give my heart just a word of sympathy, be as fair to my heart as you can be

Say what you want, Internet, but I really do believe that, were it me keeping my daughter chained up in the basement for the purpose of having the sex and also probably to hang out with and play the Guitar Hero in co-op mode and watch an odd Father Knows Best re-run now and then, I really doubt I’d have carried the relationship on for 24 years.

Call me old fashioned, but once she hit 35 I’d have been all “look babe, I’m sorry but you’re just not doing it for me, what with your premature aging brought on by living in the dark with no exercise or vitamins or fresh air.” How could I not, particularly with my 19-year-old granddaughter grunting and growling her nubile Austrian ass around the basement? A man has needs!

Oh sure, I’d have stayed around awhile for the sake of the kids. Always for the kids. But that’s because I’m a man of responsibility and integrity and especially compassion. You could learn a thing or two.

And with that, I’m off to Chicago for the week. Toodles. Horns.

you have an expertise that’s like a real disease, such a strong disease that i just weaken in the knees

I hate being the bearer of bad news, Hartford, CT, but I’ve been wrought with guilt these past few days over a trick I unintentionally played on you last week, and I feel compelled to come clean:

Jesus is not, in fact, my homie.

Not really, nor has he been for quite some time.

I know the hat I was wearing led you to believe the contrary and prompted the “hey, I like your hat” brand of compliments you showered me with upon my arrival, but you were unwittingly deceived. The hat is a joke, a clever gag to those who know me. He isn’t even real, the Jesus. Get it? OMFGLMAO.

But hindsight being 20/20, I suppose I concede that sarcasm translates poorly in both email and novelty trucker caps. True, the use of ALL CAPS should have clued you in, but you never were the brightest taco in the combination platter. And for that I do apologize.

Sorry to disappoint, Hartford. I’ll understand if you want to break things off.

humanity humanity, save the manatee

and if i pointless arch, and spit white nothings at the sky…

Sorry about the whole “not blogging all that much” thing, Internet, but the past few weeks I just haven’t been myself. I’ve been George Hamilton, hanging out with Imelda Marcos and eating Ritz crackers and watching Crocodile Dundee in Los Angeles for the bajillionth time (it’s a skunk, you silly Brit!), all the while goading your young to pursue the “healthy” tan.

My, what a healthy tan.

Hey Internet! Wanna know how to make fun of the retardeds and get away with it?

Step 1: Make fun of the retardeds.

Step 2: When people give you their scornful looks complete with furrowed brow, tell them this:

“Scorn me not, mother, for it’s not that I’m making fun of the retardeds but, rather, I’m pretending to be a retarded so I can better understand their plight.”

That will most assuredly shut their smug mouths, as the guilt of false accusation overwhelms them momentarily. Most assuredly. And after dying a tiny death inside, they’ll respond with a paraphrased version of the following:

“Well done, Internet. You’re a far better person than I could ever hope to be. Carry on with your noble deeds of empathy and compassion. Limp a mile in their shoes. Just please wear socks. Don’t want to go catching the hoof and mouth.”

And together you will laugh, and laugh, and laugh…

your spirit pokes me, your smile provokes me

So I went to the Sam’s this weekend to pick up some Hogan’s Heroes DVDs and a five-gallon bucket of pickles to cut up and put into some potato salad I was making (since relish just isn’t the same thing (and I really, really love potato salad (I make it with love (and potatoes)))), when I saw this.

OMGLOL.

Just kidding. It’s not funny. I mean, hey old man: really? You sure about that?

Also this weekend, I found out that that Vanessa Hudgens girl is coming to the local water park this summer to sing or perform skits or whatever the devil it is people like her get famous for doing. I’m not really into the Hannah Montana myself, but I’m thinking about going because — and you’re probably not going to believe me about this, but I swear it’s true and it’s on the Wiki and everything — I hear she likes to show off the big bushes.

That may be the one single area where retro hasn’t made it back in vogue, the big bushes, and I do so applaud her attempt to buck the trends and change the status quo.

Be your own person!

Rock your own style!

You go, girl!!!

i will carry the torch for you, my sole purpose is to torture you

You know, Internet, sometimes I really wish I were black so I could go to way-cool family reunions and then wear the commemorative t-shirts to all my usual hangouts like the Wal-Mart or outside the Circle K or as a guest on Oprah’s Big Fat Show.

I’d drink artificial fruit-flavored sodas and vote for Obama, and I bet I could get away with talking during movies, too, because it’s generally safe to assume the whiteys know better than to step to this. And the bling. Oh my god with the bling. Right? Right.

