Shiny Happy Bloggers Holding Hands

It has been brought to my attention that I have been a tad negative lately. The word "bitchy" was even used. I'm sorry if the prospect of living the rest of my life utterly alone has dampened my mood and thus made my blog a little less enjoyable than it might otherwise be, so on Monday I decided to have a better attitude. It's amazing what a positive attitude can do for a gent.

My Positive Day in Review

As I was driving to work at the perfectly reasonable time of 4:45 am, there were only two cars on the road: Mine and the one that pulled out in front of me going twenty miles an hour in a forty five zone. I calmly braked to avoid sending either of us to heaven before St. Peter had our bed made. The gentleman in the aforementioned vehicle thrust his middle finger at me as I passed him in the passing lane; it was then I realized that he was just trying to save me money on gas. After all, nothing says "gas guzzler" like someone who drives the posted speed limit. Shame on me. I was being an environmental terrorist.

The customers at Home Depot were simply lovely this fine day. Please, why waste valuable time and energy to go to a bathroom or walk outside when the floor screams "Spit on me"? Why wear a constricting belt and deprive the world of the wonders of the human ass? Some people see a hairy butt crevice; I see a cracked window to the soul.

Later in the day, as I walked through the aisles of my friendly neighborhood Wal-Mart, I was pleased to see that so many young ladies took heed of God's advice to "go forth and multiply." The delightful piper's song of the children crying in unison was sweet music to my ears; and the undercooked Big Mac I consumed at their McDonald's reminded me, by making me violently ill, that I've really been neglecting my diet lately. Thanks for the culinary wake up call, Mickey D's!

When I got home I watched my beloved University of Louisville basketball team, preseason ranked number four, lose their fourth straight game and fifth out of the last six. What a valuable learning experience it is for these young men to suffer one devastating setback after another, most in front of a national television audience. The character-building is off the charts, people. They will learn humility and....well, more humility. They are so lucky.

As I laid motionless in a pool of my own sweat, still feeling the results of my tainted lunch, I thought about how much time I'd save by being too nauseous to eat dinner. Hellllllo, weight loss.

Everyone have a wonderful Tuesday. It's "Two-fer Tuesday" at the local classic rock radio station, and that, my blog buddies, means back to back Foghat.

CUNT: THE ANN COULTER STORY

This is lawyer turned right wing hatemonger/inexplicably popular author/cunt Ann Coulter. Ann is a cunt; did I mention that? And I'm pretty sure she can palm a basketball with those meathooks, but that's beside the point.

Ann gained respect among stupid people when she represented Paula Jones in her lawsuit against Bill Clinton. Now she appears on TV spouting asinine rhetoric from her "books". She followed her "book" Slander, in which she accuses the supposed left-wing media of defaming conservatives, with Treason, in which she accuses all liberals of being traitorous supporters of anti-American terrorism.

What kind of person is ignorant enough to write a "book" called Slander and then deliberately slander half of the country? A hollow-headed cunt, that's who.

I won't give many of her insipid quotes the dignity of a response, but two of them are so outrageous I have to share them. Remember John Walker Lindh, the American Taliban? Coulter said "We need to execute people like John Walker to physically intimidate liberals, by making them realize that they can be killed too."

Hey, cunt, I've got news for you, you ignorant cunt: THE TALIBAN ARE CONSERVATIVES. They're fundamentalists, idiots who believe every word of their bible is absolute truth just as YOU believe every word of your bible is absolute truth. I'm physically sickened by you and your ilk, but physically intimidated? Go shove a bronze bust of Ronald Reagan up your diseased twat.

Ann Coulter is the poster-girl for a right wing movement that has a surprising number of female proponents, so I'll add this quote which she made on the TV show Politically Incorrect in February of 2001. It's so goddamn ignorant it boggles the mind, and it's about a million different types of wrong. "I think women should be armed but should not be allowed to vote. The problem with women voting....is that, you know, women have no capacity to understand how money is earned. They have a lot of ideas on how to spend it."

Oh, you want to take away a woman's right to vote? Who's the Taliban now? Cunt.

I Don't Know if Wal-Mart is Evil, But it Does Suck

I was bored at work on Friday, so I left and wandered around Wal-Mart for about thirty minutes. Yes, this is some existence I've whittled for myself. Anyway, I noticed a few things I'd like to talk about in this forum.

The greeter is selective about who he greets.
This isn't a job that requires a huge amount of multi-tasking. A World War Two veteran finally earns his reward for storming the beach at Normandy by being paid minimum wage to stand at the entrance and welcome the throng of unwashed shoppers; but the guy at this Wal-Mart only spoke to the very old and the very young. He had no time for anyone between twelve and seventy. He tried to give all of the little kids a sticker, but he frightened most of them with his shaky, wrinkled hands and his old man smell (imagine a pile of wet cardboard).

