A few more random thoughts while I sift through the beliefs

  • You can always spot the vampires in the clinical laboratories. They're the ones always asking you whether they can “lick the beaters.” It's a centrifuge, Count, not an electric mixer.
  • Here's something creepy. I was showering at my gym after a soak in the spa. That's not the creepy part. Hold on. The spa and shower area is contained and has only one entrance/exit. I am certain I was alone. Working myself into a lather, I saw a middle-aged black man enter the area from the locker room. He briefly showered and then descended into the spa. Several minutes passed, during which time nobody entered or exited the sauna/shower area. I continued showering. I suddenly saw a pot-bellied, naked white man rise from and and exit the spa. A black man gets in. A white man leaves. The explanation is simple. This was not a heat-induced hallucination. I showered with one of the X-men: a shape-shifter to be exact. But not that hot, blue lady with the “blueberry muffins.” I got the pot-bellied dude. It figures.
  • I plan to spend my future dwelling on the past. This makes me a live-in-the-moment kind of guy.
  • I just bought a new car. When I start the car the headlights turn on automatically. But when I open the doors at night, the dome light doesn't work! It remains pitch black in the car. The headlamps work in the daytime. The dome light doesn't work at night. I'll have to read the instructions to learn how to get the dome light to turn on. This world is making less and less sense to me.
  • Here's a great billboard for Apple Computers: “If you'd worked on a Mac today, you'd be home by now.”
  • Anybody who claims the world is going to hell must not be old enough to remember when you had to pull over and pop a quarter into a pay-phone to make a call, or when you had to fast-forward through a cassette to find your favorite song on your Walkman.
  • We spent the 1980s undoing the 1970s. For example, we undid bell-bottoms by “pegging” our jeans, a practice in which you fold and roll the bottoms of both pant legs so that they tapered to either ankle. I'm glad we finally made peace with the 70s -- and with bell-bottoms -- because pegging your jeans was pretty gay. We also got those crazy 1970's hairdos under control, though not without a few bumpy detours. A Flock of Seagulls didn't do us any favors -- unless you owned stock in Aqua Net.


Random thoughts

Don't forget to tell us


It's not too late. Scroll down or click the link and tell us what you believe.

And now for Thursday's post of random thoughts:

  • Many astronomers have argued that Pluto is not a planet, partly because it lacks the mass and gravity to form into a sphere. It's just too small. Consequently, Pluto may loose its planetary status. In a related story, Gary Coleman is in danger of loosing his status as a person and must now describe himself as an “organic terrestrial asteroid.”
  • I'm not sure why this is. When I watch political news, I find myself agreeing with people who pronounce Muslim, “MUZZ-lim.” I usually disagree with people who pronounce Muslim, “MOOSE-lem.” Also, I agree with people who pronounce Iran and Iraq, “Eye-RAN” and “Eye-RACK,” and despise those who pronounce these two countries “EE-ron” and “EE-rock.”
  • I don't see why handicapped people get the premium parking lots. The way I see it, they're the ones with the motorized wheelchairs. Let them make the longer trip. Here I am trekking across the parking lot in this heat on my own two legs like a sucker. The next time I see a handicapped person riding his way to the Circle-K, I'm jumping on the handlebars of his electric scooter. I had to hike across this whole parking lot thanks to you. You're giving me a ride the rest of the way, grampa.
  • Women have two primary motivations: 1) to feel beautiful. 2) to possess something of value and rarity. If you want to attract a woman, you have to make her feel beautiful and you have to convince her that you're something rare and valuable. Then, after you marry her, you can reveal that you're just another average schmuck. Sorry, sugar. No refunds or exchanges on this model.
  • If you want to catch all the traffic lights during rush hour, all you have to do is have a pressing issue in your car that requires your undivided attention. I first observed this phenomenon when I needed to double-check some driving directions. I was actually hoping for a red light so I could take my eyes off the road long enough to read my handwritten chicken scrawl. Lo and behold, I caught every goddamn light (miraculous!), failed to read the directions in time, and missed my turn. So make sure you have a small emergency in your car. Any emergency will do. Maybe you've spilled some coffee or need to rummage through a pile of junk in your passenger seat to find your cell phone. Maybe you have a small car fire burning through the floorboard or your victim is trying to escape from the trunk. All of these things require your immediate and undivided attention. So make sure you have an issue like this brewing the next time you hit the ignition and back out of your garage. You'll hit nothing but green lights. Just a tip from me to you.
  • License plates should display the driver's cell phone number. That way, you can call them and tell them what an asshole they are in a civilized manner instead of shouting it out the window.


