• I'm so in the habit of blogging. Today I read a news story and at the end I started looking for the "comment" hotlink.
  • Have you ever used a “soft” cuss word to guard against giving offense, but moderated the safe word with “fucking?” For example, what the fuckin' heck? Fuckin' oops. That defeats the purpose. That's like ordering a cheeseburger with a DIET Coke. You already did the bad thing, so doing the right thing doesn't count anymore.
  • I like to watch those cancer commercials where patient after patient looks into the camera and says something like, "I'm ready to fight my cancer." As they whiz by, I say out loud: "He's dead. She's dead. He's probably dead. Dead. Dead. He might make it; he looks a bit stronger than the others... dead, dead, and... dead. I know they're only actors, but still, some of them will probably get cancer someday.
  • I once told a cop to go "beat a confession" out of his own penis. Yes, I still got the ticket. And a couple bonus tickets, too.
  • I don't know how people decide on which tattoo. Those things are for LIFE. I can't even commit to a screen saver.
  • Men buy women drinks and women buy men greeting cards. We should invert these practices so that both sexes are happier. Dear Attractive Stranger at the End of the Bar: Looking forward to meeting you, getting to know you better and perhaps engaging in intercourse. All My Best, LBB.
  • Right now I'm listening to a 70s hit by Dr. Hook. The lyrics begin, “When you're in love with a beautiful woman, it gets hard. When you're in love with a beautiful woman, you know it's hard.” Well Dr. Hook, I'm sure under the right circumstance, that's true, indeed. Either that or she means nothing to you and it's the first thing in the morning. I'll wonder if Dr. Hook is a urologist.
  • I found this ironic. I was watching The View on television and I longed for a set of TV blinds. There really isn't much of a view. It's more of an eyesore what with that pig, Rosie O'Donnell. The camera zoomed on Rosie and before I thought to censor myself I exclaimed aloud, “Jeez, I'd rather get a “view” up Barbara Walters' dress.” The other shoppers in the Sears Appliance Department decided to ignore me.


Standing in line, or "queueing up" for you in the UK

Standing in line is a real drag. You know how you feel when you step into a long line. OK, honey. I think this is the back of the line. Then you fall in. Hopefully the person in front of you doesn't smell too bad and isn't wearing Spandex. Anyway, you're the last in line. You look down the line and estimate the number of people. Then you take a look behind you and see nobody. That's when you start feeling like a real douche bag. Of all the people in the the demographic "line waiters," you're at the bottom of the list. Everybody outranks you - and only because they had the nerve to enter the line before you arrived. Screw them. As the line moves, you try to gauge the speed of the line and how much time you'll have to wait. It says Express Lane, but it's not expressing itself very quickly, you think. But internal sarcasm won't move things along any faster. You're really screwed. This line is long and it isn't going anywhere fast. You wore your uncomfortable dress shoes today. The person in front of you is wearing Spandex. They've exceeded the maximum items posting and the maximum dosage of Old Spice Aftershave. Drag.

If you peer down the line, you'll see some people up front looking back at you. They have a look of pity on their faces, along with the smug, self-satisfaction that typically occasions those with greater fortunes (and also people who drive hybrids). Up yours, frontie. What makes you so freggin' great? What, so you'll get closer seats at the Justin Timberlake concert. There's plenty of seats for all of us. And with JT, there's not a bad seat in the house. I'm bringin' sexy back...Yeah!

Sometimes you have to take a number before you wait in line. Then you can sit anywhere you like. You're just waiting for your number to be called. I don't think they should dispense the numbers in order. They should spit out at random. Put some entertainment into waiting in line. Everybody enjoys playing the lottery. Imagine waltzing by some poor schmuck who's been waiting for an hour for his pain pills at the pharmacy. Sweet! I drew a three. I just got here and I'm next. Ha! Eat that, you gimpy bastard. Say, I'll tell ya what. You look like you're in a lot of pain. I'll trade you my low number for your crutches. We gotta deal?

