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!

days run together like it’s one big long one, and if you want in then i’ve gotta have my fun

So I saw some ducks having a threesome the other morning on my way in to work. Only two of them were actually having the sex, but the other one was right there watching, and I think that should count. It was just like that time back in college when my girlfriend had one of her “friends” come over and, after a bottle or two of wine, one thing led to another and things adjourned to the bedroom; they may have technically been the ones having the sex, but I still went outside, climbed the trellis and watched from the window.

Total threesome.

Hey Internet, why the hell aren’t you already listening to the Ettes? The only people who don’t like them are lame, and we all know lameness is clinically proven to cause the cancer. And you don’t want that, do you? The cancer?

Do it now, then go buy their debut CD and go see them on tour and when you do, tell Coco I said “hi.” I’m hoping they’ll make it big and thank me in the liner notes of a CD, and when they do I’m totally rubbing it in your face.

and the big pot boils with centuries of conspiracy and cabbages and kings who have had their cake and ate it too

So I was in the Wal-Mart the other day, Internet, and I ran into something that reminded me of you:

Hey, guess what! I finally got reviewed over at the Humor-Blogs.com, and some of the reviewers actually gave me bad scores because, get this, they said I offended them.

Me.

Offensive.

OMGLOLROFLMAOLOLOLOL

I couldn’t figure it out at first — I mean, what blog were they reading? — but then I realized it was probably just some of the retardeds playing on the computer that done it. And I have a soft spot in my heart for the retardeds, so I guess it’s okay. I’ll turn the other cheek, like Jesus might do if he weren’t made up.

i wait around the train station, waitin’ for that train

So I’m in this tiny dimly-lit bar on Capitol Hill, right? Wednesday, I think, because I’d been stood up at the train station and needed the love and comfort only a handful of pints could offer, but that’s neither here nor there.

So I’m in this tiny dimly-lit bar on Capitol Hill, drinking the beers and swapping the midget stories with some friends when all of the sudden we noticed that things were… quiet. A little too quiet, in fact; we weren’t having to shout to hear each other over the crowd, and yet the bar was packed.

Packed with a bunch of the deafs, turns out.

Thank god they were the quiet kind of deafs, and not the ones that try to talk and make the noises because, really, who can tolerate that? But still, there must have been 50 of them, all doing deaf things like flailing their hands around and whatever the devil it is the deafs do. And being around that many retardeds at once is a little unnerving, let me tell you. I felt like one of them National Geographic people that go live in some African village where people stick shit through their lips, only instead of the deformities being intentional, here it’s all god’s fault.

At some point during the night, I’m pretty sure one of them licked me on the face.

She was kind of cute, and I figured that maybe licking was how the deafs say “hi” — sort of like Eskimos with their nose rubbing, or frat guys with their date raping — but I tried talking to her later and I found it hard to communicate. She was holding a drink at the time and looking away, but whatever. Who needs the aggravation? And what if it’s contagious? I should probably go get a shot.

Right?

Right.

Happy Leap Year, Internet. See you in four.

this is what i do, this is what i do, this is what i do: i sit on you

You know the hardest part about flying across the country to attend a seminar and having a midget assigned to your break-out group, forcing you to sit just one chair over from it for three full days? You might think it’d be trying to hold your breath all that time so as not to inhale any dwarf dander, but as usual you’d be wrong and would look stupid and everyone would point and laugh, even more than we do already which I know sounds impossible but trust me, we will.

No, the hardest part about flying across the country to attend a seminar and having a midget assigned to your break-out group is that when it comes time to do an exercise and the little critter wants to contribute, you and all the other real people in the group have to pretend you’re taking it seriously and are letting it participate. You’ll even have to look at it, and you can’t crack up and laugh and if you throw up a little in your mouth you have to swallow it right back down without gagging, not because you don’t want to hurt the midget’s feelings but because you want that god damned certificate of attendance in the worst way.

The worst way.

Watching it eat lunch was pretty tough, too.

And now I’m off to D.C. Toodles. Horns.

look what he has done for us, he’s filled us up with cheer

Normally you wouldn’t learn this without reading a book on the subject, but since you live too far away to have me run over and help you sound out the big words, Internet, I know that’ll never happen so I’m going to tell you:

While your homebrewed beer may be yummy and delicious (and by “your” I mean “my”), all that unfiltered yeast will play havoc with your innards. And by “your” I mean “my.”

Here’s a haiku:

little bit o’poo
resting just inside my ass
makes me scared to fart.

Totally worth it, though. I’d share some with you, but I don’t like you. Not really.

salvation à la mode and a cup of tea

So I’m walking to the McDonald’s earlier this week — you know the one on Market somewhere around 2nd — to purchase a delicious Sausage Egg McMuffin with which to get the horrible taste of that crappy Wendy’s sandwich out of my mouth, and what do I see but this crippled hobo with his crippled hobo wheel chair parked right in front of the door.

