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!
It’s fun for a girl and a boy!
broken doors on bathroom stalls and waterfalls and booty calls
Another of the surefire million dollar ideas we came up with on Saturday revolves around a new type of fetish porn, the subject of which being old women pissing themselves. The Golden (Shower) Girls, we’ll call it.
Although now that I think about it, that name may be slightly misleading, what with the way all the Metamucil and prunes turn their urine more brownish than golden. But I’m not changing it, because there are two things you’ve absolutely got to have in order to make it in this business: a niche, and a parody title.
I went to the Hobby Lobby earlier to get some tiny Santa hats for me to put on shit around my house, and the Salvation Army guy ringing his bell by the door — a black man (not that there’s anything wrong with that) — called me “brother.”
“Help me out, brother?” he said.
I love it when a black man calls me “brother.” It makes me feel so accepted, and so harmonious and so… so urban. And it couldn’t have come at a better time, what with me needing to fit in with the blacks so that when the Obama redistributes whitey’s money, not only will he leave me be, but I might even get a little taste of the action.
Jack told me it’s penis week, so here. I’d say “NSFW,” but I don’t know what you do.
i’m gonna sell my house in town and i’ll be there, to shine in your japan, to sparkle in your china
Dear Burger King,
I thought you might like to know that we all got together to discuss world events and to debate which Olsen twin is hotter (it’s the one on the left) and to brainstorm new product ideas to market on the internet and via infomercial (as is our custom the Saturday after each Thanksgiving), and when the subject of you came up, we quickly reached the consensus that the Triple Whopper is just a teenie bit too much Whopper.
I’d say it’s approximately one level of Whopper too much, give or take. This according to our vote.
Anyway, just thought you’d like to know.
Guess what! I went Christmas shopping yesterday and I couldn’t decide what to buy you. On the one hand, I wanted to get you something nice and classy, because I believe that if you’re going to give a gift, you should get something the person would want. But on the other hand, you have really, really bad taste. So I bought you this.
I’m thinking I’ll keep the compact press-and-open book light for myself, though. Just press, and the book light instantly opens and turns on for extra light where you need it. OMGLOL!!!
A $15 dollar value! Free!!!!
thanksgiving bffs
Happy Thanksgiving, Internet. This year I’m thankful for beer, that the Knicks will be below the salary cap in 2010, and most of all, for Gandolfini.
for a smile they can share the night, it goes on and on and on and on…
So I was flying from New Orleans to New York last night, and who did I wind up sitting next to on the plane? That’s right, Internet; none other than Tony Soprano himself, one Mr. James Gandolfini.
We didn’t talk much during the flight, I suspect because he didn’t want me to yell at him about the bullshit way the series ended (and so help me god I was so going to yell at him so hard had he brought it up), but here’s where things get weird: once we’d landed and were free to use our cell phones, pagers and two-way devices (but not our laptops), his phone rang and OMG he had the exact same ringtone as me!!!
We just sort of looked at each other and grinned and, instantly, we both knew we’d made a real connection. We just knew. It’s as if we’d known each other our entire lives, and could carry on an entire conversation without ever muttering a word. We simply got each other.
And as we made our way to the ground transportation area at LaGuardia, he headed for a private car and I for the taxi stand, we paused for a second or two in reflection of our newfound camaraderie, exchanged a quick fist bump, then he leaned in and whispered something I’ll never forget, no matter how long I live I’ll never forget:
“Bros before hoes.”
Bros before hoes indeed, Tony Soprano. Bros before hoes indeed.
Of course, by “sitting next to” I mean “fourteen rows and the little curtain that separates first class from coach away from,” and by “his ringtone” I mean “someone’s ringtone that, to be honest, sounded like it was coming from behind me but I can’t be too certain because my hearing’s kind of shot thanks to all that goddamned rock’n’roll music so who knows?” But still…
Nice guy, that James Gandolfini.
i wanna get me something for free; i wanna get sleepy, you won’t let me
Listen up, the gays: I know you’re feeling rather slighted right about now, what with the whole “America being more afraid of you marrying each other than they are of the coloreds” and all, but you really should try not to be such a racist. It’s unbecoming, and quite frankly I expected better of you.