If I live to be that old I'm going to stand at the door with my fly wide open. Will anyone tell an old man his barn door isn't shut? We'll see.

I'm no fashion plate, but for God's sake people, don't dress with your eyes closed.
The fashion atrocities almost overwhelmed me. Wal-Mart and the DMV are about the only places you can find someone wearing a tye-dyed shirt these days; but these aren't the colorful ones handmade by hippies and sold at art fairs. These are the dull mass produced piles of dung sold at outlet malls in and around Branson, Missouri. Also, any woman old enough to remember when "I Love Lucy" wasn't in reruns needs to not show her cleavage. "Is that cleavage, or are you trying to shoplift two bags of prunes?" And pop culture update: The trucker hat as ironic hipster icon was killed by Ashton Kutcher and Paris Hilton. Now you just look like the guy who operates the fried dough booth at the county fair.

You don't have to have a kid every time you fuck. No, really.
Thanks to the miracle of birth control, people can have sex without a resulting pregnancy. A lot of Wal-Mart people aren't aware of this, however. I think some of these toe-rags get knocked up just by sniffing cock. Hey, if you're going to burden society with four or five quasi-literate future morons, at least try to space them out a little bit, you assembly-line cunted dippoop. Spending the entirety of your twenties at some stage of knocked-upness won't convince God to forgive you for blowing your cousin on Thanksgiving when you were fifteen.


Remember when DVD two-packs made sense?
Just a few years ago, those DVD two-packs were very logical. They'd put Die Hard and Die Hard 2 in the same package, for instance. Now Wal-Mart just puts any two films together. "Oh, look; Full Metal Jacket and Bring it On, together at last. And here's Christmas With the Krumps with Million Dollar Baby. Cool."

Profanity is okay in movies. On CD's, not so much.
If you want to buy Eminem's greatest hits CD at Wal-Mart, the edited version is the only one available to you. Wal-Mart DOES NOT offer any "dirty" CD's. But do you want the film Scarface, where Al Pacino yells "Fuck" about a million times? That's perfectly acceptable.

I didn't make it past electronics. For the sake of what's left of my sanity, I went back to work.

Shameless plug: If you haven't played the "Remember when..." game yet, please scroll down and do so. Oh, and I'm thinking about selling vegASS t-shirts.

Please Participate in My Stolen Crap

This fun game and/or activity has been going around the blogworld for awhile now. It is only today that I am bereft of ideas enough to actually feature it here. The latest person to do this can be found at http://anonymousmidwestgirl.blogspot.com/. There are many, many others who I'm stealing this from. If you are one of them, get the fuck over it, please. Here's how it works: Post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL memory of you and me. It can be anything you want -good or bad- BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE. You've got free reign. Start your sentence "Remember when you and I..."

Even if you know me from Louisville, or Las Vegas, or met me when visiting Vegas, or kind of recall that time at the bar when I felt up your sister (the one who's a little slow, but needs lovin' just the same, thank you very much), MAKE UP SOME SHIT AND POST A COMMENT. I'm talking to you lurkers, too. All you ever do is take take take; it's about time you gave back.

Thanks in advance for playing along.

Tired of Dating. Tired, Tired, Tired!

(Update at end of post)

"Where I come from isn't all that great
My automobile is a piece of crap
My fashion sense is a little whack
And my friends are just as screwy as me

I didn't go to boarding school
Preppy girls didn't talk to me
Why should they, I ain't nobody
Got nothin' in my pocket..."

Rivers Cuomo, get out of my head!

These lyrics are about me, damn it. I should receive royalties for this shit. I really don't know why I allow myself to date. I just shouldn't do it. I should continue my regimen of masturbation and strip club visits (I've been to a strip club three times in the past year, so my routine leans heavily in favor of the former). All of my dates eventually lead to bitter disappointment and/or heartache; if not sooner, then later. And I wonder how many women I've driven to nunnerys over the years? Even if it's just one, that's pretty sad.

I'm too old for these fucking games. I'm too bitter and tired to audition myself to women so they can evaluate me with their mental checklists. I've had it with the dog and pony show that is dating. And maybe it shows while I'm on the dates or even when I'm being bombarded with questions on the phone before she decides if she'll HONOR ME with her fucking presence on a date. A woman I met on an online dating service said to me, "I've never met anyone our age who hasn't been married before."

What? What rural hilljill community did she come from? I SO wanted to say to her, "Well, you're divorced, so at least one guy on earth thinks you're a total cunt" but I didn't BECAUSE I DON'T THINK THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH BEING DIVORCED; just like normal people don't think there's anything wrong with being middle-aged and single. Despite my overwhelming misgivings, we agreed to meet for coffee on Saturday afternoon at a Starbucks to be determined later.

On Wednesday, I called her and at her insistence picked a Starbucks at which to meet. I was going to ask her what time would be convenient when suddenly she said, "I'm at Wal-Mart. I'll call you right back." She didn't call back, so that fact, combined with her disinterested tone of voice during our conversation, led me to believe she didn't want to meet for coffee.

