Thursday, December 31, 2009

This Cupcake Tastes Like Entrapment

So It's New Year's Eve here at work which according to my calculations equals "who gives a fuck" about how much actual work gets done, and everyone is walking around real slow and pretending to not be watching the clock, but they are totally obvious about it because you don't just casually glance at any old wall every five minutes unless you are expecting it to topple over on you at any moment and then it's probably better to just walk away from it instead. No one ever held up a wall by staring at it. Except for that one X-man who had boobs but wasn't Halle Berry or Sookie Stackhouse with a hair-streak.

"Jean Grey?" he said, pretending he didn't know the answer so as to not eff up his mad street cred, Yo.

My point is, the clock is probably getting a big head and is starting to believe the hype about itself because everyone is looking at it, even though it's not fancy like the ones they make in Switzerland or Belgium or one of those other European Countries where nothing ever happens unless Nazis are invading so they have to make a big deal out of clock-making or chocolate or discreet banking practices or tulips or whatever.

So the clock with it's giant ego would be all "I'm actually a chronometer" and I'd be all "Get off your high-horse, Clock!" and it'd be all "You still have a long time until lunch. See?" and then I'd freak out and tear it off the wall and jump up and down on it and then there's a big record-scratch noise like in all the funniest movie trailers and everyone is looking at me and I'm just standing there panting in a pile of broken smart-ass clock.

That didn't really happen except in my mind.

But still. If there WAS a talking clock with a chip on it's shoulder, I would definately teach it what's what. Because I believe in fairness and equality, like Kevin Costner in The Untouchables and even without a Sean Connery Irish cop with a Scottish accent by my side I can still rid the world of uppity clocks trying to run liquor in from Canada for Al Capone. (You might think that metaphor was a bit jumbled, but as a counter-argument I have this to say: Think about it.)

We aren't allowed to have food on the work floor because of something-something rats and the fact that we build medical equipment and all the super-squares at the FDA get all gay* and panicky when one stupid person dies because they get Pop Tart© crumbs and rat droppings on their liver. So today one of the engineers brought me a cupcake with a "2010" plastic thing in the 13 inches of frosting on top, and he said "Happy New Year, You Handsome Devil!" or something close to that, and held the cupcake out with expectant eyes.

I was instantly suspicious. I looked around to see if maybe it was a trap and there was a supervisor watching from inside a barrel or something. But then I remembered I don't work on a shipping dock, so they would have to drag a barrel that they bought somewhere special into my work area and THAT would probably rouse suspicions. So instead I looked up at the ceiling for cameras. And then the engineer was all "What are you looking at?" because he was still holding the cupcake out to me, and I was all "Nothing. Thank You. Merry Christmas. "

I find that if you wish people "Merry Christmas" in the week between Christmas and New Years it makes them think you are Jewish and then they leave you alone because of how awkward things just got. Anyway(s), I took the cupcake and when he turned to leave I flipped off everyone who was probably spying on me from hidden locations in a slow turning circle and then dramatically threw the cupcake out and stood there defiantly just daring them to try and catch me with an illegal cupcake. Then I got written up for using obscene gestures at work.

Stupid hidden cameras.

*"gay" here is the classic definition of gay from the seventies where it means "uptight and tattle-telly and square and whiney" not the homosexual one. Homosexuals are way cooler than the gay FDA.

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Because I'm Getting Rid Of My "Drafts"

I found this way, way back in my archives and I never published it, and I don't remember it even so maybe I never wrote it. I'm a mystery pretty much all the time is my point. It resembles real writing so I'm reluctant to post it, because what if I win a major award with it and then millions of people stream here to see me, and then they read all my cock-and-booby based entries and they get all racist against me? I guess that's a chance I have to take...for America. It was early last winter when I wrote this:

We sit on the couch like dignitaries without countries, trying to make sense of the pale newsman who is telling us that the drive in will be perilous. Sleep is still a hooked and barbed thing sticking to us. We stare at him without comprehension. We sit and wait. For wakefulness. For purpose. For motivation.

None is forthcoming.

The pale man tells us about a house fire. The address is familiar... the way a person might be if you had just recently dreamed them and then forgotten. The house is slumped and sorry and blackened from the gutting. It looks defeated.

Outside the car tires hiss off the pavement and the snow pellets tick a million clock beats against the black window glass. It's like God is tapping his foot. Waiting for our day to start. Waiting for us to know that it has already.

