Friday, April 30, 2010

Skanks Are People Too. In Theory.

This picture has nothing to do with this post. It just makes me laugh.

I was going to write this whole post in defense of Skanks because I feel like everyone is racist against them even though they provide the valuable service of passing out on the pool table in the middle of a crowded party with their skirt hiked up around their waist, and I don't know about you but that is the vision of an America I want to live in, where the vaginas are easy to look at and the suggestive eyebrow waggles as she opens a container of Altoids flow like milk and honey. I don't know what that even means. Honey doesn't even hardly flow.

Anyway(s), I started that post but it always ended up being an elaborate "your mom" joke, and I like to think that I am above that even though that is obviously super-self-deceptionish and really the only thing I am above when it comes to your mom is the cellar porn-dungeon where I keep her. Here's a taste of what I am too classy to post:

"Now I first became Pro-Skank when I rolled off your mom the other day and she asked me to pass over her smokes and then proceeded to blow her nose in her panties which she pulled out of her handbag. And I thought 'I wonder what there is to eat in the fridge? Maybe there is still some of that salami left. That was delicious!' and then I thought "I wonder if those estrogen pills I just stole from her can get me high?' but THEN I thought 'Someone ought to ask her if she needs cab fare to a clinic or something because that smell can't be normal...but who?' "

So basically I can sum up the whole post thusly :

1) The word "skank" is super-funny.
2) Your Mom is a whore.

Not exactly mankind's first step on the moon or anything, but I think there is a time and a place for between breaking new ground in blogging and that time for me is "later" and that place is "Kangaroos" because I stopped paying attention a while back and I just saw a picture of some kangaroos. Hey look. I can't be this handsome AND focused. Jesus. Sometimes your neediness really gets to me.

In defense of my own misogyny, here is a picture from the Slave Girl Princess Leia Car Wash that was held in LA a few days ago. Now I'm no genius lawyer, but I think we can all agree that this case should be dismissed and I should be remanded to the custody of Your Mom.

See what I did there? We came full circle back to Skanks. I can practically smell my Pulitzer. Or maybe that's just the skanks. It smells like foot cream and old tires.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

On Being a Social Butterfly

I was going to write this super, in-touch with the sensitive feelings in my heart, post about how this lady freaked out on me because I had my shirt off and was doing flex poses in front of the mirror in the restroom*. And sure, I SUPPOSE there's an argument to be made that I didn't belong in the ladies room to begin with, but the men's room smelled really bad and was dirty and didn't have a period couch for reclining on after my "workout", so I think we can all agree I did the right thing. And besides LADY, if your chief argument is that you don't want your daughter exposed to naked men, why the hell did you even BRING her to Chuck E. Cheese? Don't you know that place is like a well-stocked cafeteria for Pedophiles? Sheesh. I blame most of her reaction on how stunningly handsome I am, or else I would be more upset. My Advanced Pectoral Muscles© are like a shock and awe campaign against your dirty terrorist eyes hiding in their bunker of sexual ignorance.


I was just practicing my Tourette's Syndrome impression in case I decide to go to any parties this weekend where no one knows me**, because nothing breaks the ice at a boring-ass wake quiet party like an uninvited guest who runs in screaming profanities and racial slurs***. The trick is the barking. I like to add extra barks just so I seem legit. It's like my calling card or my DNA at that stupid crime scene from SIX years ago. God. Who knew semen decomposed so slowly? (besides your mom) Anyway(s), I was practicing my barking and swearing when a co-worker walked by behind me and I had to do a quick cover-up, so I pretended I had just hit myself in the thumb accidentally. And the thing I said I hit it with was a "filthy asshole bitch fuck cunt". I'm pretty sure they bought it.


Moral: In conclusion, this is a picture of the best party in the world:

Woo-Hoo!! I'll have one more LSD- Jager-Roofie-Bomb, Garcon!!

*Turns out I DID write about it. You're welcome. This post is like hard-hitting news that touches the heart AND informs. I'm expecting a call from the Pulitzer people any day now.

**Some people call it "crashing" a party, but it's my contention that the ONLY reason I wasn't invited is because they don't know me, so Quid Pro Quo, I go anyway(s). I'LL decide whether or not I'm invited places, thank you very much!

*** The only better way to break the ice is a good old-fashioned tickle fight. Now the rules change depending on the circumstances of how the deceased parted this Mortal Coil how uptight the family is, but in general you want to single out an old lady in a wheelchair or the one Aunt who's totally tanked on Mimosas. They always laugh the best. Nanas because they so rarely get groped, and drunk Aunts because they're whores.

Monday, April 19, 2010

Updated!: Now With Handy "Title" For Future Reference.

I've been trying to write a post all morning but nothing is working, so instead I'm going to post all the false starts because (*dismissive wanking motion*) Enjoy. Or don't. I'm not your mom. You can tell I'm not because I can't shoot ping pong balls across the room with my vagina or scream safewords in German.

Some people say that one of the hardest parts of growing older is my wang. HAHAHAHAHA! just one says that. Everyone probably thinks it though because I keep the broken off arm of a baby doll in my pants and sure maybe people see it sticking through my super-tight jeans and think "Jesus Christ. He has a hand on the end of his very crooked penis!", but I'm not about to correct them because curiosity killed the cat and a hand on the end of the wang killed people not paying attention to my crotch.

But what I was really saying was that one of the hardest about growing older is coming to terms with your impeding death. The notion that the mortal body is a vessel through which...

Man, that was really boring. Here! Look at this cat! She's upset because of the embarrassing date she got stuck taking to the cat prom! HAHAHHAAHA!! Cats are hilarious!!

Something, something...get some pussy later.