“Well that’s just great” I said to myself as I began to ponder whether rolling him into the street would be less taxing than just dumping him out of the chair, but before I could decide he grabbed the door handle and, with the grace only a crippled hobo could muster, rolled his chair backward in a half-circle and opened the door for me.

“Thanks” I said to him as I walked past, holding my breath so as to avoid the smell, and inside I went. But as I stood there waiting in line and trying to check out the cute Asian chick next to me as discreetly as possible, a strange thing happened: I heard the jingle-jangle of change as my hand brushed against my pocket, and suddenly I was overwhelmed with love and compassion. Or maybe it was gas. Tough to tell so early in the morning and two time zones away from my comfort region.

So feeling all gassy, I reached into my pocket for the change, removed the quarters and that one shiny new nickel with the big Jefferson head on it because it’s far too pretty and new for a hobo and especially a crippled one who would just dirty it up with hobo grease anyway, and gave him everything else as I left McDonald’s. Something like 83 cents in total.

It’s like I’m Gandhi and Bono all rolled up into one tight muscular package, irresistible to the ladies and also the gays but I’m not into that. I bet I get a key to the city, probably.

And I know what you’re thinking, Internet. You’re thinking that me giving that crippled hobo money is only going to encourage him, that he’ll continue stinking up the McDonald’s and opening doors for people and maybe you’ll feel obligated to give him a few cents tomorrow morning when you go for your Sausage Egg McMuffin and the cycle will never end and you don’t like it because you’re nowhere near the philanthropist I am.

Well guess what: I came home yesterday, so it’s really not my problem. In your face, San Francisco!

i’m rockin’ and you’re yawning but you never look my way

So there I was, sitting alone in the Houston airport yesterday morning, trying to pretend my Wendy’s breakfast sandwich was just as good as a Sausage Egg McMuffin (but it so. was. not.) when I decided to make with a little of the people watching. And in doing so, something occurred to me that prompted a lot of contemplation and pondering and soul searching during my four-hour flight to San Francisco:

I’m really kind of jealous of the black guys.

Not so much for their huge cocks or across-the-board athletic abilities or sassy overweight aunties or proficiencies to score with fat, ugly white girls, although those are fine things one and all. No, I’m really kind of jealous of the black guys because of the clothes they get to wear. Hoodies and track suits just look so… comfortable, you know? And don’t even get me started on the sneakers. It’s like you’re walking on air.

But I’m just a little too pasty to pull that look off, I’m afraid. And no sir, I don’t like it. Not one bit.

on lasalle and rampart street, the combo’s there with a mambo beat

Happy the Mardi Gras, Internet. I don’t really celebrate it much myself (you know why), but I will gladly take the day off from work. I’m opportunistic like that. In fact, getting the day off for the Mardi Gras is really the only perk to living in south Louisiana. That, and in the Summer when the girls sometimes don’t wear the bras, all the humidity often makes it easier to see nipple.

Other than bottling the IPA that’s been brewing in my spare bathtub the past month and packing for a business trip, I think I’ll spend the day writing a haiku. Or two. For you.

sorority girls
so drunk and, briefly, topless
make their fathers proud.

mardi gras mambo
mambo mambo, party gras
just fucking stop it.

vomiting frat boys
one too many cans of pabst
i hope you all die.

Okay, so that was three. Didn’t think you were paying attention.

you can’t find it in you like you think you can

Hey there, Internet. I’m sorry I’ve been neglectful of you recently, but the truth of the matter is that my life has been one pointy toe shoed kick in the nuts the past several weeks, and I’ve been all out of funny. True, some might argue that I’ve always been all out of funny, but to those I would say “look, I don’t care how long we’ve been married, if I wanted my wife’s opinion, I’d have sent you a text message asking for it.” I like communicating with her via the text because I find the shorter the message, the less of the boring.

I had a dream last night I was giving some sex advice to this hot teenager. She had asked for it, mind you — I don’t go about randomly offering unsolicited sex advice in my dreams, not usually anyway — and being the warm and compassionate person you all know me to be, I was doing my best to help her out. But after a little while I sort of half woke up and realized it was a dream, and I began to wonder why I was dreaming about helping the hot teenager give her boyfriend the hint that she’d like him to go down on her (that’s what she needed advice on) when, instead, I could be dreaming about banging her myself. Right? Right.

So I went back to sleep and, just when I was going to make my move, her teenager boyfriend showed up. Talk about awkward. But then he went down on her, and it really made me feel like I’d done something to help her out. It was as if my selflessness and, dare I say, personal sacrifice directly resulted in someone else’s pleasure, fictional or otherwise. And it felt good to be a part of that.

