If Men Ruled the Social World

It is true that, through brute force and centuries of oppression, men rule the worlds of business and politics. I'll let someone else debate whether or not that's why the planet's so fucked up, but one thing is certain: Women run the social world, because they control the supply of vagina. But what would happen if men ruled the social world? Here's a brief glimpse into that nirvana.

The scene: Two women are talking at a bar.

"Shit, I can't believe what I just did."

"What?"

"I accepted a drink from a guy."

"You're fucking kidding, right?"

"No, he bought me a drink, and I took it."

"You have to sleep with him now, you know."

"Yeah, I know."

"You have to. Rules are rules. You knew them going in."

"Thanks for the lecture; I know. I was thirsty. It was top shelf. I wasn't...thinking."

"Which guy was it?"

"See the guy at the end of the bar?"

"Oooh, the one in the Armani suit?"

"I wish. The one next to him."

"The five-hundred pound guy wearing sweat pants and an oversized novelty sombrero?"

"That's my new lover."

"He could be nice and waive the rule."

"No chance. He already bought a condom from a vending machine in the men's room."

"Yeah, those are reliable."

They are joined by another girlfriend. "What's up?"

"Dana accepted a drink from some guy."

"You dumb bitch; now you have to fuck him. Is he at least hot?"

"That's him over there, the guy as big as a planet."

"Yeah, the planet DanaBang. Girl, we all fuck up. Earlier, some dude asked me to dance, and I said yes, so I had to stand there with a smile on my face and let him grind his tiny erection into my ass-cheek, 'cause hey, rules are rules; but at least I don't have to let him penetrate me."

"From this moment forward, as God is my witness, I shan't drink again."

'Tis the Season to Fucking Hate Christmas Music

Since this is the holiday season I'm making the transition from overworked, underpaid retail assistant manager to simply underpaid product vendor, I'm glad I no longer have to answer stupid questions from felch-brained jackabouts so enamored of their own presence in the universe they're absolutely blind to everyone and everything else. But one thing hasn't changed: I still have to listen to Christawful Christmas music. There may be a more annoying genre of music, but I am thankfully unaware of it.

The major problem with Christmas music is there are only about a dozen traditional Christmas songs, and every drool-faucet with the motor skills to hold a microphone has a version of one or more of them. Everyone has a Christmas cd. Ev. ery. One. You know the old dim-witted guy who wanders about your city and had to have the fire department rescue him from the undersized glory-hole at the downtown YMCA? He has a Christmas cd, available at Target for $7.99. The worst thing I've ever heard, and I hear it every fucking year, is a version of John Lennon's So This is Christmas sang by someone other than John Lennon. That is holiday music blasphemy! I think it's someone like Tony Danza or Wink Martindale singing the song. Jesus Cunting Christ, play the original.

The one odd cover I like is of Dean Martin singing Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer, mainly because near the end of the song an obviously drunk Dean refers to him as "Rudy the Red-beaked Reindeer". And you just know that after he recorded this time-honored children's holiday classic, he and Frank went out and banged whores two at a time.

In addition to the tired "classics", someone is writing new wretched yuletide abortions set to music. Just today I heard a song called Boogie Woogie Santa. Really, does anyone want their child to sit on the Boogie Woogie Santa's sticky lap? I'm fairly sure the B.W. Santa is banned from every mall, shopping center, amusement park, and Chuck E. Cheese in the country. Also, Destiny's Child did a remake of Silver Bells, only they call it Platinum Bells, 'cause nobody's putting mere silver near Beyonce, Christ's birth be damned.

I wished they'd play selections from the South Park Christmas cd. A singing pile of shit telling the Virgin Mary it's okay to give head is my kind of holiday cheer.

How Can I 'Raise the Roof' Tomorrow When I Can't Even 'Holla Back' Today?

I stayed home Friday and Saturday night, and you know what? It didn't bother me in the least. In fact, I was tired from work and Thanksgiving bullshit and wanted to stay in. I watched movies, returned to my oppressive fucking diet, and read the new Al Franken book. I also had time to reflect on past drunken exploits.

I've said it before: I'm the only person in history who ever moved to Las Vegas and started drinking less. It's probably a good thing, though. The Summer of 2002 alone really should have killed me. One morning my friend Wu and I were coming back from a bar that we closed down. I'm in the front passenger seat kind of nodding off, when I realized we've stopped. I look up but I don't see a red light. Hmmm. I look over at Wu and he's asleep behind the wheel! To his credit, I suppose, he didn't swerve or anything; he just brought the car to a rolling stop and started sleeping. That's the kind of thing that will sober you up in a hurry.

Another night my friend Mike and I went to a place where the female patrons would dance on the bar. We decided to do a shot every time we saw camel toe. In retrospect, this was a bad idea. It was kind of like being at Wal-Mart and saying you'd do a shot every time you saw white trash; or doing a shot whenever Dick Cheney has a heart attack. By the end I think we were counting some camel toes more than once, but it was a non-scientific experiment. We stumbled out of there but we were at least smart enough to realize we couldn't drive home, so we walked several blocks to LaBamba's and had their world famous "Burritos as big as your head". Those things could sober up a hopeless alcoholic like Lindsay Lohan, although they would equal her caloric intake for an entire month.

I'm not saying I'll never go out and act a fool again. Hell, it might happen next weekend. Actually, I'm going out Monday night, so who knows. The point is, this happens less and less as I get older. And as much fun as I've had, I would have still preferred to have found that one special woman and settled down years ago, even if it meant never getting a blowjob while leaning against a dumpster or losing a friend forever because her sister showed me her tits. Hey, it was a Mardi Gras party, for cunt's sake. That night I saw more exposed tit than a mammogram. Where was I? Oh yeah, settling down. I just want one special woman....I'm sorry, I can't concentrate. Those boobies are bouncing around in my head right now.

