Wednesday, August 31, 2005
"Vegas" Things I've Done
Everyone who reads this blog knows that my utter lack of style, flair, and sophistication is enough to make Frank Sinatra spin in his hipster grave; and my absence of "game" threatens to take the Sin out of Sin City. I'm just not that "Vegas", but I have pretended to be a few times. Here's a rundown of "Vegas" things I've done.

While talking to a tourist, I pretended to also be a tourist. I met a girl from St. Louis, who when I told her I was from Louisville thought "Louisville" was a slang term for St. Louis. She was genuinely impressed when I showed her my Honorary Kentucky Colonel I.D. card and believed me when I told her it afforded me a twenty percent discount at KFC's across the country.

"You mean you go in a KFC and flash that card and they take off..."

"Twenty percent, yeah," I said. "I'm also allowed to boss the employees around."

"No! Really?"

"Yeah, they completely have to do my bidding," I told her as my co-workers suppressed laughter.

She turned to my then co-workers Dan and Megan. "Do you guys have these cards?"

I didn't know if they'd be able to keep a straight face, so I answered for them. "No, they're not from Kentucky. They're from California."

"How do you know them?" Ms. Inquisitive asked.

"I met them last night at Studio 54."

Just then our friend Tracey arrived. I stood up to greet her and she hugged me, 'cause Tracey was a hugger.

"How do you know her?" the tourist asked.

"I met her last night, too."

The tourist then looked right at me and asked in all seriousness, "Are you a man-whore?"

That put an abrupt end to the holding in of laughter on the part of my friends. I was too busy contemplating the apparently woeful state of man-whoredness in Missouri, but I laughed later.

I visited an afterhours club. In Louisville the bars close at 4am. You leave, go to White Castle or Steak-n-Shake and go home. In Vegas, they have clubs that don't even open until most decent sorts are in bed. I went to a place called Drai's that won't even let anyone in until midnight, and if you go that early you'll be alone. We got there at 3am and the place was packed with cocktail waitresses, showgirls, strippers and others who work late. This was their evening. There were a lot of beautiful people there, but this being Vegas I knew I could count on at least one group of sleazy old guys with Mr. T gold around their necks and matching white shoes and belts to make me feel like a nightlife superstar.

I knowingly complained about a tourist to a disgruntled local. I was at a bar on the Strip and a woman was yelling at the bartender about the $4 she was just charged for a Coke. Yeah, that sucks but if you don't want it don't pay for it. Leave it on the counter.
When the angry lady reluctantly paid and stormed off, I took her place directly in front of the bar, shook my head, and said simply "Tourists." The bartender comped my Makers and Coke.

I felt up a married woman at a Pearl Jam concert. In front of her husband. At his insistence. My roommate's boss at the time was married to a stripper and they went with us to see Pearl Jam at the MGM Grand Garden Arena. The couple had a few drinks and before I could say "How much for a lap dance?" the off-duty stripper was freelancing and had her shirt off. Her fake boobs were cartoonishly big for her frame, but it was quality work. Her doctor was the Rembrandt of saline. Before Eddie Vedder could finish emoting his next emotion, she was grinding her hot little ass into my crotch. I was horrified and prepared to defend myself against an anticipated onslaught from her hubbie, but he smiled, gave me the thumbs-up sign, and then TOOK MY HANDS AND PLACED THEM ON HIS WIFE'S MAMMOTH TITTIES. Yeah, it creeped me out for a second, but I was raised Southern and it would have been rude to reject such hospitality. While she dry-humped me I felt her up like my life depended on it. It was then that I felt the piercing stares of the people in the row behind me. I turned to them and yelled, "I don't even know her name," never for a second releasing the stripper's funbags from my gentle grasp. They seemed understandably shocked and outraged, so I said, "And that's her husband." It's a miracle security didn't toss us out.

I've spent the last two Thanksgivings with the aforementioned couple. My ex-roommate is my brother's best friend and he always invites his boss and the stripper over for Thanksgiving dinner at my brother's house. It's funny because my very proper sister-in-law can't stand them, but she ends up fixing them a feast. They are actually very nice people. The stripper is a funny, intelligent person when she isn't at her place of employment or a rock concert.

Tuesday, August 30, 2005
I Watch the VMA's So You Don't Have To
I know everyone is wondering what an old, out of touch jackass thought about the M-TV Video Music Awards. Well then, this is your lucky day because I watched the wretched program on Sunday night and, as my memory is failing me, took notes on the proceedings.

Pre Show
I watch part of the pre-show as I write Monday's blog post. They show part of a new Madonna video. Madonna? This isn't VH-1 Classic; what is Madonna doing on my television? Why are they giving her free publicity? Wilfred Brimley is more relevant to youth culture than Madonna.

They keep showing "celebrities" getting out of tricked-out limos. Some pack of ghouls called My Chemical Romance arrives in a Brinks Truck. It would have been more appropriate had they shown up in one of those trucks that sucks the shit out of septic tanks. The lead singer, although male, looks like Paula Poundstone's corpse.

A rapper I've never heard of performs. Why can't rappers harmonize? It always sounds like two people rapping two completely different songs.

Bow Wow is going out with Ciara. Wow, if I was a dimwitted twelve-year-old girl there'd be a puddle on my couch right now.

Ricky Martin is on screen. I check my calendar to make sure it's not 1999. There are still five people in Nebraska who think he's straight.

Some guy named Sway who works for M-TV needs to STOP SHOUTING. You have a microphone; we can hear you. You're an inch away from the musicians; they can hear you.

Someone talks to Ashlee Simpson and it's revealed she's lip-syncing the interview! They play the wrong tape and Ashlee "says" she's happy to be at the Nickelodeon Kid's Choice Awards.

Fall Out Boy performs. To say they suck would be an insult to things that suck.

The Show
Sean Combs, who now goes by Diddy, is the host. Mr. Combs is good at two things: Shameless self-promotion and reducing music to its lowest denominator in order to sell it to idiots. Notice that "hosting" is not on that short list. They could have gotten someone worse, I suppose. They could have kidnapped a kid with Palsy and shot a spear through his head and just had him stagger about the stage mumbling incoherencies and pissing himself. That might have been worse, although at least the kid would have been capable of a certain human characteristic I like to call humility.

The first presenter is Lindsay Lohan. Oh, sweet mother of regurgitation, she is even skinnier. She looks like Terry Schiavo with a blonde fright wig. When she leans in to the microphone, I get a glimpse of her training bra. Then a professional xylophone player comes out and performs "MacArthur Park" on her ribs.

Jessica and Ashlee Simpson present an award. Jessica is a beautiful girl, but she has a throw rug stapled to her hips. Ashlee is a beautiful girl's sister and I don't recall what she wore.

Jessica Alba is on screen. I jotted down something witty in my notebook but it's been smeared by lust-drool.

Shakira sings in Spanish but shakes her hot ass in a language everyone can understand.

The lowlight of the evening thus far is R. Kelly's "performance", an odd mixture of Godzilla-film quality lip syncing and silent movie-style acting, but that's not what bothers me. Isn't there a tape, in the hands of the proper authorities, of R. Kelly PISSING ON A THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD? Why is he allowed on televison, for the love of fuck?

Okay, I like Snoop. He should shoot Diddy right now and take over the show.

I don't know what happened between 9-9:30. I watched Family Guy.

I can't get enough of people yelling "What up, Miami?" More please.

Kelly Clarkson has lost weight and dyed her hair blonde and now looks like a shorter, not quite as stunning Mandy Moore.

Joss Stone presents an award with Ricky Martin. Was Joss alive when Ricky was popular?

I'm actually being pulled toward my television by the vortex that is Eva Longoria's camel toe.

Mariah Carey: Still curvy, still crazy.

I hate reggae music. I hate the New York Yankees. This Tourette's victim Daddy Yankee must be eliminated.

Destiny's Child says their goodbyes. Why are they not performing? I'm not a big fan, but at least they can harmonize. Beyonce smiles and the other two cry. Guess who still has a career today?

