Three's Company too.

It's fun to look to the past and realize how much things have changed. I was watching a Three's Company marathon on cable television the other night. The episodes are about 25 years old. Just for fun, I mentally transposed Three's Company into contemporary American life. Below are my observations:

  • Jack and the girls would have a slam-dunk discrimination suit against the Ropers for having to pretend that Jack was gay so they could all rent a room together. The irony is, we all know Jack really was a flaming homo. Brokeback Company? Come on. The guy was enrolled in culinary school, for God's sake. And if you watch very carefully like I do, you'll see Jack's trousers become a little more snug when Larry comes over.
  • Every scene of every episode would have someone culpable of sexual harassment. In the 1970s, we called these goings-on flirting. Nowadays they’re crimes. So much for tolerance. Is it really so wrong that Jack reminds the girls he’d like to “fluff their pillows” every five minutes? It’s innuendo, people. It’s not like he was talking on a cell phone while driving an SUV or something.
  • Every week the police would have to respond to a domestic violence call, what with all the hitting, poking, punching, grabbing, pillow fights and disorderly conduct. But once the fuzz learned Jack was queer, it would be a toss-up who the perpetrator was. My vote goes to the writers. They should all be in jail.
  • Janet and Chrissy might have been sex symbols back in the late 70s, but with the recent popularity of plastic surgery, they look like pre-pubescent mongoloids compared today's stars. Nowadays they've got bigger boobs on Nick-at-Night.
  • The girls' bathroom is conspicuously lacking a “24-hour shower cam.”
  • As far as I can tell, the closest thing to a lesbian inference was the episode where Janet and Chrissy took Jack up on a seafood dinner. In those days, the “L-Word” meant lobster.
  • Jack Ritter's physical comedy rivals modern-day professional wrestling choreography. I think Ritter may have been born a couple of decades too soon. He’d have made a great pro wrestler. Imagine Jack kicking The Rock’s ass. I’d pay money to see that. Jack’s trousers would make for a swell pair of wrestling tights. “Can you see the Jack is cooking?”
  • Larry was the 1970's Donald Trump. He was an entrepreneur extraordinaire. He had that what-the-fuck-is-going-on-there hairdo. He always had girls way too hot to be dating him. And he had a “tower” of his own, just like The Don, that he was forever trying to sell.
  • Just as Maryanne was hotter than Ginger, so is Janet hotter than Chrissy.


A few thoughts

Everybody who takes an online IQ test is a genius. Go figure. I have to wonder how we can have so many genius administrative assistants. Rock is to boulder as plant is to... tree. Congratulations, you're a fuckin' Einstein.

If I were a petty criminal, I'd bring my dog when I prowled the streets at night. His companionship would be nice, but the main reason I'd bring my dog is because he'd dispel any suspicion. Dogs are burglar's best friend. Think about it. If you see an ape-like figure wandering down the street at night, you immediately think “manic, psychopathic criminal element.” But then you notice he's walking a dog and you think “Oh, he's got a dog. He's a harmless animal lover. He must be carrying that 15-inch knife and a coil of rope because he's a boy scout.” That's just what he wants you to think, people. But when you turn your back, he and Fido are going to mug you and hump your leg, respectively.

Why do rap songs always “feature” a guest star? Nobody raps on their own anymore. It's always Snoop Dogg featuring Dr. Dre or Uzi Juice featuring Shotgun Blake or Lil' Kim featuring a bare-ass titty. If I were a rapper, I'd feature a banjo player -- somebody who can really pick a banjo, like Roy Clark. I figure I'd need a hook, a shtick, some novelty that distinguishes me from the other rappers. A gold-capped tooth and a rap sheet aren't going to help. I predict the next big rapper will play a banjo.