Boy: Can we eat?
Me: Sure.
Girl: Waffles?
Me: Sure.
Boy: I want Pop Tarts
Me: Okay.

Another set of moments amble by before I am motivated enough to rise off the couch. I trudge into the kitchen, open the freezer and then I am blank and thinking about the dream I had where the snow was deep and the sky was electric. There was a girl. I was saying I would know just what to write in the morning. But I was wrong and she told me what to write instead.

Boy: Dad?
Me: Oh! Sorry!

I get breakfast and we wake. Slowly and together. The laughter filters in between the grumbles like the coffee that is cheerily bubbling. The sun bruises the sky and the impatient snow stops for a moment. The house is warm. We bundle up and then we are gone.

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

How Much Mt. Dew Do I Need To Drink Before I'm Extreme?

Okay. I'm totally ready now.


I'm serious, I've seen enough action movies to know that when a person is living a seemingly boring life and it doesn't look like anything interesting will ever happen to them, POW! something extreme happens and I don't know if the Russians need to invade or if someone needs to hijack a building or what, but obviously, if I am THIS handsome and living a boring life than it's about time for my kids to get kidnapped or something, because I am an action hero waiting to happen pretty much all the time.

I've been trying to stimulate (*snicker*) this reaction by trying to be a little more actiony but so far my Axe© Extreme BMX Jump Double Ollie Pussy Attractor© Body Wash doesn't seem to be working. Maybe I'm using it wrong. According to the commercials women should be all over me and rap metal should be playing and me and my skater friends should all be slamming Berry Fuckfest© Mt. Dew or whatever while doing extreme kick-flips off my coffee table. So far I think I just smell like old grapes and shoe polish. I don't know if that's extreme enough for an action hero of my caliber.

The other thing I did was, the other day, the kids asked me what was for lunch and I said "Tuna fish sandwiches! Ooo WA-AAA-AAA-AA!!" because rap-metal is always the most extreme and when bodies are allowed to hit the floor and people are getting down with the sickness it's the aural equivalent of ski-jumping off the back of a lunging shark or jumping out of an airplane with only a surfboard and a tourniquet. I'm starting to feel like maybe whoever is in charge of making real life action movies isn't doing a very good job, because... I mean...come on! I'm WEARING Oakleys© for Christ's sake!

I double checked to make sure I am living an extreme enough lifestyle so I did a search for Extreme Sports and pretty much everyone in the whole world is base jumping or BMX Dirt biking off dinosaurs, or Super Para-sailing into volcanos and all I'm doing is drinking my coffee too fast and then holding my pee in. That's not extreme enough, I guess. But all that extremeness looks a little dangerous to be honest so I typed in "Extreme Dolphins" because they are gentle and loving sea creatures that guide lost sailors to land and hump mermaids but still find time to do radical double-ollie kick-flips out of the water, and this is what I found:

That's what I'm talking about! Ooo WA-AAA-AAA-AA!!

Then I looked up Carrottop because he seems to be a super-extreme gentleman because of his eyebrows and muscles and lack of self-awareness, and I found this:

Is it just me or is his whole body pointing at his junk?
That's a good trick!

I think I make a pretty compelling argument for my action hero status readiness. Your Witness.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

This Pretty Much Counts As My Community Service Right?

Vic and Becky and I got together and decided that it was time for a super trifecta pimp and the reason for that is that the person we are pimping is super-nice and likes to wear Wolverine claws and attack her cat and dress as a pirate and write funny adventures that often involve boobs on her blog. So this is me giving up a rare pimp for Miss Yvonne. Way to go, Yvonne. You have garnered my very handsome and eloquent attention.

If you don't read Miss Yvonne, it's because there is something wrong with you, and not a good thing like you were exposed to gamma radiation and now every time you get mad your eyes get all intense and then your forehead gets sweaty and then you are Lou Ferrigno painted green. I mean a bad thing is wrong with you like a tumor. Only this tumor is in your heart and in your funny bone and can only be stopped by reading Miss Yvonne forever. Look, my point is you can either go subscribe to her or you can make your pro-tumor position known to the whole world, or at least to the people who read this blog, which, according to my calculations IS the whole world. Don't be your tumor's yes-man. Seek treatment. Go subscribe.

