Friday, October 30, 2009

A Tribute To Me (Long Overdue)

Because I am a renowned expert in the field of Raawwrrology, which of course is the study of dinosaurs, people often turn to me for answers about these giant insects or robots or whatever the fuck they were from long ago. I am usually happy to help because it gets me out of the house and then I don't have to keep tricking myself into believing that only eating bologna sandwiches all the time isn't sad. Also, it means I get to test the stupid home arrest ankle bracelet to see if it's still working and "protecting" the people of my community from "irrepressible sodomy". Whatever the judge meant by THAT.

I hate legalese.

As part of my Nobel Prize-winning* expertness, I have inspired many great works of art that pretty much benefit all of mankind, but mostly me. And one such offering was made last week after I showed conclusively that I like Pop Tarts© and also that super-imposing South America onto Africa proves God loved dinosaurs as much as he loves kittens and jellyfish and fucking eels or whatever. My Friend Dan took that song that I wrote and made it into a real boy. Okay, not a boy, but he did make a pretty guitar song out of it and he says "fuck" a lot, so I think we can all agree that he should win an Oscar or a Tony, even though he's totally not gay.

Here's the link to his song. Everyone should go listen and then come back and tell me how brilliant I am and how Dan is "getting there"**


*Pending. I think the Swedes all hate me, because of that one time I went there and did something offensive to their culture that I still don't even know what it is, because who has time to look up Sweden in the Wikipedia and find something clever and funny to make fun of. All I can think of that is Swedish is meatballs, and the Chef from The Muppet Show. And I would never make fun of him because he's a hilarious stereotype.

**Dan is all show-offy with his "Doctorate" in "Theoretical Statistics" or whatever. I asked him what it meant one time and he gave me a swirly, so I don't even ask anymore. I just assume it's got something to do with understanding how handsome I am. It takes years to get a handle on that shit.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Short and Pointless. Like a Gnome Holding an 8-Track Tape


I have been immersed in scientific discovery for the last few days and maybe that means making advances that will benefit all of mankind, or maybe it means inventing the perfect porno or a black hole you can fit in your pocket like in cartoons. But in this case it means I taped my thumbs to my hands and pretended I was a dinosaur. I made little squished up arms and walked around work going "Errrrr-AHHHH!!!!" to see if I could freak anyone out. Because anyone who isn't freaked out by a blood-thirsty dinosaur wandering around the workplace is probably either a superhero in their average person persona or a robot*. Just look at the facts. It's all there in front of you in black and white and red-all-over.

And the most difficult part of the whole thing was to try and make my roar bloodcurdling, because I don't have the Tyrannosaur's lung capacity. So I had to run around yelling scary things like "RRRRAAWWWRRR!! YOUR MOM NEVER LOVED YOU!!!" and "SCCCRRREEEEE!!! THERE"S A GOOD CHANCE THEY ARE MAKING ANOTHER 'PAUL BLART' MOVIE!!" and "CCCCRRRAAAWWWW!!! I CAN SMELL YOUR VAGINA FROM HERE AND IT ISN'T VERY PLEASANT!!" but I only did that one at men because otherwise...sexual harassment. And I don't need THAT hassle again. Women get all sexist and wet-blankety when you chant "I see London. I see France. " at them and then you give a little head nod that's all "Not really, but I'd like too" and then you make the cock-sucking, tongue-pressed-against-cheek motion and then you wink a lot.

My point is sexual harassment is a gray area, like your mom's bush.



*And not the cute kind of robot like Johnny #5, I mean the secret killer kind of robot that acts like it's there to serve you, and carries heavy things for you and has sex with your mom for you and jumps up and down so fast it goes blurry on a dare, and then you thinks it's your best friend and then POW!! Goodbye, face! The robot just fucking ate it!

Monday, October 26, 2009

It's Sorta About Baseball Hats. *shrug*

So I pretty much had the worst revelation ever yesterday and I know what you're thinking. "Shit. There goes the whole world because judgment day is upon us, according to made-up stories in the Bible." But that's not the kind of revelation I'm talking about.

Settle down.

