If George W. Bush kept a blog

Bullets from George W. Bush...

  • First I-Ran for President. Now, I-Raq my brains for better blog topics. Man, that's funny. You should see this. Dick Cheney just spit Orange Crush through his nose when I read him that. Funny stuff.
  • Not only are my macroeconomic numbers as good or better than Bill Clinton's. I can kick his ass in a fistfight, too. I bench press 185 pounds for reps. I mountain-bike 30 miles. He eats Big Macs by the baker's dozen, and the most exercise he ever got was wrestling heifer interns. Who do you think would win in a fight? Oh yeah, and my wife is way hotter. I wouldn't bang Hillary with Cheney's prick.
  • I'm sorry I haven't been posting a lot lately. I've been busy dethroning tyrants, killing terrorists and securing our freedom. You're welcome.
  • A bunch of you are upset because my administration is auditing what library books terrorist suspects are checking out. Don't worry. We don't care if you're checking out Marx's Communist Manifesto for the 117th time, or one of those "male adventure" stories. Unless the title of the book is "How to Build, Plant and Detonate a Bomb," we don't give a Texas-sized turd what you're reading. If you're so worried, go to Amazon.com and pay for your book.
  • Boy, that Michael Moore is one fat, hairy, obnoxious son of a biscuit. Hey, maybe we should check his navel for the weapons of mass destruction.
  • I'm glad to see John McCain climbing in the poles. I love McCainiac. Anybody who hates gooks as much as he does can't be all bad. You know, the White House chef is Vietnamese. I wouldn't give a squirt for his future if McCain wins the White House. McCainiac will strangle him with a telephone cord in his sleep. So long and thanks for the grub, Thi Quang.
  • Many of my critics crack wise at how I pronounce "nuclear." I say NOO-kyoo-ler. They say NOO-clee-er. Whichever way you say it won't matter when you're in the middle of a mushroom cloud because some faggy human rights fella shut down Gitmo.
  • Many of my critics moan that I'm not spending enough on education. That's hogwash. Just this year I spent 300 billion dollars "educating" terrorist not to mess with the USA. And I won't stop educating those little, brown Arab fellas until they all have PhD's in "Don't Mess with Texas."
  • I'm tired of foreign leaders armchair quarterbacking my leadership. If I ever need to surrender or know which wine goes with duck d'orange, I'll ask France my damn self.
  • Man, this blogging stuff is hard. I think I'll kick this over to Karl Rove to finish.


Aye, Sex Robot

I can't wait until scientists invent sex robots.

I reckon that day is near. Consider this. They already have sex dolls so realistic, they're almost human -- to the eyes and to the touch. Material scientists have simulated the varieties of human flesh with silicone compounds. Hair, nails, skin, breast tissue, all perfected and made-to-order in the factory. You can order up a fine lady as easily as a Dell computer (Dude, you're getting a Doll?). Part your doll out as you please with whatever features and add-ons tickle your fancy. Put all the components together and you have a humanoid doll that looks like the real thing.

You have your sex doll. Now, all you have to do is throw a robot inside there.

Does the notion of a silicon-based sex object disturb you? It shouldn't. Remember that many human women aren't 100% genuine anymore. Millions of women have artificial parts added to the chassis. So the bridge between natural and artificial is shortening. I'm just being practical here, people. Why retrofit the parts to a woman when you buy a fabricated model all at once?

So the humanoid silicone doll is already available. This leaves the robotic component. Good news! The requisite robotic technology is already here. Today's robots are doing things far more complicated than sexual activity. They build cars and computer chips. They wash dishes and clean households. I saw a Japanese humanoid robot play ping pong against a human opponent -- and win! Per Japanese ethical code, that human hurled himself from the top of a 38-story building. You have to admire Japanese resolve to win and sense of shame.

So robots are doing great things. All we lack, then, is the artificial intelligence for sexual activity. Again, we already have adequate AI for sexual behavior. How complicated can it be if Paris Hilton can do it? I don't care what Cosmopolitan Magazine says. Sex is a simple task. You have half a dozen positions, and handful of motions and gestures. Throw in a few thematic uniforms and some role-playing software and you've got the best life-companion ever. She's always game. She'll never grow old and she'll never die. She has no bodily functions, no hidden motives, and perhaps most important, no legal rights (although I'm sure the lawyer lobby is working on that!). Don't start feeling sorry for your robot. Remember, it's not a person. It's a rubberized computer. Do with it what you please. That reminds me. I hope the sex robot company makes a self-cleaning model. I plan on soiling mine several times per day.