I figure I’d still pronounce milk correctly, though. Because I don’t believe in perpetuating stereotypes.

APRIL FOOLS!!!! OMGLOL!!!!

I wouldn’t really vote for Obama.

private eyes are watching you, they see your every move

Hey there, Internet. I’d say sorry for being away for so long, but I just got back from the New York and I had such a great time that saying “sorry for being away for so long” would be a lie from the very pits of hell. And I don’t lie.

Not as a habit, anyway.

While there, I saw the Knicks play a game they actually won, and I got to boo Isiah Thomas with approximately fifteen thousand other disgruntled Knick fans. What fun! But then at halftime they brought out some of the cripples to play crippled basketball, and that was a bit much. I mean, really: I’m glad they have recess at the Special Ed, but I didn’t pay some guy on the street $60 for his extra ticket to watch it.

Right? Right.

Other than that, New York was phenomenal. I had such an amazing time that I was even kind of happy my flight home got canceled due to the inspections. The rescheduling afforded me another few hours to hang out in the city and enjoy some of its world-famous, second-hand clam chowder which, I must say, is probably my favorite type of clam chowder out of all the other types of clam chowder in the world. Thanks, FAA!!!

In fact, I had such a great time that I didn’t even mind sitting next to the Indian fella on my flight from Cincinnati to Atlanta. And when he asked the stewardess if the beverage service was complimentary and then ordered “just a soft drink please,” I thought it was cute. And when he tapped me on the arm and asked “how to pronounce the name of the city from which we are arriving,” I was happy to oblige.

Cincinnati. Sins. Uh. Gnat. Tee.

I think it was probably the silent “g” that confused him.

Probably.

But then he took off his sport coat, and our apparent cultural hygiene differences put an abrupt and sudden end to the warm and fuzzies. Back to life. Back to reality.

Sigh.

nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, panic spreading far and wide… who can turn the tide?

No matter how hard I try, I’ve found that I simply cannot read Baltasar Gracián without thinking about Battlestar Galactica at some point along the way. Am I right, people? OMGLOL. I’m referring to the old version from the 70’s, mind you, and not the new one. Because retro is cool, but you aren’t. Not really.

So I was in the Wal-Mart this morning to pick up a lime squeezer and some astringent which was meant to be a gift for you because of your acne but now I’ve blown the surprise so I’m taking it back and you’ll have to suffer our continued ridicule (pizza the hutt), when I saw how The Man has re-released G.I. Joe action figures.

Joy!

I bought me a Cobra Commander to spread mayhem and destruction all over my desk at work, but it must have slipped my mind that a good manager delegates. I learned that in the management seminar I went to, so re: the mayhem and destruction: no can do.

But never fear, we’ve got a plan: I’m going back to the Wal-Mart to buy a Destro. Maybe also that guy that changes colors. Possibly the snow ninja too, you never can tell. But not Scarlett.

Never Scarlett.

I had her early on as a kid before the swivel-arm battle grip, and let me tell you that only being able to bend at the elbows and knees is one handicap that isn’t worth the good parking spots. It makes the pretend G.I. Joe sex come across as rigid and prudish, and that’s something that has haunted me to this day.

i may make you feel, but i can’t make you think

So, today is St. Patrick’s Day or, as it’s known in some circles, My Religion is Better Than Yours Day. I don’t celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, for the same reasons I also don’t celebrate the birthdays of Robert Tilton, Benny Hinn, or Jan Crouch.

If you aren’t Irish or Catholic, the only reason I can fathom for you to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day is the opportunity to drink. A lot. Like the amateur drunk that you are. You’re also probably a big fan of Mardi Gras and New Year’s Eve, when you feel you’re allowed to get belligerent because the calendar says it’s okay. And the difference between “date rape” and “making love” to you is directly related to the amount of shares his father owns…

But I digress.

Me? I don’t need some bullshit holiday to drink. So fuck off.

gum acacia, hydrogenated oil, potato starch… bring to a boil!

Call me old fashioned, but do we really need a study on how fat fatties have more of the breast cancer than regular women? There’s generally more boob on your average big, disgusting fat chick than on your average normal chick, so it just makes sense that the cancer would prefer a more spacious abode.

It’s logic, really.

And besides, in lieu of a healthy diet and exercise, mastectomies are a proven weight loss solution. So score one for the sweat hogs!

Or two!

Reach for the stars! You can do it!