But then I rolled over and bent my boner, and I don’t care for that, not one bit. So you can forget it.

look into my eyes, what do you see?

Call me old fashioned, but I think it’s just a tad hypocritical for racists to take the day off on MLK. I’m talking about the white and doesn’t like the blacks kind of racist, mind you, and not the black and doesn’t like the whites kind, because I believe they’re well within their rights to take some time off, especially with Black History Month a mere week and change away. Them cardboard illustrations of Eli Whitney ain’t going to cut themselves out along the dotted lines, you know?

And I’m certainly not talking about the non-Mexican and doesn’t like the Mexicans kind of racists, because let’s be honest: pretty much everyone fits into that group.

But now I’ve gone off on a tangent. Where were we?

I celebrated the holiday by drinking heavily and playing Guitar Hero, even five-starring “Cult of Personality” on Hard. For you, Dr. King. For you.

Also yesterday, I saw an SUV that still had a Christmas wreath attached to its front. As you can imagine, my instinct was obviously to try and run them off the road into a ditch or off a bridge or something, but in light of the holiday and Dr. King’s message of peace and love, I decided instead to pull my car over, take a deep breath and calm the fuck down. Then I said a tiny little prayer to Jesus that the SUV burst into flames, slowly killing the driver and any passengers as punishment for sloth and also poor taste, because the man was a God-fearing reverend, and I think he’d have wanted it that way.

For you, Dr. King. For you.

does daddy have a shotgun? he said he’d never need one

Now I’m not nearly macho enough to say it to their hillbilly faces, but as I’m sitting at a computer and have the relative security and anonymity of you at my disposal, Internet, I feel it’s safe to say out loud for one and all to hear that I’m no NASCAR fan.

I’m not a redneck, you see, so there’s no way you’ll ever get me to attend a race in person, toothless redneck women flashing their tits and spitting their snuff be damned. I also don’t have a gun rack or a rebel flag t-shirt and have never attended a Klan meeting, but that’s neither here nor there.

Even so, I’d like to take this opportunity to express my absolute admiration and deepest respect for the entire NASCAR community for continuing to embrace Dale Jr. even though he’s come out as being one of the homos. And it’s not as if he quietly left the closet with the dignity such an event would normally warrant; oh no, he’s throwing it in their fat, disgusting hillbilly faces, bragging all about the creamy caramel in his king-sized “candy.” But shun him they refuse.

Well done, rednecks. I had you all pegged as fat, disgusting, toothless, racist homophobes, but you’re not homophobic at all.

razzle ’n’ a dazzle ’n’ a flash a little light

So I’m going through the pantry the other day, looking for expired cans of sirloin burger Chunky to donate to the local food drive for that last-second tax credit like you all do too so stop judging me, when all of the sudden and out of the blue, enlightenment shone its shiny light on me:

All Def Leppard songs really do kind of sound alike.

So mom, I’m sorry.

You told me as much 20 years ago when I begged to see them on the Hysteria tour at the Hirsch Memorial Coliseum but you didn’t feel like taking me even though Tesla was the opening act and I bet they played Little Suzi and held the microphone out over the audience to let them sing the “Little Suzi’s on the up” part and everything.

You were right, but I didn’t listen back then. The kids never do, I suppose. Time, though, has opened both my eyes and my ears.

Time, and also the “greatest hits” CD I just bought.

he got joo-joo eyeball, he one holy roller

Few things make me happier than the knowledge that, from this day forward, anytime you hear the song “Come Together” — either the Beatles or Aerosmith version, I’m not picky — you won’t be able to get past the part that goes “come together, right now, over me” without immediately thinking about bukkake, and then thinking “that’s fucking gross,” and then thinking about me.

“God damn you, Jeremy, for putting that in my head” you’ll whisper. “Next time I hear this odd yet catchy song, I will not think about disgusting bukkake” you’ll pledge to yourself as if to show me up. But the next time comes* and surprise! You did it again.

Eventually though, you won’t be revulsed by the thought and will even begin to find it funny. Maybe it will bring us closer, you and me, and wouldn’t that be swell? And you’ll hear the song and every time they hit the chorus you’ll smirk a little, maybe even laugh a bit if you’ve got some liquor in you, and the people around you will wonder what the hell is so funny.

“What the hell is so funny?” they’ll ask.

And you’ll tell them (as if you came up with it yourself, because you’re like that and steal other people’s funny all the time, but I don’t mind so much so no worries) and they’ll be revulsed. And the next time they hear it, they’ll curse your name but, eventually, they’ll find it funny, too. And so on and so forth.