I ate at Fatburger on Thanksgiving Day

Before anyone feels sorry for me or thinks this is going to be another of my godforsaken "woe is me" posts, rest assured I had a full Thanksgiving dinner in the presence of family and friends, more or less. That said, I did have a Fatburger yesterday around 1pm. At noon I was typing up my Thanksgiving post when my brother called and said we were going to go to our friend's fiancee's parent's house around 4 and probably wouldn't eat until 6. I was starving at the time, so I published my post and headed to the Green Valley Ranch casino for a good ol' Fatburger. That was the best tasting burger I've ever had; and the only time I've ever had a Fatburger while sober. I decided that since this was going to be the only day until Christmas Eve that I'm off my diet, I might as well really pig out. My only disappointment was that Juan the World's Gayest HispanicTM (yes, he had that title copyrighted) wasn't working. He's a god-damn hoot. He's showboatingly flamboyant and refers to himself in the third person. "Juan shall now prepare your milkshake."

I wasn't fond of spending Thanksgiving at a stranger's house. There wasn't the ludicrous consumption of alcohol that marked my first few turkey days in this city, and when the Cowboys' place kicker missed a chip-shot field goal I couldn't call him a "palsy-legged cockbobber" like I really wanted to. Also, even though her dad was cool, the mom seemed put-out that we were there.

The turkey was moist and delicious, but the side dishes were bland. That's what I get from being from a part of the country where people season foods that they cook. Someone needs to buy this woman a spice rack for Christmas.

While I was at the casino, I walked past the line for the Thanksgiving Buffet and heard an employee tell people it was at least a two hour wait from where they stood. Holy shit, that's a lot of non-cooking fucks standing there. There are probably at least two generations of Americans who can't cook for shit, so it all made sense to me.

I miss being home for Thanksgiving. It could have been worse, though. I could have been one of the guys working at Fatburger on the holiday.

Oh, and as predicted, working on Friday sucked a big, fat, wart-encrusted donkey cock. Everyone have a great weekend. I'm off until Monday.

The Random Thoughts of a Hungry Man

Question: If I write a post that no one reads, does it actually exist? I know Thanksgiving isn't a big day for blogging, but I have an afternoon Thanksgiving dinner and I'm on Pacific time, so while you guys are stuffing your pumpkin pie-holes, I'm sitting around the house with nothing to do, watching a shitty football game (thank you, Detroit Lions) and contemplating going to the casino to kill some time until I eat.

So, since I have an audience of none, I think this will be a nice time to resurrect my much-hated "Random Thoughts" feature.

-Every Thanksgiving, we invite a Native American family over for Thanksgiving. After exchanging pleasantries and sharing a bountiful feast, we kill the men, rape the women, and infect the children with smallpox. That's called celebrating Thanksgiving old school.

-My last date had an odor problem. In all fairness to her, it should be noted that she was a whore. And dead.

-When I was a kid my dad used to tell me I was Santa's favorite child because I was so jolly and fat. Sure, I'd cry myself to sleep, but I always had a lot of gifts under the tree.

-Whatever you do, never say to a woman "Has anyone ever told you you look like Bea Arthur?"

-I'm a little worried about the bird flu, but I'm even more concerned that these chicken feathers will put a rash on my penis.

That's all I have for now. As usual, no offense intended I love all people blah blah blah blah.

A recipe for a big fat Thanksgiving

This pie is a fattening motherfucker, but Thanksgiving is a special occasion. It is also so delicious anyone who makes it will no doubt begin worshipping me as their god.

Legally Forbidden to Call it "Derby" Pie

Ingredients:

1/4-cup corn starch
1/2-cup (one stick) butter, melted
2 eggs
1 cup sugar
1 cup chocolate chips
1 cup walnuts (soaked overnight in bourbon if so desired)
4 tablespoons bourbon

Mix corn starch and sugar
In another bowl, mix eggs and melted butter (slowly, or they will separate)
Slowly add starch/sugar mixture to egg/butter mixture
Fold in chocolate chips and walnuts
I use the Pilsbury roll and bake pie crusts. If you want homemade crust, find a recipe.
Fill pie crust and bake in a preheated 350-degree oven for 35-40 minutes or until top is golden brown. Before you put in oven, cover crust edges with foil or they will get too brown.
Variations:
If you hate bourbon, omit and replace with vanilla extract to taste.
You can use pecans instead of walnuts. I think pecans have too strong a taste and overwhelm the other flavors, but that's just how I roll.

Everyone have a safe and happy Thanksgiving Day. To my Canadian friends, may Thursday bring you nothing but joy and hearken back to Thursdays of times past.

And since I'm a shameless comment whore, if you haven't read the previous post yet, by all means do so.

Weight Watchers and other thoughts

I just got back from my second Weight Watchers meeting. I'm happy to report I've lost nine pounds my first week. I'm not going to make this a weekly "weight tracking" blog, so I'll let you guys know when I drop thirty. Until then I'll keep my fat yap shut.

- In Louisville we had two sayings if we wanted someone to shut up. One was "Quit flappin' your dick-suckers" and the other was "Stop runnin' your cock-biters." I can't decide which one I like best; in that sense it's kind of like my inner debate of "camel toe" vs. "moose knuckle". Shit, I like 'em both.

-Speaking of shutting the cunt up, after my first meeting I had to stay after so the group leader could go over the program. Well, thanks to a fuckbit I'll call Talky Talkerton, a fifteen minute debriefing took about forty-five minutes. Every time the group leader would make a statement, this ass-helmet would make a lame joke or hauntingly unwitty comment. I just wanted to get out of there; I refrained from making jokes, and I actually have the occasional ability to be funny. This guy was brutal, just brutal.

