I Made a Mistake

When I first got high speed internet access, before I even knew the world of blogging existed, I did what every red blooded American manchild inevitably does: I went looking for free porn. Oh, the myth of free porn. It's the adult male version of believing in Santa Claus, really; only if Santa Claus brought crap to your house instead of what you asked for when you sat on a child molester's lap at the local mall and/or shopping center.

Free porn does not exist, my friends. Oh, I'm sure celebrities and millionaire industrialists have access to it, but for guys like me the pursuit of free porn only leads to heartache.

Back in February, as soon as the cable guy left from installing my high speed modem, I went to a "free porn" site. True to their word, I didn't have to give a credit card number, just my email address. All this site did was lead me to about a million places that charged by the month. The "free porn" was just a gateway to expensive porn. I was disappointed but not surprised, and went on with what some would generously call my "life".

But remember, I gave them my email address. They do not keep those to themselves, folks. They are like teenage girls who know someone with herpes: The information is being shared. Now every day I'm flooded with spam from bad overseas porn sites. This was the tag line from one I received the other day: "Oney of the mosty gorgeous honeyy turns body assy to youy and turnsy overy sluggishly pullsy off her wearing."

What?! Is this supposed to turn me on? Oh, I'm so aroused from reading that I can't turn a corner without giving myself an injury. Was this a come-on from the villain in an old Charlie Chan movie?

Also, I don't think the word "sluggishly" projects the correct amount of sexiness. It's not a favorite word of the romance novelists. You'll never read, "He threw her on the bed and sluggishly tore off her corset. It took several minutes, and by then her lust had waned."

And "pullsy off her wearing" sounds like something R. Kelly would say to describe a twelve-year-old girl slipping out of her jammies. Yeeech.

I've asked myself, "What would our Founding Fathers think about the right to free porn?" But then I remember that our FFs were slave owners who beat their wives at the slightest provocation, so fuck them.

"With a Shiver in My Bones Just Thinking About the Weather"

The other day it was nice and sunny and about 80 degrees and someone said, "I wish the weather was like this all year." I agreed, because believe it or not I sometimes like to be agreeable, but as I gave the sentiment more thought, I decided I'd rather not have it sunny and perfect every day of the year. How boring would that be?

For one thing, I believe most of the people with the blinding senses of entitlement who make my every waking moment almost god damn unbearable moved here from a "perfect weather" climate. They grew up thinking that every aspect of their lives should always be flawless. "How the fuck did these peons run out of veal?" " Why do I have to obey traffic laws? I'M LATE." I think there's something about never being physically uncomfortable that brings out the worst in people.

Jesus, can you imagine how many fucknads would move to Las Vegas if it was eighty degrees year-'round? I think the three months of one-hundred-plus temperatures scares off some of my potential future irritants. Otherwise, twice as many douchebags from all over would flock here and further test our out-of-date-roads, crumbling infrastructure, and underfunded public services. I shudder to think of the crowd at the Henderson DMV. Give me a second to compose myself...it's that horrible an image.

I used to love October back home. October is just another month here. I'm grateful that the hot weather is gone, but does lack of a negative really equal a positive? I miss seeing the leaves change color and feel the crisp coolness in the air; I miss drinking hot cider at the St. James Art Fair; I miss Alisha's and Dave's Halloween party; and I really miss being able to wear a jacket to help mask my unsightly physique. I guess if I had an extra five-hundred dollars burning a hole in my pocket I could attend a massive Halloween bash along the lines of The Annual Pimp Show, Monster-Truck Rally, and Whore Auction. Of course, I'd be going BY MYSELF, but that's another problem for another post.

Damn, a post about the weather turned into another self-loathing diatribe. These are so much better when I write them out first.

Update: I just got back from a Halloween party. I was invited by local blog friends Shannon and Claudia. That's Shannon of Shannonosphere fame, not Shannon/Shaken. Shaken actually went to some big deal Body English shindig and didn't bother inviting me. I had a good time at the party but since I drove I took it easy on the booze.

I Wasn't Born With Enough Middle Fingers

I just returned from my exciting business trip to Arizona. A lot has happened since I last blogged on Tuesday. Here's an overview.

- The Las Vegas airport truly sucks the knobby cock of Satan. With the exception of the casinos, everything in Vegas is built under the assumption that no one will ever visit or move to this town ever again. The roads are outdated a year BEFORE they're built and the airport is smaller than the one in Phoenix. There was a line at the security checkpoint which rivaled that of a brand new coaster at Magic Mountain, staffed by old people still bitter because Rosa Parks wouldn't give them her seat.

- The flight was delayed slightly, mostly due to the business-suit asshole who refused to check his giant suitcase at baggage claim. As large as that bag was, it wasn't big enough to store his bloated sense of entitlement. He sat behind me, so I had to listen to the usual cliched "corporate speak" most stupid people use to appear intelligent to other stupid people.

"I had to let her go, because, hey, I want a team player who can think outside the box."

I hope she kills him. Even if she deserved to be fired, even if she was the worst employee in the history of work, I pray to god she shoots him out of his leather chair. NO ONE WILL MISS HIM. His life is empty and meaningless. Imagine life if she slaughtered him. One less person to yell at service industry workers for problems beyond their control; one less douche screaming into his cell phone because he wants everyone to notice it's the latest model; one less ass-chapeau to cut us off in traffic; one less time I have to hear "think outside the box."

As usual, the emergency exit row, with all of its precious leg room, was occupied by three ladies, none of whom broke the five-foot barrier. I hope each of them suffers from an unexpected bout of gigantism and hover at the eight-foot mark by the end of the year. I hope creeping ivy grows from their twats.