Well buck up, little campers! Turn those frowns upside-down, because Uncle Jeremy promises that in, oh, say ten years or so from now, when things don’t work out (and we both know they won’t), but Blaine doesn’t have the right to half your property so you don’t have to worry about him taking your Will and Grace DVDs or bowls of potpourri or whatever the hell it is you people spend your money on, you’ll realize the homophobes of this great nation of ours did you a favor.
That’s the wonderful thing about this country; we take care of our fellow man, even when we aren’t trying.
pours my beer, licks my ear, brings out the devil in me
Few things in life piss me off more, Internet, than having to wait in line 45 minutes to vote because a bunch of slow old people — who are probably going to die of old age anyway before the midway point of President Palin’s first term — made it to the polls before me. They wake up at 4:00 AM, the old people do, so of course they’re going to get there first.
Take this down: I think the young and able-witted should be able to skip in front of any old people in line at will. Any line. Because it’s not as if the old people had any plans that day other than sitting around and smelling bad and watching their stories and driving slowly and soiling themselves, anyway.
But me? I’ve got shit to do. Places to be.
Eventually, though, I got to the front of the line and was able to cast my vote for Obama.
OMGLOL. Not really. I’m white.
you know the day i was born, there were these four dudes up on a hill, and they said they saw this star hanging out over town and the whole world seemed to stand still. it made the sunday papers, i guess it proves for sure…
I saw this in New York last weekend. I’m pretty sure it was on the N train, Queens-bound, but now that I think about it there’s a very real possibility it was the W. But not the R. Never the R. Because even though they’re all three of them yellow, the R is always wrong.
That’s what it stands for: “wrong.”
Unlike the W which is always right. And I know you think that’s confusing, but no one really gives a shit what you think. You’re simple-minded, but I’m sure if you asked nicely, someone who isn’t stupid like you will lend a helping hand and maybe draw you a map, or check under your bed for monsters or something.
Anyways, the point I’m trying to make is this: racism is funny.
Also, I’ve decided I don’t want to be Facebook friends with you any longer.
It’s not that I hate you. I do, but that has nothing to do with it. Rather, I just don’t want to hurt your feelings when I log on one day and notice it’s your birthday, but I choose not to post anything on your “wall,” or super-poke you, or whatever the devil else it is you people do on the Facebook. I just can’t be bothered with that brand of nonsense, and I think it will save you a lot of heartache if I go ahead and make a clean break.
Don’t take it personally.
Or do. Whatever.
Write this down, Internet: if anyone ever encourages you to buy a six-pack of this, you should immediately punch them in the face. I don’t care if she’s that cute brunette liquor store clerk that always shows cleavage and thought your “I put the ‘pub’ in ‘republican’” t-shirt was funny, you punch her right in her goddamned face.
take a look at these dark sunglasses, i like to wear ’em around the house; they make me look so tough and mean, i wear ’em every time I go out.
I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news, Internet. I’ve spent the past week or so in the hospital, recuperating from surgery. And I don’t really know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to come right out with it:
There were complications.
The good news is the doctor says that, with a lot of physical rehabilitation therapy, I should be able to walk again someday. The bad news is that, for one reason or another, the sphincteroplasty was unsuccessful, and I’m afraid they were unable to safely remove your lips. Thank god we’ve both grown accustomed to the feeling, right?
Right.
Speaking of politics, does anyone remember that Michael Phelps guy?
Me either.
I’m leaving for D.C. shortly. I’d offer to tell everyone there you said “hi” but we both know that they’d never believe me. You probably wouldn’t have meant it anyway. You never do.
awaiting the hour of reprisal, your time slips away
Well it’s the end of September, Internet, and I think it’s safe to say that you all know what that means: time for a new season of that Great Big Fat Loser show.
Every year, I play this little game I made up where I look at all the big, fat, disgusting women on the show and I try to figure out which one would be hot if she would just lose the weight. And year after year, I always come up with the same answer: Alison Sweeney.
Speaking of politics, as if her total MILFtitude wasn’t enough to sway your vote toward Sarah Palin in ’08 (and we all know it is), I have an even better reason: transparency in politics, which is something I think we can all support.
