• I'm waiting for the class action lawsuit in which convicted sex offenders sue Apple, Inc. to discontinue using the name iTouch for their products.
  • Back when gas was $1.30/gallon, I sometimes opted for the higher octane to give my car a special treat, like drinking premium tequila instead of my usual Walgreen's brand (I call it Walgrila). But now that a tank of gas costs about as much as a date with Ashley Dupré, I'm looking for the cheapest gas I can buy. I wish they had a lower grade than 87-octane. Can't they dilute the gas with something cheap? Because I'd buy it. How about a 50-octane fuel cut with Jolt Cola? Or, how about I spray a couple cans of Aqua Net down the tube and start it up with a Bic lighter?
  • I was driving down the express way when I read a road sign: “Do Not Follow Trucks.” What am I supposed to do instead? Turn around and go home? What if the trucks are going to the same place I'm headed? Come to think of it, we're all headed the same place: down the fucking road. I'm not just following some of the trucks; I'm following all of them! Up yours, Mr. Road Sign Guy.
  • Can you language buffs help me out? Is it coincidental or ironic that Christian rock is my personal version of Hell? I always confuse those two words.
  • How strange that we love our cars but hate driving. Or that we love having sex, but that kids annoy us.
  • I wish liberals were as obsessed with economic efficiency as much as fuel efficiency.
  • In life, you have to go the extra mile to get ahead. For example, most guys merely masturbate. I make love to my hand.
  • It's neat how the Bible has names for the chapters instead of numbers. For instance, it's not Chapter 1. It's “Genesis,” like the rock band, only not as boring. Also, the Bible has chapters like Joshua, Mark, Luke and Titus. Other books should do this. Jurassic Park, for example, could have chapter titles like T Rex and Dr. Malcolm and Hot Scientist Chick. And Ted Kennedy's memoirs would be a more endearing read with Chapters like John, Robert, and Joe. One chapter that you wouldn't find in Kennedy's memoirs – Lifeguard.
  • I read in the news that citizens of Cuba will be allowed to buy toasters and air conditioners starting in 2010. Before then, these items are contraband. The government prohibits them because they use too much electricity. Let me get this straight. You can get first-rate health care in Cuba. You just you can't toast bread. I guess they power all those hospitals and clinics by burning tobacco.


Three for the road

It's funny when people with dirty last names try to change them by contriving some absurd, foreign pronunciation. For example, take the surname, Buttram. It's pure, undiluted vulgarity, and also funny. Yet Mr. Buttram will correct you and explain that it's pronounced “boo-TRAHM.” Nice try, dude. Why not just face it? You're named after a gay sex act. Here's another example: the surname, Fuchs. Mr. Fuchs will have you believe that you pronounce his name “FYOOKS” (rhymes with REBUKES). Bullcrap! Your last name, sir, as you well know, is pronounced FUCKS. And know that I'll will be addressing your as Mr. FUCKS at every opportunity, especially when I must have you paged overhead at a local pharmacy or a public sporting event. Come on, dude. How do you get FYUKES from Fuchs? Where does the “Y” come from? Best possible scenario, your name is FUCH (rhymes with “such”). And that sounds kinda gay.

When you accidentally bump your keyboard, how do you manage to press the most disastrous key or combination thereof? It's never just a couple of numbers or a semicolon or a harmless Caps Lock. It's always a permutation of computing chaos. I'm usually running a word processing program at the time. I accidentally graze the keyboard while eating or something. Crikey! The colors change. The display inverts. It highlights and deletes blocks of text. Pull-down menus I've never seen before appear – and they never have X-out, quit buttons. You can't get rid of them. They just hang out uninvited and with no plans of leaving, ever, like a drunk uncle at holiday dinner. And I can never figure out what the hell buttons I pressed so that I might undo whatever I've done. Meanwhile, I know my computer's up to something sinister because I can hear the hard drive grinding. I'm scrambling to click the save button before my work flushes into cyberspace. Also, when I accidentally typed those keys, I somehow agreed to install an Internet-based virus and order a 1000-count pack of party favors on eBay. Dammit! What the hell did I press?