Jumping into a long line sucks. But with time, your disposition improves. Suddenly you glance back to find that there are those more pathetic than you. You're moving up in the world. You've made your mark. Sure, you've still got some time to kill. But at least you're not one of those douche bags back there. You're achieving rank and status. By the time you approach the front of the line you feel like royalty. Those adolescents working the line are merely your subjects. Sir, would you like the front seat of the coaster, or the back? I shall assume the throne in front, my good man, and here's a little something for you. Sir, you can't bring the life-sized stuffed gorilla on the roller coaster. Here's your dollar back. Step down, you insubordinate peon. I insist that Mr. Bubbles rides with me. Sir, I'm going to have to ask you... Aside! Kneel and bow. Ah, here come the guards. Guards, seize him. Wait, unhand me you fools. I'll have your heads for this. This is an outrage...

I hold line-jumpers beneath contempt. Scourge of the earth, these line-jumpers. They think they're so sly and you won't notice. What they don't realize is, you've got nothing else to do but scrutinize of the line. Of course I'll notice you taking cuts, jerkoff. I've been standing in this line for an hour. I know who's in it and who wasn't. I don't know what the law says, but you should be allowed to Taser line-jumpers into unconsciousness. Imagine a whole line of people at the DMV Tasering some punk who tried to give them the slip. That would make the wait a little less tedious. Once, I watched helplessly as two teen-aged punks took cuts in front of me at Disneyland. I would have loved to Taser them. Zap! It's a small, small world, mother fucker.

That's settles it. I'm buying a Taser and going to Disneyland. I hope there isn't a line at the sporting goods store.



  • The workforce: companies paying just enough for employees to show up and employees doing just enough work not to get fired. Then some Employee-of-the-Year comes along and upsets the equilibrium we've all worked so hard to achieve.
  • The best thing about being better looking would be that you could spend less time grooming yourself and still look as good as you did before, when you were less attractive. If I were Brad Pitt, I wouldn't even take a bath.
  • Dear Apple: you included software to edit and create movies, maintain my schedule, file my music library, organize my photos, superintend my mail accounts, video conference on the web, customize my system to the nth degree, create comics, draw stuff, network wirelessly and play with my widgets. But a fucking word processing program was out of the question? Even Microsoft throws in a stripped-down word processor. And let's face it. They suck.
  • There's a psychology test that asks clients which animal they'd want to be if they had to be an animal. Men typically answer with various hunting cats and women usually elect to be a bird of some kind. Based on your reasons for choosing whichever animal, the test supposedly reveals your psyche. Myself, I'd choose a monkey for no other reason than, as far as I can figure, they're the only animal that can jerk off. I'm not trying to be crass here, folks. Seriously, what good is being king of the jungle if you can't pull your own pud?
  • If I were an insect, I'd find a dead bug, pull off a couple of its legs and stick them on my own body. Then if a spider crept up and tried to eat me, I'd gesture to my fake legs and say, “Hey, look. I'm one of you guys. Same team, amigo. Eight legs. Count'em if you don't believe me.”
  • I wonder why we still have to stick a box on top of our TVs to receive cable. In fact, why even have cable at all? Just transmit cable programming into our antennas like the old days. Or Bluetooth that shit in. Wireless cable. Wait. Forget it. That's an oxymoron.


Dog is "God" spelled backwards

If I owned a business, it would be a business that has a dog hanging around the storefront. We've all walked into proprietorships that have a dog hanging around. Aren't they the best? If you were to take these businesses as a class (those with a dog mascott) you'd find they were the nicest, friendliest and most value-packed merchants of the lot. Also, they'd probably have the worst carpeting. No mystery there. Still, any business with a dog is a business you can trust. WalMart should have an old labrador retriever at the entrance instead of a bitter old person for whom Social Security isn't enough for food AND prescription drugs, and so for whom working in the "golden years" is a humiliating necessity. Imagine walking into a WalMart and instead of meeting the aforementioned senior citizen greeter, you spot the wagging tail of an old, trusty dog. Say, Fido, on what aisle are you keeping the trash bags? And don't take this personally, but I've got to pick up a shock collar for a 40-lb. dog. Do you stock those here? I'll bet WalMart wouldn't have so many haters if they kept mascot dogs on the sales floor. I don't care how big of an anti-corporate prick you are. You'd melt if you saw a dog in a blue WalMart smock.