It’s my way of paying it forward this new year. You’re welcome.

i wish i could say no regrets and no emotional debts

A word to the wise, Internet:

When you go to the Babies “R” Us store — as you might do when a friend is expecting and you have to buy a gift, except that you don’t really have friends so it probably won’t ever come up for you — and you see that they have a baby relief section, they’re talking about salves and powders and the like, and not the ear plugs, alcohol and jars of the SIDS you were expecting when you first thought of “baby relief.”

But wouldn’t that be a swell idea for a store, to sell jars of the SIDS for new parents to use whenever they’ve had enough? I can see the label now: “The SIDS, Now with More D!” and then in small print at the bottom “Best Used Before: The Little Fucker Starts with the Crying.”

People could appease the Jesusy by not having abortions and garner sympathy from the townsfolk (on account of the dead babies) in one fell swoop. More whorish of high school girls, rejoice!

Write that down, then file it under “brilliance.”

Happy New Year, Internet. Here’s to a 2008 that won’t suck nearly the balls this past year did. In your face, 2007!

are you bringin’ a present for me? something pleasantly pleasant for me?

A word to the wise, Internet: when given as gifts to children ages 7-12, novelty bars of soap with money stuck in the middle will not encourage more frequent bathing as you so wrongly assumed when you bought them those many weeks ago. Rather, the kids will take one bath — just long enough to soften the soap — and will then use their greasy kid fingers to dig out the rolled-up dollar bills. Their fingernails will be cleaned in the process, though.

It’s a Christmas miracle!

I chose to celebrate first by drinking heavily, then by sticking Santa hats on various things around my house and taking photos.

In years past I’d have given my dog a candy cane bone and then pretended to take it away from him for a heartwarming photo, but he bit me a few months ago so now he’s dead to me. Instead, I opted to start a brand-new tradition: humiliating my cats.

Normally I’m dead-set against dressing up pets for any occasion, but it turns out my cats are, too. And they’re not the boss of me.

if someday we get to meet again in a car crash, plane wreck or terrorist attack

If the avoidance of hot, painful and rotten flatulence is a goal of yours this holiday season, I strongly encourage you not to have stewed red cabbage and pork chops for supper, tasty though they may be.

I even wrote a haiku to help convince you, since I know you take poetry seriously:

in a hot shower
letting a cabbage fart rip
might make you nauseous

And with that, I’m off to D.C. for a couple of days.

Miss me like you mean it.

and wouldn’t old santa be in trouble if there ain’t no chimney in the house?

Speaking of erotic Christmas decorations, this turns me on.

Don’t judge me.

i ain’t like old st. nick; he don’t come but once a year

Okay, Internet. I get it.

Despite my pleas to whatever shred of decency I thought you may have once possessed, you’ve proven yourself far too attached to crappy inflatable lawn decorations to abandon horrible taste. Undeterred by the whispers of “abomination” you assuredly hear around the neighborhood (convinced they’re actually complimenting your ten-foot Frosty), I’ve noticed you’ve even upped your inflatable game with animation.

And while my instinct is to point out that inflatable Rudolph helping inflatable Santa out of the chimney is most likely a result of your subconscious expressing not only your ineptitude at decorating but also your serious need for help, I know that sort of talk will sail right over your NASCAR capped head.

So being chock-full of compassion as I am by my own description, I’ve decided to try seeing things from your perspective. And you know what? After a half can of snuff and a four pack of wine coolers, I think we’re on the same page.

There is something slightly, how should I put it, erotic about them. Right? Right? Right.

So have at it.

staring at the goldfish bowl, poppin’ phenobarbitol

You ever wake up in the middle of the night and flip your pillow over, only to find the other side isn’t cool to the touch? You know that feeling of frustration you get as you flip it back over (in case you went too far the first time) but it’s still warm? The disappointment that comes with resigning yourself to a sleepless night resting your fat, pumpkin head on an unbearably warm pillow?

Yeah, well, that’s how we feel about you. Me. Your parents. Jesus.

All of us.

And I’m sorry to be so blunt about it, but it really is for your own good. Consider this an intervention of sorts. We want you to get some help and pull yourself together, your parents and Jesus and me, and we’ll be here, right beside you, every step along the way.

Your parents and Jesus will be, at least. I would, but I’ve got shit to do.

christmas is a comin’ look out for twinkle elf, making christmas cigarettes all by himself

Two minutes, forty-two seconds.

That’s precisely how much time you’ve got at the mall on a Sunday afternoon during the Christmas shopping season before you’re ready to stab every single person in the eye with that spork you ate your mashed potatoes and gravy with. But great news, heavyset woman shoving the oversized cinnamon roll into your mouth and pretending your little girl isn’t screaming and crying at the top of her lungs not three feet away from me:

I left it at the Dairy Queen, in the plastic basket along with part of a steak finger and half a styrofoam cup of white gravy.

