Thursday, January 19, 2017

In Which, I Reflect on the Coming Inauguration and Come Back With A Strong Anti-Suicide Argument

One of these guys I'd watch all day

It's hard to believe with all that's going on in the world that this is the best use of my ( also: your) time, but it turns out at my age there's a maximum number of times a day where em-bating is a viable option for "What should I do with the next 3 minutes?" 

And maybe you're thinking "There's no way someone as virile as you, with all your super-model girlfriends, needs to master-b more than 4 times a day!" and you'd normally be right, but right now all my incredibly sexy friends / work-partners are busy turning down inaugural invitations, so I'm on my own. 

And that's not Trump's Inauguration I'm talking either, because that really is quite a topic of conversation (!!) what I'm talking about is my own special ceremony where I stand on a dock and let them take turns hitting me in the grapes with champagne bottles. (Or rather Two Buck Chuck...my Inauguration is a classy, subdued affair.) I think that sounds way funnier than the actual Inauguration of The President of the United States, who is an orange with a mop on his head and has a turtle asshole for a mouth. 

And maybe your thinking I shouldn't speak of the President-elect that way but what you forget is I am this nation's leading political pundit according to a poll I just took of my cat and the dog. I take my duties very seriously, I even picked the dried up elbow macaroni out of the pocket of my bathrobe for the occasion. I also tidied up all my charger cords and sniffed each one to make sure the dog didn't piss on them again. Because if history has taught us anything it's that Jewish people have had a tough time*, but if history has taught us two things it's that Jewish people have had a tough time and that urine is an excellent conductor of electrical current. 

And by the way, I think even the word "Inauguration" is pretentious and wish they would just call it a "New Guy Party" or something because if I have to spellcheck Inauguration one more time some algorithm at the Pentagon is gonna flag me for terrorism or perversion or leprosy or something. The point is I'm not a terrorist and I don't have any disease from 0 AD, so shut up. 

I just hate having to spell Inauguration. I'm all "I-N-A-U-ugh! I'm already bored with this!-G-U-R-A- UGGGH!!-T-I-O-N!" and by the time I'm done I wish I was dead, but remember in the beginning of this post where I said don't commit suicide? Still true. Oh wait I took out the anti-suicide bit to talk about master-b-ing. Well trust me, it was there. Definitely don't kill yourself, because I don't want it coming back to me in any way. Like I need that hassle. The Feds already think I'm a perverted leper. 

I tried calling the dictionary people just now to complain about the "I-word" (a close relative to another one letter word, but wayyyy less offensive.) and they keep hanging up on me. And sure maybe the Fred Webster who lives in my hometown doesn't specifically work for the dictionary but I'm sure someone in his family does. It's not what you know, it's who you know, I always say.  I'm going to keep calling him. He'll buckle eventually. 


*True and not antisemitic. For antisemitism feel free to tune into tomorrow's Inauguration. I'd say there's a 50/50 shot for any racist / sexist idea to surface if Trump's teleprompter goes down. 

Thursday, January 12, 2017

In Which, My Life, Spiraling Out of Control, Reverts to it's Base State.


The Boys are Back in Town! Boys are Back in Tow-ow-ow-owwwwn!


Maybe you are thinking "Kurt, the handsomest scoundrel on the Internet hasn't posted in a really long time, I wonder what he is up to and if he is single." Well, I am NOT single, because I will always have my cat and that cat loves the shit out of me. Also, I still have a girlfriend who isn't a puppet made out of a sock and two buttons (well, one button and a glued-on piece of candy corn) and she thinks I'm alright when I remember to shower, but I don't even KNOW when she became such a Diva. It's like giving me access to her vagina gives her the right to gently point out growth opportunities. Well, Eff that! I've got you're growth opportunity right here, Bucko! (*Grabs junk. Realizes how itchy it is. Contemplates shower.*)

Well the good news is that I'm unemployed again and maybe you think that is heart-wrenching but really it just means less pants time and more "writing dumb shit on the Internet time". So I'm totally going to be all up in your grills, yo. It'll be like having a sexy friend to hang out with all the time, and this friend is so sexy you don't ever feel the need to point out that the inside of the microwave should never be cleaned by tearing away the congealed Ragu scabs and shouting "That's a spicy meatball!" every single time and you also would never dream of pointing out to him that it's not normal for a car to sound like a German half-track with one track blown off and maybe you should get that muffler looked at and you would definitely never give him a sad and mildly disgusted look when he sits down to his dinner of 3 lbs of mild Italian sausage, because you understand that no matter what he's beautiful on the inside but especially on the outside.