Like I wrote above, my business would have a dog. The regular customers would know his name and give him a pet hello. At first, I'd have my dog hang out near the entrance and greet people. Eventaully I'd train him to work the register. I had a dog that would press her nose against her leash when she wanted to go for a walk. So I figure I could train a dog to press the digits on a cash register. Even if my dog didn't get the hang of our base-10 numeric system, he'd still be smart enough to work a laser scanner with his muzzle. Just take the merchandise into your mouth and drag it along the laser window, Fido. You'll be tempted to eat the candy bars and beef jerky. But don't. You'll lose your job and then I'll euthanize you. I'm just kidding, of course. I wouldn't euthanize my mascot dog for swiping a customer's Snickers bar. Jeez. He's working for free after all.

Check out this sign I'd post on the cash register:

All transactions in doggie dollars. To calculate your bill, multiply your total by seven.

Tell me that wouldn't be the cutest thing you ever saw. I don't know if it would be worth paying 9 dollars for a roll of paper towels and $27 for a gallon of milk. Imagine the profit margins if you could pull that off.

Let's say you owned a shop. Everybody knows that shoplifting is a huge financial risk for retail shops. But if you had a dog watching the sales floor, you wouldn't have to worry. The dog would either identify the crook in the manner of a search dog, or savage the crook in the manner of Cujo on a crack binge. It would depend on the size and temperament of the dog and how you train him. Either way, that waistoid teenager isn't making it to the door with those stolen Zig Zag rolling papers. Good boy, Fido. I hope you don't get a contact buzz from biting into that waistoid's flesh.

Shoplifting deterrence is one of a myriad of advantages of having a mascot dog for your business. Here's a list of others:
  • No more "wet mop" clean-ups. Fido will lap up that broken bottle of Gatorade.
  • Canine garbage disposal for outdated and spoiled inventory.
  • Doubles as security system.
  • Companionship during long hours and 7-day workweek.
  • Pooper-scooper and Milk Bones are now tax-deductable business expenses.
  • Kids love'em.
  • Customers more willing to spend once they learn you're a dog lover because they'll trust you more. A dog mascot is better than an endorsement from the Better Business Bureau.
Pretty big list, eh? If you're a business owner, get yourself a dog. Not only are dogs cool. They're great employees, too.


Some more bullets

  • Imagine the lives we'd live if we endeavored to do two things: never underestimate ourselves and never overestimate ourselves. And if we never mis-underestimated ourselves, we could grow up to be president.
  • As long as I'm doing it, it's OK. For example, if I miss some dialogue on the TV because I'm talking, I don't miss it. But if my wife talks during my favorite sit-coms, I may have to go spousal. While driving, too, I find that when I'm the guy holding up the passing lane it's not so bad. After all, I have a few minutes to spare. I wouldn't want to miss my turn. Those guys behind me will just have to wait. But when somebody else is doing it, I'm fumbling about the glove compartment for my revolver. Incidentally, Bono and Wesley Snipes feel the same way about avoiding income taxes.
  • Applying makeup seems a waste of time. Women need assembly line efficiency for this daily ritual. How about a rubber mask that matches the contours of your face? First you paint the make-up into the mask, then you plunge your face in that thing after your morning shower. Or, find a life-size face on the cover of Cosmo, push Silly Putty against it, then mush the Putty on your face. And don't forget to Xerox the "How to Give a Better Blow-Job" article starting on page 37. I hope that lipstick is weather-proof.
  • It must have been tough being an atheist during ancient times. You had like 130 gods gunning for you all at once. Zeus was hurling lightning bolts at you. Apollo was dehydrating your crops. Venus gives you a wicked case of the crabs. That little Gazoo dude from the Flintstones was being a real pain in the ass right when you needed it the least. Plus people were really into gods back then. It's not like you could go on the Donahue Show and announce your atheism to all of Mesopotamia. That was a good way to be the guest of honor at a stone-throwing party. Say, I don't think Poseidon had anything to do with last night's rain. Burn him at the stake! You know who must have really had it tough, though, were the believers. Just think how hard it is keeping one god happy -- and He's got only 10 rules. Ancient people had to keep track of 130 gods' whims, commandments, aphorisms, rules-of-thumb, suggestions, protocols, laws, verses, maxims, pointers and tips. Monotheism is definitely the way to go if you're going to be religious.
  • If female dogs are called bitches, what do they call male dogs? Assholes? Where are the feminists on this one? Imagine the TV commentary for dog shows. "Look that this asshole take the the field. What form, what gate, what breeding. This asshole is a fine specimen. Consummate asshole. He may win Asshole of the Year."
  • Sometimes I look at my watch but I forget to read what time it is. So I have to look again. But I've never forgotten to take a squeegee when I sit on the crapper. For this I'm thankful.
  • Sometimes I'll look at a Blackberry and think to myself, I remember when the most technologically advanced communication device on earth was the Sports Illustrated Football Phone. Yep folks. Twenty years ago they sold magazine subscriptions with a regular old phone that looked like a football. Nowadays you can watch the freggin' football game on your phone!
  • If I published a dictionary, under the word "dictionary," it would read, The thing you're looking at right now. Duh.
  • Inner-thougths of Costco shoppers: "Will you move your fucking cart out of the way already?" "Why are there so many people driving these damn motorized scooters? They were able to walk in. Why can't they walk through?" "Jeez. They really should open more check-out lines." "Now I remember why I hate people so much." "Move it, asshole. I've got ice cream in here." "I just blew two months' rent on frozen foods and batteries." "What the hell am I going to do with a 150-pack of fluorescent light bulbs?" "Why do you check my cart every time I try to leave. I don't have any dignity in there for you, schmuck."


