silly things, but warfare isn't one of them. I think that sometimes it's just fun to kill a bunch of people at once without all the pesky jail time.

Chinese Misfortune Cookies

The people in the Chinese Fortune Cookie Factory are awfully damn chipper with their predictions. Especially since they're working 14-hour days, sweating in a shop for 48 cents per hour. Yet every fortune is the sweetest little thing.

I don't buy it. Not everybody's fortune is so cheerful. Some people are fucked; they just don't know it yet. And they can eat cookies all day long. It won't change the fact.

Fortune cookies need to be more realistic. Some fortunes are good. Others are bad. Here's some fortunes I'd like the people at the cookie factory add:

  • You have an inoperable brain tumor.
  • Yes, she is pregnant. On the bright side, at least you're not gay.
  • It's time to see your doctor about that rash. It's not going to go away by itself.
  • You're not getting laid today. Tomorrow doesn't look good, either.
  • Your death will be the result of a freak electrocution.
  • At a future public speaking event, your own flatulence will embarrass you.
  • You need to change your transmission fluid.

Bon appetite.

3/22/2005

Hypocrisy, vice or virtue?

Of all the undesirable human traits, hypocrisy is perhaps the most hated. Everybody despises a hypocrite. So ugly is hypocrisy that we grimace at the first whiff of it. It's visceral. While we overlook most shortcomings, we reflexively point out another's hypocrisy. We hate it too much to let it go unnamed.

I part ways with most of the human race when it comes to hypocrisy. I love it. Being able to hold two opposing opinions at the same time is a mark of intelligence and sophistication. I pride myself on it.

And hypocrisy is convenient, too. I use hypocrisy all the time to get the things I want. For example, when I'm at the gym, I believe that good looks and a trim, athletic physique are everything and that people will like me more when I attain the standard of physical perfection. That gets my lazy ass pumping double-time on the elliptical trainer. And with every pound of flab I burn, I feel that much more superior to those fat slobs consoling themselves that they're “kind and considerate,” “educated,” “living life with integrity and purpose,” or that they have “a great sense of humor.” I can be the egotistical, self-centered prick I truly am. Hey, fatty. You can't see a great sense of humor in the mirror.

But when I get home, I want to ravage a pack of Fudge Stripe Cookies without an overwhelming sense of guilt throwing a wet blanket on my cookie party. So I remind myself that beauty is only skin deep, that good looks and a great physique don't make you a better person, and that the real value of a man is what lies within. So I load myself up full of cookies and that bullshit I just wrote, and I get what I want. It's great. I can be the self-indulgent glutton I truly am.

With a little practice, you can do the same thing with your career, money, or religious convictions. When my 401-k was soaring, money made the man. You were only as big as your stock portfolio. Happiness itself was for sale, and the vendor ran a cash-only operation. Then, sometime in 2000, my 401-k became a 201-k. Nowadays, money doesn't matter much. It can't by you happiness. That's for sure. And you can't measure a man's worth by his financial position. Nowadays I put more stock into the number of comments in my blog than the dollars in my bank account. Besides, rich people are the scourge of the Earth. Who's rich? Anybody with more money than me. I'm glad I've discovered how meaningless money is.

Likewise with religious convictions, hypocrisy works for me. I find Christianity a fine code of ethics to apply to my neighbors; however, I find it a bit too constrictive for my own lifestyle. Come on. Am I supposed to live the rest of my life without bearing false witness or coveting a neighbor's wife? Just as long as other people live by those standards, I'll be fine.

When the boss is around or when a performance review is pending, I live for my company's mission statement. When I need to call in sick because it's opening night for Weekend at Bernie's 2, corporate America can kiss my counter-culture loving ass. I'm going to see that shiznat. The work will still be there tomorrow.

Hypycrisy has been a good friend of mine since the late 1980s. When I was 18, I marched in a pro-choice rally. I went with an attractive girl with whom I wanted to copulate. A political cause which secures people's option to eliminate the consequences of casual sex seemed like a good setting for seducing the girl. So we drove to Phoenix and marched. I even gave a couple of pro-life squares the finger. I assured my companion I had a deep, personal commitment to her reproductive rights. Later we engaged in sexual congress. Score! But now that I'm married and settled into domesticated bliss -- and more important, now that I've had a vasectomy -- I've become pro-life. Hey all you young people: Keep it in your pants!