Little Becky will escape my wrath, unscarred and ready for her Libby Lu makeover and photo shoot. Unscarred in the physical sense, that is; evidence that her own fat mother thought she wasn’t pretty enough at the age of six will probably do some emotional damage, but maybe in a few years it’ll give her therapist something to blame the anorexia and heroin addiction on.

But that’s just me, I suppose… you know, Mr. Happypants, living in a world of flowers and puppies and root beer-flavored bottle caps, always looking on the bright side of things.

You could learn a thing or two.

i’m so happy! you’re so nice! kiss kiss kiss! fun fun life!

They say breaking up is hard to do, but I happen to have it on pretty high authority that it’s harder still to receive. Times two, even.

That’s the word on the street, anyway.

Hey! Want to know the best thing about this midlife crisis I’m going through?

Well Internet, the best thing about this midlife crisis I’m going through is that it pretty much guarantees my liver is going to hold up another 32 years. For real. It’s in the language of the contract.

So score one for the home team.

But that’s just me, I suppose… you know, Mr. Sunshine, living in a world of kittens and lollipops and unicorns, always looking on the bright side of things.

You could learn a thing or two.

the outdoorsman: a haiku

sitting by the fire
occasional whiffs of smoke
turn your boogers black.

it’s the type of meal he can’t resist, when there’s nothing left he just licks the dish

I don’t know about you, but I’ve always found something about Thanksgiving to seem, I don’t know, a tad dirty and whorish.

But maybe it’s just me. I don’t know.

And listen, I understand that you’re very much into it and that you think it’s addictive and the wave of the future and the greatest thing since yummy pork cracklins and beer (the two great tastes that taste great together), but I’ve got to tell you, Internet: I really don’t think I get the whole Twitter thing.

But I’m giving it a shot. For you.

Have a yam-tastic Turkeynecks Day, Internet.

understanding me and understanding you is not an easy thing to do

Listen up, Internet.

Being an advocate of civil liberties as I claim to be on my Myspace profile, I respect every individual’s right to look as stupid as he or she wishes and, hence, do not normally spread around unsolicited advice regarding personal fashion choices. Which isn’t to say I refrain from the pointing and laughing that goes along with your usual wardrobe selections, mind you, because I also respect my right to make fun of you. Like everyone else does.

I’m going to break my own rule, though. I have to, just this once. Because doing so serves humanity’s best interests.

To everyone who thinks it’s appropriate to wear denim shirts with blue jeans:

Seriously?

The denim of your jeans never matches the denim of your shirt, not really. And even if it did — say you bought the jeans and shirt as a matching set in whatever Wal-Mart store located in hell (or the South (redundant)) you usually buy your clothes at — is that really the look you’re going for? Matching denim head-to-toe, broken up only briefly by the braided leather belt your mom bought for you to wear to church on an Easter Sunday long since passed, the one you thought so highly of you worked it into the regular rotation, accompanying blue-green pastel Polo be damned?

No. Stop it.

I don’t care how much the folks at the feed store said they liked it, they were just being polite. You look stupid.

So there you have it.

i’m beginning to think (though i’m open to sway) that, even when we’re old and gray, i think you’ll see me, dear, and look the other way, just like you did, dear, only the other day

Day four of the conference and, as I sat waiting for the first session to start, cute, star-shaped tattoo girl walked up to my table, touched the chair next to mine, then looked towards her friend as if to say “let’s sit here.” My heart raced. What joy! What bliss! But her friend — her stupid fucking nazi cunt of a friend — said “no,” and they sat at the next table over.

So close, and yet so god fucking damnit.

It being the last day, I decided to take matters into my own hands and, between sessions one and two, knelt down in the back of the room ninjaesque© and waited for her to come back from potty break and choose a seat. I became the hunter, she my prey, and as soon as the opportunity presented itself, I pounced as a hyena might on a wildebeest, a cute wildebeest with a small, star-shaped tattoo on the back of its neck, almost completely (though not entirely) obscured from sight via combination of blouse collar and short yet feminine brunette hair.

I claimed the seat next to hers and, thinking success, began to settle in, turning on the laptop and readying my sketchbook and wondering if I would be able to keep my gut sucked in for an entire hour-and-a-half session. But it would seem I underestimated her wily and cunning ways because, right before the presenter began, she upped and moved to another table, perfectly timed to prevent any countermove on my part.

Touché, cute, star-shaped tattoo girl. Well played.

how many drugs does it take to get you out of my mind?

Oh, come on, Internet; catheterizing the elderly? Old woman ass rubbing against your shoulder? Nothing?

Fine. Whatever.

Maybe it’s just me, but I find it nigh-impossible to see a morbidly obese person wearing a solid purple shirt without immediately thinking of:

• Violet Beauregard
• Grape Ape
• Barney
• or Grimace (thanks, honey)

Although not necessarily in that order. In fact, I think of Grimace mostly now. Maybe it’s my Ronald McDonald ’do.