Nine points of light

• The organ of the imagination must reside in one's stomach. I ate some old pizza on Monday and it poisoned my innards. The nausea lingered for two days, during which time I couldn't conjure a single idea. I now know that creative writing requires tranquility of the stomach -- and poisoning of the mind.

• My dog hates me. In a house full of easy-to-clean tile and hardwood, she plops one out on the rug. I'm never around to catch her in the act, but I suspect while she's squatting, she's growling, "Take that, you Milkbone-rationing biped."

• Dogs must really be confused by leashes. In a dog's mind, it doesn't add up. They don't know from leash laws, speeding cars, coyotes or other perils of their environment from which a leash protects them. They just think their leash is cruel and unusual. "Let me get this straight. I can drink from the toilet, lounge on every piece of furniture in the house, eat anything I can reach with my muzzle, crap all over the yard, but I can't wander more than 5 feet from you without being choked?"

• Missouri's state flag should have a picture of an out-of-wedlock pregnant teenager on it. Either that or a banjo. You know, that Gateway Arch isn't an abstract. It's a 100x scale model of a Missourian girl's legs after Billy Bob wined-and-dined her at the local Sizzler.

• Factories should have a sign telling passers-by what the factory builds. I drive by factories, glance at the tanks, study the smokestacks, trace the paths of ladders, pipes, scaffoldings and power-lines with my eyes, sample the smells, etc, but I never figure out what the hell the factory is making. This vexes me. That's why people don't like factories in their neighborhoods. Not knowing drives us crazy. We're not good at not knowing. I'm often tempted to pull into the factory, walk up to the door, knock, and when the guy answers, poke my head in and take a look around. "Hey Slick, what's in the oven?" Hey, I just thought of something. Do you suppose the factory that makes Liquid Smoke has chimneys? After all, they don't want to waste any product. And where do they get the smoke? If I was the factory foreman, I'd just run some pipe from Willie Nelson's tour bus into the bottles. Cha-ching. Liquid Smoke, now in 3 new flavors: Ganja, Crank Menthol and Pearl Jam Concert.

• After listening to some of their lyrics, I think we should rename System of a Down, System of a Douche Bag.

• I saw a film on YouTube featuring a Japanese game show where you have to recite tongue-twisters flawlessly or else -- I'm NOT making this up -- a machine smacks you in the groin. One would think failure to recite a tongue twister would earn you a titty twister. Maybe that's too smart by half. On second thought, a mechanical slap in the marbles makes the most sense. You've got to give credit to the Japanese. First they dominate the auto industry. Now they've set their sights on game shows. Hey, I just thought of something. You know how you squint when you aim a gun? How does a Japanese guy shoot a gun? He's already squinting. If he squints any tighter he'll be shooting in the fuckin' dark. Show yoself, you round-eye cah-wad. Who tun out lights?

• After I see a spider on television, every blemish on the wall, every piece of yarn on the carpet and every tickle on my skin -- they all become spiders. Oh God -- is that a... no, it's just a clump of dog hair. Sweet Jesus, is that a black widow? No, it's just an old pinto bean. But no matter how much pornography you watch on TV, you don't start mistaking stuff for boobs and cooters. Holy cow, look at the naked lady.. awww! It's just a couple of melons and a scrub pad.

• Good news. DDT is making a comeback. It took 35 years of bickering, but everybody finally agreed that 2 million malaria deaths every year were a bigger tragedy than thinner bird-egg shells. Yay for humans!


I talk to inanimate objects

Do you ever talk to inanimate objects? I do. I carry on entire conversations with inanimate objects. They're mostly one-sided. It's usually when I'm angry.

Now that I think about it, all my conversations with inanimate objects are when I'm angry. I need to express to them just how they make me feel. It's unhealthy to keep anger inside. And communication is the foundation of thriving relationships. Take my piece-of-crap ex-computer, for example. He and I had many hostile conversations. What a conversationalist! Ah, the names and epithets I hurled at that old PC. Poor bastard. I called him every name imaginable. What do you mean the program is not responding, you fuckin' jag-off? Your mother was a Celeron whore.

I just get so angry sometimes.

I confess that on occasion my heated words escalate to physical assaults. Computer equipment in particular can enrage me to the point where someone (or something) must pay. I'm gonna kick some Western Digital ass up in this mother fucker. I have a Canon printer currently seeking a restraining order against me. The court petition recounts an incident where the printer allegedly "kept streaking fucking lines through the text" and the defendant "swung the petitioner (Canon Bubble Jet) around by a USB cable resulting in collision with the monitor and catastrophic failure of the cartridge driving mechanism." What a fucking cry baby, huh? Anyway, verbal and physical abuse of one's computer equipment falls under new domestic violence statutes (thanks a million, OJ Simpson!). So I have to remain 50 feet from that printer. My pleasure.

I kicked a Pentium tower a couple of years ago. He was provoking me. Bastard wouldn't listen to reason. I spent 19 minutes downloading the newest version of Windows Media Player. Then I discovered I need a special Active X plug-in (put the plug-in in the fucking install.exe, schmuck!). Finally, this cock-smoker computer informs me that I have to reboot for the system changes to take effect. That's his ass, right there. Don't judge me, folks. Look, if you keep me waiting 4 extra minutes for a reboot because you can't handle a Java app, it's coming out of your ass. I don't give a shit whether it's made of flesh or silicon; I'm taking my pound of flesh. Or silicon. Whatever. Anyway, I kicked that tower in the chips so hard, the lab technicians at Intel doubled over. Good. Those little space-suit-wearirng fucks deserved it for manufacturing such crap. I recently bought a Mac. Peace at last. Although this wiseass is telling me he can't read Word.doc files. Maybe he needs a Crack-intosh. Rimshot.

I converse with other inanimate objects, too, not just computer stuff. My old clunker car, for example, bore the brunt of my one-sided soliloquies. How about this little hesitation thing your car likes to pull when you're pulling into speeding traffic? Last month I had a tow-truck speeding toward the intersection and as soon as my car lurched into the lane, it sputtered. It never sputtered before. Now I'm taping the floorboard like Sammy Davis, Jr. trying to find a pedal that will get things moving before I get an ass-ful of engine hoist and naked lady mud flaps. Boy, I had a few choice words for my car the last time that happened. We'll see how hesitant you are with my foot in your dashboard!