Why don't animal rights activists protest fishing? They're always decrying slaughterhouses and farms, but they let fishermen off the hook. I think fishing is the cruelest. Think about the poor fish :
“Hey, look. It's a worm just floating on by. Ooh. It's a night-crawler. That's my favorite. The filet mignon of the sea. I'm eating that bitch before...chomp...Ah, jeez. There's a hook stuck in my cheek. What gives? Ah, what now? Ow. Ow! Somebody's pulling on it. Where am I headed? I can't swim away. The line's too strong. I keep heading for that dingy on the surface. This is just like when the Millennium Falcon was caught in the Star Destroyer's tractor beam. Hey, now I'm in a net. This is going from bad to worse. Why can't these Milwaukee's Best rednecks just club me to death like a baby seal?”

I hate buying tires for my car because the sales guy always tries to up-sell me to some high-performance name brand tire that costs more than I make in a week. Michelin reminds us, “Because so much is riding on your tires.” Take a look at my car. You'll see that not much is really riding on them. It's a piece of crap. In fact, if I bought some name-brand tires, the tires would be the most valuable thing on the car. Kelly Blue Book would actually have to raise the value of the thing if I swapped out my baldies for 4 new Goodyears. If I went into a bad skid, the value of my car would go down. I try to explain this to the sales guy, but he goes into some rant about how they're guaranteed for 80,000 miles. And I'm like, dude, I don't know if my car is going to make it home tonight. I'll never get another 80k out of it. I'd put bike tires on if they'll fit. Show me something in a Huffy, my good man.

I love cruise-control. I use it all the time. Instead of varying my speed as road conditions warrant, I set my cruise-control at the desired speed and let the road adapt to my tastes. I'll do anything to avoid deactivating my cruise-control. I make erratic lane changes. I swerve around slow-pokes and road construction crews. The way I see it, cruise-controlled cars have the right-of-way. Screw all those “pedal-pressers,” the stone-age cretins. There could be a handicap nun walking a chain of orphan children across the street ahead. I'm not clicking off. Double time it, sister. It seems a shame to have to steer once you've got the cruise-control set. Why disencumber yourself from the gas pedal only to have to work so hard steering your car on what is essentially a perfectly straight highway? As long as you keep your car in alignment, you can usually let go of the wheel and relax. Sometimes I'll wedge a soda cup between the wheel and the dash just to be safe. Then I ease the seat back and hope everything turns out as planned.

I think America has battered wife syndrome. After 9/11, every time somebody says something rotten about us or does something mean to us we introspect and ask ourselves what we did to deserve it. We need to take a self-esteem class. We need to discover our inner-goddess or some shit like that one broad did. Too bad terrorists didn't wear wife-beater t-shirts, drink Budweiser and listen to Lynard Skynard. Then everybody would be on the same page. Lifetime for Women would play footage of the World Trade Center falling down 12 times per day.


Latest research proves sky isn't falling

Every time I open the newspaper some "researcher" is predicting the next thing that's going to kill us and ruin the planet. Ironically, researchers have been polluting the planet with their doomsday scenarios for 40 years -- without proof -- and I'm tired of it. This week the sun will kill you. Last week, it was trans-fats (what are those, anyway? Fats in drag?). We're running out of oil. The air and water are poisoned. The population explosion ensures epidemic disease and starvation (that one came out 40 years ago! Now we're too fat!). The internal-combustion engine is destroying the planet. The ozone layer is disintegrating from cow farts.


I'd like to see a study that forces all the "doomsday researchers" onto Prozac to see if we can pull them out of their misanthrope-induced rants. They've got to be the most neurotic people of all. They make Woody Allen seem well-adjusted and optimistic. And we're all the Sun Yi's because they're trying to fuck us. Everything they research becomes the thing that's going to kill us all and destroy the planet. So they advocate taking it away from us. Given that, why doesn't one of them research Reality Programming? There's a public enemy I can learn to hate! Also, Glade Plug-ins.

Researchers: Take a pill already! Or do pills destroy the ozone, now?

Researchers have been flatulating cataclysmic predictions for the last 40 years. Meanwhile, life just keeps getting better. Why haven't we seen any studies predicting cable television or the Internet? What about historic economic growth and prosperity? How about that jim-dandy I-Pod? What about the technological breakthrough known as "Gogurt?" Yogurt in a tube! I would have liked heads-up on that one. Where were the research guys on Gogurt?

