Sunday, July 31, 2005
Fast Fiction #1
My new friend and occasional tormenter JJ came up with an idea in which he gives you, the blogger, the start of a first sentence of a fictional short story and you finish it. Read all about it at

"Of course, hindsight is 20/20, but in reflection not having any big farewell parties is probably something I'll always regret," she said as tears rolled down her cheek, dotting the stained, crusty carpet at McCarren Airport.

Karen, love of my life for the only three months I've ever known happiness, flew away from me on a day when the official temperature in Las Vegas reached 117 degrees; it was in the 120's near my suburban home. Why, then, did I shiver down to my soul from the moment I woke up that morning?

I first met Karen at the Desert Tavern, a twenty-four hour bar/restaurant/video poker joint just a few miles from the Vegas strip. I worked there as a bartender, serving drinks to degenerate locals who loved gambling but hated tourists. Most of our clientele were old men so bitch-slapped by years of alcohol abuse their facial features had turned discolored and fleshy; and women with skin so sun-ravaged you could strike a match on it. The rest of the customers I referred to as bar props, because all they did was sit there and push buttons on the video poker machine, never saying a word the entire time. They had no stories to share, no jokes to tell, no love to lose. Karen was like that the first time she came in; prettier than most of our regulars but utterly silent and as drab as the architecture of the surrounding neighborhood.

I guess Karen just needed to warm up to the place, because the second time I saw her she ordered a Maker's Mark on the rocks and asked me if I knew of a decent independent record store. Four hours later my shift was over and we were in love.

I was determined to stay with her until the last second. For once I was glad the security checkpoint was backed up by asshole tourists who couldn't follow directions and bitter employees who acted like there was a prize for moving slowly. Karen was talking but I only heard every other word; too distracted by the ads for overpriced restaurants, overraught production shows, and has-been lounge acts to properly listen. If it wasn't for my daughter, I
would have left this tawdry shit shack a long time ago with the first woman who smiled at me, but there I was waiting for fully half of my sources of joy to board a plane and effectively disappear, because the other source needed me here.

When I said I only knew happiness through Karen that wasn't entirely true. My daughter made me so happy I was stupid with glee, but then I'd have to give her back to her sewer-gashed junkie mother. From the moment my little girl was born I knew I'd be trapped in Vegas until the day she went off to college, or until her mom finally overdosed. Every night I would pray to God for that woman to O.D. or get busted for possession; anything to prove how worthless she was so I could get custody of my child. As it stood, I couldn't prove a thing.

When we were almost at the front of the line, I thought about Karen's new life in Paris. Her going there had already been decided months before we met, and who was I to try and change her mind? I told her one more time how much I loved her and how much I'd miss her and a lot of other things guys don't like to say until fate forces us to act human. After she gave her boarding pass to an airport employee who smelled like an old raincoat, she turned to me just as one tear was hanging off the end of my nose like snot, and waved goodbye.

Of course, hindsight is 20/20, but in reflection not having any plan as to what to do after I kidnapped my daughter and strangled her mother is probably something I'll always regret, right up to the moment I'm strapped into that chair.

Saturday, July 30, 2005
VLV: Your Weekend Party Headquarters
Club vegASS Presents...

Recreational Lesbianism Night

Saturday July 30th

10pm till dawn

Free admission for ladies all night

Ladies drink free till midnight

Engage in Recreational Lesbianism, Win a Car!

Special Appearance By Some Reality Show Slut

Admission for Men: $30.oo

Local Men: $29.95

Resident DJ YNH spinning hip-hop, house, old school, rock, and new wave

This event sponsored by: Henderson City Council, Manuel's Pawn Shop, The Bunny Ranch Brothel, Anthem Highlands Neighborhood Association, The Las Vegas School for Wayward Girls, The Elvis Museum, Cheetah's Gentlemen's Club, Friends of Wayne Newton, Coronado High School Young Entrepreneurs, and participating Olive Gardens.

For VIP table, private skybox, or poolside cabana reservations, please leave a comment.

Friday, July 29, 2005
Keep it to yourself
Today, in a retail store located either in South Vegas or North Henderson, I'm not sure which, I saw a woman sitting on a bench next to the restrooms cutting her toenails. She was clipping her fuck-forsaken toenails in public! What possessed her to do such a thing? What foot emergency compelled her to think, "I can't walk another step with these long toenails. Oh, thank Jesus, here's a bench for me to park my shriveled carcass and pollute the floor with my thick yellow toenail clippings,"? Allow me to report that this lady's toes looked like the Crypt-Keeper's fingers. I inadvertently looked at them and immediately belched up something I ate six months ago. Then for some reason my hair started falling out, so I literally ran away from her.

Why do a growing number of doucheholes treat public spaces as their own private shithouse? These oblivious twits pick their noses, scratch their asses, grab their crotches, and rip farts that smell like someone set a bag of vomit on fire and tried to put it out with spoiled milk. That's what your house is for, you no-manners-having spunk-crevice. Keep your bad habits and worse smells to yourself, the person stupid enough to chose to live with you, and the children who nod and smile but want you dead. Wallow in your own filth all you want, just keep us out of it.

Oh, but the story doesn't end there. On the way out of the store I saw an old man wearing an outfit that made me want to rip my eyeballs from their sockets and jump up and down on them like I was at a club that still plays House of Pain. He was wearing a shirt from the Cosmo Kramer collection at Wal-Mart paired with a lovely vest that never got returned with the rest of the tuxedo. He also wore a cowboy hat, but this was no ordinary cowboy hat. It was one of those children's cowboy hats that comes with the matching belt and holsters. The hat, dirty white with once-shiny gold trim, even had little tassels dangling from it. What item of clothing could possibly complete this tragic ensemble? Raise your hand if you guessed pastel-striped Hammer pants.

As I walked by, trying not to look directly at it, I actually would have preferred to see those toes again, hair loss be damned. It was then I overheard the old man tell a visibly terrified young lady at the returns desk, "I have a twenty-four-year-old fiancee. I still give it to her so good she doesn't need a ladder to climb the ceiling." Ugh. Now I have the image in my head of a viagra'd octogenarian pounding away at some random gold-digger until he shatters his brittle pelvis.
Lucky for his fiancee, no matter how old he gets he'll never look as bad naked as he does fully clothed.

Thursday, July 28, 2005
Mrs. Moser and the Sex-ed Class
I've told an abbreviated version of this true story in the comments section of a few blogs, but I'd like to expand on it here.

When I was in sixth grade, Mrs. Moser's class was "taught" sex education in two hours; two horrible, frightening hours. Mrs. Moser, our teacher, was about a week away from the century mark and had shrunk three full inches from September till May. She was a tiny, mean-spirited gnome who may have dated Hitler back in the old country. Someone told me they saw her at the grocery store smoking a corn-cob pipe, but I don't know if that was true. What I do know is absolute fact is the bitch was crazy, and not excentric crazy but straightjacket voices in her head crazy.