The revelation I had is about aging, and it's not easy for me to admit I'm getting older because "Silver Fox" is not a nickname I'm ready for just yet. I prefer "Roguishly Handsome" or "Impishly Stunning" or "Incredibly Endowed"*.

"Change is hard", is my point. My capacity to change is limited to socks and sometimes underpants, and getaway vehicles because if you change cars two or three times during a getaway, it's like you just disappear. Unless you're in a parking lot with surveillance cameras and instead of driving somewhere and THEN changing vehicles you just get in the first three unlocked cars you can find and sit there for a minute hoping the trail will go cold. They never tell you all the details in the movies, is also my point.

Okay. About aging.

Baseball hats are very important to me, because they are my way of saying "I haven't showered in a while and my hair looks like an animal that was hit by a car and died and has blood matted in it's fur and then a few days pass and it starts to get all gross, and maybe it rains one of those days so now the fur is clotty** and eww. " Only I say it by wearing a hat. It's like how nature tells animals to stay away from one another like the skunk's stripe or the Poisonous Tree Frog's bright colors or the T. Rex's giant fucking teeth in your neck. Kinda a head's up, that I may or may not still smell like I'm sweating out the cheap wine and vagina from the night before. I don't know if you sweat out vagina. But I hope so. I like the whole world to know how sexy I am, as if it wasn't obvious.

But what I've come to understand is that no matter how comfortable it is, I am just too old to wear my baseball hat backwards. It looks desperate, like the face of a hooker just as you close the trunk. It says "Hey world! Check out the old guy trying to be handsome AND young. You can't have it both ways, Glory Days!" And I hate it when I get called Glory Days because it sounds like a mix of "Glory" which was about black ex-slaves fighting for the North in the Civil War and Denzel Washington was in it and was a very angry ex-slave and made me nervous, and "Happy Days" which starred Henry Winkler as a closeted gay man living over the garage of some nice folk and Potsy and something something Pinky Tuscadero. I don't know. My parents pretty much kept me whacked out on Robitussin DM© for my whole childhood, because I liked to "raise hell with no pants on" according to the psychiatric evaluation I just found last year, and that was the only way they could control me.

Anyway(s), You're such a Potsy.

So now I have to wear my baseball cap forward, and that's a fine how-do-you-do because... Fuck I'm bored with this subject. And I'm hungry. I need a Pop Tart©.

Fin.

*And by "Incredibly Endowed" I mean "Gifted Sexually". And by "Gifted Sexually" I mean "Nothing that great." and by "Not that Great", I mean "Incredibly Endowed". Think about it.

**"Clotty" is the new "Your Mom" according to Hoyle, which I understand previously had to do with game rules, but now has to do with nasty slogans because who the eff even plays games that aren't on the computer anymore? Your mom, that's who. She plays Strip Heads or Tails too, according to the rumor I just started.

PS: Go Read Mama Pop! I'm hysterical. Trust me. If you don't laugh it's your own fault. Not Mine.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

"With Great Boredom Comes Meh Blog Posts." - Spider-man or Your Mom

I've got this small window of time at work today during which I can write and that is like a gift to the world from my employer and I didn't even know they did charity work because every time they catch me sleeping under my desk they totally wake me up and they're all "You can't sleep on the job! Stop bringing your pillow into work!" and I'm all "Eff you fascist!" and then I drop my pants and bend over and spank my ass at them, like in Braveheart©. And then the evil king Longshanks© attacks and kills off the peasants because he's such an a-hole. I think this post is off to an awesome start! It has battles and evil kings and standing up to the man. It's pretty much a thought revolution all over you and that's way better than semen, if you ask me.

So now I'm sitting around waiting for work and that pretty much makes me a day laborer, except I really don't like the "laborer" part of that title, because it sounds a little slavey to me and like maybe I should be building a pyramid scheme or something. I think I'll substitute "worker" because that has a nice communist ring to it and I can totally picture myself all handsome and windswept standing in front of some red flag with a star on it starting a Worker's Revolution because everyone knows martyrs* are sexy. Look at Che. I don't even know who he is other than that t-shirt guy, but chicks seem to dig him**. I 'd say it was the beard that got him on all those t-shirts but I can't grow a beard other than a fail beard, so that isn't the key to sexy, obviously.