What do you believe?

What do you believe?

Awhile back I posted “What Is Your Law?,” a solicitation to readers that had them post their laws on life. It was one of my most successful post and I had a blast editing it and publishing a collection of my readers' “laws” sometime later. The result of the project offered readers a collection of distilled and concentrated wisdom borne from the wittiest minds on the Internet.

Here's the second installment: What Do You Believe? In your comments, tell me what you sincerely believe. What do you hold true in both head and heart -- even if you cannot prove it. What would you swear true before God or your Sacred Honor? What things do believe without doubt or reservation? What beliefs guide your life? Maybe it's the existence or the absence of God. Or that there's a fundamental difference between the sexes. Maybe it's something controversial, something really juicy, such as a superior race or the innocence of OJ Simpson, the Jets winning a Superbowl, the erroneous conclusions of General Relativity. Hit me with your best shot(s). I ask only that you sincerely believe what you post. It can be funny, incongruent, witty, trivial, offensive, objectionable, thought-provoking, trite, immature, ignorant or sublime -- just as long as it's sincere.

Also, you may post anonymously if you feel your belief is too hot. But I hope to associate these sure-to-be brilliant beliefs with their authors. And don't feel confined to only one. If you have several gems, share them all. Take some time and come back later if you need a while. This post isn't going anywhere!

If I get enough responses, I'll publish them in my blog later as a collection. I look forward to reading all your beliefs.

Just to warm things up, I'll start:

1) I believe “global warming” is a device of a socialist movement with malicious designs on our greatest strength: capitalism. I believe global warming has virtually no scientific merit. The reason the GW campaign has met with such success is because it exploits the great American weakness of guilt (our industry is so bad that it's not just destroying lives. It's destroying the planet!)

2) I believe the most prevalent fallacy is the notion that one can buy happiness. Corollary: we have genetic programming urging us to attain “just a little more,” so that whatever degree of material success we attain, it feels like not quite enough. In fact, “just a little more” is the antidote to happiness.

3) I believe Humor is the greatest of virtues. It's a uniquely human trait. We have the forces of evolution to thank for it. It's purpose is to identify incongruity and/or folly in our thoughts, behaviors and habits so that we may purge them and improve ourselves.


This and that

  • Today I put Shindler's List in my Netflix queue, or as Mel Gibson calls it, “The feel-good movie of 1993.”
  • If something is “neither here nor there,” then where the fuck is it?
  • Lots of dogs chase cars. I had a dog that was so smart, she could hail a cab. But she was never so clever she could pull off paying the cabbie in “doggy dollars.” Nice try, Corky. Shahid needs $19.70.

Nudist Airways

Nudist colonies should establish themselves within the airlines industry. Think how practical that would be. In an environment where hair gel arouses suspicion, nudity would facilitate security. Nudists could get their yearning for nakedness out of their system during the flight, instead of some remote, mosquito-infested nudist compound. You have to admit that a planeful of naked people adds levity to an otherwise frustrating flight. And think of the advantages. You could dismiss the X-ray scanner people. They could return to their old jobs of cleaning Slurpee machines at the 7/11. The problems would be every third guy gesturing to his junk and asking the poor ticket counter girl, “Can I check this as carry-on, because I doubt it will fit in the overhead compartment.” Also, stewardesses would have to put up with the inevitable “As you can see, I already have a sack of nuts.” Some ladies might even try to get in on the act: “I have two flotation devices right here.” Everybody's a fuckin' comedian. You know?