Once she told us if we were quiet the rest of the day we'd get to eat lunch at McDonald's on the following Friday. When you're a kid, there is nothing better than eating McDonald's on school time. All we had to do was keep our mouths shut for another hour, and kid nirvana was ours. The dream ended when Mrs. Moser feigned having a heart attack. She clutched at her chest and fell to the ground. When we all started screaming and leaping from our seats to help her, she jumped up and said we'd broken our promise and weren't going to McDonald's. That's right, she pretended to drop dead and when we expressed concern, not for a second believing an adult role model would lie about such a thing, we were screamed at and punished. That Friday I sat in the cafeteria eating fish sticks, each disappointing bite a bitter reminder of Mrs. Moser's all-encompassing insanity.

Against the backdrop of being cripplingly afraid of a midget on the cusp of death, listening to a boring sex education lecture didn't sound so bad. I have never been more wrong in my life. The first thing they did was separate the girls from the boys. The girls went to the auditorium, ostensibly to see a filmstrip, but I was convinced they went off to have a top secret tickle and pillow fight while stripped down to their bras and panties. The boys were sent to a large room and introduced to a doctor, who happened to be our principal's physician. The principal introduced him, made a lame joke about not wanting to "cramp our style" and left the room.

The doctor stood up. The first words out of his mouth were, "So, who here has seen an actual pussy?"
The liars and sister-gazers raised their hands while I had to sell my soul to the devil not to shit my pants.
"The pussy," the shock doc continued, "is where you put your dick when you're fucking a girl."

Right now my five regular readers, who know I'm a foul-mouthed prankster, are convinced I'm making this up, but I'm not. It happened.

I sat there for two hours in absolute shock as "dick", "tits", "cocksucker", "fuck" and a few words that were pretty offensive steamrolled out of the doctor's mouth. I had heard adults talk like that before, but they were mostly unwashed carny folk and slack-jawed hill people. This was an educated man.

I didn't live my childhood in seclusion; I knew these words. I needed the clinical terms. Those I didn't know. Too bad this medical professional was less interested in teaching than appearing cool in front of a bunch of kids.

The next day, when Mrs. Moser ripped the textbook from my hands, tossed it across the room, and then made me go get it, I just smiled. At least the word "cunt" didn't come from her mouth.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Anonymous Assholes
The more blogs I read, the more I see the spineless, gutless, cowardly fuck-droplets known only as "anonymous". Well, anonymous, as we used to say back in Kentucky, fuck you! (Were you expecting homespun wisdom?) I only let bloggers post comments on my blog, not because I think bloggers are so god damn special but because if I get criticized or insulted I want to be able to examine the work of the person who shit on my house. If a blogger takes the time to read my blog and comment, "Dude, your blog sucks," or "Get a life, man," such wit should not go unrewarded. I want to be able to go to their blog and read poorly formed sentences about velvet paintings or which total stranger's underwear is stuck to their face; whatever passes for a coherent thought in the empty cauldron they call a head. Then I can rain ass-drizzle down on their house by replying, "Your blog sucks Dakota Fanning's underage femme-schlong."

But Mr. and Mrs. Anonymous sit cozy in their cushy lairs (polite-speak for dirty hovels) and are free to insult at will, with no fear of comeuppance. Last week someone anonymously insulted me on this humble blog. They actually ignored the blog's content and insulted me personally. I flew off the handle and told the offender to go fuck his family, etc., but after a minute I realized how stupid I was for yelling at no one, so I deleted the insult and my immature response to it. Yes, I'm quite aware I said "Fuck you" to all anonymous insulters at the beginning of this post. That was for comedic effect.

To ensure the above scenario never repeated itself, I disabled all anonymous comments. I have a few non-blogger friends back home who read my blog and occasionally like to comment, but now they can't because a craven bungsack had to prop himself up by tearing me down.

I have been insulted and criticized by a few bloggers. Before I discovered the joys of spell check, a few self-appointed editors seemed to enjoy pointing out my misspells and typos. Such pettiness makes me break out in pus-filled hives. I think I was once belittled by a blogger using a different alias, which if true pisses me off even more than the anonymous thing, but I have no proof. Just two weeks ago a girl who I was kind enough to interview only a day before told me I had a lousy sense of humor. I wanted to reply, "I've read your blog, and your complaining about my sense of humor is like Stevie Wonder making fun of me for wearing glasses," but for some reason I restrained myself. No lie, it was like if Christopher Reeve had laughed at a guy who walked with a limp.

In closing, if you're alone and feeling superior even though you yourself create nothing, don't be an anonymous hater. Do the world a favor and be an anonymous suicide statistic.

Tuesday, July 26, 2005
This Post Had So Much Potential...
I've spent every waking moment for the past ten years thinking of easy solutions to life's problems, and this weekend I finally discovered the secrets to: happiness; efficient weight loss; fuller, more natural looking hair; eternal youth; a more satisfying sex life for you and your partner(s); a foolproof way to win at blackjack; the key to Jessica Alba's heart; where to get name brand clothes at rock bottom prices; and how many licks it takes to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop. This post was going to alter world events and change people's lives. But then Katarina reminded me I'd been tagged for the millionth time to answer some questions, so THE MOST IMPORTANT BLOG ANY OF YOU WILL EVER READ will have to wait until tomorrow. For now, the almighty questions await.

1. What are the three stupidest things you have done in your life?
1988- Called Mike Tyson "Pussy Talker".
1999- Only partied like it was 1997.
2000- Advised Al Gore, "Act like an emotionless robot. People love that shit."

2. At the current moment, who has the most influence in your life?
Well, my long-time friends and most of my family are too far away to have a lot of influence, my Vegas friends certainly don't have any, and my brother is the opposite of me (type-A, makes a lot of money). So I think I'm the person who has the most influence in my life, which is probably why my life sucks Hitler's spectre-cock right now.

3. If you were given a time machine, which five people would you pick up and eat dinner with?
Mr. Peabody
The Lindberg Baby
Lee Harvey Oswald
Johnny Cash

4. If you had three wishes that were not supernatural, what would they be?
a) Find true happiness.
b) Find everlasting love.
c) I'd like to buy the world a Coke.

5. Someone is visiting Las Vegas. Name two things you regret your city not having, and two things people should avoid.

Regret not having: subtlety. Class.

Avoid: Downtown. The interactive experience "Inside Elvis' Liver."

6. Tag three people.
I tag Boo Boo, Mr. Peepers, and The Ghost of Bob Crane. Get to work, motherfuckers.

UPDATE: My notes for tomorrow's post were destroyed in a small kitchen fire. Oh, well...back to the drawing board.

Monday, July 25, 2005
Congressional Terms of Endearment

I was in Target the other day and an old man asked me to reach something on the top shelf for him. This is a common occurrence in my life so I didn't have any problem helping him out, but after I handed him the item he said to me, "Thank you, sweetheart." Being called "sweetheart" by an eighty-year-old man is not a common occurrence! It made me feel creepy. At least he didn't have a high-pitched voice like the old pervert on Family Guy. I would have fled the scene had he said, "That's a nice muscley top-shelf reachin' arm you got there. I got a shiny fifty-cent piece in my pocket; reach in there and fish it out for yourself."