The next time a researcher tries to convince you the planet is coming to end because you ordered a Big Mac, tell them to save a tree and wipe their ass with their"research paper."


Jujitsu for life

I used to be angry. Most of the world pissed me off. So did people. In fact, the majority of people I met earned an entry into my “revenge notebook,” a small ledger I kept in my shirt pocket with the names of those on whom I'd exact revenge, along with a few precursory ideas on how I'd even the score. Please know I've discontinued the practice of logging victims into a notebook. Not only have I found a more effective and healthful way of dealing with anger, but I've scratched all the names off the list, having exacted my revenge on the lot of them.

You know that bumper sticker that reads, “If you're not completely appalled, you're not paying attention?” First of all, the soccer-mom C-bombs who stuck that on their SUVs all made into my notebook, above. But also the message on the bumper sticker dovetailed with my disposition. I was paying attention. And I was pissed. If life were an episode of American Idol, than I was Simon. Everything was “just bloody awful.”

My anger was biting chunks out of my quality of life. I became painfully aware of what my anger cost me, but I couldn't cool my temper. I searched for a remedy. Drunken boxing proved a temporary solution. I also tried punching retards in the gut and sexing old ladies -- or vice versa. I forget. Anyway, that only helped some of the time, and then only for a little while. But I've finally found a remedy for my anger. It's more of a strategy, a way of life. I call it “Jujitsu for Life.”

How does one apply Jujitsu for Life? First, you have to identify the things that anger you. This should be easy because anger is not a subtle emotion, particularly when you cultivate it with alcohol and rumination, which I do. So it shouldn't be difficult to identify the things that anger you. I cannot stress enough the importance of clearly identifying you aggitators. Make a list.

Once you've enumerated your aggitators, you simply defang each by investing in its success. Instead of cursing it, hating it, fighting it, you position yourself in whatever manner benefits you when the thing manifests. I'll give you an example. I commute to work. I love my job. It affords me free time, ample pay and The Man is content to leave me to my own devices. I accepted the job 2 years and 3 months ago. A study of gasoline prices will reveal that the surge coincided with my accepting the job to the day. Remember, I commute. When I accepted the job, a gallon of gas was about $1.30. Now it's 3 bucks and climbing. For over two years I've been ripping my hair out as fuel prices have made a steady climb northward. Fretting over fuel prices, I have to reconsider the only job that's allowed me a semblance of salary, dignity and sanity.

I decided to stop being a victim. I'd been Big Oil's bitch long enough. It was time for my reach-around. So I opened a brokerage account and purchased stock in several oil companies and drillers. I don't need to tell you how they've fared these last few months. Now every time the pump lifts 50 bucks from my wallet, I reflect on the hundreds I've made on my oil stocks. Nowadays when I gas up, I smirk. Go ahead, Exxon. Fuck me hard! Daddy likes. Don't forget the reach-around, you oily cocksucker!

Now I read your blogs. I know a lot of you are fuming over that Exxon CEO who retired with a posh, $400 million retirement package. Hate him all you want. I love him. In fact, I'm going to kiss him on each one of his chins just to show it. Because for every 20 bucks he screws me out of at the pump, he ejaculates 5-fold into my portfolio. This is how you make capitalism work for you. Disclaimer: I'm not an investment professional. Equities investing involves substantial risk of loss. With that said, do yourself a favor and by a piece of Big Oil. Be the butt-fucker instead of the butt-fuckee for a change. It feels great.

Here's another tidbit, grasshopper. We parents know that children can be trying. Sometimes they refuse to listen. When they're not trying to torch the place, they're busy jamming their bicycle handlebars into your fender, layering the home with filth, uprooting the landscape or brandishing a BB gun. I used to get angry at my kids. How would you like that Nintendo DS up your ass? But no more. Now, every time they piss me off, I don't yell. I don't get angry. I simply withdrawal $50 from their college fund and buy myself “something nice.” Do you recall the G-Shock watch I posted a few weeks ago? Bingo.