So welcome back, Me. I'm sure most of my old followers have "grown up" and "moved on" and "had a life" but I like to think of myself as a constant. Like the speed of light or my dog walking past a cat pan and deciding now would be a good time for a snack.The point is, I'm your friend for life and maybe you think that entitles you to my free BOGO hamburger but I doubt you even LIKE pickles and also I'm hungry and also, also it was my hard work digging in the couch cushions and returning bottles that got us the extra $0.85 that even made these burgers possible so until you've contributed a little you can just shut the hell up.

PS: Fun Fact - I wrote most of this post in 2011, and posted it and then never came back. so HA! Fooled ya! (The lack of personal growth is not pathetic and sad at all. End of discussion.) I'm like Peter Pan. Only green looks bad on me and so do pants and I totes would have diddled Tinkerbell.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

A Treatise on Aging Gracefully OR My Slow Descent

There comes a time in every man's life when he has to stop and take a step back from himself and decide if the path he has chosen is the one that will bring the most joy to both himself and the world around him. There also comes a time when he has to decide if he has sucked all the flavor out of the grape jelly stain on the front of his bathrobe and another time when he tries to remember if the robe was always that dingy grey color or if it was white when he stole it from the hotel. And another time when a man has to ask himself if he can remember the last time he actually wore underpants for more than 15 minutes. While all these are important times, I think it's the first one I will address. Mostly because I already figured out those other ones.

I realized I was taking this whole "turning 40" thing a little more severely than I had originally thought when I pictured myself as a cool, laid back millionaire riding around in my sports coupe and going through bikini models like a fat kid goes through Chips Ahoy!© But then I caught myself pricing kayaks and hiking shoes and GPSs online. I don't kayak. I don't hike. I wouldn't need a GPS unless some evil genius suddenly moved my toilet somewhere tricky because the best reason for needing a GPS is "going places" and not "need an ice cream sandwich". If there was a GPS that always pointed to the nearest ice cream sandwich I would buy 6, and then I would hide ICSs (YOU try typing "ice cream sandwiches" 1000 times, Mr. Fucking Tolstoy-blogger.) all over my house and have magical treasure hunts all day, except they would melt if I hid them anywhere but the freezer, so there would need to be a certain element of self-deception in play at all times. "Now where (beep) could that (beep beep) ICS (beep beep beep) be? (beeep beep beep beep!!!)" (*opens freezer door. notices how shiny handle is*)

Also, now that I'm 40 I have decided I can begin my slow descent into alcoholism and/or dementia. That means it's time to get off my ass and start shunning people for keeps. Prior to this I have been shunning people randomly and for very short periods of time. Like once my mom served Lima beans with dinner so I shunned her until desert, and another time my landlord wouldn't stop knocking on my door and shouting "I can SEE your effing car in the driveway, KURT!" so he got shunned until my next paycheck and I tried to shun the cat because his litter box smells bad, but he just looked at me, and then walked in a circle and then fell over. Shunning doesn't work on cats at all is my point. I'll never be able to shun pussy, I guess! (*makes "wakka-wakka!" Fozzie Bear noise into empty refrigerator*

First Kitty Photoshop in Months! Feels. So. GOOOOOOOOD!!!

No. The shunning I mean is like for the checkout clerk at the grocery store who is so stuck up and makes me get an actual bottle deposit receipt instead of paying her in empty beer cans I found in the couch cushions. Or the lady at the daycare who insists that no matter how loud I scream "whore!" at her, I can't have a lollipop if my kid isn't enrolled. Or the guy at the hardware store who won't answer a simple question about which pair of pliers is best for taking out fillings, even though this is America and according to the Constitution we can torture pretty much anyone we want. (look it up! Knowledge is power!) And I don't even mean "torture porn" if that's what you are wondering, because you are a sicko who doesn't understand that sometimes the best way to love something is to bruise it.

Other things I've started shunning include showering, vegetables, and "The Nanny" because OMG have you even HEARD that chick's voice! It's like listening to bees fuck.

HAHAHAHAA! Fran Drescher reference!

Yeah.... I still got it. Here's a video of one of my favorite songs by one of my favorite bands. I totally "get" this Internet thing, yo.:


Sunday, June 19, 2011

After Taking a Prolonged leave of Absence, Our Hero Returns to Write About Boobs. (Of Course)

Hey! My tits are down there!

Everyone gets all crazy for Father's Day, and they start foaming at the keyboard and patting themselves on the back for how incredibly witty they are to notice that the gifts you get from your kids are atrocious or how hysterical it is that they served you a wet sock and a pile of cat crap for your breakfast in bed or whatever. I'm done with it. Father's Day is a fine day to celebrate the fact that you didn't use birth control that one time in college and NOW look where you are. I had an orgasm inside a lady's vagina. Quick, someone get me a cake.