That incident made me want to use terms of endearment inappropriately and out of context. I was at Coffee Bean later that day and held the door for a lady, but I didn't call her "sweetheart" or "baby" because she probably gets enough of that shit without me piling on. I also didn't use any terms of endearment with the Coffee Bean staff, because I'm a regular and don't want to end up on an "Only Serve Him Decaf" list. When I got home I phoned my brother and in the middle of our conversation called him "babycakes" but he knows I'm crazy so he just let it slide.

Wanting to use inappropriate, unsolicited terms of endearment with out being maced, punched, or blacklisted proved quite the dilemma, until I got the idea to write my congressman, Representative John C. Porter, R-NV.

Dearest Congressman Porter:
Hi-ya, honey bunny. My name is Todd Smith and I'm one of your constituents. Although I voted against you twice, the first time to a man who is now serving a prison sentence, I would like your help, my buttermilk biscuit. I want to run a brothel out of my garage, and I need a big strong powerful schnookums such as yourself to make this happen. Imagine my surprise, darling John, when I learned that prostitution, while legal in Nevada, is illegal in Clark County. C'mon, hot muffin, how unfair is that? Without Clark County, which you may know contains Las Vegas and Henderson, the two largest cities in Nevada, this stain-hole of a state wouldn't have a reason to even exist. Why can't I, as a resident of the county that gives this fuck-all state its very purpose, take advantage of cash-strapped, emotionally crippled young ladies and desperate, lonely men and become a sexual scavenger? Hook me up, sugar nips, and maybe I'll vote for you next time. Maybe.
Thanks in advance, sweetheart.

Todd H. Smith

I emailed that yesterday. For the record, I wouldn't really open a brothel in my garage. A strip club, sure; but not a brothel. I just wanted to shock and offend my congressman. When I'm in prison, promise to write.

Saturday, July 23, 2005
You might be a douchebag if...
I'm stealing ideas from Jeff Foxworthy. There's no punchline here. I'm stealing ideas from Jeff Fucking Foxworthy.

If you walk into a Starbucks and order a venti, non-fat, half-caf, no whip, sugar free, light foam, add-a-shot, hazelnut latte, extra hot, topped with a wisp of cinnamon, you might be a douchebag.

If your SUV has a bumper sticker which reads "I Have Guns and I Vote", you might be a douchebag.

If you refuse to get a debit card and continue to delay lines at every store by writing a check for seventy-two cents, you might be a douchebag.

If you have a personalized license plate that only you and one other person on earth get, you might be a douchebag.

If you speak in tongues and believe in faith healing but think gays are strange, you might be a douchebag.

If you've ever snapped your finger at a waiter, you might be a douchebag.

If you're a fat guy who's worn a "No Fat Chicks" t-shirt, you might be a douchebag.

If you ask an entry-level retail employee if you can get a discount on non-sale merchandise, you might be a douchebag.

If you have a tattoo on your face, you might be a douchebag.

If you have ever, sans irony, addressed a stranger as "Ace", "Chief", "Boss", "Champ", "Hot Rod", or "Judge", you might be a douchebag.

If you drive a 2001 Honda Civic with a 1977 Ford Crown Victoria motor, you might be a Fast and Furious douchebag.

If you're a white teenager who lives in your parent's million dollar home and you dress like Lil' Jon, you might be a crunk douchebag.

If your refrigerator is covered with Family Circus comics you clipped from the newspaper, you might be the ultimate douchebag.

Friday, July 22, 2005
The Bacardi Party
I don't have a lousy experience every time I step out of the house, as this little anecdote will prove. I'm going back to June of 2oo2 for this story, but I swear I have had a few good times since then.

As an employee of one of the highest volume liquor stores in North America, I was privy to liquor industry launch parties, meaning when a company would introduce a new product, they would launch it by renting a venue, inviting liquor store and restaurant employees, hiring scantily-clad women to serve up free booze, and best of all, hiring even more scantily-clad women to serve up even more free booze.

All of these events were fun, but the last one I went to before I left town was the best. Bacardi was unveiling a new rum, something called Cyclon, and had rented out a bar/concert venue called Headliners. Tickets were scarce, but my friend Boe (yeah, that's his name) managed to snag a few. Boe called me that afternoon while I was still at work and said his Uncle Bill would be our Designated Driver so we could get as shit-ass drunk as we wanted. I was very pleased by this turn of events.

When we arrived at the venue, we were greeted by a bevy of Bacardi Girls, so-called ambassadors for the Bacardi brand. Let me tell you, they put the "ass" in ambassador. They were wearing tight pleather bikini tops and short-shorts, strutting around with bottles of Cyclon and pouring shots down the guests' gullets. This company knew about hospitality.

I didn't particularly like Bacardi Cyclon, but that didn't keep me from drinking enough of it to make my liver fire-off a nasty letter to my brain. How could I turn down the Bacardi Girls? Looking back, I think they picked me out of the crowd to try to kill, but at the time I just enjoyed the attention. All of that drinking led to the highlight of the evening, when the Bacardi Girls started dancing on top of the bar, pouring more shots down the throats of drunk, horny service industry schlubs. Then came the moment that turned this modest shindig into an event that probably gave Caligula an afterlife hard-on. Five gallon buckets of the swillish booze du jour were brought out and the Bacardi Girls, one by one, removed the black shorts they were wearing (they were wearing panties underneath), dipped said shorts into the vats of rum, and wrung them out into the open mouths of the assembled revilers. I couldn't believe they were doing that. I couldn't believe I was a witness to such debauchery. I couldn't believe how salty that fucking rum tasted.

Boe, always the casual observer, sat at our table and took in the scene with wide-eyed wonder. As I staggered back to the table, he was shaking his head forlornly. At first I thought he was pissed at me, until he told me to look to my right. There he was, Uncle Bill, our designated driver, stumbling in our general direction, sloshed to his soul, wearing a pair of rum-soaked shorts on his head.

"Finish my drink," Boe said. "I'll have to drive home."

The party was almost over but we now had a dilemma. Boe hadn't drank nearly as much as our defrocked designated driver Uncle Bill, but he did have a few and needed a little time to get completely sober. Luckily, a sweet Bacardi Girl brought in all the way from South Carolina told us about the afterparty at a nearby bar. We went, Boe drank water, I switched to bourbon, Uncle Bill passed out, and the Bacardi Girls, free of their corporate shackles, took their tops off for a minute or two.

All was well with the world until I got home and realized I had to be at work in three and a half hours.

Thursday, July 21, 2005
This Post is Not About Booze or Boobs...Sorry

Egan is already aware of this, but the University of Louisville football team is poised to have a hell of a season.