- Phoenix, "All of the heat, none of the fun," isn't my favorite place, but the Sheraton hotel they put us in was nice. There's a lounge in the lobby, so the first night we watched part of the World Series and had a beer. The second night we went to a bar called the Library, where it was "Redneck Night". This means they put hay on the floor, because hay = farmer, and obviously the farmer who nurtures the soil and grows food isn't nearly as sophisticated as the "marketing director" of a shitty dump of a bar in Tempe. They also assaulted my ears with hair metal, which I hated when I was young and has not a fucking chance now that I'm old. The waitresses were cute and wore short shorts, but they're just as cute at Hooter's and I can get wings there.

We didn't stay there long. We went downstairs to a dueling piano bar. It's just like the one at New York-New York in Vegas, except the place was almost empty and the piano players were annoying and at best marginally talented. But aside from that, just the same.

- During the day I had to listen to a bunch of vendor reps talk about their products. To say I was disinterested would be an understatement. If my life would have depended on my feigning even the slightest bit of interest in the proceedings, I'd be dead now.

- One of my co-workers is so annoying I wanted to stuff him in a box and mail him to a foreign country. Luckily I never have to work with him. For one thing, he puts "Mr." in front of everyone's first name. "Good morning, Mr. Todd." "What's for lunch, Mr. Todd?" "I'm the most nerve-racking tool alive, Mr. Todd." Finally I had to say to him, "Mr. Todd was Abe Lincoln's father-in-law. Just call me Todd, please." Suddenly I'm the asshole. Who cares? He never talked to me again, so mission accomplished.

- My Bauhaus trip is off. My friend with the tickets has to work. I can still get the tickets, but no one else I know in Vegas likes Bauhaus and I'm not about to drive the rolling deathtrap to Los Angeles. I'll spend Halloween Weekend alone, drinking bourbon and throwing a shoe at the television when something happens to anger up my blood. I'm hoping to spend Thanksgiving Day at a greasy buffet, eating pressed turkey and all the fixin's with a plastic spork.

- In political news, Harriet Miers, President Bush's handmaiden, withdrew her name as a nominee for the Supreme Court. I hereby "Nelson" the Prez with a hearty "Haw haw!" Also, Cheney's top aide, "Scooter" Libby, resigned after being indicted on criminal charges. I know everyone deserves due process, but this is a grown man named "Scooter":

Guilty!!!

-

By the Time I Get to Arizona

Tuesday afternoon, after working a full day, I have to get on an overbooked Southwest Airlines flight that will no doubt smell like Mr. Hanky's Poo Sleigh and travel a whole forty-five minutes to Phoenix (imagine Vegas if Wilfred Brimley were in charge) for work bullshit. God, I hate the Las Vegas airport. It's barely bigger than Louisville's airport, and in case you aren't aware, Las Vegas is slightly more of a tourist destination than Louisville. And since it's midweek, every cheap bastard on earth will be coming to town to take advantage of the thirty dollar rooms at the Stratosphere. It'll serve them right when they're brutally assaulted while stumbling drunkenly along the crack-den-laden streets that surround the hotel. Luxor, bitches. It's cheap and it's on the South Strip.

There's an old Nazi lady who checks I.D. at McCarren (the airport's actual name). The last time I had to deal with her she stared at my driver's license for the better part of a decade. Granted, my I.D. might be the worst ever; the camera at the Henderson DMV doesn't tilt up, so being 6'6" I had to slouch to get the top of my head in the frame. The result makes me look like a creature from Planet Neckless. Anyway, she was about to give the license to me when she pulls it back and says in a Schwartzeneggeresque voice, "You hahv und-til Novembuh," meaning I had until November to renew my license. This was in March, thanks for the heads up. I actually said, "GIMME THAT!" and snatched my I.D. from her hands. The people next to me laughed out loud. "I'm not usually like this," I told them as I rushed to the metal detector before She-Hitler decided to have me detained.

Once I'm on the plane I'll look for a seat in the emergency exit row, the only ones with adequate leg room, but they'll be taken by a group of pixies who need the extra space for the ten pieces of full-sized luggage they neglected to check at baggage claim. Then when I'm finally shoehorned into a space, someone about five-feet-zero will recline his seat on me, introducing my knees to my face. On the bright side, the last time I flew home from Louisville I was able to blow myself.

When we finally get to the hotel it's time to check in and take the hotel shuttle to Mill Avenue in Tempe, where there are bars and restaurants aplenty. It's an Arizona State hangout, but I'm tired of being ignored by women my age; it's high time I was ignored by college girls. Occasionally I'll remind a young girl of her wacky uncle and she'll buy me a drink.

Then on Wednesday morning we begin a fun filled day of being told how much we suck and how lucky we are to have jobs. In my case, this is true, but who wants it verbalized? I hate my job. All I want to do is put in my eight hours and go home. We don't need training. IT'S A MOTHERFUCKING MONKEY JOB. Some overpaid douchebag at the corporate office has to justify his salary, though; so let's waste my time, by all means.

In better news, I'm going to Hollywood Saturday night to see a rare (only three U.S. dates) concert by eighties goth gods Bauhaus. My friend knows a cat who knows a dame who knows a dude. Halloween weekend in Hollywood seeing Bauhaus. This should give me my freak fix for the year.

I'll blog again Thursday night/Friday morning. Everyone have a great middle of the week.

Bad Pick-Up Lines

Disclaimer: I've never used any of these. Not because I'm enlightened, but because of my life-crippling shyness, conquered only by alcohol, at which point I'm blathering and incoherent.

I've talked to several women, all in the name of research, about bad pick-up lines they've heard. When I wasn't distracted by their fabulous breasts, I recorded some of their replies.

- "You remind me of my best friend's mom, who's a total milf."

- "If you got boob implants, changed your hair, and dressed better you could be a stripper at one of the less-popular clubs."

- "What's a dirty bimbo like you doing in a classy place like this?"

- "If you buy me several drinks I'll probably want to fuck you."

- "Wanna come back to my house and see all the cool stuff I made from human flesh?"

- "I'm a direct descendant of Hitler's."

- "I don't even care if you're on the rag. I'm desperate."

- "Nice pants. Do they come in your size?"

