Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Sounds like Ass©, Only Smellier.

Now that Pringles© brand Potato Crisps has screwed the proverbial pooch and doesn't want to give me a ton of money for an endorsement deal because they are so stuck up and apparently they try to "distance ourselves from certain criminal aspects of modern culture" whatever that means. They think that by talking all legalese and in Spanish or whatever, at me they can out-fox me, but I've been watching a ton of Matlock now that I'm unemployed so I know the value of acting bewildered in a courtroom. Who's laughing now you bastards? That's what I thought.

So now I need a new sponsor so I'm shopping around and I keep getting these weird commercial / promotional links from Axe© body spray where if you click the link it takes you to a moving Maxim Magazine and apparently if you use this product it makes your cock smell like maple syrup or maybe shoes, judging by the way the women are all flocking around the Axe© man. So maybe this could be my new sponsor. I have my hesitations because I personally think Axe© sounds too much like Ass© and I don't even know what kind of man would pay money to spray himself with ass smell, because I just sorta thought that was our default smell. It would be like using your money to invest in currency in another denomination. Anyways, I guess the ladies like ass-smell, although none I've ever met seem particularly fond of it, but hey Maxim magazine has never steered me wrong. This one time they did this hysterical article about COLON Cleansing and it was SO funny. Because of the poop. HAHAHAHAHAHA!*

So I go out and I buy a thing of Axe© to see if maybe I can't whore it up a bit. And the scent I bought was Slammin' Extreme!!© or Extreme Slam!© or BMX Jump!© or something and I sprayed it on and it sorta reminded me of the time I was in Boy Scouts and we accidentally started a pile of tires on fire. And by "accidentally" I mean "completely on purpose" and the fire company had to come and we were severely dealt with for almost setting the whole world on fire. Anyway(s) Axe© smelled like both the burning tires and the gut-wrenching shame we had to endure. And also no girls in lingerie showed up and made sexy surprise faces at me, so I figure I must have gotten a broken one, and I'm going to go back tomorrow and pick up the "Wicked Slammin!!" scent and see if that is any  better.

Fuck Pringles©. I smell like hot garbage now.

*If you've ever read anything from a Maxim magazine you probably have contracted herpes all over your good taste and you should probably get a shot or de-loused or whatever, but seriously... learn a lesson from this. 

A Dream is a Wish That Your Heart Makes

I got into a fistfight with Madonna in my dreams last night. And I don't mean Jesus's Mom because that's sacrilege and I'm too handsome for that, but also because THAT Madonna has God thinking she was hot and I don't want to pick a fight with the big Guy's main girl, yo. I'd be all "What's up, Madonna?" You feelin' froggish? You wanna jump?" and then God would be all "Um. Dick?" and then he would point at his muscles because My God has a gun show going on and then he would lift his shirt and show off his six-pack abs and I would be all "Sorry, Holy Father! I didn't know she was with YOU." and then I'd put my hands up which is probably sign language for "I'm a pussy." because if I was inventing new signs I'd be "Let's make this mean 'I'm a pussy!' Ha ha ha. Stupid fucking hearing people!". Apparently on top of being unwilling to beat up a religious icon I am also a very bitter deaf person. It's this kind of deep introspection that makes me such a prize. Also, God having six pack abs is true, because God made man in his own image and look at me.

No, the Madonna I picked a fight with was the Material Girl and not the wimpy, cute one from the 80s, with the arm bangles and the big pubic bush, but the new one with the ropey muscle arms and the Kabbalah on her side and I don't know what kind of bush but if I had to guess it would be "greying". I'm not sure what I did to enrage her, although according to Vic I'm a leprechaun* in dreamland, so maybe she was after me pot o' gold or my Lucky Charms© or something. So I get her in a headlock and I'm dragging her out of the church where the epic brawl began when it occurs to me, as in the dream Me....like in the dream, how funny it is that I've got Madonna in a headlock in the middle of a church and how if this were a dream that would probably mean something. And then I woke up.

I hate when my mind fucks with me.

Because Why did it point out the symbolism? Does my subconscious hate my waking mind like a mortal enemy for banishing it to the background like Zeus and Hades in Disney's Hercules©? That's awesome. My brain is so big I totally can pick a fight with myself and the only way I know it, is by leaving hate mail in my dreams and my subconscious is totally treating me like an idiot because it feels it needs to point out the obvious symbolism on the off-chance my conscious mind is too preoccupied with wanting dinosaur bones and boobies to notice that yeah, having a struggle a woman named after the Mother of God, inside a church might...you know...indicate something.

That was actually a good call, Sub-conscious. Well-played. All I'm thinking about most of the time IS boobies.

Anyway(s) Madonna totally kicked my ass, and I woke up dry-humping my pillow and crying.**

* I don't think it's fair for us to assume that leprechauns are always causing trouble, because maybe there is a super-nice, gay leprechaun who is totally just in it for the rainbows, and when you get to the end of his rainbow and you look in the pot of gold all you find is some old comic books and maybe a sock and you're all "Well, this is a gyp."

** I made this part up because I think it adds to my mystique. You're all "Wow, that Kurt is a deep guy and sensitive too because he woke up from a dream crying. I feel like I should take off my bra and show him my boobs." And I'm all "Score!" but then I remind you that I'm not that kind of guy, but I'm secretly happy because I've seen boobies.

Monday, March 30, 2009

The List: Week Whatever

I'm in the shower and yeah I do that even though I'm unemployed, because who knows when I will have a sexy surprise like a whore-a-gram or something, and I don't know if that is an actual thing, but if it is, they really need to come up with a better name than that, because maybe those ladies are hookers with a heart of gold like in Pretty Women. Because in real life I bet at least some of the hookers have hearts of gold, but none of them are showering with me (yet!) so I should get back to the story. And the story is this. Fuck my shower.

Here's why. Unlike most shitty showers that deliver inconsistent temperatures or uneven pressures as various awful people who hate you turn on and off their dishwashers and sinks and garden hoses because they're all "Fuck that guy that showers at noon." because they are jealous of how I live like a rock star and my coke-fueled super-parties* are probably keeping them up too late and that's why they are cranky and attacking me like that. But unlike a regular shower mine changes hot and cold and pressure settings like someone inside the wall is spinning a twister spinner and instead of colors the options are "scald", "freeze", "dribble" and "random". And that person is a hyperactive asshole and has a vendetta against me and probably used to kill all the neighborhood cats and used to save his urine in bottles in his closet and is a sociopath. Also this fucker is invisible and probably pretend. I hate him.

So in case you hadn't guessed this is my nemesis list for the week.

1) Showering - Dear shower, You are an asshole. Hugs, Kurt

2) Quick keys - I was trying to program quick keys that will say things like "That's what she said" and "your mom" so I never get beaten to the punch in IM anymore. But it turns out you have to know stuff to do that and I know I could look it up, so just zip it, but I am really above all that tedious "work" so instead I'll just eat this cookie and then I get cookie crumbles on my lap, and OH BOY IT'S GOING TO BE ONE OF THOSE DAYS!!!! HAHAHAHA. Just kidding. Fuck my utter lack of knowledge.

3) Vanilla Ice - I got in a fist fight today with another unemployed guy over a bag of cashews and the whole thing started because he asked my for help reaching them and I said "If you got a problem, Yo! I'll solve it!" and then I grabbed my junk and started dry humping his head and then he got all uptight and shovey and I had to give him what for. So what if he was in a wheelchair. He was like the Road Warrior with that thing. He had amazing cornering capability. Stop looking at me like that.

4) Pringles© Brand Potato Crisps - I've been trying to get an endorsement deal with these bastards for weeks now, and it turns out they think I care about a stupid "cease and desist" order. Like I don't have a huge pile of them already. Screw you Potato can dicks. Everyone is all "Wow. Chips in a can!" but not me, I'm too worldly to be impressed by that shit. That would be like Christopher Columbus sailing to the New World only instead of the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, he's riding 3 water dragons and they are fighting vikings and typhoons and ancient water demons and then when he gets to the new world he's all "Wow. I've never seen sand that was quite this sandy before. This is very impressive." Only in Italian. And drenched in dragon sweat.

5) Sobriety - This enemy is elusive but I'm worried it's around here somewhere lurking in the shadows and I only have the glow of Jack Daniels to keep the horror at bay.

*coke-fueled super-parties  in this case means me and my kids stuffed animals drinking Diet Coke© and putting on puppet shows that seem to degenerate into plush orgies at an alarmingly regular interval.

Fail Beards and Think Tanks

Fail Beard is the new Your Mom.