You see, we’ll all be able to tell if she’s really spending time crossing party lines and working together with the Democrats for the betterment of this great nation of ours, by way of her and Nancy Pelosi getting on the same cycle.
A government that works together, flows together.
Write that down.
Here’s a chipmunk singing “Another One Bites the Dust.”
bloody mary, mother of god; grandpa’s on the hobby horse again
So, it only took ten-and-a-half days to get the power back in my house. Nice job, Entergy of Louisiana; way to hustle (not really (I hope you’re all burned in a grease fire and then your children come to your rescue but thanks to your faulty genes and lack of education they’re stupid and throw water on you and it splashes the grease around and then they get burned too, and you’re all heavily disfigured and your house burns down and you’re forced to live the rest of your life broke and homeless and no one ever has any change to spare because you look like Freddy Krueger you scare their kids and you’ll never again know a woman’s touch because it hurts too badly and besides you’re gross (really))).
When I flipped on the lights, I saw that I had a bit of mold growing in the spare bedroom, due to a damp ceiling from the hole in the roof, and the fact that the room was 90 degrees and dark for ten-and-a-half days.
Anyway, I must say I was a bit torn on what to do.
On the one hand, I was raised to respect life in all its forms, just like that Sarah Palin. And when I think how she didn’t kill that baby of hers, even though she knew it was going to be a retarded and hence would be relegated to a life of making potholders in Special Ed art class or possibly traveling with the carnival, it really made me pause for a minute or two.
I mean, in a lot of ways, the mold on the ceiling of my spare bedroom really isn’t all that much different than Sarah Palin’s retarded baby — they’re both unwanted, they both smell bad, and they’re both kept hidden away in a dark room that we close the doors to when company comes over — so maybe, just maybe, I should do like what the Sarah Palin did with her retarded baby and not kill the mold.
But on the other hand, my family isn’t embarrassed that I have it, and I didn’t get it either as result of the aforementioned faulty genes or as punishment from a vengeful, angry god. So maybe my mold isn’t like that Sarah Palin’s retarded baby all that much after all. You know?
And I reasoned that the mold was probably more like that moose I heard she killed — also one of god’s creatures, but put on the Earth for mankind to treat in whatever way we so desire — so I mixed a little bleach with some water and I kicked its fucking ass.
The end.
misery is fun, i’m kissing everyone, i’ve got to hold my tongue
So, it’s day nine of no power and go fuck yourself.
Here’s something you probably don’t know, but I have no idea why that should come as a surprise to anyone because you’re a moron and that’s how we all signed your yearbook back in junior high:
Bipolar disorder has practically nothing to do with the sexual preferences of polar bears.
It’s actually a mental disorder, and I know you’re thinking that could still be true about the polar bears, but a polar bear having sex with both male polar bears and female polar bears is probably more a matter of that polar bear’s long-term romantic heterosexual relationship becoming stale and he really just wanted to spice things up and after a few drinks it’s easy to let go of your inhibitions so how dare you judge him for that?
If he just wanted to have sex with other male polar bears, then yes, it’s a mental disorder, but he didn’t so mind your own goddamned business.
Please note that by mental disorder, I don’t mean mental retardation like the what the retardeds here in Baton Rouge that still don’t understand how four-way stops work have, or that Sarah Palin baby. It’s different.
My best friend is a psychologist so I know these things.
Here’s an emergency preparedness tip:
Next hurricane season when you’re stocking up on D cell batteries and bottled water and candles and peanut butter, go ahead and grab a copy or two of Hustler. Because if you don’t have power for nine days or so, and if you’ve come to rely a little too heavily on TGPs as I think it’s safe to say we all kind of have, you may need to go on an old-school Beaver Hunt to get your horny amateur sluts fix.
You’re welcome.
the night is calling, i have to go; the wolf is hungry, he runs the show
I don’t ask for a lot, Internet, but I survived a hurricane this week and you didn’t, so I think you kind of owe me: let’s all join forces to wish painful rectal cancer upon the people of Baton Rouge who are too fucking stupid to correctly treat downed traffic lights as four-way stops.
Remember, Internet: painful rectal cancer. The “painful” is key and should not be overlooked.
So it’s day four of no power and I’m feeling a little cranky.
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
I beat you to it! Now you’ll have to think of a different comment! In your fat faces!