A night in the life...
When: Spring of this year

Where: The Whiskey, Green Valley Ranch Casino, Henderson, Nevada

It's Saturday night at the Whiskey, the only cool nightspot in Henderson, and I, in my newest Dillard's Big and Tall section ensemble, am dressed to slightly wound. I make my way through the crowd to the bar to retrieve another bourbon on the rocks, a bargain at eleven dollars. I'm trying to get the attention of the bartender, who I briefly believe is the best looking woman in the world until I see the other bartenders, when an off duty stripper/showgirl/cocktail waitress/P.F. Chang's hostess -pick one- stands next to me and smiles in a way that tells me I'm about to be used, and not in the good way.

"I'll have one of what you're having," she says in that tone only beautiful people can pull off.

"I'm having bourbon on the rocks," I say. "Want one?"

The smile vanishes faster than she would if she knew how much money I make. "Can you get me an apple martini instead?"

I just offered to buy her an eleven dollar drink knowing full well she would take it, thank me, and immediately disappear into the crowd, but that isn't enough for her. I know it didn't make any difference whether she conned me out of a bourbon or a martini, but for some reason I decide to be stubborn.

"I'm having a bourbon on the rocks," I begin. "You asked - no, commanded - that I buy you what I was having. Do you want a bourbon on the rocks or not?"

"You're an asshole," she spits out as she walks away.

I give the model-caliber bartender my order for ONE bourbon on the rocks and head back to the outdoor patio where my friends are hanging out. The spring air is perfect, a false comfort before the ravishes of summer. There's a perfect view of the Strip in the distance. Out of the corner of my eye I see the girl from the bar, strutting that strut only beautiful people can pull off; cigarette in one hand, apple martini in the other. She's alone, and so is the guy who just bought her that drink. Even in the suburbs of Las Vegas, suckers are like taxi cabs. She missed one, but another pulled up right behind.

I bought a Fatburger, onion rings and a large Coke with the eleven dollars I didn't spend on the martini, all of those calories further assuring that every woman I meet at a bar will only acknowledge my existence as a means to drink free.

Wednesday, July 20, 2005
About a month ago I said I was going on a diet. At the time I was serious, but then I got a case of the down and outs that was almost Cobainesque in nature, so I cheered myself up by eating way too much. Well, I think I'm ready to try the diet again, thanks to all of the people who are TFTW.

TFTW stands for Too Fat To Walk, and Nevada has to be the TFTW capital of North America. Everywhere I go I see people in wheelchairs who aren't handicapped or injured; they just weigh so much that walking any great distance is impossible. I am far far far from this lowly state, but I never want to be in the same area code.

Wal-Mart is the unofficial headquarters of the TFTW. It is their school, their church, their sanctuary. Every time I'm there I see an unfortunate soul pushing their TFTW spouse around in a Wal-Mart wheelchair loaner. The person who can still move on their own grunts and struggles to move the chair, their porcine loved one literally spilling over its sides. Sometimes the TFTW'er is a real pro and has their own motorized chair. These are the masters of the TFTW lifestyle. A guy who used to shop at Organized Living was the Hugh Hefner of the Too Fat To Walk set. He was a biscuit away from four hundred pounds but this hot chick would always accompany him and reach items on the shelf that his gigantic tree trunk arms couldn't. The way she was all over him, it wasn't his daughter. One day at the store she told me, in a very casual manner, that she met "her man" at the strip club that employed her. I guess he wasn't TFTGALD (Too Fat To Get A Lap Dance). My guess is he was a rich guy and she was just waiting for his heart to explode so she could collect his final tip.

I have a lot of empathy for people who are confined to a wheelchair because of illness or injury. My grandmother suffered a stroke and couldn't walk for the last nine years of her life. But it's hard to feel sorry for these people. Sometimes when you're at Burger King you should just have one Whopper, you know? And maybe not "King Size" the value meal. Perhaps one lard sandwich at dinner instead of thirty. I'm just saying...

In other news, I went into a bathroom stall today and was shocked and horrified at what awaited me. There it was in the bowl, a turd the size of a loaf of bread. It was the biggest piece of shit not named Karl Rove I've ever seen. But what really scared me was there was no toilet paper in the bowl. None. Not one sheet. Perhaps the shit killed the person who took it before he could wipe. I'll make myself believe that so I can sleep at night.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Bourbon-bent and Louisville-bound
No, I'm not moving back to Louisville, Ky, at least not right away, but I am spending a long weekend there in a few weeks. I look forward to: seeing family, celebrating a birthday (not mine) with friends, hanging out with Dean and Lynnette, eating a god-damn proper fried fish sandwich, wilting under the crushing grip of humidity, counting the number of people who drive shirtless, getting drunk on the cheap, the "Back Door" pour, Cumberland Brews, Ear-x-tacy, strangers asking me how tall I am, the girl from the Starbucks at Oxmoor Mall who will always work there and always recognizes me when I come home as "That guy who moved to Vegas", real trees, real grass, no fucking mountains, Ramsi's Cafe on the World, affordable strip clubs, the sincere appreciation of trucker hats, unironic mullets, laughing at "downtown development", Churchill Downs, girls with Southern accents, the midget bartender who gets more "shovies" than any human on earth, Cherokee Park, the smell of citronella and the hum of bug zappers, drivers who use a turn signal, forty-year-olds who still wear their high school ring, the freaks at White Castle at four in the morning, knowing that most huge breasts are real, seeing my mom's new dog, The Homemade Ice Cream and Pie Kitchen, visiting former co-workers at the gigantic liquor store, guac and margaritas at El Mundo, telling intoxicated young ladies I own Caesar's Palace and I'm in Louisville to audition cocktail waitresses, wide wide Dixie Highway, the Red Lounge, baseball at Slugger's Field, and La Bamba's Burritos as Big as Your Head.

I'm sure I: a) left out a lot of stuff; b) bored the piss out of everyone. This blog was mainly just for me. If I mentioned something that you, as a never-been-to-Louisville reader, didn't understand, ask and I will explain. Also, any blog-buddies within driving distance of Louisville are invited to drink with me and my friends. August 6, Saturday night. Be there.

Monday, July 18, 2005
Reality Shows I'd Watch
I don't watch Reality Shows as a rule, but I have a few ideas I'd like to see on television.

Pauly Shore: Rejected
I'd watch a Pauly Shore reality show, but not the one on TV now, not the one where the spoiled man-cunt gets the family business handed to him on a silver platter. I'd watch a program that shows a thirty-minute montage of Pauly Shore being rejected by women with more than one functioning brain cell who won't sleep with a complete jackscrote just because he was on M-TV fifteen years ago. Please, Lords of TV, just let me see clip after clip of women with self-esteem telling the least talented human on the planet, one Pauly Shore, to eat baby shit from a dirty ashtray. Maybe a few of the girls, when he persists with his tragicomic attempt at seduction, will kick him savagely in the groin. That I'd watch.

Pimp My Crack House
Crackheads are just like those addicted to lattes, except no one ever sucked a stranger's dick for a latte. Anyway, these people deserve nicer homes and if M-TV sent a crew of street-wise interior designers to upgrade crack houses, I'd watch every week. Naturally, as soon as the cameras are off the crackhead will pawn the contents of the dream home so he can buy more crack, but it would be interesting television.