I know what you're thinking. This is a great idea, but it's the stuff of science fiction. In real life, a robot will never be able to simulate sexual activity. What happens, for example, if the robot malfunctions and rips your dong off? You could very well be sharing a bed with a Loraine Ro-Bobbit (rimshot!).

I'm glad you asked. This is a legitimate concern. Science fiction portends robots created to serve the needs of mankind, only to become self-aware, malevolent, and then turn on their creators. This is the last thing you want to happen while your balls are ricocheting off your robot's chin. This is why all sex robots, by law, will have an "ABORT" button inconspicuously located on the back of the neck, underneath the mane of synthetic hair. In the event of a malfunction, the user presses the button, whereupon all physical activity comes to a halt. The robot releases your package, closes its eyes, goes limp and lifeless, and returns to an inanimate sex doll. A qualified service engineer should evaluate your robot before you attempt a reboot. But first things first. Finish your business on her once she's powered-down and harmless. Then take it to the Best Buy technical support desk for necessary repairs. I recommend fitting your sex robot with a chastity belt, lest those little bastard Best Buy clerks get any bright ideas while servicing her. Horny, nerdy little bastards those Best Buy clerks are. You punks get your own goddamn robot!

Other concerns come to mind. While in coitus you'll most likely hear the little gears and motors operating the pelvic thrusts and neck bobbing. That might be creepy. I predict 2nd generation sex robots will feature mp3 players to drown out the audible mechanics inherent in robotic technology. I'm going to load mine with the soundtrack to the movie, Mannequin. Also, later models will Bluetooth into a laptop so the owner can download different personalities and proclivities into the sex robot.

One must contemplate what societal ramifications will come from legions of sex robots. They will likely be dramatic and far-reaching. I predict that the last alcoholic beverage will be purchased for a lady in a bar the day before sex robots hit the market; indeed, women best hope this technology sits on the drawing board as long as possible. But despite hope, the sex robots are coming, and with them they bring cataclysmic disturbance. Entire industries will disappear: sports car manufacturing, Rogaine, florists, luxury dining. The female species, barflyicus fellatiocus, commonly knows as the "barfly," will go extinct in a matter of weeks. The annual holiday known as Valentine's Day will be promptly shit-canned. Life on earth will be unrecognizable. With 90% of men's motivation founded in pussy (the other 10% lying in bar food, sporting events and video games), one cannot overestimate the impact sex robots will have on society.


Bullets ex machina

  • I wish the presidential primaries were decided with a dance-off, like in Breakin' 2, Electric Boogaloo. The only danger in that would be that we could wind up with a grease ball Puerto Rican in the White House.
That's just what we need. Some break-dancer throwing bloody chicken bones into a pentagram for guidance on national diplomacy. All hail to Vice-President Turbo.

  • Have you seen those obnoxious signs in shops that read, "If you break it, you bought it." I enjoy approaching the cashier and informing her that I just broke wind. How much do I owe ya? It's on-the-house, you say? Well, there's more where that came from.
  • Whore houses are legal in the state of Nevada. Do you think one of them advertises with the slogan, "More bang for your buck."
  • Speaking of slogans, I think this would be a great slogan for McDonald's: "Because your kids will drive you crazy if you say no to us."
  • True fact: due to its revolutionary motion-sensing technology, the Wii's original name was the "Handy." Just weeks before releasing the product, Ninendo's marketing department learned that "handy" was a slang for "tug-job." Crisis averted.
  • Our vanity is literally killing us. Want proof? There are more people willing to quit carbs than quit smoking.
  • A few posts back, I poked fun at those who use the ellipsis (...) too frequently. Too many "dot, dot, dots" in the blogosphere, I claimed. This bullet mark drew more hostility than any other post in my 3 years of blogging. I haven't seen this many people defending dots since my trip to India where I ridiculed the women's bindis...