I encourage the reader to give hypocrisy a chance. Consider what it can do for you.

3/21/2005

Three vignettes that'll make you think (and purge)

Bad Things Come in Threes

Superstition says that bad things come in threes. For example, if your washer goes on the fritz, expect the roof to start leaking and the heater to go tits-up. One, two, three things. Crisis over.

Well, I hope that doesn't apply to sexually transmitted diseases. Could you imagine having herpes, the clap and a case of the crabs simultaneously? You'd have to cut off your dong! And seems how bad things come in threes, you'd have to snip the balls, too.


Buzzards

True story. I attended a funeral last week. As they committed the body to the ground, a buzzard descended on the scene and perched himself on the headstone. He stared remorsefully at the casket. Then he turned to me and said, "What are you guys doing? I would have eaten that."

That's why I don't like birds. They're always thinking of themselves.



Nude Is Beautiful

How do they play basketball at the nudist colony? Usually when you play basketball, one team is shirts and the other is skins. But all the players on the nudist league have only a whole bunch of skin -- nary a shirt in the whole camp!

Maybe they keep shirts lying around just for basketball games. One team wears the shirts and the problem is solved. But hold on. Now, you've got 5 people running around without any pants. Nudity may be beautiful. But running around without pants is just dirty.

I just thought of something. Especially in organized sports, you wear a cup supporter. So now, you have 10 naked people donning a cupped g-string, and only half of them are wearing shirts. That's just gross. Take a minute to picture that.

One more question about nudists: Where do they keep their wallets?

3/18/2005

Headlines from the Hippie Examiner

If I were to publish a newspaper, I'd cater to the hippies. I'm not sure why. I figure it makes sense to specialize. And I could build a huge readership simply by posting "Bush Sucks" above the fold on every issue. Those hippies sure hate Bush. And as any successful publisher knows, there's good money in hatred.

But you can't just trash political figures. If you want to sell newspapers you have to feature stories that appeal to your readership. Here are some headlines I'm working on for the first issue of The Hippie Examiner:

  • Smoking marijuana regenerates ozone, increases sexual potency
  • Birkenstocks voted most sexy footwear
  • "The Man" reportedly in critical condition at St. Joseph's Medical Center
  • Wal-Mart on verge of Chapter 11 bankruptcy; plans to liquidate assets to "mom & pop" competitors
  • Surgeon General endorses hemp cream as remedy for most ailments
  • US Congress collectively trips on acid; says 40 hour work-week "oppressive"
  • MTV now a federally mandated component of public school curriculum
  • Federal Bureau of Labor grants street jugglers professional status
  • State and local police agencies must stock gun barrels with flowers
  • Minimum wage raises to $39 per hour, plus company hybrid car
  • President issues Executive Order that rock band Phish tours continually until 2032
  • Several states now applying "Legalize-It!" parade marches toward community service sentencing obligations

3/17/2005

The Tao of the Blog

Blogs of a feather flock together. When I first moved to Blogger, I found it a cold and threatening place. I had no friends, no readers, no favorites to visit -- it felt just like that dream when you go to school in your underwear.

But almost overnight, I fell into a crowd of bloggers with the tasteless, vulgar and sometimes criminal sense of humor I express in my own blog. And although the thought of meeting some of you in person frightens me, I consider each of you my friend. Blogger is home to me now, except when I try to leave a comment, when it feels like a layer of Dante's Inferno mixed with an attack of kidney stones.

I've noticed our posts come in two styles. The first style, the essay, is a romantic interlude. First you ply your date with chivalry, sophistication, fine dining, posh entertainment, a tender kiss betwixt the city lights and the moon. Things unfold in timely measure. The romance builds. It begins in sublty and explodes with the passion of a firework Grand Finale. The essay makes love to the reader.

The second style, the list, is the cheap blowjob through the glory hole in a Denny's restroom. It's the quicky through the zipper. It's the booze-fueled fuck in the park before the cops flashlight your bare ass and bust you for public indecency. There's no romance. No subltly. No seduction scene. It's cheap, raunchy junk food. One doesn't bother to seduce the reader with delicacy and forthought. You just unzip your fly and say "Suck on this, bitch. It's cherry flavored."