My fear of shaving in the dark is really starting to butch up my overall appearance. Watch out, ladies.
Here are some videos from my neighborhood.
some folks like water, some folks like wine, but i like the taste of straight strychnine
So the other day I was walking to the post office and saw a tiny baby bird that had fallen out of its nest. As you’re all aware, I’m the sort of thoughtful and compassionate caring/nurturer that you pretend to like but secretly despise because you know I’m just a better person than you are and it burns you up on the inside something good, so I picked little Merle up — I forgot to mention that I named him Merle — so I picked little Merle up and put him back in his nest.
Were it not for me, little Merle would probably be dead right now. Just like that dead guy from the Dave Matthews. You hear that frat boys? One down, four to go! In your faces!
Speaking of the Olympics, I couldn’t help but notice that the gold medal game in ping pong was played by two Chinese men. Way to perpetuate stereotypes there, China! The coverage stopped as soon as the match was over, though, so I have no way of knowing how poorly Ma Lin (a.k.a. the face of a billion people) drove on his way home after winning.
Also, your so-called “rhythmic gymnastics” is really just pretty girls twirling ribbons and playing with hula-hoops, and I think the name should be changed to reflect as much. Every other New Year’s Eve I perform many of the same stunts with a sparkler, but then I crank it up a notch and write my name in the air. And the sparkler’s on fire. Take that, pretend athletes!
i love you, i love you, i love you i do; but don’t get excited, i love monkeys too
Call me old fashioned, Internet, but anytime I see a blind person walking around with a cane and glasses, I automatically assume they’re faking unless they bump into something. I guess I’m a stickler for details.
Speaking of the Olympics, boy that Michael Phelps sure can swim. Swim like the wind.
Also, I’d like to show my appreciation to the International Federation of Gymnastics for increasing the minimum age of competition to 16 a few years back, not only for the welfare of the athletes but also for making me feel just a tad less like a pedophile when I watch the uneven bars.
And while we’re on the subject, I think we can all agree to thumb our collective noses at the Chinese women’s gymnastic team for putting those underage girls in an international gymnastics competition — where they absolutely do not belong — and in doing so, forcing them to grow up too quickly by taking them out of their natural habitat, i.e. a sweatshop making Mardi Gras beads.
Get your head in the game, China; February will be here before you know it, and without a ready supply beads, frat guys aren’t going to be able to check out the goods before deciding who to date rape.
but everyday there’s a new thing coming, the ways of an oriental view
It was just recently brought to my attention that when Mike Breen proclaimed that Yao Ming was “the face of a billion people” during the U.S.A. versus China basketball game, he was actually commenting on Yao’s popularity in China and how the Olympic hopes of a very proud nation rested on his broad shoulders, and was not, in fact, making an “all Chinese people look alike” crack.
So to you, Mr. Breen, I apologize. Good day to you, sir.
Hey, so, do you think Mary Carillo is a pre-op chick, or a post-op dude? I can’t for the life of me tell, Internet, and I’d like your input. You know how I value your opinion…
How is it that I’ve lived my entire life without ever realizing how incredibly hot all female synchronized divers are? I’m looking at you in particular, Guo Jingjing, with your cute diver body in that tight little bathing suit, and your sexy wet hair delicately framing the face of a billion people.
And major kudos to NBC for their continued use of the after-dive shower cam.
Major, major kudos.
if i didn’t care, would i feel this way?
You know what they say: get busy living, or get busy dying.
That’s goddamned right.
it seems you blend in with so many other ordinary things
Sorry I haven’t been around all that much lately, Internet, but I’ve spent the past week or so racking my brain to try and come up with a way to score with the hippie chicks — not the dirty hippie chicks with the pit hair and unkempt nether regions and that don’t wear bras, but the clean ones that shop at the Whole Foods and shave their legs and don’t wear bras — and I think I’ve finally stumbled upon the solution: go green. They eat that kind of shit up, the hippies do.
But oh no, a dilemma! Since I’ll soon be far too busy to sort the recycling when I’m having all the uninhibited hippie chick sex, I decided the only logical way to go about it would be to do like what the Al Gore did (but hopefully without getting big and fat in the process (like the Al Gore also did (Tipper, too))).
So I’ve started my own carbon credit company. Now, I can just pay myself for carbon credits, which in turn offset my so-called carbon footprint.
Just like what the Al Gore did.
It’s so much more cost-effective this way than if I bought them from another company (like the one Al Gore owns, and buys his carbon credits from). And considering the price of gas these days (and with me driving an SUV), well, I think it just makes good fiscal sense. You know?
But wait! There’s more!
Call now to buy your own carbon credits, and undo all the damage you cause to the environment and also our children simply by waking up in the morning. I take PayPal — the safer, easier way to pay without exposing your credit card or bank account number — and if you mention this blog post, I’ll double your order! That’s two carbon credits for the price of one, printed on non-recycled paper because it’s cheaper but don’t worry because I’ll buy my own carbon credits to make up for it.
So now I guess there’s not much else to do but sit back and wait for my Nobel Prize. Oh, it’s going to look so dandy on my résumé, right there under “Skills, Awards and Accomplishments,” after JavaScript and CSS but before the 257 I bowled one time on the Wii.
round up, holler girl; we’ll all need bigger uniforms
I wouldn’t say that I necessarily have anything against Rachael Ray, Internet. Yeah, she’s pretty cheap when it comes to tipping, but that’s more a problem for waitstaff. And you and I both know I’m far too important to concern myself with the commonfolk.
In general, I’m okay with Rachael Ray.
But everyday?
No. Sorry.
Everyday just seems a tad much, you know? A little bit forced.
many years since i was here; on the street, i was passin’ my time away
If getting what you want is something you insist upon (not unlike that spoiled, bratty child in the Wal-Mart who cried when his parents wouldn’t buy him green ketchup, screaming so loudly that I had no alternative but to throw a can of Van Camp’s Beanee Weenees at his head when they weren’t looking), and if what you want is for me to hate you (also not unlike that child in the Wal-Mart), then allow me to suggest a means of going about it:
As a man, don’t wear socks to the airport. Then, remove your shoes anywhere other than the security checkpoint.
What the hell is wrong with you people? No — repeat, no — ticketed passengers in the immediate gate area (at least 30 minutes prior to departure) want to see your crusty, flaky man toes, nor their accompanying yellow, fungal nails. Cover that shit up.
This goes for you too, women over 45. Your old woman toes are at best only marginally better, aesthetically, than man toes. And at worst…
Well, it’s best not to think about it.
i see folks with long cars and fine clothes, that’s why they’re called the smarter set
So there I am, out and about as my typical Sunday routine dictates when I found myself confronted with the despicable reality that racism is still very much alive and well in this country. I had been having a rather okay day, actually, when what do I see but this woman, this vile white woman (i.e. cracker), walking around the Wal-Mart in a t-shirt that read “Obama for Change.”
Now you know me, Internet, and how I tend to be rather cool-headed when it comes to things like this. Cool-headed Jeremy, that’s what you call me. But I get so pissed off when that kind of bigoted garbage is thrown in my face that remaining calm is a challenge to say the least.
The audacity of this woman to suggest that Barrack Obama is black and therefore poor and needs to beg for change… it’s that kind of blunt prejudice that just makes me sick, you know?
Hey, bigot! It’s 2008, and there are plenty of successful African Americans out there. Just look at Oprah. Or Bill Cosby, or the Fresh Prince or that guy who plays Stanley from “the Office.”
Get your backwards ass out of the 60’s.
all the booze is free, airline going broke; here come the lady with another jack and coke
Now you listen to me and you listen good, Internet: the next one of you jackasses what tries to skip a row or two ahead while exiting an airplane in my presence is getting citizen’s air marshaled right upside the back of your head, courtesy of yours truly and/or my trusty band of followers.
This means you, Europe.
That kind of line-cutting bullshit may fly outside the New World, Pierre, but this here is the good ole’ U. S. of A., and you’d be well-served to check your inconsiderate deplaning practices right alongside your Speedos and neckerchiefs before you go crossing our borders. You can use the space where you’d have packed your deodorant, were you an American.
into the bloody hole we’ll go, oh no! oh no!
So there I am in Boston, minding my own business and walking back to the hotel after finding out the 7-Eleven didn’t sell the cheap, plastic souvenirs my heart desired but they did have Hostess snowballs so whatevs, when I almost got in a fight.
This guy was leaning against the wall of a building, eating something out of a Styrofoam container and, right when I got to him, stumbled out onto the sidewalk in front of me and our shoulders touched. I kept walking because I didn’t really think it was an issue, but then I hear someone screaming behind me and when I turn around to see what’s going on, there’s this guy walking towards me.
“You make me spill my food and I’ll kill you, you fucking faggot.”
So I’m all “I’m sorry, what?” and he repeated it as he got closer. “You make me spill my food and I’ll kill you, you fucking faggot.”
Now this is probably going to come as a surprise to you, Internet, but I’m not really the aggressive, macho, street fighting type of guy. I know, I know… it’s shocking. “But you’ve got such a chiseled physique” you’re thinking, and correct about that as you may very well be, I’ve still never really been the fighting sort.
I am, however, the “doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut” sort (not to mention occasionally the “kick him in the nuts and run like hell” sort). But I wasn’t alone at the time, and not wanting to upset Kristin (what with her being a vegetarian and all (i.e. pacifist (i.e. hippie))), I decided to play it cool and just started walking away, my head turned towards him long enough to make sure he wasn’t going to follow me but my mouth firmly closed.
And he didn’t follow.
Whew.
Danger averted, thanks to my cool head and quick thinking. It was the sensible, mature thing to do, really. And taking the high road had pretty much everything to do with me not wanting the situation to escalate, and had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that the guy was roughly three times my size, nor the likelihood that in all probability he really would have killed me.
Also he was black, and I was worried I’d get his blood on me and catch the sickle cell.
george carlin, r.i.p.
That sucks hard. Right people?
Right.
And I had been having such a great time in Boston, too.
twelve-needle injection, stroked on skin with affection
Got a question for you, Internet: would a small tattoo on a man’s lower back still technically be considered a tramp stamp? I saw one on a jogger this morning as I was driving to work and it made me wonder.
Chinese characters, incidentally.
On a white guy.
I guess we’ve evolved as a society so much so that the lack of any personal cultural significance doesn’t necessarily prevent someone from choosing a particular design for their tattoo. Which I’m totally on board with, truth be told, because it means I can finally get “Thug Life” tattooed across my stomach in a nice big calligraphic font. Just like I’ve always dreamed of doing.
But it would seem I’ve gone off on a tangent.
So, would that still be called a tramp stamp? Fag tag is the term that immediately popped into my mind, but that’s already taken.
In Australia, they use the term arse antlers which roughly translates into English as “ass antlers.” And to me at least, “ass antlers” sounds kind of gay.
So yeah, I guess it’s fitting.
Here’s a haiku:
it’s no tribal band,
or barbed wire on your bicep,
but it still looks dumb.
Look alive, Boston! There’s still the matter of our unfinished business, and I’m coming to settle the score.
papa was smart but mama said i wasn’t; now i’ve got a million dollars, but who doesn’t?
What, so none of you have seen King of Kong? Losers.
I think I strained a pec this weekend, Internet. I was cutting down some overgrown weeds in the yard there (because I know how they play havoc with your allergies (and we all know your comfort is my utmost priority (so long as you keep putting out))) and apparently I tried to put a little too much of the “strength of the bear” into it. My, did it hurt.
I’d consider inviting you over to rub some Bengay on it, but I know you, and I can’t risk you getting carried away and slowly letting your fingers wander south. Not without washing your hands first.
Hey! Here’s a haiku about that retard comic what won the “Last Comic” a few years ago. Remember him? The retard that had that one joke about how he was retarded, and told it over and over? And he won?!? LOL!
i am quite impressed
you can type on the myspace
with that palsy arm.
Bye, then.
jump over all the barrels and let out a little scream; duck underneath the pie, ’cause it’s a coconut cream
Dear Internet,
As I am without anything of substance to write today, please accept the following as a haiku quintet honoring a man of the people, an entrepreneur who strives for perfection in everything he does, a man who — no matter what he says — it draws controversy (sort of like the abortion issue), a messiah to nerds everywhere as the Donkey Kong world record holder and, most importantly, a real American hero: Billy Mitchell.