  • You've probably seen how flamboyant gay guys hate each other. That is, some guys are so over-the-top gay that they offend other gays. I want to introduce a term for this phenomenon: gay + hatred = "GAYTRED"
  • The worst thing about being a porn star is, you don't have a job uniform to write off your taxes. However, you can write off upholstery cleaning.
  • The cliche "Less is more," is true, more or less.
  • I've always been intrigued with the conjugal visit. I admire the seductive powers of any man who can get laid while behind bars. When I was single, I could barely get a girl to sleep with me when I had free roam of the earth. What I wonder is, how does an inmate broker the deal over the phone: "Hey, baby. I'm so in-the-mood. I need you badly. Can you come over?" "Sure. Where are you?" "Uh, prison." You'd think that would be a deal-breaker. But some women go. And how do you kick off the seductive scene in prison. Pour some Toilet-Brewed Prison House Chardonnay '07, light a roll of toilet paper on fire and throw it in the corner for ambience, tip the guard a carton of smokes to disappear for 20 minutes. Serve a ration of Sherriff Joe's green baloney hors d' oeuvre. "Girl, I love you. But can you get naked and lie on your back? Lights-out is in 15 minutes."
  • Money may not buy happiness. But money buys freedom. And freedom is happiness.
  • The problem with mulatto people is that you can't tell whether you're supposed to hate them or not; and if so, precisely how much? Nowadays, they're mixing up the races like gangbusters. I look at a mulatto person. I see some black, some white, some Indian, Puerto Rican, a little Filipino, a dash of Eskimo... and then suddenly I realize, I don't know whether I'm supposed to shun this man or invite him to my Secret Society.
  • I was in the check-out line at Wal-Mart last week. This guy in front of me was wearing full camouflage, combat boots, military patches and pins, a Monster Truck baseball cap. He had a pony tail and a beard. And he was like, 4-feet, 9-inches tall. I thought to myself, there's a 100% chance this guy is armed. Anyway, this little redneck piqued my curiosity. As he left, I looked at his shopping bag. In it I found the video game "Call of Duty 4." So he wasn't a paramilitary redneck weirdo after all. He was just suiting up for the big game. Dude, they can't see you through the television. Just play it in the nude, like I do.


Osco Memoirs, Part 4

Don't forget to scroll down for the previous installments of Memoirs of an Osco Clerk!

The Liquor Department

In the twilight of my Osco career I worked at a downtown location, in an "economically diverse" area. It had a dreadful clientele. Many lived in squalor. And of course, many were alcoholics who made daily visits to our liquor department. God help you if their brand of bottom-shelf liquor was out of stock. This one cantankerous, Bojangles-looking-mutherfucker, one of the regulars, insisted that I produce a "fifth" of Sunnybrook Whiskey when he couldn't find any on the shelf. We had sold out, and there was no Sunnybrook in the warehouse. Still, he demanded a fifth of Sunnybrook. I didn't know what the fuck a "fifth" was. I was 17 years old, and not an alcoholic. The only "fifth" I knew of was the disco smash-hit, A Fifth of Beethoven. Anyway, this guy gives me the stink-eye and a rash of shit because I can't sell him his favorite hooch. The whole time, I'm thinking to myself, what the hell difference does it make which hooch you blitz yourself out of consciousness with tonight? Why are you giving me grief? I'm a 17-year-old high school student who still has a chance at happiness and a meaningful life. Go grab a bottle of Ten High and pass out in a dumpster, you piece of garbage.

Also, the alcoholic regulars knew a little bit about everything. They'd engage you in conversation because they knew you were trapped on duty and couldn't run away. They'd ensnare you in a one-sided conversation and inform you on some facet of life. It's amazing how much somebody panhandling for beer money knows about life and the human condition. This one guy counseled me how I might earn better grades in college! Really? Should the four 40-oz. malt liquors you buy every other day part of my study regimen? How about you and I knock back a couple 40s of Mickey's Big Mouth liquor and kick out a 10-pager on the economic ramifications of post-Civil War Reconstruction?

Politics was often the subject of their soliloquies. These dirtbags loved talking politics. They couldn't keep a roof over their heads, but they were competent to manage a 10.2 trillion dollar national economy. That's a what a nightly fifth of Sunnybrook will do to your brain. Jeez! I'm still so bitter, even 15 years later!