She finally calls back on Saturday and leaves a message. I guess I was supposed to put my life on hold till she decided to call back? I ignored the call. Then she sends me an angry email which reads "What happened to you?"

So now I'm the villain? Fuck that! You know what happened to me? I answered an email from a crazy person and agreed to meet her for coffee, that's what the motherfuck happened to me. I hope she sneezes and her tits fall off.

I did go out Saturday night and the lady said she had a great time, but she hasn't answered my phone call as of yet. It's a little too early to tell, but I have a bad feeling about this one too.

So basically, I'm sitting in the angry chair and it's making my ass hurt.

I'm posting early because I'm meeting a friend for a nice non-date.

UPDATE: I received an email from the lady I went out with Saturday night. She said there was another man she went out with who she wants to pursue things with. I appreciate the honesty, but it doesn't heal the bitter sting of rejection. Yeah, so I'm pretty much a hermit now, content to die alone, as is my destiny.

The Pot Calling the Kettle "Stupid"

This is the artist still known as Pink. I don't know what thoughts go through your head when you see Pink, but I'm quite sure they don't contain the following:

"There's a Mensa candidate if ever there was one."
"I'd like to hear her ideas for ending world hunger."
"If Bill Clinton met Pink, he would talk politics with her and not try to get in her pants."
"Truly a serious artist; and definitely not a poseur."

I mention this because Pink is coming out with a single called "Stupid Girls" in which she makes fun of Britney Spears, the Simpson sisters, Lohan, etc., for being...well, stupid. And I assume for making bad music.

"But Todd," you are all saying as one, "Pink makes bad music her own damn self, and she appears to be quite stupid as well."

Astute observation, gang. Pink is someone who thinks rebellion is defined by how many times she can stick out her tongue and give the finger at the same time, so it shouldn't come as any surprise that she's stupid to the point of being ignorant of her own stupidity.

I think the whole thing is about publicity. Pink's first release did very well. It was entitled Mizundastood, which is stupid-speak for Misunderstood. Her second CD? Her parents bought it; maybe her stylist. Shit, I didn't even know she had a second CD until I googled her to get that picture, and the damn thing came out two years ago.

The publicity angle is working, though. Because of this post, twelve people now know that Pink is coming out with a new single and CD.

I just hope none of you are stupid enough to buy it.

The Only Thing Keeping This Going

Part of me, a large part, has had it with blogging. People give me shit for joking around, blogging friends are being forced off the internet by fucking assholes, I've been dragged into someone's personal bullshit; I can't deal with it sometimes. And it doesn't help that I know the Casual Friday guy can stage a one day "comeback" consisting of a picture of his elbow and it'll get five times the comments I ever receive. Hey, I never wanted to be a whiny, self-absorbed douche; it just happened.

Really, I was stupid enough to think that putting "ass" in the title of my blog would ensure no one would ever take it too seriously. That was a fucking dream. I still offend on occasion; I don't care, though. It just amazes me that I offend some people enough that they bother to comment. When some idiot offends me, I...and this is highly controversial...STOP READING THEIR BLOG. What a novel idea. Now, if I offend one of my bloggie friends, I want to know about it, but with an explaination, not just "You're a ballbag." Everyone else? I just can't be concerned about every sensitive soul on the internet. Sorry.

Oh, and anyone out there who has "found" the blog of an acquaintance and threatened to use it against them in some way, please take your own life. We are done with you here. I won't mention her name, but I finally took down the link of someone who had to stop blogging under really ugly circumstances, and it pained me to do it. It seriously pained me.

The only thing that keeps me going are the friendships created from blogging. Emails and phone calls and meeting a few of you in person; all as a result of posting my insipid bullshit every now and then. I will admit to liking compliments too; as they are few and far between in my real life. Oh, and I also blog so Princess Steph will fall in love with me.

It comes down to the fact that drama and horseshit are always going to hound me, blog or no blog, so I might as well keep this going, at least until I run off all of my readers.

In other words, probably another month or so.

I Should Have Copyrighted

These exquisite works of art are "Mosaic Toilets", by renowned master Sherry Eckhart. As you can see, Sherry is a pioneer of the Shitist movement that's sweeping the art world right now.

What does this have to do with me, other than the fact that my blog is a steaming pile of crap? Well, these are her Las Vegas toilets, promoted with the tagline "Viva Las Vegass". Will I receive a percentage from the profits of this potty goldmine? Of course not. I should have copyrighted, damn it. See more of Sherry's handiwork at:
http://www.lauriebuenafe.com/Sherrys_toilets/index.html

I'm sorry, but this is some tacky shit. I live in Las Vegas, where tacky pimp-slaps me on a daily basis, and this is too much for even me. It makes me not want to drop a deuce ever again.