So The Depression Beard Experiment has totally come to an end, because all it really looks like is that I'm suffering from radiation poisoning, and unless that gives me super-strength like the Hulk, it is not a good look. In fact, it made me look even more sickly than usual and by "sickly" I totally meant "strapping". So I've settled on Fail Beard, which is just the goatee part of the Depression Beard... all forgotten and lonely on my chin, and I totally want to give it a hug because it is a good Fail Beard and doesn't sass me and always does its homework and it plays catch with that Mark kid from up the street who has terrible depth perception and keeps getting beaned in the face with fastballs and is beginning to develop some bad nervous tics from the repeated brain trauma.
Since I can't grow a beard it's pretty obvious that my future as a lumberjack is now in question, so I'll have to do something else. And that's when it hit me. I'll be a Think Tank! One of those guys, who works in groups and comes up with innovative solutions to difficult problems, but I don't want to work with anyone else because they'll totally cramp my style, yo and also because they might not like me coming into work at our super-fancy office building in my bathrobe, and I don't need those guys anyway(s), because the very first problem I will solve is how not to work with other members of my think tank because they are such assholes. Also, I'm pretty sure as a Think Tank I get to drive around in an actual tank and hunt dinosaurs. But I can't find that information online.

Now I'm pumped because I have a career totally planned out and all I need is an awesome name for my Think Tank, and a building, and start-up capital and cool stationary.  So I started with the stationary because I think we can all agree that when a guy walks up to you in a bar and asks how much for a "special" because he hopes you're a prostitute, the whole situation can be diffused if he does something classy like handing you a business card and saying "Think about it!" whilst waggling his eyebrows. I'm so smooth it's ridiculous, is my point. 

I want to keep the card simple, but maybe "Think Tank" isn't the right title to convey how awesome I am and I need to add something else,  but then that episode of House comes on where the Australian Dr.'s Dad comes to say goodbye to his son because he has The Cancer, but never tells him , but he totally tells House and meanwhile someone is dying, and it's probably necrotising fasciitis, which every goddamn patient on that show seems to catch, so what the fuck is going on? And also, how about I know what "necrotising fasciitis" is?! I'm pretty much a sexy, genius doctor now but I can't put THAT on my business card because there are laws about pretending to be a Doctor and it's three strikes and you're out in New York, so I better just watch my step. I'll add another title...I just have to think of something cool.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

Toast and Underpants*

It's like 7am and I can barely focus on what is happening at the end of my bed but I'm pretty sure whatever it is, it's not wearing pants, and then I shake my head because everything I learned about altering my state of mental clarity comes from cartoons and I should probably make the "wubba-wubba-wubba" head clearing sound when I do it. It's The Boy and my initial assment of pants possession is correct. Non. He is hollering something about toast at me, and if there's one thing I've learned in all my time, it's that yelling always makes things go better. My eyes feel like Ileft them in the bottom of a coke bottle and the little bit of undrank soda has turned thick and sludgy and is super sticky and I left my eyes in that shit all night! What was I thinking? The length you go to to impress women, I tell ya**. 

So okay...he wants toast, and as I'm laying there I start thinking about how much work it is to make toast and maybe I should just let this one die off, because he certainly never learned the whole "I should be wearing pants" thing and maybe he's untrainable and then I try to remember what they do to wild horses to break them, but I really have no idea because what the fuck, I'm not a cowboy. If I had to venture a guess they probably sleep with the horse's mom and tell them that they know the horse is used to being the man of the house, but now I'm here, Horse so you better shape up and get me a beer. No wait. That was Dwight Yoakum in Slingblade©  

And I don't know that much about horse psychology because I didn't go to The Center for Advance Equine Wellness or anything. And why do I even care about breaking horses because all I really want to know is at what point does it become okay to shoot a horse for being untrainable. And then I realize that they probably don't do that at all, and oh yeah...I think that's only when they break their legs, not for being unrideable. Shit. I can't break the kid's leg and then shoot him. That will look suspicious. Plus that "hobbling" scene from Misery is gross, and I know I can't do that to The Boy because he's wily. So I guess I better just shut up and make some toast, but this kid will never know how close he came to dying today. 

I'm may be the best father ever.

* "Underpants" is such a funny word that I pretty much go around saying that in my head all day and I have to remember not to do it in public because I would hate to be the one the waitresses gather around the register to talk about. They'd be all "Who let in that guy with the pedophile beard, and the dirty bathrobe? Because that crazy fucker is sitting over there chanting "underpants" and it's freaking me out.

*"I tell ya" is the kind of phrase that calls you up at 10pm tells you about this amazing girl he met and how they were at their kids' Pinewood Derby and they snuck out and went and had filthy sex all over the walls in the men's room. And you're like "Dude. Cub Scouts? That's fucked." and he's all "Your Mom is fucked." so you just hang up on him because he's acting like a retard. Again. Stupid "I tell ya.".

Friday, March 27, 2009

Strangle Sex and Cub Scouts

So I'm at Cub Scouts earlier this week and I'm having a text message conversation about autoerotic asphyxiation and don't look at me like that because it's not like I want to choke one of the kids or anything, and if you have ever been to a Cub Scout meeting you would totally have that conversation because watching all those kids squirm all over the place like a bunch of eels makes you think of cancer on some subconscious level.

The point is, it was harmless. It was a victimless crime like eating endangered animals.

Only I can't remember it's called autoerotic asphyxiation at first so I'm just calling it "strangle sex", which sounds a lot more like what it is, because "autoerotic" makes you think of cars and maybe the asphyxiation is like from carbon dioxide or something, so it sounds like a car collector who forgot to run an exhaust fan, not being choked to death for the sake of a better orgasm. And while we're on the subject, just how much better can they really get in the first place? Orgasms are awesome, if I could have them all day I totally would and if you made me list the top 10 things that there were, it would be like Zombies, Ninjas, Pirates, Pandas, Orgasms, etc... and that's not like in any order, because orgasms are definitely better than pandas at least. So people into strangle sex are total stuck-ups because their orgasms aren't good enough for them, and if their orgasms asked them to the prom they'd scoff at them and then their friends would snigger every time I walked past the girls locker room, so you suck Jill K.*

So I'm talking about the pros and cons of strangle sex whilst the Cub Scouts run around at Mach 8 and punch everything and exhaust people who are paying way closer attention than I am, but you see... I stuck around for the meeting to feel superior about what a great parent I was for like being involved, and so what if I'm having a raunchy conversation on my cell phone? At least I stayed, dickweed.

Jesus, I'm not being paid to fucking babysit, so if some dumb kid sticks a used Q-tip**© in the light socket, it's not my problem and besides I secretly think that kid is "special" and I don't mean like he has superpowers unless having ADHD and convulsing every time he has to remain seated for 10 seconds counts as a superpower, which if it did, I would have been given a cape long ago instead of shock therapy because they thought they could zap out my emotional problems. Nice job Seventies Psychotherapy! If I could concentrate for two seconds I'd sue you into oblivion.

So we're talking strangle sex and I'm giggling at my phone, and my friend reminds me to not get aroused because standing in the middle of a pack of Cub Scouts giggling and with a boner is still considered creepy in some places (whatever). And then I say that strangle sex doesn't excite me and then it is suggested that maybe I'm doing it wrong and then I'm all "your Mom is doing it wrong!" but I shout this out and all the whole room of Moms turn to look at me, so I turn and look at the dad next to me and I'm all "What the fuck did you just say?" trying to throw them all off the scent, but it doesn't work because I'm standing next to a cardboard cutout of George Washington, and they all look really mad, so I grab some flash powder from my pocket and throw it on the floor and yell "Shazam" and disappear in a cloud of smoke, only I remember it isn't flash powder because I didn't have any of that, so I just grabbed some pepper, and it goes in my eyes a little and I start to cry***.

Moral: Even though it seems like a good combo, autoerotic asphyxiation and Cub Scouts DO NOT mix. Also, pepper in the eyes is stingy.

* Hi Jill! Now you're famous too. You win! (Jill is my friend from HS who says that I'm famous and wants my autograph now and when I give it to her she spits her gum into into it and wads it up and throws it in my face, but really we are great friends.)

**Q-Tips always inspire some dickhead to point out that the product is ACTUALLY a "cotton swab" and Q-Tip© is a name brand, and they feel all brilliant about spouting a fact that every person in the world knows unless the live in the Third world where they use deadly bugs to clean out their earwax because they can't afford even generic cotton swabs.

*** This is what some literary critics call "embellishing" but the story totally didn't need it, I just always want to disappear with flash powder but even in my dreams I can't pay attention long enough to pull off any type of caper. Stupid Broken Dreams.


I'm keeping this short and sweet. This is pretty much the funniest thing I've ever seen and probably why God made the internet besides Porn. My dear friend Miss Yvonne made it and if you don't read her blog and it's calvalcade of "your mom" jokes than I don't want to say that you have a learning disablility but can you think of a work that rhymes with "cat"? Asshat! Very good!

PS:While you're there you should subscribe or else you'll be doomed to a life without the "strangle sex" you like so much.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

Swinging Bachelor Pad

I'm trying to decide how to make my place more bad-ass. I've got the martini sidebar and the bed that flips down and is in the shape of a heart and pretty much demands sex from everyone in the room which is very uncomfortable when company comes over but wasn't planning on getting funky because HEY! now they want to have sex and No, I don't know about being a Jahooba's Witness* or whatever but I will ask you kindly to please release my leg from the iron-like grip your crotch has on it because the last time I went to the hospital with bruised junk they thought I would have learned my lesson after the previous two, so THAT's embarrasssing.