- "What type of alcohol goes best with the date-rape drug?"

- "My friends bet me ten bucks I couldn't get you to have unprotected sex with me out by the dumpster. C'mon, help me out."

- "You look just like that porn star; you know, the one who specializes in double penetration with midgets."

- "Can you smell the fart I just ripped?"

- "You have that 'downs syndrome look' I like so much."

- "How'd you like to be an alcoholic loser's last resort?"

- "This dim lighting does wonders for your bad complexion."

What a shame women have to suffer such indignities. Do any of you ladies have any bad pick-up lines you'd like to share with the class? Guys, any you've used that you aren't so proud of? Let me know.

Okay, Here's a Date That Went Well

I don't normally post happy things on this blog, because let's face it: Happy isn't funny.

"Hey, that douche from viva las vegASS was happy today."

"Yeah. He totally sucked ballbag."

"Let's never read his happy-ass blog again."

"Great idea. Let's check Blogs of Note to see what we should be reading."


Today, though, in celebration of the weekend and the unwanted pregnancies and senseless fatalities it will inevitably bring, I'm going to blog about the best first date ever.

I met Sarah in a creative writing class I took in college. One day, after I read my short story aloud to the class, she approached me and told me how much she liked it. I thanked her, we talked for awhile, and I asked her if she wanted to have lunch with my friends and me in the now-condemned old University of Louisville student center. She couldn't resist the bomb shelter ambiance of the building or the hodgepodge of pseudo-socialists, drama queens, bad poets, and heavyset girls really into the Cure who constituted my circle of friends; so she quickly accepted my invite.

I don't consider this the first date. I think our official first date ended up going so well because we got to know each other hanging out before and after class. We didn't have to spend time playing the "get to know you" game.

The date began at Lentini's Italian Restaurant in Louisville. I never realized how good looking Sarah was until that night. Every time I saw her at school she wore ridicuously baggy sweaters, no makeup and a weird indie-rock hat the likes of which I hadn't seen before or since. I really didn't care about her looks. She completely charmed me with her intelligence and sense of humor; and she thought I was hilarious, which went a long way, baby.

The night ended at her nearby apartment. I don't talk about a lot of personal things on this blog, but let's just say we 'had relations'. Then I fucked her.

The relationship lasted about seven months but ended badly. So badly, in fact, that I changed Sarah's last name to Thegirlwhoruinedmylife. As in, "Hey, how's Sarah Thegirlwhoruinedmylife doing? Is she still alive, or does God answer prayers?" I won't go into detail, because this is my happy post.

Happy Happy Post Post
Happy Happy Post Post
Happy Happy Post Post
Happy Happy Post Post
(Sung to the tune of Ren and Stimpy's Happy Happy Joy Joy)

Dating Disasters I Have Known

Hey, I've had good dates, dates that have gone well, dates that have ended with a mutual understanding that we could stand each other. But no one reads this blog for good news. My readers want misery wrapped in cynically humorous comments. Okay.

I blogged a long time ago about the girl who, over dinner, casually mentioned her disbelief in the existence of the holocaust. I should have known when she wanted to eat at a place called "Hitler's Roadhouse".
******
Shortly after that debacle I was set up on a blind date by a female friend of mine. This "lady" took several cell calls before, during, and after dinner, announcing after the last one that she had to talk to this guy since she fucked him in a parked car the night before. "Really?" I thought to myself. "Are you wearing the same underwear? Maybe you can search around down there and place some of his day-old spunk on my lips, you gutter tramp." Hey, I know adults have sex. Just don't show up on our date reeking of new car, Aramis cologne, and another guy's cock. If we didn't have the same friend, I would have excused myself, came back after twenty minutes, and said, "That is one hell of a waitress. Smell my finger." She actually asked my friend why I never called her again.
******
A part time cashier at Organized Living set me up with a friend from her church. It was a normal church with a fairly middle of the road theology; and the cashier, while not exactly Bijou Phillips, drank socially and would say the word "shit" if someone gave her a turd sandwich. I thought her friend would be cool. I was wrong.

I met her at the tasty yet affordable Capri Italian Restaurant inside the Sunset Station Hotel and Casino. The first personal tidbit she volunteered about herself was "I like to wake up a few hours before work so I can begin the day by spending quiet time with Jesus."

I immediately had a flashback to the aforementioned bad date, but it turned out Jesus wasn't a landscaper she was scrogging; He was her lord and savior. I let it go, but I had to ask a follow-up question of sorts. "Would you like a glass of wine before dinner?" She gave me a look as if I said "Mind if I crawl under the table and go yodeling in your gulley?"

"Oh, I don't drink," she said, and by her tone I expected the next two sentences to be "But I guess you do. Well, isn't that special?" presented in her best Church Lady voice. Instead she stated, "I used to drink quite a bit before I was delivered."

Once again I was confused. Did she mean she was born with fetal alcohol syndrome? No, it was another wacko evangelical term meaning God had saved her from evil evil liquor. Fifty-thousand children starve to death every single day, but Our Heavenly Father dropped everything because a spoiled, middle-class twit didn't know the meaning of the word moderation. What kind of wine goes with hubris?

As everyone knows, I'm a forgive and forget kind of guy, Mr. Tolerance they call me; so I was willing to let it go, until THE STORY. Obviously I don't remember it word for word, but here is a condensed version that is fairly accurate.

"My church singles group had a New Year's Eve party last year, but (and at this point she almost starts to sob) one of the guys brought a bottle of champagne and I didn't think it was right to drink it at that party. Even though it was at a member's house, it was still a church party. No one listened to me, though, so I went home and the next day I had to call the Pastor and tell him what happened."

That was the end for me. I could actually see my spirit float away from the table and head toward the Hooters Restaurant on the other side of the casino. I also stopped the polite routine.

"So, this was the teenage youth group?" I asked.

"No, it was the single adult group," she said. I couldn't see it, but I think at that point my spirit settled its tab at Hooters and headed to a strip club.