I just bent over to pick up something I dropped from a seated position and I swear to God three ribs popped out to make room for my belly. Maybe it's time to stop eating so much Pop-Tarts©. When you have to change shape like a Transformer© to perform basic body movements, it's time to put the Twix© down. That's in the Bible©. Right after the part about the wolves being kind to the bushes or whatever. Or maybe the part where Jahooba gets swallowed by the whale for 40 days and nights like that Sandra Bullock movie about drinking.

Lunch time! Maybe these new popped out ribs will give me more appetite! Score!



*I just looked up "martyr" and according to the jerks at the online dictionary, you have to die to be a martyr, so I'm totally rethinking my revolution now. Maybe I'll just steal a bunch of Pop-Tarts from the snack area in the break room. Take THAT Capitalist pigs!

**According to facts I just made up, Che's real name was Chico and him and his Father ran a car repair business in the barrio and Che was played by Freddy Prinze Sr. who died of a drug overdose, so he's totally a martyr of poor, disadvantaged drug dealers everywhere. I totally get history, is my point.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Fan Mail

Reprinted From A Letter I Got from Some A-hole:

Dear Mr. S*.,

We at the New London Literary Review have received your application for evaluation with regard to your website "The Monster Apathy", and while we are not strictly critics of the printed word, we do tend to stick mainly to those media. Your claim that "The Monster Apathy is so important it will [expletive deleted] sterilize you and sit on your face and [expletive deleted]!!", however, garnered our attention. We have, as such, reviewed a few of your entries with the intent of delivering some feedback to you. What we read was somewhere between frightening and appalling on a literary level. You seem to be using run-on sentences the way others use carriage returns. I know that you warned us that "You [expletive deleted] need to pay close attention, because I'm like [expletive deleted] dynamite! I go so fast, your wives' [expletive deleted] will drip [expletive deleted] juice all over your [expletive deleted] like my [expletive deleted] mom!!", but we were not quite prepared for what we found.

Never before has so little content presumed to occupy so much space. It really is a credit to your talents that you are able to string even the barely intelligible thoughts together the way you do. Your creative use of absent punctuation, along with your incredible knack of misspelling words makes us feel your claims that "I [expletive deleted] all over the [expletive deleted] who went to college and got degrees in being a [expletive deleted] or whatever. I'm like the [expletive deleted] Bob Villa of your stinky, dripping house of [expletive deleted]. HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

We at the Review aren't sure we can even make any recommendations for improvement. Maybe set your computer on fire? That would be a good start. Breaking your fingers seems like a particularly satisfying solution to those of us working in the writing business. Whatever it takes to insure you stop doing what your doing and perhaps go back to some form of heavily medicated psychiatric treatment. In summation, please stop writing us immediately and stop sending gifts to the editor in the form of animals you've frozen after you "totally found them that way" because if you do not cease and desist we will be forced to turn to the authorities.

Most Sincerely,
Douglas Chenowick
Editor-In-Chief
The New London Literary Review

* I changed this so you wouldn't know my last name because it's such a huge secret that foreign governments would totally shit their pants to learn my true identity. And if you think seeing a WHOLE GOVERNMENT shit its pants would be an exciting adventure, then get bent, Anarchist.

Monday, October 19, 2009

If You Get Done and Ask Yourself "Why Did I Read This?" , I Forgive You.

I woke up this morning super-mad at my alarm clock because it was being an asshole and making all kinds of noise when I was trying to sleep. And I was all "Jesus, Alarm Clock! I'm trying to sleep over here!" and it was all "Wake up, asshole." and I was all "You don't have to call me names." and it was all "You're the one who started it. You woke up angry at me and all I'm doing is my job." and I was all "That's what the Nazis said. So nice job, Anti-Semite!" and it was all "Your Greasy Granny is an Anti-Semite." and I was all "You leave Nana out of this. She'll hump anyone!" and then we both laughed so hard milk came out our noses. And that's probably a medical condition because I wasn't even drinking milk, and I'm not a cow and my nose isn't an udder. Also alarm clocks don't have noses.

This fucker is totally off the rails already, huh?

