Worst. Club. Ever.

I spent the last few days with my family in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. It is billed as the Gateway to the Smokey Mountains, but it's truly the Portal to Hell itself. The traffic in this Hillbilly tourist trap is so bad it takes about an hour to go five miles. Imagine Las Vegas as designed by Cletus the Slack-jawed Yokel. Pigeon Forge, the horrid town on the way to Gatlinburg, is merely a five-mile stretch of miniature golf courses, knick-knack souvenir shops, go cart tracks, and pancake houses. The hillbillies love them some pancakes.

On the way to Tennessee we stopped to eat at a Cracker Barrel restaurant. It totally fucked my diet up. The food at the Barrel would make Lindsay Lohan put on the pounds. I had a choice between Uncle Fucker's Plowman's Platter or Auntie Cunt's Coronary Casserole. I don't even think I digested that food; I shat it out as soon as the plate was empty.

My cousins and I went to what was, without a doubt, the Worst. Club. Ever. It was called the Party Hut, and I should have known "Hut" is a buzz-word for all things sucky. Can you get an authentic Sicilian slice at Pizza Hut? No, you cannot. And you can't party properly at Party Hut, either. They had the gargantuan nutsack to charge us a cover to enter the dump, then made us wear bright pink wristbands. The place consisted of a circular bar and a tiny dance floor that featured a lone anorexic girl being gang-freaked by four farmers. The World Class DJ had exactly six songs in his collection and played them over and over and over and... you get the idea. The fourth time we heard "Yeah" by Usher, we were out the door. The fucking place actually sold t-shirts so you'll always remember the Party Hut experience. Oh, and the bar smelled like someone made a merkin out of limberger cheese and vomit.

I'm back in Louisville, but my internet access is still limited. Thanks for the comments on the last few posts. I don't have time to answer them like I usually do, but I appreciate them just the same. I'll be back in Vegas on Sunday. Tomorrow night my friends Ben and Amie are coming over from Lexington, and then on New Year's Eve more madness will ensue. Everyone have a great New Year's.

I'm Dreaming of a Toxic Christmas

Right now I'm at my friends Dave and Alisha's house at their "Post-Family Christmas Egg Nog and Bad Gift Burning Extravaganza". The idea is to gather together, drink like you're mad at your liver for fucking your girlfriend, and ritually burn the worst gift you received from your fam. So, since I'm kind of drunk and overdue for emailing my profession of love to Brooke, I'll list what's happened so far in the last two days.

-We spent Christmas Eve night at a neighborhood bar called Vito's, named after its five-hundred pound owner, who I'm convinced has a collection of human feet in his basement. I got really drunk and pathetically attempted to hit on the bartender. She was nice and put up with my lack of game.

-Tonight we drank a lot of eggnog, bourbon, and some Korean shit they use to embalm Asian paupers.

-Dave told a room full of horrified party-goers that he had anal relations with his ex-wife. He fucked her up the ass, is what that means.

-We burned some bad gifts, one of which was a tacky plastic angel coated in Agent Orange. The resulting toxic fumes gave our lungs the carcinogenic effect of thirty years of chain-smoking filterless cigarettes.

I hope everyone had a tolerable Christmas. Good day.

viva las christmASS

Yeah, I thought I was going to have to stab my father in his neck with a sharpened candy cane Wednesday night. It would have been in the truest spirit of the holidays, of course, but try telling that to the police.

Wednesday night, fresh from working a ridiculous afternoon/evening shift, I met my brother, sister-in-law, dad and dad's wife for a late dinner. My dad, in a blatant attempt to ruin my brother's Christmas, is in Vegas this holiday season. I'll be escaping to Louisville this evening, so I had to spend a little time with the fam. I'll spare you the details, but my dad annoys the piss out of me. He subscribes to the Rush Limbaugh newsletter, for cunting out loud! I love him, but in a forced "yeah, he provided the seed of my being" kind of way.

So I'm going home for the holidays. I plan to drink a lot and hang out with the rest of my family (the ones who don't watch Fox News for hours on end) and my beloved Kentucky friends. I don't know when I'll have internet access, so I'll be posting very sporadically for the next week or so.

We here at viva las vegASS would like to wish you and yours a very happy holiday season. Sure, you'll be shopping for gifts at a gas station at 11pm Christmas Eve; a cousin will be knocked up with another little bastard; your uncle will drink too much and weep openly as he talks about the only woman he ever loved, and she's not your aunt; someone will undercook the turkey and you'll spend the night shitting your internal ograns into a manageable paste; the eggnog will be served room temperature; your nephew will kick you savagely in your privates; a little-seen family member will come out of the closet; and someone will give you a Chiaus Christ Chia Pet.

Other than that, Merry Christmas.