-It's going to be tough to lose weight this week with Thanksgiving (which I like to call "Fat Guy's Christmas") as a major roadblock. I have been forced to make two of my near-world-fucking-famous Derby pies. Each pie contains chocolate chips, walnuts soaked overnight in bourbon, a stick of real butter, etc. This is some fattening shit, but maybe the best pie anyone will eat this side of the guy who goes down on Jessica Alba.

-In my job I have to go to two different Home Depots and make sure our products are stocked, displayed properly, priced, etc. On Friday I'll be at one right next door to a Wal-Mart, so I'll have to deal with those cocksucking idiots who line up at six in the morning to save an extra peso on a blender. Sleep in, you unemployable layabouts! I would spend the night in Richard Simmons' hot-tub if it meant I didn't have to get up at the ass-crack of dawn on Friday. Oh, and all of the vendors who work for the other companies are off on Friday. My employer is the ONLY one forcing its employees to work the day after Thanksgiving. I now officially, for the record, wish bankruptcy on these fuckers. It worked when I wished it on Organized Living, so I'd better start looking for a new job.

This Post Sucks Shit, But There's a Question to Answer at the End. Feel Free to Skip Ahead

When you're a big guy, there are certain colors of clothes that should not be worn. I usually wear dark colors like black and navy. Below is a list of colors I don't wear and the things they'd make me look like if I did.

Red = "Hey, Kool-aid!"

White = The Sta-Puf Marshmallow Man

Pink = Frankenberry

Orange = The sun going supernova

Purple = Grimace and/or Barney

Brown = A pile of elephant shit

Eggshell = Humpty Dumpty

tie-dye = Acid trip
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Also, sometimes life imitates art, but in this case art (The HBO series Curb Your Enthusiasm) imitates crap (this blog). On Sunday's episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, a woman accuses Larry's manager of having a small penis. The manager responds that the woman actually has a very large vagina, sort of like my post from last week. Interesting. Not funny or even entertaining, but interesting.
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This is my worst post ever. Damn. Okay, here's a question: What's the worst popular show in the history of television. A lot of shows suck but they don't last. I nominate The Tonight Show with Jay Leno. Discuss. (Questions: The last refuge of a blogging scoundrel).

Cancel the Jay Leno thing. He sucks, but nothing was as bad as Family Matters.

UPDATE: The folks at Queue and E? have interviewed me. Check it out.
queue and eh interview

When Looking Like a "Celebrity" Isn't a Good Thing

My sister-in-law looks like a celebrity. Unfortunately, that celebrity is famous for being a cum-dumpster, or "cumpster", on several low rent reality TV shows; starting with The Real World: Las Vegas, and continuing on Surreal Life, Real World/Road Rules Challenge, and Jizz-Jar-o-Rama.

These pictures are not, I repeat, NOT, of my sister-in-law. They are of the aforementioned pseudo-celeb, Trishelle Lastnameirrelevant. She is pictured doing what she does best: Preparing to throw a football while wearing a bikini, and having a hot-tub three-way with her Real World roommates five minutes after she met them. I believe the number two is on her bikini top to remind her of how many tits she has. There were also several nude pictures of her available on the web, but I'm sparing anyone any unexpected workplace nipplegate.


Looking like this spunkatorium wouldn't be a problem for my sis-in-law if she still lived in her home state of Ohio. People would just say, if anything, "Hey, you kinda look like that slut on TV" and that would be the end of it. But she lives in Las Vegas, so people come up to her all the time convinced she's Trishelle. In fact, they don't believe her when she says she isn't!

One time we did use this to our advantage. A bouncer at a club let us in ahead of about a million people, and I'm sure it wasn't because he liked my outfit from Dillard's Big and Tall department. Once inside, this guy in a suit comped us a round of drinks and asked "Trishelle" about helping with an upcoming club promotion. I explained to him that I was "Trishelle's" manager, and she was under contract with the Palms, where The Real World Vegas was filmed. He left, and we paid for drinks the rest of the night.

There really isn't a point to this, other than my sister-in-law kind of looks like a reality TV whore, but is actually a decent person. Carry on.

Yeah, I've been to a gay bar; no big woop. Wanna fight about it?

There's a gay bar in Louisville called Connections, and apparently gay-wise, it's a pretty big deal. Every homosexual male I've ever met from the South or lower-Midwest knows of Louisville not because of the Kentucky Derby or Muhammad Ali or baseball bats, but because of Connections. It's like the Studio 54 of gay bars, I suppose.

Despite living in the same city as this drag queen Mecca, I went most of my adult life without ever seriously considering walking through its doors. For one thing, it's a block away from the Pt's strip club. If I make the trek downtown to the corner of Piss-Stain Road and Drug Deal Avenue, I'm going to be rewarded by female nudity, not techno music and Judy Garland tributes. Also, I've always been so non-fashionable I doubted I would be granted admission.

But one February night my friend Sue wanted to go to Connections to celebrate her birthday. Sue was a bisexual who had recently been turned to full-on lesbianism by her douche ex-boyfriend. She wanted to party at Connections with her new girlfriend and her guy friends, all of whom, to my knowledge, are straight.

I assembled a rogue's gallery of people from work (my friends Wu, Kristen, and Tim), and invited my then-roomie Dave along for the ride. Dave and Tim were a little apprehensive about going to a gay bar, but I reminded them that the strip club was within walking distance, so they were okay for a while. Thanks to generous helpings of Maker's Mark bourbon, I was already half gassed by the time we got there.

As soon as I walked through the door, a large black arm made its way around my back, patting my right shoulder. I assumed it was Wu, being all drunkenly emotional. No, it was a strange man putting the clumsy, space-invading moves on me. I politely said, "I'm with them" and escaped his grasp, ending his fantasy of him playing "prison bully" to my "bitch who got traded for smokes". It didn't bother me because of any sort of homophobia, but it did piss me off that I used to go to regular bars all the time and in most cases women wouldn't touch me with a ten-foot pole, but I'm not in a gay bar five seconds and I set off someone's 'fresh meat' sensor.

I think Tim and Dave were there about twenty minutes before they bolted for the strip club. I stayed, but I couldn't figure out why Sue insisted on coming to this particular place. She and her girlfriend were the only lesbians in the whole bar. Most of the crowd were gay men and straight girls who wanted to be able to dance without a parade of douchebags coming up from behind and trying to fuck them through their clothes. Also, from looking around, I don't think this establishment enforced that whole pesky "Must be 21 to drink" law.

I just stood at the bar, buying Maker's one after the other, watching Sue grind with her girl on the dance floor, and eventually started talking to a lady. We talked for quite a long time and had a few laughs; then, out of the blue, she started making out with this guy. I wasn't even really interested in her, but it crushed me that she would find the only other straight man in the whole fucking place and hook up with him. The odds were low, but once again I lost.

After that, I really picked up the pace drinking-wise. I remember dancing with Sue, I remember getting into a car, I remember someone saying we were stopping for food. What I don't remember was sobbing uncontrollably at White Castle, to the point where one of the female workers tried to appease me with free Sara Lee baked goods. According to witnesses, that's what happened, but I don't recall any of it. That's one of the reasons I don't drink like that anymore.

But that's not the main reason. Sue let me crash at her place, and that night I had a vivid dream of Sue and her girlfriend really going at it; serious lesbianic eruptions, my friends. Only it wasn't a dream. IT WASN'T A DREAM. I was on the couch, near death, they were getttin' it on right next to me, and I was too drunk to realize it was actually happening! I obviously saw some of it, but I wasn't coherent enough to distinguish hot lesbo action from a damn dream. The next day, Sue said, "We put on a show for you to cheer you up (since I had apparently wept at the Castle), but you fell asleep."

"Alcohol: The cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems." - Homer Simpson

I May Have to Reconsider This Whole 'Jessica Alba' Thing

Ladies and gents, this is Scarlett Johansson, also known as Scar Jo to the hip kids (and dirty old men). No, I haven't just discovered her. I've admired her ever since Ghost World a few years ago. Only recently, however, have I been seriously thinking of making her the official object of my harmless yet pukingly pathetic 'dateless middle-aged guy' obsession.

This may come as quite the revelation to some of you, but I have this thing for Jessica Alba. I know, you wouldn't suspect a thing from reading this blog, but I kind of think she's sorta hot.

But sweet buddha, Scarlett is hot, too! I mean, just look at her. Okay, stop looking, I'm not done yet, PAY ATTENTION TO ME! And this is going to make me seem even lamer than usual, but I'm pretty sure she's smarter than Jessica. Jess is no mensa candidate. And Scar Jo is such a better actress who makes MUCH better films. With the exception of Sin City and a guest spot on Entourage, I've never watched a Jessica Alba performance with the sound on. Seriously, I listen to music and bask in the soothing glow of her physical perfection. With Scarlett, I can expel my lust-drool and still enjoy the movie. It's quite a dilemma, this whole "which gorgeous Hollywood starlet who would grimace in disgust if she saw me on the street and wouldn't fuck me if she just got bitten by a snake and my cock was a licensed antidote dispenser should I dream about to keep me from jumping off the observation deck of the Stratosphere" decision. Everytime I think Ms. Johansson's a lock, my natural affinity for dark hair and olive skin brings me right back to Jessica.

How about this: Recreational lesbianism between Jessica Alba, Scarlett Johansson, and my favorite blogger fantasy, Princess Steph? That's a nice compromise.

Note: I wouldn't have mentioned Steph if I didn't seriously believe she can take a joke. She's very cool.

Golddigger Update/Short Rant

A few months ago, I blogged about my friend Dan and his skanky, user girlfriend. I won't link to it because I'm lazy and really, who wants to read that old shit, anyway? I'll just summarize: He met a girl at a car wash, even though she doesn't own a car. She has too children, both by a different guy, and SHE DOESN'T HAVE A JOB. Her mother also is jobless and refuses to watch the kids so this harlot can become employed.

About a month ago, she moved all of her shit into Dan's house. Just one night, moved her crap in and brought her children and her little sister, who stays there more than half the time. Unannounced and uninvited, by the way. That's when I ended my silence. "Jesus cunt, Dan, throw those people the fuck out! Move back to the Bay Area, man. I'll miss ya, buddy, but run. Run for your very life."

He actually agreed with me, but said he couldn't dump her because she has mental problems and he was afraid she'd hurt herself. Oh my god, San Fran is very homeless friendly; I would have been a street person there before putting up with that garbage.

Well, today the shoe dropped, in the form of a steel-toed boot right in Dan's crotch. She's pregnant with his child. For those of you entered in the "Worthless Dumpster Slut" sweepstakes, that's three lil' bastards with three guys and I think she's twenty-three. He's thirty, I believe. It's all over for him. A guy who was raised upper-middle-class has just boarded the White Trash train to Fuckedville. And yes, it has to be said, he deserves it. He thought with his dick. Obviously, he thought with his unprotected dick. Those other kids are his now. Her insanity is his, too. When she really goes nuts, if she doesn't kill him in his sleep, he'll be raising the children and working full time. My friend is going to be a single mother.

I have nothing against parenthood and settling down, but this is a bad thing, people. He really did himself in. Sure, he got what he asked for; but sue me, he's still my friend. I still think he should run for his life. She's not even a smart golddigger. The son of a bitch has the same shitty job I have. I weep for all involved.
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I hate it when someone is blocking your path, so you politely say, "Excuse me, please," and they move their carcass about a quarter of a nanometer to let you pass. "Oh, thanks so much for the effort, doucheheart. I might be able to cram one of my pubes through that opening you so generously gave me." I'll repeat myself once, and if they don't move then, I'm coming through, bitch!

So, I Joined Weight Watchers...Finally

I've been threatening for months to join Weight Watchers, and last night I finally did. I actually weigh more than I thought I did, which threw me into another depression, but now I realize that it doesn't really matter, because I'm taking the necessary steps for me not to be a fat fuck.

This is what I look like now:












This is my goal:

Wish me luck!!!

When Public Nudity Goes Bad/Pseudo-Celebrities Tinkle, Too

I'm normally a fan of public nudity, be it on the Strip, at Mardi Gras, at a concert; wherever girls have access to liquor, basically. Some people, however, shouldn't be showing the goods. I, for example, keep it on, and have been recognized by the city of Las Vegas for my efforts. Mayor Oscar Goodman himself sent me an accommodation. He signed it, "Way to keep it on, fat boy. Yours, Oscar." The certificate was even dotted by tiny drops of blood that dripped from his bulbous, alcoholic nose. I shall cherish it always.

Some people, sadly, aren't as considerate. I was at a dump-shit bar several years ago called the Yucatan Liquor Stand (yeah, I know), and a woman jumped up on a podium and lifted her skirt, revealing an unfortunate lack of undies. Some things are better left a mystery, folks. I actually saw a leprechaun spring forth from her hairy catcher's mitt. He ran up to me and said, "There's a Pot o' Chlamydia at the end of that rainbow," then ran screaming into the night.
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The other day I was at my home away from home, The Green Valley Ranch casino, when nature called with a vengeance. I rushed to the bathroom, and as soon as I entered I saw a small, frail, feminine creature primping in front of the mirror. An immediate panic set in; I must have walked into the women's room by accident. I sort of freaked out, because they film the reality show American Casino at this place and all I need is for my mom to be watching The Travel Channel and see her son dragged from the ladies room by security. I quickly (well, quickly for me) turned around and was going to leave, but I saw urinals. Damn it all, I was in the right room after all.

That's when I realized who it was, the mysterious figure in the fuschia pants suit standing five feet away from me. It was Siegfried, of Siegfried and Roy fame. He hasn't done a show in over two years, but this man, looking like an anorexic Bea Arthur, still dresses like a float in a Gay Pride parade. I was actually much more frightened than when I thought he was a woman. I'm thinking Roy, who got his jugular ripped out of his throat by a rogue tiger, was the lucky one.

After that traumatic experience, urinating proved quite difficult. The sight of Siegfried's plastic face made "it" shrivel up to a stack of dimes and retreat inside me like a scared turtle. Ugh, for his next trick, he made my ability to hold down lunch disappear. For those of you unaware of who Siegfried is, I leave you with this photo.

Making Friends in College

The Scene: The University of Louisville's crappy, since-demolished student center. I and a group of friends are sitting at a table enjoying espressos when an annoying, obnoxious friend of a friend of an acquaintance sits down, uninvited, and makes an unsolicited announcement.

Annoying, Obnoxious, Uninvited Girl: "I had to break up with the boyfriend. He had a little dick."

Me: "Was it his little dick, or your big gaping vagina?"

A Blog Clearinghouse

This post has no theme; no direction; no point; no reason for existing, really, except that it's Sunday morning and football hasn't started yet, and the games they're showing suck jizz anyway. I'll just offer a few things that are on my mind right now, 'kay?
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Being me is no fucking picnic. Actually, it is a picnic; a picnic in which I sit alone on a blanket and eat fried chicken until my hands are so greasy I can't even masturbate. But it's not a fun picnic. I've always had a hard time fitting in with specific cliques. I think that's because I like individuals but despise groups. Any congregation of people I associate with has to have at least an 80%-20% cool-to-douchebag ratio.
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I'm now glad I'll never be a Blog of Note. Most of the people who are defending a particular former Blog of Note seem to be easily-amused dullards; people who use "thinking outside the box" like they invented the term and relate way too much to the hilarious hi-jinks of Dilbert. I like the cast of characters who comment regularly on my blog. I only have to explain myself on occasion, which is nice.
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For the last few days I've been listening to a group called Freakwater, which is a modern-day band that plays depressing "Oh, Brother Where Art Thou?"-style music. I'm not depressed, though. I'm just hankerin' for a chicken-fried steak smothered in sawmill gravy.
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I watched the old hockey comedy "Slap Shot" last night. It's hilarious, but also watch it for the slammin' disco soundtrack and eye-gouging seventies fashion rapes. If Paul Newman couldn't make the naugahyde suit work, what the fuck made regular guys think they could?
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I'm not saying I'm getting fatter, but the other day I was chased by rogue Nancy Kerrigan fans who thought I was former Tanya Harding bodyguard Shawn Eckhardt. I'll admit that I'm not as fat as Mr. Eckhardt, but I am too fat to outrun a group of Nancy Kerrigan fans. They beat the Christ out of me.
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It's been weeks since I've called out Lindsay Lohan for being a formerly-hot-but-now-anorexic cokehead. I hear she's slated to play Skeletor in the new He-Man movie; if she doesn't overdose in a Hollywood gutter and have her organs harvested by drifters in the meantime.

In Todd We Trust

I want to start a new religion. Why? Well, I'm a deeply spiritual man who feels his religious choices are lacking. Also, I'd stand to make a shitload of money. I've given this heavenly enterprise several minutes of light contemplation, and this is what I've come up with:

-Holy sacrament: Small-batch bourbon and Chicago-style deep-dish pizza. The blood and body of Todd.

-Can gays marry? Sure, but it'll cost them. In addition to the church's normal fees, all same-sex unions will be subject to a 15% "Having to put up with a bunch of narrow-minded, redneck fuck-for-alls protesting outside the building" surcharge. Sorry, but cleaning up all that tobacco juice is expensive.

-Who can be a minister? Anyone, male or female, who can keep their dirty meat-hooks off the kids! Thou Shalt Not Diddle the Kids! It's the eleventh commandment in my church. Actually, that brings me to my next point.

-We don't need ten commandments. My religion doesn't care if you honor your father and mother. Should Jan Benet Ramsey's parents be honored? Sure, if by "honored" you mean beating them with socks filled with nickels until they're almost dead, duct-taping wolverines to their crotches and tossing them over Niagara Falls. Here are the church's commandments.

Thou Shalt Not Kill

Thou Shalt Not Steal

Thou Shalt Not Rape

Thou Shalt Not Diddle the Kids

That's it. Lying isn't encouraged, but it certainly doesn't warrant its own commandment.

-Despite the name of this post, I will not be the object of worship. I fully expect to become rich and decedent from this venture, and nobody needs to see their god stumble out of VIP at four in the morning with a coked-out Bijou Phillips on his arm.

-In the United States, Jesus will still be the center of attention. Minus the evangelical interpretation of his words, Jesus had some good ideas. And it's what I know. However, as the church spreads throughout the world, we'll "localize", using whichever god in a particular country is going to make us the most money.

-Once I'm rich, we'll start giving some money to worthy charities. Most of them will be legit, but some of them, such as Ubermilfians for Justice, will be fronts to line the pockets of my blogger
friends. If you're on the VIP list, which is now lengthy to the point of self-parody, expect to cash in.

-No potluck dinners. The Widow Phillips can shove the brussel sprout ala mode she brings to every event right up her puckered poop-chute. All social events will be catered. Also, OPEN BAR, BITCHES.

-The songs will be better. When a choir member is old and her voice frail and weak, she will be politely asked to leave. She doesn't want to be asked a second time. And no standing up and sitting down over and over. Sit there and mentally drink the Kool-Aid we serve you, enjoy the good music, and empty your wallet into the collection plate. Praise the Lord.

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Also, I actually left the house last night! I had a few drinks and shot the shit with my new friend Shaken. She's a funny, sweet person who said really nice things about my blog and me in general. So, I finally got a "real-world" compliment, Egan.

The Secret to Happiness

I'm definitely in a much better mood than I was last week. Instead of wallowing in my depression, I've had time to think about why I get depressed. My diagnosis: I'm not stupid enough. Don't get me wrong, I'm not smart enough to be a scientist or surgeon, but I'm just intelligent enough to take an objective look at my life and the world at large and be severely disappointed.

Oh, I long to be stupid. Imagine how easy life would be if I was an easily entertained mush-brained jackfuck. I want to be able to turn on the radio and sing along to mindless musical kelp; I want to enjoy movies featuring Danny Glover saying "I'm too old for this shit"; I want to laugh uncontrollably at the madcap misadventures of Ziggy and have The Family Circus whimsically tug at my heartstrings; I want to be genuinely amused when someone asks "How's the weather up there?"; I want to engage in a lively Ford v. Chevy debate; I want to believe unconditionally in Intelligent Design; I want to boo the villains of pro wrestling; I want to decorate my car with Ribbon Magnents; I want to think a bumper sticker of Calvin urinating on something is endlessly hilarious; I want to leave an unironic complimentary comment on a Blog of Note; I want to read self-help books and feel self-helped; I want to have a quote from "Yes, Dear" for every social situation; I want to never question authority; and I want to develop a taste for inexpensive beer.

On second thought, bring on the fucking depression.

I Lost a Friend, But I Gained A Not Very Interesting Story

Early last February, the Saturday before the Super Bowl to be exact, I received a call from my then-friend Meagan. She had the hook-up at House of Blues Foundation Room at Mandalay Bay and invited me to go that night with her and a few friends. Little did I know when I accepted the invitation it would lead to the end of our friendship.

When I got to Meagan's house she was already half lit. She met me at the door with a shot. I did it, some sort of nasty shit, and gave her a hug. She slurred that she was celebrating no longer being with her boyfriend and had already done several shots with her roommate, who had just left to work a bartending shift.

Then she asked me to go to the store and get her a pack of cigarettes, which I did because I'm a sucker. I picked up her pack of rolled emphysema, some gum, a 2-liter of Coke for a mixer, and a few other items. The lady in front of me was kind of attractive and was probably really good looking ten or so years ago before the drugs and hard living left their marks. She was talking about being a millionaire and losing all her money; she was Vegas personified. Then she bought my groceries, just like that. I think when I spoke I reminded her of one of the voices in her head.

When I got back to Meagan's house I began drinking heavily, relying on her insistence that one of her co-workers would drive us to the Strip. I did a few shots with Meagan and then drank a vanilla vodka and Coke in a glass so large the drink actually had a tide. One of her co-workers came by and also started drinking like Courtney Love at an open bar, so it was decided that Susan (I don't remember her real name) would drive since she no longer indulged.

About an hour later, after I've drunkenly professed my love to Meagan and she's shown me her beautiful tits, Susan's boyfriend drops her off. Yeah, it seems Susan had lost her license about a year prior for driving drunk. That was the last night she ever had alcohol.

I don't know how we did it, but our sloshed asses talked Susan into driving us to the Strip, sans license, on one of the busiest Saturday nights of the year. We piled into Meagan's Nissan and took off. We got on the expressway and as soon as the speedometer read fifty the car started shaking violently. Susan freaked the fuck out. Here's the conversation:

Susan: "Holy fuck! MEAGAN, WHAT THE FUCK'S WRONG WITH YOUR FUCKING CAR?"