Miss Yvonne usually has renters at her house and that is hilarious because everyone knows people who rent things are a-holes. I am a renter, so that's not racist of me to say. And her renters are usually inconsiderate or sometimes possible cat-pedophiles or just regular pedophiles but there is no evidence of that. You should never be afraid to cast wild accusations around though, because what if you're right? Now who looks like a genius detective? You do. She also lives with Captain Carl and the Kiddo and frequently is visited by this crazy kid who she calls "Emo", so there's fun for the whole family as long as your family doesn't mind boobs, and cat-rape, and swear words, and laughter. Is your family anti-laughter? Then maybe don't read Miss Yvonne.

Another reason to not read Miss Yvonne is if you think I am not a genius and you don't think I have any good taste at all, even in my mouth. But I do have good taste, and I love Skittles© so "your witness" and also " your mom".... Oooh! That's another thing Miss Yvonne excels at! The Your Mom Joke. If ever there was a Your Mom that needed joking about, all you would have to do is go to Miss Yvonne's site and she'd tell you what's what. Trust me, Your Mom has plenty of jokes to be told about her. Because she's a whore. I'm not saying that for sure. The evidence is circumstantial. But if it looks like an apple and smells like an apple and tastes like an apple, than your mom is a whore. Case closed.

Moral: Go Read Miss Yvonne.
Bonus Moral: I look awesome in these new elastic-band jeans.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Adversity in the Workplace

We were all corralled into a special meeting this morning at work and maybe some people expected me to be on time and not wearing headphones and paying close attention but those people were gravely disappointed because the only thing I was paying attention to was the shiny wrapper of the Three Musketeers© bar in the vending machine. All that delicious whipped, who-gives-a-fuck-what-it-is-and-don't-say-it's-nougat-because-Mars© bars-had-nougat-of-an-entirely-different-consistency-and-flavor...yum. Seriously. If I found out the stuff in the middle of a Three Musketeers© was whipped kitten, I'd be all "That's too bad. I bet real kittens raise the price of the candy. They should figure out a synthetic kitten substitute maybe." And then I would continue to eat. Because I love animals but Three Musketeers© are only lesser than Skittles© because you can't pretend Three Musketeers© are your anti-psychotic medication when the doctors aren't watching you close enough.

Now I'm not positive what the meeting was about but I'm pretty sure I heard the speaker say we should all "Embrace Adversity" or something and then he started talking about all these different ethnic groups and I was all "Man! That's so racist! I don't think working with people of different cultural backgrounds qualifies as 'adversity'!" , but my indignation was quickly forgotten because that Three Musketeers© was calling me and if it were a friend on the telephone it would have said "Hey man! You should come over here and eat me." and I don't know what kind of friends YOU have, but mine were delicious.

And then I got to thinking about it and what if by "Embrace Adversity" they meant they wanted us to like try and do our jobs while fighting off dinosaurs, because that is pretty much the most adverse work environment I can think of. Fighting dinosaurs while listening to Ashlee Simpson albums.(zing!) Wait. Is Ashlee Simpson still even a relevant reference? I don't know. But I do know dinosaurs, and when I say I would have to battle dinosaurs I don't mean pussy dinosaurs like Hadrosaurus who has consistently demonstrated an advanced matriarchal society in the fossil record with strong indications that they reared their babies through pubescence and into adulthood. Oh good for YOU, Hadrosaur! Way to be the shining star of the dino world. All the others hate you, you goddamn suck up. I'm not even talking about you anyway(s) because I mean nasty motherfuckers like velociraptor and T. Rex and Your Mom (zing! zing!). And thinking about trying to do my job while battling your mom's-a-sore-ass, or that swimmy one that looks like Nessie and I think it would be very difficulty indeed, and if that's the kind of Adversity I need to embrace, you can count me out.

I think these historical images of what happens when people try living with Dinosaurs speak for themselves, but if not allow me to say "No THANK you!"

I'll take the kind like they were talking about where I have to work with Mexicans, thank you very much. That's as much adversity* as I can take. I still say that's racist though.

Moral: I want a Three Musketeers©

*Turns out they were saying "diversity" which makes a lot more sense, and is way easier to embrace than "adversity". It would be like choosing between hugging a handsome, majestic unicorn or hugging your mom when she's on a tequila bender and has got a mean streak on.

Monday, December 14, 2009

Rape-achu and Some Links

Hey. Just thought I'd drop by because I've been a little absent lately. Also because I'm so handsome. It's probably good that stop in and tell everyone what's what because otherwise maybe you would think I was kidnapped and being ransomed off to the highest bidder at the high-end man-whore slave auction. There, there. All your concerns, albe-they super legitimate, are for naught. I have evaded any kind of capture and am not involved in any sexy escapades involving narrow escapes, leaps of faith, or tight-rope three-ways. I was going to write something about going to Marrakesh* with a troop of sexy acrobats but then The Wiggles came on and I love those guys.