Those of you who've been hating on the economy for the last 7 and ½ years, good news! A recession is finally on the way (you won't have to make-believe anymore). I don't base my prediction on macroeconomic facts and figures, unemployment or inflation rates, commodities prices or currency strength. I forecast the economy with my LBB Starbucks Macroeconomic Indicator. LBB's SMI measures how many SUV-driving, Apple Powerbook-toting, George Bush-haters are drinking $5 cups of coffee (often while decrying the economy). The SMI assumes that the more middle class people walking around with $5 cups of coffee, the better the economy. Bad news, folks. Starbucks reports flattening sales and revenues. The coffee peddler's stock is down. And they've stopped building a new store every 45 minutes! This, I'm afraid, is the precursor to a recession.


Manifestation of the subconscious mind

I'm an empiricist. That means I believe that if you can't observe it and measure it, it's balderdash. This is why I scoff at things like “global warming” and yoga. The only people who lose weight and get fit doing yoga are those who were already thin and fit, and queer. Empiricism, by the way, is why I don't believe in the subconscious mind.

Psychologists theorize a subconscious mind resides in each of us. Operating below our awareness, the subconscious mind exacts tremendous influence over our feelings, behaviors and perceptions. The subconscious is ubiquitous. It's part of our every mental operation. It composes the crux of personality (habits, likes and dislikes, temperament, etc). Indeed, some psychologist put mastery of the patient's subconscious as the goal of therapy and the touchstone of mental health. If you can reprogram the subconscious, psychologist explain, you can reinvent yourself into the person you want to be. Via the subconscious, you can tap into a cornucopia of knowledge and power. You can control your emotions, lose weight, learn the piano, lower your blood pressure, heal your body. You can even win on American Idol or pick the right suitcase on Deal or No Deal – all by tapping into your subconscious mind. Or you can just “program” yourself to actually enjoy watching those crappy shows. It's that powerful.

Psychologist explain that the subconscious mind works like a computer. You have to program it. Most people operate according to the default programs installed in our subconscious by parents, schools, society and beer commercials. But with effort we can delete all the bad programs and reprogram it with stuff we want. To that end, the sleeping person's subconscious is primed for programming. Sleeping people's conscious mind, the “gatekeeper,” is shut down (this is the goal of hypnosis, by the way). But sleeping people can still hear. Therefore, the ears are a ladder straight into the subconscious mind. I saw huge potential in this back in 1993. I had this girlfriend who was into naps. I waited until my girlfriend fell asleep and played a tape recording I'd made. It repeated the following: “You want to have sex all the time, and you love giving blow-jobs.” Three weeks later I caught her in my apartment's laundromat, in a trance, sucking off my landlord while still wearing her night shirt and her mineral mask. It wasn't all bad, though. I got my security deposit back without a fuss.

I abandoned the theory of the subconscious mind because I couldn't observe or measure predictable results after tinkering with it. Like the physics theory of aether, it withered away from lack of proof. My girlfriend's escapade notwithstanding, I was never able to influence my or anybody else's subconscious mind. I tried affirmations, hypnosis, positive thinking, self-suggestion. Nothing worked. No matter what I told my subconscious, I was still a pathetic douche bag.


John Paul Satre declared, “Hell is other people.” If I may borrow the great philosopher's phrase, Hell is old people. What's my point? The point is, I hate old people. I don't really hate them. "Hate" is too strong a word. I just don't like them. Why am I an misagethope? One reason: they take an inordinate amount of time to do everything. Old people steal several minutes of your every day. Especially if there's machinery involved, like a car or a vending machine or something, old people distort time worse than a bad acid trip under a strobe light.

Most old people today were mesmerized by the locomotive engine, the phonograph and nickelodeon pornography. It comes as no surprise, therefore, that today's mechanical doodads perplex seniors. They need several minutes to apprehend the intricacies of say, the soda vending machine at Carl's Jr. Look at all those choices, Mildred. They've got half a dozen flavors of soda pop. There's lemonade. And then there's this damn “Gatorade.” Hell's Bells, Mildred. When did these kids start juicing alligators?

An old person will spend a minute and a half contemplating their senior-discounted beverage at the soda fountain. Such was the case when I dined at my local Carl's Jr. I purchased my Number 9 combo, grabbed my value-sized cup and beelined for the soda fountain. I spotted an old lady who, given her speed and trajectory, would make it to the fountain a moment before me. I had to act fast. The problem was, I injured my lower back earlier in the week. I couldn't bob and weave the way I usually do. My back was too sore to pounce ahead of Betsy Ross. This meant I'd be stuck behind her and have to wait until I was about her age before I could gun-up on Diet Coke. So, I queued up behind her. Sure enough, sure eh-goddamn-nuff, she stares in confusion at the fountain. Also, she's blocking access to the Diet Coke. Five, ten seconds pass. No movement, no signs of life. Was she having a stroke? Had the Good Lord seen fit to take both her and me out of our misery? No such luck. After a couple ice ages came and went, she raised her glass at a glacier's pace to the ice tea spigot. She tentatively shimmied her cup against the lever. Each spurt from the soda gun startled her, and so she recoiled. Imagine a teenager learning to drive a clutch. Come on, Betsy. You're not taming a cobra. You're filling a cup. Don't you have a few dozen pills to take with that iced tea?