Let me start again...

So this morning I was having pleasant dreams all over the place when my alarm clock decided to tell me what's what and stomped on my face. I don't like this alarm clock even a little bit, like when you have that one cousin who always has his hand down his pants and strokes his junk subtly but not that subtly because everyone sees him,and then he picks his nose and eats it with his cock-rubbing hand and you wonder what's grosser the booger or the ball-sweat and then his mom asks him to help serve dinner and his hands are all over the dinner rolls, so now they are buttery cock-snot flavored rolls and fuck that...we had those at Christmas last year.

So the clock is just like that except instead of all that stuff about wang and snot, it just makes a loud noise and wakes me up, and that makes me hostile and totally racist against alarm clocks, and if I knew where a family of them lived I would totally make sure my kids never went over there to play because those people are just terrible. And my kids would be all "But DAAAAAD! It's not Faayy-errrrrr!" and I'd be all "Huh?" because as soon as the kids start talking I put on headphones and sing at the top of my lungs and this time I was singing "Slide it In" by Whitesnake and the kids were making funny faces and I guess that song is about humping, which I never put together before this, but yeah..."slide it in, right to the top"... That's about humping alright. I don't even need my genius detective kit to solve this mystery. I think I scared The Boy off vaginas now for keeps. Because he isn't experienced like me and doesn't know where the "top" of the vagina even is. But I do. It's the bellybutton. Don't make that face. You're not a doctor...you don't know.

Moral: The top of the vagina is the bellybutton and my alarm clock is an asshole. The end.

Friday, October 16, 2009

Okay. I gotta be quick. That's what She said! Wait...No.

So I just went to the movies and saw Transporter 2 because of course I did, and Jason Statham rips his shirt off so much you'd think he was a drug-sniffing dog and his shirt was a Samsonite and his pectoral muscles where an 8-ball of Peyote or whatever. I don't know drug words because I believe in "Hugs not Drugs" and also "Fucks Not Sucks", but that is a less firm rule, and also "Bongs not Gongs" because who the Eff needs a gong? And also...


Okay. Ignore that part. I had to use the beginning of an old post I started because I'm on a limited time frame because when you pull the fire alarm at work it usually only takes the fire department like 6 minutes to respond, and then another 10 to sweep the building, and then another 3 minutes to decide it was a false alarm and the cops should maybe investigate. And by that time I better be standing outside with everyone else and making suspicious eyes at that one coworker I have who says "short-pants" instead of "shorts" every time and no she didn't just walk out of a Daguerreotype and I don't think she served on Queen Victoria's Royal court, but that shit has got to stop, which is why I'm giving her the hairy eyeball,yo.

And I don't know about you, but typing "hairy eyeball" gives me the willies, because what does that even mean? Like your eye fell out and it was rolling along the floor and you were bent over chasing it, all shuffle-walky and every time you go to pick it up you accidentally kick it and it rolls a little further, and when you pick it up it's all covered in dirt and dust bunnies and pubic hair, and then you try blow it off real quick and put it back in, but after that it never works right again, and it sees black as white and now you are racist against your own people until you learn a valuable life lesson, and then POOF! racist no more! Except against midgets because they are short not a different color so your eyeball sees them okay.

Okay. Gotta go. Here comes the firemen. Go read my article at Mama Pop and laugh and laugh and laugh. And then leave a literal comment, because Steamy is really onto something there.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Psst. Hey Buddy! Wanna Buy a Cliché?

I'm trying to think of new ways to make money, because porn doesn't grow on trees apparently. Even if you plant a "Fuck Sluts 7: Sluts in Paradise" DVD in the backyard and water it every day and pray to Vishnu to make it grow even though you aren't Hindu and not positive which one is Vishnu, but you kinda hope it's one the one with 8 arms from Indiana Jones or that crazy elephant one that looks like he's pissed off all the time. I'd look it up but there's a handsome man in my mirror who has all my attention at the moment.