Now I Shop at "Old" Von's

I've written in the past about the "dirty" Von's I used to go to when I first moved to the Las Vegas area. Dirty Von's is a distant, horrible memory now. These days I shop at Old Von's.

I don't call it Old Von's because the building is ancient. It's dubbed Old Von's because most of the customers are hovering around the century mark age-wise. There's an upscale retirement community near my neighborhood, and the fossils flock to Old Von's to buy deli soups, prunes, adult diapers, Cream of Wheat, and other old people staples.

Yes, these people are old AND they have money, so the collective sense of entitlement is enough to give Paris Hilton pink-eye. The parking lot is more dangerous than any Las Vegas freeway, because these people don't think they should have to lower themselves by using a turn signal, stopping for stop signs, or looking at all when they back out of a parking spot. This lot is fraught with peril, I tell you.

Their questionable automobile skills transfer to the inside of the store, where they wield their carts with reckless abandon. The other day a woman, who was so old her first dildo was made of wood, slammed right into my stationary cart as I perused the soup aisle. Then she had the fucking gall to give me the stink eye. My cart was pushed to the side of the aisle with plenty of room for her to get through, and she shook her head at me so vigorously the folds of skin on her neck made the sound of leaves falling from a tree; thus making me homesick for autumn in the Midwest.

The last time I was there, an elderly couple were making out in front of the produce. I guess brussel sprouts are like Spanish Fly to old people, because they were going at it so hard I thought I'd be killed by flying denture shrapnel. The woman actually moaned a little, and I couldn't help but wonder if she was still capable of wetness, or if her wrinkled souse-curtains remained as dry as July in Vegas.

I complain, but the store is sparkling clean, well-stocked, and always has plenty of checkouts open, mostly because the obnoxious old fuckers who shop there wouldn't have it any other way. I'm glad they serve some purpose other than geriatric porn.

Lookie What I Missed

If I'd have bothered to watch the Golden Globe pre-show on E!, I would have seen Scar Jo get her boob grabbed by openly gay designer (redundant, I know) Isaac Mizrahi while closetedly gay Ryan Seacrest and a nameless bimbo look on insipidly.

The next time there's a star-studded event here in Vegas, I'm going to show up with a microphone and cameraman, pretend to be a homosexual designer, and grab me some boobies.

Honestly, I don't understand why it's okay for Mr. Mizrahi to publicly molest poor Scarlett just because he doesn't enjoy it. She seems to think it's hilarious that a homosexual is fondling her jug-biddies. I do it and drinks are thrown in my face. UNFAIR, I SAY!

And why does Ryan Seacrest keep getting work? In a fair and just world, he'd be squeegee bitch at the peep show.

I Watch the Golden Globes So You Don't Have To

The Golden Globes are like the RC Cola of award shows; it's kind of an also-ran. They honor achievement in film and television, which insures an awkward mix of genuine superstars and people who play "wacky neighbors" on shitty UPN sitcoms. "Hey, is that Clint Eastwood talking to the cast of 'Eve'?"

I did one of these capsule reviews of the last two award shows on M-TV, and while this one wasn't as wretched, it was every bit as boring, maybe more so. The usual easy targets weren't there: No P. Diddy or Lindsay Lohan or Andy Dick to make the jokes practically write themselves. I did go ahead and take a few notes.

-Adrian Brody looks like someone gave the lead singer of the Black Crowes a shave and a shower.

-George Clooney wins some award. He's from Kentucky, you know. Whenever someone meets me and says, "Jesus, is everyone from Kentucky as ugly as you?" I always answer, "Not George Clooney."

-Paul Newman wins something and not only doesn't show up, he can't be bothered to appear via satellite and pretend to care. A wise man, as it turns out.

-Drew Barrymore is wearing a dress made from pool table felt.

-Why do I suspect Nicolette Sheridan has the biggest cock in the room?

-I know Pamela Anderson has fake tits, fake lips, fake hair, etc. Dear god, I think she's hot. I can't help myself.

-Chris Rock presents an award. He makes fun of Mary Louise Parker's chances, and she wins.

-At this point I really start to lose interest.

-In my humble opinion, Pulp Fiction is the only thing saving John Travolta from becoming Tom Cruise.

-Was I inspired by the mere sight of Scarlet Johannsen to temporarily forgo my viewing in order to rub one out? I'll never tell.

-Leonardo Dicaprio took time off from fucking every cocktail waitress, startlet and super model on the face of the earth to hand out an award.

-Brokeback Mountain won for best picture. I'm sure "Bill the Apostle" has a full-on rager.

There was more, but who cares? And please read the post right under this one. I buried it fairly quickly and it would be nice if someone read it.

Reflections on MLK Day

I hope everyone with "real" jobs enjoyed their long weekend. The douchebags at our corporate office made us work on MLK day; they aren't racists, just cheap-ass pieces of human filth. I wish annoying but benign cysts on the lot of them. Damn, I'm getting soft in my old age. Just a few years ago I would have prayed for them all to die slow, painful deaths. I'm losing my edge, man.