How's This: I Hope They Tortured Saddam Hussein

Saddam Hussein is now claiming he was tortured by Americans while awaiting trial. Good. Fuck him. I hope a bucktoothed private from the hills of West Virginia shoved a hot poker up Saddam's ass. Yeah, I'm going to lose my Amnesty International/Little Orphan Annie decoder ring for saying this, but I just don't care.

I believe Saddam, by the way. After all, who knows more about torture than this human cesspool? Saddam is a torture expert in the same way Charlie Sheen knows about high-priced whores.

I also hope Saddam doesn't receive a fair trial. I hope he receives the same treatment he dished out to so many people during his reign. He should be beaten daily, brought before a judge who already knows how he's going to rule, be found guilty, and have his head chopped off with a rusty axe for the amusement of drunken onlookers.

Let me state that this is not an endorsement of the war in Iraq. I don't think we should have invaded, but we did; and we captured Saddam. Now that we have him, we should let Marcelus Wallace and associates get medieval on his ass with a blowtorch and a pair of pliers.

I will give him credit for one thing: Having perhaps the biggest set of balls on the planet. For the Torture poster boy to complain about getting tortured takes one gargantuan sack.

Oh, and I don't think soldiers or other detainees should be tortured, only Saddam. For some reason, it makes me smile to think of him suffering.

Weight Watchers Uber Alles

As of Tuesday night, I have lost almost twenty-one pounds on Weight Watchers. Keep in mind I'm a mountain, so it hasn't made that much of a dent in me. However, I feel better and my pants are no longer as tight as Princess Di on her honeymoon.

My problem with Weight Watchers? I think they're Scale Nazis; I think they put way too much emphasis on an arbitrary number instead of how a person looks or feels. Case in point: A woman joined this past week, and I guess technically she was overweight, but let me tell you, she was built like a brick outhouse. Any extra poundage she was lugging around was in all the right places. It was like someone crossed a donkey with an onion: An ass that brought tears to my eyes. I'd hate to think she'll Nicole Ritchie herself out of those curves. I wanted Sir Mix-A-Lot to burst into the room and say, "You can do side bends and sit-ups, but please don't lose that butt."

I'm not Mr. Sensitive, though. Some of us, myself included, are real porkers and need to be there. But when I get to a point where I'm comfortable with myself, I won't be too concerned with whether or not I tip the scales to their liking.

Political Correctness and "Low Self-Esteem"

I'll readily admit that I haven't received nearly as much shit for this blog as I thought I would. Since the word "ass" is in the title I think most reasonable people take it with more than a few grains of salt. Every once in a while, however, the P.C. police will beat me like I'm Rodney King; not just here, but in 'real life' as well.

I've been told more than once to stop using the word "deaf"; that "hearing impaired" is more sensitive. Bullshit. There is nothing demeaning about the word "deaf". It is a word that describes someone who can't hear a fucking thing. A yuppie jogging along listening to his i-pod is hearing impaired. A guy who can't hear a rape whistle being blown in his ear is deaf.

People who can't talk used to be referred to as "dumb". This IS a demeaning term and I don't use it. See the difference? Some people can't. They're the "dumb" ones, and unfortunately are quite capable of speech.

As I read some of my favorite blogs, both familiar and brand new, it occurred to me that political correctness has stopped short of protecting single women who dare to be sexually active. The same scenario keeps playing itself out over and over: A young, attractive woman will blog about her sexual escapades. Granted, this isn't everyone's cup of tea, nor should it be; but it's their blog and their right to discuss what they see fit. Someone, usually a cowardly anonymous douchebag, will take the sexually active woman to task, usually using the tired line "You must have low self-esteem." Horsecuntingshit!!! Not everyone has the same personal morality, agreed, but just because mister or miss anonymous has a bloated sense of self-worth for presumably keeping their legs slammed shut doesn't give them the right to judge a stranger.

And the abuse is always directed at females. If I was a young, attractive man you bet your blog-reading asses I'd be fucking a lot of women and blogging about every thrust. There wouldn't be a fucking peep of protest, either. Those offended by anything graphic would simply move on without making a fuss. Others would celebrate my manly conquests with high praise of my pussy-bangin' exploits.

I myself am not totally amoral. If one of my fabulous married blogger friends bragged in a post about cheating on their spouse, I would be very disappointed in them. But c'mon, people are trying to guilt-trip single, unattached women; and they're doing so in a cowardly way, always anonymously.

Also, I say this despite the fact that my nice guy tendencies literally repel "bad girl" types. It's their right to not be attracted to me, though; and it's also their right to behave in a way that might make some people uncomfortable.