What the room really needs is something to tie it all together. Some kind of ornamentation that will increase the Chai in here and I thought that was bullshit too but it turns out that by manipulating the Chai Tea** , or the ancient art of putting your furniture in places to make mystical energy flow correctly, you can get a total River of Power© going, so I set up all my furniture up in the shape of a fort and I've been sitting in here all day waiting for my mystical superpowers to arrive, but so far all it did was give me a place to hide when that nosey landlord stopped by to collect the rent for last month, and so what if it's the 25th. I'm not the one that made him skip the background check. So I go to ebay because that's where the internet that isn't porn lives and here's the auction I found:

No matter where I go the eyes follow me and also everywhere I look it's raining women! Wait...no... that's just rain.

That's right. You can buy an actual mounted velociraptor head, and I don't know what time-traveling genius came up with that idea but all I can say is Bravo! to you, Sir***. You are pretty much Earth's last line of defense against aliens now so don't let your conquest of the dinoplanet make you stuck up, because we need you man. All I can say about the head is that this is pretty much guaranteed to make panties evaporate and bras go flying up in the air like fireworks and if this thing doesn't get me that perfect stripper-gourmet-chef-trophy wife that I ordered, nothing will. Except maybe another $19.75 because that guy from Nigeria said if I sent him my life savings plus $19.75 he could get me the hottest mail-order bride I've ever seen which is a very bold statement because I've seen a bunch and after he fourth time you've ended up tied to the bed with your wallet missing, you learn a few things about both mail order brides and the human condition. Namely I'm going to need to cancel those credit cards

* I totally know all about Jahooba's time here on earth and how he walked around planting apple trees all over America because I just dreamed about it and if you think that wasn't a vision I'd like to point out that in my vision, Jahooba is a cute blond chic who is wearing pajamas and wants to be in a tickle-fight with me. That's pretty much divine intervention.

**Chai Tea is a very powerful technique and at first I thought it sounded hokey but then I did a bunch of scissor kicks and had another Red Bull and now I swear I can feel the enegy in this room.

*** Or Madam. But I didn't want to say "Madam" up top because what if you accidently thought I as talking about the queen prostitute? I would feel terrible but only in that you had seen through my ruse.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

True Story

Handsome Genius Prankster: Excuse me.
No-Sense-of-Humor-Having-Clerk: Yes.
HGP: Could you tell me where the "Bromance" section is?
Doesn't-Bathe-Regularly, Used-to-Get-Beat-Up-in-High-School, Unattractive-to-Women-Clerk: Umm..Over there?
HGP: (*looking*) No. That's romance. I'm looking for "BROmance"
Totally-Not-Thinking-I'm-Funny-Even-Though-Everyone-Knows-I'm-A-Laff-Riot Clerk: Bromance?
HGP: Yeah. You know. With two guys who are friends and they...
Not-Even-A-Smirk-Because-He's-Too-Busy-Molesting-Animals-In-His-Mind Clerk:We don't have one of those.

Sometimes It's Smarter to Just Roll Over and Go Back To Sleep

I'm in the grocery store and I'm walking around picking up the things I need for whatever delicious dinner I will be making, and I'm trying really hard not to be judgmental because I know that Buddha or Charles Darwin or somebody said to be nice to everyone else and that's pretty much the foundation for this wicked new ab routine I have worked out because by developing six-pack abs I'm doing the whole entire world a favor of epic proportions. And if you can't say anything nice than you are my Dad, but also you shouldn't say anything, except in Spanish because that is the hilarious language of irate Latinos and they break off into it and make flouncy hand gestures and the audience just laughs and laughs...and yeah my entire philosophy is based off the I Love Lucy re-run I watched during naptime yesterday, but so what? Like your Marcel Proust or someone else who sounds important and famous but I don't know who they are is sooo much better.

Back to the store. I'm walking up the pickle aisle and it occurs to me that only in America do we have a whole aisle devoted to pickles and WHAT A COUNTRY!! and suddenly I realize I'm doing Yakov Smirnov's comedy bit from the mid-80s, and in Soviet Russia you don't buy pickle, pickle buys YOU! and now it is obvious my brain seriously hates me because any time you're just standing around looking at pickles and thinking about obscure, dated, comedians from Communist Russia that's proof positive that your brain has a secret agenda, and I like to pretend mine was planted by shadowy operatives from deep within the bowels of Millionaire Volcano College, like the Skull and Bones only way scarier. But really I'm probably just being an idiot.

So I'm standing there in this pickle-induced fugue state, not far from where they are giving out samples of some processed pork atrocity that I wouldn't eat even if it was endorsed by an actual talking pig who was all "When they take it off, it TICKLES!" and then he giggles and does a happy little pig jig.  The woman hawking this nightmare is about 65 and as she is asking some hapless passerby if the want to put the most unclean thing ever in their mouth, when she spots a co-worker and says 'Where you goin', girlfriend" and then that needle-scratching-a-record sound effect that they use in the trailers for really bad comedies plays in my head. 

I was going to make a point about how weird it was for old people to use extremely dated expressions that were marginally funny ten years ago in an effort to stay on top of pop culture but really once they speak it, it is officially dead, just like anything else old people touch because they are like the space energy vampires from that terrible movie "Lifeforce", and if you let them hug you for too long, they will turn you to dust so watch out! But then this post began boring the shit out of me. So I'm just going back to bed. Feel free to talk amongst yourselves. 
Seriously. It's naptime. Here's your topic: Old People are not so very different from Zombies.  (*cue laugh track*)


Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Turns Out Sex is NOT a Pirate

So "Sex On Fire" is on the radio only I don't know that yet because the station I usually listen to bleeps out the "sex" part for some unknown reason, like maybe they are too frightened to think about geniticular* conflagration on a serious level like the rest of us, or maybe sex organs make them cry or whatever. Anyway(s), I have no idea the song is called that, because I know it as "that mumble is a pirate" song, which totally kicks ass as far as song names go and if you think I'm the best song name figurer-outer in the world than join the fuckin' club.

So I'm singing along about how Mumble is a pirate but than for some reason they are playing the unedited copy and I'm all "Whoa! To the Extreme!" like I was Johnny Utah in a Mountain Dew commercial and then the bodies start hitting the floor and then I do a super-jump on my BMX and a guitar wails. But really all that happened is I heard the "sex" part so now I think the song is called "My Sex is a Pirate" and if you thought Mumble was a good name for a pirate then HOLD ON TIGHT! because "Sex" is even better. And then I thought about what it might mean for my sex to be a pirate and I wasn't sure if they meant like my penis or the act or maybe someone else's vagina and it's confusing when your having sex and you know something in here is a fucking pirate but your not sure what so you end up always looking over your shoulder for someone to be sneaking up behind you to slit your throat. Or to steal your boat and you're not even sure what the "boat" is but in a sexual encounter it's not good to have anything stolen except maybe for innocence.

And then the DJ announced the song was called "Sex on Fire" and there were no pirates and no mumbles and I was all "Sex on Fire? That's a stupid name for a song." and then I ordered a another latte and the guy at the window was thinking 'Not this handsome guy again!", I'm guessing. From now on I'm singing "Your Sex is a Pirate"when I hear that song because I'm an outsider, but not Ponyboy© for obvious reasons.

The End.

Note: This is your sex. Not a Pirate.

*totally a word. If you take the time to look it up then you've wasted so much time that I could throw up. You're just going to have to trust me on this one.

Nuée Ardente is Not Cheese

Pew! Pew! Pew!

So I know a metric ass-ton about volcanoes, which is way more impressive than a conventional ass-ton because everyone who is Canadian knows 10 is easier than tablespoons or whatever, and the metric system is way better because what sounds better ,going 60 or going 110? I think we all know the balls lies with that third numbers column. Anyway(s)...volcanoes.

I don't know how I acquired so much knowledge about them, it's not like I went to Millionaire Volcano College or anything, but just the other day I was having a conversation with someone and I was all "I'm going to come at you like a nuée ardente!" and they were all "What?!" and I was all "For fucks sake! It's a super-heated river of gas and ash that travels down the sides of a volcano at speeds in excess of 750 miles per hour* and at temperatures exceeding 1500º F, Bitch!" And they were all "Couldn't you have just said 'Freight train' "? and I was all "Yeah." and then they finally gave me my Happy Meal so I didn't have to go all pyroclastic flow on their asses after all. I did not get an extra BBQ sauce though. So I crapped on one of the tables. In protest.

Nuée Ardente? Really? I don't even know where that came from.