Today we celebrated the life of a man who knew he was going to die if he did the right thing, and then did it anyway. That's always society's reward for someone who tries to make things just a little better: A bullet to the head. Then we "reward" Dr. King posthumously by giving him a "three day weekend" holiday so car dealerships can have their first post-New Year's sale. "I had a dream that we would sell this Kia for $8,995."

I think the most cynical move ever, which occurs in every medium-to-large sized city in the United States, is the renaming of a run-down street in Martin Luther King's honor. They always choose a segregated, crime-ridden, drug-infested slice of abject poverty and rename a street, as if to suggest "This is so much easier than trying to make the slightest effort at confronting the root causes of poverty." I know larger cities all have thriving multi-racial, multi-cultural neighborhoods. That sort of unforced diversity was MLK's dream, so name a street in one of those areas after him. His dream didn't have anything to do with trying to solve real problems with hollow gestures.

She Wants to Be the Girl With the Most Cake

I know what you're thinking: "Mr. viva las vegASS, you've gone too far, stealing a body from the morgue, putting a tuft of straw on its head and posting its ghastly image on your blog"; but no, this is Courtney Love, who as of this writing is still alive, somehow. She's apparently had plastic surgery, which means SHE PAID MONEY TO LOOK LIKE THAT. For Lindsay Lohan, this must be like looking into the future, but that's not the point of this post.

Plastic surgery costs money, as does being addicted to every substance one can snort, smoke, shoot up, or guzzle. According to published reports, living the lifestyle of an anorexic junkie and paying to look like a wax figurine has left Ms. Love broke, meaning the thousands she made as the lead singer of Hole and the millions she made when she had the good luck to marry a suicidal genius are all gone.

Before the mad rush to donate money so Courtney can buy her heroin in Beverly Hills instead of Englewood, rest assured that she'll be okay. She'll reportedly receive over 100-million dollars for her share when she SELLS THE RIGHTS TO NIRVANA'S MUSIC. I knew it! I knew it! I knew it!

I'm surprised it took this long for her to feed her husband's corpse to the vultures of big business. As soon as Kurt Cobain blew his brains all over the guestroom of his Seattle house, I've been waiting for the other Doc Marten to drop; and now it has, with a resounding thud. Within the year, Kurt's songs will be used to sell gas-guzzling SUVs, cardboard-tasting pizzas, Old Navy retro flannels, the Chia Kurt, vaginal odor deterrents, Axe body spray, and athletic shoes sewn in overseas sweatshops by child laborers.

Hey, maybe Kenny G will be the highest bidder. That way he can license "Come As You Are" to the United States Army and pay "tribute" by re-recording all of their songs using his patented "cuntophone".

What the fuck do I care? All of my life, anything that ever mattered to me in the least has been watered down, bastardized, shat upon, or otherwise sold to the highest bidder. Why not this as well? I can't wait until Jared from Subway is grinning at me insipidly while singing "Smells Like Toasted Sandwiches" or "Serve the Servants" becomes the new opening theme for Sean Hannity's radio show. All I'll be able to do is laugh at the absurdity of it all.

What other choice will I have when the Demons of Corporate America simultaneously pull out their cocks to piss on me and I'm left without an umbrella?

Things That Have Recently Irritated the Piss Out of Me

Recently, a few things have really irritated the piss out of me. Without further adieu, here they are:

-Those shoe-skates that kids wear
"Hey, our kids aren't annoying and destructive enough on their own. Let's put them ON WHEELS."

-Big Mama's House 2
Martin Lawrence, the least funny human since Hitler died, is making a sequel to a movie no one with over seven functioning brain cells could even sit through.

-My dad
He insists on praying before every meal, even at the Cheesecake Factory. He should have prayed that he not always be a complete prick.

-Desserts on Chinese Buffets
No matter how delicious the food on a Chinese buffet, rest assured the dessert will be something like sliced bananas in a gelatinous, unsweetened slurry or spice cake with no icing.

-A new breed of cell phone douchebag
The recent proliferation of those Nextel "walkie talkie" phones means I now have to endure the grating tones of both the ass standing near me and the fuckjoint on the other line.

-This asshole who works for my company
Our company had a meeting today and this fucking asshole who thinks he's much funnier than he actually is kept harassing our poor waiter. I CUNTING HATE IT when people belittle service industry workers. This poopstain has the same monkey job I do, so he needs to stop fucking with waiters in the guise of comedy.

This guy is a picky eater to the point of being a major pain in the arse, and that's all well and good, but at one point he was so rude I wanted to attack him with my fork. He's in his forties and acts like a big baby; he only eats red meat, chicken wings, and bread. No veggies, no cheese, no condiments. He eats and behaves like a petulant child. Christ on a speedboat, I hate our monthly meetings.