Let's review: Someone brings champagne to a New Year's Eve party held at a private residence and attended by ADULTS; she gets all twat-hurt, storms out like a kid who got a shitty Happy Meal prize, and rats them out to the preacher. She was on a personal crusade to make sure nobody ever enjoyed themselves in her presence. What a joyless waste of estrogen.

She did look nice. I didn't know Old Navy made hairshirts.
******
There are countless others, but this is enough for now.

Yeah, he needs the publicity

Every once in a while I'll check out Blogger's "Blogs of Note". I don't know why I do it; Waiter Rant is the only one I've actually liked. The other day, though, I came across one entitled Boy Who Heard Music. The title intriqued me, so I went to the site.

The author of said blog is a guy named Pete Townshend, who happens to be lead guitarist and primary songwriter for an up-and-coming band called The Who. Yes, rock legend Pete Townshend has his own blog. He's my second favorite member of The Who, behind John Entwhisle, who died at the Hard Rock Hotel here in Vegas while snorting coke off a prostitute' s tits. I want to go that way, only replace "snorting coke" with "eating pizza" and "prostitute" with "two prostitutes".

My belabored point being, why does Blogger feel inclined to give Pete Townshend's blog free publicity? He should take out a full page ad in Billboard magazine if he wants people to read his vanity project. In the meantime, MY vanity project languishes in relative obscurity. I want to be a blog of note, damn it. I want legions of lemmings to flock to my musings, not because they think it's funny and understand my sense of humor, but because they were told it's the cool thing to do. That's when you know you've made it in Blogville, USA; when people come to your work thinking if they don't love it there must be something wrong with them. Personally, I think those who don't like my blog are a bunch of humorless Corkys, but that's a subjective opinion.

Someone asked me: "Todd, would fame and wealth change you?" Well, yes and no. Fame wouldn't change me at all. If a million people praise me and one criticizes me, I'll believe the lone critic; that's just the way I am. Money, on the other hand, would turn me into a Trump-like scrote. Hell, back in college I'd act like a prick when my student loan check cleared. I'd refer to myself in the third person: "Todd will supersize that Big Mac combo meal. Extra fries for Todd, knave. Apple pies for everyone, courtesy of Todd." I'd go through that money so fast I'd be selling my plasma by the time mid-terms came around.

I gave up on fame and fortune a hell of a long time ago; I don't even think happiness is obtainable at this point. All I ask for is a "Blog of Note" shout out, and they give it to a multi-millionaire rock god who sees more pussy than a vet with a "No Dog's Allowed" policy.

*******
NOTE: My friend Amie has written a story in which I'm portrayed as a drunken ass. It's probably true, I don't remember most of the night. Anyway, I heartily endorse this true story that casts me in a bad light. I tried to link to the story like a real blogger would, but it failed miserably. Go to screamingargonauts.blogspot.com.

Two for Tuesday

It's a rare two post day. The first one involves the jackdouche to the left.
Jason Mraz: Buy a Vowel, Twatboy!

By overwhelming demand (okay, four people, but three of them are cool chicks), we're singling out Jason Mraz for some old fashioned shovel to the face justice. I hate his music, I hate the way he wears his hat, and I hate the way he sings "I GOTS the remedy" in that annoyingly affected way of his. I'd rather have the agonized screams of all the lost souls in Hell echo through my head for the rest of my life than listen to ONE of his songs.

He came to Vegas recently on his "Curbside Prophet" tour. Fuck, I even hate the name of his tour. "Curbside Prophet" my ballbag! This clown-shoe needs to left for dead at the curbside. He would have sold more tickets if he called himself a "Douchebag Prophet". Jesus Hank Christ he needs a vicious beatdown.

Kindly scroll down and read my second post. Oh, c'mon, please?

A Bad Idea of Olympian Proportions

When I was in fifth grade at John J. Audubon Elementary in Louisville, KY, our class was divided into three separate reading groups: gold, silver, and bronze. In other words: you're smart, you're average, you're stupid. What a terrible thing to do to kids.

I was the only boy in the gold group. My earliest memories are of my grandmother reading to me; little did I know at the time that her heartfelt gesture would lead to me being a social pariah some years later. By fifth grade it was socially acceptable to admit to liking girls. It was not acceptable to be the only male in a group of ten. I was the bodyguard of the sewing circle.

All of my friends were in the silver group. This group consisted of a bunch of average guys and the girls who'd play doctor with you at recess. These were the people I wanted to hang out with, not the prudish girls who'd remind the teacher when she forgot to assign homework and tell on me when I said the word "cocksucker".

Lastly, we had the bronze group. I'm sure all of these unfortunate kids ended up dead or in prison; they didn't have a chance. The gold group sat closest to the door. In case of fire, you couldn't have the excellent readers burn up. They put the silvers in the back of the class and the bronze group was stuffed into the coatroom. They had to read their "See Dick run" mental oatmeal in a glorified closet surrounded by outerwear. God forbid they be allowed to sit with everyone else. It never occurred to me how badly they were being treated. I just remember being outraged that someone had gone through my coat and taken my lunch money and other kid valuables.

Would it have killed that school to educate the slow readers rather than segregate them? I wasn't reading great literature over at my fabled catbird's seat next to the door; with help most of them could have read it, too. And if any of those kids were illiterate, what a great time to find that out before they reached adulthood.

I remember really not liking two of those kids. They were bullies; mean and violent. Maybe all the individual attention in the world wouldn't have made a difference, but someone should have fucking tried. Fifth grade is too soon to give up.

All of the classrooms at Audubon Elementary had divided reading groups, so I don't really blame the teacher; other than she could have put my group in the coatroom every once in a while (there were too many silvers to fit). This failure started with the county school board and continued with the administration at Audubon. I wonder how many lives were harmed irreparably because of bureaucratic laziness?