Think of it as Jujitsu for Life: use the enemies' bodyweight against them. Every time they charge at you, parry, side-step, throw them into the air and give them a kick in the ass on the way by. Bruce Li advised his pupils to “be waw-tah, my friend.” He meant “be water: take the shape of your container.” I know sometimes the shape of life's container may seem like that of a urinal, but still, go with the flow.

Here are few more examples of Jujitsu for Life:

Angry at all the taxes you pay? Quit working for The Man and go on welfare. Let somebody else pick up your slack. Embrace the entitlement culture.. Hell, you paid for it. Turn that safety net into a hammock. Lie around all day in your underwear and scratch yourself wherever you please.

Tired of the home team losing every year? Bet a nominal amount against them. Either they'll start winning, or you'll make 20 bucks a pop! You win either way.

Sick of illegal immigration? Head down to Mexico and rack up a bunch of medical bills. Refuse to speak Spanish. “No hablo Espanol, Capitan!” Start a parade and demand equal rights. Wave an American Flag and tell them, indignantly, that you pick their fruit. (Incidentally, when immigrants remind me they pick my fruit, I thank them and ask them not to “pick” my hub caps, too. Those aren't rutabagas, ese. Their stock Chevy 17s.)

Vending machine ate your money? Do you think you're the only one? There's bound to be hundreds of poor bastards' money in that thing. Push it over. Bust it open and take it. Your loss is YOUR gain. You: 1 Life: 0

Politics pisses everybody off. But you don't need to get angry. Let's say you're a hippie liberal and you're still pissed about the election Bush “stole” in 2000 and the fact that nobody will have a reasonable discussion why we should legalize hemp. Let go the anger and cut a check to Greenpeace. Key an SUV. Toke a fatty and pose naked for that guy who photographs all those naked people. On the other hand, if you're a staunch conservative tired of all the “Buck Fush” bumper stickers, send some money to the NRA. Buy a Big Mac Combo Meal and throw the Styrofoam container at a baby seal. Key a hybrid. Look, I don't care where your politics lie. I just want you happy.

Car/computer/air conditioning/plumbing unit on the fritz? Consider becoming a technician specializing in one of the above. Did you ever notice the big smile on the plumber's face? It's possible he just sexed your wife, but more than likely he's counting the money in his head, sucker. Go to tech school. All the good college-level jobs are in India and China already. But you can make a killing if you link your success to the failure of a major appliance! Again, use your opponent's strength against him.

I could continue, but you get the idea. Now run along, grasshopper. Contemplate today's lesson. Purge your heart of anger and become one with the universe. Become a Child of Light. And most important, get your reach-around.


Indoor sports in the Great Outdoors

How did the human race reproduce before climate-control? Think about it. You have to be naked. Right? (Quiet, Freak-os.) Therefore, you need an environment near room temperature. Like the internal combustion engine, our naughty parts have a narrow “operating temperature.” But in most of the outdoors, most of the time, it's too hot or too cold for romping. Guys, have you ever tried to sex your lady-friend in the park during winter? Before you know it, you're slapping a pair of nutsicles across her ass! Suddenly she's looking back at at you and saying “Hey, Jack Frost! Are you banging me with an ice-pop and a bag of marbles? Any chance for a three-way with Frosty” That's when I reply, “Quiet or I'll turn this thing into a FUDsicle!

I can't even take a leak outside in the winter. When my fingers touch the crank, everything puckers. My pecker becomes water-tight. You may not know that the penis is nature's thermometer. That's why it shrivels under a certain temperature. It's his way of telling you “It's too cold to fuck. Let's go play some racket ball.”

Every couple has tried to become romantic in a sauna. It sounds romantic. But in reality, it's a death trap. Sex and heat don' t mix. After 5 minutes in a sauna, I'm no longer a sexual dynamo. I'm sweating and panting like a Mexican immigrant in July. The only role I can pull of is that of a sweaty speed bump. If you try sex in a sauna, you better hope she can shoot Gatorade out her nipples or else you're going to buckle from dehydration.

When you think about it, most of the world is either a sauna or an ice box. It makes me wonder how we ever reproduced. Prehistoric people must have mated awfully quickly.


