hark! the herald angel sang and reached out for a phone, and plucking it with an ivory hand, dialed long distance home

Happy New Year, Internet.

I’ve resolved, among other things, to lose a bit of weight this year. And considering I’m not much on either the dieting or the exercising, and since cutting back on the drinking is so preposterous an idea that I almost didn’t even bother mentioning it because you’d just ridicule me for bringing it up and really? You ridiculing me? That’s even funnier than the whole “cutting back on the drinking” thing. So anyway, I’ve decided I’ll lose a few pounds this year by way of chronic masturbation.

I don’t know how much semen typically weighs on a load-to-load basis, but thanks to the innovation and sheer brilliance of my poop-weighing technique, I figure I can simply substitute semen for poop and presto! And then after a day’s worth of the weighing/jerking/weighing/math, I’ll be able to find the arithmetic mean of semen weight (which I’ll absolutely share with you (in the name of science)) and we can put together a nice workout regimen for me.

Nay.

For us.

I know it’s a couple of weeks late, but here’s that video of my dog you wanted to see.

He’s so cute…

i can see what i can find, but i can’t find the ones i left behind

So I was going to write something about how sad it is that the Brittany Murphy chick died, but then I asked around and nobody could tell me who exactly she was. One person said something about her being in Clueless, but if it ain’t that fat girl what used to be hot in the Aerosmith video but then she got fat and made that horrible Batman movie, I don’t know what you’re talking about and I stop with the listening.

So I was going to write something about how sad it is that the Brittany Murphy chick died, but since I don’t know who she is, I don’t care. In her face.

In fact, I’m trying my hardest not to get pissed off at her about it. Because when you really stop to think about it, how dare she? How dare some chick who no one even knows who she is to up and OD from snorting the coke go into cardiac arrest and die right around the holidays, taking your and my focus away from what really matters: Tiger Woods.

Here’s a question for you: what’s more annoying, the guy riding his bike on the street when there’s a bike path going to same route he’s going maybe ten feet to his right, or the guy in the car behind him (and in front of you (obviously)) who refuses to pass him, even though there’s no oncoming traffic?

Turns out it’s the guy in the car. Because while they’re both responsible for making your commute last longer than it should, when you finally got a look at the guy on the bike, you saw he was foreigner. And what with it being the holiday season and all, you felt sorry for him growing up in some crappy country with some crappy religion that doesn’t have Santa Clause. Poor Balki.

Here’s another question for you: notice all the colons? That’s three in one blog post, and I’m pretty sure they’re all used correctly. I bet that dead girl from Clueless couldn’t have done that even if she were still alive, which she isn’t.

Happy Christmas, Internet, in case I don’t post anything else this week which I might but probably not.

bad baby submarines exploding in the paper trees. don’t ask me why, i just know it.

If you’re anything like me, Internet, and you wake up in the morning and have to poop (which is typically a mid-morning activity for me but sometimes my innards get buck wild and mix up the schedule), you probably hop on the scale first to see how much you weigh with the poop in you, poop, then hop back on the scale to see how much you weigh sans-poop.

Subtract weight number two from weight number one and you now know how heavy your poop was.

Then you’ll snicker at how ironic it is that “weight number two” is the one without the poop, but compose yourself, Internet, because the focus here is how much your poop weighed.

And I know the whole “if you’re anything like me” threw you for a loop because you’ve always considered yourself too fat and stupid to even pretend you’re like me. And you’re right. But with dedication, hard work, some sit-ups and maybe a tutor, maybe — just maybe — you can get yourself to the point where people won’t laugh in your face when you tell them you sometimes pretend you’re like me. They’ll still laugh at you, but they’ll do it behind your back. And they were probably going to do that regardless of what you’d said. Dare to dream the dream!

Anyway, the point of all this is that I woke up this morning and had to poop, and after the weighing/pooping/weighing/math was done, I calculated that my poop weighed exactly one pound.

The end.

she wants me to go to the mall, she wants me to put the pretty, pretty lipstick on

Someone called me a racist the other day. I’m not even kidding.

Me.

A racist.

I would have been upset had it not been so laughable. I mean, seriously, who has time to hate one race over another when they’re all so worthy of your hatred?

Black. White. Black with a hint of Asian. You’re all obnoxious and stupid and I’d prefer that you leave my company post-haste.

Speaking of which, I think it’s time you people got off poor Tiger’s case already. So he screwed around a little. Big friggin’ deal. It happens, and you don’t know what was going on in his marriage that provoked it.

I mean, you’ve seen his wife. She’s hot, but she’s also blonde. And Tiger seems to be a smart guy, so it has to be frustrating being in a marriage with someone he can’t have an intelligible conversation with.

Plus, she’s Swedish. Can you even begin to imagine how annoying it must be having some Euro running around the house yelling “bork bork bork” nonstop? No. You can’t even begin to imagine it because it’s that horrible. Funny to think about it happening to someone else, sure, but if it were in your home, not so funny. Right? Right.

And look at him. The guy’s a catch. He has a bajillion dollar, he’s athletic, and he can do your nails. I’m not entirely certain if his penis size was determined by his black or his Asian genes, so that could be a pro or a con. But even still, what whore woman wouldn’t be willing to chance it?

sisters, don’t be shy; let your body get loose, you ain’t too fat to fly

So I’ve got this question which has been perplexing me for years and years, but I’ve never bothered putting in the time to try and get to the bottom of it because, really, when you’re as smart as I am, it’s sometimes nice to have something you just don’t know. It grounds me, and helps me relate on at least some small level to my intellectual inferiors.

Like you.

And I know you’re probably excited at the prospect of me wanting to relate to you in some manner, but calm yourselves, Internet. Because you’re wrong. I’m bringing it up now because I’ve tried to relate to you and your kind as of late, and you know what it gets me? It gets me asked for favors at entirely too late of an hour, that’s what. As if me not knowing the answer to this one question makes it okay to call past 10:00. So enough already with the relating and the favors.

Anyway, so I’ve got this question which has been perplexing me for years and years, and I’m sharing it with you now because, for one, I want you to understand the trivial things I’m able to spend my mental energy on since I have the other parts of life figured out — in your face! — and for another, I’m hoping someone might know the answer.

But first, a lesson in zoology:

The term midget is regularly thrown around to describe all tiny people, the big headed/curved legged kind and the kind that look like real people but way shorter. In actuality, though, a midget has proportional limbs. Think Webster, not Tattoo. Tattoo, with his freakishly large head and sharp teeth and French accent, is a dwarf.

We still call dwarfs midgets because the word midget just sounds funnier. And that’s okay, because really, who cares? It’s like referring to a spider as an insect; the only people who care that there’s a difference are nerds. And if there’s one thing I’ve taught you, it’s that we do not care what the insignificant think, nerds and midgets included.

But I’ve gone off on a tangent.

Okay, so here’s the question which has been perplexing me for years and years: Why do Dwarfs get offended when you call them midgets?

They prefer to be called “little people,” despite that term being only half true, and get so pissed at being called midgets that they’ll bite you right on your ankles. And while no one cares what a midget thinks, who has the time to go to a hospital to get a rabies vaccine when there are all those people in line ahead of you getting the swine flu shots? It can take an entire afternoon!

And yeah, while we can all agree that they’re both disgusting, I think we can also all agree that, on a scale of one to ten, with one being the least disgusting and ten being the most disgusting, that midgets have a lower disgusting ranking than do dwarfs. Probably eight for midgets and ten for dwarfs, but those are estimates so don’t base your term papers on it.

So midgets getting pissed at being called dwarfs, okay. Sure. I get that. But what the hell is up with dwarfs catching ’tude at being called midgets? It’s practically a compliment.

Happy Thanksgiving, Internet.

if you are my friend, we can drink in the afternoon. that’s cool.

If I were that Vampire Bill, I think I’d have to consider going ahead and changing Ssssuckay into a vampire as quickly as possible. Because let’s face it, we all know that she’s only going to get uglier as she ages.

Better lock in now so you don’t get burned later, just like how I should have bought those holiday plane tickets to New York back in September but I didn’t and now it’s more expensive. Same exact thing, if you imagine expensive plane tickets having an unsightly gap between their teeth.