I mean volcanoes**, as far as natural disasters go, are the effing bomb. They feature magma and the element of surprise, which is a huge plus in terms of terrifyingness, and also they can spring out of the ground at you without warning like a leopard, but with a leopard you have to live near them for this to be a threat, as to where*** with a volcano you just have to be standing on the ground somewhere. Which is pretty much all the time, unless you DID go to Millionaire Volcano College, in which case you can probably see them coming a mile away and then fly somewhere safe in your private jet filled with sexy stewardesses. I hate you entitled Millionaire Volcano College brats, by the way. The closest I come to that is putting a dress on my cat and playing with Tonka © trucks. Also, once you graduate you can call yourself a "Vulcanologist" and I bet at every Geological convention, a bunch of Vulcanologists get plastered on "Sex on the Beach"es and stand around making slurry "live long and prosper" jokes and doing the Spock thing with their hands, because that is exactly what I did when I crashed the last Geological convention and while security threw me out almost immediately, it looked like a bunch of the other guys wanted to join in. They were just scared. Don't be scared Vulcanologists! It's okay!

Another cool thing about volcanoes is that they have two types of lava, "Aa" and "Pahoehoe", and while that might not seem very awesome, check this out... they are pronounced "ah-ah" and "pa-hoi hoi" so top THAT! And if I had a job that gave me a reason to walk around saying "pa-hoi hoi" all the time, I totally would. It would be my own personal "Aloha". People would be like "Good Morning,Sexy!" and I'd be all "Pahoehoe!" and they would smile at this cute little personality quirk and marvel at how charming I was and two hot lady Vulcanologists would whisper to each other by the coffee machine that "I don't remember HIM from Millionaire Volcano College!" and then they would giggle about wanting my Nuée Ardente. Because that's how Vulcanologists roll, yo.

* I know "miles per hour" is the pussy version of velocity, but I don't know what it is in "kilometers per hour" and even if you told me I wouldn't know how fast that was because I can never remember is km are longer or shorter than miles and what a metric hour is, so you might as well just say "apricots" for as much as it would mean to me. You'd be all "That Nuée Ardante was moving at apricots!" And I would just shrug.

**Also cool is the "e" in "volcanoes" because it totally adds to my compelling argument about adding an "e" in "hoboes". The truth will set you free.

*** Fact:"as to where" is the worst phrase in the English language. If it was a guy at a rock concert it would smell like damp ham and onions and it would stand right next to you with it's arms up and have big tuffs of hair sticking out of the top of his greasy t-shirt's neck-hole and he would turn to talk to you about how awesome this Nickelback show was and he would have something in his teeth, and when you looked closer you would realize it was panda fur. That bastard.

Monday, March 23, 2009

The List: Week Three

So I'm way behind with my list of nemeses this week because hey maybe I just feel like getting along with everyone and don't want to upset the applecart, and I don't even know how the fuck you upset an applecart because we went to an orchard to get our Halloween Pumpkins last year and there was an applecart there and I started screaming all kinds of profanities at it, but that thing didn't even flinch or cry or anything. They are really hard to upset I guess, unlike me who was very upset when a couple of burly farmhands threw me out of there. That's okay though their pumpkins were undersized! Jerks.

Of course I don't actually feel like getting along with everyone. So here's my list for the week:

1) Giant Octopi- My on-going pretend battle with the Giant Octopus took a terrible turn this week as it was decided that the giant octopus was much faster than the Mega-shark because, and I'm quoting an 8 year old here "Gertrude Ederle only had TWO arms and she swam super-fast and I have eight, so I can swim the English Channel in like 3 minutes." and I was all "Who is Gertrude Ederle?" And then he punched me in the throat. Fucking sneaky giant octopus. Also he did a song and dance number with a cane. Diaboliqué.

2)Aliens Vs. Monsters - This movie is coming out and apparently Bank of America is using $25 million of its bailout dollars to pay for coupons to upgrade their card holders from 2D to 3D viewings. Now I'm no scientist but I think we all know the "D" stands for "dinosaurs" and BOA using federal bailout money to buy people extra dinosaurs is just wrong. Also, I'm not an economist either, but look at this profile. It's like I'm a greek statue.

I made this myself as evidence to how kick-ass 3D is. Your Witness.

3) Hobo Rights Violations - I don't know how I became the spokesman for hoboes, surely there is another unwashed, unshaven, unemployed person in a bathrobe who coould stick up for them. Maybe it's because I married one. Either way, I am now responsible for securing equal rights for transients. and I'm not sure what rights they want, like maybe the right to hop a freight train, or the Right to Bear a Bundle on a Stick..you'll have to bear with me, I skipped through the Hobo Rights class at Genius Detective School because the professor thought I was so ravishing, but I think  maybe the best way would be to institute a BJ-for-Thunderbird exchange program. I know. It's hard to believe anyone is this smart. I'm pretty much the Unicef of Transient Fellacio.

4) My children - They were sick all last week and were totally contaminating me and needing attention and one of them threw up backwards, meaning they sat on the toilet seat and puked on their feet and they were all moangy and whiney and frankly who has time to listen to every little complaint about bleeding out of the eyes or whatever. Jesus, if I wanted this much responsibility I would have just gotten a cat.

5)Burmese Pythons - The South is pretty much infested with them all the sudden and even as we speak they are spreading out across the country and planning on eating our economy and I haven't read the latest scientific data but I'm pretty sure they are bulletproof and can hypnotize people because I saw a documentary on it. Oh no wait... that was Disney's©  Robin Hood.  Look at this map. It tells it like it is. This map is that friend who always tells you exactly what you're doing wrong and how to fix it and while you admire them for their forthrightedness and gumption you pretty much can't stand them and hope they get run over by a bus full of self-righteousness. 

Veiled Threat

Hey! Remember that one time when I talked about how I would be posting columns to MamaPop? Yeah...that was awesome. 

Maybe you should go there and read it.

Crocodile Head Car

So I'm carving this crocodile head out of a block of pine because of course I am. What else would I be doing? It's not like I can foil some criminal mastermind with it. I'm not a master of inanimate objects who can suddenly transform it into a giant battle robot or something, and even if I could it would be a giant battle robot made out of pine wood. Oooo! Look out! Here comes Kurt's killer mecha-terror! What will we do? And then some other jerk would be all "We could push it down with our hand." and then case closed because unless the world can be saved by floating something really small, a very short distance, we're all pretty much fucked if I'm in charge of the rescue operation.

So I'm making this crocodile head and it should be pointed out that it is in fact a crocodile and not an alligator because alligators are less likely to attack humans than crocodiles are and this hunk of wood is totally hungry for human flesh. I can tell just by looking at it.  It has that look you see in the eyes of someone who is about to expose themself at you and they're wearing a trenchcoat and walking around in Central Park and then Ross and Chandler are all " Whoa!" and it's sooo funny, because Pheobe totally slept with that guy the night before and Rachel couldn't be in this episode so they are just using a potato for her because it has the same dramatic range. (Zing!) 


Where was I?  

Right. This homicidal block of wood that is definitely going to be a crocodile and another way you can tell is because crocodiles have one tooth that sticks down farther then the rest and I'm pretty sure it's the fourth tooth back but don't quote me because I don't want the responsibility for your dumb ass, out in the Outback, counting the teeth of a vicious prehistoric monster that's about to drag you down into a death roll© and being all "No. No. It's okay. His THIRD tooth back is sticking out more! This must be a kitten!" Sometimes it seems like your brain is really your thumb and you keep hitting it with a hammer when you build things.* And then you'll sue me for Reptile Malpractice or whatever and even though no jail cell can hold me it would be pretty inconvenient to have to appear at all those interviews with sexy reporters who want to"speak**" to me before I get locked away. So just never you mind about the crocodiles.

Did I mention that this crocodile head would also be a race car? Because of course it is. All the other kids in the Pinewood Derby have cars that look like Formula One racers or triangles with a windshield but not MY son. Oh no. HE has to be driving around in the effing Crocodile head car. So here comes trouble all you stupid Cub Scouts, because while you were busy making your model cars all aerodynamic and properly weighted, WE were making  ours look like a crocodile head and while it may not be the fastest, I think we can all agree that your Dads are far less handsome than me, so surrender now. 

(*cue crocodile noise*)***

*You may be confused because you've hit your thumb too many times but this "you" is rhetorical, like Stop signs or "Do you have the clap?"

** This is code for "have wild orgiastic sexual intercourse" because what criminal doesn't deserve to screw a phalanx of nubile, young, bendy reporters right before going to jail? It's in the Constitution I think , and therefore ...out of my hands.

*** Neither of us knows what a crocodile roar sounds like so he just makes that cartoon "HOooo-ock"  sound like before someone spits into a spitoon and then I spray them with cat urine that we've been saving for just such an occasion.

Sunday, March 22, 2009


The crowd exits the movie theater, as a flood. We pour out of the side doors and into the cold night and as I watch the wedge starts to break up as couples splinter off to their cars, hurried in their efforts to escape the damp chill that assaults us. I am alone. I went there with purpose, to fill myself with misery. To bask in my solitude. I look down at the half-empty bag of popcorn I'm carrying with me and try not to think about why I have leftovers.  Time has never moved slower. I think about how antsy I was for the movie to pass the time. I think about my solitary laugh at one of the more subtle jokes in the film. How empty it sounded. How singular. I get in the car and start it and then I realize I have nowhere to go. I just sit there contemplating the room full of half-packed boxes and the solitary lamp and the air mattress and I realize that it is really over. Something in me breaks.  The only sound in the car is my breathing. I have reached the bottom. Because now I am alone.