Weekend Bullet-ins

  • The second-greatest gift Great Britain gave to America -- the first being a wonderful line of political thought -- is the character, Harry Potter. Thanks a million, JKR.
  • Everybody's wringing their hands over the collateral damage in Iraq. When we strike military targets, sometimes we injure or kill innocent civilians. This makes us “just as guilty.” But I'm not sure about that. How do we know the civilian bystanders were “innocent?” Maybe they were real assholes who could use some shrapnel in their back-sides. I was watching film footage of a recent air strike which allegedly killed a few civilians, but when the camera zoomed into the flaming car, I made out a bumper sticker that read “Bring Back Apartheid Now.” See? An asshole.
  • Guantanamo Bay and Abu Ghraib make us a “nation of torturers” about as much as John Wayne Gacy and Richard Speck make us a nation of serial killers.
  • You know what the tent scene in Brokeback Mountain needed? A bobcat. Imagine that. Those two cowboys are gettin' it on, a drunken Earl passes by the tent, grabs an agitated bobcat by the scruff, tosses him in the tent and zips it shut. Oh, man. Hilarious. As a rule, gay sex and hunting cats go together like tube tops and trailer parks.
  • Caring and control are often inverse quantities.
  • How come you drop acid, do coke, pop pills and hit a joint -- but when you drink, you just drink? Drinking's pretty cool. It needs a cool, new verb to commensurate that. At least “imbibe” or something.
  • When somebody cuts us off in traffic, they're a consummate jerk. We curse them and fumble around the glove compartment for our pistol. But sometimes we have to cut somebody off. Our turn is coming. We check the mirror: no break in sight. We think “Sorry dude, I'm going to have to cut you off. It's not your lucky day.” We're so glib about it. That's the one nice thing about driving -- everybody is an idiot except me.
  • The constellations amaze me. Ancient people lay on a field, looked upward and depicted the constellations plotted into the night sky. Here's what amazes me: no dirty pictures. Come on! You mean to tell me that with a billion stars out there, nobody found a pair of boobs or a pecker? They didn't have frat houses back then? “Hey look, Dave. There's Orion's butthole.” “Is that a comet, or did Pegasus just take a squeegee?” “Whoa, if Aries is thinking what I think he's thinking, Virgo isn't going to be a virgin much longer!”
  • Sometimes when I'm at work, I chafe under the duress of the workday. I get to thinking about how I can live without working. I start bartering in my mind. “I really don't need to pay a mortgage. I can sell my house and rent a studio shithole. I don't need groceries. I can find food anywhere. I'll just hang around restaurants and hunt for unused portions of entrees. I don't need a car when I have a bike. I don' t need dates. Jerking off is free.” I start to brainstorm on any possible way I can eliminate or reduce my need for a paycheck. This mental exercise sustains me until I can punch the clock, go home and start drinking.
  • Have you ever been hungry and thirsty at the same time? I was yesterday. I gulped down some Mexican food and a carbonated soda so quickly that I created a depth-charge bolus. It detonated in my esophagus. It hurt.
  • I love dogs, but they're distrustful of us. Why do they always need to sniff you? It's like they're asking, “Just where have you been?” And they sniff the table scraps you hand them before they eat it. I always ask my dog, “What? Do you think I'm trying to poison you? Just eat it.”


God dang religion

Many people reproach religion, particularly Christianity, because it doesn't hold up to scientific scrutiny. It defies logic and reason. It's not rational. Therefore, it's rubbish. They claim religion is the stuff of petty minds. Or worse, it's a tool for manipulating others. Simplemindedness and manipulation are threats? I wonder, then, when we'll decry reality programming and the Times' Editorial Page.

Hold on a minute. Lots of things are unscientific. Many human endeavors are folly in the eyes of science. If science were the criterion of virtue, we wouldn't play the lottery, write stories, fall in love, marry, draw, paint, sculpt, scrapbook, trick-or-treat, or purchase Glade Plug-ins (they're a waste of money, people!).