Of course, both are necessary for a blog to thrive. We all want and need romance. And we all crave, from time to time, a cheap, dirty fuck with a filthy whore. If we're lucky, we find both in the same person (or blog).

I remind myself of this each time I open a new post. I ask myself what my my readers crave this day. In fact, I'm wondering right now. Ah, yes. I know. You want it cheap and dirty. You little whore/sick bastard. Alright, Daddy's got what you need:

  • True Story: I saw a lady fall down and break her hip in a SAFEWAY parking lot. I found it ironic. The good news was that she was able to find canned peaches at the unbeatable price of 3 for $1.
  • Kids are great as long as you don't mind a layer of filth round the house about 3 feet from the ground, and as long as you don't mind missing the dialogue to your favorite sit-coms.
  • First, we had Nixon. He lied. Then we had Clinton. He smoked pot. Now, we've got Bush, who did cocaine. Who's next? A public masturbator who shoots heroine and stage-dives into a wading pool of beer? I hope so.
  • I think it's foolish for ducks to form the pattern of an arrow when they fly. It just gives hunters a direction to point their guns.
  • Have you ever noticed how hairy Robin Williams is? If fur is murder, this guy is Ghangis fuckin Khan.
  • I know skyscrapers are cool. But to God, they look like cookie crumbs on a placemat.
  • Dotting your i's and crossing your t's takes on a whole new meaning when you're writing your name in the snow with your own urine.
  • Some people ask, "What would Jesus do?" They don't realize that sometimes, the answer to that question is to have God exact revenge on the asshole who just pissed you off.
  • What's real about reality programmig? In real life, nobody gives a shit what you're wearing, what you're doing, who you're screwing, or when you're pooing.
  • I feel sorry for ant eaters. We named them for what they eat. We didn't do that with any other animal: birds aren't "worm eaters." Dogs aren't "crap eaters," and 14 year-old boys aren't "Slim Jim Eaters."
  • I always hated candy corns, but I've recently discovered that I like the white tips and the orange bottoms. It's the yellow center that ruins everything. So I bite of the top and bottom and toss the yellow center back in the bowl. The people I work with ask me not to do that. Screw them.
  • How come alcohol makes ugly girls look pretty, yet everything else my life still looks crappy no matter how much I drink?
  • I think it would be funny if a policeman mistook his pistol for his radar gun, as long as the guy in the car he was clocking was a real jerk.
  • Some people want to have their cake and eat it, too. I just want to see less candles on it for my birthday.
  • The funny thing about your job is that you spend a week praying to God that they hire you, and the rest of your life dreading showing up in the morning. So hearing "you're hired," is both the best and the worst news you can hear.
  • The only two times I consult the workplace calendar is to figure out when the next payday is, and to calculate when I can use my next sick day without catching heat from HR.
  • I'm doing a study that proves radio DJ suicide rates rose 30% during the Michael Bolton years. Look for it in next month's Crappy Chick Music Magazine.

3/16/2005

Another 3 vignettes

Revenge is a virtue

Revenge does wonders for your self-esteem. Try looking at yourself in the mirror after "getting even" with someone who really deserves it. I promise you'll suddenly like the person looking back at you. Don't you always feel better about yourself after giving some asshole what he deserves?

In fact, I'm going to make revenge my mission in life. I'm going to keep a notebook in my shirt pocket and start writing down license plates of people who cut me off in traffic and names of jerky department store clerks with attitude. And next to those entries, I'm going to write down some ideas for exacting revenge.

I figure as long as I get even with a significant number of people, my life will have been worthwhile.

Have a wonderful day.


I-BS

At what point in my life did diarreha become "Irritable Bowel Syndrome?"

"Diarrhea" isn't the prettiest word, but it's still better than any combination of the words "irritable" and "bowel." So why the euphemism?

What do bowels have to be irritable about anyway? They can pass all the shit life gives them along for some asshole to deal with!

My job should be so easy!


Delta Burke Airlines

I read a news article claiming that obesity costs the airline industry an extra $250 million per year. Evidently the added weight people bring on the plane (the average person weighs about 10 pounds more since the 1960s) requires more fuel to remain airborne. More fuel, more money.