And I know you’re probably thinking “what an awesome simile,” but that’s because you’re stupid and obviously don’t know what a simile is. I bet you were probably even thinking it was a metaphor at first, but then you looked it up on the wiki because you knew I’d call you out on it were you wrong, and you saw the word “like” and thought “bingo! It’s a simile, not a metaphor! Boy, will I look smart!” But you failed, just like that time you tried to perform oral sex on yourself, or like your life in general. You failing failure, you.

Anyway, I realize the “turning Ssssuckay now” bit is all hypothetical, of course, partly because it’s just a television show, and partly because vampires aren’t real, but mainly because I’m pretty sure if I were a vampire, I could pull better tail than Ana Paquin.

But for the sake of conversation, I’m sure you see my point.

the wine is turning sour, i’m longing for my final hour

When I host a kiddy birthday party, in addition to hot dogs and juice boxes and sodas and bottled water, I think it’s a good idea to have a bunch of booze on-hand. For a number of reasons.

Obviously there’s the fact that you’re going to need it to deal with all the snotty kids running around.

But when you also consider that there’s always a chance that one of the attending parents will over-indulge a bit and wreck their car on the way home, killing themselves and their child in the process (and thereby effectively reducing the number of hot dogs and juice boxes and sodas and bottled water I have to buy for next year’s party by two), well, it just makes good fiscal sense.

Right?

Right.

i sold my soul, and i sold yours too! to the devil we’re due!

Happy November 4th, Internet.

I considered starting off with “happy belated Halloween, Internet” but I find the whole “happy belated” trend to be particularly obnoxious right about now because, really, if I meant it, I’d have said it on Halloween. And if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s, well, it’s probably a midget. But if there are two things I’m not, it’s a midget and a liar.

I suppose you could make the argument that I don’t really care whether or not you have a happy November 4th, either. And you would be correct in that. But if you try to turn that around on me and call me a liar because of it, be prepared for me to turn it right back around on you and tell you that you’re wrong, so wrong in fact that it would surprise me that a person could actually be that wrong were I not talking about you, whose immense wrongness I’ve sadly grown accustomed to these past few years.

I wasn’t being a liar by wishing you a happy November 4th when I didn’t mean it. I was being polite. And sometimes, in order to be polite, you have to say things you don’t really mean, such as “that was delicious” or “porn is gross” or “I wasn’t checking her out, I was just noticing how much uglier and fatter she is than you.”

And if there are three things I’m not, it’s a midget, a liar and rude.

Speaking of which, I think my next career is going to revolve around making custom action figures to sell on the eBay, because I tried it for the first time a few days ago and clearly I have a knack for it.

I’m a little surprised I was able to find a toy rat that was actually the same scale as the midget. But I guess it was meant to be.

what’s easy in the night is always such a bite in the morning light

Sorry to be the one to break it to you, pre-teens boys, but that Selena Gomez kid is funny looking. Maybe someday a wizard of Waverly will whip up a decent haircut spell, but until that happens, she looks like a miniature Rachael Ray, and really? You’re creaming in your underoos over a miniature Rachael Ray?

I’ve got a new hobby, Internet: watching the True Blood and trying to say Sookie the way that main vampire guy says it.

Ssssuckay.

Over and over and over, I whisper Ssssuckay and I tell you, it’s like you’re right there in the show.

Try it. You’ll like it.

And sorry, Anna Paquin, but that gap in your teeth makes you about as non-underoo-cream-worthy as the Rachael Ray, although I’ll continue looking at your boobs when you show them so keep that up. But mouth closed, please.

And lastly, so I was talking to my girlfriend the other day and she says to me, she says “I wish I were a kid again.” So naturally I responded back with “I wish you were a kid again, too. Because you’d be tighter.”

Zing!

Although for the sake of your own stupidity, I feel I should point out that I was taking the “really big vagina” angle and wasn’t going down the pedophilia route.

Because if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: big vaginas are the new midget joke.

i got lots of money but it isn’t what i need

All work and no sex makes Jeremy a dull FUCK YOU.

It’s been my experience that, when your iPod is on shuffle and Bon Jovi’s “Bad Medicine” comes on, tapping your foot underneath your desk while you silently ponder whether or not the song is old enough to fall into the “lame music but has some nostalgic value so it’s okay to listen to” makes for a very handy way to distract yourself from how gay you are to have Bon Jovi on your iPod in the first place.

That’s a true story, and not fabricated for the purpose of this blog. Because I guess I’m gay.

Also, you should know that when Jon Bon sang the lyric “there ain’t no doctor that can cure my disease,” it was his way of telling you that he’s got the Aids.

Zing!

See what I did there? I took a jab at the Aids, which we all know the gays are still sensitive about (even though it’s so late ’80s (and quilting is even gayer than the Lance Armstrong bracelets (which are also quite gay))), but it’s okay. I’m allowed, because just one paragraph earlier I called myself gay. See?

And in doing so, I totally redeemed my heterosexuality and now I can admit I’m not really gay.

Sorry for the confusion, but that’s just how sexuality works. It’s in the rules, and I’m nothing if not a rule follower.

untitled

tuesday morning: a haiku

Can someone explain
the lack of “Slave Leia” porn
on the effin’ ’net?

Seriously, Internet… you have a video of two whores shitting and vomiting in each others’ mouths popping up all over the place, but you can’t scrounge up even one medium-resolution JPEG of some dude’s girlfriend slipping out of a replica gold bikini for me in my very specific Google image searches?

Very specific Google image searches.

You’re gross and I’m telling your kids as much.

Or I would, except they’re gross, too, and I can’t stomach being around them. They get it from you and I hope you’re happy about that but, if not, too bad so sad.

got my pennies saved, so i’m her sugar daddy; i’m her hume cronyn and she’s my jessica tandy

Welcome home, Internet. I know you missed me, blah blah blah, I hate you, blah blah blah, midget joke.

So I just got back from Los Angeles. I flew out there a few days ago to attend the wedding of that Kardashian girl — not the hot one with the big ass who’s famous for no reason, but the fat one with the even bigger ass who’s famous for being the sister of the hot one with the big ass who’s famous for no reason — and OMFG you should have seen the way she tore into that cake.

Mix in a little lipo next time and you might not have to suck in so much to fit into that plus-sized Vera Wang gown, fat Kardashian.

I was a guest of the groom, what with him being from Queens and all, and I’ll be the first to admit that when I got the invitation, I had my doubts about the marriage. “Oh no!” I exclaimed with a sigh and a light, open-handed pat to my forehead. But then as I cracked open a beer and sat on my sofa and gave it a good thinking or two, I began to see that they were kinda, sorta made for each other.

After all, he’s black and wealthy and an athlete, and since that’s fat Kardashian’s hot sister’s type, the Code of Famous for No Reason means that it’s fat Kardashian’s type, too. By proxy. Has to be.

And on the flip-side, she’s fat and white so duh, of course a black dude would be into that.

And then when you figure that he sometimes eats candy for breakfast, well, it all just starts making too much sense.

I wrote them this haiku:

Take the top, Lamar,
Lest you find yourself sitting
On injured reserve.

Kobe ROTFLOLed when I read it at the reception. Despite my deadpan delivery, he ROTFLOLed right in Lamar’s face, which both flattered me and also made me feel as though I’d violated the terms of my “don’t entertain rapists” rule. But apparently rape isn’t that big a deal in L.A. so I guess no worries.

you got me seeing the thing that i’ve been hoping to find, you got me trying to clean what’s dirty on the inside

If you’re anything like me, Internet — and we both know you aren’t, but hope someday you will be and to be honest with you, I don’t think you’re smart enough to come anywhere close — you’re probably wondering how long it’s going to take before that dead Patrick Swayze starts bugging poor Whoopi while she’s trying to host that show with all the old women and that one cute chick that all the hippies hate because she’s a Conservative and bathes regularly or whatever.

Because you just know he’s going to do it at some point.

So the funniest thing happened to me yesterday. I had stopped by the Circle K — you know, the one on the corner of Airline and Goodwood — on my way to work to pick up some Pop Rocks and Snapple for breakfast, and when I saw the cashier was of Middle Eastern descent, I did my civic duty as a tax-paying American citizen who loves his country and apple pie (but can’t seem to get into baseball), and I called the police to report it.

I didn’t say he was a terrorist per se, but just that he did appear to have enough room under that smock of his to be concealing some suicide bomber paraphernalia. And naturally the police responded immediately because we all know how those Middle Easterners love to walk around and act normal and then surprise! Suicide bomb.

So anyway, as I was walking out with my free Pop Rocks and Snapple (on account of the clerk being face-down and handcuffed and unable to ring me up), I heard him scream at me something about Muhammad or Allah or Smokin’ Joe Frazier or whatever, and then he called me a Zionist pig.

A Jew.

Me.

OMFGLMAO.

As if.

So what, just because I’m good with money and like a good deal, I’m automatically a Jew? Or because I don’t have my foreskin? Or because I don’t work at night? Or because I don’t accept Jesus as my Lord and/or Savior? Or because I have a big, long nose? Or…

Shit.

I might be Jew.

Touché, suicide bomber. Touché.

god knows i’m not a baby, but sometimes everybody needs a friend: super sexy razor happy girls!

Listen up, Internet: I know you’re all so proud of yourselves because of how that Obama of yours told everyone that the Mexicans won’t get to take part in the socialized healthcare, and in doing so, reached some common ground with the Republicans (that being the common ground of racism).  

But don’t be so smug, hippies, because for one thing, it’s unbecoming. And besides, do you really want sick Mexicans coughing and sneezing all over the fruits and vegetables they’re out in the fields picking for $1.25 an hour? Yeah, maybe you can wash Hector’s germs off that cucumber before you cut it up and put it in your salad, but you know as well as I do that sometimes you just forget.

Here’s a haiku I wrote for you:

Naked five year-olds,
Running around in my house
Make me uneasy.

Please don’t poop on the sofa, kids. Please don’t poop on the sofa.

red snappers snappin’, clam shells clappin’

I know you’re keeping score at home, Internet, so go ahead and add “old women with really long hair” to the list of things I’m coming out against when I run for president, on the basis of their being gross and/or creepy. I say “and/or” because some of the items on the list are one or the other, but not necessarily both gross and creepy. Like old women with really long hair are.

And since I know you’re pretty disorganized (as dirty hippies tend to be) and likely misplaced your copy of my list, and also you probably misspelled a lot of the words on it because you’re stupid (as dirty hippies tend to be), and since I have a soft-spot for some of you hippies (i.e. the cute ones that bathe and shave their pits and sometimes don’t wear bras), here’s the list:

Things I’m Coming Out Against when I Run for President, on the Basis of Their Being Gross and/or Creepy

1. Old women with really long hair.
2. Men in shorts.
3. Children singing and dancing on television.
4. The Banana Splits
5. Midgets.
6. Men, or old women, in flip-flops.
7. Babies wearing glasses.
8. Old people kissing.
9. Watching retardeds eat.
10. Your face.

There’s more, but I have to cut things short on account of how I’m about to go get my tattoo finished. Finally. I know! Right? Right.

special favors come in thirty-one flavors; we’re out of mints, pass the lifesavers

Question:

How much cock would a cockblock block, if a cockblock could block cock?

Answer:

As much cock as a cockblock could, if a cockblock’s a five year-old.

Welcome back, Internet. I know you missed me, but you could have always added me on the Facebook and challenged me in a game of Scramble if you needed a little you and me time. But now I’m blogging again, so get off my back already.

I spent the past week-and-change learning pretty much everything there is to know about parenting a child. I’ll probably write a book on the subject, but since you’re all a bunch of hippies (i.e. poor (and dirty)) and would just go check it out from the library instead of buying it, I’m seriously considering not writing it after all. To spite you.

Here’s a list of some of the things I’ve learned:

Lesson Learned #1:

Kids are gross and messy.

Lesson Learned #2:

No matter how hard you try, you’ll never be able to tell which one is Zach, and which one is Cody. They’ll never be anything more to you than two fat kids who need haircuts.

Lesson Learned #3:

Pedophilia jokes, hilarious though they may be, won’t always be appreciated by the mother of a five year-old, even if she’s your girlfriend, and are best kept to yourself.

Lesson Learned #4:

Sometimes Lesson Learned #3 is a real bummer, because come on, your cock looks massive in her tiny little hands.

Lesson Learned #5:

Sometimes funny trumps appropriateness.

Lesson Learned #6:

Sometimes, after adhering to Lesson Learned #5, you feel the need to point out that it’s just a joke, and you’re not really a pedophile. See Lesson Learned #1.

Lesson Learned #7:

You most likely will never learn the Jonas Brothers by name, but you can always recognize the gay one because of that Jew ’fro of his.

Lesson Learned #8:

No matter how much you beg and plead, the Filipino call center guy from Dish Network simply will not offer you a subscription package that doesn’t include the Disney Channel.

Lesson Learned #9:

Alcohol is your friend.

Lesson Learned #10:

Any day that doesn’t begin by being woken up with “Mama, can I watch TV?” at 5:30 in the morning can’t be too bad.

Speaking of socialized health care, I know you like to hate on the Wal-Mart, hippies, which I’ve always found baffling because none of you have any money so why wouldn’t you take advantage of their always low prices?

But instead of regurgitating the propaganda you read on that button the guy in the tie-dyed shirt was selling around Union Square and you just assumed he knew what he was talking about because after all he did have a button maker, if you’d ever take a minute to hop online and do some research — perhaps at the library when you’re checking out that book on parenting I might not write — you’d see that Wal-Mart is, in fact, a major advocate for healthcare reform.

But guess which major chain’s CEO is actually against socialized healthcare.

Whole Foods.

OMFGLMAOLOLOLOLOLOLOL. Suck on that, hippies.

it could be a spoonful of coffee, could be a spoonful of tea, but a little spoon of your precious love is good enough for me

I think a good blog name for a fat goth chick would be “Morbid Obesity.”

Okay, so listen up, Internet: I know you’re all a bunch of liberal hippies, what with your incense and your black light posters and your Palin hate and all, and you’ve gotten so worked up over stupid socialized health care that you run around screaming and flailing your arms about, so much so that some of the patchouli oil flung off your dirty hippie body and got into my eye earlier, right into my eye it went and now I’m as blind in that eye as my dog is after Kristin’s cat scratched him.

And I know you say you’re for the socialized health care because you want the children to be healthy, or because your horoscope told you to be for it or because your father is against it and you still resent him after all these years or because Phish sang about it in a song or whatever. But I see through you, Internet, and as the beacon of honesty and integrity as I’ve come to be considered as of late, I fully intend to spread the truth throughout this great nation of mine that the real reason you’re for socialized health care is because you dirty hippies are all poor.

Me?

I’m against it.

And I know you won’t be able to sleep tonight if I don’t tell you why, but the joke’s on you because the reason is so obvious that when I tell you, you still won’t be able to get any sleep tonight because you’ll be too ashamed at how stupid you are. I’m going to tell you anyway, though, because I often have trouble sleeping myself. And fair is fair, Internet.

Traffic.

I’m against socialized health care because of all the damned traffic. And if some of the poor would just be a little courteous for a change and start dying, things would thin out and my commute wouldn’t take nearly as long.

i like you so much better when you’re naked, i like me so much better when you’re naked

I’m no farmer, but are cucumbers supposed to look like giant green testicles?

It’s been a long and exciting 14 months, Internet, but now that I’m entering the final few days of my quote/unquote bachelor life, I thought I’d take a few minutes to share with you some of the knowledge I’ve gained in my time living alone. So when you inevitably get divorced — and you will — and you wind up trying to take care of your house and home all by yourself, you’ll have a leg-up on the competition.

Lesson Learned #1:

Sometimes it’s funny to write out “quote/unquote” instead of just putting the word in quotation marks.

Lesson Learned #2:

Your cat will, always and without fail, become overly affectionate with you while you’re trying to masturbate.

Lesson Learned #3:

Frozen chicken strips, frozen fries (crinkle cut, because they just taste better), and Stubb’s barbecue sauce make for a well-balanced meal, as many as three or four nights per week. And if you put some aluminum foil on the pan, you don’t even have to wash it!

Lesson Learned #4:

If you write a haiku asking women to send you photos of their boobs, your girlfriend’s going to get pissed.

Lesson Learned #5:

While shaving your balls is certainly a fun and exciting way to spend a Saturday afternoon, playing with your newly-shaved balls is an even more fun and exciting way to spend that Saturday evening.

Lesson Learned #6:

You may not remember why you bought that can of adobo, and you probably don’t even know what the hell adobo is or what it’s used for, but until the expiration date passes, you’re keeping it. Because you just never know.

Lesson Learned #7:

When you’re trying to masturbate, an overly-affectionate cat will break your concentration and cause the process to last longer than it should. Which can be good or bad, depending on your schedule.

Lesson Learned #8:

A nice set of track pants are just as comfortable as sweat pants, and you won’t look nearly as much like a slob when you wear them out to Target.

Lesson Learned #9:

You can stream soft-core porn from Netflix via your Xbox. They’re listed under “Steamy Romance.”

Lesson Learned #10:

Ironing sucks and it’s almost worth getting re-married just to avoid it.

That’s it for today, Internet. I hope all is well with you and yours.

next stop: atlantic avenue. next stop: christopher street. next stop: transfer to the a, c, or e

Here, Internet: I wrote you a few haiku that I sincerely hope you’ll read and then read again, then maybe print out and tape to your bathroom mirror so you can spend the appropriate amount of time reflecting on them, the “call to action” in particular.

I might like you more
if, after reading this poem,
you showed me your boobs.

While you’re taking pics,
know I’d also like to see
your ass and/or vag.

Don’t spread your legs, though;
I’m looking for sexy, not
biology class.

You can send the photos to norris93 at the gmail, and I’ll look at them at my leisure.

all those hookers in their fucking car; 12-stepping hippies hanging out at the bar

Okay, so I know that I don’t typically write about anything too personal here, Internet, and generally that’s because it’s none of your goddamned business. Go out and get a life of your own.

But I had a very sad devastating thing happen to me recently, the kind of thing that turns your life upside down. So I thought I’d open myself up and share it with you, and let you comfort me in my time of need. Be my rock, Internet.

Okay. Here goes:

I was flying to New York last week, and when I checked in, I found out I wasn’t going to be upgraded to First Class.

I know!

I had to sit in an uncomfortably tiny little seat with no free meal and no free beer and no free hand job (that’s why they close the little curtain, you know, so you don’t see the wealthy getting the free hand jobs). And the worst part about it is I had to endure these inhumane conditions while sitting next to stupid poor people! The horror!

I should probably take a few minutes to explain that when I say “poor people,” I don’t mean that I feel sorry for them but, rather, that they don’t have a lot of money. And I should also explain that when I call them “stupid,” it’s because they can’t be particularly intelligent or else they wouldn’t be so poor.

In fact, I was reading the back of the package of peanuts they gave me (because that’s the kind of crap you have to eat in Coach) and it even says right there on the back that the peanuts were “packed in a facility that processes peanuts.” No shit, poor people! Too poor to figure that out on your own?

Anyway, I was so upset and, honestly, so hurt that it made me wish Delta was on Facebook so we could have been listed as “in a relationship,” and then I could change my relationship status and not say anything and the next time Delta logs on to play the mafia game or to become a fan of your mom or whatever the devil it is you people do on the Facebook, bam! In your face(book), Delta!

But all’s well that ends well, Internet.

Fortunately for you, me and the rest of the passengers (because I was in an exit row and had already decided that, as a way of protesting these third world conditions, I ain’t opening shit in the event of an emergency), Delta realized its mistake and upgraded me from Atlanta to New York, and then all the way to Seattle and back a few days later.

Well played, Delta. I forgive you.

there’s a part of you that i can see, below the throat and above the knee

Sorry if I seem a little lethargic today, Internet. The truth of the matter is that I haven’t been able to get much sleep lately, on account of all the stress and anxiety I’m experiencing due to the total and complete lack of any flight upgrade notifications in the old inbox.

You can’t seriously expect me to sit in coach, Delta. What if a poor person touches me?!?!? Get your goddamned head in the goddamned game!

And damn you too, LinkedIn, for buzzing the blackberry at 4:00 AM and waking me up with the false hope of a cushy seat with lots of legroom and free beer, when really you were just taunting me with info that some guy who in the grand scheme of things is pretty insignificant is now contacts with some other guy who is probably even more insignificant but I stopped reading before I could decide for certain because I was too sad.

I did manage to doze off for a few minutes, just long enough to dream that I was dating Olivia Munn, who tried to write “I Love Olivia Munn” on my neck in hicky. I suggested she use a heart in place of “Love” to conserve room, but she insisted on spelling it out.

Nice girl, that Olivia Munn.

And finally, look alive, New York. You too, Seattle. You’re my bitches, and soon I’ll be grabbing each of you around the neck and forcing you to make out like the slutty lesbian Barbies you once used to act out your homosexual desires but you knew your parents wouldn’t approve so you suppressed them and now you’re a soccer mom.

Your minivan will be rocking, and I’ll be the one knocking.

Boots.

all game, no plot; talk it down, walk it off

Sorry for barely managing to blog once per week. I know you count on me as a diversion from your sad lives and in that regard I’ve let you down, but the fact of the matter is that I just can’t be bothered with your narcissism right now. I just don’t care, haven’t ever but especially now with what happened to the Billy Mays and all.

Tragedy always brings out the poet in me, so here:

Hey you! Billy Mays!
I’ve got your Awesome Auger
right here in my pants.

Your black hair and beard
were just a tad too shiny
for a man your age.

Turns out, Orange Clean is
not a product for me to
wash my red pubes with.

And with that, I’m off to stream a little softcore porn steamy romance through my Xbox via the Netflix. Buh-bye.

my conscience is on vacation in acute degeneration, willpower has sunk to an all-time low

It won’t be after I put my dick in it.

Here’s something you may not know, Internet: sitting around all week while on jury duty, waiting for hours upon hours to be called in and told to spit out your gum and asked how much you hate the blacks and also the jews, is a lot like an all-day trip to the DMV, possibly to have your car’s title and registration placed solely in your name after you get divorced.

Except with jury duty, you’re able to pass the time daydreaming that maybe, just maybe, you’ll get to send someone to the chair by week’s end. Fingers crossed!

Here’s a haiku I wrote about an experience I had outside city hall:

It’s not that I can’t
spare the thirty-three cents, hobo;
I just choose not to.

I know I ended that last line with a preposition, but haiku is a Japanese art form, and Engrish is far less grammatically rigid.

i see a child! now i’m blind! where did she go? oh no!

Hey hobos! Now you too can take a leak in the comfort and privacy of your own home!

So, happy belated Father’s Day, internet. I twittered yesterday that I was celebrating it because I’m your daddy, but I’ve given it some thought and I take that back, since you’ve stopped answering my “who’s your daddy?” calls (and accompanying slaps to the ass) now that we’ve incorporated the ball-gag into the mix.

Still, spending Father’s Day alone, looking at photos of a baby some friends had on Friday, gave me some time to reflect on my life, and how I really hope that, some day, I have someone to share holidays like this with.

I want to have a baby.

I want to have a baby in the worst way.

Up the butt.

I also spent the weekend setting up not one, not two, but three Topsy Turvy planters. It’s a vegetable wonderland!

Vegunderland.

I was excited about it and admit to getting a little carried away with the thought of fresh tomatoes and cucumbers and jalapenos growing right in my backyard. But after I got everything set up, cracked open a beer and sat down for a second to admire my day’s accomplishment, I realized that I hadn’t thought things through and had a bit of a problem:

What’s the use of growing fresh tomatoes right outside my back door if I don’t have any Mexicans around to pick them?

That’s how they get you: the up-sale.

And finally, I couldn’t help but notice your lack of comments on my previous blog entry, Internet. At first I thought I might have offended you with my “ironing is women’s work” crack, but since we both know it really kind of is, I figured you were just too busy doing other woman things — like watching Oprah, or driving poorly, or sucking cock — so I forgive you.

it’s green and itchy but i don’t mind; when it’s swishing in the breeze it feels so fine

I hate to be the one to have to tell you this, On the Run convenience stores, but a gas station hot dog technically only qualifies as a “vacation from your day” if you mean that you’ll be spending the better part of the afternoon away from your desk, on the toilet.

Don’t forget to reserve a seat in the spacious handicap stall!

Or maybe if this daycation of yours also includes plans for a side-trip to the Rite Aid to pick up some Imodium, but I’m not 100% sure that qualifies so I’ll have to check the handbook and get back to you.

I did a bunch of ironing last night and wrote you a haiku about it:

Hey you! Kenneth Cole!
That “wrinkle-free” tag of yours
is a crock of shit.

The funny thing about me ironing my own shirts is that I’m not even a woman!

I’m a rebel like that, the kind you always wished you could bring home to piss off your dad, and your mom would say things like “he’s bad news” but at night she secretly longed for his gentle touch, but keep dreaming because you were a little too chubby and, seriously, what would everyone say?

take off your drawers, throw ’em in the corner, i can’t see why you can’t stay a little longer

No matter how much you beg and plead, Internet, I just cannot seem to force myself to refer to midgets as “little people.” Because I find it’s only half-true.

So I went to the Babies’r’us this weekend to buy a gift for a friend, and after printing their registry list and walking around the store, looking at tiny little shoes and tiny little hats and tiny little blankets with teddy bears on them, something came over me and I never thought it would but I’ll be damned if it didn’t.

I want a baby.

So I bought one.

And I know you’re thinking that’s a pretty major purchase for me to have made so nonchalantly and all spur-of-the-moment like. But don’t you go worrying your pretty little head, Internet.

It was on clearance.

Asian female. Overstock, I suppose, but I don’t care because hey, free mani/pedis for life. And hopefully some day, she’ll grow to love me.

For a long time.

Right? Right.

Know what else I love about late Spring? How for a few weeks around this time each year, the three or four of you who aren’t degenerate gamblers pretend you actually give a rat’s ass about horseracing.

OMFG that one jockey was going for the triple crown which I guess would have made him head jockey and he might have even gotten to have sex with a full-sized woman as a prize but probably not because gross. I just don’t care, and I’m pretty sure you don’t either.

Know what “Preakness” means in French?

Meat sandwich.

Here’s an example usage for you to practice and practice and then try to impress the locals with on your next trip abroad:

Oh mon dieu! La viande de cheval en ce preakness goûte comme la colle! J’ajouterai du beurre! Viva la Bastille!

And I was married to a French girl for a few years, so I should know.

min is mine, not thine; it’s kitten time at the great crystal shrine

I’ve been traveling a lot lately, and you know as well as I do that once you’ve taken your seat and are drinking a complimentary Leinenkugel’s (it tastes like orange candy!) while the poor people board, that you can only make fun of the fires of jealousy burning in their eyes as they shuffle back to coach for so long before you get bored of them and start to think.

I personally like to use this post-making-fun-of-the-poor time to brainstorm new million-dollar ideas, and let me just say that yesterday I came up with a doozy:

A brand-new social networking/micro-blogging site, just for women.

Called Twatter.

I also took some time to reflect on why it takes you poor people so long to board the plane, because that’s been a mystery to me for so long and I even asked a poor person one time what gives but I couldn’t take the smell so I had to leave before he could answer.

Anyway, so yesterday I realized that it takes you longer to board because you bring all your luggage on the aircraft instead of checking it, likely because you can’t afford the $15 fee. And I realized this and I laughed out loud, right there in my over-sized cushy seat I laughed, because if only you’d have flown first class instead, you would have gotten free baggage checking and could have saved that $15.

Silly poor people.

Here’s something else that came up last week of which I think you ought to be made aware: pooping while drunk isn’t nearly as fun as you might think, primarily because of the less-then-thorough wiping.

And lastly, if you’ve ever successfully completed a hot wing eating challenge in a certain Appalachian state and have recently discovered your polaroid has gone missing from the wall of shame fame, it’s probably because I took it. No hard feelings.

i’ll take you off the boat, put you under my wings and you could pull my leg or anything

I know you’d never say as much in public or with mixed company, Internet, but deep down we all know you agree with me entirely and 100% on this (as you do on most everything I say (even the baby head haiku (which I wrote in jest, and you should be ashamed of yourself for agreeing with it because pedophilia is so wrong and gross and what are you, Catholic?))), and since you’re too afraid to speak up, I’ll say it for you.

Like always.

I just don’t understand how our country can be too homophobic for a gay American Idol winner, when the fact that you even watch American Idol is so completely gay, gayer in fact than that gay guy you wouldn’t let win because of your homophobia.

Regardless, the results are in. America voted. And you’re a hypocrite.

You kind of remind me of what happened on that American Beauty movie where that army guy beat up his son because he thought the kid was blowing Kevin Spacey but then he got drunk and went and made out with Kevin Spacey in the rain himself.

You could see Thora Birch’s boobs in that movie. Not that you care, what with your being gay and watching the American Idol and all that.

internalized conflict, externalized as war

I know you’ve been waiting for this, so let me go ahead and get it out of the way:

Yes, I watched the finale of the Big Fat Loser show. No, I don’t think it’s fair that the old woman won, what with her cheating by way of osteoporosis lessening her bone density.

Here’s a haiku I wrote about divorce:

Being able to
jack off whenever you want
is overrated.

And here’s a funny joke I just wrote:

You:

Is your refrigerator running?

Me:

No! It quit working yesterday, so now I have to throw all the food away! And then I have to buy a new fridge!! OMFGLMAO!!!!!

Also, I watched those Alzheimer’s documentaries on the HBO, Internet, and I’ve never felt more confident that, for one thing, Maria Shriver looks like the Crypt Keeper, and for another thing, once I hit 55, I’m so getting the Alzheimer’s. Whether I’ve got it or not. It’s just going to make life easier, I think, with the being waited on all the time and especially the not having to talk to people.

But so help me god, if one of the grandkids calls it “Alltimers” I’m going to smack him or her upside and about the head, repeatedly, until they learn to pronounce it correctly. It makes you violent sometimes, the Alltimers does.

you had my picture on your bedroom wall, next to gary glitter

I spent a bunch of time on airplanes last week — in coach, with the poor people and the swine flu, because I wanted to feel closer to you and your poor, swine fluey ass — and after looking at it over and over again, debating the pros and cons and ins and outs and ups and downs of it, changing my mind and then changing my mind about changing my mind, I decided that, you know what? I’m going for it. I deserve it. It’s been a shitty few weeks and goddamnit, I’m going to treat myself.

So I just ordered that fake rock to cover my ugly sewer-cleanout pipes or utility boxes from the SkyMall. And if the delivery is timely and I’m satisfied with my purchase, I’m thinking I just may order from them again, because there’s something else I’ve got my eye on.

Maybe I’ll invite you over to look at it someday. But only if you’ll promise to look at it and leave. No gawking, and no loitering. And no, you cannot go inside to use the restroom. Go before you come, Internet. And who calls it a “restroom” when it’s in a house? It’s a bathroom. Stop trying to sound fancy, because I see right through you.

Here’s a haiku I wrote about pedophilia:

Stop crying, baby!
I’ll keep it out of your mouth
once you start teething.

I’ve been saying it for a while now, and I know you never listen so I’ll say it again, but I really think pedophilia is the new midget joke. Speaking of which, here’s a haiku I wrote about midget babies:

Relax, midget child.
I swear I draw the line at
Bestiality.

I would apologize about the bestiality crack, midgets, but you and I both know you’ll never find out I said it because you’re too short to see the screen and your little sausage fingers are too deformed to type on the keyboard and besides, you probably can’t even get the Internet down there anyway.

and the thought came to me, just sweet sixteen and full of night: who will deliver me from myself?

So I’m in the Frisco (because that’s what we locals call it (even though we deny it to you (because we hate you and don’t want you to have any part of our cool “calling it Frisco” club))), and I think I’ve come down with a case of the Whine Flu. And OMG, you guys, it hurts so goddamned bad that I can’t stand it!!!

That was a joke.

But since you’re stupid, here’s the gist: I used “whine flu” instead of the currently topical “swine flu,” because whine rhymes with swine. And then I whined about it. OMFGLOL!

Get it?

I didn’t figure. But trust me, it’s funny.

And I should probably mention that, just in case you’re reading this in six months when we’ve all forgotten about the swine flu just like we forgot about the AIDS and the SARS and the SIDS and the Lance Armstrong bracelets, “swine flu” was some bullshit that no one cared about but the news kept forcing it down our throats even though it was a Mexican issue and, really? We’re going to concern ourselves with the Mexicans now?

No offense Mexicans, but you’ll have to take the word of whoever told you I said that because you’re too busy roofing houses and cleaning hotel rooms and boxing and eating cats to blog hop. And the illiteracy puts a damper on things as well but, again, not apologizing because you’ll never know I said it.

But I digress.

I’m going to make some changes in my life. And I’m going to write a book or two. In your face.

and you’re a prima ballerina on a spring afternoon

Hey there, Internet. I haven’t been around too much because I’ve been busy rounding up the local homeless and tricking them into doing my yard work in exchange for some Canadian change I got at a McDonald’s one time and a snack-sized ziplock of flour I told them was cocaine. I wouldn’t have even mentioned the part about the flour to you if it weren’t for the fact that they’re homeless and they don’t get the Internet at the corner of Hammond Aire Plaza and Airline so it’s not like they’ll find out or anything.

Here:

i think your feelings
regarding anilingus
are pretty crappy.

a clitoral kiss
my tongue slides down your thigh, then
oops! up the poop shoot.

you know, i could swear
that before we got freaky
my tongue wasn’t brown.

Those were some haiku.

(for you)

(tastes like poo)

(it’s true!)

(doo doo)

you’re the kind of boy i really like, let me have a ride on the motorbike

I shaved my balls this weekend and now I can’t stop touching them.

Okay, so as a result of the overwhelming response in the form of comments on my last post, and also in that it helps me to be less disgusted when I envision you visiting my website while naked as you so often do on account of how it makes you feel so free, I’ve decided to drunk-write all of my blogs from now on. And I’ve never been one for drinking in the mornings, so I hope you appreciate my efforts.

“But I thought you were always drunk when you blogged.”

Ha! I beat you to it. In your face. Just like that Shamwow! guy what beat up that hooker in her face.

And I know that since I stole your “but I thought you were always drunk when you blogged” thunder a little while ago that you’re going to try and get me back with a witty comment about the ShamWow guy, but as a serious journalist, I’ll have you know that him wanting to see if the ShamWow! was effective at soaking up hooker blood had nothing to do with what happened.

Absolutely nothing.

No, apparently the altercation occurred when he tried to pay her in three easy installments of $333.33, and expected a second handjob, absolutely free, by acting now.

for all respect you cannot lust, in an invisible man you place your trust

Oh Internet. Sweet, succulent Internet. Did you miss me? Wait. Shh. Don’t answer that. I know you did, and I’ll spare you the shame of admitting it.

First off, I’d like to thank Pitt for refusing to play defense during the last five seconds in their game versus Villanova, thereby causing me to go from 1st to 5th in my office pool, with no shot at winning. And I was planning on donating all my prize money to charity, too, so I hope you’re proud of yourselves, Pitt. The poor people won’t get their hot pockets or hobo chili or whatever the hell it is poor people eat, and it’s all because you suck too many balls to take a fucking charge. You’ve made Jesus cry and I know you don’t care but you did anyway.

And Villanova is in Philly. You know who else is from Philly? That’s right. The Fresh Fucking Prince. And G Love and Special Suck. Sleep on the fact that you lost to a team from the same place as the Fresh Prince and G Love for a few nights and suck on an exhaust pipe and end it like we all think you should.

Secondly, I was watching some heavy metal show on the VH-1 and they had a poll as to whether Pantera or Slayer were the “meanest” band ever, and the fucktards chose Pantera because obviously they’re all high and stupid. Kerry King drops deuces on Dimebag’s grave, because he can in that he isn’t dead and he has tattoos on his friggin’ head. On his head.

You know what would have happened if some douche brought a gun into a Slayer show? Well first of all, security would have intervened, because Slayer plays stadiums and arenas and not sucky clubs. Then Kerry King would have nailed the gunman’s wife, while Tom Araya played Nintendo and Jeff Hanneman videotaped the whole thing to upload to the YouTube. And all the while Dave Lombardo would have just kept on the double-bass drum.

So blow me with your Cowboys from Hell nonsense.

And b, I saw this the other day in New York, so if you need anyone to make chocolate or toys or cookies in a tree, now you know how to set that up.

And ultimately, is anyone willing to teach a two-day workshop in Flash? Because I’m not going to.

the west is the best, the west is the best; get here, and we’ll do the rest

OMG at the Tiger Woods, Internet! Seriously, how amazing is it that he can perform at that level after taking so much time off for major surgery? I mean, did you see what he did on the 14^th hole?

Because I didn’t. Golf sucks. It’s fucking boring.

The only Blasians I give a shit about are the kind that make fetish porn.  Soul slopes, good. Men in plaid pants, bad.

And yeah, that was probably offensive and I would apologize but you and I both know I don’t mean it. But here’s my dilemma:

So I’m on the Facebook, right? And about a month ago some chick from the town I grew up in added me as a friend.

Now, until college, I lived in a small town of about 4,000 people or so. And while you might expect that, having spent my formative years in a town that small, that I’d have come to know the majority of people that live there, well, you’re right. I did. But if there’s one thing you’ll soon learn about me, Internet, it’s that I’m very proficient at forgetting about the insignificant people.

Like you.

And by that I mean that you’re insignificant, and not that you’re able to forget about insignificant people because how would you of all people be able to differentiate?

So anyway, this girl from my hometown added me as a friend on the Facebook a month or so ago, and I accepted because her name is — and I’m changing it here to protect the innocent (i.e. me, in case she googles herself) — but her name is, let’s say, Fattie McDon’tKnowWhoTheFuckYouAre. And while I couldn’t place the entire name, I did know girls named Fattie. And I did know people with the last name “McDon’tKnowWhoTheFuckYouAre.” So naturally I assumed she was just some sweat hog from the V.I.V.I. that I chose to forget about so as to use my brain to store other, more important information, like the boxing weight classes or New York Knicks rosters from 1992 to present.

Okay, so I accepted her request and whatever, but then I started seeing all these posts about her going to church and Jesus this and Jesus that, and she threw whatever stupid fake super-poke bullshit at people non-stop. So I defriended her McRib-eating ass because I do not need to see that nonsense when I’m trying to load Scramble.

Well.

Fast-forward to yesterday, when Fattie Mac added me back.

So what do I do, Internet? Because you know I don’t want to seem rude or anything. But really? Be friends with her?

at midnight, all the agents and superhuman crew go out and round up everyone who knows more than they do

Happy Daylight Savings, Internet! I know you probably hate springing forward like that, because you lose a little bit of the beauty sleep which we can all agree you so desperately need. But me? I love it, because it’s one less hour in the day that I have to deal with your stupid bullshit. Less of you makes me happy.

So… how’s it going? It’s been a while. I spent my week off pimping bums and recording videos to upload to the YouTube.

I also watched the Watchmen on Friday. And I know you’re thinking “aww shit, here’s another fanboy whining about the movie,” but I don’t like that attitude and I’d kick you right in the face had I not broken a toe Saturday night kicking my patio swing whilst practicing kicking you right in the face because of your attitude. You got lucky, Internet, but it will heal in time and then watch out, because right in the face.

So I was disappointed in the movie, but I’m not going to go off on a fanboy rant because they all suck and who cares what they think? I’m far too cerebral and artsy (very much like the comics, and the opposite of the movie), so I’m going to whine in the form of haiku.

guess i missed the part
in the comic where dan and
laurie kill the gang.

cleavers to the head
show emotion, not lack of,
as moore intended.

don’t establish veidt
tinkering with genetics,
and the cat looks dumb.

the “new frontiersman”
should have at least been mentioned
before the last scene.

I’d write more, but this is getting boring. The new ending did work for me, though. So I guess that’s something.

i walk through fire and i swim through mud, snatch a feather from an eagle, drink panther blood

Okay, I know I just posted yesterday and you weren’t expecting another update until probably next week, but you’re an arrogant prick and I just kamikaze blogged upside your face to teach you a lesson. Don’t be so smug, Internet; it’s unbecoming.

I was asked the other day about the significance of the official Mardi Gras colors of purple, gold and green. At the time, I gave the proper and wholly accurate response of “who the fuck cares?” but I’m not in much of a haiku mood today and I thought of something kind of funny related to the colors so that’s what I’m going with.

So, is there any significance to the purple, gold and green? Yes, Internet. There is.

Purple is for justice, gold is for power, and green is for faith.

But wait. There’s more!

If you combine the three colors, you’ll see the mystery fourth official color:

The mystery color is special because it’s symbolic of the true meaning of the Mardi Gras, which is obviously vomit. Vomit on the streets. Vomit on your shoes. Vomit in a sorority girl’s hair, because you were too drunk to think to hold it for her and, besides, gross.

Right?

Right.

Here are some photos of boobies I found on the Flickr. Now show me yours.

i must have come to that crazy age where everything is hot, ’cause i don’t know if the things i’m thinking are normal thoughts or not

Holy shit, Internet! I know this will most likely come as news to you, but I just heard that the Alex Rodriguez used to be on the ’roids!!! OMFGROTFLMFAO.

So I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, and it would seem that I’m finally starting to come out of the whole wanting to have a kid so I can get a cool neck tattoo phase I was going through a few weeks back. I know you probably find that upsetting and quite frankly I don’t care, but what happened was I went to the Toys’r’us yesterday and saw not one but two guys with the neck tattoos, and while one of them I’m pretty sure was of a baby’s name, the other was of slot machine-styled letters which read “777.”

I stopped in my tracks, imagining some toothless hillbilly nibbling on his neck in the back of a pickup outside the NASCAR race and screaming “jackpot!” and them laughing and laughing and laughing, until the snuff came right out of their mouths. Right out the snuff came (as I imagined it), and him thinking that it would make a great idea to for a neck tattoo.

So naturally I was going to tell him how stupid it was, but as I got closer and gave them both a good look, I could tell they probably listened to the Limp Bizkit. You could just tell, you know? And if that sort of thing comes with getting neck tattoos, the Limp Bizkit listening, well you can obviously count me right the hell out of that little scenario. No sir, no thank you.

So now I think I’m going to get a little teardrop tattoo instead, right below my left eye. It’s going to be symbolic, my teardrop tattoo will, of the way you make me cry sometimes.

From all the laughing and pointing you make me do.

Try not to be so lame, Internet. It hurts my belly after a while.

money can’t buy everything, it’s true; but what it don’t buy, i can’t use

Who’s with me in thinking that, although I’m sure he would never admit as much publicly (or even privately, and certainly not with mixed company), but now that it’s back to being the tallest building in Manhattan, deep down the Empire State Building was probably a little happy about the terrorist attacks of 9/11?

I’m certainly no conspiracy theorist, and so help me god you better never refer to me as such or my girlfriend Sara will settle the score, but I’m just saying that, when it comes to your tourism dollars, an observation deck can make a man think crazy thoughts. Crazy thoughts. We all have our limits, you know? Not me, of course, but you all sure seem to…

Hey Internet! Know what pisses me off even more than you do? Well, I’ll tell you: when the poor people have the audacity to squeeze their fat asses up the aisle towards the bow to use the first-class lavatory.

If the flight attendant is spending her time disinfecting the toilet from poor germs, she can’t really be bringing me warm towels and free beer, now can she?

Think about someone besides yourselves for a change, poor people. Think.

it was a big bremelo standing on my toe, an enormous jelly belly tryin’ to say hello

Okay, Internet. I know there’s supposed to be a grace period and all that, and it’s Black History Month so that’s probably helping you turn a blind eye on account of all the white man’s guilt you seem to have because of your parents being racists and all, plus you’re all hippie liberals so you only throw your criticisms in the direction of the republicans and also the South, but I’m sick and tired of the hypocrisy so I’m just going to say it, no matter the repercussions I’m just going to goddamned say it:

Michelle Obama has a big ass.

And not in a sexy way, either. Far more Jessica Simpson than that Kardashian girl, the Michelle Obama is.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I really hope her husband can redistribute some of that junk into my trunk. Not all of it, please. Heavens no! I’m going for bootylicious, not bootyluscious. But a touch of redistributed ass my way and we all win.

it keeps growing and i can feel it breathe, i have been trying to tolerate you

I think I want a kid.

My own kid, I mean. Don’t go shoving Styrofoam peanuts into little Johnny’s mouth thinking I want you to ship me your dirty little snot-nosed child because I’ll write “refused” on the package and send it back to you so fast and, besides, how the hell did you get my address?

So I think I want to have a kid.

But not because I have an empty space in my life that I want to fill. And not because I have some subconscious desire to procreate or spread my seed or need help with the lawn or whatever. Although, now that you brought it up, I guess you’re right; the world really could use a little more of me in it.

But I digress.

No, I think I want to have a kid because I really, really want to get me one of them neck tattoos. Cursive print, so it’s practically illegible and you have to get super close to read it. And duh, I want it right above the collar line so you can see it clearly over my navy Dickies while I’m changing your oil. And I’m pretty sure that kind of self expression has to be a baby’s name or the tattoo artist will expect a tip.

Here’s a haiku I wrote at work the other day:

locking the stall door
lets me know it’s occupied
so i don’t walk in.

Food for thought, off-white Chuck Taylors.

“all men are evil except my boyfriend” said the sound of the spectacle

I know you’re thinking I haven’t been around lately, Internet. But you’re wrong. So wrong, in fact, that I want to punch you right in your fat face for even considering something so stupid. The truth is that I’ve been blogging damned-near every day. The Obama’s just been redistributing my posts to other, less fortunate blogs.

So I was watching the tele the other night — I got the Spaced DVD set a while back, and I’m thinking I’ll adopt a bit of British slang to honor Simon Pegg (but not the accent (and certainly not the spelling (damn you and all your stupid, misplaced Us, Simon Pegg))) — and so I’m watching the tele and I see a commercial for some text message service where you text a question to some number and it responds with a bible verse that answers your question. Standard text messaging rates apply.

So being inquisitive by nature (not to mention a bit arseholed at the time), I decided to give it a send-up.

Dear Bible Phone, my girlfriend is on the rag but still wants to do it. Gross, right?

Bible Phone says Leviticus 15:19-24: ¹⁹Whenever a woman has her menstrual period, she will be ceremonially unclean for seven days. Anyone who touches her during that time will be unclean until evening. ²⁰Anything on which the woman lies or sits during the time of her period will be unclean. ²¹If any of you touch her bed, you must wash your clothes and bathe yourself in water, and you will remain unclean until evening. ²²If you touch any object she has sat on, you must wash your clothes and bathe yourself in water, and you will remain unclean until evening. ²³This includes her bed or any other object she has sat on; you will be unclean until evening if you touch it. ²⁴If a man has sexual intercourse with her and her blood touches him, her menstrual impurity will be transmitted to him. He will remain unclean for seven days, and any bed on which he lies will be unclean.

I don’t think she’s going to be happy with that, Bible Phone. What if she gets upset?

Bible Phone says 1 Timothy 2:11-14: ¹¹Women should learn quietly and submissively. ¹²I do not let women teach men or have authority over them. Let them listen quietly. ¹³For God made Adam first, and afterward he made Eve. ¹⁴And it was not Adam who was deceived by Satan. The woman was deceived, and sin was the result

Okay, okay. I catch your drift, Bible Phone. So when she’s having her ladytime, is it okay if she goes down on me?

Bible Phone says Song of Solomon 2:3: ³Like an apple tree among the trees of the woods, So is my beloved among the sons. I sat down in his shade with great delight, And his fruit was sweet to my taste.

Whoa there, Bible Phone. His fruit was sweet to my taste? Are you saying it’s okay for her to swallow?

Bible Phone says John 4:10-14: ¹⁰Jesus replied, “If you only knew the gift God has for you and who you are speaking to, you would ask me, and I would give you living water.” ¹¹“But sir, you don’t have a rope or a bucket,” she said, “and this well is very deep. Where would you get this living water? ¹²And besides, do you think you’re greater than our ancestor Jacob, who gave us this well? How can you offer better water than he and his sons and his animals enjoyed?” ¹³Jesus replied, “Anyone who drinks this water will soon become thirsty again. ¹⁴But those who drink the water I give will never be thirsty again. It becomes a fresh, bubbling spring within them, giving them eternal life.”

So let me get this straight, Bible Phone: Jesus used his “Son of God” routine to troll for blowjobs? That’s awesome! Did it work?

Bible Phone says John 4:15-16: ¹⁵“Please, sir,” the woman said, “give me this water! Then I’ll never be thirsty again, and I won’t have to come here to get water.” ¹⁶“Go and get your husband,” Jesus told her.

Holy fucking shit, he wanted a threesome? That Jesus was a freak.

Anyway, I think the moral of the story is that Jesus was into snogging dudes, blowing his load into women’s mouths and Bob’s your uncle! Blimey!

people, people, we’ve got to get over before we go under

Inauguration Day has finally arrived and this great nation of ours will soon have its first African American president. It’s a truly historic and monumental day, and I’d like to take a few moments on this, the 20^th of January, in the year of our lord two thousand and nine, a date which will forever symbolize racial harmony the likes of which we’ve never seen, and implore my fellow Americans of color, my soul brothers and sisters, to please mark the occasion by stopping with the Obama t-shirts already.

The Dreamer. The Dream. The Same Goddamned T-Shirt Every Goddamned Day.

At lease mix in a backwards baseball jersey from time-to-time, or maybe an orange Cross Colours hoodie. Hell, at this point I’d settle for black Bart Simpson telling me I wouldn’t understand. Something.

Here. I made these for you.

been to heaven, been to hell; bought the farm and i won’t sell

You know how sometimes you wake up the morning after a night of deviance and debauchery with this overwhelming feeling of self-loathing and disgust?

You’d sworn to yourself that the last time really would be the last time, but your total lack of ability (or willingness) to control your own actions has you right back where you swear you’d never be again, and that makes you feel like scum. That makes you feel lower than scum.

And when you finally gather the courage to pick yourself up from the floor and look into the bathroom mirror at the sad, vacant gaze of the shell of a person staring back, you reflect on what a waste you are, and can say with absolute honesty — the first truthful words to escape your lips in longer than you can recall — that you hate yourself.

You really, truly hate yourself.

You know how sometimes you wake up the morning after a night of deviance and debauchery with this overwhelming feeling of self-loathing and disgust?

Well, they say the first step in recovery is admitting you have a problem, to yourself, and to those you love and care for. And since I don’t have any other forum other than this stupid little website, here goes:

I wake up feeling that way every morning.

About you.

I’d probably still do you, though. Probably after I’m nice and liquored up, but still.

Probably.

somebody’s been stealing all my sugar, somebody’s been sitting in my chair; somebody’s been smoking my cigarettes,’cause i see butts everywhere

I’ve been seeing a lot of midgets scurrying around on my many recent travels about and to and fro, and I must say that I’m starting to think that Al Gore guy may be onto something, because I could swear they’ve usually started hibernating by this time of year. Usually.

I heard a retarded girl in the Wal-Mart the other day, singing at the top of her lungs. Jingle Bells, I think, but I don’t speak their dialect so it’s tough to say with any real level of certainty. And please don’t ask me what breed she was, because I was never good at that sort of thing. She was rocking back and forth like she had the ’tism, but she wasn’t counting so that’s probably not it, and I’d left my field guide at Kristin’s so who can say?

Anyway, my point is that I heard this and then when they walked by, I looked at her handler right dead in the eye and asked him in my head, I asked him “Why? Why subject the rest of us hardworking American Wal-Mart shoppers (plus that group of illegals buying up all the corn tortillas and jalapeños (paying with cash (of course))) to this needless discomfort?”

But then I had a revelation that spurred my softer, compassionate, caring/nurturer side to expose itself, not unlike that time Jennifer Whatshername asked me in gym class if the carpet matched the drapes so I showed her:

He was probably there to buy earplugs.

I feel your pain, brother. Best of luck in your endeavors. Godspeed, young man. Godspeed.

dallas got a soft machine; houston, too close to new orleans; new york’s got the ways and means but just wont let you be

You know, Internet, I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately and, truth be told, I really think that, should I ever opt to open a whore house — or brothel, to be less vulgar (although really it’d just be a house with whores in it, and I’m a firm believer in truth in advertising) — and should I open this whore house brothel in a rural area, I can’t think of a better possible name than The Country Cuntry.

I had some really bad gas last night, possibly due to the red kidney beans I ate for dinner, and I passed a bunch of it in bed whilst I slept. So much gas did I pass, in fact, that the stench which formed beneath my tightly tucked-in covers made my eyes water when I awoke, blinding me as I stumbled johnward for my morningly squirt.

And not only that, but I’m sorry to say the plastic of the action figure I always sleep with absorbed some of the stank, and now that particular Stormtrooper shall forever more be relegated to bathroom detail in my Death Star diorama.

But I bet you knew that already.

Happy New Year, Internet. Now go eat some black-eyed peas and cabbage.

and if i took the time to take your time, and sleep this time, all the way home

I learned something whilst flying first class from New York to New Orleans yesterday: when you’re a wee bit gassy, you don’t have to bother trying to hold it in.

It really is okay. I promise you, it’s okay. Because your gas doesn’t stink when you’re flying first class.

Well, either that or the airflow is designed so as to carry the stench aft, towards the poor people where it so rightly belongs. Regardless, you may fart at leisure. And go ahead and order another cup of coffee, served in an actual mug. You deserve it.

I got this Christmas card from my mom the other day, and boy did it get on my nerves something fierce.

If I’ve told her once, I’ve told her 1,000 times: I don’t want a little Jesus.

Please mom, not again with the socks or the little Jesuses. No more.

And finally, I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge the total lack of minivans driving around with wreaths attached to the front. I knew you visited my website, but I always thought it was for the pretty pictures. Who knew you were actually reading?

Anyway, you’re doing a great job, hillbillies. Keep it up.

last night, that furby it was talkin’ to me, talkin’ in the language of love

Hey Internet! I know you miss me but I’m in training all day so I can’t stay long. But, I wanted to ask your honest opinion while I was out on a break and had the chance:

Does this look like a penis to you, or not?

Kristin doesn’t think so, but I think she’s lying.

if i was unborn, i would have nothing to be grateful for; i would have never seen love, i would have never held cats

To the older gentleman sitting in front of me on the plane last week, seat 40A on Delta Flight #910 (non-stop service to New York LaGuardia), I just have this to say:

Your head smells really bad. Really bad. Like poop, and I wasn’t leaning forward or taking deep breaths or anything.

Thank Jesus I flew first class on the way back, where the tiny curtain prevents the foul stench of you common folk from seeping forward and ruining the complimentary breakfast for my wealthy compatriots and me.

Hey Internet! Next time you go to a crowded pub to watch Manny “Manila Ice” Pacquiao kick some Mexican ass, a fun way to pass the time is to play the Pacquiao or De La Hoya Fan™ game.

The rules are simple: use your keen observation skills to try and determine if any random person you see is an Oscar De La Hoya fan, or a Manny “the Mexecutioner” Pacquiao fan.

Let’s play now!

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

It’s fun for a girl and a boy!