I'd had enough. I conceived a plan that just might work. It had to work. I'd slip aside her, stretch my arm out and maneuver the glass underneath the Diet Coke spigot. She'd never know. Her glaucoma obscured her peripheral vision. As long as I loitered in the periphery, my breach of etiquette would go undetected. I could fill up, make my escape and hope she'd be done before I returned for a refill about 20 minutes later.

I executed my plan with success. Slipping aside her, I filled a 44-ounce glass to the brim with nectar of the gods, aka, Diet Coke. Now for my escape...

Just then, disaster struck. Or was it cosmic justice? I'll let the reader decide. You see, the awkwardness of my stance and the spasm in my back conspired to exact revenge/exact justice. I dropped my drink on the beverage bar and sprayed the old broad with soda. Yahtzee! The moisture liberated from her polyester pants the smell of mothballs and Bengay. My first instinct was embarrassment. But milliseconds later, an odd, unfamiliar satisfaction fizzed inside me. It foamed over into ecstatic joy, contemptuous mirth. It was that beautiful feeling you get when you witness someone taking a dose of their own medicine. Elation. The old bat paid the price for her indolence. And as it was an accident, I was blameless.

Still, prudence required the pretext of regret. I apologized several times: “Sorry. I'm sorry. That one got away from me.” The Coke-soaked old lady said nothing. She just sneered at me. I remember thinking, If only it were piping hot coffee instead.

As I ate my meal, I contemplated things. I reexamined my opinion of the subconscious. I'd ruled out its existence long ago. But now I had a big, steaming pile of empirical evidence substantiating subconscious behavior! What had happened was obvious. I internalized my anger. It settled in my subconscious where it fermented into malice. At the conscious level, my sense of civility prevailed; I simply endured the old lady's imposition. I remained calm, even stoic. Even the keenest eye couldn't discern my frustration. Meanwhile, my subconscious mind contrived an “accident” which it staged at the Carl's Jr. beverage bar, sniping the stimulus of my discord, namely, the slowpoke senior citizen.

Readers might attribute the dropped soda to chance: maybe it was just an accident. What readers don't know is, I don't drop soda. I've been drinking 7 sodas a day for 20 years. Haven't spilled one yet. I'd drop a newborn baby before I drop a soda. It's uncanny. The better explanation is, the subconscious mind rose and asserted its will.

What does this all mean? It means the subconscious mind is alive and well. The possibilities are endless. Now that I have a subconscious mind, I have to start programming it, posthaste. I'm no longer using my digital audio recorder for blog ideas. I'm recording affirmations to play while I sleep. To wit:

  1. “I'm a kick-ass guitar player and a rock star. Attention: subconscious mind – I don't mean the video game craze, Guitar Hero. I mean the actual six stringed instrument. And don't forget to make me an actual rock star like Bono or someone like that.”

  2. “I'm a kick-ass professional athlete. I'm super fast and strong, too. I'm like those UFC guys who can kick anybody's ass. In fact, I am a UFC Pride Fighter. Undefeated. And I've invented my own patented choke hold with a cool name that you, subconscious, will implant in my brain when I wake up.”

  3. “I'm wealthy. I have tons of cash and a gold-plated house and a sweet-ass sports car. Imagine that Donald Trump fucked Bill Gates in the ass and then Bill got pregnant and had a kid. That kid is me. I'm every bit the entrepreneur, but I don't have a train wreck of a hairdo and also I'm not a dork.”

  4. “I'm a graceful dancer. I'm even better than that Riverdance guy.”

  5. “I can eat whatever I want and not gain weight. My body thrives on frozen pizzas, Mexican food and candy. My metabolism takes care of all that stuff so that I always look like Brad Pitt in Fight Club.”