Meagan (stump drunk): "There's nothing wrong with my car. Quit moving the steering wheel so much."

Me (also quite drunk, but able to reason): "She's 'moving the steering wheel' to keep the car on the road."

Meagan: "She's nervous. It's making the car shake."

Me: "God damn it, Michael J. Fox with icecubes down his pants couldn't make the car shake like this."

So Susan gets off the freeway and we take the surface streets to Mandalay Bay. As long as the car stays under fifty mph, it's okay. We pass about a million cop cars on the way, and every time we do, Susan hyperventilates. We make it there, somehow.

The lobby outside of the Foundation Room was packed, but we just walked right in to the place. I love walking through a crowd of people younger, richer, and better looking than me and getting in while they have to wait.

To make a long story short, and because I'm tired and want to get some sleep, the night had its highs and lows. I had many more drinks, all courtesy of a bartender friend of Meagan's; Meagan and I made out near the bar; she said despite that she only wanted to be friends; I said in that case I didn't want to see her again; and when I sobered up and realized I still valued our friendship, it was too late. She never returned my phone calls and after awhile I stopped calling. I haven't seen her since that night.

The moral of the story is: Never say "I never want to see you again" unless you really mean it.

Bring in da noize, but kindly leave da funk at home

Here's a little bedtime story from your ol' friend Todd. Enjoy, my little ones.

I believe it was 1999 when my brother, my friend Dave, and I experienced THE SMELL. To this day, all I have to say to either of them is "THE SMELL" and they literally recoil in disgust.

We were at a club in Louisville called Have a Nice Day Cafe. It was a kitschy place that played disco and other hits of the seventies. Their drink specialty was jungle juice in huge half-gallon fish bowls; they were supposed to be for a group of people but I'd carry one around like it was a martini, drinking it all by myself. The three of us were standing there, me with my bucket of booze, Dave with his Budweiser, and my brother with a glass of red wine, when suddenly we were simultaneously nostril-raped by the olfactory equivalent of Dirk Diggler. We all literally gagged, then looked around for the offending smell; perhaps someone was gutting a marlin or wearing a suit made entirely of old tuna fish. No, it seemed to be coming from a very attractive young woman who was ordering a drink at the bar. I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, not because she was pretty, but because I didn't want to believe that smell could come from an alive human. When she left, however, the foul stench followed her like she was the Pied Piper of stinky.

I turned to say something to Dave, and the poor guy's face was turning colors like a character in a Bugs Bunny cartoon. When it turned plaid, I bought him another beer. Everything was okay for a minute until the odor came back with a vengeance. "This time, it's personal" it seemed to say ala every bad sequel ever made. My brother actually vomited a little into his wine glass. She was right behind us, directly under an air conditioning vent, blowing her moldy goat cunt flow onto us like the mushroom cloud over Hiroshima. I couldn't help but stare at her crotch, expecting demons to emerge from what was clearly the Hellmouth, until my eyes were seared shut by smell-heat. We quickly retreated to the upper level, my brother guiding my temporarily blind ass up the stairs 'lest we lay dead at her feet, overcome by THE SMELL.

Sure, it was a disco, but she brought more funk to the party than George Clinton.

Cover that shit up

I've lived in two distinctively different cities in my life, but there is one type of person common to both places: The loudmouthed middle-aged man who wears a half-buttoned shirt which accentuates his patch of gray chest hair. These guys are everywhere, and I've never seen one who wasn't a complete ass. Whenever I see a middle-aged man holding up a line or screaming at a waiter or taking up four parking places with his '77 LTD, I instinctively look for that patch of gray chest hair. I think these guys are all in a Shriner's club for boisterous, know-it-all fucks; and that proudly displayed tuft of gray framed by a Wal-Mart checkered-pattern shirt is their badge of honor.

Keep in mind, I'm not disparaging all men with gray chest hair; just those who go out of their way to call attention to it. It's always freakishly long and horribly unkempt, and sometimes accented by a gold chain from the Mr. T starter kit. Why, I ask? Why? Do any of you ladies see yourself growing old with a patch-o'-hair-showin' guy? I need to know.

One is the loneliest number...

I guess to make up for the fact that I went to a Halloween party last weekend, I spent this weekend in the house. I didn't step foot out of my house all day Saturday. Wow, am I lonely. I'm so lonely, bored, and depressed I actually wanted to go to work. How crazy is that? I'm also pissed that U2 was in town for two shows and I'm too poor to afford tickets.

I came close to deleting my blog. Why did I even think about that? Some recent developments have soured me on blogging, but I still mostly enjoy it. Really, what good would it have done to wipe out my entire blog? I would have then been lonely, bored, depressed, and blogless.

Next weekend I'm going somewhere, even if I have to go by myself and be one of those lurkers who everyone hates; anything to get out of the house.

I've updated my VIP list, seperating them into Louisville, World, and Vegas categories. Louisville and Vegas are in alphabetical order; World is in random order, except I have Dena at the top of the list because I fear her. I only took off the names of people who no longer blog. A lot of people on my original list no longer comment on my blog, but I didn't have the heart to delete them, this time. I guess I'm a blog pack rat.

At least being a social leper has allowed me to catch up on my reading. I bought Al Franken's new book The Truth (with jokes). It's great and all, but it just depressed me further to see in print the depths of right-wing depravity. Buy the book, but here's a quick gem: Years ago, Karl Rove ran a local campaign in Louisiana in which he started a false rumor that his client's opponent was a pedophile. Nice. The accused actually won a narrow victory, but was so shaken by the experience and so utterly terrified of what Rove would do to him if he sought reelection, that he served out his first term and retired from politics forever. Sweet Jesus.

Also, the combo of reading a left-wing book and having way too much time on my hands has made me think about this: Every time I buy a Family Guy DVD or a Homer Simpson talking bottle opener, I'm indirectly funding Fox News. God damn it.