Also:

• In slightly more than two full days here, I’ve already seen two (2) midgets scurrying about Cambridge, nibbling on stray bits of cheese and breadcrumbs, no doubt planning to regurgitate later into the mouths of their larvae. And I fear infestation. Come on, Boston; mix in some Raid now and then.
• Putting my phone on vibrate, slipping it into my pocket, then having people send me text messages all day long is a fun way to pass the time.
• I simply cannot look at a woman speaking into a handheld microphone and not think dirty thoughts. Even if she’s really fat.

Something else: hot girls with small, star-shaped tattoos on the back of their necks, almost completely (though not entirely) obscured from sight via combination of blouse collar and short yet feminine brunette hair, never ever ever sit next to me during these presentations. But Grimace? Every fucking session.

It’s like she’s drawn to me, a big round fleshy hunk of metal to my Ronald McDonald ’do magnet. Come to think of it, she’s probably big enough to have her own gravitational field. So maybe it’s me that’s drawn to her, what with my weight being within the healthy limits for a man of my height and stature, thus making it difficult to hold my ground and withstand such a force.

It’s hard to say, what with the time change confusing me and all.

how i wonder what you are

Traveling for work — spending hours upon hours in airports and airplanes and small, crowded, smoky, dimly-lit dive bars trolling for hookers — gives a man a lot of time to think, to ponder this crazy world we live in and, when inspiration presents itself, to devise methods for the betterment of all our lives.

Well I’ve been traveling for work, Internet, and inspiration is running rampant.

I propose that, from now on, we should force catheterization upon the elderly, for all flights — domestic and international — lasting longer than two hours. Because quite frankly, Internet, I am dead-set against Grandma Madge’s polyester-covered old woman ass rubbing against my shoulder over and over as she shuffles up and down the aisle nonstop, her 70-year-old bladder unable to hold that six ounces of complimentary ginger ale for longer than 20 minutes.

Here are a few things I’ve discovered the past couple of days:

• The open display of ass crack by way of low-rise jeans has apparently become the accepted norm for women below 40, and I’d say that in probably 40-45% of the situations, I’m for it.
• The weather in Boston during November is much colder than it is in Baton Rouge.
• Automatic hand soap dispensers in public restrooms are the wave of the fucking future. The fucking future.
• Small, star-shaped tattoos on the back of the neck, when almost completely (though not entirely) obscured from sight via combination of blouse collar and short yet feminine brunette hair, can be quite hot.

More to come.

i feel alright, mama, i’m not joking

I can’t take this anymore.

You.

I can’t take you anymore.

So I’m leaving for Boston in a few hours, to drink my fill of Sam Adams and eat my fill of baked beans and to get as far away from you as I possibly can, Internet. They don’t get you in Boston, you know.

That’s what I heard, at least.

And if I’m lucky, I’ll meet a girl whose name starts with “t” and who likes to party. Can you even begin to imagine the jokes? What a time we’d have! What fun!

dans cette vallée de larmes qu’est la vie, viens avec moi par les sentiers interdits

I’ve been neglecting you, Internet. I realize you visit my website on a regular basis, mainly looking for midget jokes but often with the sole intent of drinking from the well of my wisdom in hopes of gaining something — anything — that you might be able to take back and use to enrich your own sad and pathetic life which, were it not for my guidance, would otherwise be wasted away getting fat from the large volume of Doritos and Mountain Dew you’d consume for nourishment, fuel for the hours and hours you’d spend “living” in pretend online “worlds,” texting shorthand to the cutest avatar you can find even though deep down in your heart you know it’s really a dude. WTG HOMO! OMG LOL!

Well gather ’round, kids; Uncle Jeremy shall be inattentive no more.

Here’s a reason that should never be used as the deciding factor in getting married:

China.

Trust me on this one, Internet.

Sure, in the weeks leading up the wedding there’ll be china coming at you all the time, at all hours of the day via special delivery and always oh so much fun to unwrap. You won’t even mind writing the “thank you” cards, not for the china, and will be thrilled to write as many as three or four per day depending on how early you have to get up the next morning.

The big day will come and go, and for weeks after you’ll find that you’re still receiving china regularly and this will most assuredly make you happy.

But this tale is a cautionary one, Internet, for a few months after the wedding you’ll wake up and discover the First Revelation of the Truths of Marriage©: you aren’t receiving nearly as much china as you once were.

Your marriage will still be relatively new at this point, and you will continue having access to the china from time-to-time, often on a whim and without waiting for a special occasion. “This is normal,” you’ll reason, and you probably won’t even notice that, the majority of the time, the china stays hidden away in the cabinet.