See I always post pictures of cats when all I can think to write about is stuff that is super-obscene or taboo. Like that one time when your mom....

Cats walk on FOUR legs not TWO, you silly cat!!!! HAHAHHAHAHAHA!!

Shoot me.


Friday, April 16, 2010

Sometimes Writing Is NOT the Answer.

I was going to write a post about weight loss because HAHAHAHAHA! Right? Oh brother, is it hard to lose weight! And then I would revolutionalize the internet because dieting is one thing no one ever writes about, so I'm like the Christopher Columbus of blogging, except without the cool hat and the historically inaccurate credit for something I didn't do. But then I thought about it and the idea just seemed silly because in order to lose weight I have to have "unwanted pounds", and I think we can all agree that the only unwanted pounds I have are probably on someone else standing next to me and making me look less handsome. I wish people would think about these things before they leave the house.

I saw a movie last weekend called Sliding Doors and I was all "Bony Gweneth Paltrow, don't worry! You'll find love!" but then everything in the movie, which I thought was new-ish looked dated and from the 90s, and it had the old Miramax logo before the titles, and Miramax just went out of business, so what the fuck, World? Has everyone been hiding this movie from me? Why wasn't I told about it? Is it a backhand allegory about my life and everyone was afraid to tell me? It totally was. I see it now. Anorexic Gweneth Paltrow is my ego and unless I feed it, it's going to wither and die and get cheated on by an obnoxious British guy. No wait. My feelings are that guy from "The Mummy Returns" and they are sensitive because we used to be in interesting indie films instead of more bullshit with Brandon Fraser. I totally get metaphors, is my point.

I'm a big supporter of science most of the time, and I've spent the last half hour trying to demonstrate that support by coming up with a funny analogy about the G-spot, and how it's like trying to find a ghost with a dog whistle and a metal detector, and how without scientists telling us that there is one, the myth of the G-spot would not be perpetuated and men would not have a better shot of getting humped because finding that thing is like looking for a needle in a haystack but the haystack is a vagina. But I couldn't find a good way to word that analogy. So instead I just explained it. Man... All this and handsome too...

Anyway(s), I just read an article where the people who make Tasers© paid a company to get sheep high on Crystal Meth and then tase them to see what happens. I could've save them a ton of time. The result is a bunch of fucked-up, confused sheep. If I was a sheep, I would be the sexiest one and I'd get raped by the creepy farm-hand all the time. That doesn't have anything to do with Tasers© or meth, but I think we can all agree I'm glad I'm not a sheep. I think they were trying to prove you can't kill a junkie by tasing them. And we all know sheep = junkie to science. Rats are normal people and sheep are junkies. Think about it.

DUDE!!! WTF!!! Why are you harshing my mellow!!*

So I guess the point of the study is to prove that doing drugs makes you immortal. Nice job Taser©. Like I needed ANOTHER reason to do Meth.

*This is the only drug lingo I know and probably super-current, so if you haven't heard it yet go do some drugs and wait. But not if you're a kid. Kids should just say "No", because drugs are like a sheep being tasered only in a bad way.

PS: Go read my article at Mama Pop after 1pm EST today FOR SURE! It's about a movie called Big Tits Zombie in 3D. It's my job to elevate independent cinema, but it is my LIFE'S WORK to talk about boobies. Don't let me down.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

I Hope Van Halen Has Diplomatic Immunity

Nothing "Hot for" ever happens to me at work and I'm starting to think it's a vast conspiracy where strippers are being kept from me because just being near me gets them pregnant on account of how virile and manly I am. There's no scientific fact that that's true, but I think we can all agree it probably is. (*sips cognac*)

When "Hot for Teacher" came out in 1984, I was a pubescent boy and that doesn't mean I smelled like pubic hair, it turns out. It means I wanted a girlfriend super-hard. What exactly I would do with said girlfriend remained a mystery but I was fairly sure it had something to do with boobies, and if my cousin was to be believed, safe sex. ("safe" in this case equals "anal", because that way you were safe from getting her pregnant. Thanks for the Helpful Tip, Rob!)

So here comes Van Halen... all teachers in miniskirts and low-cut tops showing off their cans in strobe-light while guitars wail and I was pretty sure at that point, the rest of my life was going to be a string of exciting adventures where girls throw off their clothes and then something, something boner exploding. The details were unimportant. All that mattered was that promise of a life of naked frolicking. Thank YOU, Mr. Halen!

So now I'm almost forty and I have yet to have one "hot for" moment, and I'm thinking of taking David Lee Roth to Porn Court for making promises he couldn't keep. And maybe you think there's no such thing as Porn Court, but I assure you, I wish there was. I'd be an ace attorney, I bet. During cross-examination, I'd be all "Clearly, I can see your nuts." and then I would honk my Ahh-OOOGA-Horn and someone in the jury box could do a rim-shot*. But back to topic... where I currently work, I don't even WANT to see these people doing walk-down-the-table-with-jiggle-boobs because they are mostly old and the lyrics would be all "Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad. Cirrhosis of the Liver!" and it would just be gross. Yuck.

Even worse is seeing googly-boobs at work doesn't even interest me. While I was thinking about this post, I tried to figure out what I'm really "hot for". Here's what I came up with:

1. Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad. I'm Hot for Schadenfreude.
2.Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad. I'm Hot for Dinosaurs.
3. Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad. I'm Hot for a nice warm lunch.
4. Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad. I'm Hot for feigning interest.

This is what comes up if you Google "Hot For Dinosaurs". They're like kittens!

That's just sad. I wish googly-boobs were still a priority.

*Not to be mistaken for "rim-job" which has to do with tires, I think**.
**Just googled "rim-job" and now the IT department wants to talk to me. I wonder why?***
*** I know why know.