Three years pass. 

I am walking to the diner briskly enjoying the dappled sunlight that comes from the clouds chasing each other high above. The stream next to me is roaring with meltwater and I feel the sun's warmth for the first time in months. I get to the diner, paper folded under my arm and the greeter asks if it will be a table for one. I smile a crooked smile and nod and she blushes. That makes me smile even more.  I get to the booth and slide in. I unfold the paper and before I can ask the coffee is in front of me.  I order without looking at the menu because I know it.  I sit and drink my coffee and I look at the shoddy paint job where the cheap veneered paneling meets the wall. I glance at the paper but am more interested in listening to the terrible "Soft Jams!" they are piping in. It's Air Supply singing "All Out of Love". I chortle. The waitress is back with my food. She smiles at me. I smile back.  I don't think about anything except maybe this. What I will write about it later. I will write that a life that was full became empty and then that a life that was broken became fixed.  I sip my coffee and smile to myself.  Because now I am alone.

Skip This. I'm Going Back To Bed

It's Sunday morning and the I'm up because of course I shouldn't sleep in when the kids aren't here because getting enough rest is pretty much the same as drinking poison to me and I'm almost willing to go for a drive and find a lady hobo and offer her food and shelter and then we could have a whirlwind romance featuring purchasing her some teeth and lots of angry hobo sex and then we would get married in way too-short a time and my family would be all 'Yeah. That actually makes sense." but really the only reason I've married her is so I can have someone to complain to about my not getting enough sleep. And while a normal person would become bitter and resentful when they found out such a horrific truth about the person they married, a hobo would just be like "Have you got anymore cans of beans in the cupboard?" and then just scratch their ass.  And then if you got sick of them you could kill them with a shovel which is perfect for both blunt force traumas to the head* and also for burying. The shovel is like the Swiss Army Knife of killing hoboes.

You know what else is weird? That when I sit down to write and I don't have any particular direction to go in, I pretty much always end up killing a hooker or a lady hobo. Now you might think this makes me a misogynist, but the only reason I wouldn't kill a boy hobo is that you can't marry a boy hobo in New York right now, so the whole whirlwind romance thing doesn't work and also how can anyone be this handsome and be a misogynist? It's impossible. That's like being drunk and plowing through a crosswalk at 7:30 in the morning and NOT hitting any children. 

Great. Now I'm running over kids with my car. That's a terrible plan. Because children are God's gift to mankind and womankind (note:  NOT a misogynist... I hope I'm spelling that right. If only there was somewhere I could go to check. Some vast inter-connected network of computers that had a ton of porn on it**.) and besides if you run them over, who will grow up to be your trophy wife in fifteen years during your mid-life crisis***?  See, I believe the children are our future. I must teach them well and let them lead the way. 

I need to go back to bed and not write stuff anymore. That WOULD be the Greatest Love of All.

* I have a well-documented historical desire to hit someone on the head with a shovel so that it makes that funny "wong!!!" sound like in cartoons, but so far no luck. It's like a dream I barely dare to dream anymore. A dream that keeps landing me in jail.

** And the kind of porn I watch is not misogynistic because there is always a "safe word" and I don't even speak German so maybe she's actually saying "Please choke me and put your penis in my ear and Oh hey could you please pee on me? I'm getting a little chilly down here on the concrete and obviously I can't move my arms or legs.". Yeah. That must be what she's saying.

*** I actually did the math out on a piece of paper so I was sure I wouldn't be accidentily marrying a 17 YO trophy wife. Because the law is important to me. Any school age kid I might accidentily run over in a crosswalk would HAVE to be at least 5 and therefore safe to marry in 15 years. See? I'm like the Mahatma Ghandi of pedophilia. I don't even know what that means.

PS: As is usually the case, I've written the most horrific shit ever on a Sunday. So now I have to say I'm sorry to God and eat a bag of peanuts.  Wait...what? What do you mean that's not what "repent" means? Awww Man. I really was looking forward to those peanuts.

Friday, March 20, 2009

I'm Pretty Much the Next Micheal Jackson (of Pedophilia)

Okay. So meanwhile, I'm totally running a fever and then I get this message that says I'm famous and I didn't even know I was up for an award but I'm pretty sure it's the most prestigious thing I've ever done except for maybe that one time when I totally did three gravity bong hits in a row, while I was in college and I didn't actually get an award for that, I just ended up throwing up a lot and getting laughed at, so yeah this is even better than that. 

The site is called Five Star Fridays and TWO of the blogs that everyone reading this may have read and thought "Pfft." are totally being recognized as genuis works of fine art and by putting the link in I totally expect you all to go there and be all frothy and sweaty about how wonderful I am or you can count me out of helping you move or catching that pesky cartoon skunk that keeps sneaking into your house and trying to fuck your cat or whatever.  Also there is an award if you go there ,and that award is one of you will be my BFFFF or my Best Fucking Friend For Friday because I just met you probably and maybe there's something wrong with you or you won't like the way I do my dishes or something and then you'll get all passive-aggressive and I'll get moody and spend all my time with my other internet friends and you'll be all "I don't even KNOW you anymore." Why do you have to be like that? Why?

Also, starting Monday, I will have a regular column on this awesome site called Mama Pop and it is pretty much a brilliant mecca of superheros where you can go and bask in all manner of internet gossip and breezy light-hearted swearing about life in general but no porn because they are super-classy and yeah they asked me to write for them, what's your point? Like you're so great. With your fancy cars and sexy beastiality stashes under the stairs. Well La-dee-da, Your Highness. 

Anyway(s) they asked me to join them and at first I thought it was a wrong number or a hilarious practical joke, but then I realized I wasn't on the phone and was never in a fraternity so maybe not. Look for my post on Monday at 11am. And then subscribe and maybe I'll post more stuff, assuming they haven't run me out of the country or anything. The other writers over there are awesome too and funny and if you think I'm only saying this because they are probably reading this then I don't know where you get your delusions from laser-brain. Hey what's that over there! 

(*runs away*)

PS: Thanks to Sweetney for nominating me and Inviting me to write for her awesome site and for pimping me out on twitter and pretty much being my agent except she doesn't even get 10%, but if she was here I'd let her have one of my Pop-Tarts. Okay, half...but still.

PPS: Also Thanks to whoever nominated THE OTHER blog to Five Star Fridays. I'm guessing it was probably Batman because they have done the right thing for the world with quiet, unassuming dignity. Which is the best thing about me too!!

PPPS: This fever is awesome because I have no idea what I just wrote but I can only assume it was great because look at all the awards I'm winning. I must make this look easy. Whoops! Blacked out for a minute there! 

Hattori Hanzo Says He Hates "Jesus"

Me: Jesus Gorilla?
Hattori Hanzo: No.
Me: Jesus Octopus?
Hattori Hanzo: No.
Me: Jesus BATTLING a gorilla?
Hattori Hanzo: No.
Me: Ooo! Here's Jesus battling a T. Rex on the Moon!
Hattori Hanzo: No.
Me: Well what can I blog about Jesus fighting? Crime?
Hattori Hanzo: No.
Me: Gingivitis! I could totally see... like the Real Jesus... battling tooth decay. Because he loves me so.
Hattori Hanzo: No. Look, just leave Jesus out of it. I know you're struggling for a witty blog idea but why is your "go to" solution Jesus either battling or fighting something?
Me: Wait. What was that?
Hattori Hanzo: What was what?
Me: You just airquoted.
Hattori Hanzo:So?
Me: So?! Airquotes cause cancer and probably IBS and hurts puppies and shit.
Hattori Hanzo:No, they don't. They're the same as giving words hugs. Only with quotation marks.
Me: No. I'm pretty sure I read somewhere that using airquotes turns your libido into dust and also breaks your mama's back and if you do that again I'm totally going to punch you in the throat.
Hattori Hanzo: Don't be stupid. I'm pretend, and besides can you imagine how often your mom would call you if she had a broken back? Like every two seconds. I don't need "that".
Me: I'm going to pretend that didn't just happen. Like for the sake of world peace. But seriously, stop it.
Hattori Hanzo: Okay.
Me: Where were we? 
Hattori Hanzo: Jesus was battling tartar. How about instead we write about sweater vests?
Me: Why? Did Jesus battle those? I don't remember that from the Bible. Like was he cast out of the Lion's Den and into Kergan and he had to keep them from wearing sweater vests in the great temple on the Sabbatch because of God's love?
Hattori Hanzo: I'm pretty sure there's no such day as "The Sabbatch" and also there's no place in the Bible called "Kergan", because that was the bad guy's name from "Highlander". 
Me: That was a lot of airquotes. You're really pushing your luck.  And the Sabbatch is the day after Fat Tuesday where you have to rub your head with dirt or else antlers grow or something.
Hattori Hanzo: You haven't been to church in a REALLY long time,have you?
Me: So why would Jesus fight sweater vests?
Hattori Hanzo: He wouldn't. Leave Jesus out of this. I meant you could blog about how sweater vests are all The Boy will wear when he wants to look fancy and that you don't know who instilled that particular idea into his head, but you'd like to catch them and throttle them because now you can't go shopping for dress clothes without him throwing a little pouting fit because all he ever wants is to buy ANOTHER sweater vest. And what's so fancy about not having sleeves, because if you take sleeves off a t-shirt all you have then is an overwhelming desire to drink PBR and listen to Skynyrd and maybe punch a relative. And that's not fancy at all. 
Me: I don't know...is that funny?
Hattori Hanzo: Funnier than Jesus fighting dinosaurs in space.
Me: Nothing is funnier than Jesus battling space dinosaurs.
Hattori Hanzo: Your Mom is funnier than Jesus Battling Space Dinosaurs.
Me: Nice. Okay... how about Jesus battling dinosaurs in sweater vests. That would kind of tie it all up in a pretty package. It would surrounds us. It would penetrate us. It would bind the galaxy together.
Hattori Hanzo: Stop quoting The Star War.
Me: Luminous Beings are we not this crude matter.
Hattori Hanzo: OW! Quit pinching! You know I hate it when you "Yoda Quote".
Me: That's it Hanzo! It's Go time!
Hattori Hanzo: You're an idiot.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