I would have rather been at work

It is rare when you'll hear me say I'd rather be at work, but being healthy, even at work, beats being sick at home. The DMV was actually one of the highlights of my weekend. I got back from the DMV and obsessively blogged about my adventure just in time to watch my beloved Louisville Cardinals play the team I hate more than the fires of hell, the Kentucky Wildcats, in a little game of college basketball. Well, Kentucky dominated the game from start to finish. Guys who couldn't normally make a lay-up were raining threes and Louisville looked like the vastly overrated group of stiffs I feared they were.

Christ on a unicycle, I hate the University of Kentucky. When I was a little kid, five older boys jumped me. Those five inbred hilljacks beat me unmerciful. They blackened my eye, broke my nose, cracked a few ribs, and left me for dead in a drainage ditch; but I swear to God I'd cheer for them if they played Kentucky in basketball. It hurt more than the flu-like aches and pains that ravaged my body to see the Kentucky crowd delight in the slaughter. The place Kentucky plays, Rupp Arena, was named after infamous racist Adolph Rupp, by the way. Way to honor a fucking Nazi, you stupid motherfuckers. But I'm not bitter.

As of Sunday morning, I had not done any Christmas shopping, so despite feeling sick and medicine-addled I went to the nearest mall, the Galleria at Sunset (or as I like to call it, the Gonorrhea at Sunset). I wandered around in a daze for about an hour and left having bought ONE gift. Fuck. I shan't return to that shithole before January, so everyone else gets a gift from Target.

I got home in time to watch my favorite pro football team, the Dallas Cowboys, lose 35-7 to the Washington Redskins. It didn't really bother me, since I was still grieving from the Louisville game and almost unconscious from sickness.

I shouldn't watch TV again this weekend. I fear they'll preempt Family Guy for a Yes, Dear marathon.

The DMV...AAARGH!

I'm pretty sure I have SARS or the West Nile Virus or Ebola or Lupus or something; I feel like shit warmed over. Despite my soon-to-be-fatal illness, I got up early today and went to the Nevada Department of Motor Vehicles, Henderson branch. Oh, the Henderson DMV; it's like Disneyland for fans of incompetent government bureaucracy and people who rarely bathe.

The Henderson DMV parking lot might be the worst one ever designed by humans. Seals at Sea World-San Diego designed one that was a little bit worse, but that really doesn't count. There are over twice as many parking spaces "reserved for staff" as there are for the general public. In fact, I was reading a "Reserved for Staff" sign, incredulous at the fact that there were acres of parking I wasn't allowed to use, when I ran right over an orange road cone. That's right, I committed a moving violation IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DEPARTMENT OF MOTOR VEHICLES PARKING LOT. Damn, I had gone all this time without running into all of the douchebags who pull out in front of me on a daily basis, and now I hit something stationary at a place crawling with state police and others who would delight in suspending my license. So what did I do? I got out of my car, pulled the mangled cone from underneath, and got the hell out of there before anyone noticed. I parked in a lot about a block away and walked to the DMV, just in case someone had jotted down my license plate number.

Surprisingly, it wasn't that crowded. It was a little understaffed as a final "fuck you" for having all of those employee parking spaces, but I've seen it a lot worse. The reason I was there, however, was because of their stupidity. My license was supposed to be good until January 11, 2009; but they had it expiring on November 1st of this year. So I've been cruising about the Vegas valley with an expired license for the last month and a half.

The lady who waited on me was very helpful. She extended my expiration date until September 24, 2009 (my birthday) and of course waved all renewal fees. Then the magic ended: I had to get a new driver's license photo.

No one at the Henderson DMV knows how to take a picture. It seems to be a problem for them. The last time they told me I was too tall and made me hunch over until the resulting photo made me look like a neckless freak. It looked like my head rested on a pivoting base. This time around they said they were getting glare from my glasses and made me take them off.

I now own a photo ID that looks NOTHING like me. I'm glasses-less, tired, sick, and have a look of utter disdain on my face regarding their poor photography skills. My own mother wouldn't recognize this photo. I'm glad I'm way beyond the "getting carded" stage or I wouldn't be able to get in any bar in the country.

A Heartwarming Holiday Tale

The Elf Who Really Liked Blowjobs

Several years ago, up at the North Pole, there lived an Elf named Monty, and let me tell you, he really liked blowjobs. Most Elves were content just making their toys and living sexless lives as Santa's indentured servants, but Monty didn't care about toys or the art of toy making. All Monty wanted was a glass of good bourbon, a medium-rare steak, and a fine nubile lass stepping up to the mic.

One fateful December day, as Christmas drew near and production lagged behind, Santa, reeking of eggnog and Mrs. Claus' love, stumbled into the Elves factory and demanded answers.

"Christmas is in ten days," the crazed brutal taskmaster bellowed. "You freakish little sub-gnomes had better get your tiny shit together or so help me god I'll sell you all to Michael Jackson."

"It's not our fault," one of the Elves said. I can't remember which one; they pretty much all look alike. "We're short-handed. Monty is in the janitor's closet being serviced by one of the townsfolk."