End Racism NOW

I have a plan to end racism and all the bickering that goes along with it. From now on, whenever a woman is pregnant, the OBGYN will shoot some food coloring up the birth canal. We'll make babies all the colors of the rainbow. We'll make so many people so many different damn colors that charges of “racism” will ring hollow. We'll have Blue-Americans, Orange-Americans, Mauve-Americans. We'll be too confused and exhausted to keep track of who the victims are! Everybody will be a victim, so nobody will be a victim. And being green or purple wouldn't be so bad. Remember all those hot, colorful alien chicks on Star Trek? Who wouldn't want to date them? Imagine a nice big, green-colored Beyonce. Yum! Or for you ladies, how about a purple-colored David Hasselhoff?

And Don't Forget...

It's Here!
Fireflies in the Meadow
by Alpha Johnson

Now you can read Lightning Bug's Butt anywhere. This book has over 120 pages of easy-to-read print, featuring a year's worth of Lighting Bug's Butt posts and some never-before published material.

If you like what you read, you can take this book to bed with you (try doing that with your laptop!). If you hate it, you have a book to fling across the room (again, try that with your laptop). Or you can rip out the satin-smooth pages and use them for bathroom tissue.

Give a copy as a gift to someone special. Stuff one under the leg of a wobbly coffee table. Keep one near the crapper. Wield it to kill household insects. Or kindle your fireplace. Hand one into your professor as your doctoral thesis. Read it with your lover as a therapeutic sex aide. Make it the religious text of the new cult you're founding. Get it for whatever reason you please. Just get your copy today!


Three vignettes


Have you ever seen those avalanche movies where the hikers have to be quiet and not make any loud noises or else they'll start an avalanche? I think the worst possible hiking partner in a situation like that would be that big-mouth Rosanne Barr. Imagine yourself cowering in a mountain niche, desperately coaxing Rosanne to stop shooting her mouth off, while kilotons of fragmented earth creek and teeter above. Shut it, Rosanne! Even if she could manage to shut the hell up for five minutes, I think the rocks and boulders and snow would all decide to start tumbling anyway, if they saw a chance to hit her. And the poor bastard she was with would just have to be “collateral damage.”

The air in there

I wonder why once in a while I have to add air to my car tires. Where did the original air go? The tires don't have a leak. If they had a leak, I'd have a flat. Somehow the air magically disappears. A mechanic told me that in fact air molecules slip through the rubber over time. Well if that's true, then shouldn't air molecules seep back into the tire? I think the mechanic's theory is bunk. If it were true, then theoretically, you could hold back a fart and eventually it would disappear. We all know THAT'S not true! You try to hold those suckers back, they just get pissed off and come back stronger and meaner.

Me Chinese, me make joke...

When I was a kid, every night at dinner my parents told me “Finish everything on the plate. There are kids starving in China. Now that I'm an adult, I read that there's 1.2 billion Chinese people. How can that be? Shouldn't they all be dead of starvation? And you know what else? If the Chinese are starving, where do they get the ingredients to make all those egg rolls? Here's another thing. I've eaten a lot of fortune cookies, but not one of them ever read, “You're going to starve to death.” You'd think they'd put a few of those in circulation given so many Chinese kids are starving and whatnot. But I just thought of something. When the wife needs an excuse not to have sex with her husband, she can always say, “Not tonight, George. There are 700 million kids in China. We shouldn't risk making another.”



I've always wondered what the “29 dimensions of compatiblity” are on e-Harmony.com Twenty-nine? That's a lot of dimensions. I figure one of them should be “genital girth.” Also, “likelihood to maim/kill spouse” seems an important dimension of compatibilty. After all, who cares whether your next mate likes classical music and long walks on the beach? I want to know what they look like naked and whether they'll make an attempt on my life for eating cookies in bed. If John Bobbit would have known ahead of time the odds his wife would cut his pecker off, I think he would have opted for different mail-order bride. In fact, I'd bet Nicaraguan girls everywhere are having a difficult time finding men since that story broke. If you're sharing a bed with a Nicaraguan girl, sleep on your stomach, my friend. Even then, you might still wind up with a fireplace poker in your poop shoot. Now that you've got me thinking, if you have a girlfriend or wife from anywhere in Central America, better get in the habit of duct taping her to the bed post at night. No se mueva esta noche, chica. Quiero tener mi pene!