When I was a kid, I played baseball. I played with heart and conviction because I believed I'd grow up to play professionally. I was going to be a pro ball player, a star, like Dirk Diggler, only with a cup supporter. I would have none of the backbreaking labor my ancestors endured or the tedium and drudgery of an office job. I was going to play baseball for a living. When I stepped up to the plate, I was taking precursory steps to stardom. I had faith in that. I didn't question the logic of it. You don't question faith. And that faith enriched my experience. I doubt I would have enjoyed the game as much or invested as much heart into it if a sober-minded adult explained to me the folly of my thinking. I'm glad nobody poisoned my innocent fantasy. I'm thankful my parents and coaches didn't explain the statistical evidence that made professional sports a virtual impossibility. If they had, I would have thrown a fork ball into his/her crotch. Then, when they were doubled over and gasping for air, I'd explain how statistically, that should have never happened. The point is, even with the disappointment of having to leave baseball in childhood, my faith, though naive, made the memories richer and fuller.

Sometimes people drink, smoke ganja, or lick a frog head and then perceive things that science claims isn't there at all! These people see and hear groovy things. They conjure things from their imaginations that science doesn't recognize. Their minds break the boundaries of logic and reason. That doesn't mean intoxicants are bad. And certainly the people indulging in them aren't simple-minded rubes. Yet that's how many of us see religious people. Maybe if those preachers toked a fatty before the sermon, we'd show them more respect.

In the early 1990s I hung out with my friend, Hotbox (so named because he'd get high by locking himself in a closet, burning a bag of ganja and sucking the fumes). We'd get baked daily. Talk about a religious experience! Hotbox often tried to convince me that when we watched television, the television was watching us back and transmitting its observations to headquarters in Ogden, Utah, where a conglomerate of government-alien hybrid agents cataloged information on all of us for one nefarious purpose or another. I attempted to palliate Hotbox's paranoia with gentle prods of scientific reasoning. But I failed. Hotbox would hear none of it. Even as I explained the impossibilities of thinking, plotting TV sets, he'd interrupt me with demands to shush, close the blinds and dim the lights. Hotbox was not a man of science. If you gave him a protractor, a compass and a calculator, he'd just fashion them into a homemade bong. His faith lay in a plastic baggie of ganja. His crucifix was his homemade Coleman Grill bong pipe. And I, for one, submit Hotbox is a man worthy of respect.

Every time we sit down to watch a movie, we suspend our sense of reason (and often, our good taste) for a couple hours so we can enjoy ourselves. We allow ourselves to be bullshitted so that we might be entertained. Hopefully that one condescending douche bag won't be in the audience who pooh-poohs all the action scenes and says aloud how "impossible" this or that thing is. Shut up, douche bag, or I'll hurl a Raisinette at your head! This is the kind of guy who tries to convince me that Citizen Kane was a better film than Ghost Busters. Pretentious ass! Everybody knows that Citizen Kane was a steaming pile of cinematic nincompoopery. Alien vs. Predator blew CK away, too. But don't let me get started on the cinematic merits of Alien vs. Predator. The point is, science has limits on its value, and the absence of science doesn't mean a thing is bad.

Today many people are on a crusade to expel religion from our shopping malls, our neighborhoods, our schools, our courts and our lives. Their rationale is, religious convictions lack scientific merit. These people need to have some faith in other people. The anti-religious crusaders were smart enough to figure out that it's all bullshit. Maybe others are, too. And what's the harm in the meantime? Religion offers the chance to see those we love in the next life. It gives us hope for peace and harmony. It has some great ideas on how to treat others and also how to keep yourself on the straight and narrow. I know a couple of dipshit 12-steppers who would be much bigger pains-in-the-ass without their newfound religious convictions. Hotbox comes to mind. Twenty years in prison are enough to scare most of us into doing the right thing. Other guys need the Fear of God. I'm a pragmatist; whatever works!