Santa was not happy. "What is Elf rule number one? Anybody?"

"Don't bother making toys for poor kids?"

"Correct. And what is rule number two? Anybody?"

"Uh, keep your dick out of the townsfolk?"

"Yes," Santa said as he walked toward Monty's love closet. "KEEP YOUR LITTLE PIGGLY WIGGLY OUT OF THE NON-FREAKS."

With that Santa opened the closet door. No one is quite sure what Santa Claus saw when he opened that door, but it proved to be a Pandora's box for his sanity. Only Santa knows, and he's not saying, having been in a vegetative state ever since. He lies motionless in a bed in the basement of North Pole General Hospital, fed intravenously to stay alive.

Theories abound as to what he saw. The most common being that right when Santa opened the door, Monty was giving Misty Claus, Santa's sixteen-year-old daughter, a porn-style Elf-spunk facial. Misty denies this, but always does so with a mischievous smile.

In the two years since the incident, Santa's apprentice Gary has been handling all of the St. Nick duties. He delivers the toys on Christmas Eve, of course, but he also teaches in the off-season at the Mall Santa Training College in Kissimee, Florida. By all accounts, he is a much more benevolent boss than Santa Claus, whom most of the Elves hope stays in his coma until the day Satan is prepared to cast his eternal soul into a lake of fire.

As for Monty, he was banished to live in a hollow tree on the outskirts of town, his insatiable lust for blowjobs satiated only by the occasional woodland nymph. He met his demise late last spring, breaking what should have been Elf rule number three: Never get a blowjob from the Abominable Snowman. He's a biter.

Half-nekkid Thursday

Here I am, in all my glory, shaking my moneymaker for all to see.

Take a great big swim in Lake Sexy, blogites.

"Crack Encounters of the Ass Kind"

Well, my sense of decency is a thing of the past, thanks to Home Depot and its clientele. Was Tuesday Don't Wear a Belt and Show Your Nasty, Hairy Man-Crack Day in the state of Nevada? Every aisle I went down, everywhere I turned, I encountered some dude bending over and exposing at least half of his butt crack. I saw more hairy ass than Tom Cruise's cock.

The store wasn't open ten minutes when I was first assaulted. I had been there since five a.m. and was ready for a Starbucks break when a man sitting at the special orders desk decided to give me a turd's-eye view of his internal organs. It was just a split second before I turned away in disgust, but I think I saw Lemmywinks the South Park hampster trying to escape his rectal prison.

When I came back from Starbucks, I was making signs for some of the products my company represents when a man very politely said "Excuse me, sir." He then bent over right in front of me to look at drywall tools and I thought about knocking him unconscious so I could turn him in to the Weekly World News and collect their reward for capturing Bigfoot. Ugh. I had a glass of water for lunch, I was so repulsed. The sight of his hairy ass-taco means I won't be eating Mexican food for months.

So, not only do I have to put up with customers using the floor as their own private spittoon, now I have to worry about being traumatized by idiots who have never heard of an invention called the belt. I love the belt. Thank god for it. You see, being a guy with a big stomach and no butt, I would be a prime candidate for "crack-showin' man" if not for the wondrous belt. It holds my pants up, you see, so no one has to be exposed to my pale white bootay. Too bad the miracle known as "belt" hasn't made it to Las Vegas yet. I swear I'm going to carry around a pocketful of pennies and put one in every 'slot' I see.

A note from my mom

Dear Reader(s) of viva las vegASS:

Please excuse my son from blogging today. He has been stricken with an unexpected case of decency, so a post would be quite difficult for him to attempt at this time.

He'll continue his obscene, blasphemous blog as soon as he's back to normal.

Thanks,

yournamehere's mom

It's not the weekend until you piss in a sink

This is a picture of the world's largest thermometer, located in Baker, California, about a hundred miles from Vegas on the road to San Diego. It must be a rectal thermometer, because Baker smells like asshole. (I got this picture off the internet; it wasn't really 102 there yesterday). I went to San Diego on Sunday with my brother and our friend Draper; and I was in awe as we passed this historic landmark of kitsch.

My weekend began Saturday morning with me being a no-account layabout. I ordered the University of Louisville basketball game on pay-per-view and watched my hometown heroes defeat the Akron Zips. Yeah, they beat the shit out of those tire-making motherfuckers.

Sunday morning we went to San Diego. My brother has season tickets, so it was fun to lead the good life for a few hours. Jesus, the face value of my ticket was $275.oo!!! Do you know how many Louisville Slugger Triple-A baseball games you can go to for $275.oo? All of them. We could order food from our seats, but I stuck with one beer and a turkey sandwich. Healthy food at a football game: Only in San Diego.