Mark Twain ain't got shit on me

It's Here!
Fireflies in the Meadow
by Alpha Johnson

Now you can read Lightning Bug's Butt anywhere. This book has over 120 pages of easy-to-read print, featuring a year's worth of Lighting Bug's Butt posts and some never-before published material.

If you like what you read, you can take this book to bed with you (try doing that with your laptop!). If you hate it, you have a book to fling across the room (again, try that with your laptop). Or you can rip out the satin-smooth pages and use them for bathroom tissue.

Give a copy as a gift to someone special. Stuff one under the leg of a wobbly coffee table. Keep one near the crapper. Wield it to kill household insects. Or kindle your fireplace. Hand one into your professor as your doctoral thesis. Read it with your lover as a therapeutic sex aide. Make it the religious text of the new cult you're founding. Get it for whatever reason you please. Just get your copy today!


[Tap, Tap!] Is this thing on?

  • If today's kids are illiterate, how do you explain all the damn text-messaging?
  • Writing is the refuge of would-be musicians who never had the patience to learn an instrument.
  • I figure the gas stations should go ahead and slap a rubber dick around the pump nozzles seems how they're bent on fucking' us in the ass nowadays. Yeah, fill'er up to the prostate with mid-grade on pump 14. I'd ask for a reach-around, but this is self-serve only.
  • I'm surprised we had to invent the wheel. Evolution should have come up with that one. Wheels for legs -- it makes sense to me. In fact, if you examine hips, knees and the lower back, you have to wonder if Evolution called in sick about 5 million years ago and stretched it into a geological-sized 3-day weekend.
  • You know that question on job applications that asks, “Have you ever been convicted of a crime? If so, explain.” I always want to write, “Yeah. I killed the last 2 guys who didn't hire me. Out on parole.”
  • I have a squirrel for a friend. One day I told him that I was playing baseball and the ball hit my nuts. He asked me, “You play baseball in your house?”
  • True story: One time my wife was talking to me in the car, and she was talking loudly, and out of habit I reached for the radio knob and turned down the volume.
  • I visited an Einstein Bros. bagel shop the other day. The have a new menu item. The call it a “Mel Gibson Special.” It's a swift-kick-in-the-ass with cream cheese, a medium drink, and a toy dreidel.
  • If the Space Shuttle travels faster than a bullet, then I think we should shape bullets like little space shuttles so they'll go faster. Think of all the little aspiring astronauts we'd have in Compton. Don't make me bust a shuttle in yo ass, bitch. I'll go Neil Armstrong up in this muthafucka.
  • For me, school became a drag once the teacher forced us to give up our pencils and start using ink. For the first time in my life I had to worry about making mistakes. But then a few years later the girls started growing boobs and school became fun again.


More throwaways

Attention Reader: the following are a batch of throwaway posts that I just don't have the heart t0 throw away. I'm putting the finishing touches on a new book. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy these throwaways. Don't judge them too harshly; they were bound for the recycle bin, after all. Instead, think of them as leftovers. They're not as good as the Sunday meal, but they still make a decent midnight snack -- if you're hungry enough.

Limits and the battle of the sexes

The differences between the sexes has been analyzed to death and most of it is crap, but every once in a while a genuine difference will surface. For example, men love to find the limits of things. Just how many dishes can I pack into this dishwasher and they still come out reasonably clean? How many days without showering can I go before someone else notices? How much nacho cheese can I pour on these chips without spilling it all over the 7 Eleven. Can my jeep make it over that mountain? How many times can I wear this shirt before it must go to the cleaners? How many lap dances will it take for me to silence the homosexual voices in my head?

You won't catch women experimenting with the above! They don’t test the limits of things just for curiosity's sake. They're too practical. Limits are a man's thing. We like testing the limits of things. Sometimes we even test the limits of our own foolishness.