An Adventure in High Finance

I'm pulling up to the drive-thru because I need a damn coffee and I've got my change ready but instead of $2.37, I have $2.52 and I'm just praying tonight will be the night. I look at my opponent framed in the harsh fluorescent light that spills out of the store. He doesn't look clever. Not at all. This could be it... the perfect storm of 'tard. The little glass doors fly open and his hand comes out and he says "$2.37". I hand him the change, a smile playing on my lips. In my mind I'm thinking "Please. Please.Please." He looks down at what I've given him for a moment and I can see the words forming on his lips. Oh please God, I've waited so long for this....

"Uh. It's $2.37?"


"I know.", I say speaking in a friendly yet smug conversational tone, " I just don't want any more pennies.  See...This way I just get the dime and the nickel back." I offer him a condescending smirk, just to drive my point home.

I have waited my whole life to explain that to a cashier. For one moment I am not an unemployed writer of stupid blogs but a wizard of finance bending the very fabric of the economy with my grasp of how change works. That's right fuckers! I am so smart I don't even get back pennies! I should have been working on Wall Street like THIS WHOLE TIME!! He's still standing there looking dumb and humbled by this obvious bit of schooling I have just housed him with. And when he speaks his voice wavers a little. Surely he sees the heated glow of victory in my eyes. The strong set of accomplishment in my jaw. I can't wait to hear what he has to add to this transaction. HAHAHAHHAHAAHA!!

"Um. I understand that Sir...but this is a Loony. We don't take Canadian money."


I Love Foreign Films: RWWM Edition!!

I like how much this looks like a Saul Bass poster. Retro!

It's about time someone made a movie about how scary-boring it is trying to watch marine mammals. I can't say for sure that the people who  made Reykjavik Whale Watching Massacre are geniuses because maybe they are just idiot savants or something and know a lot about how to make films... like that's what they can do instead of counting toothpicks, but they have almost no people skills and get super-upset when they miss American Idol or whatever, but this movie pretty much makes everything else ever filmed look like a laminated dog turd. And if you think it's an easy or clean or pleasant-smelling operation to laminate excrement than you didn't work at the same Kinko's I did. 

The movie is a sensitive portrayal of people doing stuff on a boat*, and then everything goes to hell and there seems to be a disproportionate number of hooks involved so look out!! Also, I went out on a river dolphin-watching trip once and to sum up: My Friend says: "Ooo! Look another grey hump in the water!" and then I say "Your Mom is a grey hump." and then we get asked to leave, but it's a boat so we just have to sit there for another hour watching the waterline for more grey humps and knowing everyone else wishes we were dead. THAT'S HOW MASSACRES START, is my point.

A description that I don't know where it comes from, but I read it on The Quiet Earth and if you say not knowing the source of a quote undermines my journalistic integrity than obviously you are not my BFF anymore and I totally am going to call my Mom in the middle of our next overnight crying because you're being mean and totally soaked my underwear in ketchup because you heard I just got my period. Wait...what? Sorry. Fugue state. Here:

An epic tale about a group of whale watchers, whose ship breaks down and they get picked up by a whale fisher vessel. The Fishbillies on the vessel has just gone bust, and everything goes out of control.

That's right...they used the term "Fishbillies" which is what I am going to call pretty much everyone from now on, so that when the priest says "Yes. My child?" I will say "Forgive me Father for I have sinned, you goddamn Fishbilly!" and then he will gasp because of how derogatory and maybe a little blasphemous** that sounds and then he'll be all 'Get out of the booth, Kurt. I thought I told you, you had to be Catholic to confess your sins?" and then I make a joke about his Mom and play an air guitar riff and run away. I'm also trying to figure out what "has just gone bust" means and if I can expect some boobies in this bad boy or what.

Warning: This video is from Iceland and they brought us Bjork, so they probably don't find splattery axe-to-the-head sounds and blood fountains disturbing, but if you do, then maybe don't watch this....

* I take my research seriously. Even though the facts are sketchy on this, I'm pretty sure we can all agree that Pringles© brand potato crisps are delicious.***

* I can't say for sure if that is blasphemy or not because my "Kickass Biblical Scholar" certificate expired in '08. Also, I made it myself so I'm not sure it is a valid religious artifact.

*** Dear Pringles© jerks, I still don't have that endorsement deal so unless you want me to say that eating Pringles© will make you shit blood for a year, you better get cracking. I think by this point everyone reading knows I am unimpeachable as far as my endorsements go.

Civics is Not Just A Car, Turns Out

If you want to hum "America The Beautiful" while you read this,
 then you are an American Hero like me

My big question yesterday was all about flags being at half-mast and that is because it is a subject that has been weighing heavy on my mind lately as I am unburdened with the problems of ordinary people, like paying rent, being that I am above all that mundane crap and also because I am a good hider and the landlord can never catch me. I'm pretty much the Roadrunner© of not paying my bills. They're all "Please. We need to discuss how you are going to catch up on what you owe." and I'm all " HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!! Beep-Beep!" and then I waggle my tongue and run away. And then they get hit with a pie.

Actually, that only happens in my head. But it is sooo funny! And they totally deserve it for giving me a place to live rent-free. 

So flags at half-mast are tricky, because they send you a message, and that message says you haven't been watching the news and you are not a productive member of society because you don't even know if it's the Pope©, or Barack Obama©, or Keanu Reeves© who are dead and if you are going to be that far out of touch with the rest of the human race why not just climb back into that bottle of Jameson's you stole from your Dad whilst he was in the hospital for chest pains, you worthless piece of shit. And then you say "Don't mind if I do!" but then you feel bad and you express these bad feelings by saying "Eff You, Flag!" and then your Hillbilly neighbor sees you grabbing your junk and gesticulating wildly in the front yard at the flag, wearing just your boxers and a pair of your daughter's grippy, pink, slipper-socks, and then he decides you are a communist and then it doesn't matter how dumb he is because his knuckles taste like a dirty ashtray as they cave in your teeth. 

One flag at half mast is okay. Then I'm all "Okay. Either someone died or someone is just sad" because if I was in charge of a flag* and I was having a sad day, I would totally put the flag at half-mast for my feelings, and then when people came in they would treat me with the somber respect I so richly deserve. And they wouldn't ask who died, because its disrespectful to not just know and super-disrespectful to ask. So they would just look at me with empathy and I would offer the strongest smile I could muster, given the depths of my bereavement, and then, after they left I would totally feel better because I had played a trick on them. And after a couple of those... POOF! No more bad day!

Two flags at half-mast means someone really has died and I fucked up. Three means it was someone important and I better just drive home and find out because maybe it was my Dad or something. And if it's the Post Office or Perkins© Cake and Steak who has the biggest flags in the world, then I know it might even be ME and maybe I'm a ghost and I feel terrible for putting everyone through another national tragedy so I stick my head out the car window and yell 'Never forget 9/11!"but I'm not watching the road because I've already started the mourning process for myself and the Five stages of grief are: 
1) Yelling "Never forget 9/11!" 
3) Praying for pandas to start fucking in zoos, because they are adorable and if the world can't have me they should at least have pandas.
4) Hating Snow Bears
5) Thinking about porn

And then I have a fender-bender with the guy in front of me because I get to the porn part and I get all woogly for a bit, and then it turns out I'm not dead but my insurance just went up again...  if I even still have insurance because that was another bill I Roadrunnered on, and it's totally not even my fault because if I have to choose between watching where I'm going and giving an elegant lady a sensual boob-honk with my mind...you had better make sure your goddamn seatbelt is buckled. 

EFF YOU, Flag!