On the way back to Vegas we encountered a landmark of a different sort: The world's smelliest, most disgusting restroom. Oh, Christ on a moped, it was filthy. The toilet was a horrid bouillabaisse of several people's urine and feces. Yes, I think someone might have taken a shit on top of someone else's shit, ignoring the airborne bacteria that undoubtedly made a new home in his poopchute. The smell of this miniature cesspool made me gag, and adding my own brand of bladder brine to this foul witch's brew would have surely killed me, so I did what I had to do. I pissed in the sink. I proudly and without hesitation firehosed that whole sink down, and I'd do it again if the circumstances warranted. Unless you saw what I saw and smelled what I smelled, you have no right to judge me.

I unlocked the door and my friend Draper was waiting to go in. "Use the sink" I said to him as the door shut. I heard his gagging and knew he would soon follow my lead.

This prison-like shitter was, believe it or not, unisex, so next in line were two young women. I begged them not to go in there. Unless they were acrobats, they weren't pissing in that sink. Thankfully, they listened to me when I said the toilet was "unflushable". They thanked me and walked back to their car like two girls who really had to pee.

Other than that, I had a good weekend. How was yours?

Little Known Christmas Facts

After exhaustive research, I've unearthed several Christmas facts that are mostly unknown to the general public. Like it or not, here they are.

-On December 26, 1872, Dodge City, Kansas resident Cyrus "Iron Gut" Muldoon becomes the first person to exchange a disappointing Christmas present for something he likes better. Early that fateful morning, Mr. Muldoon makes the long journey to the General Store to turn in the butter churn given him by his sister-in-law. In return he receives a box of ammo and a fifth of whiskey.

-It might look like Richard Simmons' hot tub is full of eggnog, but brother, that ain't eggnog.

-Santa Claus tends to give rich kids much more than their poorer counterparts. What a bastard.

-The lowest rated holiday special of all time was 1993's Kurt Cobain's Suicide-Watch Christmas Spectacular.

-John Kingston of Columbus, Ohio, is the only man in recorded history to give his wife or girlfriend diamonds for Christmas and not receive a blowjob.

-The Chia Pet was voted "Gift of the Decade" by the editors of Cheap Douchebag magazine.

-The "virgin birth" of Jesus was actually the result of Mary's drunken spring break trip to Jerusalem. She took second place in the "wet robe" contest.

-If a guy receives a blumpkin while sitting in an outhouse, that's called a "country blumpkin." (I know that doesn't have anything to do with Christmas; I just found it interesting).

-Elves are former angels thrown out of heaven for having sex with unicorns.

-The average lap of a mall Santa contains over ten-thousand times the germs of a urinal at New York's Grand Central Station.

-People who give me fruitcake are bitches. 'Cause I said so.

-It used to be perfectly legal to pour boiling oil over carolers. Then that meddling cunt Franklin Roosevelt had to change the law.

Stupid Fucking Jackasses

Son of a bitch, the jackasses are out in force this holiday season. Why wasn't I born rich, so I could buy the top floor at the Hard Rock Hotel and only leave my dwelling for margaritas at Pink Taco and to scan the center bar for whores? But no, I have to go out among the moronic every fucking day of my life. Let's review the jackassery I've endured, either in person or through the media.

My work-related friend Michelle, who toils at one of the Home Depots I'm assigned to, was insulted by customers right in front of her face. They called her "stupid" in Spanish, which unbeknownst to them she speaks fluently. She smiled and told them, in Spanish, to fuck themselves. I laughed in their faces. I don't speak a word of Spanish, but laughing in someone's face is truly the universal language.
*****
Spending way too much time in Home Depot has lead to my discovery that a good number of construction workers have the habit of spitting indoors; and I'm not talking about a seed from an apple. This is god damn saliva, people. WHAT THE FUCK? Is there, at long last, no difference at all between human beings and filthy fucking animals? I truly believe we're about five years away from people pissing in the corners of public spaces. Did Satan just blow a load in your mouth? No? THEN DON'T SPIT INDOORS. You are about a hundred feet from a door that leads to the outside. If you must, spit there. Of course not all construction workers spit indoors, and I suppose some of the people buying a gross of concrete blocks at Home Depot at six in the morning aren't construction workers, but I know what I see every day.
*****
Some loser is suing Microsoft because his new XBOX 360 has a defect that causes it to freeze up. He's suing them. He isn't returning it to the store for an exchange or refund, HE'S CUNTFUCKING SUING THEM!!! Blogglandians, raise your hand if you wish upon every deity ever worshipped since the dawn of time that your biggest worry in life was an overpriced gaming machine that didn't work. This is a class action suit, by the way, so he'll soon be joined by several other wastes of life who just won't be able to live with the ten machines they already own until Microsoft gets around to fixing the glitch.