Mood-Elevator Music

During my first few years at Osco the store piped elevator music through the PA system. But eventually they made the transition to contemporary pop music (Phil Collins, Barry Manilow, pre-disco Bee Gees, 50s and 60s hits, anything lacking pizazz and the potential to offend). This change afforded me another opportunity to mock my employer. I took to injecting my own dirty lyrics into easy listening hits from the 70s and 80s. I was, after all, a high school kid. If you're going to force me to listen to Phil Collins, I'm going to spice up his songs with a few educated F-bombs and crude innuendos. I'll look over my shoulder for customers before I belt out an X-rated Barry Manilow tune, but if a customer is in a neighboring aisle, oh damn well.

Oh Mandy, you came and you gave me a blow-job. Then I sent you away. Oh, Mandy. You kissed it and started the spooging. Your cab fare's on the dresser...

Speaking of dirty lyrics, some of you may remember the Osco jingle: "...at Osco, you can count on people who care." YouTube has a 30-second video clip featuring the melody at the end. I made my own version and sung it often: at Osco, you can count on people who SWEAR..." and then I'd swear, something in a "God Dammit." Why the gratuitous swearing? Because, fuck Osco. That's why.

The Black Hole called Osco

I wondered about many of the employees with whom I worked. Some of them were high school and college kids who needed a part-time gig, and who didn't want to flip burgers. I understood them. But then there were adults, people as old as my parents, who worked there. What the fuck are you doing here?, I thought. Using my Jedi-interrogation technique, renowned for its subtlety, I'd elicit from the adult clerks the cataclysmic sequence of events that led them to this lowly station in life. Most explained that they had other plans, but that as the years whizzed by, their plans didn't materialize. And Osco was always there to soften the landing. I observed that Osco exacted tremendous gravity. I met many who couldn't escape the retailer's tractor beam, like when the Millennium Falcon got sucked back to the Star Destroyer. Nowadays, poor Han Solo's been working the liquor department going on 14 years, making all of 7 bucks an hour. It was a telltale sign that this Jedi make the Kessel Run to college at light speed, lest I fall in the hands of the Death Star, too. Alright, enough Star Wars trivia. The point is, people who planned on making Osco a part-time gig in their youths wound up giving it their lives.

Fundamental Values Conflict

Here's the fundamental staffing model problem at Osco. There's an inherent values conflict. You have adult, middle-aged people who've hitched their anchors to a drug store franchise. For them, this is it. Fuck college, vocational training or the rich relative who didn't remember them in the will. These people aim to climb the corporate ladder at Osco. They've resigned to the fact that Osco is their future after several failures to launch at college, self-employment, etc. They've read their inspirational paperback management books from the Borders' business section. Now they're motivated. They've written their goals on 3x5 inch notebook cards. They've looked in the mirror and affirmed, "I will make a vice-president position within 5 years," or similar hogwash. And they've convinced themselves they can do it with effective goal-setting and a lot of hard work. Go team!

Here's the problem. Their goals depend on a bunch of I-don't-give-a-shit high school and college kids who are hanging out at Osco for beer and gas money. Condemned to minimum wage, they aim to do as little as possible. Thankfully, I didn't stick around long enough to confirm it, but I theorize that a good working definition of hell is when your career success depends on motivating a bunch of teen-agers to give a damn about the retail business.


Osco Memoirs, Part 3

Don't forget to scroll down for two previous installments of Memoirs of an Osco Clerk. I hope you enjoyed Part 2 from Monday. And now, a few more anecdotes:

Respect your elders

Old people are the worst discount shoppers. They'll haggle and holler over a nickel. God forbid the canned peaches ring up 59 cents apiece instead of 2 for a dollar, as advertised. Lady, who gives a shit? You've got, like, 4 days left on this planet. Do you really want to waste one of them arguing over 18 cents? That won't even buy you an adult diaper.