Falling Rocks

Have you seen those “Watch for falling rocks” signs on the freeway? Why do they bother to post those? What should I watch them do? I can either watch them crash through my windshield at 85 mph, or watch them vault my car 20 feet in the air as I drive over them. Either way, watching for them isn't going to make things any safer. By the time you see them, I assure you it's too late. If there's even a remote possibility of falling rocks, screw the sign. Put up some damn walls!

I don't like road signs that have a picture you have to decipher. Highways in the border states, for example, have pictures of a family running together. After mowing a few on I-10 I figured out that they weren't pedestrians without the right of way, but illegal aliens fleeing the border patrol. Boy did I feel stupid. But it wasn't my fault. If they would have posted “Beware of undocumented pedestrians seeking a better life for themselves and their families by dodging border patrol,” I would have at least slowed down.

I hope these pictograms don’t become more popular. I don't want to drive past a rest area sign on the highway and see a silhouette of a guy taking a leak. Or worse, a lodging sign that shows a the outline of a trucker and a lady of the evening in bed together.

Picture-signs confuse me. I don't always know what they mean. I saw a picture of a pistol once and thought I was passing Phil Spector’s house. It turns out it was really a gun show off of I-17. I say we stick to text and let the illiterate people guess what the hell the signs mean, not the other way around.

Free the cars

When I drive by those trucks that haul all the cars, I feel sorry for the cars. It's like they've been grounded from playing with the other cars, like a motor vehicle time-out. The only time I don't feel sorry for the cars is when I'm driving directly behind the truck. It always looks like that one car on the top row is ready to shake loose and sail into my windshield. Why is that top car in the back always angled down so it's pointing directly at the poor guy driving directly behind the truck? Have you noticed those trucks don't have a “keep a safe distance” bumper sticker like other trucks? They don't need one. They've got 4,000 pounds of metal-death dangling off the back to ward off any intruders.

You CAN judge a book by its cover

You can tell a lot about who's driving by what they're driving. When you're zipping down the street, you see the cars around you, but you can't see the person driving. It leaves you to wonder who's driving -- boy or girl, young or old, freak or dweeb, that kind of thing. Sooner or later, however, you're going to arrive at a red light together, at which time you can take a glance into the car and see whom you're sharing the road with. The car lets you know what you're in for. You can't judge a book by its cover, but you sure as hell can judge a driver by his car. If, for example, you pull up next to an monster pick-up truck with a cartoon character urinating on another cartoon character on the rear window, you'll see a big, white, tattooed, spittoon mutherfucker in a “Fuck Everybody” baseball cap. It's pretty obvious there's not a whole lot of I.Q. points to go with that hemi. Minivans equal soccer moms. Porsche? Middle-aged bald guy. In fact, that's what a Porsche really is -- a $65,000 toupee.

Then there's that wild card in the car-driver guessing game. The old, smashed-up, 4-door sedan, primer/Bondo mobile. You just don't know what you're in for with that one, do you? In fact, it's probably a good idea not to look at all. Eye contact is not a good idea. If you’re on a date, this is the point when you’ll hear her say, “Oh my God. Don’t look. I think this is my ex-boyfriend and he’s crazy.” Keep your eyes straight forward and punch the accelerator when you see the green light.

Be a good sport

Do you want to have some fun with a sporting goods shop? Here's how. Call them and ask the clerk for something outrageous, something you know they won't have, like a spice rack, a “Fonzie-style” leather jacket, or non-alcoholic beer nuts. Be creative. Then, after they jerk you around by putting you on hold and pretending to look, and they pick up and say, “Sorry, sir. We don't carry those,” respond with, “In that case, I'd like to price a shotgun. And what time do you get off tonight?”

The injustice of it all

Have you ever exercised on a piece of fitness equipment (e.g., a stationary bike, ski machine, treadmill, etc.) that measures the calories you burn?

If so, you've probably noticed how much work you do and how few calories you burn. Exercise is like a minimum wage job: you work your balls off and take home jack squat.

Four Oreo cookies (the currency I use for the exercise/calorie exchange rate) are 220 calories. You have to jog for 20 minutes on a treadmill to burn that 220 calories. Twenty minutes. And let's face facts. Who stops at four Oreos? I can rip through a row of Oreos like a wood chipper.