When the suit is filed, they need to hunt down every name on that list, line them up against a wall, and shoot each and every one of them in the fucking face. They need to do this on live television. Yeah, I said shoot 'em in the face, and don't even allow them proper burials. Put them in bags and toss them in a mass grave; it was good enough for Mozart.
*****
Mel Gibson's production company is producing a miniseries about the Holocaust. That's an odd choice, since Mel has been widely accused of being an anti-Semite, and his father is a Holocaust denier who collects Nazi paraphernalia. If they wanted a famous Jew-hater to produce the film, they should have tried again to thaw out Walt Disney.

In all fairness, maybe Mr. Gibson doesn't have a problem with Jews. Maybe the reason he practices a little-known form of radical Catholicism that doesn't absolve Jews for the death of Christ is because he likes their church picnics better. Who knows? Just don't be surprised if the miniseries is entitled Just Desserts.
*****
I heard a Christmas song today that was so slowly paced and dirge-like it sounded like the requiem at Santa's funeral. I don't know for sure who sang it, but I think it was Andre the Giant on horse tranquilizers.
*****
This just in: Lindsay Lohan is now so skinny she's moving to Nigeria to become a marathon runner.

Smells Like Baby Jesus

The world needs a new Christmas song. I give you this one, sung to the tune of Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit.

Come, three wise men and bring your gifts
Of gold and myrrh and frakinscence;
A child is born in Bethlehem,
There was no room in the inn.

Halo Halo Halo Halo
Halo Halo Halo Halo
Halo Halo
Yeah he's living in a manger
There he is now, he's our savior
And they're making an excursion
'Cause his mother, she's a virgin

Destined to become a holiday classic.

What They Say. What They Mean.

Many years on this earth (some would say too many) have taught me a valuable lesson: How to sift through bullshit. I usually know the difference between what someone says and what they mean. Here are a few examples of my awesome powers.

What a woman says to a male acquaintance: "You're such a good friend."
What she means: "I don't mind hanging out, but I'd rather drag my vagina across hot coals than actually sleep with you."

What a guy says when he wants to break up with his girlfriend: "It's not you, it's me."
What he means: "It's not you or me; it's those other women I'm banging."

What a boss says to an employee: "I'll take that under advisement."
What he means: "Get out of my face, you low-wage pissant. If I want the opinion of an unskilled laborer, I'd try to translate the bitter ramblings of Lupa, the illegal immigrant who cleans the office."

What George W. Bush says: "God bless America."
What he means: "Go fuck yourselves, you non-father-was-once-President-havin' cocksuckers."

What Mike Tyson says: "I'm going to eat his children."
What he means: "Seriously, I'm going to eat his children."

What parents say to their child: "You're old enough to know the truth. There is no Santa Claus."
What they mean: "Also, god is dead; the stork didn't bring you, daddy stuck his whatzit into mommy's hoo-hah; true love is a lie; the Beatles are overrated; all of your heroes are whores; your bosses will all be dumber than you; your Uncle Tony is now your Aunt Toni; the pretty ones will always break your heart; mediocrity is rewarded handsomely; you aren't nearly as smart, good looking, or interesting as your immediate family has led you to believe; if you don't conform, society will crush you; and your grandfather is a hopeless pedophile."

Are you ready for some strippers?

I went to the Monday Night Football party at Sapphire strip club. Let me tell you, whoever decided to combine televised sports and female nudity is a fucking genius! The game was a blowout, the music they played during commercials was dreadful, and the emcee wore a god-damn New York Giants jersey; but none of that mattered. I was watching football at a strip club. They had free pizza. The beer was cheap ($3 a bottle in Vegas is rare; in a strip club, unheard of). The women were beautiful, willing to disrobe, and possessed just enough self-esteem to prevent them from entering the porn or prostitution industries. I had two slices of cheese pizza and three light beers, so with my banked WW points, I didn't even do too much damage to my diet. And someone gave me a lollipop that looks like a vagina.

Those things alone made for a perfect evening, but then, to top it all off, I won a raffle and got to get up on stage and take a Seattle Seahawks jersey off of a stripper. I got to keep the jersey, which smells of "Designer Imposters" perfume and titty sweat, and the young lady shoved my face into her boobs, which believe it or not were real. It was funny, because the guy who won the right to take a Philadelphia Eagles jersey off of a stripper was jumping up and down and yelling "WOOOH!" and shit and I just stood there with a bemused expression on my face, almost overwhelmed at the absurdity of it all. It's not that I didn't want to take a jersey off of a stripper; it beats the hell out of not taking a jersey off of a stripper, it's just that I'm not a demonstrative person. I wasn't going to jump up and down with glee; it's not like the University of Kentucky lost a basketball game. That's the one thing that brings me absolute joy.