Let's Play a Game With the Voices in My Head

The voices in my head were annoying me, so I tried to distract them by playing a game of $25,000 Pyramid. One of the voices gave the clues, the other had to answer. The answers, both correct and incorrect, are in red. I'll denote a correct answer with (ding).

Category One

"Rush Limbaugh, George Bush,.."

"Republicans."

"Jason Mraz, Jimmy Fallon,.."

"People who need to be hit in the face with a shovel."

"Karl Rove,.."

"People who'll taste the murky jizz of Beelezebub for all eternity." (ding).

Category Two

"Eva Mendes, Jessica Alba,.."

"Women who have restraining orders against me." (ding).

Category Three

"Lazy eye, club foot,.."

"People with disabilities."

"Low self-esteem, fear of intimacy, hatred of men in general,.."

"Common characteristics of women who are interested in me." (ding).

Category Four

"Entire large pizzas, whole pies, fifths of bourbon,.."

"Things I've consumed in one sitting while sobbing into a couch cushion." (ding).

Category Five

"'He had a lousy attitude', 'he was always late',.."

"What an employer might say."

"He set up a hidden camera in the ladies room,.."

"What my former employer might say." (ding).

Category Six -This is for the big money.

"Stupid, unnecessary,.."

"What people say about the Iraqi war."

"Pointless, unfunny,.."

"What readers will say about this post." (ding).

With that, the voices in my head celebrated. I had won 25 grand in nonexistent funds. Right now, in my mind, I'm totally buying a new car. Victory is sweet.

Have I Seen My Future?

This morning before work I went to Starbucks and came to the realization that unless I change a lot about myself, I'm going to become a miserable old bastard. The manager at this particular Starbucks is a perky gal, and I just wasn't ready for perky at six in the morning. All of the employees there are friendly, and even though I know it's phony it doesn't bother me. This woman, however, is a braying ass who isn't nearly as clever as she thinks she is. Her voice almost made my head cave in.

Now, I wasn't rude to this lady; she didn't even wait on me. I sat there seething with silent anger and tried to drink my coffee as her dissonant tones sledgehammered against my eardrums like a retard-school production of "Stomp". Finally, I got up and left, preferring to go to work rather than hear one more Hee-Haw laugh or groan-inducing "joke". Why did this bother me so? Why couldn't I tune it out and finish my drink?

Later in the day I saw what could very well be my future. He was a cranky, mean-spirited little man, so old I could smell Jessica Tandy's twat on his breath. He was busy doing what old men like him do best: Making life unlivable for those who still have value to society. I wanted to knock his stupid old man hat off his stupid old man head, until it occurred to me that I was looking at myself in forty years. Yes, right now my miserableness only ruins my life and in some ways the lives of those who read my blog. But at least you fine folk read this of your own accord; at least I hope none of you are being held captive in a madman's basement, forced to read this sewage until he gets around to making a candy dish from your skull. Someday, though, the bitterness will start to seep out and infect the general populace like a glory-hole sperm-receptacle with a sore on her mouth.

On the bright side, I'm a big fatty, so maybe I won't live to see old age.

For Nick: A special "viva las vegASS" edition of "Shovel Justice"

I have a "blog" I've never updated entitled "Shovel Justice"; the premise being I and readers of this blog nominate people who need to be hit in the face with a shovel. Nick, of "Sacrelicious" semi-fame (or is that quasi-obscurity?) hates Ashton Kutcher. Actually, all straight males hate Ashton; as do all gay males and most women over the age of twelve.

I only went to one site to retrieve a picture of this no-talent douchebrain and they didn't have a photo of him wearing that stupid fucking hat he got at a Stuckey's in Arkansas. I couldn't bear to subject my computer to another Ashton Kutcher fan site, so I went with this one.

You're welcome, Nick; and other haters of shit.







For my own amusement, please allow me to add an illustration of Peter Griffin beating the crap out of Jimmy Fallon.

The Customer Code of Conduct

Yes, it's true that customer service isn't what it used to be. But you know what? Customers aren't what they used to be, either. I worked retail for far too long, and I would like to show the customer the error of his ways with this, The Customer Code of Conduct.

Dear Customers:

Be a parent first, a customer second. Watch your fucking kids. No one, not even the store manager, makes enough money to have to babysit the typical spoiled brat. Please don't let them run around destroying things and making life miserable for everyone else. Being an inconsiderate wad of fuckgunk is not a right bestowed on you when you procreate. Have you seen the pieces of garbage who have kids? You aren't special.

If the store doesn't have it, well... tough shit. I don't know how many times I'd tell a customer we were out of a certain item and they'd reply, "But I really need it." Oh, well that changes everything! We always keep one in the back under lock and key for the desperate soul who really, really needs it. The keyholder, who happens to be a fairy pixie, is asleep; but if you can get all the other customers to clap their hands in unison, you just might wake her up.

Get a check card. Check cards, or debit cards, are free from your friendly neighborhood bank. That's free, as in "no cost to you". Don't fear the dreaded Visa logo on the card. The money will come from your checking account and you won't be charged interest. If you're old and absolutely refuse to get one, how about having your checkbook out before you get to the front of the line? You could even surprise the shit out of everyone by writing the date and the name of the store on the check. In other words, don't act surprised that you have to pay for the items in your cart.

Don't be a cheap pile. Every time I worked a Saturday night at Organized Living, I could count on the Dirty Henderson trailer people wandering around the store bitching about the prices. Customers, employees don't set the prices. Why is that so hard to understand? Employees are just there to get paid, and paid poorly. The semi-retarded guy who rides the giant bike with a basket on the handlebars makes more money selling the Sunday paper at that busy intersection near the mall. People who work retail are not trying to price gouge you so you can't afford a new Nascar sticker, so calm the fuck down.

No one cares about your personal life. Oh, this is for your daughter who lives in Los Angeles, huh? I don't care. "Did you find everything you were looking for?" is something retail employees are forced to say; it's not an invitation to pelt us over the head with the gory details of your shameful existence. Once I had a fossil tell me about his hernia. I tried responding with "Really? My uncle hasn't had a solid bowel movement in ten years," but it backfired on me. The old man's reply was "I've suffered from the loose stools for longer than I can remember." Longer than he could remember could have been four hours, but still...