Honest to Christ, my contempt for old people had its genesis in Osco Drug stores. Sometimes I'd spot a perplexed old person examining a product, searching for a price tag, perhaps, or a label promising the product would soften the stool. A battery of questions awaited whatever poor fool approached the fossilized discount shopper. So, I'd steer my head forward, focus my stare like a laser beam, preventing the possibility of eye contact, and dart to the next aisle, where I could make my way to the warehouse without engaging the old fuck. I even had a name for my maneuver: The Old Fuck Shuffle.

Don't be rash

Some days I would walk around the store so much that my crotch chafed. Some of you may know what I'm talking about. Perhaps you've experienced this after a long hike, a marathon bike ride, or whatever. I figured I was the only one, so I kept it to myself. One day, the chafing was so bad, I described this ailment to my boss, Ray. Do you know what he said to me? "Oh, you've got a case of the Osco Rash." Not only was I one of several guys suffering from a chafed crotch, but it happened so often, they gave it a name!

That's our motto

I had a motto at Osco. It's similar to that one from the Black Panthers: No Justice, No Peace. At Osco, my motto was, Minimum Wage? Minimum Work!


Osco memoirs, Part 2

I invite those of you who missed Memoirs of an Osco Clerk to scroll down and get up to speed. By the way, if you can relate to what you read here, let me know. I LOVE hearing about others' first jobs, particularly if they froth up into a rage as they tell the story.

And now for Part 2 of Memoirs...

Set the ad/Pull the ad

The twice-weekly newspaper sales ads were the ubiquitous, labor-intensive, tedious responsibility of the lowly Osco Clerk. Osco ran two ads per week. Our job was to stock the sale items, sign them with the sale price, and tag every son-of-a-bitching piece of on-sale merchandise with a price gun. Remember, we didn't have laser price scanners at Osco until the early 1990s. We keyed prices by hand. Therefore, accurate pricing was crucial.

So, the task detailed above comprised "setting the ad." You stocked the merchandise, signed it and priced it. Once the sale ended, you had to "pull the ad." That is, you had to undo everything you did 3 days ago. Working from a copy of the sales ad, you'd track products down like a bloodhound in a necktie. You'd pull the sign. Then you'd rummage through the merchandise and pull off every damn sale price tag. This probably doesn't sound too bad. But remember that our ads featured 40 or 50 items. And sometimes our ads would feature feminine hygiene products. Try sifting through boxes of Summers Eve douches and not smelling like a fruity cooter for the rest of the week.

Depending on what days you worked, you may not have set the ad you were currently charged with pulling. Therefore, you were unaware of new places somebody else stocked the ad items. When you missed an on-sale price tag or the sale sign in front of the merchandise, the boss would remind you in a "aren't-you-the-biggest-idiot-on-the-planet" tone of voice. I never understood where a 35 year-old assistant manager got his balls condescending to a 16 year-old high school kid with -- more than likely -- a much brighter future. I remember thinking to myself "If I'm supervising a drugstore when I'm a billion years old like you, I'll go to the hardware aisle, locate a nail gun and take aim at my head. Clean-up, aisle 14!" Who knows? Maybe the boss intuited the pending irony and figured he'd take his potshots while he still could.

"Hey, LBB. You missed the Planter's Peanuts on the end-cap of aisle 17. We had to sell 3 cans at the sales price. Your mistakes are costing us money."

Really? Maybe if you didn't stock them in 5 different fucking places, that wouldn't happen. Well, that's what I said in my internal voice. Externally, I bowed my head in shame. God forbid Mrs. Smith made a run on our stock of Planters Peanuts at the unbelievably low price of 2 for $5! Gee, boss. Do you think we'll have to file for Chapter 11?

Such were the trials and tribulations of setting the ad/pulling the ad.

Speaking of sales ads, I never understood the concept of "on-sale." When a retailer puts something on sale, they're admitting that yesterday's price was a rip-off. It's as if they've been caught cheating, and now promise to play fair: We tried to butt-fuck you out of your money, but you were too slippery. Don't be afraid to come back now that our prices are reasonable. But don't wait. The sale ends on Saturday and by Sunday morning, the corporate butt-fucking recommences.