So raising money is trickier than it sounds because, and I'm just making generalizations here so don't get all "Your grasp on the current economic situation is tenuous at best." because check out how awesome my calves look when I tip-toe. Case closed. I went to the bank to get a loan, because HAHAHA!! that's a nutty thing to do when your insolvent...just like in the movies when the old lady tries to get a loan and the mean banker won't let her because she's trying to pay in cats or whatever, and then the loan guy is all "I'm sorry, but that's not good enough." and she's all "You're not sorry yet. But you WILL be." and then she curses him which is a magic power that all old people have and when I'm old I'm gonna curse the Fuck out of pretty much everyone. Don't refill my coffee? Guess what, Waitress? You're cursed. Make me sit in a full diaper all day while you talk about your kids at the nurse's station? Cursed.

It's like fighting crime when you get old, I think.

But I digest... I totally didn't get the loan because I guess the bank is racist against poor people and the guy was all "How did you even go bankrupt 16 times?" and I was all "I shall fight for the good people of Sherwood!" and then I jumped on his desk and looked around for the bags with the "$" on them but there were none, and then I tusseled with a security guard and tripped on the velvet ropes while shouting "Yoiks and Away!" like Daffy Duck as I tried escaping. Security guards have no sense of humor is the moral to THAT story.

And then I thought I'd do a pyramid scheme, but it turns out slaves aren't cheap and neither are 300 ton blocks of granite and I don't even know how I'm supposed to make money off this effing pyramid, so I give up. It was probably a lot easier in Egypt because of Charlton Heston and the Jews being cheap labor. I tried hiring the kid next door to do it and he was all "Five bucks." but that is the opposite of making money so I knifed the tires on his Schwinn and put my hands on my hips and did a forceful nod and made a "humph!" sound. That's one more valuable life lesson I've imparted on the younger generation.

I pretty much NEED a parade if there's any kind of justice in the world.

Friday, October 9, 2009

Finger-Banging the Little Mermaid

I didn't have time to write anything for this blog today because maybe I had to fight off a thousand evil Sith lords or wrestle a T. Rex or write a post for Mama Pop, and one flash of brilliance a day is all I can muster because it's better to burn out than fade away sayeth the Lord or maybe that was Def Leppard back when they had 10 arms and I used to draw their logo in my social studies notebook instead of taking notes and it's totally their fault I think Canada is part of The North Pole and that the indigenous peoples of the deep South American Amazon are mind-controlled pygmy cannibal under the tyrannical control of a previously undiscovered species of monkey that I like to call "Hyper-Gorillas". Okay that's not Def Leppard's fault. I blame Styx for that one.

So, In long, I'm not actually writing anything today and I know you're disappointed but I have news for you, I'm not your Walt Disney World experience. I'm not going to give you a wake-up call from Goofy, or let you get a blow-jay from Ariel, or watch Snow White pound vegetables up her ass if that's your thing, because unlike Disney I believe in family values. I know my family's value because I tried to sell them to gypsies one time and I know 138 bucks sounds like a lot of jello shots, but I had to draw the line somewhere. Then the gypsies clubbed me and stole my wallet, but the joke is on them because I'm completely broke. HAHAHAHA! Take THAT gypsies!! Now where did I have that insurance card? I need to get all this head trauma looked at.

In conclusion, Your mom. Also, I'm sorry I didn't write today except for this and at Mama Pop, which you can go read if you want, but I've done better, so maybe just click over there and pretend to read it, and then come back and tell me it was LOL or WTF or OMFG or TWSS or whatever it is you people do in your spare time when you're not watching Minnie Mouse get double teamed by Pluto and The Absent-Minded Professor or whatever. LOL!!

Pervs.


Moral : I also got Nominated for Five Star Friday with this bit about Zombieland. That one is totally funny and if you don't get it than that's on your shoulders. (*disapproving glare*)

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Weird Al Is Still Alive

So I'm at work, walking through the Parts Vault, which totally sounds like a top secret place where we keep the cybertronic brains and gripper claws for assembling various kinds of Terminators© but is really just where I go to get screws when I need them. (That's TOTALLY what SHE said!) and as I'm walking I'm looking at my feet because Fat Mike works back there and I'm trying not to attract his attention because sometimes he calls me Ken, and one thing I can't abide is being called the wrong thing because that hurts my feelings and makes me challenge people to duels. And he is too much of a heart attack risk to be slapping with my fine silk gloves, and the last thing I need is to kill someone today. Well...the second to last thing. The last thing I need, is to hear Weird Al Yankovic sing "Eat it" it turns out. Because that is exactly what I did hear.