Time will continue to pass (as it is wont to do) and soon you’ll receive the Second Revelation of the Truths of Marriage©: the china is only to be used for special occasions.

True, the definition of “special” may seem liberal at first, and can often be made even more so with the strategic use of alcohol, but be warned, Internet, for this is a clever ruse to acclimate you towards not having ready use of the china. And once you’ve accepted that you only get to use the china when she decides, special occasions will begin to occur fewer and further between.

At this point, the china will spend most of the year hidden away in the cabinet, cold and dark and gathering dust. You’ll likely feel the urge to try and get into the cabinet without waiting for a special occasion, but surprise! it’s locked. And even if, back when you first purchased the cabinet, you took the spare key and hid it away in a special place for safekeeping, you’ll discover that it only works sporadically at best, and will eventually rust through and crumble apart, forever keeping you separated from the china you once loved so.

And if you think that hurts, wait until you receive the Third Revelation of the Truths of Marriage©: working keys to the china cabinet do still exist, and can be used to open it freely. You just don’t have one.

The end.

Good night, kids!

and i ain’t lyin’ there’s a big yellow sign on the front of it with a picture of a kid and a big old “x” going through his chest; it looks like me, and i can’t read the word “danger.”

Escalator.

I know how badly you wanted to go to the Holly Golightly and the Brokeoffs show with me last week and, while I really do wish things could have worked out differently, the truth is that I just knew you’d feel compelled to sing along, and I had absolutely no intention of paying $12 to hear your crap voice. So I didn’t invite you.

Still, I filmed it for you.

And every time Holly bent over to pick something up off the stage and her loosely-fitting dress treated the audience to some down-blouse action, I thought of you.

Well, you and her tits.

Her tits, mostly.

There’s more on the YouTube.

i’ve got an eye for an empty heart

One night, months ago, she told me I was being obtuse. I told her that I thought she was so fucking acute. But geometry was never her strong suit, and I’m afraid it went right over her head.

I had been aiming for her heart, incidentally. But I suppose aim was never my strong suit. You should totally play me in pool. You’d clean up.

Still, I thought it was funny.

then she became a fly, a fly all in the air; and he became a spider, and fetched her to his lair

Honesty is the best policy. That’s what I heard while kicking it around the Union Square last week, anyways. Somewhere near the Westfield shopping center, I think. Maybe in front of the Gap, by the trolley turn-around where the homeless congregate and mingle with the tourists as if we enjoy smelling them.

Honesty is the best policy. But you know what I think is an even better policy?

No shoes, no shirt, no service.

Mind you, it only really qualifies as the best policy if it can be selectively enforced. The ability to serve some that are topless while still requiring shirts for others is key and should not be overlooked. Otherwise, the whole thing doesn’t make as much sense.

After no shoes, no shirt, no service, honesty might very well be the second-best policy, though.

But now that I think about it, it’s probably best to selectively enforce honesty, too.

So never mind.

the loveliness of paris seems somehow sadly gay

So I went shopping this past weekend to pick up some supplies for my trip to the San Francisco on which I’ll be leaving shortly.

• Got some Febreze, in case I find myself too close to the hippies.
• Got some disinfectant spray, in case I find myself too close to the gays (the kind with the Aids, and not the kind that buy you new wardrobes and teach you how to cook and use facial cleanser).
• Got some condoms, in case I find myself really too close to either the hippies or the gays.

I went to the Sam’s because, at least according to the Wiki, San Francisco has tons of the hippies and also the gays, and I needed to make sure I wouldn’t run out of such necessities lest I find myself dirty, smelly and all Aided up come week’s end.

Can you even begin to imagine the embarrassment? If I came back with body odor and a case of the Aids? OMG LOL.

i can stand the pain of love (i could even stand some more)

There are those who unabashedly consider me a stud (and by “those” I mean Cindy) and, while I appreciate and even encourage their sentiments, I’ve decided to come clean once and for all and admit that I am actually not a stud. Strong, rigid and supportive ain’t my bag.

No, Internet, the fact is that, comparatively speaking, I am far closer to drywall, in that I tend to hang around studs hoping to obscure your vision of them. I feel it betters my chances with you if you don’t even know they’re back there. Also, I’m thin and pasty white. And I sometimes strategically apply tape to parts of me to look more, um, appealing.

I’m going to San Francisco next week, incidentally, so if anyone wants to buy me beers and try to get lucky, let me know. I don’t tend to start losing my inhibitions until somewhere around the eighth or ninth pint, so you might want to stop by the ATM first.

you’re the part of me i loathe the most, the demons at my door

I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately and, unless I’m overlooking something obvious which ought guide me to the contrary, I really feel it would be in my best interest, should the time ever come for me to make a career change, that I consider becoming one of those people whose job it is to Photoshop out all the camel toe from photos of panties on the various packaging and advertising materials used to sell said panties.