Memoirs of an Osco clerk

One of my dearest readers, Ari, recently asked me to write about my experience as an Osco clerk. A capital idea! I vowed to do it someday. Thanks, Ari, for the nudge. Now that I'm thinking about it, Osco makes for a great blog subject. My experiences at Osco exacted tremendous gravity on my formative psyche. Osco forged me into the adult I am today. Within its discounted, merchandised walls, I learned much about people and the world. Osco imparted many lessons on me: the value of a buck, the sanctity of a day off, the fruitlessness of labor, the vicissitudes of ambition, the contest among males for alpha supremacy. Osco wasn't just a job. It was a lesson on the human condition. Some people claim that all they ever needed to know, they learned in kindergarten. Everything I need to know, I learned at Osco. I hope I can do this seminal interlude of my life justice. And I hope I don't bore you to apoplexy. Let me begin with the events that led me to my job at Osco.

Most kids look forward to turning 16. They anticipate the privileges that milestone age brings. You can drive. You can work. You can socialize with people who live outside walking distance. And you can jerk off 5 times in a row and still have enough energy to play a game of basketball afterward, but that's neither here nor there.

I'm not most kids. I dreaded turning 16. I didn't want to drive. Even then, I saw cars for what they are: responsibility and expense. Neither of those appealed to me. My parents and friends reminded me that cars were also freedom. Freedom to do what, exactly? Drive to work? No thanks. I don't need a job unless I have a car! I've got food, lodging and clothing covered; by law, my parents owe me "three hots and a cot" until I'm 18. That means I have two precious years of slackerhood left, and I plan on milking them like a 3-handed dairy farmer. Keep the car. I'll keep my childhood innocence and complete lack of responsibility.

In addition to a driver's license, turning 16 made you eligible for employment -- a real job, not cutting grass or tossing newspapers, a real job with a real boss and real responsibilities. My parents insisted I find a job. I explained to my parents that I already have a job: I go to school. I have to show up daily, be on time, do homework, meet deadlines, etc. They didn't buy that. Admittedly, my argument suffered the fact that my report cards were lackluster, my work ethic sucked, and I didn't do a shred of homework. I had cartoons and What's Happening reruns to watch!

Actually, my parents didn't insist that I get a job, per se. They insisted, rather, that I get a license, drive and maintain an automobile. By extension, this necessitated a job. I gathered my parents were trying to jump-start a sense of responsibility in me by whetting my appetite for driving, a privilege requiring one to work. Parenting 101. They wouldn't stop pushing the car thingy. Bless their hearts, they had an old clunker they wanted to give me. All I had to do was maintain it, insure it and earn the gas money.

With time, I resigned to the reality of working. But I had two rules I would enforce -- to the death, if need be: 1) I don't flip burgers, and 2) I don't wait tables. Entry level work is humiliating enough. I'm not working a grill in a paper hat and I'm not singing cutesy versions of Happy Birthday to little bastards at TGI Friday's. I ruled out the food service industry. That left retailers. I'd be a clerk or a cashier or a stocker or something involving a mechanized floor buffer. Whatever I did, it would be within the walls of a retail shop. We had plenty of shops, grocers, drugstores nearby. One of the closest was Osco Drug. It was perfect. I could walk or bike to it. It was in a safe neighborhood. It wasn't burger-flipping. And they were hiring. So, I applied. They called back. I interviewed. You're hired! Ah, crap!

And so with a handshake and the completion of W-2 and I-9 forms went my last day of freedom. Heretofore I was a working-class schmuck.

I remember my dad driving me to my first day at work. We motored down the street on the most beautiful Saturday morning. I donned slacks, a button-up shirt, dress shoes and a necktie. I felt absurd. What the hell was I, a banker? Why the hell did I need to dress in a fucking tie? Was there a funeral at the end of my shift?

As we drove, I wondered what might be in store for me. I didn't know what my new job would be like. I didn't know what they'd expect of me. I didn't know if it would be more like a concentration camp or summer camp or boot camp. All I knew for certain was, I didn't want to be there. And good Lord, how right I was! My first job, an Osco clerk, was so many things, not the least of which was blog fodder.