I fall asleep for fifteen minutes or so. I'm sure I didn't miss anything.

The Killers must have performed while Family Guy was on, but I did see them win something. They're from Vegas and although I dislike them as people I don't dislike them for the same reason I dislike most Vegas residents. Hmmm.

THE GRAND FINALE, THE MOMENT WE'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR....LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, INTRODUCING Kelly Clarkson. Really, that's it? Was Clay Aiken busy? That was the best M-TV could do? She screamed a rock song, it rained on her and that was it. I kept waiting for an actual superstar to make an appearance, but it never happened.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot..Green Day keeps winning awards. A bunch of other things happen that don't impress me. They'll rerun it a million times but I wouldn't bother watching if I were you.

Monday, August 29, 2005
Is Las Vegas the Stupidity Epicenter of the Known Universe?
Preface: I would like to thank my new blogger friend Claudia and her fiance Brian for inviting me to a party Saturday night. I had a good time and had pleasant conversations with decent people. Thank god, because I was about to lose all hope concerning this town.

Wise readers, think of your hometown and its douchebag inhabitants. Are there any you haven't seen around lately? Have you not seen the idiot sideways-hat-wearin' pseudo-slang throwin' jackass who drives a Honda Civic customized with a motor from a '64 Chevy Impala? Has the slack-jawed girl who managed to get pregnant the day after her own birth been conspicuous by her absence? Well, these miscreants aren't dead or in prison, I'm sorry to report. They've moved to Las Vegas. I'm convinced that by the year 2012 every single douchebag, jackass, half-wit, faux-thug, real thug, and spunk-guzzling gutter snipe in the United States will reside in my adopted hometown.

I saw the darkness my first full day in town. I was at a McDonald's in Henderson and apparently that was the day all unwed mothers under the age of sixteen ate free. The welfare strollers were nipping at my heels as I tried to order a #2 combo, and that's when I saw her. The girl couldn't have been old enough to legally drink but she had enough children to field a baseball team in the Nevada Bastard League. Her eyes were so close together at first glance I thought she was a Cyclops, and it looked as if she'd been beaten about the head, face, and neck with a sack of tokens.

The last two official dates I've been on have been with black girls, so I'm no stranger to social diversity, but this girl took it to an illogical extreme. Each and every one of her children were of a different race or ethnicity. She not only wanted to fuck every kind of person on the planet, she was collecting souvenirs; little dirty, screaming souvenirs. As she tried in vain to organize the Rainbow Coalition that sprang from her loins I could imagine all of the nation's flags waving in the breeze around her vagina, a uterine U.N. if you will. Who was her ob/gyn, Kofi Annan?

And these children, all of whom called her "mommy" at one point, weren't adopted. No adoption agency on earth would have allowed this girl to become a parent. A band of gypsies selling babies from the back of a van would have turned her away. Her shadow actually spelled the words "Unfit Parent". I damn near abandoned all of my wordly possessions and caught the next available flight back to Louisville.

That day was what they call in literary circles "dramatic foreshadowing", as I have been buried up to my forehead in stupidity ever since.

Friday, August 26, 2005
More "People Who Need to Be Hit in the Head With a Shovel" please.
I started a new web page entitled Shovel Justice to post the growing list of people who need to be hit in the face with a shovel. I have included your suggestions and would like more of them, please. Go to to read the list but give me your suggestions here. This post will be up all weekend as I am taking off until Monday. I am tired of writing a blog right now but I know by Monday I'll be ready to go again.
Rules for Shovel Justice:
I reserve the right to veto any suggestion. Sorry, JJ, I think Owen Wilson's funny.
I will not post the name(s) of other bloggers. I will not get in the middle of blog wars. Those need to be conducted elsewhere.

I reserve the right to alter or update these rules when I fucking feel like it.

See you on Monday. I'll probably still comment on other people's blogs. Oh, and I have another post today. Scroll down and look at it. Also, if you'd like to comment on the "answers" post I wasted all of Wednesday evening on, please do so. Have a great weekend.

Watch my blog slide down the slippery slope of meme
This is my last meme. Ever. Do not tag me again. Thank you all.
The only reason I'm doing this final tag thing is because Crystal asked me to, and Crystal writes the funniest fucking blog on earth. Her link is under my VIP list. If you don't read her blog daily you are a douche with questionable taste who enjoys The Family Circus comic strip. Or maybe you just didn't know about it. Well, now you do and therefore are a douche with questionable taste who enjoys Foghat 8-tracks if you don't start reading it right away.

10 years ago- Worked at a four-star restaurant in Louisville, Ky. I was the pantry chef, better known as Salad Whore. I made barely enough money to survive.

5 years ago- Worked at a large liquor store in Louisville, Ky. I enjoyed the job, but I made barely enough money to survive.

1 year ago- Worked as an asst. manager at now-defunct retail circle-jerk Organized Living, in semi-lovely Henderson, NV. I made barely enough money to survive.

Yesterday- All my troubles seemed so far away.

5 snacks I enjoy- guacamole and chips; leftover pizza; cashews; Tim's Cascade Style Wasabi Flavored Potato Chips; chocolate Gee, why do I need to lose weight?

5 songs I know all the words to- 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall; Happy Birthday to (insert name of birthday boy/girl here); My Old Kentucky Home; The Alphabet Song; Fucka Buncha Trickass Mutha Fuckas as performed by the Osmonds.

5 things I would do with $100 million dollars- 1) Play it all on one hand of blackjack... OH SHIT! Cancel 2-5.

5 places I would run away to- San Diego; my hometown; Chicago (not in the winter); Ireland; Dallas to hang with Andi and Steph.

5 things I would never wear- An "I' m With the Anorexic Cunt" t-shirt; Willie Nelson's headband; my heart on my sleeve; out my welcome; the increasingly popular clown pant/sombrero combo.

5 favorite tv shows- Family Guy; Sopranos; Entourage; Simpsons; Bearded Clambake.

5 biggest joys- I've only known two girls named Joy, and they were both of average weight.

5 favorite toys- Computer: cd player; DVR; DVD player; death ray.

5 people I tag- One-legged Al, Butternips, Mister Sister, Puddin' Twat, and aeiouandsometimesy...get to work.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Yesterday I asked for questions and you guys came through. Some people asked more than one question, and that's okay. A bit pushy, but okay. Here are my answers. Thanks to all who contributed and/or added names to the list of people who need to be hit in the face with a shovel.

Ruben asked...If Eminem and Pat Buchanan were both tied to a chair and you had to set one of them on fire, who would it be? I don't agree with hardly anything that comes out of Pat Buchanan's mouth, but I appreciate the fact that he isn't afraid to debate his wacky ideas with more sound-thinking folk. So, Eminem, flame on!

Brooke asked...What did you have for dinner? I haven't had dinner yet tonight. Last night I had leftover Chinese take-out, a dish called Thai Spicy Chicken. I'm trying to eat at home these days, but one large container and rice fed me for two nights.

Kat asked...Who are you? My name is Todd, Kat. I'm a frequent visitor to your blog, as are you to mine. Check the archives. Our comments are on each other's blogs. Remember now? Good.

msaphillips asked...What was the most scared you were as a child? I had to go into the hospital when I was six because I almost died in my sleep one night. It was like I was choking but nothing was lodged in my throat. If we didn't live in such a small house at the time my mom wouldn't have heard me gasping for breath and that might have been it. (Hooray, divorce-induced poverty!)

L.A. asked...Pres. Bush is coming over for dinner and he's bringing Jessica Alba. What do you serve? As soon as Bush darkened my doorstep he'd get the ol' shovel to the face, so that leaves Jessica. I'd find out from her manager or publicist or fan club president what her favorite food is, and I'd cook it for her.

Kris asked...What are your two biggest life regrets thus far? The first would be not going away to college. I think the life experience you get from dorm life is important. The second is not finishing college. This obviously has a lot to do with why I'm broke and unhappy with my job. I was just SO TIRED of school. I'm really not someone who thrives in an institutional setting.