More bullshit. Are they trying to tell me that a 70-ton DC-10 flies differently because I gain 10 pounds of egg-nog holiday weight? Bullshit. A Yugo wouldn't even require more gas with a fat person in it, let alone an airbus. Maybe a Wright Brothers' plane would have some trouble hoisting some lard ass off the ground. But a freggin' jet?

Just for a second, let's grant the airlines the argument that fat people cost more to get airborne. Who are they to complain? They're the ones force-feeding us all those peanuts!

3/15/2005

Da Vinci's Genius

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

Scholars look at that sketch and admire the genius of Leonardo Da Vinci: his mastery of anatomy, depiction of the Divine Proportion, the canon of the human form.

I look at that same sketch and think, "Put some freakin' pants on, weirdo. This isn't a Superbowl Halftime Show." It's interesting, though. Why can this Virtuvian Man can give full frontal, but Janet Jackson can't flash half a titty?

Anyway, this guy's "master-piece" is front and center and the look on his face is like "so what do you want from me?" If I were posing for an artist, I wouldn't stand naked, spead-eagle, in a giant circle, with my junk on display for all of posterity to see. Although I'd give a whole new meaning to the term "Divine Proportion."

I don't care if he is European. A little modesty would be nice. Save it for the bath house, VM.

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

Girls Gone Wild -- the Renaissance Period!

And with all those naked people running around, you think a couple of those fellas' sundials would be pointing north.

If I were an art critic, I'd write about things like this. But I'm under court order not to engage in artwork of any kind since the sculpting incident. Stupid model couldn't take a joke.

3/14/2005

Lyndsay Englund, Guantanamo Bay

I don't get it. That enlisted girl, Lindsay England, is looking at 30 years in a federal prison for pointing at some prisoner's pecker.

What? For that book, "SEX," Madonna took pictures of legions of dudes bound up like farm animals and described their genitals with the eloquence of a John Keats poem, and all they gave her is another fuckin' Grammy. It doesn't seem fair to me.

If gesturing to a naked man's package is a crime, how the hell is Elton John breathing free air?

What's next, a federal raid at The Vagina Monolouges?

The only thing Lindsay England is guilty of is a bad haircut. I say let her go. She has a bright future ahead of her as a product model -- only instead of new cars, she'll have to smile and point to the new, 2005 Ramshaft Dildo.

I guess they're charging Englund with having sex with another soldier while on duty, too, which would explain the cigarette dangling from her mouth. Who hasn't fucked somebody while on the clock? I'd be looking at multiple life sentences based merely on that summer I worked at the arcade. I gave new meaning to the word "pinball." But I digress.

Anyway, I hope Lindsay England walks away from this incident (preferably without a leash).

3/10/2005

LBB's Personal Ad Translator

Perusing the Blogosphere for several months, I've observed that many of my blogging colleagues are single. Several weeks ago I posted the LBB Job Search translator. Readers' comments suggested the Translator was useful. I'm glad. My blog is worthless if it isn't helping people live better lives. In that spirit, I've posted another translator. This one is for all the single readers. Please have a hardcopy of this Personal Ad Translator handy when reading personal ads. May you profit from it as much as I did. Good luck!

LBB's Personal Ad Translator:


Women seeking men ads

“Height-weight proportionate” = Fat pig
“Voluptuous” = Even fatter
“Full-figured” = Bring an engine hoist
“Athletic” = vain, self-centered bottled-water-drinking bitch in Spandex
“Professional” = Ball-busting C-bomb with a good lawyer
“Artsy” = Flakey
“Mature” = Old and dusty, still horny
“Old-fashioned” = Missionary only on the first date
“Free spirit” = crazy whore
“Adventurous” = Free spirit (see above) with outstanding arrest warrant/STD
“Friends first” = Just in case you're an ugly troll or a psycho
“Social drinker” = until I black out, anyway
“Spunky” = Living argument for spousal battery
“Seeks companionship” = seeks meal ticket with as little sex as necessary
“Must love kids” = Must love 3 kids from 3 different fathers; you'll be #4
“Seeks romance” = My knees spend a lot of time behind my ears
“Independent” = clingy broad who read “Co-dependent No More” and missed the point