  6. “All the guys envy my savoir faire manner and the ladies, too, who all want my phone number because they can't resist me what on account of me being a wealthy rock star and UFC champ and because I'm a great dancer who looks like Brad Pitt, as I mentioned above.”

Goodbye for now, dear reader. I have a nap to take.


I told you so!

On 6/13/2005 I made the following predictions, below. I've highlighted those that have come to pass in bold font. I stand by those that that to date have not yet become reality. Give them time.

  • Hawkish Pentagon officials clamor for more of federal pie to go to defense. Doves in Congress agree as long as military actions are humanitarian efforts having no discernible American interest.
  • If you smoke, drive an SUV, go to church, eat meat, own property, spank your kids, eat fast food, or display an American flag by your doorstep -- there will be a new group who hates you and is currently appealing to the ACLU to sue or prosecute you out of existence. They’re just looking out for your rights.
  • A few more nations will decide they hate the United States.
  • Crude oil prices will climb, OPEC will claim its hands are tied. The government will raise taxes on fuel. American consumer will take it in the shorts.
  • Stock prices will stagnate; average business executive salaries and bonus packages will surge 55%.
  • A government program fails to deliver on promises. Washington insists it needs more funding. Republicans and Democrats will clash on how much more.
  • Israeli-Palestine talks will result in peace. No, I’m just kidding. They still hate each other.
  • Shortening and jawbreakers will be the new health foods.
  • B-list bimbo will “accidentally” lose pornographic recording of her sexing some has-been low-life. The performance will be uploaded to the Internet. B-list bimbo will become A-list bimbo. [Gene Simmons]
  • School grades prove that kids keep getting dumber and more violent, but they’re even better at using computers than they are today.
  • An evil genius will take over the world by installing hypnotic marching orders into I-pod circuitry.
  • A revolutionary new diet fad will grip America and everybody will get 10 pounds fatter [What Would Jesus Eat? A little pussy, if the mood struck him right.].
  • There will be a bunch more crappy-sitcoms and yet another CSI crime drama series.
  • Millions of women will develop dark-purple smudges on their lower backs where tattoos used to be. Men will have a similar discolored ring around their upper biceps.
Nostradamus ain't got shit on me.



  • I predict Steve Job's resignation letter will read: iQuit.

  • If Julius Caesar used a Mac: iCame, iSaw, iConquered.

  • I haven't seen a guy exhibit more sex appeal than Barak Obama since Michael Jackson moonwalked his narrow ass across a stage back when Thriller was topping the charts. Barak is Billy Dee Williams and Denzel rolled up into one caramel-coated Sugar Daddy. I think they should make a sports drink after Barak and call it High-Baraktane. The slogan? It tastes like Hope and quenches your thirst for Change.

  • I have a friend with a chronic flatulence problem. The other day he fired an SBD that caught me off guard. This happens often. I told him, You're the Lee Harvey Oswald of snipe-farting. He relished in the compliment.

  • There's a guy who invented the combination firearm safety lock. Ironically, a criminal gunned him down just days before he had the chance to bring his invention to market. A quick dialer, the would-be inventor managed to set 4 of the 5 numbers needed to unlock the safety device before succumbing to a fatal gunshot. His dying words were, “Ah crap! Did I pass number 38 or not? Hey you. Hold your fire. I need to turn the dial around a couple times and reset this god da...”

  • My new car has a sunroof, which is good because now my extended middle finger is 74% more visible to tailgaters and other roadway assholes.

  • Coasters prevent condensation from soiling the coffee table, but increase the likelihood of an accidental spill. Either way, the coffee table is in chronic jeopardy. An astute observer will extrapolate from this dilemma that human effort is futile and that life itself is hopeless. Let's hope that beverage is alcoholic.

  • I've observed a promising trend. We're become less vulgar. For example, we're using words like bullcrap (instead of “bullshit”), eff (instead of “fuck”), and douche bag (a fraction as vulgar as asshole, fucker, etc.). At the root of this movement is a quest to reclaim our innocence. Either that or we've realized our parents have been reading our blogs.

  • I read in the news today that an Israeli scholar suspects that Moses was under the influence of psychedelic drugs when he heard God deliver the Ten Commandments on Mt. Sinai, and also when he saw the Burning Bush. Great. Just in case there was anybody on the planet who didn't already hate Israel, this scholar publicly reduced God's prophet to a high school stoner with a bag of 'shrooms and a hall pass. Who's doing Israel's PR work? Halliburton?