Chris Rock: Funny. You: Not so much. I'm tall, and I'll bet you a million dollars I've heard 'em all. Same goes for the short and the superfluous-nippled. If someone has an obvious physical oddity, for the love of P.T. Barnum just let it go. Funny people don't shop at the mall or K-Mart, with rare exceptions. You are not one of the exceptions.

This is Fucking Priceless!

I'm back from my whole day and a half off from blogging. What could make me post again so soon? Only the most horrific illustration I've ever seen.

It started when I was thinking of doing the "google images" meme I've seen on so many blogs. Yes, I said I'd never do another meme, but this one seemed interesting. Little did I know that my waffling would lead me straight to comic gold. I went to google images and searched for the name of my favorite drink. This was the result:


No, my favorite drink isn't a stomach-churning witch's brew of blatant hypocrisy and outright sacrilege; it's bourbon. Fuck Almighty, there is so much that's wrong with this picture I don't even know where to begin. Sadly, there are people out there who VOTED AGAINST THEIR OWN INTERESTS because of shit like this. "Lookie there. Dubya done found Jesus and gave up the demon liquor." Horseshit. Jesus is just waiting patiently for George to become distracted by a bunny or a shiny object so HE can help Himself to that sweet bourbon.

C'mon, regardless of your political stance, this is hilarious. Just look at it! I want a poster sized copy for my living room. In velvet. With a shiny faux-gold frame.

Why does Bush have a microphone on his desk? Did he spend the first almost-eight months of 1992 doing a radio program while drunk?

I wonder if Jesus was behind me the night I decided not to violate that sorority girl who had just slipped into an alcoholic coma?

Forty-eight hours without blogging. It's good to be back.

I'm Going Out Drinking

I've had enough Scientology debate. Okay, it wasn't a debate. It was everyone on earth versus one person who had a hard on to ruin my post. Hey, pal, thanks for publishing a case study in my comments section. Please, for the love of Christ, GET YOUR OWN BLOG. If you had your own blog you could defend Tom and Katie and L. Ron to your hearts content without any interference from me. For you see, I don't give a cunt. Who cares if Scientology is a religion or not?

Now that the unpleasantness is behind me, I'm going to a bar to watch Monday Night Football. I hope that isn't too controversial an activity. I'm sure I've offended recovering alcoholics and people who hate football.

Mr. Scientology apologist, please NEVER EVER comment on my blog again. I'm leaving your comments up; I'm letting you have your say. But anything else from you will be deleted because quite simply you don't matter to me.

I'm going to take a day or two off from blogging because it's getting on my last cunting nerve.

The Truth About Katie's Baby

I am convinced that this man, not Tom Cruise, is the true father of Katie Holmes' unborn baby.

This is L. Ron Hubbard, founder of Scientology, the kooky-ass cult that Tom Cruise is so enthusiastic about. Yes, Mr. Hubbard died in 1986, while attending a Mister Mister concert, I think; but his legacy will live on thanks to modern science, his thawed-out spunk, and Katie's lonely uterus.

Let's face a few facts, grown-ups. Tom Cruise would rather stick his cock in a live hornet's nest than a vagina, but he needed someone to take to the Academy Awards. Enter Katie Holmes, a young actress whose career had seen better days. They were a perfect match, but only one piece of Tom's diabolical scheme. He needed his phony wife to be the vessel from which would emerge the heir to the Scientology empire, so he had L. Rod's swimmers thawed out and turkey-bastered into her loins. And since Katie is allegedly a virgin, the result of this immaculate conception will be crowned Jesus Dianetics Christ, Messiah of Scientology.

These people and their plan for world domination need to be squelched. If we work together, we can stop L. Ron Hubbard from releasing his demon spawn from beyond the grave.

Dropping a Deuce on Race Relations

It's been over a month since I last posted about having to take a shit in a public restroom, so this is way overdue.

Thursday afternoon I had to drop some ass science, so I found a stall that had the least amount of fecal matter on the toilet seat and/or door latch and settled in for a long constitutional. The first thing I noticed, other than the disturbing scent of rancid bean dip, was a lone piece of graffiti directly in front of me. It read "Kill Whitey".

Needless to say, I found this a little unsettling, being as I'm whitey. I hadn't been that upset since I was a teenager and a drunk Nazi hunter mistook me for Joseph Goebbel's grandson. Really, I just wanted to relieve myself in peace and quiet. The only oppressing I was going to do was to that unfortunate toilet. I may resemble 'the man' but I am not him; I don't have the money, power, or desire to keep people down. I have nothing against anyone but the French. Fuck the French. Yeah, I said it and I'm glad I said it.

I really hate the French these days because their obnoxiousness forces me to agree with people like Bill O'Reilly. We hate them for different reasons, but we do agree to hate them. The right wingers dislike the French because they didn't support the war in Iraq. That makes no difference to me. A sovereign nation has the right to make decisions on its own.

I hate them because they're unwashed, obnoxious douchebags who delight in their hatred of my country. America has oppressed many nations, but France isn't one of them. In fact, they would be speaking German and eating sauerkraut and wurst platters if not for the United States. (Warning: Approaching Sarcasm) - Oh, I understand why they hate us. We did save their Brie-eating asses from Hitler, but our wine makers produce an inferior cabernet, so fuck us. We completely deserve their scorn. (End Sarcasm...for now) This is directed at actual French people, not those delightful Cajuns and other Americans of French heritage. The French-Canadians, on the other hand, gave us Celine Dion, so they can kindly lick plate.

Okay, where was I? Oh, that's right; on the shitter, hoping a Molotov cocktail didn't roll under the stall door and send me to hell with poopy butt. "But I like to kiss black girls," would have been my last words as I braced myself for the explosion.