Some people invoke our Constitution's Separation Clause. But that's a load of crap for several reasons. First, if that were true, the government would have to bulldoze all churches with voting machines and throw all the Catholics from the top window of the Capital Building. Think of the bloodbath every two years! Second, the Separation Clause was written before the government dipped its hands in everything – our jobs, our land, our homes, our finances, our schools, our healthcare system and our retirement funds. Not much is private property anymore. You couldn't even build a church in Monica Lewinsky's cooter. It's government domain! Third, the government is the single biggest propagator of religion. Follow me on this. What is the essence of religion? Faith instead of scientific fact. And if it's one thing you need to have when counting on Social Security or Medicare, it's faith. Indeed, our faith in government knows no boundaries. If God really wants to recapture some of His old clout, He ought to form a committee in Congress that promises free education, universal healthcare and affordable housing all the while soaking the rich, greedy corporations (except Starbucks and DreamWorks). Vote for God for US Congress, Precinct 23!


May contain one or more of the following:

Often the ingredients list on the nutritional label read "May contain one or more of the following." May contain? That's awfully nonchalant. I don't know if I want to eat the food if the factory lost track of what the hell they threw in there! Generally speaking, I want whoever prepares my food to be fairly damn certain what he put in it. Hazzard a guess, fellas. What did you inject into my Ding Dong? It's a matter of quality control. How can you be sure there aren't any insect feces or human fingers in my food if you can't even be sure whether you added the salt? Why not cover your butts, fellas? May contain one or more of the following: shards of glass, shavings of steel, rat droppings, machine oil, pencil lead, plutonium, Jimmy Hoffa, and Yellow #5.

Imagine having surgery and the doctor gives you a list of organs he may remove. How about the auto mechanic? "Yeah. Look, pal. I changed the oil, rotated the tires -- and I may have fixed your brakes. You'll just have to find out on your drive home." And of course, there's foreign policy analysts. Warning -- Iraq may contain one or more of the following: mustard gas, nerve agent, fissile material, al-Qaeda, Dictatorial Douche Bags, Yanni DVDs.

Here's another phrase you see in ingredient labels that puzzles me. Reconstituted. If they reconstituted it, that means they had to break it down in the first place. First they're breaking it down, then they're putting it back together and hopefully getting the same thing they started with. It seems like an awful lot of work for nothing. It's awfully obsessive, especially for people who aren't even paying attention to what ingredients they're using in the first place. Instead of all this reconstituting nincompoopery, just leave the food in the state it was in the first place. I'll bet it'll taste better.



First, let me apologize for my infrequent posts. Home projects have me as busy as John Bobbit's urologist. I'm glad to see you're still dropping by. And now the weekend Bullet-ins:

  • I refuse to argue about religion. What's the point? Every single one of us will learn the truth eventually.
  • Speaking of religion, I recently had to sell my soul to avoid spiritual bankruptcy. It's ironic. But I get a really cool sports car and I'll look 10 years younger than I really am.
  • My 9-year-old daughter, Larva Bug's Butt, lamented about home developers deleting natural deserts from the landscape. I explained that in the past, people surely complained about our home being built, but thank Goodness they built it anyway. I then explained that land development is a necessity. She replied, "Having a Walgreen's on every corner isn't a necessity."
  • Public Relations: The reason Starbucks is the Great American Company for charging you $5 for coffee and why Exxon is the scourge of the earth for charging you $2.50 for gas.
  • How's this for a movie sequel: Brokeback Mountain 2, Electric Boogaloo?
  • Did you know that earlier interpretations of Aristotle's Ethics include the maxim, "Nature compels those of the female persuasion to purse the real jerky guys?"
  • If somebody throws food in the trash, and that parcel of food remains safely inside of its container – isolated from all other trash – then I submit it is OK to retrieve the food from the trash and eat it.
  • Remember that band, Tears for Fears? I think they were queers who shopped at Sears.
  • How come in mattress commercials, they show people sleeping. But in toilet commercials...
  • If you can have a tile roof, why can't you have shingle flooring?
  • Every time I hear a Jewel song, I can't resist shouting at the radio "Go wipe your ass with some tree bark, hippie." Jewel was proud of the fact that she grew up without indoor plumbing. That explains her brown-stained palms.
  • If you pray, you'd better step into the 21st Century. God can be reached via email at LordGod@Heaven.org. Please include religious denomination in the subject line.
  • Remember all the 1980s Hair Bands? I can't believe with all that Spandex that not one Hair Band named itself The Bulge. How about those Girl Hair Bands? They had some big hair! I wonder if they at least shaved their cooters.
  • I'm suspicious of Born-Again Christians. First, how does a 230-pound diesel mechanic fit through a birth canal? Look, BACs: You don't need to go through the birthing process. Just stop being a jerkoff. Ease up on the booze and bar fights. Spend a few nights per week at home.
  • They say What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas. Tell that to the clap.
  • If hardware parts can be male or female, can universal joints be "bi-?"
  • If you love someone, set them free... unless, of course, you're into bondage.
  • What would happen if you put a white noise generator against an airplane's black box?