Whore it Like a Hilton
Selected ladies see if they can keep up, man for man, with the random, drunken, regrettable sexual encounters of Paris Hilton. The last contestant to show an ounce of restraint or self-respect wins a tiny, annoying yappie dog and a free uterus restoration.

So You Wanna Be a Gangsta?
Every week the producers of this show kidnap a white suburban faux-thug and place his awkward-slang-throwin', sideways-hat-wearin' ass right in the middle of an actual urban ghetto; so he can "keep it real" somewhere besides the mall and Starbucks. If he survives for twenty-four hours he receives....What difference does it make? None of the punk-ass bitches will last twenty minutes.

Revenge on Enron
Former Enron employees robbed of their life's savings compete in athletic and mental challenges for the chance to confront the man who ruined their futures. The winner gets to brutally beat and torture a bound and ball-gagged Kenneth Lay, former Enron CEO. Then the lucky contestant gets to shoot Lay's face off with a shotgun. Fun for the entire family!

B.O. Joe
A swimsuit model has to choose from thirty handsome, eligible bachelors, but there's one catch: They all stink! Each of them smells like rodent snatch and burnt hair. The swimsuit model must repress her gag reflex and chose one malodorous male to accompany her on a dream vacation to Paris, where everyone smells so it won't matter anymore.

Extreme Makeover: Ugly Edition
The participants in this show are all perfectly fine looking but extremely vain men and women who obsess over their every minor flaw. They are offered free plastic surgery, unaware that the surgery will turn them into hideously disfigured freaks solely for the amusement of the North American viewing public. Watch with glee as a good looking man who thinks his chin isn't "strong" enough is transformed into a creature that makes the Elephant Man look like Brad Pitt. Gather with friends and family as a beautiful woman with an almost undetectable bump on her nose becomes a monster whose only options are suicide or employment with a traveling carnival.

Jessica Alba: Barely Clothed
The title explains the show. It's just thirty minutes a week of Jessica walking around in various stages of glorious semi-clothetude. I'm the executive producer, and if Os lets us use the term "half-nekkid" I'll give him the title of creative consultant. Also, I'll let Evil Petting Zoo work on the show, just because I'm a nice guy.

Saturday, July 16, 2005
I'm not in the best mood right now...
I wish I was rich like Howard Hughes was; I'd lock myself in a luxury suite at a nice hotel and let the descent into madness begin. I'd probably even blog about it for awhile, until the insanity-drool shortcircuited my laptop.

Why am I in such a state? Every morning I wake up at an hour traditionally reserved for farmers and garbage men. I sleepwalk through my pointless monkey job, come home and release my bile via my blog, and watch television shows that remind me I no longer like television.

When I go out, which is increasingly rare because I have the cash flow of a nursing home pimp, I'm either ignored by women, which I'm used to, or as a new hellish social wrinkle, I inadvertently frighten Asian tourists. That's right, because I'm 6'6" and a big boy, Asian tourists scurry from me like I'm Toddzilla and I'm there to destroy their town. It does wonders for my self-confidence when Asian strangers take my picture like I'm a walking tourist attraction. My only consolation is knowing a cab driver charged them two-hundred dollars for the fifteen dollar ride from the airport to their hotel.

Another recent development that makes me want to burrow underground and live with the mole-people is the assumption from strangers that I speak fluent Spanish. Several times I've been approached by someone who starts speaking Spanish at three-hundred words a minute. I'm from the South; I can't understand English spoken that fast. Since I'm a freakishly tall, pasty-white cracker with light brown hair and green eyes, why would anyone immediately assume I speak Spanish? I don't expect a tourist in town for the weekend to speak my language - I'm not some twat from France - but leave me alone, please.

Finally, the debate in my head rages on about whether to stay here or move back to Louisville. I finally decided it doesn't matter because either way I'll regret my decision forever. I'll quickly dub the city I chose an open sewer while anointing the rejected city the greatest metropolis ever inhabited by mere mortals. I've already romanticized Louisville as a Southern bohemian utopia, when in reality I had issues with the place when I lived there, not the least of which was the city's unfailing habit of doing everything half-assed. If I decided to move back there, I would wax nostalgic about Las Vegas and its 24-hour party atmosphere, even though, like I said, I never go anywhere.

Please, no comments about how middle-class white American males have no right to bitch. No shit, of course we don't. My white boy guilt weighs more than I do, so I don't need a lecture.

I'll be back on Monday with more forced frivolity to entertain and amuse. I'm sure once I shove a few unhealthy meals down my cakehole I'll feel much better.

Friday, July 15, 2005
Why People Hate Me
A few days ago I was having lunch with a co-worker named Martin. I'd like to present a transcript of our conversation. My statements are in red.

"What's you're last name, Martin?"


"Your name is Martin Martinez?"


"You do realize that's the Hispanic equivalent of being named Jack Jackson?"

"I guess." He then laughed half-heartedly.

"Or Robert Roberts."


"Dick Dickson."

"I get the point."

"John Johnson, Sam Samuels, Peter Peterson, Michael Michaels..."

"Okay, shut up, dickhead."

I realize I'm probably the only person on earth who is amused by this. I'm still laughing as I type. In fact, I'm typing with one hand and patting myself on the back with the other.

It was all in good fun and was in no way a contributing factor to Martin's suicide.


Thursday, July 14, 2005
The Wide World of Blog
Thanks to the fact that I'm broke and have no life, I've read a lot of different blogs lately. In addition to the fine folks on my VIP list, I'll read blogs of people who have left comments on blogs of people who have left comments on my blog. Sometimes I'll even hit the dreaded "Next" button. So I've seen a lot of blogs, and I'd like to talk about some trends I've noticed.

The "Celebrity" blogger
I'm not talking about a celebrity who blogs but a blogger who, for whatever reason, gets about a hundred comments per post. Some are great; Waiter Rant is hilarious, for example. But others bore the skeleton out of my body. The blog celeb will post something random like "I ate a burrito today," and this will be the scene of the comments section:

douchebag sycophant said...
Yeah, I like burritos. I like how they're all rolled up. Great post.

celebrity blogger said...
Thanks. This burrito had onions.

brownnose mcasskiss said...
Onions? Didn't they make your breath stink?

celebrity blogger said...
No. They were grilled, not raw.

mindless lemming said...
I just love your blog. I added it to my favorites list.

And this goes on forever.

The anonymous blogger
This guy is the opposite of the "celebrity" blogger. He writes and writes and gets no comments. None. Not one. One guy I came across had a hundred posts and not a single comment. He would write page after page and not one person saw fit to acknowledge his existence. I feel for these people, because if not for my Louisville friends my first ten to twenty posts would have gone comment-free.
I usually go ahead and write them something, but because I'm such a bastard I write it in a secret language I invented in third grade with some kid whose name I can't remember.