And I almost forgot: I ran into the stripper that I fondled in front of her husband at a Pearl Jam concert a few years ago. I blogged about it, but I'm too lazy to link to it. The details are in a post entitled "Vegas Things I've Done" if you're interested.

A Soul-Draining Meme (God. Damn. It.)

I promised a long time ago to never do another meme, but then I was tagged by meddling nuisance Mary Worth. She won't let it die; she keeps sending telegrams reminding me of my obligation. Since it's Sunday and I usually take the blogging day off, I'll go ahead and do this to get that horrible cooze off my back.

-3 names I go by:
Todd
yournamehere (online only, thank god)
jackass

-3 screen names I have:
yournamehere
the others are "secret"

-3 physical things I like about myself:
height
green eyes
still have hair on my head

-3 physical things I dislike about myself:
body
face (except eyes)
feet

-3 parts of my heritage:
German
German
various others

-3 of my everyday essentials:
coffee
angst
more coffee

-3 of my favorite musicians:
Kurt Cobain
Michael Stipe
Shannon Wright

-3 of my favorite songs:
Here's Where the Story Ends - The Sundays
Loserville - Freakwater
What Do I Get? - Buzzcocks

-3 things that scare me:
everyday life
dying alone
rats

-3 things I want in a relationship:
humor
honesty
kindness

-3 lies I tell:
"Yeah, everything's fine."
"I wasn't staring at your breasts."
"I don't know what happened to the rest of the pizza."

-3 physical things about the opposite sex that appeal to me:
face
curves
ass

-3 of my hobbies:
blogging
writing
rebel-rousing

-3 things I really want to do right now with a special someone:
find her
court her (this involves alcohol)
love her

-3 careers I've considered:
writer
wealthy gadabout
aimless drifter

-3 places I'd like to go on vacation:
San Diego
San Francisco
Seattle
(I don't like long plane rides)

-3 kids names I like:
Tristessa
Rianna
Ralph

-3 things I'd like to do before I die:
move away from Vegas
meet someone special
drink bourbon with Willie Nelson

-3 ways I'm a stereotypical guy:
like football
like beer
have a penis

-3 ways I'm a stereotypical girl:
way too sensitive
passive-aggressive
like to shop

I won't tag anyone, but if you want to waste a lot of time on something no one will comment on, feel free.

The Tale of the Dirty Von's

Von's supermarkets, known as Safeway in some parts of the country, are usually clean and reliable places to purchase edible goods. There is one exception, and it strikes fear in the hearts of all who've ever had the misfortune to enter its dank, dirty bowels. It is located in Henderson, NV, at the corner of Sunset Rd. and Stephanie St. It is...The Dirty Von's.

I haven't been inside the Dirty Von's in over a year, but each time I type its name I'm overwhelmed by the memory of dented cans, surly employees, otherworldly odors, filthy floors, rancid meats, and customers utterly defeated by life. This vortex of shoddy products and incompetent customer service stands as a dying, dimly-lit beacon celebrating all that is horrid and wrong about our consumer culture.

The first time I walked into the Dirty Von's, a voice in my head stated, "Dorothy, you're not at Kroger anymore." I hate when the voice in my head calls me Dorothy, even when he's referencing the Wizard of Oz, but I digress. Oh, how I immediately missed my neighborhood Kroger store, with it's bountiful meat department, convenient snack area, clean deli, and seventy-item salad bar. The Dirty Von's doesn't even have a butcher. If the decomposing flesh on display doesn't suit you, you're out of luck. And if you want a steak that doesn't come with the prefix "cube" or "Salisbury", forget about it.

Another thing that struck me as pathetic was the three people playing slot machines at the Dirty Von's at 11pm. Those lives are as empty as movie theatres when a Ben Affleck film opens. There's a nice casino right across the street, for the sake of fuck. They'll give you free booze while you gamble, morons.

The worst thing about the Dirty Von's was the men's room. I saw a surfer ride a wave of urine out the door and down the produce isle. It was Turkish Prisonesque, this third-world shitter. I'm glad I never had to make a decision between sitting on one of those toilets or crapping my pants. I'd have a much more interesting post; a post in which I write about pooping myself at Dirty Von's. Thankfully, it never came to that.

I shop at a nice, clean Von's now. But there's nothing interesting about that, so I'll see you on Monday.

Anatomy of a Shitty Day

Today totally licked the south end of a northbound donkey. For example:

-My alarm didn't go off, so I was two-and-a-half hours late for work! And it's not like I'm on salary; I had to stay an extra two-and-a-half at the end of the day. To prove how pathetic I am, instead of rushing to work when I realized how late I was going to be, I piddled around, had a cup of coffee, and COMMETED ON BLOGS. I answered some comments on my blog and left some on others. That is sad. That is "Old Yeller gets shot at the end" sad.