Crystal (from Memphis) asked...What song best describes you losing your virginity? Any song by The Ramones, because it was fast, loud, fun, sloppy, and over in less than two minutes.

Crystal (from Chicago) asked...If the government chose to crack down on bloggers by declaring us persona non grata, which country would you seek asylum in and why? Well, I'd pick any non-French providence of Canada, because I could then commence to stalking Dena proper-like. No, because I hear Toronto and Vancouver are beautiful cities and they have the closest to the kind of life I'm used to.

Andi asked...What is your number one "song to bang to"? It took a lot not to answer "Whatever's in your CD player, hotcakes," but I'll officially say "Pussy Control" by Prince.

Miss Pants asked...What would you say to a born again Christian co-worker that constantly sings religious music in her cubicle as if she's the next American Idol? I wouldn't say anything; I'd sing my own songs of a less spiritual nature. The quaint ditty "Bitches Ain't Shit" by NWA comes to mind. Or perhaps Easy E's "Pussy-Fuckin' Gangsta."

Miss Pants asked...What is the worst gift you've ever been given? Saying "The gift of life" would be too cynical, huh? My dad always gave me crap with the University of Kentucky logos on it, even though I told him how much I hated UK. My mom would always ask what I wanted and go get it, so other than that I've been pretty lucky in the gift department.

Egan asked....You think Pat Robertson packs heat? Of course. Sensible gun control is a sin. Jesus wants cops to be shot with armor-piercing bullets.

Belle asked...If you could be reincarnated as anyone or anything, what would you choose to become? I'd be Hugh Hefner as a young man, right after he founded the Playboy empire. This shouldn't require an explanation.

Blonde asked...How do you prefer your woman: Jungle Bush, Landing Strip, Hairless Kitty? Definitely the landing strip, or as I like to call it, the Hairway to Heaven.

Blonde asked...How is it that Starr Jones missed a shovel to the face? An oversight. Consider her added to the list.

Fence asked...What is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow? What do you mean, African or European swallow?

mollynormal asked...What is the most fun you've ever had for less than $10? When I worked at a large liquor store I would always go to parties sponsored by liquor distributors. They were fine examples of drunken debauchery and they didn't cost me a dime.

mollynormal asked...What do you think about during sex to prolong the pleasure? I usually just think "Odds are, this is it. I may never have sex again after this." That works. By the way, mollyn., thanks for commenting.

Princess Steph asked...How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll pop and how much would you pay me to find out for sure? I need to find some way to earn a million dollars and have Trojan fit my cock with a condom that looks like a Tootsie Pop wrapper. Everyone, I realize that was filthy, but Steph has a good sense of humor.

Skinny Dip asked...Why do you like to know what girls are wearing? The question was meant as a joke, but your reply "I'm wearing a white lacy thong, white lacy bra, white t-vest, black low hipster trousers and high heeled shoes..." made me wish I'd been asking all along.

Skinny Dip asked...Okay, what are you wearing? Old Navy t-shirt and a pair of shorts. Not as thought-provoking as your answer. Hope you continue visiting my blog.

Randi asked...(four parter) How long have you lived in Vegas? Since October 1, 2002. Favorite thing about living here? Just minutes away from the Strip. Even though I may only go there once or twice a month, it's good to have around when you want it. Least favorite thing? No real neighborhoods or sense of community. Oh, and it's replete with total douchebags. What brought you here? I wanted a change and my brother talked me in to Vegas.

Livia asked...What are you doing September 8-11? Apparently I'll be wandering around the Palms looking for your drunk ass (Ha ha). Don't worry, if I see you passed out I'll turn you over on your stomach so you don't choke on your own vomit.

Flesh Von Wintoor asked...Have you ever had a ghey experience of any kind? One time I rubbed one out while reading your blog, Flesh. Does that count? Seriously, good to hear from you. Don't be a stranger.

Claudeedah asked...(four parter) How tall are you? 6'6". How'd you get so tall? I grew. Do you play basketball? Yeah, in the fat white middle-aged league. Are your parents tall? I don't know, I was adopted by midgets for the purpose of frightening burglers. (Note: Claudia is a tall girl who has a blog detailing the dumb questions she gets regarding her height. Her questions were an example of said questions. Carry on.)

Cincysundevil asked...So, with Ms. Alba, what do you remove first, the bra or the panties? Why would I be wearing a bra and panties in front of Jessica Alba? Actually, I always go for the bra first.

ms. hellion asked...The Blogger Gods give you the right to remove one question from this list. Which one will it be? The next one from Os, because it's so fucking long and I'm tired of this post already!

Osbasso asked...Your rich uncle just died, leaving you $1oo million. But to claim it, you'd have to catch just one of the following acts in Vegas every night for a month: Celine Dion, Elton John, Barry Manilow, or Wayne Newton. Or, for $1o million, you have to be one of those kids that pass out business cards for those ladies on the Strip. Which would you opt for, and why? This is actually pretty easy. Forget about being a smut peddler for ten mil when a hundred mil is within reach. I actually like some of Elton John's music, and the show itself was well-reviewed. Come on, for one hundred million I'd gladly sit through a month of even Celine Dion. I'll sit in her nice air conditioned theatre for a month, sipping margaritas that I'm putting on a tab.

Osbasso asked...North Strip, South Strip, or Downtown: Where's your best entertainment value, and why? Os, my friend, the South Strip would be the most expensive of these three areas, but I say it has the best entertainment value. Why? You or anyone else can drink cheap in your own hometown. You want to enjoy your vacation. You don't want to dodge pickpockets and purse snatchers North Strip or stare at that tacky-ass canopy downtown. You want to be on the South or South-Center Strip, the Palms, the Hard Rock, or if you want to "get away from it all," the Green Valley Ranch in Henderson. Otherwise, you might as well just go to the local brewpub.

Sam asked...If you had to choose between losing an arm or having a 2-inch penis (length) which would you choose? Just call me Lefty. I'd drop that arm like Pitt dropped Aniston. I'm not a surgeon or a juggler. I'll do just fine with one arm. I'll bet it would be easier to pick up women with a cool story about how I lost the arm than by waving 2 inches of hampster junk at them.

Brooke asked...Would you rather have Bill Gates' money or Tommy Lee's schlong? Brooke, I loved that you typed "schlong." You should write a poem called "Schlong and Twat." I assume that if I took Tommy Lee's schlong I'd have to have my money. Fuck that. Give me Bill Gates' money. Money is probably cleaner than anything on Tommy Lee.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005
I am totally out of blog ideas right now. For proof look at the previous post, which is just a downloaded picture and a Family Guy quote. So, I've decided to borrow an idea from a few blogger friends. Last week or the week before, I don't remember, Rachel and Os did this, so now I am.

Ask me a question, any question. I will answer all questions accumulated between now and when I get home from work tomorrow afternoon. I will post the answers later that evening. No subject is off limits, but stupid questions will receive stupid answers. Come to think of it, intelligent questions will probably receive stupid answers as well. Ask away!

Also, for your edjutainment, a list of people who need to be hit in the face with a shovel.

Tom Cruise
Rosie O'Donnell
Bill Pullman
That douche who "talks" to dead people - can't remember his name.
Jay Leno
The cast of "Yes, Dear"
Blog spammers
Bill O'Reilly
Dakota Fanning
Kevin Federline
Fred Durst
The entire Bush administration
Jason Mraz (buy a vowel, mancunt)
People who say "irregardless" without irony

An incomplete list, obviously. If you don't want to ask a question but want to add to the list, feel free. Ask and add, knock yourselves out. And if you're a girl and want to tell me what you're wearing, go right ahead.