Why the hell would they even ever play that song on the radio? It's 2009 and Michael Jackson is feeling up cherubs right now, so how is this even a little bit relevant? Shit. Maybe Weird Al died. Hold please. I have to check something.

(*elevator music...awkward looks at each other...no one talks*)

Okay, I'm back. Weird Al isn't dead, which is an incredible relief because otherwise where would I get my hilarious parodies of popular songs? Tenacious D? If you think Tenacious D is a suitable replacement for the subtle humor of Weird Al, than I think maybe it's time we part ways, but you can still read my blog and comment and I'll still comment back, but the damage has already been done in my mind and like crapping in your boss' recycle bin while he's at a meeting because he asked you to work overtime, there's no turning back. That is a fundamental divide in our philosophies. Weird Al is like the Bjorn Borg of Pedophilia. I'm not sure what that means but I think we can all agree that I'm right.

So since Weird Al isn't dead, why are they playing "Eat It"? Are they trying to be whimsical and retro at the same time? Because if they wanted to do that they could just snort a line of coke in a shabby apartment with a cardboard sign over one window that says "Studio 54" in scrawled, black, Sharpie© letters and then be unenlightened and think "Broads need to be less mouthy." because the sexual and socio-political upheavals that are going on are intimidating and that isn't "macho" at all and women need to put their bras back on and not set them on fire and just settle the hell down because this is 1975 for Christ's sake, and where the fuck did you guys put my Bee Gees 8-track anyway? Maybe that's not quite whimsy but it's close. It's like mistaking a hippopotamus for a rhinoceros when your stoned. In the end, you'll get arrested for trying to ride them either way.

I think I'm off topic. Do over!

So now Fat Mike is singing "Eat It" really loud and having a hard time breathing and is saying "Hey Ken! Remember THIS ONE?" and laughing and doing this dance that kinda looks like celestial bodies nearly colliding and I just want to find my screws and get back to reality, because apparently the Parts Vault is like the Twilight Zone©, only without Burgess Meredith© having broken glasses. AND HE LOVES BOOKS AND IS LIVING IN A LIBRARY!!!!

The End.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Tech Update: Female Yoda Found. Likes Sex.

I haven't done a tech update in a really long time so maybe I'm a little rusty but shut up. It's not like you're paying for this. Here goes:

It turns out that if you are a Star Wars fan your day just got a little brighter because maybe you didn't know it, but there is a female whatever-Yoda-is, and her name is Yaddle and now you can go out to all the hottest nightspots with your pantheons of hip friends who you totally didn't meet in a chat room and walk up to a hot girl at the bar and say "Hey! Guess what! There is a female Yoda and her name is Yaddle. And you have nice cans." because if there's one things girls like it's to have their breasts objectified. Trust me. I read that in a scientific journal I think. And the cool thing about Yaddle is, I don't know anything about her, so I'm way cooler than I thought I was and that's a big win for the home team.

In darker, but related news they have just invented a Yaddle sex doll, so if you ever secretly dreamed of being a creepy guy who lives in a basement and masturbates into backward talking puppets, than you owe a wishing well somewhere two bits, because a dream is a wish that your heart makes especially when it comes to deviant, sad Sci-Fi playing with yourself. I'd post a picture but after I saw it, my eyes pretty much sued me for emancipation and I can't go laying anything that heavy on you. Let me describe...

Take a picture of Yoda.
Now think of Yoda wearing a dirty red-headed wig, like you might find on a dead prostitute at 6am.
Now think of someone duct-taping a pretend vagina to that picture of Yoda. Someone like your mom.
Now think of that pretend vagina being painted with green spray paint.
Now have sex with it.
Now go see a therapist.

Here's a picture of Yaddle with clothes on, for any of you non-freaks who just wonder what a dead hooker wig looks like and have never been to see the trunk of my car. If you want to see the other one, here's a link. But I declare diplomatic immunity if your eyes try to leap out of your head: