Friday, September 30, 2005
Eric's Empty Proclamation
Another friend who worked with me at the fantabulous liquor store was Eric. Eric was a highly intelligent guy with a razor sharp wit, but when you hung out with Eric, who was getting his master's degree in music at Southern Cal and living with his family in Louisville during the summer, you had to endure his constant complaining about how the 'ville didn't measure up to L.A. Okay, I accepted that, although he lived in such a bad neighborhood in Los Angeles he was afraid to leave his apartment at night. I guess during the day it was spectacular.

One night Eric and I went to the usual Wednesday night haunt, accompanied by a female co-worker who shall remain nameless for this post. We drank a pitcher or two of Sierra Nevada, ate a couple platters of the tastiest cheese fries ever, and talked incessantly. After a few hours, our female co-worker said her goodbyes and left.

As soon as her ass was out the door, Eric proclaimed our co-worker to be the perfect woman. He then began a rousing soliloquy. It's been over three years but it went a lot like this:

"(Name withheld) is the perfect woman. I know she's unavailable, I realize this. However, I hereby decree that I will hold her as the standard with which to judge all potential girlfriends. I will not, as God is my witness, settle for anyone who doesn't meet these criteria."

I had to ask: "What about sex?"

He didn't even hesitate. "I will not have sex with anyone who isn't as cool as (name withheld). I refuse to waste my time in such a fashion."

I was actually moved by his sentiments. It would be a wise move, I reasoned, for him to adopt such noble principles regarding his dating life.

Too bad when we all hung out a mere three days later Eric got drunk and went home with the skankiest, cheesiest ho ever to funkdify a bar stool!

Oh, Christ, I never laughed so hard in my life. Mister High Standards didn't last the week. Oh, how priceless. I never laugh while I'm typing this garbage but my keyboard is stained with the tears of hilarity. If you had sat there and listened to his impassioned speech and then had to endure the groan-inducing game of the velveeta wedge he ended up fucking, you'd be crying, too. Fuck, my ribs hurt.

The following Monday I worked day shift and was getting ready to leave when who else strolls in but Eric, breaker of his own covenant.

"Well, if it isn't Sir Galahad the Chaste," I said to him.

"Shut up!"

"So that girl was as cool as (name withheld), huh?," I tortured him. "Funny, she didn't seem as cool as (name withheld)."

"Shut. Up."

I couldn't help myself. "You do realize the whole situation was akin to announcing your intentions of feasting on a steak and instead eating a Spam sandwich, don't you?"

He had no reply. He lowered his head in shame and walked toward the back office.

Thursday, September 29, 2005
This is why I could never live in a small town
On Tuesday, my job took me to the sprawling metropolis of Cedar City, Utah. "Jesus," everybody's thinking as one, "you sure must have a shitty job that would lead you to such a place." Yes. Yes I do.

While there, my boss and I enquired as to a good place to eat lunch. A local woman half-heartedly named a few places, then suddenly her eyes lit up. "Oh, I know..." she said with extreme enthusiasm. I actually shook in anticipation of the culinary delights that awaited us. She continued: "They just opened an Applebee's across the street."

Oh. Fucking Applebee's. She then, swear to God, put her fingers to her pursed lips and gave the universal 'bon appetit' gesture. For Applebee's. For the Home of the Riblet. I had to think about that twathole Mike Brown to avoid laughing in her face. Speaking of Mike Brown, if Cedar City ever gets a T.G.I. Friday's or a Chili's the town might flood from the moisture coming off of this woman's panties.

We ended up eating Mormon Mexican at a joint next door to Applebee's. Everyone in the restaurant was blonde. With my light brown hair I actually felt swarthy for the first (and probably last) time in my life. Do Mormons consider spice a deadly sin? My burrito was so bland it made Taco Bell seem like a gastronomic journey through Central America.

Lessons learned: Never ask a skinny person for a restaurant recommendation and never live in a county with less than two malls.

Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Amie, Remember This?
A few posts ago I welcomed my friend Amie to the blogging world. Today I'd like to share a very short story involving her.

One day after work, my friend Ben (then Amie's boyfriend, now her husband) and I decided to get a sandwich so we stopped by Amie's place of employment at the time, Life Uniforms. This was before she joined us at the hugantic liquor store, so she spent her days getting yelled at by nurses because the 8x stout was a special order.

The parking lot was full up front, so Ben pulled his car up by the entrance and I went in to take Amie's order. I looked through the door and saw that she was alone, so I burst in and yelled, "Hey, do you have a 2xl tall Conquistador's outfit, preferably one with a codpiece?"

As soon as the words left my mouth four or five old ladies came out from the fitting area. They had stunned looks on their faces like my comment triggered a Hindenberg flashback in the lot of them. All I could do was say to Amie, "Uh, do you want anything from Blimpie's?"

Amie, did you think I was going to mention Pam's big luscious tits?

Also, spell check wants me to replace "Amie" with "ammo".

Monday, September 26, 2005
That's me in the corner...that's me in the spotlight..
I don't think I've lost my religion; I believe my religion lost me. I used to go to church fairly regularly but I quit because my motives for attending were all wrong. Here are some of the reasons I don't go to church anymore, other than the fact that I live in Las Vegas and don't trust where that collection plate money is going.

I Hate Hymns - Hymns annoy me. They all have about five long verses and the chorus is repeated after every verse. At my church growing up, the organist studied music with Beethoven; the chick was old. The hymns were played at so slow a pace that every week we'd lose a few elderly from the strain of standing so long.

The terminology puzzles me - Churches have a weird way of saying things. At my church, when someone died, they wouldn't say they died, they would say, "Miss Smith passed from the church militant to the church triumphant." Huh? What kind of everything's just swell pollyanna bullshit is that? Oh, I'm so happy my loved one triumphed. Silly ass me, I thought she got hit by a bus. Of course, as a teenager I mocked this phrase relentlessly. We'd be on a youth group trip and someone would fart in the church van, and I'd say, "It smells like something crawled up your ass and passed from the church militant to the church triumphant."

Potluck dinners sicken me - I'm a big fat buffet-eatin' son of a bitch, so you'd think church potluck dinners would be right up my alley. No. For those of you with decent upbringings who are unaware of the potluck dinner, the church would provide the meat, usually ham slices marbled with about a metric ton of fat and grisle. Church members would provide the rest. Old church members. "Are those dentures floating around in the creamed corn?" "The secret to my brussel sprout soup? I strain it through an old hair net." "Eat your canned beets; they make you grow up big and strong." "Grandpa, can we stop at McDonald's on the way home?"

The Church Lady is real - There was always some nosey old bitch who lived to be in everyone's business. I wanted to smack her upside the head with a pew Bible. Would that have been wrong?

I started to come to church with a hangover - I don't see anything wrong with drinking on Saturday night, except for the fact that it makes church service, normally just a bit tedious, almost unbearable. Don't for a minute think God doesn't have a sense of humor. Every time I'd come to church hungover we'd sing two extra hymns; the handbell choir would play; I'd sit behind a wailing infant; there'd be a guest percussionist; and St. Gabriel him-fucking-self would come down from heaven and blow his god damn trumpet.

Communion wafers suck - Why does something meant to represent the body of Christ taste so abysmal? Communion wafers taste like styrofoam soaked in wombat piss.

Communion wine blows - The blood of Christ my ass. Who knew our savior had rot-gut coursing through his veins?

There were lots of things I liked about my church, but that is for another post.

Sunday, September 25, 2005
A Blogger Welcome and Random Thoughts
I'm very happy today because one of my bestest friends from back home has just started her very own blog. I'm not sure if she wants her real name revealed, so since her username is tango jellybean, I'll call her TJ.

TJ was one of my closest friends the last few years I lived in Louisville. Her now-husband is also a good friend and the person who introduced us. I think the fact that I knew from the moment I met her that she was completely off the market allowed us to become so close. There was never any tension or wondering 'what if'; I just enjoyed the hell out of her company. I seriously believe she is the shorter, better looking, younger, female version of me.

She and her husband moved to Baltimore a few weeks before I moved to Vegas in what I like to call the Louisville Mass Exodus of 2002. They found Baltimore to be an open sewer and now reside in Lexington, Kentucky, Louisville's dim-witted cousin.

Well, enough sentiment. TJ has a blog entitled Countless Screaming Argonauts that can be found at Please stop by and welcome her to Blogger Nation.

And now, more Random Thoughts:

- In the early nineties, I briefly stopped huffing spray-on paint fumes from a brown paper bag, but then Hammer reminded me I'm "Too Legit to Quit".

- Know what's a bad Christmas gift? Box of foreskins.

- I happened to need the bag of rubber bands for my job and their purchase had absolutely nothing to do with the extra large condoms I bought.

- Looking back, it was a bad idea to name the abortion clinic "Critter Ridders".

- This is a sentence you'll never hear: "Put that in layman's terms, Mr. President."

- It's embarrassing to be seen buying tampons for your girlfriend; it's humiliating to be seen buying tampons for your inflatable three-entry love doll, whom you've named Charlotte.

- Okay, I was thrown out of the stadium for 'booing', but some of those Special Olympians weren't giving 110 percent.

- Why do I think they should move Mardi Gras to Fargo, North Dakota? Two words: Hard nips.

Thanks to all for the birthday wishes.

Saturday, September 24, 2005
My Birthday Options
Today is my mutha fuckin' birthday. Oh, what to do to celebrate. I have the following options.

- I could sit at home, eat my weight in rice krispie treats and drink boysenberry wine until I forget I'm old enough to remember guys in my neighborhood being into disco.

- Target is having a sale on Saved by the Bell DVDs.

- If I go downtown to a casino on the corner of Crack Whore Drive and Hate Crime Avenue, I could get their birthday special: Any one celebrating a birthday alone who agrees to wear the infamous leopard skin sombrero gets a fried twinkie with a lone candle for only 99 cents.

- Two words: Vicodin Colada.

- There's a girl with a lazy eye and a gimp leg who works at a Dairy Queen in North Las Vegas, and I think she fancies me.

- Jay Leno's in town tonight. I could get a front row seat and scream "You suck Timothy McVeigh's ghost-cock in hell, you hamhock-chinned lump" until security escorts me from the hotel. I can't afford that, though. Damn.

- Maybe I'll finish my screenplay about an overweight, underemployed man who defies odds and basic logic to marry Jessica Alba.

Maybe next year will be better.

Friday, September 23, 2005
A Fucking Piece of Human Excrement
The "man" in this picture being led away in handcuffs is Stephen M. Ressa, age 27, from Rialto, Ca. Take a good look at a piece of absolute filth. On Wednesday he intentionally drove his car into a crowd of people on the Las Vegas Strip, killing two and injuring twelve others, some critically.

I hope Stephen enjoys the taste and feel of Satan's jizz being deposited down his gullet, 'cause that's what he's going to get.

I normally deplore police brutality, but I hope Metro officers beat the ugly off of this monster. If I'm conservative in any way, it's in my low tolerance for this shit. We should throw a citywide party, close Las Vegas Blvd. to traffic, tie his miserable ass to the bumper of that police car, and drag him up and down the Strip until there's nothing left but tattered clothes and a shit stain.

Often when someone does something horrid my compassionate side tries to see in them a trace of humanity. Normally, I might say, "He is, after all, somebody's son." But this guy stole the car he used in the murders from his own mother, after beating her up. My compassionate side can just shut its hole.

On second thought, no vigilante justice or death penalty for this guy; just a lifetime prison sentence. I want this fuck to be brutally ass-raped every day for the rest of his life and I hope he lives to see one hundred. I pray his cellmate is a brain-damaged weightlifter with a nasty temper and a cock the size of a wiffle ball bat.

Thursday, September 22, 2005
Vote for Me
This post has a backstory; a rage-inducing, infuriating backstory. A few days ago I asked for boobie pics and brownie recipes for my upcoming birthday. My dear blogger friend Ubermilf promptly promised, PROMISED I tell you, an old family brownie recipe.

The next day, however, she decided to be a native-American giver and wavered. Instead of emailing me the recipe, she decided to let the readers of her blog decide whether or not I get it. Well, people are VOTING AGAINST ME. I have a one-vote lead as I write this. I realize this is a joke being played on me by Ubermilf, but people are voting that I not receive a birthday present. Silly me, I take that personally. None of these people know me or have any vested interest whatsoever in the outcome of this vote. Hence, the kind folks who are voting for me are doing so because they're giving and generous; the douchebags voting against me are mean-spirited fuckers who probably spend the holiday season at the mall telling kids there's no Santa. Let me make this perfectly clear: If you voted against me and have no idea who I am or only know me from a blog, KINDLY EAT SHIT. I wish bloody anal discharges on the lot of you.

I am asking you, dear readers, to go to and vote for me. You'll have to scroll down; it's not at the top of the page. I still love Ubie, by the way. I think she put up the poll to "bust my balls", not realizing how many cruel jackasses read her blog. Why do I think this? She's a strong willed person (which I mean as a compliment). If she decided against giving me the recipe she just wouldn't have sent it and that would be that.

At this point, the recipe is secondary. I want your vote for the express purpose of SHOVING IT UP THE ASS OF EVERYONE WHO VOTED AGAINST ME. Please help me out. Thanks.

The First Annual viva las vegASS Stockholder's Meeting
Note: one of my favorite bloggers, crystal from has a chance to win a free wedding. She has kids to raise, damn it, and a free wedding would help. For details go to the above website or click Crystal under my VIP listings. PLEASE vote for her. It will take just a few minutes of your time and would mean a lot to a good person. Her, not me, I'm still a sack of crap. Now, on to my post.

Yesterday afternoon I held the first annual viva las vegASS stockholder's meeting at a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf inside the Green Valley Ranch Resort Casino in lovely Henderson, NV. For your bemusement I've included a written transcript of the proceedings. My urbane verbal bombs are in blue. My hilarious asides will be framed by ( ).

"I'd like to begin the meeting. Does anyone have any questions?"

"I'm the only other person here, asshole."

(Okay, so I only have one stockholder. It's not like any of you are Donald Trump.)

"Okay, do you have any concerns?"

"Only one tiny little concern: Your blog sucks shit through a rubber hose and is taking me to the fucking poorhouse. Soon I'll be giving one dollar handies at the Greyhound station just to feed my kids."

"Excuse me?"

"I invested all of my money in your blog."

"That was stupid."

"Tell me about it. Can you write one post that isn't insipid, self-loathing, or needlessly controversial?"

"Could. Not gonna."

(At this point I thought he would have a stroke. A purple vein the size of a loaf of bread appeared on his forehead.)

"That reply is an example of the wit and wisdom I've come to expect from your blog."

"I'm a crowd pleaser, a born entertainer, if you will."

"You constantly build a small audience, then lose it by posting something asinine."

"Yeah, I'll probably post our conversation."

"Jumpin' Jesus on a pogo stick. Why would you want to bore the blood out of everyone?"

"Beats thinkin' up somethin' new."

(When I really want to piss off a douchebag, I talk slowly and exaggerate my Southern accent. I'll become Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel if I can get a jackass to cough up blood in a fit of rage.)

"I have a list of things I've noticed that I find objectionable."

"This should be stunning."

"You asked women to send photos of their breasts; you obsess over girls who kiss other girls; you referred to someone as 'a palsy-twated cunt'; you used the term 'Dakota Fanning's underage femme schlong..."

"Some of my favorite readers found my blog by googling 'Dakota Fanning's underage femme schlong'."

"I'm not finished. You said you didn't give 'a feret's fly-buzzed fuck-cubby' about something; you insult our president; you flirt shamelessly with young girls who wouldn't give you the time of day in the real world; you..."

(At that point I tuned him out. I needed a refill on my caramel ice-blended, so I left the table. When I got back he was gone. Anyone want to be a stockholder?)

Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Here's a Crowd Pleaser: Abortion
I thought I'd take a little time off from asking for boob pics to talk about the airy, lighthearted subject of abortion. Why? Because abortions will be illegal before you can say, "Why was Kerry so dull?" Take a picture of Roe V. Wade; its days are numbered.

Yes, ladies, pretty soon the "religious" right will have their cloven hooves all over your reproductive rights, so let's take the time to discuss a few facts.

- If men had babies abortions would be much easier to obtain. Actually, this is an understatement; they would be ridiculously easy to obtain. There'd be an abortion clinic in every Super Walmart in America; Domino's would bring abortion providers to your door and throw in a large one-topping; and Starbucks would sell pennyroyal tea.

And the way we guys procrastinate, you can forget about the partial-birth debate. Partial-birth, a non-scientific term invented by right-wingers, would be called "last minute" abortions. This would be the typical conversation between a man and a woman:


"What's wrong, Bob?"

"Well, Susan, I think I'm going into labor."

"Bob, you were supposed to get an abortion on Saturday. How many times did I remind you?"

"Yeah, but the game went into overtime and the guys were over..."

(Sighs). "Well, okay; I'll go get the coathanger."

"Hurry up, I can see its head."

- Anti-abortion extremists always try to hand dead fetuses to pro-choice politicians as a publicity stunt. Where are these people getting all of these dead babies? How does one come to possess an abortion? Does Haliburton have the distribution rights?

- Partial-birth abortions do not exist. The term "partial birth" as aforementioned, was invented by the right wing hype machine to frighten normal people into believing abortion doctors are committing genocide. On this quaint little planet I like to call "Earth", third-trimester abortions are only performed when the woman is in danger of carrying full term. A woman can't stop at an abortion clinic on the way to Olive Garden and have an eight-month-old fetus ripped out because it makes her look fat in her dress. This leads to my next point.

- The VAST majority of women who have an abortion do so after a hell of a lot of soul searching. The pro-life fringe members, including your president (not mine, I voted against him), want middle America to think that damn dirty hippie chicks are just having abortions left and right.

"Will you punch my frequent abortion card? If I buy two more the next one's free!" Please.

- Lastly, the fate of Roe V. Wade should not be determined by the Supreme Court; it should be put to a vote. The women of the United States should be allowed to decide for themselves. And this should only apply to women young enough to bear children. Old bitties with cobweb-infested cootches can shut up and sit it out with the men.

Being a man, I have no real opinion about abortion other than it's a woman's choice. You see, it's a trade off: I don't have to pass a tiny human through my sex organ and in return I don't tell a woman what to do regarding abortion. I think I got a good deal.

Tomorrow: Back to tomfoolery, I promise.

Monday, September 19, 2005
What Do I Want for My Birthday?
For my birthday, I want boobie pics and brownie recipes. Yes, lovely ladies of blogger, my birthday is this Saturday, September 24th, and I would like you to send me photos of your tits, your hoots, your jig-bittles. Blogger guys, I don't want photos from you, thanks oh so much, but if you have a favorite brownie recipe, please forward it.

I'll probably get a lot of grief for this request, but we're all adults here and this is obviously voluntary, so get over it.

Ladies, the photos can be your boobs in various stages of undress up to and including totally nude, which is of course preferable. I do realize some of you are shy, so if you have to be wearing a bra make it nice and lacey. Women who don't want me to even think about their breasts are more than welcome to join the guys and send brownie recipes.

As for the brownie recipes, let's try not to send the typical crap you find on the back of a can of cocoa. I want old family recipes handed down from generation to generation. Actually, I want one recipe and about fifty boobie pics, but I'll take what I can get.

I hope everyone doesn't hate me now. If so I'll be extra funny in the weeks ahead to win you back.

Email the boobie pics and brownie recipes to This is my secondary email address. Anyone who has my primary address can use that if they wish.

I realize I'm going to get pictures of man-boobs and dog nuts from bitter pranksters. Deleting is easy.

Once again, no offense to anyone, I'm just getting old, I'm depressed as hell about it, and some breastage shots will cheer me up. Or I'll eat my weight in brownies and slip into a coma.

Saturday, September 17, 2005
A Dream Come True
In the late eighties I saw a comedian named Bob Zany provide the perfect response to a completely asinine statement. I waited for years to be able to use it in its proper context. Finally, at a friend's party in the spring of 2000, a stranger started talking to me and gave me the greatest gift of all, the gift of making her feel like an ass.

This is a word-for-word conversation from that night. It is eerily similar to Bob Zany's comedy routine. My statements are in blue.

"Hi, I'm (name long ago forgotten)."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Todd."

"(So and so) says you're doing Weight Watchers. You know, if you lost enough weight, I'd have sex with you."

"Excuse me?"

"If you lose some of that extra weight, I'll have sex with you."

"If I lose weight I won't want to fuck you. It's now or never, bay-bee."

Thanks, Bob Zany.

Friday, September 16, 2005
Get Rich Quick Schemes
I think we've already established that my current job is boring and doesn't pay enough; we've also determined that even if I sold out, no one would buy. So I tried on the old "thinking cap" recently and came up with these ways to get rich:

A blogger friend of mine recently complained of the difficulty of finding a sidecar for her diesel powered dildo. Well, her prayers will be answered when I open my nationwide chain of adult sexual aide superstores, Toys for Twats. The friendly, knowledgeable staff at TfT will be able to help you ladies fill all of your dildo, vibrator, and strap-on needs. All products will come in a variety of fashionable colors and range in size from "IS IT IN YET?" to "HOLY CHRIST IT'S BRUISING MY PANCREAS".

Hooters is a very popular restaurant chain because of an obvious fact: Men love chicken wings. Okay, so we go there for the tits; sue us. I want to take the Hooters concept to the next level without going through the expense and bureaucratic red tape involved in owning a strip club. My idea, the great compromise, is called Camel Toe Tammie's. Our servers will still have low cut shirts to show their breastises, but we'll add tight white shorts to the mix. Hello goldmine. Anyone who thinks I'm exploiting women with this restaurant might change their mind when the Camel Toe girls bring home more money per week than a brain surgeon.

In Canada, Camel Toe Tammie's will be known as Moose Knuckle Nellie's.

There's no better way to get rid of an unwanted houseguest than to make his sleeping situation as uncomfortable as possible. And the best way to achieve that goal is to make them try to snooze on the official Barbara Bush Refugee Cot. There's not a better or more cost efficient way of saying "I think you're a second class citizen and I don't want you around here" than making your guest sleep on this hard, itchy, poorly designed temporary resting unit.

Ever want to hit someone in the face with a shovel but don't want to spend years in prison for aggravated assault? Well, those worries are a thing of the past thanks to the Nerf Shovel. Now there's a way to express your displeasure with someone without severely fucking up his grill. The Nerf Shovel is made of the same soft material as the famous Nerf Football and is a fun, safe way of saying "I don't approve of your douchebag behavior and if I was above the law you'd be dead." Is an old man holding up the line by writing a check for three dollars? A Nerf Shovel to his face tells him it's time to take the hit and get a debit card. Is a seventy-year-old woman dressing like Christina in the "Dirtty" video? It's Nerf Shovel to the rescue.

Those are the ideas so far but I'm only going to be able to get financial backing on one of them. Which one do you think I should go with? I had an idea for a gay bar called The Swap Meat but financing fell through.

That last item wasn't gay bashing, it was a joke. I've said it before on this blog: Two consenting adults having sex is simply none of my business.

Happy Birthday to my new blog friend who goes by the names ubermilf, her milfesty, ubermajesty, and milfshake. Her milfshake brings all the boys to the yard. Damn right it's better than yours.

Thursday, September 15, 2005
Cheap Eats and Mormons
I got to work Wednesday at 4:50 am Pacific Daylight Time, meaning I beat some of you East Coasters despite the three hour time difference. The advantages? I worked for about an hour and met my friend Dan at a cafe inside a local's casino for their Graveyard Shift special: a 7-oz. steak, two eggs, hash browns, and two slices of toast for $2.95. That is some good cheap eating. A woman sitting near us SENT HER STEAK BACK. She must have been wearing her ovaries on the outside to send back a steak that didn't crack the three dollar price barrier. I shudder to think of the atrocities visited upon that piece of meat before it made it back to her plate. I'm sure one of the cooks wore it as a man-thong as he did jumping jacks and squat thrusts to the delight of all assembled.

Also, I got to leave work at 1:20 pm. I would say that allowed me to beat traffic but it didn't. There is no such thing as beating traffic in Las Vegas. Rush hour lasts from 5-10am in the morning and 12:15-7:00pm in the afternoon/evening. At least it's not Los Angeles traffic.

I was home for about an hour when my doorbell rang. "Who could it be?" I wondered with childlike innocence. Perhaps it was a local youth selling delicious chocolate. I actually had my wallet out when I opened the door. It was the Mormons. I released an audible sigh when I saw them.

"Hi, we're from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints..." one of them began.

He said some more stuff, but my rage blocked it out. It was completely unnecessary for them to identify themselves as Mormons. Who the fuck else could it have been? Here were two guys standing at my front door in the middle of the afternoon wearing clip-on ties and short-sleeved dress shirts, the Mormon uniform; they both sported haircuts that recalled a precinct volunteer for the 1964 Barry Goldwater presidential campaign; and they clutched pleather-bound copies of The Book of Mormon the way Lindsay Lohan holds on to a bag of coke. They weren't there to give me a "queer eye" makeover.

"I'm not interested," I said in my most nauseatingly faux-polite sing-song voice.

"Can we leave you a pamphlet?"

"No," I said, sans politeness, and shut the door in their faces.

I went to church when I was younger and not once did I knock on a door and try to shove my faith down a stranger's biscuit-hole. I do not for the life of me understand this. Has this ploy ever worked, ever?! Has the following scenario ever taken place:

Mormon: "Blah blah blah Jesus blah blah John Smith blah blah Brigham Young blah."

Unsuspecting Dupe: "So, my religion's stupid, huh? Damn, I've wasted all of these years. Help me avoid eternal damnation, my short sleeved saviors."

Please feel free to believe in anyone or anything you want, just for the love of your god keep it to yourself.

Wednesday, September 14, 2005
I'd Sell Out, But No One's Buying
When I was younger I'd listen to music with friends and the topic of "selling out" would always come up. It was important to everyone involved that our favorite musicians would never compromise their art. What a bunch of self-righteous fucks we were.

A perfect example of an artist accused of selling out is Liz Phair. In the nineties Liz made low-hi, personal albums on an independent record label. A few years ago she signed with Warner Brothers and put out a highly polished, slick pop CD. Well good for her. Liz is a single mom in her late thirties; maybe she got tired of touring in a run-down van and eating ramein noodles every fucking night.

The point I'm trying to make is: I want to sell out, damn it! If this blog was more popular, I'd whore it out like I was Bobby and it was Whitney. I'd flood the marketplace with viva las vegASS merchandise. There would be vegASS t-shirts and hats and toilet paper and feminine hygiene products. I'd place the vegASS logo on a diesel-fueled dildo with a kick stand and a side car if it put coin in my pocket.

"Yes," the concerned reader says, "but surely you would never compromise the content of your blog." Oh, that is laughable. If a giant corporation wants to underwrite my blog, I'll be on my knees sucking the flaccid, diseased cock of big business faster than you can say "Jenna Jameson". People will wonder, "Why does Todd keep mentioning Baskin Robbins in all of his posts?" Because I'm getting paid, bitches. Yes, Bill Hicks is one of my idols and he said "Once you do a commercial you're off of the artistic roll call forever." True, but guess what? I'm not on the artistic roll call now! I'm a guy who writes this when I'm not at a job that I hate. Pay me for doing nothing, America. My sense of entitlement threatens to take over my soul.

Please, corporate vipers at the gates of hell, make me one of your minions. I want to metaphorically mate with you and spawn your hellish brood. Integrity my ass, I'll hawk cigarettes shaped like pacifiers if it means I don't have to go to work the next morning.

Monday, September 12, 2005
As liberals, we are more concerned with winning arguments than we are with winning elections.

Moderates and conservatives, please add your thoughts as well.

Sunday, September 11, 2005
Goth is the New Preppie?
The other day I was leaving work just as nearby Silverado High School was letting out. Silverado is your typical suburban, middle-to-upper-middle-class school on the non-existent Henderson/Las Vegas border, so I was a little surprised at what the kids were wearing. At first I noticed a group of five or six dressed like it was Casual Friday at the morgue; they were head-to-toe in black with dyed hair and pale skin, the typical Goth uniform. When I got to my car I saw a much larger throng streaming beyond the school's grounds. They were all Goth. Every single one of them looked like the result of a bizarre gene-splicing experiment involving Michael Jackson and the remains of Bela Legosi.

This is what happens when the local mall finally gets a Hot Topics; rich, spoiled suburban douches-in-training decide to play dress up. "Oh, dark lord of the nether-world, your mom is here to pick you up in the Lexus SUV of Despair." Really, when did Goth go so mainstream? Kids used to dress Goth as a way to distinguish themselves from the crowd; now they are the crowd, at least at Silverado High. It probably isn't the same at less affluent schools. The kids who actually have the right to be sad, miserable bastards never want to dress the part.

Saturday, September 10, 2005
We Have A Winner...
Yesterday I asked for suggestions for topics for my slipping, on-its-last-legs blog. I would like to thank everyone who commented and curse those who mocked me with their silence. I am actually going to use several of the ideas for blog posts in the near future; that should keep my Teri Schiavo-like site alive for a week or so. However, there can be only one winner. And the winner of the Edit viva las vegASS contest is Kristine from the lovely city of Columbus, Ohio. Here is my post:

The lovely, talented, and liquor-bearing Kristine recently "rediscovered" on MY SPACE the object of her worst date ever. To read about the entire date, click "Kristine" on my VIP list; she just posted about it. To summarize, he took her to lunch at Waffle House, a place no one who's sober should ever visit, and it just got worse from there.

So, I went to the loser's MY SPACE page to laugh at his pathetic station in life and make myself feel better about mine. His receding hairline profile pic was definitely fitting the bill, but then I see pictures of his "Friends." These are his friends:

Holy mother of fuck! Look at these women. LOOK AT THEM!! Seriously, check out the taters on the one on the far right. I may have to run screaming to the mountains and live as one with nature, this is so unfair. You see, I believe Kristine when she says the guy's a complete ass-nugget; I trust her judgment. This guy, this deployment sock,* gets to hang with these girls? I wonder if he ever banged one after a night of fine dining at the Waffle House? (Insert your own
scattered, smothered, and covered joke here). Hell, even if they're just platonic friends, it means they're accepting enough of his asinine behavior to associate with him.

Well, as we say in the South, that tears it! I'm piling my worldly possessions into the rolling deathtrap and moving to Columbus, Ohio, where the women are beautiful and apparently quite stupid. Except for Kristine, she's beautiful and smart. My new blog, viva columbASS, will be coming soon to a computer near you.
*deployment sock - sock used for masturbatory purposes by sailors at sea for long periods of time.

Note: For winning the contest Kristine will receive a copy of the official viva las vegASS soundtrack. Since she's young she'll probably hate it, but it can be used as a coaster if that's the case.

Friday, September 09, 2005
I made two futile attempts to blog tonight and both posts sucked so much ass-putty I deleted them. I got nothin', folks. I'm asking for your help. Allow me to introduce to you THE FIRST (AND HOPEFULLY LAST) ANNUAL EDIT vegASS CONTEST. In the comments, please suggest a topic for me to write about. I'll add a few "fucks" and "cunts" and vegASS it up a bit, and post it tomorrow evening. The winner will receive a semi-valuable prize and my begrudging respect.

Rules: No memes please. I need topics, not questions. Also, I will never, ever blog about what is known in certain circles as the "Artichoke Incident".

Good luck, everyone.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Then...and now
I would like to take the time to wish a HAPPY BIRTHDAY to the lovely and talented Brooke. I believe she's turning twenty-five today, so be sure to stop by her blog and congratulate her on a full quarter-century of kicking ass.

My birthday is on September 24th, so I've been thinking about my life way back when I was twenty-five; how my expectations have changed and how I have changed.

25: Wanted to write the great American novel.
Now: Want to write a blog entry that doesn't read like the random keypad punches of a fever-crazed monkey.

25: Was looking for a woman to marry and have children with.
Now: Looking for a woman who won't make urination painful.

25: Trying to decide what to do with my life; I'm not getting any younger.
Now: Seriously considering working for gypsies who kidnap and sell babies.

25: I would only drink microbrewed beer and single-barrel bourbon.
Now: If I want a kickin' buzz I draw a Sharpie moustache under my nose and inhale deeply.

25: Shopped for my clothes in the Polo Big and Tall section.
Now: I have a needle, some thread, and a gift card from Las Vegas Tent and Awning.

25: Favorite new band: Nirvana
Now: Those damn kids and their rock and roll.

25: Played basketball with friends.
Now: See if I can walk across a parking lot without stopping to cough up blood.

25: Went out with a girl introduced to me by my friend Dave Zoeller.
Now: "Dating" a girl introduced to me by my "friend" Hugh Hefner.

25: Could go four or five times a night.
Now: Still four or five times, if we're talking about peeing.

25: Disgusted by actions of an idiot president named George Bush.
Now: Disgusted by inaction of an idiot president named George Bush.

25: Needed to lose some weight.
Now: Some things never change.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Reflections From a Long Weekend
I hate Fox News. President Bush could actually walk into the Fox News studios with a machine gun and murder half the staff, stopping only to rape Greta Van Sustren, and Fox News would find a way to put a positive spin on it:
"Today's top story: President Bush sent a powerful message to the enemies of freedom by brutally slaughtering my co-workers and friends. Our colleague Greta Van Sustren, who was sexually assaulted by the President, joins us live from an undisclosed hospital. Greta, just how virile is George W. Bush?"

When Chief Justice Rehnquist died, Fox News used the headline "America Mourns." Really? Because I was under the impression that nobody gave a fuck. Probably ten thousand dead in New Orleans, and I'm supposed to care that one ninety-year-old man bit the dust? I'll tell you who mourned when William Rehnquist members not mentioned in his will.

College football started with the good guys from the University of Louisville beating the evildoers from the University of Kentucky 31-24. The game was shown to the entire nation on ESPN. Unfortunately, when they came back from commercial the network kept showing a couple of shoeless kids playing in a fountain; like Kentucky doesn't have enough image problems without having ESPN showcase a pair of barefooted hilljacks bathing in public water. God damn it, I know there are BMW- driving latte sippers in that state. Show some of those snooty fucks for once.

I wasn't asked, but this is my opinion of what is an appropriate HNT comment and what is an inappropriate HNT comment.
A woman shows breast, but no nip:
"Hey, nice tits." - appropriate.
"I'd like to boobie-fuck you and give you a pearl necklace." - inappropriate.
Also, all of you aspiring poets, inspired politicos, and brilliant matter how eloquent your prose or how flowing your poetry, you'll never get as many comments as a girl with a nice rack. This is an observation, not a criticism.

I realize that as a white male I'm an acceptable target, and that's okay up to a point. I think anti-male sweeping generalizations can be funny as hell when they're dispensed by someone with a quick wit, but personal attacks are just shitty. A male blogger friend was threatened with physical violence on someone's blog, and I know the person wasn't kidding because she said so. Before anyone tries to excuse this behavior, imagine the fucking outcry if he had threatened a female. It wouldn't be okay then, would it?

Kanye West told the truth, and the beauty of it is they won't be able to ruin his career as easily as they did with the Dixie Chicks because his audience agrees with him.

This is un-P.C. but I don't care: Kindly learn English or get the fuck out of this country. I welcome people from other countries and don't think we should run around deporting everyone, but now it's being suggested that we all learn Spanish to accommodate the large number of immigrants, legal and illegal, coming from Mexico. There is no way in hell. I'd rather rescue Dick Cheney from drowning and have to give him the "kiss of life" than learn a foreign language. Why? Because I didn't sneak into Mexico in the dead of night. Italian immigrants learned English, as did the Germans and Eastern Europeans. Half of the doctors in Nevada are Pakistani or Indian, and they all speak our native tongue. I'm sure the Mexicans can follow suit.
Oh, really old people are exempt. If you came to this country to be with your family in the last years of your life, go ahead and speak the language you already know.


Saturday, September 03, 2005
A funny thing happened in Cincinnati
In the spring of 2002 I went to Cincinnati, Ohio with my friend Jon and a couple of his friends to see a band named Boss Hog. It was a good show, but little did I know the strange shit that was about to go down.

We were hanging out directly after the show waiting for someone to come back from the bathroom when I was approached by a woman, early-to-mid forties, not bad looking at all but had a crazy look to her. "Hi," she said. I hi'd her right back. This is the next thing she said to me:

"I want you to beat up my teenage son."

"Excuse me?"

"I bought my fifteen-year-old a ticket to the concert but he didn't want to go," she told me.

Imagine that. A teenage boy didn't want to go to a concert with his mom. He deserved to be savagely attacked by a stranger. "Where is the little bastard?" I asked in mock anger.

I'll spare you the details but for the next several minutes she tried to convince me to go with her to god knows where in the boonies of the Natty for the purpose of pummeling a minor. I told her I was from Louisville and needed to go back soon.

"Sorry, no time for violence tonight. Next time I'll thrash all of your children if you want."

Then she asked when I'd be back in town. "We might come back up in a couple of weeks to see Nashville Pussy."

Nashville Pussy is a real band and they were going to be at that club, but I said that mainly to offend her.

Her reply: "I saw the Rolling Stones in Nashville once."

"Yeah, I have a seat on the GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE EXPRESS, and it's pulling away from the station as we speak."

That was the last time I was in Cincinnati.

Friday, September 02, 2005
Random Thoughts? Not Again!
I may be the only person who enjoys these random thoughts, but last I checked I'm the only one who writes this rag. So, without further adieu...

- I saw a picture of Lindsay Lohan's tits on a milk carton. If you've seen them lately, call 800-555-2467.

- Renting film equipment and following a Michael Jackson impersonator into a Chuck E. Cheese might sound like a good idea for a documentary, but it's really just an expensive way to get arrested.

- A girl I like said she'd date me if I was the only single guy left on earth; so if there's a nuclear holocaust and I happen to be in an underground lead bunker at the time, helloooo pussy.

- In retrospect, Lil' Bastards was a bad name for a daycare center.

- You might think it's funny to see a grown man open a package of adult diapers, put one on, and run around screaming, "Someone please change me, I'm full!" but you're not one of those humorless fucks who works at Walgreen's.

- What you call "masturbating to a photo of Jessica Alba" I call "making love to Jessica Alba in absentia."

- First sign it was a bad date: She challenged me to a burrito-eating contest at Taco Bell. Second sign: She won handily. Third sign: She suffers from irritable bowel syndrome. Bright side: I can say "I fucked the shit out of her" and really mean it.

- Old people don't like it when you replace their dentures with a set of leftover teeth from your job as a taxidermist. You'd think they'd appreciate the cool fangs, but they don't.

- Everyone at work is jealous of me because I make more money than they do and I don't get much done. Their pettiness sickens me.

- A couple of years ago, before she got all skanky, I had sex with Britney Spears. Okay, so she wasn't Britney Spears, but she looked like her. Okay, so she only sort of looked like her, but she was wearing a reproduction of one of her outfits. Okay, so I'm banned for life from the Wax Museum.

- Some advice to the lovestruck: An "I'm What's on the Other Side of the Glory Hole" novelty shirt makes a lousy birthday gift for your girlfriend's mom.

Thursday, September 01, 2005
Thoughts While Channel Surfing
Note: For the last three posts, I believe, I've been trying to respond to each and every comment on my blog. Nice bloggers have been doing this forever, of course, but being nice is a bit of an effort to me. I just decided if someone takes the time to comment on my nonsense, I should respond in kind. I don't have computer access at work, so I'll do my responding when I get home. Thanks.

New Orleans is now being ravaged by looters. It's amazing that mother nature can't do anything to us that a group of human garbage won't make worse.

The Republicans are brilliant. Seriously, they may never lose another election. They've changed the name of Creationism to Intelligent Design. Now it's as if the term "creationism" never fucking existed. These people are evil geniuses. They've taken something that is stupid and forced everyone to use the word "intelligent" to describe it. That, my friends, is doublespeak of Orwellian proportions. Damn, if it's 1984 I'm too young to go to a bar.

I'm going to co-opt their idea. From now on my fat stomach shall be an example of Fitness Design; and my crappy motor vehicle is a prime showcase for Luxury Design. Why not?

I'm watching an episode of Real Sports on HBO and one of their stories is really pissing me off. Parents of a home-schooled teenager are suing the school district for the kid's right to play sports at the local high school. Let me repeat this horseshit: These people have voluntarily decided the school in their district isn't good enough for their precious child, but they want him to play sports at that same school. No no no no no no no!!!! When they yanked their kid out of all social situations because the school had the nerve to teach scientific fact instead of something Pat Robertson thinks is "dandy" they threw away his right to play high school sports. They claim that as taxpayers their son should have access to extracurricular activities. Why? I pay taxes and have no children, so I'm just going to head over to Coronado High School tomorrow afternoon and take a swim in their indoor pool. Why can't I? I pay my taxes. It cracks me up when people applaud themselves for paying taxes. First of all, we don't pay taxes, they're taken from us. The government doesn't have me on the honor system; when I get my check the taxes are already deducted. It's not a noble gesture on my part.

Frankly, this whole home schooling thing is just wrong. What a great way to ensure that the flesh of your loins is a social leper. "A girl talked to me yesterday and I shot her with my Taser," the boy will say. To which the mom will reply, "That's nice, dear. Are you ready for tomorrow's test on Intelligent Design?"