Stewie's Diatribe

"Now go back to the quad and resume your hackey sack tourney! I'm not gonna lay down for some frat boy bastard with his damn Teva sandals and his Skoal Bandits and his Abercrombie and Fitch long sleeved, open stitched, crew neck Henley smoking his sticky buds out of a soda can while watching his favorite downloaded Simpsons episodes every night! Yes, we all love 'Mr. Plow'! Oh, you've got the song memorized, do you? SO DOES EVERYONE ELSE! That is exactly the kind of idiot you see at Taco Bell at 1 in the morning! The guy who just whiffed his way down the bar skank ladder!"

- Stewart Gilligan Griffin

Monday, August 22, 2005
i answer questions again
The very lovely independent girl tagged me (I wish), so I am now contractually obligated to answer questions. Indie is another recent edition to my VIP list, but she falls under the "Hot Chick" category rather than the "Handed the doorman a fifty" category. The first question is a doosey.

1. What is the ratio of sexy panties to granny panties currently in your possession?
I can see why she immediately thought of me after reading this question. Okay, I'll assume boxer shorts are the male equivalent of granny panties. I own absolutely no ball hugging banana hammocks. In fact, I am forbidden to own them under federal law. I own about ten or so pairs of boxer shorts. There you go, I've once again embarrassed myself for the amusement of a small handful of people.

2. Pretend you won one of those "Make your dream come true" deals that Oprah is always giving away. What would you ask for?
I'd ask for a new car and the money to have it registered and licensed. Then I'd get Dr. Phil's home address so I could go hit him in the face with a shovel.

3. Describe your high school days in one word.

4. If you could shag any celebrity in the world, who would be your top three picks?
Man, I really have to think about number one...Jessica Alba! Number two would be Eva Mendes, and number three would be Lois Griffin. At least I'm not as fat as her husband.

5. If you had all the money in the world, more than you could ever spend in four lifetimes, would you eat some?
Just when I thought the panties question was the dumbest inquiry ever, along comes this gem. I assume by "eat some" they mean eat some money. No, I would not consume currency just because I had a lot of it. I take a lot of craps, but I've somehow restrained myself from eating shit.

6. Tag three people.
Big Willy, Whoreforrent, and Cap'n Molesto, get to work.

Sunday, August 21, 2005
Fast Fiction Friday Four
"Hey, this isn't Friday," the uninformed are saying to themselves. Allow me to inform you. Every Friday blogger legend JJ sponsors Fast Fiction Friday, in which he supplies the first line and bloggers the world over supply the body of the story. We have until Monday noon to finish. The first line this week was The day was hot, but there was ice... Read more about it by clicking "JJ" under my VIP list. Yes, I added more VIP. It was long overdue, but I'm a lazy fuck. Like most VIP lists in Vegas, the new additions are mostly hot chicks, and I guess Egan and JJ bribed the door.

Vegas Confidential

The day was hot, but there was ice where my soul should have been. Damn thing froze over a year into the job, and this was year fifteen. It'll never thaw now, not until I'm burning in hell, anyway. Fifteen years as a detective, fifteen years pounding the streets of Las Vegas looking for pimps, drug dealers, arsonists, murderers; it made me bitter, it made me violent, it made me incapable of any human emotion except disgust. If they're lucky, no tourist will ever see the Vegas I saw. Every day on the job was a knife in my back, a punch to my face, a knee in my groin.

My last case introduced me to Selia, a stripper - hard luck story but ain't they all - a junkie, didn't stand on a street corner but wasn't allergic to turning tricks. Selia had the kind of body that made men stupid, and since I was already stupid it turned me retarded. She was looking for some random dirtbags who killed her brother. I took the case even though whoever offed the fucker did this town a favor. Kenny was a thieving, raping sack of ass foam, and sometimes he really got ugly. He killed more people than cigarettes, and I was supposed to care that he finally got his? I said no at first, but Selia used her mouth, her hips, her tits to bring me around to her way of thinking. Selia could have talked Spielberg into directing kiddie porn, so effective were her powers of persuasion.

I got a name from a guy I smacked into hamburger meat, so I rode out to the suburbs to Summerlin, one of those cookie-cutter communities that gave me the creeps. I wasn't used to dealing with the upper-middle class. I always knew what a filthy scumbag was thinking, what he'd do next. The yuppies, I had no clue. Their world seemed odd to me: A Starbucks on every corner. Even some of my friends liked the place. "Good coffee," they'd say. Well, I never liked good coffee. I liked my coffee burnt and stale and so hot it blistered my tongue. I needed it to be thick like tar and taste like ashes, served up from a pot stained from years of use and never properly cleaned. To me, drinking gourmet coffee would have been like fucking a man in his ass; fine for others but not me.

The guy I was looking for lived in a guard-gated community, so showing up unannounced proved troublesome. I had to punch the guard at the front gate in his chubby face about a million times before the recently toothless bastard let me in. He probably tried to call for help after I drove away, but it's hard to understand someone with a mouthful of blood. Or maybe he lost consciousness. Either way, the police didn't show up.

When I got to the house of the man in question I decided it was no time to play it quiet. I walked up the long driveway, almost tripped over a step, and kicked the fucking door in. The moment I was inside I could feel the bullet ripping through my flesh. On the way to the floor is when I heard the shot.

God damn it! I had spent my adult life in the worst neighborhoods in Las Vegas, interacting with the god-awfulest people on earth. While undercover I'd sleep in dumpsters, in bus stations, on public benches soaked with someone else's piss.; and now I was going to die in a five bedroom, 4,500 sq. foot custom-built home at the hands of a golf enthusiast or whatever. It just didn't seem right.

I heard the footsteps of the person who shot me as he walked over to finish the job. This was no professional or I would have already had another four bullets in me. I could still see enough to look up at my assailant and discover it wasn't a "he", it was Selia. This was a set-up the whole time. I was sure the house belonged to some smart guy who Selia fucked stupid, but that didn't really matter. She was about to kill me.

"You could have saved my brother," she said, aiming the gun at my head. "You knew they were going to kill him."

I didn't know, but arguing seemed pointless at the time. Now, Selia was good at manipulating men, the best. But she couldn't kill a guy for shit. When you're dealing with a dangerous son of a bitch like me - I once bit a guy's nose off and ate it in front of him - you have to kill me dead and be quick about it. The first shot should have been to my head, and the second shot and third shot and fourth shot if necessary should have happened before I knew what was going on.

But Selia, fucking amateur, shot me near the chest but missed my heart, took her sweet-ass time walking over, and then felt the need to explain her motives. She should have just killed me.

Getting too close was her last mistake. I swung my legs at her feet, knocking her down hard to the marble floor. As she fell she fired the gun but missed me, and the impact when she hit forced it from her hand. I struggled to my feet and picked up the weapon.

For a minute I didn't want to kill her, she had such a beautiful face. But as I stood there with blood leaving my body like tourists flocking back to Cali on a Sunday afternoon, I decided to solve all of my problems and shoot that beautiful face right off her head.

The moment I killed her I lost consciousness. I woke up in the hospital a few days later, under arrest for Selia's murder; the story being I broke in and she shot me while trying to defend herself. At my trial, the yuppie house owner testified against me, saying Selia was the love of his life and he hated me for taking her from him.

Damn, Selia couldn't kill a guy, but she sure could fuck with his head.

Saturday, August 20, 2005
Die, Spammers, Die!
By now everyone has been hit by those cocksucking spamholes. I don't allow anonymous comments and they bypassed that by creating fake blogger accounts. I now officially declare war on the spam sending stroke-offs!

Hey, I'm an American; I'm used to corporate whores sponge-bathing their diseased cooters with the things I love. This blog-spam, however, goes too far. As my friend Alisha put it, "It's like someone putting their bumper sticker on your car." These blogs are our creative outlets. Some people write eloquent essays, post magnificent poetry, display gorgeous photographs. This blog is just a guy rambling about stupid people, bowel movements, and girls kissing; but it's MINE, goddammit. I take the time to post this meaningless shit and I should be able to decide whether or not I want someone's ad in MY comments section.