That reminds me of a conversation I had with a friend a few years ago after I had hung out with a lovely black girl at a bar.

"You know, Thomas Jefferson liked the black girls," he said. "He had black offspring."

I sighed. "Thomas Jefferson didn't 'like the black girls'; he raped his slaves. And his black children weren't at the dinner table, they were out picking cotton."

This post is all over the place, but the point is we should acknowledge our differences, embrace our common humanity, and unite to hate the French.

The Second to Last Time I Smoked Pot, Part Two

To read part one, scroll down. Damn, I should have given this thing a quick wrap up. I don't know if Part Two will be any good. Ah, who cares?

As soon as the house lights came up, I went out to the parking lot to meet Wu. I usually hate staying until last call because the air smells of desperation and the stench is right under your nose like Tara Reid just gave you a Dirty Sanchez.

Three-fourths of the crowd were milling about in the parking lot, a sort of white trash after-party. While I was looking for Wu a drunk girl who was trying to fit her summer of 2001 ass into a pair of 1999 pants started screaming hilljill incoherencies at her slack-jawed paramour, who was wearing jeans that were in style when Def Leppard's drummer had both his arms. As she continued screaming and wildly gesturing, a small group started chanting "Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!" That was good for a laugh.

When I found Wu he was getting the aforementioned young, cute girl's phone number. He said goodbye and mentioned that we were going to be at the Steak and Shake near Stoneybrook if she wanted to meet us there.

"Should she be driving?" I asked as I watched her cute little butt stagger away.

"Should I be driving?" Wu replied.

I conceded the point and we went to Steak and Shake. While we were both enjoying our feast of a double steakburger, cheese fries and a small cup of chili, Wu's cell phone rang. He listened for a few seconds, said, "We'll be right there," and hung up. The girl from the bar had blown a tire (heh heh) and was stranded about ten miles from us.

Well, it turned out her tire didn't blow until her inebriated ass slammed into a curb; luckily she did it right in front of a convenience store. When we got there Wu changed her tire and she engaged me in conversation. That's when I found out that, in the great buffet of life, she skipped past the intelligence carving station and treated herself to a second helping of tits. Her stupidity actually had an aura, she was so plank-dumb; but her boobs were Einsteinian in their brilliance.

While Wu struggled to put on her spare tire, she confided in me. Why do women always confide in me? I've had strippers tell me their troubles and woes.

"I'm a little nervous about going out with Wu," she slurred. It was loud enough for him to hear her from his apartment, let alone from five feet away.

"Why?" I asked. Oh, yeah, that's why women confide in me. I make the mistake of listening.

"I haven't been with a black guy since the one who took my virginity," she said like a normal person would say "I had meatloaf for dinner."

Okay, did he take her virginity or did she give it to him? From where we were sitting, I was closer to Wu and I could hear him slightly chuckle from under the car. I decided to try to make him laugh. The Lakers were playing the 'Sixers for the NBA title that year, so this came to my mind: "This black guy, the one who deflowered you, was he Dikembe Mutumbo?" As I said this I wagged my finger at her like Mutumbo did when he blocked a shot. Then I sniffed said finger. Dikembe never did that. That was my own personal touch.

Wu started laughing a little harder and almost exploded when the girl replied, without irony, "No, it was Darrel Rogers."

"Darrel Rogers!" I exclaimed. "He fucked my sister. Darrel's fucked a lot of white girls."

By then Wu was laughing so hard I feared the jack would slip and he'd be crushed to death, but he finally finished.

A few minutes later we were at her house and I was attached to a bong the size of a Lincoln Navigator. I don't remember a lot after that, except the girl seemed to be allergic to clothes after a few hits.

Oh, and then she gave Wu a blumpkin and wiped his ass with her bra.

Okay, that last part didn't happen. I was just giving the people what they want.

The Second to Last Time I Smoked Pot, Part One

I don't smoke a lot of pot. I don't mind its effects, but I eat too much as it is without running around all day with the munchies. Also, people who constantly smoke pot tend to get on my fucking nerves; all that bullshit about how legalizing pot "will really help the economy." Blow me while I take a shit, hippie. You just want something you enjoy to no longer be illegal; be honest about it and I'll respect you. I don't want bourbon to be against the law. But it's always "Legalizing marijuana will really help the economy." You know what I think would help the economy? Jessica Alba giving me a blowjob. No, really, I wouldn't enjoy it, I'd be doing it for my country. Imagine the positive effect it would have on our nation's finances.

"Our top story tonight: The Dow closed at a record high today, effectively ending the recession. Analysts attribute this unprecedented increase to the fact that some anonymous fat lump shot a wad down Jessica Alba's gullet. More on this development after the weather with Wacky Joe."

Back to the point of this post. The last time I smoked pot was last summer when I took a hit off a joint while standing on the patio of the Voodoo Lounge, located on the 5oth floor of the Rio Hotel and Casino. That was a dumb thing to do, but we got away with it. There's nothing like a guy a full head taller than the crowd trying to blend in while committing a crime.

The second to last time I smoked pot was a mere postscript to the madness than ensued that night. I went to a bar with my friend Wu, a true Louisville legend. He worked a part-time job that involved hanging out at bars and giving packs of cigarettes to patrons, so he knew every nightclub worker in the city. A couple of packs of Camels got us in the door without paying a cover and a full carton to the bartender provided us with free drinks most of the evening.

A few hours after we got there I was dancing with a drunk ex-boss I hadn't seen in years. She was a short girl with enormous breasts and I was about to ask her why she picked that night to not wear a bra. Those things were going everywhere. That's when she said to me, "I had to poop and they were out of toilet paper." I finally deciphered her intoxicated ramblings to find that she had used her bra to wipe her ass. Yeah, that made sense. Why ask someone for toilet paper when you have an undergarment handy. Oh, was she drunk.