The hot chick who writes about her sex life and has several Asian male groupies blogger
Oh, an attractive woman had sex. Stop the presses.

The obscure obsession blogger
Interested in the Dukes of Hazard episodes in which Bo and Luke are replaced by their cousins, Coy and Vance? Does freeway off-ramp comparisons get you all hot and bothered? Want to spend time following the acting career of a guy who works in a Mickey Mouse suit? Of course not, but someone has a blog about it.

The suicide watch blogger
Some of these blogs are very entertaining, but I'm afraid to get attached only to be heartbroken when the tortured soul punches her own ticket by deepthroating the barrel of a shotgun.

The frat boy blogger
When I read one of these blogs I can almost smell the sorority girl stank and stale beer farts.

The drunk every night blogger
Sort of like the frat boy blogger, but usually older and less sexually active. Three years ago this would have been my blog, so this is more of an observation than a criticism.

The woman who wants all men to suck cock in hell blogger
Okay, someone did her wrong and she is PISSED! I read these blogs but never, ever comment on them for fear of she-devil retribution; the worst retribution of them all.

There are more but I'm done here. I guess I'm The never finishes a thought blogger. See you tomorrow.

Oh, and you'd think that spell check on blogspot would recognise the word "blog".

Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Inside the Blogger's Studio
I asked the lovely and talented Andi to interview me. I will answer the questions shortly, but first, I am contractually obligated to explain the rules to this inquisitive round-robin.

Here are the instructions:

1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying "Interview me." "Blow me" or "Eat me" are not acceptable substitutes.
2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different. I'll post the questions in the comments section of this post.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Andi's Five Questions

1. You are fit to be a comedian, so if you were, what would be your signature bit? I would smash Gallagher's head with a sledgehammer, covering the front row of the audience with his brains and tiny shards of skull. Then I'd do twenty minutes on airline food.

2. Have you ever worn a thong? If not, what occasion might be enough to convince you to do so? I have not "smuggled ping pong equipment". Nothing short of the one-hundred percent assured destruction of earth would make me wear the ol' butt-floss banana hammock, and the only reason I'd do it then is to make people long for death so the vision would go away.

3. What is the stupidest thing you did before the age of eighteen? I decided in eleventh grade that homework was a waste of my time and I refused to do any. I reasoned that I already gave them eight hours a day so why should I do a bunch of busy work from the comforts of my home? I refused to budge, and my "integrity" almost flunked me out of high school. Oh, and I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.

4. What is the perfect woman like? Explain in detail. The perfect woman would first be intelligent, then possess a fierce and nuanced sense of humor. She would enjoy the taste of a good bourbon and realize pizza is the one perfect food. She would allow me to have my own outside interests; but if I ever allowed those interests to overshadow our relationship and/or didn't give her enough room to pursue interests of her own, she would have the self esteem necessary to call me on my bullshit. She would appreciate Family Guy and loathe Family Circus. She would be kind to strangers and wary of sycophants. She would be liberal without being a damn dirty hippie. Her motto would be "Don't start none, won't be none." Her favorite song would be "Here's Where the Story Ends" by the Sundays. She'd agree to the "Four Strip Club Visits a Year" compromise. She'd think my bad habits were "charming". She'd put my fat ass on a diet, not because she's concerned about my looks but because she doesn't want me to die young.
That's the perfect woman. In reality, someone with a few of those qualities will do nicely.

5. If you were musically inclined and decided to start a band, what would you name it? Discuss. My dream band, which I've often threatened to unleash upon an unsuspecting earth, would be named Honkey Lips, because I think it's funny. Our debut would be entitled "Your Vein or Mine?"

Thanks for the questions, Andi. If anyone wants to be interviewed, let me know.

Monday, July 11, 2005
Things I've Learned on the Las Vegas Strip
This knowledge wasn't gained from just one trip to the world famous Las Vegas Strip, but collected piece by piece in the two and a half years I've been in town.

If you're a big guy like me, you'll want to buy a foot-long hot dog for $1.50, but for the love of the souls of your unborn children, don't. I ate one of these culinary gang-rapes almost two years ago and I haven't been the same since. I think the one I had was made of Fiberglas insulation, cigarette butts, and the remains of tourists who couldn't pay their tab.

A smut peddler will try to hand you an escort pamphlet no matter who you are or what you're doing. You could be fucking someone right in the middle of the sidewalk and an s.p. would still try to give you a "Naked Women to Your Room" card.

Elvis impersonators who work at t-shirt shops don't even try to look like Elvis. Come on, guys, show a little pride. Elvis never had a Fu Manchu moustache nor wore a sombrero. When does an impersonator stop being Elvis and start being Mop Boy at the Disco?

The larger the drink, the smaller the brain. Tourists love the giant margaritas, but most of the people attached to these alcoholic man-made lakes are a little south of 'tarded. You won't see a guy giving a dissertation on "Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man" while struggling with a five gallon melonball daiquri.

There's always one girl in a Bachelorette Party who's the voice of reason. Ten drunk girls are walking down the Strip just waiting to flash their juggynauts or engage in the kind of recreational lesbianism that would make Dick Cheney proud of his daughter, and one stone faced prig always gives a calm, well-reasoned argument for why letting strangers take pictures of the Bride-to-be licking a statue's cock in front of Caesar's Palace isn't such a great idea. Meddlin' bitch.

If your name is on the V.I.P. list, you will get in ahead of everyone else. One night this past February a friend of mine got us on the list for the Foundation Room at Mandalay Bay. To get in this place, you either have to be a member of the club (which costs five grand a year), a celebrity, a female hottie, or on the list. I was on the list and I nudged my way past a group of the best looking women I've ever seen in person. Seriously, there were eight of them and they are numbers one through eight of the hottest girlies I've seen in my entire life, and because I was on the list and they weren't, I got to go in ahead of them. I said something like, "Excuse me, ladies. V.I.P. comin' thru. I'll see if I can pull some strings and get you in. Pardon, middle-aged fat guy getting in before you. Make room, I'm a wide load."

If your first drink is watered down, tip well and the second one will knock you on your ass. Even female bartenders who look like they were just flown in from the Playboy Mansion like three dollars more than they like one dollar. She will remember you and your second drink will have the alcohol equivalent of two or three drinks had you not tipped well. You're welcome, I do what I can.

If a lounge act has the word "groove", "rockin'" or "soul" in their title, they will suck. If you ever come across an act called The Rockin' Groove Daddies Soul Revue, run for your lives.

If a woman starts talking to you at a casino bar and she is beautiful, she is a prostitute. The first time I was in Vegas, as a tourist about a year and a half before I moved here, I was at a casino bar and a woman asked me where I was from. I looked at her and my first thought was "This girl wouldn't fuck me if her pussy was aflame and my dick looked like a fire extinguisher." I thought she just wanted some sucker to buy her a few drinks. Then she started naming her price. For me, poverty has always been my moral compass, so my broke ass turned her down.