What really pisses me off is they try to hide their true intentions, but they do so poor a job of it as to insult our intelligence. It usually looks something like this:

jizzbucket corporate slurp says:
Wow, I really like your blog! I'm definitely adding a link to my site. Do your armpits smell like someone gutted a trout and filled the carcass with septic tank floaties? If so, try an amazing new deodorant at

Am I supposed to read this intrusion and exclaim, "Hot fuckin' damn, jizzbucket corporate slurp likes my blog!"? Is that the reaction they're aiming for? "Since the jizz man likes my blog, I'll buy his useless products. No one who likes my blog is capable of dishonesty." Fuck them.

I hereby wish the following on the spammers: I hope they get bloody anal warts. I want their children to develop heroin addictions and take to servicing strangers in abandoned buildings for spare change. I want them to accidentally shit their pants every time they sneeze. I pray to god they live useless, uncelebrated lives and die painful, unmourned deaths. Is that asking too much?

Friday, August 19, 2005
Oh, God, Another Starbucks Post
Thursday morning I was in a Starbucks, not the one I've written about before, sitting at a table close to the worker's station. I was enjoying my dark roast regular coffee in a feeble effort to make up for girly drinks of the past when I heard a girl tell a co-worker "Oh, no. Here comes 'Boobies.'"

I looked toward the door and saw THE ONE THEY CALL BOOBIES, or the two they call Boobies, whatever. She was the stereotypical Vegas broad. She was pushing fifty hard but still insisted on dressing like she's going to a casino-themed party at a sorority house. Her boobs were so big a moon was orbiting them, and they were so obviously fake they bordered on chest-parody. Her face had been lifted so many times her eyebrows were at her hairline. Her makeup was so thick and caked on she made Tammy Faye Baker look like a damn dirty hippie. Also, she walked like she had the Great Wall of China shoved up her ass.

"Good morning, ma'am," an unfortunate Starbucks employee said to the walking reminder to age gracefully. "What can we get started for you."

"Hhhhmmmmmmmmmmm," was the noise that came out of Boobies as she gazed upon the menu she had seen every single day of her life for the past eight fucking years. "I'll (long pause) have a (longer pause) latte with (long enough pause for me to complete a correspondence course in Norwegian literature)...Will you charge me for just a smiggen of hazelnut syrup?"

The employee sighed audibly. "We charge thirty cents for a syrup pump."

"Well, I don't want to become a diabetic," Boobies huffed. "I only want about a quarter of a pump."

"I have to charge you for a full pump, ma'am."

Full pump? Was I at a coffee shop or a whorehouse? Was this Starfucks? At that point I lost track of the exchange between the employee and disgruntled customer. I was momentarily distracted by the horrific sight of Ms. Boobies' nipples. They were huge, they were erect, they were wildly out of place. She must have gotten her tit job at Sears because her nips were on the sides of her breasts. One was pointing up, the other down. The tiny actor who played mini-me and I could have each suckled at a teet, that's how comically asymmetrical they were. Finally, I snapped myself out of the nip-haze and returned to the discourse.

"...and I want a tall(small) in a venti(large) cup," Boobies demanded.

Less than a minute later her order was ready. She looked at the cup and immediately went back to the front of the line, interrupting a lady who was ordering. "This cup is almost empty," she said.

The cashier could barely contain her disgust. "Ma'am, that's because you ordered a tall in a venti cup."

How fucking stupid was Boobies? The last face lift must have squeezed out some of her brain. You mean twelve ounces of beverage doesn't fill a twenty ounce cup? It looks empty, huh? And if I wore John Goodman's pants people would ask if I lost weight.

Why do stupid people descend upon me biblical-plague style like a swarm of locusts? You can't swing a dead whore in this town without smacking an anvil-dumb sack of pus across the face. I'm convinced all of the other town's stupid people move here, threatening to turn Las Vegas from Sin City to Moron Metropolis. In the immortal words of Chef from South Park, "All right, everyone line up so I can start kicking all of your asses!"

Thursday, August 18, 2005
My Day in Review
This is how my Wednesday went:

4:01 am- My alarm goes off. As part of God's cruel design, he made me live through the night. Fuck!

4:29 am - I finally get out of bed, cursing myself for dropping out of college.

5:15 am - After tending to my hygiene and dressing myself, I leave the house. Driving with no power steering will give me Popeye arms by the end of the month.

5:30 am - I stop to put gas in the vehicle o' death. $2.59 a gallon? What's in this gas, the blood of Christ? Then I make a tactical error. Since I'm already there, I buy a cup of gas station coffee, despite knowing it will make my asshole explode.

5:49 am - My asshole explodes. Luckily I make it to work before it happens.

6:37 am - I've been at work thirty-seven minutes...time for a break. I go to Starbucks and embarrassingly order a grande non-fat, sugar free hazelnut latte. Afterwards I have to bribe my penis not to leave me for consuming such a girly concoction.

11:00 am - I go to a McDonald's inside a Wal-Mart for lunch. Yes, they've joined forces, so prepare for the end of civilization. Going to a fast food joint for a salad is like going to a strip club for an art history symposium, but it isn't that bad. However, the combined mediocrity of McDonald's and Wal-Mart almost stops my heart.

2:30 pm - Why are the streets practically empty when I go to work, but when I go home I'm stuck in absolute gridlock? I think a lot of Las Vegans have a five-hour work day.

3:16 pm - My blog hasn't been shut down by Dick Cheney's jack-booted thugs or people who just generally hate shit. Hooray.

6:33 pm - For dinner I have green beans and fat free turkey sausage. Halfway through, I think to myself, "How can a meat product be fat free?" Really, how is this possible? The flesh of an animal is in this shit; there has to be some fat. Or perhaps entrails, beaks, and sausagian by-products truly are fat free. It's best to not think about this too much.

7:00 pm - Three hundred channels of digital cable and every night I watch King of the Hill and Simpsons reruns on local television.

8:01 pm - Another horseshit blog entry is given life.

I hope just reading about my whirlwind Vegas lifestyle didn't exhaust anyone. I actually have real plans this weekend unless I'm distracted by a King of the Hill marathon or a random shiny object.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005
The Big Sell-out, No Porn Here, and McDonald's
Yes, much to my shame, I have added a Donation button to help repair my car. It was either this or give one-dollar handjobs to strangers at the bus station; and the bus station is so far from my home I don't trust my car to get me there.


I installed site meter last week. It's the standard version, not the deluxe edition that tells you what visitors had for breakfast like the one Brooke and Mo have. I've noticed far more traffic than comments in the last few days, and I think I know what this means: People come here looking for porn. The title of my blog simply screams porn, perhaps even gay porn. My insipid little pun has brought pervs of all sexual orientation from several countries to my blog, only to be severely disappointed to find not a spread butt-crevice but the inane ramblings of a large, white, middle-aged man. Ha! I'm glad they're disappointed. The thought of all those crestfallen expressions amuses me. I hope they all lose their hard-ons when they see my ugly template and slightly blurry profile "picture". I pray to God my insignificant ramblings render them unable to masturbate for the rest of the day. I wish it was possible to have giant hands come out of their computers and gentleman-of-leisure slap their asses out of their collective bean bag chair. And if anyone got here by googling "Dakota Fanning's underage femme schlong", shame on them. I used that phrase to make a point.


Despite what you may see in their commercials, there's nothing hip about McDonald's. World class DJ's don't run there after a set to hang with the beautiful girls and trendy guys who've suddenly turned a place to get an egg mcmuffin into an afterhours hangout. No, you won't see the "A" list at Mickey D's. You will see a guy who doesn't bathe paying for his coffee with pennies; a woman with eight children, all of them ten months apart; more mullets than the Billy Ray Cyrus reunion tour; at least one worker you pray to god never goes near your food; and at least one assistant manager with a special paper red hat and a Napoleon complex.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Make a Difference
You're probably, being such a socially conscious blog reader, wondering how you can Make a Difference. Well, since I am a modern-day Johnny Appleseed of good will toward all, I have a few suggestions. I will follow my suggestions with examples of how I practice what I preach.