While my former superior was publicly molesting me on the dance floor, Wu was talking to a cute, young girl at the bar. I only mention this because I'm a fan of dramatic foreshadowing.

We stayed until 4am, last call. My ex-boss went home with her sober brother, who I hope didn't see what she had been doing to me, and I went out to the parking lot to meet up with Wu. Little did I know the night had only begun.

Part two tomorrow.

What I've Learned Thus Far

"I've been alive forever and I wrote the very first blog..."

Okay, so it only seems like I've been alive forever and I actually jumped on this blog bandwagon pretty late. In fact, if not for my friend Alishia I probably wouldn't know that blogs even exist; so if I regularly offend anyone she's the chick to blame. Anyway, I've tried to skate through life in a state of blissful ignorance, but despite my best efforts some knowledge seeped into my skull. Here's what I've learned:

The funny guy rarely gets the girl. Please note that I said rarely, not never. Please for the love of Jesus Horatio Christ don't beat me over the head with examples of funny guys who skin more pussy than a cook in Chinatown. For the most part, funny guys are left at the starting gate in this race called love.

I think one thing to consider is that when you're infatuated with someone, they seem hilarious and brilliant to you. I don't know how many times I've heard female friends of mine say, "You'll really like my new boyfriend. He is so funny." None of them have ever been funny! Most were decidedly unfunny, I'm talking the cast of "Yes, Dear" unfunny. Men are no different. I've embellished the mental traits of several women I was attracted to.

Sport is a dirty, teasing tramp. I love sports. Well, I love all football and college basketball. Sports provide hours of excitement and entertainment, but every season in every sport ends with crushing disappointment to fans of all but one team. Last year, for example, my beloved University of Louisville basketball team exceeded all expectations and went to the NCAA Final Four. It was a great season, but I only remember two games: When they squandered a sixteen-point halftime lead at home and lost to the University of Kentucky, and when they fell on their asses against Illinois in the National Semifinals. That's all I got out of the whole season. Sport is a filthy strumpet.

When I'm drinking, there is a certain point at which I'd much rather amuse myself than get laid. And no, "amuse myself" is not a masturbatory euphemism. One of the reasons why I've curtailed my drinking is because there is a magical point in my drunkedness where I'd much rather make myself laugh, by any means necessary, than pick up a female. I'm ashamed just typing this, but I'm being honest.

Either your boss or your boss's boss is a complete ass. Some of the people who rise to positions of authority have obviously sold their newborn's infant soul to Satan; it's the only explanation for why some of these people aren't making a living sanding the rough edges off of glory holes.

The only way to lose weight is to eat less and exercise more. Yes, I know this, I just don't put my knowledge to practical use. I'm not going to dwell on my weight in this post, but I realize something needs to be done.

Never pay to see a movie that promises "hilarious hi-jinks", "zany antics", or "madcap misadventures". This is code for "You'll laugh if you think Ashton Kutcher is funny."

I'm usually unhappy no matter where I am or what I'm doing. I've learned to go with it. I'm good at turning my own bullshit angst into laughs for others. Why should we all suffer?

I know a little more than this, but I'm done writing for now.

The Five People You Meet in Hell

Have you read Mitch Albom's The Five People You Meet in Heaven? Neither have I. I'd rather read my own obituary than crack open this steaming pile of maudlin manure. I am, however, going to make fun of it. I now give you The Five People You Meet in Hell.

1. Your least favorite great-uncle. Remember the old bastard who'd tease you relentlessly and smelled like a lethal combo of B.O., cheap whiskey, and rancid luncheon meats? Remember how he could say anything to you but when you told him to get in his Model-T and drive back to Senile City you got in trouble? You'll see him in hell. He'll smell even worse dead.

2. Your middle-school P.E. teacher. Not long after you realize you didn't make it to your heavenly reward, you'll notice a guy sporting a cheesy porn moustache and think you've seen him somewhere before. When he bends down and his wrinkled, hairy nutbag protrudes from his short-shorts, you'll immediately flashback to 7th grade and a gym insulated with exposed asbestos. Then he'll yell "Dodgeball!" and throw a human skull at your face.
If you had a female gym teacher, it'll be the same only her nuts will be hairier.

3. The creepy, unemployed guy who bought you booze when you were twelve. If you were a guy, he charged you ten dollars for a six pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon. If you were a girl, I shudder to think of the price you paid.

4. The first significant other to rip out your heart just for the sport of it. It could have been an easy break; both of you wanted out. But she just had to tell you she faked every orgasm except the ones your dad gave her. He just had to tell you that yes, all of your dresses make you look fat because your ass resembles a two-car garage. The comments were mean and unnecessary, and you'll be able to relive them for ever and ever.

5. The person ahead of you at the Department of Motor Vehicles. You were at the DMV for five hours and the end seemed near; second in line! But then something happened: An old man tried to use his casino values card as proof of I.D.; a lady spoke a language only known by five other people on earth; a man attempted to convert the clerk to Scientology. That person will be in front of you in every line you stand in for all eternity. Enjoy!

Top Ten Signs You're Dating a Crack Whore

From the Home Office in Henderson, Nevada, here's tonight's Top Ten List:

Top Ten Signs You're Dating a Crack Whore

10. She buys her clothes at Gap for Crack Whores.

9. When she sneezes, five teeth come flying out of her mouth.

8. She has a white moustache and never drinks milk.

7. She lists her previous address as "The Dumpster Behind the Dairy Queen on Fifth Street".

6. There's a bumper sticker on her car that reads "I'd Rather Be Sucking a Stranger's Dick for Twenty Dollars".

5. When it's crack whore night at Red Lobster she gets extra biscuits.

4. There's a crack whore sketch on Chappele's Show. You laugh. She nods knowingly.

3. Your next-door neighbor borrows a cup of sugar from her, forgets to pay it back, and gets his legs broken by a pimp.

2. Everywhere you go, you hear people say, "Hey, there's the guy who's dating the crack whore."

1. Her nose is runny, but that ain't snot.