So anyway(s), I'm working hard and don't have time for you people but in the sensitive feelings in my heart you are still number one or at least number 4 and in keeping with my blood oath of always posting when I feel like it, here is my latest find from the internet:

"Pika-screw!!" (Is that even funny? I totally bet it is.)

This is the perfect gift for the home invader/ pedophile in your life because nothing warm kids up to their impending rape like Pikachu! This cuddly pokemon ski-mask will keep you nice and anonymous for any number of applications from convenience store robberies to scaring the fuck out of seniors who will mistake this adorable pocket monster friend for a demon! HAHAHHAHAA! Notice also it can be worn rolled up to look like the gayest Viking Helmet that ever was. Like if a viking wore this shit on a crossing of the Icy Atlantic than you can be sure that Njörðr would exact his vengeance upon him for being too fruity. And if you think I had to look up Njörðr, to find out he was the Nordic God of the Sea, than you have obviously underestimated my genius, and that's pretty much the last mistake you ever make unless you follow the links below.

Here's my Mama Pop Article on Youth in Revolt.
Michael Cera is the new black. And I don't mean JACK Black! (*slide whistle*)

After 11am EST, you can go there and read my take on the upcoming Tron Sequel.
Hint: Disney sucks my wang. (Notice I didn't use any gross adjectives like "hard" or "hairy" or "enormous", because I believe in your right to decide for yourself. Also because as My Mom used to say "The proof is in the pudding", and Man, did she get upset when I stuck my enormous, hard, hairy wang in her pudding!)

*Marrakesh is the single-most exciting place to have sexy adventures, because look at that "k" in it's name! How Foreign! How Sexy!

Thursday, December 10, 2009

My Dirty Messhole

So my boss, after announcing that maybe I'd be on overtime all weekend felt that he should maybe add insult to injury and put a little sarcastic something-something for me at the end of his proclamation, but he got flustered, probably because I am so goddamn handsome*,and what he ended up with was this catastrophe of profanity which he tried to pass off as smug and not retarded but failed miserably. Here's what he said:

"Welcome to the fourth quarter in this (*stammer*) Messhole."

I just looked at him a blinked a few times. Did he just call this place a messhole? What the fuck is a messhole? Is it like an asshole only for a place of employment? Like if the cafeteria is the mouth and the bathrooms are the kidneys and the me is the heart of the place, than is the messhole the bad place where everything goes out and nothing should ever come in because who wants to go to the doctor and try to explain that you've got ANOTHER something stuck in your messhole? Like a toy truck or a frozen banana or that one time in college when you jokingly got a Three dozen pixie-stix lodged up there and everyone in the hospital gave you funny looks because you kept farting and shiny colored sugar would go shooting across the room behind you and your friends all laughed because they thought it looked kinda like a ticker-tape parade. Your friends in college were such messholes is my point. You could do better. Also you should have never dated that Tanya girl even though she could fit a whole fist in her mouth, because let's face it...the only thing attached to your body that size is your actual fist.

And that goes in her messhole.** (*slide whistle*)

So that made me wonder if maybe the opposite of the messhole is the nicehole. Or maybe the OrderlyHole. Or Possibly the cleanhole. Either way I think we can all agree that was an awesome flub but he just looked me in the eyes and dared me to laugh, and one thing I can say for myself is I always accept dares***, so then I said "HAHAHAAHAAA!! You sure fucked THAT up, Jack!" even though his name isn't Jack. And then he made stunned and angry eyes at me, so I did a quick flourish of my cape and threw down some flash powder and escaped.**** True story.*****

*I'm just guessing but I attribute lots of things to my being so handsome, like migratory patterns of southbound Canadian Geese, not winning the lottery even though I totally play all the time, and in the car I even test the theory by shouting "Honk if you think I'm handsome!" and then maybe I try to swerve into them...but maybe they just think I'm handsome. It's hard to say.

**I don't endorse the fisting of anyone's messhole for real, because it could be anywhere and maybe that means on ME somewhere. So just say "no". Also: "Don't do drugs. Especially hard drugs... I mean pot and peyote are probably okay as long as you don't trip out and try to rob a liquor store or anything." I'm such a community servant.

*** I especially accept dares that start "You can only screw me if..." or "You can only get out of jail when..." or "I dare you to be more sexy!" Because I totally can be.