Pumping gas

I never know how to spend the spare time I have while pumping gas. Once you set the trigger lock, you have a good 45 seconds or so to yourself. You can't run errands because you don't have your car. You don't have time to walk anywhere and with today's gas prices, you wouldn't have the money to do much once you got there, anyway. Add up all those 45-second intervals you've burned at the pump. What a shame! To think how many more reruns of Friends I could have watched!

Has the gasoline pump ever tried to talk with you? I've had that experience once It frightened me. I felt like that kid on The Sixth Sense. I hear gas pumps.
"Sir, pull the lever. You need to pull the lever. Sir, the lever: pull it down and the pump will work."
At first, I stared in wonderment at the pump. How does it even know I'm trying to pump the gas? Is there an evil spirit inside the tank or something? But after a while my fear yielded to anger. I threatened to dowse the station in gasoline and set it afire. That shut up the robot or evil spirit or Gary Coleman or whoever the hell was hiding in that pump.

I always feel sorry for that one guy with the Winnebago. He's got a lot of time to kill when he's filling up. He could probably eat a sandwich while he was waiting, if he didn't mind eating with the gas fumes. If I were fueling a Winnebago, I'd sneak inside it and take a nap. I wonder if the bed still works when the Winnebago is out of gas.

Sometimes I consider checking my oil and tire pressure. But I'm too lazy and it's too dirty. I wait for the lights in my dashboard to tell me when to perform vehicular maintenance. They call them idiot lights – because you're an idiot if you don't trust them. They don't lie. Cars don't lie, people. You know that guy behind you? He really is closer than he appears. And his handgun is a larger caliber than it appears, too. Hey, those of you who hate the President should call idiot lights "George Bush Lights." That would make a swell bumper sticker.

If you drive a really cool sports car, standing around and doing nothing is fine. Gassing up is all part of the show. Throw some gel in your hair. Don your Members Only jacket and hit the pump, sexy. But if you're still driving a Chevy Citation, you might consider hiding your face behind a magazine or dunking it in the squeegee tank.

I'm in my mid-30s and I still haven't learned how to operate a squeegee. I've tried "cleaning" my windshield with the squeegee. When I finish it looks like somebody took a "squeegee" on my window. Incidentally, I think some patrons take a squeegee in the squeegee tank. The squeegee tank holds a vile concoction. I've used outhouses with cleaner fluid in the crapper.

I don't understand squeegees. The windshield is curved, but the squeegee is straight. That's the problem. Have you ever dated somebody with curved genitalia? Those freaks belong in the circus! Moving parts need to have the same shape as neighboring parts. Somebody tell the Squeegee Factory that! And those freaks with curved cooters and peckers.

Man, I just realized that "squeegee" is one funny goddamn word. Squeegee. Try to say "squeegee" out loud without smiling. If you can pull that off, you're one cold-hearted bastard, my friend. I think I'll make "squeegee" my new punch word. I've been getting a lot of mileage from "cooter." Cooter is a funny word. But I have to give the nod to "squeegee." I wonder if anybody has used "squeegee" as a synonym for "cooter." If somebody is going around calling cooters "squeegees" I want to know about it. I think I just unearthed my doctoral thesis.