-Because of my faulty alarm (damn you, Sony Dream Machine!) and no-social-life-havin' procrastination, I had to endure rush hour traffic to and fro' work. Just driving out of my massive subdivision is enough to make me want to accept Satan as my god. I think every time some senile pensioner or crank-addled construction worker pulls out in front of me to the point I have to slam on my rather dubious brakes, an angel gets her wings. One guy who pulled out in front of me had large dents on BOTH SIDES of his car, and the rear bumper was falling off. His lone bumper sticker, which I believe was the only thing holding the bumper on, read "I'd Rather Be Raping a Goat".

-My boss informed me that we have our monthly meeting next Tuesday, which means I have to endure the presence of Sam, the most annoying co-worker ever. We're assigned to different stores, thank the lord, so he's reduced to being a monthly irritant to me. Ladies, imagine if your period had a voice. I call him "Aunt Sam" because he's my dreaded monthly visitor. I'm truly afraid I'll punch him in the face. Just because.

-A lady who works for Home Depot always goes out of her way to talk to me. I'm sure it won't be long before I'm listening to all of her problems and not sleeping with her. Yippie.

-Being late for work and late leaving meant I had to cancel a dinner with a blogger friend who was in town. I was supposed to have dinner with her before she caught her plane home, but long story short, there was no way I'd make it on time. I did have drinks with her at House of Blues on Monday night. I had a god damn blast! We watched Rockstar Karaoke, where people sing karaoke songs backed by a live band. It was cool. I don't know if I have clearance to use her name, but the blogger in question is awesome. She is a hip, hip, hip lady.

-I've been sticking with my diet, but I'm beginning to question why. Do I want to live longer? Well, not the life I have now; a better life, sure. Will it help me meet women? Probably not. It'll just mean even hotter women will want me to be their friend.

I'm sure tomorrow will be better.

Things Vegas Has Taught Me

Oh, Las Vegas; the London of 'tacky', the Paris of 'artifice', the Rome of 'shit'. Want to see a glitzy, half-ass approximation of actual culture? Have I got a desert locale for you. But living here hasn't been a total loss. I've learned things, important things that have made me a different person. Not a better person, of course, but different. Here are a few Things Vegas Taught Me.

Familiarity Breeds Contempt
Most of the people who grew up here hate it with a passion and will leave the first chance they get. A couple of the cashiers at Organized Living were going to commit felonies in hopes they'd be sent to out-of-state prisons. These were young kids, just out of high school. I can't imagine being under twenty-one and living here. It would be like getting a job as a janitor at a strip club: Surrounded by action, not allowed to touch it.

Fake Tits are the New Natural Boobs
They pass out fake tits like government cheese around here. Some of the casinos will pay for the procedure for their modestly endowed cocktail servers. Well-off parents give their spoiled daughters new cars and fresh mammies for the sweet sixteen. Radio stations give boob jobs away instead of concert tickets. If you save your receipts at participating Starbucks, you can get a discount on breasts that double as insulated coffee carafes. The mayor declared September 12th Fake Tits Day. Yes, they are in abundance.

I dated (and by "dated" I mean I was the transition shag between her ex-husband and the childhood sweetheart she rediscovered on a trip back home) a woman who had implants. They looked good, I'll admit. And saline implants don't feel bad, like silicone; but they don't feel like natural breasts, either. They're always cold. I guess I'm a natural boob dude in a fake tit world.

Locals Who Say They Hate the Strip Are Delusional
I will make an exception for locals who have to work on the strip; going there everyday would be a nightmare.

Sometimes the Strip is the only thing I like about this town. What would Las Vegas be without it? Just a collection of same-looking neighborhoods, shopping centers and car dealerships. It would be...Arizona. Even the neighborhood casinos we locals enjoy only exist because of the Strip. If the Strip hadn't created the frenzied appetite for gambling that dwells deep inside some locals, I wouldn't be able to make the short, relatively-low-traffic ride to the Green Valley Ranch to drink, eat, shop, see a movie, or put ten bucks in the slot machine. The Strip is our friend, people; it's just a really needy friend you shouldn't visit but about once a month, unless you want to be financially and morally bankrupted.

Not Having to Pay State Taxes Gets Expensive After Awhile
Nevada doesn't have state taxes. All right! Sign me up for that great idea. Wait a minute. Are the schools really ranked 49th out of 50? That means that when you take traditionally yokel hilljack states like Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, and West Virginia, all but one are still smarter than Nevada. No wonder this city is replete with brainless cornhusks; they aren't being educated.

Okay, so there aren't any taxes to pay for decent schools, but think of the money I'm saving. Oh, shit, I just ran into a jack-knifed truck on the old, dangerous, outdated interstate 15. Now I'm in traction for six months because we don't have state funds to improve our roads and other crumbling public infrastructures.

I'm sure it's taught me some other things, too, but this seems like a nice wrapping up point.