Saturday, July 09, 2005
Have we left, at long last, no sense of decency?
Society is bereft of decency. By decency, I'm not talking about bullshit Victorian manners where women wouldn't say the word "cock" if Ron Jeremy was bouncing his hog off their tonsils; or evangelical "fuck who I think God wants you to fuck" sermonizing. I'm talking about having the common human decency to leave well enough alone.

As exhibit one, I offer a reality show called "I Wanna Be a Rock Star: INXS." The surviving members of eighties pop group INXS are turning their search for a new lead singer into a public spectacle. Their original singer, Michael Hutchence, died in late 1997. He hanged himself, a result of either autoerotic asphyxiation (choking oneself to enhance orgasm during masturbation) or he just got depressed and killed himself. Since Michael Hutchence fucked more super models than bulemia, I find either scenario inexplicable.

How the man died is unimportant. His bandmates and so-called friends, perhaps a little cash-strapped, are gleefully raping his corpse for fun and profit. I was never a big INXS fan, but they owed ALL of their success to the fact that Michael Hutchence made teenage girls want to buy their crappy music. Now the remaining meat on his bones is the main course in an all-you-can-eat buffet for motherfucking vultures. They've decided to desecrate the grave of the only reason any of those hacks ever had an ounce of fame and fortune and publicly use the remnants of his earthly vessel as a toilet. Good for them. Hopefully all of them and the teenybopper who wins the contest will die when their tour plane crashes, going out like a bunch of bitch-ass Buddy Hollys. On a related note, if the surviving members of Nirvana ever hold a contest to replace Kurt Cobain, I'm going on a several-state killing spree. Ms. Hellion, you're invited to join me.

As exhibit two, I saw Dan Akroyd on Conan O'Brien's show last night. In his younger days, Danny was an original member of Saturday Night Live and a personification of cutting edge humor. Now he's a professional talk show guest, showing up to vaguely reminisce about the days when his life had meaning and shamelessly whore his various business interests. Way to rest on your laurels for the last quarter of a century, Mr. Akroyd. Regarding his friendship with John Belushi, who died in 1982, I have no doubt who the INXS guys came to for advice on how to use tragedy for financial gain.

There are a million more examples, but I'm sick to my core just thinking of them. I'd better stop typing before I paint my computer with what I had for dinner last night.

Thursday, July 07, 2005
Jessica Alba...Adult Only
This is the Jessica Alba I like to see. She all grow'd up. I recently went to a site that promised Jessica photos and all they had were pics from the Flipper tv show she did AS A CHILD. Yeech! Let me make this perfectly clear: I'm a dirty old man, NOT A PEDOPHILE. There's a difference, you know. I don't care how cute her face may be, a twelve-year-old Jess in a wetsuit does nothing for me. It actually makes me shrivel up like a stack of dimes. I like my Alba from Dark Angel on, thank you oh so much.

I suppose there's a market for pre-pube photos of Jess, but I shudder to think about the typical Flipper-era Alba aficionado. There's probably a chat room for these perverts. I can imagine a guy sitting in his mom's basement, taking a moment from his rigorous schedule of X-box, stroking it into a crusty sock, and more x-box to type "...tighter than a mouse's ear" onto his laptop screen with fingers that reek of sweaty dick and Cheetos.

I can't wait to see Fantastic Four and view Jessica Alba in all of her early twenties glory. You know, the way nature intended.

Not my best post, but look at the picture.

Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Things I Learned at the Mall
I went to the mall on Saturday. The mall's in Henderson and it's called the Galleria at Sunset. I like to call it the Gonorrhea at Sunset. These things were made clear to me:

I hate teenagers. I know I'm getting old, because teenagers bug the Lord of Heaven and Earth out of me. I can't stand their little cliques and pecking orders. There's always one Queen Bee who thinks she's so fucking special and you just know in three years she'll be knocked up by a drama teacher at the community college. There's also an alpha male, barking orders at his gutless flunkies and picking on the outcasts. In five years he'll be the deadbeat dad of two and in prison for flagrant non-support. Call me petty, but I hope his cellmate ass-rapes him.

Hooray! I'm not the biggest piece of shit imaginable. The food court at this mall contains a Hot Dog on a Stick, a franchise that hires attractive young girls, dresses them like avant garde circus clowns, and forces them to make lemonade in a way that causes their boobs to jiggle. A lot of guys, many of them my age or older, sit at the food court and stare at the bouncing breasts of the teenage girls. I purposely sit facing the opposite direction so as not to be tempted. I'm no saint - I'd look if I sat in front of them - but I won't allow myself to be that sleazy.

A lot of people bought breast implants for their daughters when what they needed was contraceptives. This one pretty much explains itself. If you want to be a grandparent early in life, buy your little girl a pair of saline scum magnets for her fifteenth birthday.

I am not shaped like most shirts. Every shirt I saw tapered to a "V" shape. My fat body doesn't! I'm more of an elongated "O".

There is no reason for this mall to have a music store. The music store in this mall sucks the knobby cock of weakness. It's great if you're a twelve-year-old girl who hates her parents so much she makes them spend $18.99 for a CD that sells for eleven dollars at Target. For the rest of us, not so good.

Every mall food court has a place that sells ethnic food of unknown ethnicity. It looks like Chinese food and Indian food mixed together in a slop bucket but the people cooking it appear to be of Middle Eastern descent. What the hell is it? Is there an animal in that pot that should be in a zoo? Are spices involved that would cause me to fail a drug test? Are those the same dazed looks they gave the health inspector? Looks like I'm eatin' another cheesesteak.

This is the only mall in America without a decent coffee establishment. This is a two-story mall and not one Starbucks or Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf to be found. I got a cup of coffee from Cinnabun of all places. It gave me the drips, making me drive home with my cheeks clenched together. I desecrated the posted speed limit and ran several red lights so I wouldn't
decorate my car in a motif called Modern Ass.

Old people love to write checks. I made one measly purchase and had to stand behind the lady who gave Christ his first blowjob as she wrote out a check with one of those pens that have to be periodically dipped in ink. Why does anyone still write a check at a retail store? Check cards are FREE. They don't cost anything but the natural high old people get when they rob me of my time.

Those mobile cart mini-stores need to be eliminated. No thank you, I do not want my glasses cleaned, ring appraised, scalp massaged, shoes shined, balls scratched, watch repaired, or funny-bone tickled. I do not want to buy a velour painting of a unicorn, a pair of slippers that look like mini-vans, hair and wig extensions, time share in a condo in Tehran, sunglasses with my name written on them in glitter, or anything at all related to NASCAR. If your product was that good you'd have an actual store.

Now I know why so many people shop online.

Tuesday, July 05, 2005
The 5 Worst Movies I've Ever Seen
I'm not saying these are the worst movies ever made. These are the five worst movies I've paid to see in a theatre. I try not to pay to see sucky movies, but it happens sometimes. I see a lot of terrible movies on HBO, but I turn those off after ten minutes if they start to annoy me.