I'll leave you with something someone emailed me. Hope you enjoy.

The only way I'd wear a mullet

Being from the South means you can never wear an ironic mullet. I'm a big cornfed guy from the South, so whenever my hair starts to get a little long in the back I almost have a panic attack. If I'm broke, I'll sell bone marrow to have enough money to get my hair cut. I won't have a mullet, by god.

However, if I had been a little more motivated (and a lot smarter) and became a heart surgeon, I would have a rich, flowing, Cyrusesque mullet. I'd spend hours each morning feathering out the ends, just for the awkward encounters with the people I was about to cut open.

"Hi, folks. I'm Dr. Pharris. I'll be performing the quadruple bypass on you, Mr. Jones." For added effect, I'd exaggerate my Southern accent until I sounded like a cross between Foghorn Leghorn and Cletus the slack-jawed yokel.

The patient would stare at first, and finally speak up. "You're the doctor?"

"First in my class at Johns-Hopkins."

"You have a mullet."

"I'm sorry," I'd say. "I'm not familiar with that term."

He'd look at me incredulously. "Mullet...you know, 'business up top, party in the back.'"

"Is this a come-on, sir? I'm happily married to Jessica Alba and Eva Mendes." (A boy can dream.)

He'd become angry. "Your hair. I'm talking about your hair."

"You like it? It cost me $100 at Euphoria."

"You paid a hundred bucks to look like that?"

"Enough chit-chat. Time for me to saw through your chest plate and fiddle with your ticker."

After that he'd run screaming into the night. I'd go home to Jessica, Eva, and a glass of bourbon.

For that, I'd sport a mullet, baby.

Funniest Product Name Ever

I can't find a larger image on the internet, but this is a Ballcock Coupling Nut. A friend of mine works in the plumbing department at Home Depot and pointed out this brilliantly named product. I don't know what it does; I suppose it couples your nut with your ballcock.

Okay, I'll fix the fuckin' country

"But Todd, I read your blog, " you may be saying out loud to yourself, and to the gypsy you're about to purchase a baby from. "Your life is a shit stain. Why should we trust you to fix the country?"

First of all, fuck you for doubting me. Secondly, who are you going to trust? President Bush? Har-de-har-har. Jesus? He's not coming back here to be tortured just so Mel Gibson can make "Passion 2". So sit back, relax, make sure the baby has all his fingers, and read my brilliant suggestions.

Force Israel to give the Palestinians what they want. This is not an anti-Israeli statement; nor is it pro-Palestinian. I think all people who blow others up in the name of religion (including the douchesacks who bomb abortion clinics) are fucking scumpails, regardless of whether the spiritual quote written on the nail-bomb comes from the Old Testament, the New Testament, or the Koran.

Why should Israel be the ones to concede? Because they're our allies, and any gesture by them makes us look good. Maybe if we spread just a little good will via Israel, we can travel abroad without pretending to be Canadian. Do you know how hard it is for Southerners to affect a Canadian accent?

Put rapists and child molesters in prison FOREVER. If a twenty-two year old gets twenty years in prison for rape, he'll get out at age forty-two ready to rape again. I know there's the popular notion of castrating rapists, but rape is all about violence, and if he doesn't have a dick he'll find something else to fuck with. Just throw the animal in jail until the day he dies, then toss him in a mass grave with all the other dead rapists.

Lower gas prices. Yeah, I know all about the free market, but these greedy pigs DO NOT COMPETE ON A LEVEL PLAYING FIELD. Their record multi-billion dollar profits are not the result of hard work and innovation. It has a hell of a lot to do with tax incentives, environmental-law rollbacks, and having an administration willing to let young people die on foreign soil to protect their interests. Make gas $1.50 a gallon at every gas station in America; not a penny more, not a penny less. They'll still make their money.

Hey, let's pay our good teachers what they're worth and toss the bad ones out on their asses. I'll admit up front I don't know a fair way to differentiate between good and bad teachers. Student test scores are misleading and not a fair way to judge the effectiveness of individual teachers. Perhaps some of my teacher friends out there can help me with this one. We can, however, raise the pay of teachers to reflect their importance to society.

Execute Karl Rove on live television. Karl Rove is a traitor, end of debate. He leaked a CIA operative's name to the press because said operative's husband was critical of the Bush administration. If we preempt Survivor one Thursday night and let America watch this guy buy a lead pacemaker Gary Gilmore-style, you can be god damn sure such nonsense won't happen again. Plus, I'd get a real kick out of it.

That's all I have right now. You're welcome.

Uh, tomorrow's will be funny.

This is the kind of shit that angers up my blood

I saw this image in its bumper sticker form in the summer of 2004. Nothing compliments a 120-degree day like gazing upon unabashed, unapologetic idiocy.

Quit rubbing your eyes; this is indeed a rendering of George W. Bush engaged in prayer with the ghostly images of Abe Lincoln and George Washington. Uncocksuckingbelievable!

PEOPLE MAKE MONEY SELLING THIS SHIT! Anyone who pays for this mental pablum needs to be institutionalized. And that's a lot of occupied rubber rooms, because a hell of a lot of people think President Fuckwad deserves to be on Mt. Rushmore.

I want to design my own picture of George W. Bush praying; on his left, an image of a young George W. being arrested for drunk driving back in 1976. On his right, an image of him being arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct at a college football game.

Jesus Herman Christ, do you know how drunk and disorderly you have to be to get thrown out of a college football game? Several years ago at a University of Louisville game I fist- fucked a one-legged albino and didn't get thrown out. In fact, the entire incident was shown on the stadium scoreboard, and we received a standing ovation. And it was all accomplished without the help of those meddling spectres Lincoln and Washington.