* I don't know how you get put in charge of a flag but I think it is only by Presidential nomination or something, because I tried to take a civil service test in Flag Control, but they were all "Sir, this is the DMV and that isn't a real test, and if you're going to be in here, you'll have to put on some pants." And then I screamed "Diplomatic Immunity!" but that doesn't work at the stupid DMV either.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

I'm Down with The Sickness and The Bodies are Totally Hitting the Floor

I had a whole day yesterday with the Hillbillies I live next door to, because first of all, they play their music superloud so that it knocks over furniture and sick children and it just so happens that yesterday I had both of those things in my house, but it's okay because the sick child was one that I made and not like some random sick kid from the hospital who would be all "mmm mmm MM MMMMMM!!" because they would have that oxygen mask on like on TV, but when you take it off they're screaming for their parents and demanding to know who you are and where you are taking them and why are you dressed like a mime!!! , because kids are cute in how they are irrationally scared of things.  


This one is mine and I know this because when she is sick she spends pretty much all day pestering me into watching rated-R comedies like "The Big Lebowski" and "Shaun of the Dead", and when she isn't doing that, she's eating all the food I own like some kind of crazed animal with a tapeworm, and asking if I could go back to the store for more fish sticks, and I'm all "Jeez Kid, shouldn't you be passing out after all that Nyquil©?" and she's all talking nonsense about not being able to see and how her chest hurts, and then she complains about the neighbor's music for like the millionth time and now it's the entire AC/DC back catalog, which is better than the rap- metal guys screaming about letting the bodies hit the floor and being down with the sickness or whatever and I'm finally digging it a little, but she keeps pounding on the wall between blackouts so it's pretty much ridiculous at my place and it's no wonder I can't keep a nanny. 

No wait. That was Mary Poppins.

So at some point the neighbors decide that they need to get their low-rider out in front of the house again, because this economy is eating their face and they've been trying to sell it since I moved in a year ago, and they probably can't figure out why it isn't selling because it does have a sweet hydraulic system and the whole back of it is pretty much one big speaker which is perfect for when you want the bodies to hit the floor, and even though it is painted primer black with spray paint and doesn't appear to actually go anywhere, it's great for sitting in and drinking 40s while you have a campfire in your rusted-out gas grill using wood you've "found" around the neighborhood, like the wooden post that was holding up Mrs. Wellington's mailbox. So it's pretty much the perfect car for the non-driver. But right now  it's stuck in the mud in the backyard, because the best thing to do when you can't move a stuck car is to gun the engine and spin the tires so that great flumes of mud and  grass spray everywhere and then swear. 

I'm pretty sure that's also the cure for cancer too, if you were wondering.

So they decide they are going to tow the low-rider out using their big truck and I don't know what happens next because it was naptime, but when I woke up they had managed to get both vehicles* stuck in the backyard swamp and now there are quite the assortment of skinny men in stained wife beaters lurking around my backyard and they were all wielding planks and boards and revving engines and spinning tires and chewing tobaccco and spitting juice everywhere and swearing at each other and I thought maybe they were having an impromptu monster truck rally and I didn't think it was possible to get those permits during the course of naptime** but what do I know, I'm not a judge. So now there are tires spinning everywhere and the bodies are seriously hitting the floor and everyone is swearing and I close my eyes and wonder if this is what a Tourettes convention would be like, and then I realized they probably don't have conventions because if you thought the Monster Truck Rally permits were hard to get imagine thousands of people wandering around looking at displays and calling each other "filthy ass fucker pussy SHIT!". The keynote address alone would be cause for a police action.

So the neighbor comes over and he's covered in mud and grass that should be part of our lawn and not hanging out of the corner of his lip and he asks me if I "got a towin' chain" and I have to inform him that I don't and he looks at me like I'm stupid because of course, every family should have a "towin' chain" for when company comes over and apparently Miss Manners hasn't taught me a goddamn thing and also how dare I wear a shirt with sleeves. And then I feel bad for not having a "towin' chain" and I think maybe I'll have to pick one up next time I'm out and then I remember that I'm not retarded and don't drive my car in the lawn. And then I think about moving again for the infinityeth time, and then I go back to watching "Shaun of the Dead" on the couch and I ask her to pass me that fish stick if she isn't going to eat it.

The End.

* I hate calling cars "vehicles" because it makes me sound like a cop and believe me they hate when you impersonate them, especially just to get some free donuts, but what the hell donuts are delicious and you can't blame me for trying. That's the judge's job.

** In Mexico, the traditional time of rest after lunch is called a "siesta". Aren't foreign words fun? I like how they tickle my lips. Oh no. Wait. That's just the depression beard. 

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Grocery Beard Strikes Again

I'm totally not mentioning You-Know-What ^^ in this post, Frank.

So I'm at the grocery store because my house is now devoid of food and if you let a pack of wild dogs in they would enter cautiously, sniff the air, walk in a circle, probably piss on a stack of books* or the Wii or something, and then run off because there's nothing to eat besides people in here and they haven't sunk THAT low yet.  And also The Girl is home sick with what the doctors are calling "a fever" but I'm calling it "being a pussy" so I totally have to go and buy her Gatorade and grapes and fish sticks and I'm not sure I've ever seen a prescription for fish sticks but she insists the nurse said to buy her that and a peach smoothie, so what do I know? It's not like I'm Dr. Quinn birthin' a horse or something.

I'm in the store and there are all these kids running around, like with their Moms and stuff, and I'm all "Pfft. Why isn't your kid in school, Lay-deeee?" in my head and then I look in her cart and she's totally buying Hawaiian Punch which means she doesn't want to spring for 100% fruit juice, so these kids are pretty much being beaten right in front of me, and I don't want to be judgmental because then I won't be able to say "I'm not judgmental BUT..." before I judge someone, but I totally want to ask her why her kids aren't being defended as the last great natural resource our country has. And I look at their teeth and one kid is missing the front ones, so either he just got punched or he's four and that's normal, but should I really take my chances? And then I see she has lettuce in her cart so I ease back a bit, because these little bastards are obviously getting their roughage. And then I realize I've been standing there staring into her cart for like a solid minute and then I look up and she's looking right at me, and so I smile and she flinches and then I remember that my depression beard makes me look like a pedophile, so we both pretty much run away.

But I'm still wondering where she gets off letting her kids skip school and then I remember that my kid is skipping school and I totally get into an argument with myself where one me is saying "Yeah. But she's sick!" and the other me is all "Maybe they're sick too." and then the first me is like "Pfft. Did you even SEE those kids? They're totally healthy." and then the second me is all 'Yeah, as long as being ugly isn't a disease." and then I give myself a high-five after shouting out "Up TOP!" and then everyone is looking at me in my depression beard and bathrobe and then the store manager had to get involved and he always starts his little speeches with "You again?"And then I screamed "DIPLOMATIC IMMUNITY!!" and "Freedooommmmm!" like in Braveheart©, but he just took away my box of fishsticks and pointed at the door.**

*In the original draft of this I wrote "comic books" but then I remembered that Watchmen isn't doing so hot and maybe comic books aren't as cool as none of the girls who slept with me in High School had led me to believe. I secretly think they are cool, but I wrote "books" because no one thinks reading is uncool. Reading is FUN-damental©.*** 

**For all the new readers I seem to have: it should be pointed out that while I am a roguishly handsome, genius superhero I am prone to lying pretty much all the time and while the events didn't transpire exactly like this, I DID have a delicious roast beef sandwich for lunch.  Okay. Not really. 

***This is the second time I've written that today and it just keeps getting funnier to me, so TOO BAD, People-With-Standards!

Silverfish are Nature's Biggest Dicks

So it's almost Spring and that means love is in the air which is code for humping if you didn't already know, and also there is pollen in the air, and there is still a chill in the air in the mornings, so the air is super-busy right now is my point, and I'm not sure how I feel about it being otherwise distracted from bringing me delicious oxygen plus a bevy of carnocinogens which totally sounds like "Carnosaur" which was pretty much the best movie ever made, and if you haven't seen it then you're really missing out, unless terrible movies aren't your bag, in which case go rent "Sense and Sensibility" or some other sweeping goddamn Jane Austen reimagining and leave me and my poorly constructed dinosaurs in peace. Anyway(s), it's Spring almost and the reason I know this is because I just killed a demon.  A demon named "Silverfish"

(*cue dramatic music*)

This isn't a good picture of one because during the "lymph" stage they have way more legs, but what the hell, if you want to see what that looks like you can look it up. 
I'm not your college.

I don't know what the hell planet these things are from, all I know is they keep trying to scoot away after they are all dead on the bottom of your son's shoe and even if the legs aren't attached they still try to run and suddenly I've got a 20 foot smear across my wall of legs all trying to run away from me but not having any body to transport, so it's like that nightmare you have where you go to bed with your mother and it starts out all innocent at first and then it starts to get weird and creepy  and then you wake up and you're making out with your pillow and you swear you'll never tell anyone that story but 'Whoops!" too late dipshit, someone went and invented the internet. You just told the whole world. 

Also, these bugs appear to have a pocket of spacetime inside their abdomen that holds the leg running mechanism which seems to contain about 80 miles of tubing because there's no way that much guts could fit inside that little bug.