Men seeking women ads

“Athletic” = played high school football 20 years ago, now a fat pig
“Professional” = Assistant manager at local Pep Boys
“Christian” = Court-ordered 12-stepper; one drink away from becoming jerkoff again
“Handsome” = Flexes in mirror and imagines Fabio is looking back; actually Woody Allen
“Passionate” = Perverted/Public masturbater
“Bad boy” = Pussy-boy accountant who bought a Harley-Davidson
“Friends first” = not quite ready to tell mom I'm gay
“ISO intelligent woman” = ISO boobs and a pulse
“Loner” = You can be the next victim I bury in my basement
“Sensitive” = unemployed “artist” looking for a meal ticket
“Social drinker” = Two previous DUIs and a cirrhotic liver
“Smoker” = Mobile home resident; mullet wearer
“Trim” = Meth-head
“Free-spirit” = I celebrate each trip to jail with a new tattoo
“Generous” = First date? Sizzler All-You-Can-Eat Buffet; have half-price coupon

3/09/2005

Some more crumbs from the cookie jar of my conscience

  • Lily Tomlin once said, “Even if you win the rat race, you're still just a rat.” If I may borrow the phrase, “Even if you get the job, you still have to work it.”
  • Some men measure their success by what they do and much money they've made. I measure my success by how many headaches I've avoided and how many days I've done next to nothing.
  • I'd never sell my soul, but I'd finance it at favorable terms, especially for a really cool sports car.
  • Red Bull gives you wings -- and an occasional case of the runs.
  • When did men start wearing “body spray?” I'm just not that worried about how I smell. I consider it a good day if I don't have body lice.
  • Seriously, men have become more vain than women. We're now getting plastic surgery. No freakin' way I'm getting operated on just so I'm more attractive. If I get any kind of surgery, it'll be one that allows me to make more money -- which is how guys get laid, anyway. Maybe I'll get a cash register sewn onto my ass or something.
  • I don't know why they call them “Tuff Sheds.” They make pretty good houses all by themselves.
  • You know what would make basketball more entertaining? Ceiling fans over each basket.
  • No matter how bad a food is, if you put enough salt on it, it will eventually taste like a potato chip.
  • I'm surprised Indians didn't seize a business opportunity in hair-weaving, what with all the scalping going on back then. And I'll wager they could get top dollar for peyote, especially at those "raves" I've heard about.
  • When we housebreak dogs, we teach them to do their business on a plot of newspaper. But what most people don't know is that the dog is just expressing his opinion of the New York Times Editorial Page.
  • I think a good Bazooka comic would show Joe choking to death on a piece of gum.
  • Why are they going after Bill Cosby? He gave drugs to some chick in order to have sex with her. What guy hasn't? If you've got a good bag of weed or an eight-ball of coke, consider yourself laid. And we've been buying them drinks since the dawn of time: Candy's dandy, but liquor's quicker. But a couple of quaaludes are fastest of all, huh Bill?

3/08/2005

Dr. Seymour McCrack, Politically Incorrect Gynocologist, Part 3

Here are real, unedited quotes from the exam room of Dr. Seymour McCrack, Politically Incorrect Gynocologist:


"I appreciate you offering me the whisker biscuit, but I just started the Atkin's Diet. No carbs for the first two weeks."

"Oh sure. I enjoy it down here. But every once in a while, I wish I could leave the cave and head North, into the mountains, if you catch my drift."

"I should have double-majored in Proctology. I mean, I'm already down here, right? It's only an inch away."

"So you say you can't get pregnant? Damn, some guys have all the luck. Well, don't worry about it, darlin'. The fun's in the trying."

"Sure, most gynos use a gauge, but I just do a finger count."

"I'm sorry to hear your co-pay went up again. And you know what the irony is? I should be buying you dinner."

"It's good to do your homework when it comes to healthcare. So I recommend you become an informed patient. It just so happens you can find a lot of these vagina things on the Internet. Just Google it."

"Few patients realize that we can do this "doggy-style," too. I studied the technique at a medical conference in Tijuana."