I won't belabor the reader with the details of my first day at work. Let me instead enumerate the tasks and responsibilities of an Osco clerk, and then elaborate on each anecdotally:

  • Cashiering
  • Stocking
  • Sweeping/trash/custodial duties
  • Setting the ad and pulling the ad
  • Pricing merchandise
  • Organizing the warehouse
  • Catering to customers' every whim
  • Exchanging personal dignity for peanuts
  • Horseplay when lack of supervision allowed

Our orientation instilled two primary directives:

1) Exemplary customer service
2) Don't steal our shit

I have so many Osco anecdotes. Even as I write, old memories wash over me. I don't know how to begin organizing them. Rather than try to wrap them up in neat little essay, I'm going to let them rip, bullet style. I hope you get a taste of the Osco Experience as you read. Stay tuned for installments all next week, each of which featuring Osco anecdotes.



  • Have you read about the recent tiger attacks? Captive tigers are escaping, maiming and killing people. That'll never happen to me. If a tiger attacks me, I know how to handle him. I'll punch him in the face, and then while he's stunned, I'll sidestep and put him in a headlock. He'll start writhing and roaring and baring his teeth. That's when I'll raise my free hand and remind him that there's plenty more where that came from. I'm no Siegfried and Roy, bitch. Helpless, the tiger will acquiesce and I'll let him go. The trouble then will be that his pride is injured, what on account of a human kicking his ass and all. He'll need cheering up. That's when I'll put my arm around him and console him: don't fret, Simba, or whatever your name is. I may be the tougher fighter, but you get all the girls.
  • Here's the worst answer you can give when a police officer asks you whether you've been drinking: "Well, earlier this evening I shared a bottle of wine with your wife. But I know I can't be too intoxicated, because she rated my performance as 'the best she's ever had.'"
  • I find Al Gore's "carbon offsets " charming. I don't know whether Mother Earth finds it as cute as I do, what with Al belching out spent fuel as he jetsets to award ceremonies and U2 concerts. But I think his "offset" accounting scheme is clever: Offset doing something wrong by doing something right. Hey everybody, go ahead and cheat on your spouse. Then earn a few "infidelity offset credits" by banging him or her an extra time next week. Throw in some oral if you've been particularly naughty.
  • I don't understand how mixed-religion marriages thrive? Some marriages split up over an unbalanced checkbook, or whether the toilet seat should be left up or down, or whether Glade Plug-ins are either a wise investment, or a device that magically wastes money and electricity at the same time. Yet two people, one who believes in the Big Bang, and the other who believes in Let There Be Light, can spend their lives together, even though each believes the other will spend eternity burning in hell for their lack of faith. I love you honey, but you're fucked on Judgment Day.
  • I'm going to start a computer company that writes code for animated cursors. It's not exactly an original business idea, but here's my shtick: They're adult-themed, novelty cursor animations. Examples: Saddam Hussein being hanged, a water-boarding soldier at Gitmo, Michael Moore eating hotdogs while wearing a Speedo, OJ hacking a lady with a knife, Amy Winehouse throwing up, that kind of thing. At $2.99 per download, I'll be rich in a matter of months, and condemned to life in hell soon after.
  • Religion is a dominant theme in the upcoming presidential election. We have a promising Mormon candidate. As long as we're opening doors to different religions convictions, I'd like to see a Scientologist in the White House. I'm going to write in John Travolta on my ballot. He'd be the coolest president ever. Plus, he'd be the first president who could actually dance at his inauguration party without embarrassing the white race.
  • I wonder if Islamic female martyrs get 72 virgins when they die in a suicide bombing. Imagine that. Seventy-two awkward, acne-faced, 15-year-old douche bags with thick glasses and XBox 360s, all chasing one brave, lucky lady. Hey, I think I just unearthed the plot to the next American Pie movie.
  • Most people remember the stoner dude who told us "Dude, you're gettin' a Dell." But few remember the far less successful advertising slogan, a sassy black girl who tosses her head and says, "Girlfriend, you're gettin' a Gateway."
  • I'm getting tired of the dot-dot-dots (...) I see in blogs. Why three periods? Did I miss the first two sentences? Are you throwing a couple extra periods in now in case you forget a couple later? Hey, why not throw a couple of dashes in there and make some Morse code: I-m a d-o-u-c-h-e b-a-g, quit. I-s-t-i-l-l p-l-a-y w-i-t-h m-y S-t-a-r W-a-r-s f-i-g-u-r-e-s, quit