A Photoshopper of Panty Packaging and Advertising Camel Toe, as I believe they’re called.

Truth be told, I don’t know if that’s the official or just the working title. It’ll take some creativity to fit it all on a business card, that’s for sure. I’m talking 9pt and sans-serif, bitches. Maybe even a soft return after “Packaging.” Who’s to say?

And once I get my foot toe in the door (get it?), the plan would then be to set myself apart from the legions of other Photoshoppers of Panty Packaging and Advertising Camel Toe by expanding my services offered to include the removal, erasing or otherwise flattening of the little panty bumps caused by the bushes.

I strategize thusly: the older generation of Photoshoppers of Panty Packaging and Advertising Camel Toe likely came up in the 1970s, a time when universal grooming patterns made digital bush trimming neigh-impossible for all but the most skilled, and as a result abandoned its practice. But the times have changed, my friend.

Oh, how the times have changed.

you wanna hear you broke my heart, i wanna hear you’re gonna finish what you start

You’ve probably known this for years and years, and I sincerely hope you don’t think it wise to mock my until-recent ignorance on the matter because I assure you mocking me is the antithesis of wise and will not be tolerated, but I’ve just today discovered that a can of V8, when poured into a toilet, looks exactly like bloody diarrhea.

Exactly like it.

Which is such a coincidence, considering the bloody diarrhea taste is what prompted me to pour it into the toilet to begin with.

take my hand off to never neverland

I’m right-handed so, where masturbation is concerned, I really can’t get in the type of groove necessary if I try and turn southpaw. Coincidentally, I also have the hardest time working the mouse and clicking on thumbnails with my left hand.

So now you know my dilemma.

And why I’m wound so fucking tightly all the time.

watch what you say or they’ll be calling you a radical, a liberal, fanatical, criminal

Now you listen to me and you listen to me good, Internet: I think it’s past time you grew the fuck up and stopped being racist, and just let poor O.J. be.

The guy has his ex-wife murdered, gets sued for millions of dollars because of it, and then he isn’t even allowed to write a book about how he would have killed her if he had except he didn’t so it’s a work of fiction. Some pretty tough times indeed, but have you ever found it in your tiny little racist heart to show him even one small ounce of compassion? Of course not.

But I know what this is all about. Jealousy.

You’re jealous of him because you don’t even have your own memorabilia. And even if you did, no one would want to steal it so they could then sell it to people in creepy black-market deals from their hotel room. And doesn’t that just get under your skin something awful?

Jesus himself wrote in Matthew 7:18 which as you may not know is part of the bible — the real bible, and not the fake ones of Jew or Mormon variety — that “a good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit.”

And since we all know that the Naked Gun is good fruit — good, hysterical fruit — logic tells us that O.J. is therefore a good tree. Logic and Jesus, which so seldomly go together that, when they do, watch out.

So leave him alone or you’re going to hell.

i watch the bus as it pulls out of view, someday like that bus i will be leaving too

I was watching that Last Comic show the other night and during Lavell Crawford’s set I noticed that, somewhere towards the back of the audience, some folks were holding up a sign that read “Lavell is Swell.”

I saw this and immediately my laughter turned to teary-eyed rage. It both saddens and sickens me when I think about how the public school system is failing the youth of this country. How can we possibly expect this great land of ours to continue to thrive if we aren’t even teaching proper verb conjugation to our kids?

Swollen.

The sign should read “Lavell is Swollen.”

And as I ponder such pronounced philistinism of proper past participle practice, I weep.

For the children. For America.

he’s a demon on wheels

A lot of you know this already either by way of firsthand experience or from your mother’s own loving recollection, but for the rest of everybody else, I’m going to come clean and admit I’m bad at sex. Really bad. 16 year-old and losing your virginity to that fat chick who only put out so maybe, just maybe you’ll hold her hand in front of people and take her to the prom so she doesn’t have to go with her cousin bad.

Stamina. That’s my problem.

I’m saying I’m fast. Lightening fast. It’s become my trademark, my calling card if you will. I’ve got orgasm on speed dial. And as much as I’ve championed the idea that it has more to do with my vast skill and experience in pleasing myself than it does with any sort of sexual ineptitude, I know that, five minutes from now, Cindy’s going to be pissed.

I’ve even tried thinking about football as a means of prolonging the event, but it never seems to help.  Plus, now I find football so… fucking… hot!

Luckily for me (and you, if you play your cards right, buy me a drink and show a little cleavage), I’m hung like a fucking horse.

Well, a pony.

Ok, a My Little Pony.

But you should never underestimate the powerful effect a little nostalgia has on the ladies’ libidos. They’re emotional like that.