**** It was really a handful of Skittles© and by "escaped" I mean "was escorted out"

***** Not true at all, except the handsome part which is so true that I just crapped my pants from how true it a Christmas miracle only instead of God's son be born into a donkey or whatever it was just me sitting here with an incredibly big messhole in my pants.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Every Rose Has It's Thorn. Except Me. I'm Awesome And Still Totally A Thornless Rose

I don't know what's wrong with me. And No... it's not being too sexy, because I already thought of that as I was doing my 1000 daily crunches* and I quickly ruled it out because check out this winning smile! Being gorgeous is just the price I have to pay and I came to terms with it long ago. Maybe you are wondering what I did that makes it so I have to "pay the price", well I guess you have your one question for God now, if the chance comes up.

Lately the first drafts of my posts have been like that one time you fed a bag of sugar to your neighbors ADHD kid and then chased them around the yard with a squirtgun for an hour until they were so wound up they just had to look at squirrels to give them heart-attacks and then they bit the mailman and you could hear them barking well past midnight and then they had to go to a special school for a while and the whole time you felt guilty and WANTED to tell your neighbor, but she has wild loud sex on the weekends too much and that makes it difficult to watch porn movies. Anyway(s) my first drafts have been like Hunter S. Thompson wrote them while on a peyotes bender, only he wrote them in a language he made up and used Charles Manson's blood for ink. All that multiplied by cocaine = my first drafts. They are unreadable. I mean...they're readable and in English but reading them makes me feel like I'm having a psychotic break and I usually have to go sit in a corner with a warm cup of Jasmine tea when I'm done re-reading them. You know what you can't fix with Jasmine tea...I mean besides being gay? Nothing. That's right.

I'd give you a sample of what I'm talking about but I take my responsibilities to my audience very seriously, because sometimes it's the thought that counts and my thoughts probably count double because I'm both smart and sexy, like a jaguar or that one pirate who is way too clean and doesn't have any hooks or bad teeth and gets all the wenches and the other pirates generally distrust him and then they have a stretch of bad weather and think he's a bad omen so they eat him. I'm like that pirate. Only at the last minute I escape and have sex with the Governor's daughter. But not Keira Knightly because her face looks like it's trying to run away in two different directions at once. If it had to be her though, I would take the opportunity to make the incredibly funny joke "I have sex with Keira...NIGHTLY!! HAHAHAHAHA!!" and then I'd punch myself in the balls, because I'm tough but fair.

* I never knew how many chips you'd have to eat to do 1000 crunches every day, but I guess these diet people know what they're doing (*opens third bag*)

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Public Service Announcement

I think if you are a woman than you pretty much owe me a life-debt like if you were a Wookie and I was a Rougishly Handsome Swashbuckling Space Pirate. And the reason for this is that I taught my pre-teen son that at no point during a french kiss is there an exchange of phlegm. Now this may be disappointing to some of you who rely on soul kisses as your primary source of Vitamin Snot, but for everyone else it just means one less person hocking up on you for no apparent reason. Win/win.

I'm not sure what he had in mind exactly, but I think it was like a game of hot potato where the phlegm is the "potato" and the whole experience is the "hot". I don't know if this is the kind of game worth playing though. It's not like hunting down Keanu Reeves and turning him into the most dangerous prey. It's pretty much just love + boogers, and that's not really much of a game at all. I don't even know what that equation equals, so don't get all stuck up with your super-maths, but I'm thinking it's like something close to a J. Lo. song. (zing!). In my mind the frenchers take turns sending the phlegm back and forth between them until the music stops and whoever has it at the end has to swallow it. It's like truth or dare, only without the truth and if you choose "dare" someone spits in your mouth.

Anyway(s), I talked him down from the edge, and he no longer believes that frenching involves any kind of "bonus" exchange of nasal material. He will, however, be going for a boob honk and maybe he'll shout "Aaa-0000-gahhh!!" like an old-timey car horn and then do the "Truffle Shuffle" or maybe just lick his finger and stick it onto his pushed-out butt and make a "ssss!!" sound because of how hot he is. I explained that all these rituals are more acceptable then putting your boogers into someone else's mouth when they aren't expecting it*... then again so is showing off Polaroids of you mounting their mom or whipping out your wang and singing a song about elephants. Love is a fickle mistress is my point.

* Because maybe when you expect someone to put boogers in your mouth it IS hot. Miss Yvonne? Please comment.