Come on, working at a life-draining job five days a week isn't enough for you. You're a go-getter. Give your precious time away for free to people who will hardly appreciate it. Every Saturday night I drive a van for a non-profit organization called Project Clubbin'. This selfless organization provides lower-income women between the ages of 21-25 with the full Vegas experience of attending several high-end nightclubs in a single evening. I am their driver/VIP host/confidante/wardrobe advisor. Yes, these women are young, hot, needy, and emotionally stunted by a lifetime of shattered hopes and broken dreams, but they deserve the right to act spoiled and vapid, if only for a night. And I deserve to look in the rearview mirror and see them drunkenly grope one another.

In our world, nothing makes a bigger difference than money. Throwing cash at a problem is always a quick and easy solution. I operate a charity, The Todd Society of Pizza and Beer Research, that desperately needs an infusion of cash to survive. How else, with the shitty job I have and all of those auto repair bills, can I continue my painstaking search across the Vegas valley for delicious pizza and beer unless you people give till it hurts? Send all of your money to FAT DRUNK, P.O. BOX 1984, HENDERSON, NV 89052.

Shop Locally
Don't spend your money at soulless, massive, impersonal chain stores. Visit the independently operated retail establishments, even if it means paying more for an inferior product. You'll be cool if you waste your money so some hipster trust fund jag-off with no business sense can buy another pair of black jeans. Also, try to buy local products. For instance, when I lived in Kentucky I never bought whiskey made by large companies like Jim Beam or Jack Daniels. I got my whiskey from Earl, who made moonshine in his basement. Yes, prolonged use of his product drove me to madness and cost me my wife, my friends, my thriving podiatry practice, and the love and respect of my parents, but ol' Earl was able to shingle his carport, so what the hell.

Help the Homeless
What can you, as a lone individual, do to help the homeless? Well, you can't do much; you can't build them a place to live or restore their lost sense of humanity, but you can help them get good and drunk. Would you want to be homeless and sober? Of course not, so give them some spare change so they can stay bagged all the god damn day. I usually just hand them pints of rot-gut, as to avoid the middle man. Give a homeless man a bottle of booze and he'll remember you until...well, until he's too drunk to remember anything. That's when he's at his happiest, and that's when you know you've done a good deed.

I hope everyone takes this to heart and tries to Make a Difference. God bless you all.

Monday, August 15, 2005
"I'm spinning out, I can't control my car..."
Friday night I was on my way home from the Strip when my passenger side front tire blew out while I was in the middle of negotiating a curve. The shredded tire promptly ended the negotiations, causing me to lose control of the rolling deathtrap I drive daily amongst a who's who of the worst drivers on earth (including myself) and go over a curb into a rocky ravine kinda thing, stopping only when I hit a chain-link fence. If I had lost the tire two seconds before or after, I would have hit a brick wall and right now I'd be blogging about all of my suffering in Hell. Yeah, so I started the weekend by almost dying because I can't afford a decent car. And now the car I have is all fucked up and I don't think I can afford to get it fixed. Since I'd have to walk about six miles just to get to a bus stop, this has ruined the last few days for me.

I wish I could wax philosophic about the effects my brush with death had on my outlook on life, how I've learned to appreciate the little things in life, but I guess because I didn't suffer even the slightest injury I'm just amazed at how lucky I was. Really, even though I had no clue the tire was going to go, it was just a matter of time before it did. I could have plowed into pedestrians or oncoming traffic had it happened at another time on another road.

I'll post again when I can. I wanted this one to be funny but no funny came out of me. Luckily I had my fiction story written in a notebook and all I had to do was type it onto my blog. Hopefully by tomorrow I'll be able to write something else.

A special prize to whomever can tell me the source of the quote that serves as this post's title.

Saturday, August 13, 2005
Fast Fiction #3: This one is offensive
Time for another episode of Fast Fiction Friday. This one is kinda wrong, sorry. My apologies to JJ from, who invented FFF and is a genius in the fields of blogging and alliteration. This week, the participants have to tell a story beginning with "You thought I forgot, didn't you? The quote is open, so we can add to it if so inclined.

The Great Rebate Revenge of 2001

"You thought I forgot, didn't you?" I said to Jenna Bush as I pulled a sixer of her favorite beer, Pabst Blue Ribbon, out of a paper sack.

"Oh, Frank, you're the best," she squealed.

Jenna's fraternal twin sister, Barbara, gave me the withering stare made famous by her matriarchal namesake.

"Don't worry, I remembered you, too," I said and handed Barbara a half-gallon jug of Blueberry Blast Mad Dog 20/20.

I then stood back and admired the awe-inspiring and almost inexplicable sight of the "First Twins", Jenna and Barbara Bush, daughters of the fraudulently elected leader of the free world, licking caramel sauce off each other, becoming an incestuous, lesbianic human sundae. They then took turns smacking one another across the face with the business end of a 12-inch rubber dildo. That's when the Secret Service broke down the door of our hotel.

How did this happen to me? How did I, a humble bartender from Evansville, Indiana, score a three-way with the president's then-nineteen-year-old daughters? It all started a few days prior, on an oppressive summer afternoon in August, 2001, when I opened my mailbox and discovered a tax rebate check for $300. I won't discuss my political views in detail, but I decided to express my distaste for the president's domestic policies by punishing him the only way I knew how: By grudge-fucking the fruits of his loins.

Less than forty-eight hours later I was in Houston with a gross of condoms and a list of bars frequented by the Bush twins. As luck would have it, they were in the second place on my list, a seedy frat bar called Tequilla River. The bar was semi-crowded but the girls were easy to spot because everyone gave them space. No one had the guts to approach them except me. I walked up to them like I owned the place, introduced myself, bathed them in the soothing wash of my abundant charms, and drowned them in Long Island Teas.

Three hours later I was in a hotel room having sex with Jenna Bush doggie-style. As I fucked her I made it a point to pepper my bedroom talk with left wing slogans, such as "Do you like it rough? ABORTION ON DEMAND!" and "Oh, god, I'm coming. SAVE THE WHALES!" Oddly, this turned them on even more, so Barbara, who liked to be on top and rode me like an untamed mustang, got "That's the spot. SUPPLY-SIDE ECONOMICS IS A SHAM THAT REWARDS THE RICH AND PUNISHES THE POOR!"

After that first round of sex, I filmed Barbara, wearing only a mask meant to resemble her own father and a glow-in-the-dark strap on, as she plowed Jenna, who was wearing an Al Gore mask. Not only was this sweet revenge for the 2000 election, it made me hornier than R. Kelly at a Middle School.

Alas, when the Secret Service made their uninvited entrance, that precious tape, along with about two hundred polaroids, was confiscated. I had thought I was being followed on my way back from the liquor store, but I dismissed it as paranoia. I've never since dismissed anything as paranoia.

They could have arrested me for supplying minors with alcohol, but since the sex was consensual the White House didn't want any publicity. The Secret Service was going to shoot me in the face and bury me under the Lincoln Memorial, but the twins talked them out of it. Instead, I get audited by the IRS every year. Each and every April 15th they rain their vengence down on me. I wept like a baby when Bush was reelected, and it had nothing to do with the war in Iraq and everything to do with being the only bartender on earth expected to report all of his tips.

Yes, but was it worth it? No. No it wasn't. The IRS sucks.

Friday, August 12, 2005
Random Thoughts: Third Times a Charm
I would do a weekly installment of "random thoughts" but I'm afraid I'd lose Brooke as a reader, and I'm not prepared for that. Hell, I might lose her anyway after these, but I hope not.

If I could go back in time and ask one question of one historical figure, I'd ask Jackie Kennedy how to keep brain from staining a jacket.

Is there a patron saint of joyless masturbation?

I've been mad at my mom ever since she kept nagging me to write a thank you note to the stranger who donated a kidney so I might live. Yeah, first the note, then all of a sudden the pushy bastard expects a phone call.