USA! USA!
patriotic ties
hanging from the neck of a
real american.barrel-jumping skills
the blueprint for your success
to best that monkey.the record stolen
shortly thereafter, regained
in your face, weibe.billy, oh billy,
your glorious hair blowing
in the arcade breeze.never has a beard
filled me with so much desire
to clutch a joystick.
It’s funny. If “funny” is the right word. Which it isn’t.
gimme a swaller and i’ll pay you back someday
I thought about you this weekend, Internet. I was having some takeout Chinese food and after I finished my spicy orange chicken (house specialty #A3) I opened up my fortune cookie and it said “you find beauty in ordinary things.”
And I’m pretty sure by “ordinary” it meant “you.”
Here’s something that has come up recently with which I take much umbrage: in the commercials for that new Billy Ray Montana show where they appear to take all these hillbillies and have ’em sing hillbilly songs — like “Dooley” or “Don’t Mess with My Toot Toot” or whatever the devil it is the hillbillies sing when they’re blowing into a moonshine jug while walking barefoot to the fishin’ hole — and then judge them on which one has the purtiest voice, it says something about country being “America’s music.”
OMFGWTF?!?!?!?
Um, jazz? Blues? Rock’n’fucking-roll? They even on the ballot? Way to blow yet another election there, red states. Have you learned nothing?
Hey! Check out my new tattoo.
so we came upon a cracker, and we all came on this cracker, and the last one had to eat it and she did
A word to the wise, Internet: no matter how soft and silky that exfoliating body scrub may make your skin feel when used twice a week as per directions on the back of the bottle, it is not — repeat, not — to be used on or near your balls.
Trust me on this, and you are wont to do regardless but occasionally need some reassurance.
Here’s a haiku:
little gritty bits
lathered up in the shower
will chafe your scrotum
But my Wii Fit age is 32, so stick it.
toil, toil, toil ’til i get sick, i try reverse but i’m not that quick
Call me old fashioned, but I like it when I see a fat girl who’s not ashamed of her body, who flaunts her girth as if she’s proud of it, as if she ate all those Twinkies on purpose and with the sole intent of gaining eight hundred pounds of buttery, larded sex appeal.
She says things like “real women have curves” and “more cushion for the pushin’,” her greasy pores all the while staining the spandex shorts she ought not be wearing as the glare from the sun reflects off the bottom of the belly creeping ever so gently from beneath her tank top, blinding the other shoppers at the outlet mall who knew full well the price they might have to pay for discount Liz Claiborne cargo pants yet chanced it anyway.
I like it when a fat girl proclaims that she’s big and beautiful, that those skinny model girls are the abnormal and unnatural and unattractive ones, that it takes a real man to love a real woman.
You go girl.
But you’re wrong.
Very wrong. Dead wrong, as if from a heart attack or complications from type two diabetes, or possibly even choking on a whole chicken fried steak you forgot to chew. In fact, you could not be more wrong if your next five or six grilled cheese sandwiches with mayo depended on it.
other rappers diss me, say my rhymes are sissy
Happy belated Mother’s Day, Internet, to all you MILFs out there in particular.
If you aren’t sure whether or not you qualify, here’s a quick and easy test:
Go look in the mirror.
Are you fat?
If the answer is “yes,” then the answer is “no.” Cappice? After all, it’s MILF, not MBGLF*. The “I” is key, and you must never forget as much.
But if you still aren’t sure, send me some photos and I’ll tell you. The nakeder, the better. But please please please take the test first.
Hey Chicago!
Remember that time last week when I saw the entrance for your pink line? And I got excited but when I went down I opted to ride your brown line instead, over and over for what seemed like an eternity? I enjoyed the ride so much that, when I did finally get off, I hadn’t even noticed that at some point along the way I’d transferred over to the red line. Get what I’m saying? OMFGLOL!!!
You’re an okay city, I suppose. The Sears Tower is really imposing and magnificent (especially from the back), and while I wasn’t too sure what to think when I saw elk on the menu, you really managed to pull it off. Goose Island beer is average, though. Sorry to tell you so bluntly, but better it comes from me than a stranger.
And then there’s this:
Why? Just… just why?
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.
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