Oh, there's other things, but I'm beginning to choke on my own bile.

The Las Vegas Strip is a Filthy Whore...

...and that's why I love her so. Of course, as with all filthy whores, you can't love her too much, and when you do you'd best use extreme caution.

Two of my best friends were in town for a few days, so on Monday and Tuesday nights I went over to the Strip to hang out with them. On Monday night we had strong ass margaritas at Margaritaville. These were serious Nick Nolte/Gary Busey liver-denting margaritas. I was half tanked by the time we got to the Mirage and stood in the VIP line for their new nightclub, Jet. Jet is new, and thusly the hottest spot in town right now, so believe me when I say I'm not their idea of a VIP. I'm a VIP at my neighborhood Starbucks (they gave several bags of Christmas Blend for free after the holidays) and a pretty big deal at the fat and tall section of Dillard's, but at this place? Uh, no.

Nevertheless, a friend of mine got my name on this VIP list. It was a sweet thing to do and a tremendous gesture, but she wasn't there with us and had no control over what happened next.

What happened? A lot of nightclubs are closed on Monday nights, so every hot cocktail waitress and female bartender in Vegas was also on the VIP list. If one hottie was on the list, would the club also let her ten hot friends in at the expense of fashion-unfriendly eye-cauliflower* such as myself? You bet your blog reading ass they would. Shit, if I owned a club in the most competitive business environment on earth, I'd do the same thing.

So, the VIP line became several lines. The aforementioned hot as fuckfire local girls got first dibs; next were any large group of attractive female tourists, followed by male friends of the door staff or one guy accompanied by two or more women. I believe I was in the "Not a fucking chance in hell" portion of the line.

Our line did move a little, and if we had made it to the front before the situation hit critical mass, they may have seen my name on their list and let me in. Unfortunately, these schlubs just a few people ahead of us committed a deadly sin: They tried to pawn off a "line pass" printed from a nightclubs.com website. If three people were in line, not three million, it might have worked. As soon as our prissy little staff guy saw that "pass" he never even looked at our line again. We were through. When football legend John Elway and his massive entourage walked in, I knew it was all over.

Waiting in that line may have been the best nightclub experience I've ever had. The beautiful women just kept coming in droves. These girls were so good looking I wondered how they'd ever find males physically worthy of mating with them. Seriously, there was no end in sight. We finally got tired of standing and left, but on the way out I was like "Hey, there's the best looking woman I've ever seen. Nope, there's the best looking...No, there she is." It was ridiculous.

The next night we went to Studio 54 and got in, because it's been there awhile. I like 54; I always have a good time there and that night was no exception. We were standing near the dance floor when suddenly I'm approached by one of the "line pass" guys from the night before. He says he and his friend waited almost four hours and never got in. Sure, these guys were kind of dorks, but that was a total dick move to let them get right to the front and NEVER let them in. I think I'm going to go to Jet this Saturday and give that List Nazi a vicious 702 beatdown. Yeah, it would have ruined his precious hip club to let those guys in. "Yeah, Jet was filled with the largest congregation of beautiful women ever assembled, but these too average guys totally fucked the vibe." What a bunch of scumbags. In a year they'll be begging people to go to their club.

What a crazy couple of days; everything I like about Vegas, everything I hate about Vegas, all in full effect.

Bad Fashion, or Obscure Socio-political Statement?

I've had friends in from out of town, which is why I didn't post yesterday, and while walking around the Las Vegas Strip the last few nights, I noticed something that shocked, alarmed, and quite frankly repulsed me: An overabundance of Caucasian afros.

Yes, it seems that white people with naturally curly hair are going balls to the wall, folks. I saw so many giant, frizzy cracker-fros I assumed the Art Garfunkel fan club was in town. Or maybe they're showing support for record producer/crazed recluse/accused murderer Phil Spector. Has Nick at Night started to show more Welcome Back, Kotter reruns, which is causing the ever-impressionable American public to adopt the afroteric fashion statements of most of the cast? Are Simpson fans paying tribute to Sideshow Bob?

What is your theory? Help me out on this one. I need answers! A better blogger would have linked all of the afro sporters mention above. I'll just run some pictures at the end of the post.









I have a story or two from the last few days, but they can wait until later.

A History of Drunken Replies

Note: Yeah, I'm posting this early, but I've milked that last post for all it's worth.

When I drink and someone asks me a question or directs a comment my way, I usually have the good sense to reply with tact; but sometimes I drink too much, and these are the results.

Girl at bar: "So, do you find me attractive?"
Me: "No, but I'd have sex with you anyway."
(Note: She was really annoying the buzz off of me, so lighten up).

Bouncer, as we're leaving a crappy bar: "Have a good night."
Me: "They should rename this place 'The Men's Room', 'cause it's where all the dicks hang out."