"Damn, Nurse Price. Another appointment this afternoon? I've seen enough vaginas this week to sicken Blog Ho."

"[Singing and clapping] Tamp-ON. Tamp-OFF. Tamp-On, Tamp-off, Tamp-on... The Tampon. You need a fresh one, darlin'."


Dial in next week when Dr. Seymour McCrack will answer questions from the audience.

A few ponderables, a couple of vignettes

  • Everybody who clamors for cheap and accessible healthcare had better consider what brain surgery would be like at a Wal-Mart.
  • I don't believe “patience is a virtue.” If I wanted to sit around and wait, I'd date a Catholic girl.
  • “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that's amore.” Ah, they don't write songs like that anymore. Do they? Hey, if pizza pie ever hits me in the eye, I won't be falling in love; I'll be kickin' the shit out of the delivery boy.
  • The word “chum” intrigues me. It either means “good friend,” or “scraps of dead fish carcass used to attract sharks.”
  • I'm tempted to follow some advice I read on a bumper sticker: “Let go. Let God.” They're not talking about the steering wheel, are they? I hope not. Anyway, I think I'll let go and let God go to work for me tomorrow. Let Him make the widgets. He can fight morning traffic and take crap off the boss for 9 hours. Maybe he can miracle an open road and give the boss a searing case of laryngitis so he'll shut the hell up. Have a good day, God. I made you a brown bag lunch. It's in the fridge.
  • I think tequila should come with a “morning after” pill. And maybe the phone number of a good lawyer.
  • When I was driving today, I passed a car with an “Abort Bush” bumper sticker. Then I passed the next car, which had several “W” bumper stickers. I wonder what would happen if the “Bush Sucks” car collided with the “I Love Bush” car. I theorize it would resemble a matter vs. anti-matter reaction, emitting megatons of energy and intense gravitational pull. Or else it would feel like when you chew on tin foil.
  • We tell kids not to start drinking alcohol because you may become addicted. Eventually, all you'll want is more alcohol. Does anybody else find that incredibly tempting? Imagine a life so simple that all it takes to make you happy is a bottle of hooch.
  • When I study successful people, I notice that it doesn't matter how crazy and fucked up your beliefs are, as long as you stick to them steadfastly. I swear to God; you could worship the Devil -- as long as you do it with conviction, you'll be OK. It's the pensive people who crash and burn. The moral to the story is: you're always right and you should never apologize.
  • There are 2 ways to be wealthy. One is to have everything money can buy. The other is to have everything money can't buy.
  • The ultimate expression of wishful thinking is popping the hood when your car breaks down on the highway. You don't even have a tool-box, but you're going to grapple with 4,000 Korean-made parts and get the thing running again. Unless you're MacGyver or a member of the A-Team, you'd better call a tow-truck. Hell, 82% of us can't find a G-spot. What chance do we have at the torque converter?
  • You know how you can't understand what the auctioneer says because he talks so fast? If I were an auctioneer, I'd say (really fast, in my auctioneer tongue) “if you're a homo, raise your number.” Then I'd secretly laugh at all the unsuspecting homos raising their hands.

3/07/2005

Check out my Bush. I voted for Kerry.

Who are these people who remove their clothing to make a political point? Isn't this whole stripping-for-a-cause shtick becoming cliche? If your cause is so boring that you have to prance around naked to win support, you need to reevaluate your cause.

And do these people honestly believe baring their asses makes their point of view valid? This presumption bothers me. We have enough sexual innuendo in Washington with "Dick" and "Bush." If you want to strip, do it for a good, practical reason, like having cash inserted under your g-string. Otherwise, I think a good rule of thumb would be that naked people should be seen, not heard.

Have these people considered the consquences of giving credibility to naked people? What about all these beer-bong chugging frat boys streaking and "befriending" sheep in the Dean's front yard. They're getting naked. What are these assholes going to lobby for? Keg party tax write-offs and federally mandated discounts to Dave Mathews tickets?

Call me cyncial, but I don't think streakers should be influencing national policy.

3/04/2005

Losing my religion

I do what I can to remain a good person in the eyes of the Lord. But with all the thou-shalt-not's in the Bible, sometimes I think it would be easier just to buy a lightning rod.