Memorial Day Parade, Louisville, KY, May 28, 1997 Four dead, and I can never become a Shriner.

You know what I've done that Lindsay Lohan has never done? Supersized a combo meal.

I visited the White House in 1993, but I lost a bet and had to wear a dress. I left after President Clinton asked if I was pre-op or post-op.

In retrospect, Osama Bin Hitler's Twatarama was a bad name for a strip club.

Anyone can fake an orgasm, but try to fake not having one.

I'm a funny, interesting, attractive person, according to the stripper I bought a thousand dollars worth of lap dances from.

I can't believe the Christopher Reeves paperweight wasn't a bigger seller.

I'm not saying Ben Affleck's a has-been, but he guest-hosted my blog last week and got zero comments.

Damn, that "It Burns When I Pee" t-shirt was NOT a good anniversary present.

I wrote a novel, but apparently those snooty publishers want something that "makes sense" and "has a point" and "is written in a decipherable language". Picky fucks.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005
It Just Cannot Be That Good
I talked once before about my friend who is being used by some tramp, but it is way out of control now.

For the uninitiated, my friend met a young lady at a car wash and about ten minutes later she was the epicenter of his existence. There's nothing really wrong with that except this woman is a freeloading hussy. She has two kids but no job. Her sister lives with her and also doesn't have a job.

Here is my friend's day in a fucking nutshell: He has the same shitty job that I have, so his morning and afternoon are no tiptoe through the tulips. He's at work at 6am, probably a good six hours before his girlfriend drags her trampy ass out of bed. He gets off work at 3pm and is rewarded by having to go over to her house and drive her, her kids, and her sister all over town because she doesn't own a car. Whatever they do, wherever they go, he pays for all of it.

I asked him why she doesn't have a job, and he said "She has to watch the kids." Okay, sis can watch the kids, since she's out of work. Or if this woman, who let my friend, a total stranger, be alone with her children less than forty-eight hours after meeting him, is such a protective mother, then the sister can get a fucking job. Sis is only seventeen, but school is out....start flipping burgers! They leech off of my friend but she's too good to work at McDonald's? Are they holding out for the return call from NASA?

There's a grandmother in the picture, who SURPRISE doesn't have a job, but she charges money to babysit her own grandchildren. "Shit, gotta have Bingo money." When my friend wants to actually go out on a date with just his girlfriend, he has to cough up money to her mom to watch her kids. The sister is presumably too busy trolling for cock to be bothered.

The final straw as far as I'm concerned occurred on Monday. My friend lost his PDA device we use at work. Our company charges $500.00 for a lost or stolen PDA. Speaking of stolen, he thinks his girlfriend or her sister may have taken the PDA and sold it to a pawn shop. Draining him of his every spare penny apparently wasn't enough; they had to take something that will end up costing him $5oo and hock it for $50. Even if they didn't take it, the fact that he suspects they did is a sure sign he should run far far away from these people. Will he? Well, he knows he should, but...

He tells me she's hot. He tells me she's wild in bed. No one is that hot. No one is that wild in bed. I wouldn't put up with this amount of shit if she looked like Jessica Alba's prettier cousin and her pussy spun cotton candy. I did feel sorry for him, but not now; not when he's going to let her steal from him just so he can continue fucking her. I've never met this girl and I don't need to; I've met her type. She and her whole family are the personifications of the stereotypical Vegas con artist. She's lazy and stupid so she uses the only thing she has that's of value - her twat - to make a living. She's worse than a least a girl at a brothel fucking strangers for cash has the whole Truth in Advertising thing in her favor. That my friend has such low self-esteem is truly quite pathetic.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005
The Strip Club and Other Louisville Mayhem
Note: I wrote this Monday afternoon when I got back from my trip.

They finally allow liquor stores in Louisville to sell wine and spirits on Sunday. Before yesterday, they could only sell beer, which makes sense because God doesn't get angry when people get drunk on beer. I never understood the logic, but it's over now and it ended when I, a notorious Louisville drunkard, happened to be in town for the weekend. It was an eventful weekend, one for which my liver may never forgive me.

It's not often you hear someone in Louisville, KY say, "I'm looking forward to getting back to Las Vegas to relax," but I found myself saying that early Monday morning. Good times were had by all.

I, in an attempt to honor the Sabbath and keep it holy, visited a strip club Sunday night. It wasn't very crowded, but I did get to see a stripper fuck a hat. A young lady-of-the-pole ripped a baseball cap off a patron's head, placed it in the middle of the stage, and repeatedly did the splits, landing on top of the hat with great gusto. As a result of this cootchie haberdashery, the bill was retardo-cootered beyond recognition. If this guy's in a relationship I hope he knows how to lie, or it could be a bad scene:

"What happened to your favorite hat, dear?"

"Well, hon, a stripper fucked the shit out of it last night."

The diamond industry loves strip clubs and honest men.

One more thing about LaBamba's, the place where I ate after leaving the bar Saturday night. When I placed my order, a couple of the guys pointed at me and started speaking Spanish, and I distinctly heard "...el douchebag grande." Fuckers.

I didn't get my fix of mullet-wearing complete dirtball hilljacks while I was away. My friends have good taste and steered me away from most of the white trash element I so completely loathe/fear/enjoy. I should have gone to dirtball central, Six Flags Kentucky Kingdom. Ugh, anyone who just read the name of that place immediately disinfect your computer screen. Kentucky Kingdom is to the Six Flags chain what Stephen is to the Baldwin family. I was last there the summer before I moved away and I believe it was Inattentive Teenage Mother Day at the park. Also, any adult with five or less functioning teeth received free Cotton Candy and a gallon of sweet tea. I feel sorry for tourists traveling through the Midwest/South who see the Six Flags logo and think they're in for an experience like Magic Mountain in California or Great Adventure in New Jersey. Disappointing vacation experiences cause almost as much marital discord as strippers who fuck hats.

I came home today and read Crystal's blog; she just found out today that her best friend, who lives in another state, died on Saturday. Since I just returned from visiting my friends in another state, my mind is racing right now; it took me hours to be able to write about this. Crystal's name is under my VIP blog list; if you please, go to her site and read her touching tribute to her friend. He was a fellow blogger and a talented writer.

I didn't know I could feel so sad about "strangers". I put the word in quotations because I read these blogs and I feel as if I know you all, at least a part of you. Tomorrow I'll post the blog I composed before I found out about this tragedy, because my silly blog is how I deal with harsh realities. To all of my friends, the ones I saw this past weekend in Louisville and the ones I know through blogging, I cherish each and every one of you.

Sunday, August 07, 2005
I am fucking drunk
I drank enough bourbon tonight to make Willie Nelson piss in three different directions at the same time. And now I'm drinking beer. Here are some incoherent ramblings based on what I've experienced on this trip thus far:

According to a tourist guide I picked up in the airport {Louisville has tourists?) ninety percent of the country's disco balls are made right here in Louisville. First of all, who are these interloping mother fuckers making the other ten percent? Get off of our turf, fucknuts. Also, is there really a market for disco balls? Do they sell them to VFW posts and bad high school prom committees?

I was at a bar tonight and the band had a one-legged guitarist. They used his removed titanium leg as a tip jar. Swear to God.

I haven't been on the right side of town to see mullets. I'll have to look for some tomorrow.

After we left the bar we ate at a place called LaBamba's whose slogan is "Burritos as Big as Your Head." The place is open from 11am till 5am and I think it's only one shift. Those are some hard working mother fuckers.

Really, once you turn thirty you should lose the high school class ring.

I see three keyboards right now but I'm aiming for the one in the middle.

I'm at my friends Dave and Alisha's house typing this. It's Alisha's birthday. She's as drunk as I am, but she's too smart to try to blog in this condition.

I've been driving my mom's Rav 4 around town. My knees touch my chin in this car. That's safe to drive, right?

All right, despite heavy competition this is my worst post ever. See you guys on Tuesday.