Douchebag loudmouth new hire at work Christmas party, about ten years ago: "Blah blah blah blah blah blather pablum blah blah blah racist bullshit that set me off."
Me: "There's a breaking-in period, you know. You've been here two days, so drink your free drink and eat your free food and shut the fuck up. Seriously, have you shut your fucking mouth ONCE since you got here? You are a stranger to us, man; we don't want to hear it. DOES ANYONE WANT TO HEAR ANOTHER SYLLABLE OUT OF THIS GUY'S COCKSUCKING MOUTH? We aren't your lifelong friends; circumstances FORCE us to work with you but don't PUSH YOUR FUCKING LUCK. God damn it, I'm getting another drink. Anyone want another drink?"

Overaged frat boy as I walked past him at a bar in Louisville: "Hey, dude, you were great in that Godzilla movie."
Me: "Yeah, my favorite scene was when I butt-fucked your mom with a pogo stick."
(I would have said this sober. He deserved it.)

My dad, drunk for the first time in about a decade at my brother's wedding: "I was never much of a father when you were a kid, and I'm sorry for that, son."
Me: "Well, I wasn't much of a son, either. Of course, I was six, not a grown man like you, but whatever..."

There are so many more, but I don't want to lose every reader all at once.

Note: This post was inspired by Ubie's picture of some ugly clock.

People love shit. They go seriously gaga over steaming piles of excrement. During my brief (but not brief enough) trip to Tennessee, I saw some crap that made me want to move to a commune and live with stinking hippies. In Pigeon Forge, the place where cool goes to die, they have several "Dinner shows" usually involving a buffet and country music. One such show, billed as "The Longest Running Show in the Smokies" promised...are you ready for this...Country Gospel and Clogging. They must have done market research to determine the show I would least like to see. The only way it'd be worse would be if the cloggers wore University of Kentucky uniforms and kicked me in the nuts with their wooden shoes. But these places were packed every night, full to bursting with easily amused velveeta-eating simpletons.

I'm not a cultured person, and not because I'm from the upper south/lower midwest. Louisville has a symphony orchestra, an opera company, and a Center for the Arts. I loathe opera, I've never set foot inside the Center, and every time I heard the Louisville Orchestra they were accompanying a fireworks display. I'd rather eat a good pizza and drink microbrewed beer. But at least I don't have a velvet painting depicting George W. Bush, Jesus, and the guy who played "Cooter" on Dukes of Hazard harassing a pregnant teenager outside an abortion clinic. I don't schedule social engagements around airings of "Yes, Dear". I don't have all of the Nascar decorative plates, for the love of Cletus.

Speaking of Nascar, back when Dale Earnhardt was killed, I saw some idiot wearing a t-shirt which read God Must Have Needed a Driver. First of all, I'd like to think God has the good sense to not choose a driver who died while driving; and why bring God into it at all? I know some people really liked Dale Earnhardt, but when Kurt Cobain blew his head off, I didn't run out and buy God Must Have Needed a Heroin Addict t-shirts.

Every year our local newspaper, The Review Journal, which is put together by seals who've been trained to type, publishes a Reader's Choice awards for restaurants. Every year Pizza Hut wins "Best Pizza", as voted by the braindead inhabitants of my adopted city. PIZZA CUNT, I say! If your dog had thumbs he could throw together a better tasting pie. Olive Garden wins "Best Italian". Frank and Dean are rolling in their respective graves at the very notion. Oh, and Taco Bell wins "Best Mexican". Do you know how many Latinos live in this city? Obviously, they don't vote in this poll.

People like to collect shite. When I worked at Organized Living a man asked me for a container to house his sombrero collection. I gave him several shopping bags and sent him on his way. And now I send you on your way. Have a great weekend.

What About Me?

It seems like every day I read about someone moving across the country to be with that special someone they met while blogging. It seems to be a widespread phenomenon, like the i-pod but with sex.

My question: What about me? I blog almost every god damn day, with the exception of vacations and shitty routers, and NOT ONE SINGLE FEMALE has fallen madly in love with me and decided to uproot her life and move to Las Vegas. What have I done wrong?

Oh, yeah...I blog every day about how hideously grotesque and fat I am; about my obsession with strip clubs, recreational lesbianism, and Jessica Alba; about my shitty, low-paying job; about my uncool, dangerous automobile; about how I passed out drunk while two lesbians were getting it on right next to me; about how most women are either immediately repulsed by me or want to be my friend; about my public bowel movements; about how I hate the city of Las Vegas and its sub-moronic inhabitants. Oh, and I use the word "cunt" a lot and take our Lord's name in vain on many occasions.

But I'm funny, or so I've been told. Doesn't that count for something? Doesn't someone want to leave her life behind - her job, her friends, her family - to live with me in abject poverty in a fad city that will probably be a drought-ravaged ghost-town in twenty years? C'mon, I'm hilarious, or so I've been told. We'll laugh our asses off as we sit in our roach-infested studio apartment and eat Beanie Weenie right out of the can.