I think a fair rate of exchange would be one Oreo per minute of treadmill. That way, you could kill off a row of those bitches and negate the effects with a brief, 20-minute jog. Am I asking too much?

Folks, I love my Oreo cookies, but I'm not running a goddamn marathon to subsidize my habit. I'm just going to have to start purging like those Olson twins.

Turn your head and cough

When the doctor checks for a hernia, he asks you to turn your head and cough. I understand why you have to cough (to increase intra-abdominal pressure). But why do you have to turn your head? I think the doctor just doesn't want you to see him feeling a man's balls.

Turn your head and cough? Sure, doc. While I'm at it, why don't you bob your head and yawn!

Expressing yourself

Whenever someone wants to describe the sex act delicately, they use the term "expressing yourself sexually" or "expressing your sexuality." These euphemisms often accompany discussions on homosexuality, trans-sexuality or unconventional sexual behavior. It softens the blow.

Screw delicacy. When I'm eating, I'm not "expressing my hunger." I'm eating! When I'm drinking, I'm not "expressing my thirstiness." I'm drinking diet soda. And when having sex, I'm not "expressing my sexuality." I'm fucking. So give me the five minutes I need to finish, thank you very much.

Why is this a bad thing?

Here's an old excerpt from The Drudge Report:

"As the whiskey and wine he drank during a fraternity initiation began to kill Gordie Bailey, some of his fraternity brothers wrote racial, misogynist and sexual vulgarities all over his body as he lay passed out in the Chi Psi library.

On the morning of Sept. 17, when it became apparent that the 18-year-old was not breathing, someone tried to wipe off the slurs written on his face. The University of Colorado at Boulder freshman was soon pronounced dead, and at the coroner's office, more markings were found on his arms, legs and body."

...Call me a jerk, but my take on this is, we have one less beer-swilling, date-raping, daddy's-money-spending frat boy disturbing the peace. Has anybody considered that power drinking is just another form of Darwinism?

Good night, Frat Boy. Time to pledge that frat house in the sky.


Random shooting

  • When one of my neighbors is repairing his roof, I pull a chair up to my window and watch intently. I figure there's an outside shot that they'll fall from the roof, and I hate to miss out on a good laugh.
  • If “humor is everywhere,” why do so many new sit-coms fail?
  • Many people will tell you, “It's not what you do in life that you'll regret. It's what you DON'T do.” This is poor counsel. Many times I reflect on my life and think “Man, I'm glad I never got involved in that load of crap!” In fact, most of the things I do either fail, backfire or underwhelm. So the LESS I do, the further along I go! Eat that, Tony Robbins.
  • I think many Americans hate their country because it's the only country in the world that gives them the freedom they need to make a mess of their lives.
  • I don't understand how I shave the same face everyday with the same razor at the same time, yet the quality of my shave can vary from blissful to torturous. Genital shaving, however, is remarkably consistent in ease and comfort. I think I'll grow a beard and become a porn star.
  • The odds of meeting an attractive member of the opposite sex is proportional to how many onions were in your sandwich at lunch.
  • You know how old people fret over stupid, little things, like how the canned peaches on aisle 15 are supposed to ring up three for a dollar, not two for a dollar. I used to think old people just sucked. But now I understand. It's not the 17 cents. It's the way the whole world doesn't make any damn sense anymore. Things have changed too fast, gotten ass-backwards and out of whack. From that point of view, every mispriced can of peaches is a metaphysical threat to their capacity to understand and function in an ever-increasingly complicated and chaotic universe. Man, old people really do suck!


Mother Theresa: Humanitarian, blog-hacker.

"Dear Lord, please smite that li'l bastard LBB and all of his douchebag readers. I'd personally like to miracle everyone associated with this post a swift kick in the crotch for failing to defend my honor. Many readers took offense at LBB's foul-mouthed remark on an earthly skank named Paris Hilton. Yet nary a one mentioned the inappropriateness of me soiling my naked body in pizza while indulging in sensual pleasure. Blasphemy! Shame! How dare that Jezebel and I appear in the same publication? For shame. The devil works through your hands, LBB. He's alive and well in you. You have the devil's hands."