Friday, August 05, 2005
Random Thoughts of a Travelin' Man
This is a picture of Cumberland Brews in my hometown of Louisville, Ky. Some of the best beer I've ever swilled down my biscuit-hole is made here at this tiny brewery/restaurant.

I'll be in Louisville this weekend and I'll be having several Nitro Porters, Pale Ales, and whichever Stout they have on tap. I only wish they bottled their beer so I could take some back to Nevada with me.

I'll be gone until Monday but I hope to use a friend's computer and post completely Ted Kennedy-drunk either Saturday or Sunday. That should be interesting. Or a complete disaster that could lead to the absolute demise of this blogsite. Either way.

I've been thinking some more about my Alanis Morissette post: Boy, am I topical or what? That post was practically ripped from the headlines of today's paper. I am so not afraid to take on pop stars who peaked in popularity a decade ago! I'll bet the cast of Silver Spoons is quaking in their boots at the thought of being vegASSized. Look out, Jesus Jones, you're next.

I know someone who's being stalked at her job and it really pisses me off. Mother of Judas, some people need to fucking die. Hey, wastes of air out in blogland, the girl who was nice to you at the Circle K doesn't want to see you outside of her place of employment. She doesn't want to go to a Comic Book convention with you. She doesn't want you to follow her home and, when she pulls the shades down to undress, masturbate to her silhouette. She doesn't want to see your dick. And most of all, she doesn't want you to kill her! If it gets to the point that someone must die, then it should be you.

Whenever I go to my local Starbucks I'm always greeted by a nice, young, attractive blonde girl with a cheery tone and inviting smile. Each and every morning, no matter how hectic the pace, she makes me feel special. Do you know why she does this? BECAUSE IT'S HER FUCKING JOB, THAT'S WHY! Yeah, she's probably genuinely kind, but she doesn't like me any more than she likes the million other people who come into that Starbucks every day. She may prefer to wait on me as opposed to someone who treats her like shit, but the story ends there. I don't think she'd be quite as interested if I ran into her at the mall, SINCE SHE DOESN'T WORK THERE. I get it, and I'm lonely and quasi-delusional. Why don't these stalker fuckbrains understand? I worked at a Pier One part time when I first moved to Las Vegas, and one of our assistant managers, who also did modeling work, had two -count 'em, two- stalkers. She was one of the nicest people I've ever met and that was her fucking reward for being a decent human being. She smiled at a couple of lowlife walking afterbirths and they made her life frightening and unpleasant. I hope the two of them get together this Saturday night for a few movies, a bowl of popcorn, a pint of Ben and Jerry's, and a double suicide.

Everyone have a good weekend. I'll try to post drunk but if not, see you next week.

Thursday, August 04, 2005
I Spleen Alanis Morissette
I posted a comment on my lovely and talented friend Dena's blog about how much I loathe Alanis Morissette, but I feel the need to discuss my hatred of this wretched "singer" at length.

The story of Alanis Morissette begins when she recorded two shitty teen pop albums that were only released in two places: Canada and the lowest level of Hell. Atilla the Hun is reportedly a huge fan.
Years later, her "debut" CD is released in the United States, the earlier musical miscarriages conveniently forgotten. This is standard music business operations, and it wouldn't have bothered me had Jagged Little Pill not simultaneously sucked the cocks of every male who ever lived in the history of Earth. Yes, it sucked that much. Speaking of sucking, Alanis bragged about swallowing some guy's fleshsword in a theater on her first single. At the risk of sounding Republican, I think she's one of the reasons I couldn't go to a movie in the mid-to-late nineties without being sickened by the sound of a thirteen-year-old girl in the next row getting her throat-cherry busted.

Then she has the huge, hairy man-sack to compose a song entitled "Ironic" which contains not one example of irony. "Rain on your wedding day" is not ironic, it's weather. If you plan an outdoor ceremony but move it indoors because the forecast calls for rain, then it doesn't rain but the sprinkler system in the banquet hall goes off, soaking everyone....that's ironic. It doesn't bother me that she's stupid; it bothers me that she's pseudo-intellectual. And it bothers me that it doesn't bother anyone else. The song launches her into superstardom. The CD was bought by people who don't really like music; the ones who buy two CD's a year, the same taste-bereft jag-offs who loved Hootie and the Blowfish so fucking much. Music lovers bought it as well, don't get me wrong, but for a CD to sell like Jagged Little Pill did, it has to be embraced by the unwashed.

Alanis is marginally successful now, even resorting to rerecording her greatest triumph acoustically and whoring it at Starbucks, but I still despise her like I did when she dominated the charts. This is not a sexist rant, by the way. I am in love with the female voice and I'd say sixty percent or more of my CD's feature female vocals. I just didn't buy the empowered-by-being-a-cocksucker half-wit musical pussy farts Alanis sold so well.

As for the title of the post, since to "Heart" something is to love it, to "Spleen" something would be to hate it.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005
The "Too Much Information" Post
Monday night a friend and I had a few beers at the Monte Carlo Brew Pub on the Strip, then on the way home stopped at the fabulous In-n-Out Burger for a late meal. Maybe it was because I hadn't eaten since 11am and it was past 10pm when we got our food, but that was the best burger I've ever eaten. Every bite was heaven on a bun. It was so good I decided early Tuesday morning that I was going to have lunch at the In-n-Out near my work.

Everything was going as planned; I was almost salivating at the thought of the usual: A Double-Double with grilled onions. Then about fifteen minutes before lunchtime, it happened. I had to take a monstrous dump, the kind that sets off sprinkler systems. I'm talking a poop like the one that killed Elvis. It smelled like the brutal combination of a Double-Double with grilled onions, AND ASS. So much for the craving. I had a salad for lunch.

Tuesday, August 02, 2005
"...she committed suicide in Hitler's apartment."
There was a special on the History Channel the other night entitled Hitler's Women. There is nothing worse than sitting home alone on a Saturday night in Las Vegas and having a television program remind you that even Hitler managed to hook up. Yippie, I'm alone and Hitler scored more pussy than Seth Cohen on spring break.

These women loved Hitler, too. One of them killed herself over him. Why? Because of the whole bad boy thing, of course. You just know they all thought they could change him. "Oh, sure, he's a brutal despot, but when Dolphie is with ME, there will be no more of this Holocaust talk."

I bring this up because I am the nice guy. I've always been the nice guy and I'll always be the nice guy. Yes, I write a filthy fucking blog that occasionally celebrates gal-on-gal action, I like strippers and I'd rather have a girl flash me than win the lottery, but it's all a front, and a lousy one at that, because I'm fucking stupid enough to tell the truth. I don't lie on this blog, except for a few exaggerations for comedic effect. What the fuck am I thinking, not lying my fat ass off on this shitrag? Anyone who's read viva las vegASS more than once knows I have a lousy job and I need to lose weight. I had the perfect opportunity to lie about my fabulous, high paying career, my sculpted abs, my chiseled features; all of these opportunities to pretend to be someone I'm not, sacrificed for the need to be honest.

This past February I got a "you're too nice" speech from someone I thought I was in love with. I had known her about a year, and when her relationship status changed, I thought there was hope. Then one night when we were drinking on the Strip, we "danced" (meaning she grinded on me and I let her), we made out, she flashed me her boobs, she told me I was too nice. What should I have done differently? Should I have pushed her down a flight of stairs at Mandolay Bay? When she showed me her taters should I have grabbed a nip and said "Okay, whistle"? I honestly (there's that fucking word again) don't know.

This is the scenario that played out oh-so frequently when I was younger: A woman enters a social gathering and talks to a guy who either offends and/or disappoints; like pedophiles to Scout leadership, she is then drawn to me. She cries on my shoulder for a few minutes and when I'm trying to comfort her she's scoping the bar for the guy she'll actually take home. To use a baseball analogy, I'm the middle reliever of love. I don't get the win, I don't earn the save, and at the end of the night all I have for my trouble is a sore arm.