I think I've made quite a compelling case. I'll sit back and wait for the offers and propositions to pour in. Please, ladies, no fighting.

Jimmy, the Nazi with a speech impediment

No, that's not the title of the worst ABC Afterschool Special ever; this is a true story from back in my college days. Allow me to spin this yarn, will you?

One day as I sat in the University of Louisville's student center with a group of friends and acquaintances, a girl named Amy, who was pretty close to my circle of friends, introduced us to her new boyfriend, Jimmy.

When I looked up, espresso shot out of my nose. This guy lived across the street from my dad and brother; in that neighborhood he was known as Jimmy the Skinhead. Really, "the Skinhead" was his last name for all I knew.

I had never heard him speak until that moment. "Hewwo, evewyone," he said. I had to suppress major laughage. This guy combined the views of Adolph Hitler with the speech pattern of Elmer Fudd. No wonder Amy was so smitten.

At first Amy said he was a skinhead, but not a Nazi skinhead. Okay, there are about four non-Nazi skinheads, whatever. Then one day she admitted to us that he might indeed be a fascist.

"So," I asked, "does he go on and on about 'Hitwer's mastew wace'?"

"Shut up. I still love him," she said with that pathetic infatuation look in her eyes. I tried to explain that the original Nazis would have slaughtered Jimmy because of the way he talked, but she was beyond reasoning with by that point.

That was pretty much the end of our friendship with Amy. She actually had the outside-ovaries to bring him around a few more times, and that was a big mistake. I would just talk about how much I wanted to fuck Vanessa Williams. In fact, I'd fawn over almost every black girl who walked by our table. Adolph Fudd would just sit there and silently stew, since he was, like most racists, a giant pussy.

Amy stopped hanging out with us, even after she and Jimmy the Skinhead had broken up (I think they had a fight because she had a Prince CD in her collection, I don't know). The entire situation sickened me. I don't think everyone you date should have to mirror your social and political ideals, but a gothish English major dating a Nazi? This had sitcom written all over it.

In fact, I wrote a theme song, sung to the tune of The Patty Duke Show theme.

"Meet Amy who loves most everyone,
Black and white and Mexican;
But Jimmy only thinks you're right
If your skin is lily white,
What a crazy pair."

It's About Fuckin' Time, Huh?

Yes, vacation and faulty routers have conspired to effectively place on blog on the dreaded "hiatus", but I'm back now, beeeeyotches. I'll be boring the christ out of the lot of you in no time.

Okay, here's a rundown since I last blogged.

-On the way back to Vegas, I thought they were going to turn our plane around. A group of frat/sorority man-cunts and she-pricks created quite the ruckus. One douchebag screamed at the top of his lungs during takeoff, which prompted a flight attendant to tell him to shut it or U.S. marshals would be waiting for him in Vegas. And these yahoos weren't even from Louisville; they were from a connecting flight. Louisville yahoos would have at least been amusing, and they would have bought drinks for everyone they annoyed.

Even more frustrating a piece of human flotsom as far as I was concerned was this borderline retarded girl who insisted on singing along with her i-pod for four fucking hours. Imagine a shitty top-forty singalong with Fran Drescher if she was booze-hungover and cum-drunk. I actually made a mental note that this cooze was going to be trouble before we even boarded the plane. She was one of those people who thinks they're much more attractive and interesting than they really are. Someone needs to tell ms. jizz jar that just because the local frat uses her as a human pincushion, that doesn't make her entertaining. During the plane ride, while she was scream-singing Ashley Simpson songs I wanted her to give someone, anyone, a blowjob. I would have appreciated the silence. Since this happened on January 1st, she's an early candidate for the coveted title of "vivalasvegASS cunt of the year".

-While in Louisville, I visited the Muhammad Ali Center. It was fantastic. Admission was only nine dollars and it was well worth it. I urge anyone who lives in that area of the country to visit; and if you have children, by all means take them. As another example of my duality, this life-enriching experience is only a mile or so away from my favorite strip club.

-Speaking of strip clubs, why do strippers insist on taking off my glasses and rubbing them on their cootchies? My face is never attached, so this does nothing for me. I don't wear glasses because I like looking like a nerd; I need them to see, god damn it. I wonder if they do the same thing with hearing aides, crutches, and artificial limbs? "Honey, why is your wooden leg all sticky?"

-I'm not mentioning any names because the parties involved may not want their names mentioned, but a few of my blogger friends have deleted or altered their blogs because of harassment. Holy cunting shit, why does this happen? Do you know how many blogs I read and really despise? No, because I only read them once. I move on if I don't like them. Some people live such empty, hollow lives, however, and I guess passing judgment on strangers makes them feel better about themselves. I hope their genitals rot and fall off.

-Thanks to everyone for the kind comments. I'm really glad to be back.