Of course, being a serious journalist, I went and looked them up online. Here's what wiki says about their diet:

"...These include glue, book bindings, paper, photos, sugar, hair, and dandruff. Silverfish can also cause damage to books, tapestries, and textiles. Silverfish will commonly graze in and around showers, baths, and sinks on the cellulose present in many shampoos, shaving foams and so on. Apart from these cases, the damage caused by silverfish is negligible and they have no direct effect on human health beyond psychological distress ..."

That's right, apart from pretty much spending their whole lives trying to eat your head,  and grazing like cattle inside your bathroom sink, they are totally engaged in psychological warfare with the human race, and I'm not saying that they are terrorists but I think we can pretty much blame 9/11 on them and maybe George Bush wouldn't have been elected to a second term if that hadn't happened and then right now we wouldn't have to be preparing for the cannibal and/or zombie apocalypse that will happen after our money gets done exploding.

Also because you're all pretty much perverts, here is a description of what it would be like to have sex with one, if that's your thing:

The reproduction of silverfish is preceded by a "love dance", involving three phases, which may last over half an hour. In the first phase, the male and female stand face to face, their trembling antennae touching*, then repeatedly back off and return to this position. In the second phase the male runs away and the female chases him.**

See? Even sex with them is all running around, and I don't know about you but the idea of super horny bugs running all over my house in the throes of some weird primordial fuck-dance makes me feel all oogey, and now I'm going to be super-scared that I sleep with my mouth open because I'm still traumatized from when that ladybug jumped down my throat. And that was a beautiful ladybug not some vicious hair-grazing space-time monster from another planet. 

* "their trembling antennae touching"? Seriously? Whoever wrote this is really turned on by watching monsters have sex and I think we can all agree that unless a Japanese girl is involved in some way, that's just disgusting.

** I didn't include a description of the third phase because it's like not giving the ingredients to a pipe bomb online. I don't know what you guys are liable to try, but I wash my hands of THAT responsibility.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Supressing the Monkey Rebellion

So I was reading this article online, and I make that distinction because when someone says "I was reading this article." It implies a magazine article and that they want you to know how very refined they are, because they read magazines without centerfolds and "LA-DI-DA! Look at the genius in his tophat and monocle READING THINGS. I'll get the saddle on the pony shall I, Your Majesty?" And I don't want to imply that at all, so I added "online" because everyone knows that "read an article online" might as well be an admission to surfing for porn. 

In this article, a man had trained a monkey to scale up a tree and harvest coconuts for him. The man, whose name I want to pretend to be Bob because it's actually foreign and when I say it, it makes my tongue tingle, spent countless hours working with his simian cohort, whose name was Brother Kwan but we'll just call him Judas, for the purpose of foreshadowing, to maximize the number of coconuts he could harvest on any given day. There were many days when passersby would say "Say now! That Bob sure is diligent with that monkey. And I don't mean masturbating." Because we all know what "working the monkey" REALLY means so they would be sure to clarify.  Day after day, Judas would scamper up the tree, honing his craft of coconut collection so that Bob could eek out his meager living. And then one day Judas threw a coconut at Bob's head and killed him for no reason other than Bob worked him tirelessly and beat him when he tried to take a break, and then that lazy, no-good, hateful monkey ran off into the jungle never to be seen again.

Bob was eaten by crabs.*

The Moral: Never trust a monkey because they will kill you with a coconut first chance they get. And I've lived my life by this standard and while you may find it difficult to remember, you have to, because otherwise it might be you one day on the business end of a coconut, and why do I feel like I should be writing something like "The Skipper and the Professor were walking to Ginger's hut..." when I write this story? And have you even seen Bob Denver lately?Gilligan be old as shit! Whoops! No, he's not. He's dead. Gilligan is dead**! I don't want to say a monkey with a coconut killed him because we don't have all the facts in, but it was definitely a monkey with a coconut and...

Hattori Hanzo: Stop. He died in 2005 of squamous cell carcinoma of the larynx. Not a monkey with a coconut.
Me: Squeamish Selled what?
Hattori Hanzo: SQUAMOUS cell carcinoma.
Me: You're making that up.
Hattori Hanzo: No I'm not.
Me: There's no such thing a squeamish-celled carcinoma. It was an effing monkey! Admit it!
Hattori Hanzo: (*sighs*) Okay. Fine. It was a monkey. 
Me: I'm like Sherlock Holmes! Case closed!
Hattori Hanzo: You literally just lost your entire audience. Like... they're off polka-dancing or filing their nails or napping because of how fucked up you are.
Me: (*starts singing "We are the Champions"*)
Hattori Hanzo: This is seriously stupid.
Me: "...No time for LOSERS (*pointing at Hattori Hanzo*) cuz we are the chammppioonnssss"
Hattori Hanzo: I wish I had a coconut.
Me: Your Mom wishes she had a coconut!
Me: Sheesh. Talk about your grumpy monkeys. 

*I added this part on my own, as sort of a wishful thinking-type thing.

**This is pretty much expert investigative journalism like they used to do on "20/20" before ratings went to hell and then every story turned into the one about the kids dying and/or being abducted and then dying.  I learned my technique at Genius Detective School.

The List: Week Two

I was going to save my list of nemeses post for later, but as I looked at my list of blog topics for this week, the first thing I read is "I can't hear you through this..." and then there is a word that looks like "beard" but maybe not because the last letter appears to be in Sanskrit or Klingon or something, but "I can't hear you through this beard" totally makes sense because I think I said that at one point this weekend to one of the kids who was griping that they hadn't eaten in a couple days and I was all "What? I'm sorry! I can't hear you through this beard!" but I might be making that up and only WISH I had said it, because that's pretty much the best excuse for something ever.  

Also, They are forcing me to grow a beard despite my repeated pronouncements that it's going to look like I have The Mange or that it's too wispy. And they're all "Grow a beard! Grow a beard!" , because I have raised horrible children who don't understand how little it takes to demotivate me from maintaining basic personal hygiene, so now I'm growing a beard, for fun. Except I hate it. And it feels like I have small insects climbing all over my face and not in the good "I'm going through heroin withdrawl" way. Also I haven't grown a mustache in 15 years and as I recall, I pretty much look like the Sam Elliot of pedophilia. But the cool thing is I can say it is my "depression beard" when people ask, because whenever you make hair come out of your face in a previously unsuspected fashion, people always pepper you with brilliant questions like "Are you growing a beard? " and "Did you forget to shave?" and "Could you please get away from my child?"  but if I claim it is my "depression beard" they don't know if I mean the economy or my own personal depression, and then they back away slowly and smile but their eyes keep flicking to the door to see if they're going to make it. 

My nemeses:

1) My Children - Obviously. They make me grow beards and feed them and go to middle school concerts and stay sober when the Social Services people come by and also they have a startling disregard for not accidentally whacking me in the junk while rough-housing and then I have to be all "No. No. It's okay. I'm fine." and there is no greater injustice than being hit in the nuts and then having to comfort the one who hit you.

2) Giant Octopuses - I blogged last week about Mega-Shark vs. Giant Octopus and how The Boy and I pretend we are these things whilst waiting for the bus... well this weekend the Giant Octopus stood up and did a Wonder Woman twirl and went back in time and killed my Mother before I was even born, so that totally counts as a nemesis even if he was only pretend.

3) Whalesong - Continuing with an aquatic theme, I have a friend who is all into New Age stuff like whalesong recordings and eating healthy and minimizing your carbon footprint, and every time I walk anywhere I look for that thing, but all I see is my regular footprint and I wonder if my carbon footprint is invisible or magic or being left by ghosts or something. But Whalesong is just ridiculous because I mean seriously, Whales... learn english. This is America.

4) Burritos - Not only is it a valid emotion but also "Burrito" is a delicious food that I haven't had in a long time and I really want one. I like to pretend they are all hiding from me and then one day I will chance upon one that is sleeping in the shade of a tree by the roadside with it's sambrero pulled down over its eyes and then I will sneak up on it and grab it and once it is in my clutches it will realize it should have listened to its mamacita and not had a siesta so close to my house. And then I stop daydreaming and go back to my Pop-Tart©, and also I don't speak any Spanish at all so if "mamacita" means "fucker" or "cunt" or something just pretend it doesn't.

5)Adorable Pandas - I feel bad I haven't written anything about these delightful, cherubic and wonderful animals in a while so I'm totally pissed at them for making me feel bad. And then I go online to look at pictures of them and they are tumbling around in piles of bamboo and totally not having sex with each other and pretty much being ridiculous all the time and then I want one, but you can't own a panda without the SPCA or PETA or NASA or whatever totally flipping out, so that pretty much makes them my nemesis.

You see what I mean? That's goddamn uncalled for!

6) Also, Facebook - for being a jerk and not letting me show my adorable panda friend whilst pimping myself out on there, because nothing brings in new readers like panda bears. I mean besides "content", but if you believe that's going to fix my problems than you might as well go back in your time machine to 1950, Marty McFly and go find a nice girl to marry and do the dishes all the time like a good domestic slave, because I am all about progress. Especially when progress means "not worrying about content because WTF?, this is the internet."