A lightning rod is like a bullet-proof vest against devine vengence. Walk around with one of those things over your head and you're damn near invinsible to most deities. They can hurl all the lightning bolts they please. The worst that's going to happen to you is some singed eyebrows.

I never leave the house without my lightning rod. I take the Lord's name in vain from time to time (when driving, usually) and a bear false witness like a motherfucker at work. My rod keeps me safe. But I keep my offenses small, because God can get creative if He needs to. He usually starts with a lightning bolt, but if you really piss Him off, He might shrink your pecker or something.

So I try to stay humble.

3/03/2005

Cryogenic ponderings

Cryogenic freezing allows anybody with an obscene amount of money to preserve themselves, frozen in suspended animation, until the time arrives when technology can thaw the body and cure whatever killed it, and then the person can enjoy the pain and indignity of old age a second time. Yay!

Cryogenic freezing is a very expensive thing. To broaden the client base, companies now offer -- and I'm not making this up -- a less-expensive option where they'll freeze just your head. I'm not certain what the future holds, but I'm pretty sure you're going to miss the rest of your' body when you thaw out and realize your only means of ambulation is rolling! Even if they invent some cool jetpack that fits on your head, you'll miss the other body parts. At least throw in one of my hands and the gentials.

You know, there are several cryogenics labs around the world, which means there are at least a few guys whose job is to cut off dead people's heads. Sign me up! My high school career counselor didn't tell me about this. Granted, it would take some getting used to, but you could have fun with a job like that. Punch the clock. Start chopping heads off. Pop them in the ice. Lunch break!

I wonder what these head-chopper guys put on loan applications in the "occupation" box. It's hard to put a good spin on a line of work with a similar job description to the Grim Reaper. How about Decapitation Engineer? Cerebral Dearticulation Specialist. Head cryogenic technician. Get it? "Head."

Hey, who cares what they call you? You get to cut off people's heads!

Bumper sticker mentality

Bumper stickers and the self-centered jerks who plaster them to the back of their cars bother me. Do these people really believe that when I'm driving behind them, I'm wondering about their opinion on fragile ecosystems in Indonesia? Or abortion? The only information I want from the guy driving in front of me is a turn signal before he changes lanes.

Of all the bumper stickers I hate, this one pisses me off the most: "My other car is a (fill in the blank)." I don't care what kind of car you're currently driving, let alone the piece of shit you have sitting in your garage! In fact, your car could veer into a telephone pole and burst into flames (with you still in it) and I still couldn't muster the urge to give a shit. I don't care what your other car is. I don't care about your political convictions, your alterrnative lifestyle, your pornographic stamp collection or your grandkids being on the honor roll.

Here's another bumper sticker that makes me puke: "Keep honking. I'm reloading."
Macho cowboy bullshit. The only load this guy's gonna shoot is into his boyfriend's "magazine." Guys like this make me thankful for accidental, self-inflicted gunshot fatalities.

I'm still waiting to see a bumper sticker that reads, "Hello. I'm a self-centered dousche bag."

Let's have a little truth in advertising.

The 3 stages of scientific discovery

Every scientific discovery goes through 3 stages:

1) How can we kill people with it?

2) Now that they're dead, how can we entertain ourselves with it?

3) Finally, how can we use it to invent something new to kill people with and then entertain ourselves?

Here are some examples. The primative tools, sticks and stones. First, we killed people with them. We fashioned them into arrows, spears, axes, etc., and killed people who, hopefully, hadn't discovered them yet. When we were done, we entertained ourselves by building cool things with them, like huts, sun dials, and stuff.

Then we rubbed sticks and stones together to make... FIRE, which we quickly fashioned into a weapon. We couldn't wait to light some fuckers on fire -- with torches, hot oil, flaming arrows and catapults, and eventually gun powder. Along the way, we discovered how entertaining fire could be. We cooked with it, danced around it, played with it, toasted marshmallows, and eventually it would inspire the invention of the lava lamp.

Finally, we used fire to develop the next piece of killing technology: metal. Then we made knives, swords, armor, iron maidens (excellent!), guillotines and a hundred other instruments of death. Again, after killing a bunch of people with iron, bronze and steel, we entertained ourselves with it. We've built all kinds of cool stuff with metal: cars, boats, bicycles, planes, and the Swiss Army Knife.