Again, sometimes I do more than just talk. I've often fantasized about lighting my car on fire, or ditching it on the south side and letting the vatos locos on 6th street jack the shit out of it for parts. I'd enjoy watching that after my second $500 fuel pump in 18-months(!) failed and left me stranded on I-10. Great timing, you shit-box of a Chevy. You couldn't crap out in the garage where I could wait for Triple-A from the comfort of my own home. Instead, you run perfectly until we've driven into the countryside set from Deliverance. Then you strand my ass 20 miles away from Billy Bob's Auto Repair and City-boy-Ass-Raper, the only mechanic within towing distance. You six-cylinder cunt! If I were in pushing distance of a railroad crossing, I'd have rolled that bitch onto the rails, bought a bag of popcorn from Circle-K and waited for the Ol' Number 9 to arrive. No such luck, however. In the end, self-control got the better of me and I gave it to my step-daughter for her birthday.

Sometimes people who care about me explain that yelling at inanimate objects is juvenile, counter-productive and psychotic. I appreciate their counsel, but mostly I wish they were a car part, a tool or a computer component so I could kick the shit out of them without committing a felony. They just don't understand. These objects must pay for their transgressions. And as judge, jury and executioner, I square accounts in pain. But I'm not some hothead despot who demands death upon the first offense. I reserve harsh language and smack-downs for repeat offenses. Anybody can make a mistake. Perhaps it was just a misunderstanding. But when these computers, appliances and cars pull the same shit over and over again, they're doing it on purpose. They're provoking me. I need to show them who's the boss. I'm Tony Danza up in this mother fucker, motherfucker. I'm Ike and your faulty ass is Tina Turner, you warranty-expired-last-week-son-of-a-bitch.

I'd love to continue, but I have to go rip a fire alarm that won't stop chirping off the wall and "reason" with it. Honey, get me my ball-pein hammer. I'm going to show the fire alarm how to really make some noise.


Another storm of bullets

• Everybody's talking about the page who fell victim to Congressman Foley and his masturbatory fantasies. As the infighting ensues, I have to wonder whether all the pages will stick together (rimshot!)
• I'd like to train a police dog to attack at the sound of a ringing cell phone. Then I'd like to give the dog a couple of Red Bull's and release him someplace fun, like a rave.
• Sometime after the advent of blogging, the word "said" replaced "aforementioned." I miss "aforementioned." "Said" is too cutesy, like that punk Jon Stewart.
• I want to try to open a Netflix account under the name Ted Kaczynski. I'll bet that would make those envelope-stuffers sweat.
• There's risk involved in jerking off to pornography -- not the risk of getting caught; we all know about that risk. There's another risk. You know that other risk: ejaculating at the precise moment the camera pans to the guy's butt. Aghhhhh! But what can you do about it? Once you pop the top off a can of cream soda, the fizz is going to shoot. You can't undo it. Back in my teens this happened to me like 4 times in a row. I started wondering whether I was queer. I found myself in a metaphysical chicken-or-the-egg dilemma on my sexual orientation. Was the guy's butt popping up when I blasted off, or was I blasting off because of the guy's butt? Finally I cranked one out to a Sears Hanes-Her-Way commercial and I knew I'd turn out OK.
• Everybody knows American drivers become confused when driving in England, where motorists keep to the left. I think it would be loads more fun if in England, green meant STOP and red meant GO. Think of all the blooper clips on YouTube you'd have. Step on the gas, you bloody American stooge. Also I think it would be great if "lift" didn't mean elevator, but rather, "old lady." This lift can handle no more than 20 riders at a time. I wouldn't want England to change "fag," however. What's funnier than having the urge to smoke a fag?
• Why do they put those signs on the road that identify the beginning and end of bridges? Is that just in case you have a compulsion to jerk your car off the road at that precise moment and go 4-wheeling? I figure if the bridge is so small it needs markers to identify it, you don't need to know about it.
• I'd like to commission a study on sewer workers to learn whether they have lower self-esteem than the control group. Who applies for a job working in sewers? After your interview, do you sit at the phone and pray the boss calls you back with an offer? Is that the kind of interview you buy a new suit for? I want to look my best, honey. Can you iron my red tie? If I nail this, I'll rummage in human filth 40 hours a week and we'll have a great dental plan. Also, when you're on the job, do you take a bathroom break, or do you just pull your pants down and plop one out on the "showroom floor?" Hey look, Hank. I just added 3% to our inventory. What are the qualifications for a sewer worker? Applicant's ass must not exceed dimensions of manhole cover.