Private School
I saw this as a teenager and fully expected it to suck shit through a crazy straw. I didn't care; I just wanted to see Phoebe Cates naked. Phoebe, the Jessica Alba of the eighties, immortalized her perfect body in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, and this was her follow-up film. So what did the geniuses who made this dung fest do? They cast her as the good girl virgin. AARGH!!! Not only was she never naked, they dressed her in horrible granny clothes. Her bad girl rival got naked but she was just some nameless skankette. For a high school loser, it was a huge disappointment.

Phantom Menace
Jar Jar Binks. Need I say more? Well, I'm going to anyway. Jar Jar was the most annoying, aggressively unfunny, cringe-inducing character of the past thirty years. Oh, and his portrayal was racist in a way that made me think the movie was funded by a white supremacist militia. J.J.B. was such a walking minstrel show I expected him at any moment to start tap dancing and/or picking cotton.

Independence Day
You could dip tortilla chips in this movie, it's so cheesy. Bill Pullman, who plays the President, is the worst actor in Hollywood. I've seen better acting in amateur porn. How does he keep getting work? He must have pictures of every top executive in Hollywood on a stage in Tijuana, having sex with a donkey.
During the movie I pulled for the aliens. I wanted them to wipe the bad acting, broadly-written ethnic stereotypes, sappy soundtrack, and Will "I am the same character in every movie" Smith off the face of the earth.

Planet of the Apes (remake)
I'm a big fan of director Tim Burton, but like a masturbating leper, he really dropped a ball on this one. I didn't think Burton was capable of making an obvious, cliched, dull, by-the-numbers action film, but he made the fucking prototype. I sat bored for two hours, but after the Scooby Doo Ending he slapped on I left the theatre pissed.

Godzilla (remake)
I was with a group of people or I would have walked out on this one. Star Matthew Broderick agreed with me; he gave the most uninspired performance of his career. At times it looked like he was casually reading his lines off of cue cards. The talentless hack who wrote Independence Day wrote this, so every character is offensive or borderline retarded or both. Godzilla's size seemed to change in every scene. One minute he was as large as a skyscraper, the next he was crawling around in the subway. I expected him to shrink down to microscopic size and go on a rampage through someone's colon.

Monday, July 04, 2005
Independunce Day
Back in 1999 when George W. Bush started campaigning for president, he promised to be a "compassionate conservative". Now, in the second term of his ongoing crusade to turn the entire country into a Deep South Tent Revival, I'd like to do two things: Examine what his policies have done for our country and rip off David Letterman.

Top Ten "Benefits" of Compassionate Conservatism

10. Klan robes now come in soothing pastels.

9. Juveniles on Death Row receive a prize with their last meal.

8. Instead of showing disturbing photos of aborted fetuses, pro-life groups hand out delicious fetus-shaped baked goods.

7. If greedy corporate executives squandered your retirement savings, you won't go hungry thanks to a generous donation from the fine folks at Purina.

6. Billionaires who pay little or no income tax are officially urged to "tip better".

5. Prove your life threatening illness is caused by airborne toxins and the EPA treats you to lunch at a participating Olive Garden.

4. A plan is underway to dress the homeless in whimsical Renaissance costumes.

3. Festive lotto-style drawings determine which children are dropped from the school lunch program.

2. No gay marriage, but if you just live together Dick Cheney's jack-booted thugs will leave you alone...for now.

1. Hey, senior citizens: Half the Medicare, but twice the Matlock!

Saturday, July 02, 2005
Unlucky in Love
I always tell nosey interloper types "I haven't found the right woman yet," but that's a lie. I believe I've found the right woman several times, only to have my destiny thwarted by circumstance. When I've found the perfect female for me, one or more of the following happens:

- I unknowingly have a booger the size of the Liberty Bell dangling from a nostril.

- I just finished eating a camel cunt sandwich with raw onion, limberger cheese, and extra garlic.

- I need a haircut and look like the drummer for Foghat.

- I just got a haircut and look like a marine from the 103rd Fat Division.

- She's allergic to my "Designer impostors" cologne.

- She mentions she has a thing for Jewish cowboys and the bartender introduces himself as "Bucky Horowitz". (old joke)

- I'm so drunk I keep referring to her as Blondie McBoobsalot....even though she's a flat chested brunette.

- I'm so sober the fear of talking to a stranger makes my voice crack like the pimply-faced fast food worker from The Simpsons.

- The bar's lighting makes my jeans looked acid-washed.

- One of my so-called friends tells her that no, I did not, my bold assertions notwithstanding, invent the I-Pod.

- She likes me, but her friends hiss in my direction and pelt me with soiled bar napkins and tiny fru-fru drink umbrellas.

- The DJ plays my favorite song and she sees that I dance like a three-toed sloth with Parkinson's.

- I remind her of the guy who slaughtered her entire family with a grapefruit spoon.

I actually thought I was going to get a little three-way action once. I was on San Padre Island a few summers ago and I was drinking margaritas on the beach with two hot, drunk co-eds. They were twin sisters, fraternal not identical, and it really seemed like they wanted to party. Unfortunately, I happened to mention how much I hated George Bush, and wouldn't you know it, he's their father.

Friday, July 01, 2005
Why do all fashion designers dress abysmally? Every fashion designer I've ever seen dresses like Cap'n Crunch's brain damaged, color blind cousin. Society should not be told how to dress by these cartoon characters.

Why do people with religion-themed bumper stickers on their car drive so poorly? I guess they're in a hurry to die and receive their heavenly reward, but the rest of us are trying to avoid hell for as long as possible; so please, pick a lane.

Why do guys with body odor insist upon wearing tank tops? Can't I have at least a thin layer of cotton t-shirt between my nose and their tidal waves of olfactory Parliament Funkadelic?

Why do gourd-bellied women insist upon wearing baby doll t's? I cover my big stomach and expect the same courtesy from the ladies. If you're shaped like a bag of potatoes, go to the local tent and awning store and cover that shit up.

Why does Jay "Lame-ass Scrote" Leno get better ratings than David Letterman? How is this possible? When did everyone in America become an old lady from Kansas? "C'mere, hon. Jay's wearin' a funny hat." I think every time Leno tells a shitty joke his chin grows.

Why is naked, blatant arrogance considered an attribute? The loud douchebag isn't confident, he's arrogant. Confidence is quiet; arrogance is a braying ass. Society heaps huge rewards upon people who, in a just world, would be publicly flogged.

Why do grown women still fall for "bad boys"? I hope your femme-nuts are still all aflame after he pushes you down a flight of stairs.

Why do grown men let themselves be used just to get sex? A friend of mine just started dating a girl he met at a car wash (JERRY! JERRY! JERRY!). She has two kids, no car, and no job. Her unemployed teenage sister also lives with her. My friend spends his free time hauling all of those people around in a Honda Civic. He pays for everything; a trip to Starbucks costs him thirty bucks. He says he thinks he's being used, but he likes the sex. I guess I don't like sex as much as he does, because I would have gone Luda on her ass and put the bitch on foot patrol.