Then came plastics. We made the same stuff to kill people with plastic, only now it's lightweight and rustproof. As far as entertainment, we have a multitude of toys, computer parts, and sex toys.

And so it continues. We're using space-age polymers to develop the latest, most efficient killing machines on the planet. And someday soon, after we kill enough people, those will entertain us, too. Maybe one day I'll have a remote control predator aircraft of my very own to fly.

God bless mankind.

3/02/2005

Three vignettes

A good, firm handshake

I hate those guys who shake your hand as hard as they can. Trying to be a man's man. I'm not talking about a good, firm handshake. I mean those jag-offs who squeeze with all their might, trying to send a non-verbal message that says, "I'm the bigger man." Fuck these guys. You know what I like to say to a guy who does that to me? "Take it easy, Vice Grip. It isn't your boyfriend's penis and this isn't the men's room."


Driving and wondering

My commute to work forces me to spend a couple hours per week on the highway. Every once in a while I pass a motor home. And sometimes, just every once in a while, I see a motor home towing a U-Haul cart behind it. Maybe it's just the boredom of the road, but I have to wonder what this person is hauling in the trailer. What the fuck can't you fit in a 40-foot Winnefuckinbago? I think most of the time it's a dead body the family killed while at the Grand Canyon.

True Romance

Let me share what I feel is the most romantic experience in the world. Perhaps you'll agree. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. You hear a song on the radio, a song that was popular a long time ago, when you were falling in love with a special girl, and life was exciting and perfect. Now, the years have passed, and a disk jockey resurrects the song from the archive of aging Top-10 hits -- that special song you and your love shared -- and the sound of it evokes the memories of you and your love making out in the car, overlooking a sunkissed view of the city. And just like you did all those years ago, you prematurely ejaculate in your pants. Ah, romance.

3/01/2005

Adult diapers: the latest fashion

I'm tired of the adult diaper industry trying to make their diapers fashionable. I don't care how you make them, however sleek, form-fitting, high-speed, low-drag, whatever, a diaper will throw a wrench in your fashion ensemble, if not because of the wad of plastic foam underneath your Spandex, then surely because of the weapons-grade odor emitting from the Hamburger Helper turd-bomb you dropped after lunch. "They can't even tell I'm wearing one." Oh, yes we can lady. We're downwind.

Look, there's nothing wrong with wearing diapers. We've all done it as babies. And we'll all get back there again, eventually. But your days of fashion are regretably over. They left along with your teeth, hair, vision, hearing, driving skills, mobility, and your sense of dignity.

Maybe you can make diapers fashionable. But not by hiding them. If diaper companies want to move some product, why not make them a novelty? Have the diaper double as casualwear. How about a sleek cut with a big Nike Swoosh across the ass? Or, your favorite team's sports logo. Polka-dots, pin-stripes, neutrals and pastels, something for every season. In wintertime they could sell them with a little fur lining. And of course you can imprint them with those slogans you see on tee-shirts: "No Fear." "No Points for Second Place." "Deez Nutz" "Lead, Follow or Get out of the Way" Here's a couple of my own: "A turd in the Hand Is Worth Two in the Shorts," "Grampa's not the only one full of shit"

Laugh. Have some fun. Be proud. Just don't forget to change the thing after your early bird dinner.

8-legged frogs

How come the only creatures who suffer genetic mutations from environmental polution are frogs? Every year or so you see another picture in the paper of a frog with 3 or 4 extra arms protruding from the thorax. And the look on the frog's face is like, so what do you want from me, you warm-blooded SOB?

I think it would be cool if humans were lucky enough to mutate like that. I know I could use an extra arm or two, especially at work. Imagine yourself cooking in the kitchen; you'd always have a free hand to stir the pasta. And think how good you'd be at volleyball with an extra set of hands. Plus, think how many tattoos you could get. I could use the extra real estate, what with all the tribal bands and naked lady tattoos.

That Buddah guy's got like 8 arms or something, and he seems pretty happy about it. He's always smiling on those statue replicas. I think we'd all have something to smile about if we had 8 arms. And with enough environmental abuse, I'll bet we get there someday.