Instead of all that boring Father's Day rhetoric, I think I'll talk about boobies. Because boobies are really awesome and they are what the Internet demands most according to top scientists I just made up, and because it's Father's Day so all the women who would normally feel compelled to talk about the terrible state of the ruling Penilocracy or whatever have to just shut the eff up and let us feel your cans. This is what Father's Day means to me. Being able to cop a feel without retribution from the woman that I love. Check. Mate.

Now I'll give you that it IS a little weird to mix the words "Father" and "boobs" because it sorta implies that I might be feeling up my daughter if you are a complete freakshow pervert, but I'm sure that no one reading this is one of those, and also if you are one of those and you are a lady maybe you should come over and we can discuss your feelings on Father's Day. Maybe you could wear something not TOO slutty revealing but with easy access so that we can keep up the illusion that it's all about talking about your sensitive feelings and not about me wrapping my hands around your cans. Win/win.
Before you get all crazy and be all, "But KURT, you incredibly handsome and virile man who I want to feel me up, how can you say any of this in good conscience knowing that somewhere out there are thousands of men who wear rubbers and don't have kids, so this is totally an unfair, although well-deserved advantage, as far as the unspoken contest between all men where whoever feels the most boobs wins?"
To this I say "What contest?" and also "Eff them!" and also also "Nice rack." because being a gentleman means always complimenting a sophisticated lady on her boobs even if they are weird-looking and have nipples that look like Marty Feldman's eyes. Like your Mom always says "If you can't say something nice, just put it in my ass and shut up."

Words to live by.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Being Alive Was The First Thing I Did Wrong Today

Maybe if you got a call from your ex-wife and she asked you to take your daughter to the gynecologist you would be frightened, but we can't ALL be handsome, genius daredevils or else it wouldn't be so very, very special that I was one. So I picked up my daughter from school after an awkward walking in to see if I had to sign anything and then looking around to make sure none of my daughter's friends could see me, because if there is anything more embarrassing to a teenage girl than her dad trying to do anything at all in front of anyone at all, it's pretty much having all her clothes turn transparent while she just gets her period on stage during a school-wide assembly where she is forced to discuss her feelings. But luckily none of her friends saw me talking to people or asking questions so I was safe.

Now at first, maybe you think that going to the gynecologist would be a problematic errand for me, what with me being so virile and all, but I assure you I have no problem with it at all, despite the fact that my daughter looked at me all eye-rolly and was like "This is weird.". The good thing about the gynecologist is I get to go there and disprove the long-standing myth that all men but me have that gynecologists' offices are filled with whores. Either Herpes-riddled STD super-whores or just plain-old knocked-up whores or just can't-get-over-themselves vaginally obsessed regular whores. Well, I don't think that at all. And I was going there to disprove that terrible, terrible, probably not even half-true stereotype, because I am a huge supporter of Women's Lib. So long as "lib." is an abbreviation for "liberally dispensing blowjobs". (*waits for rimshot. looks around. hits frying pan with spatula.*)

Okay, so my daughter's trepidation is growing and she's all anxious looks and stomach holding so I decide to be smart and super-supportive and address her concerns, because if you've ever had a teen daughter you know the very best way to address uncomfortable issues with them is to be direct and loud. That never causes any problems. So I'm all "What? You think I'M afraid of the gynecologist? I'm not! I've been here before! If anything, that gynecologist is afraid of ME!" and she's all "Please stop talking." and I'm all "I should march right in there and pants him for being such a pervert who has to look at vaginas all day to be happy!" and she's all "Oh my God. I'm going to throw up." and I'm all "HOLY SHIT!!! He's probably into kiddie porn too!" and then she started crying so I knew I had reached her. A father's work is never done.

And then we got to the office, and I was quiet and super-behaved because even though I like to play a loud game, embarrassing my already wonderfully high-strung daughter is NOT my idea of a good time, and the only thing that happened was she leaned over while we were waiting and said "Everyone in this waiting room probably thinks you knocked me up and you're some super-gross lecherous pervert." to which I burst out laughing and everyone looked at me and shot me the stink-eye because I guess laughing anywhere devoted to vaginas is illegal or bad form or something, and even the lady with the sweatpants and the giant camel toe was giving me dirty looks and I don't know for sure, but I don't think "If you got it, flaunt it!" applies to the pussy doctor.

So we stopped for breakfast on the way home and sat and talked about her going to college in two years, and my heart broke like it does every time I think about that, but luckily there were plenty of warm muffins and Cafe Mochas to fill in the cracks, and then she said "That wasn't so bad." which as a father, is my longterm goal for her childhood to begin with, so I win.