Beads for tits!

Happy Mardi Gras!! Today is Fat Tuesday. I think tomorrow is Anorexic Wednesday, but I like Fat Tuesday much better.

Well, ladies, here are the beads. If you'd like to participate in the time-honored tradition of showing your appreciation for these lovely beads by flashing me your breasts, my email address is toddp345@yahoo.com

If you are the modest type, simply describe your breasts in great detail in the comments.

Thank you in advance for your pictures/descriptions.

Nostalgia is my anti-drug: 10,000 Maniacs

I was watching VH-1's The Alternative, which is televised crack for someone like me who several years ago tricked himself into believing he was cool, and they played 10,000 Maniacs "About the Weather". It immediately put me in a better mood. I loved 10,000 Maniacs. Their jaunty pop-folk combined with the amazing voice of Natalie Merchant ensured that I spent the late eighties/early nineties walking around with a constant metaphorical hard-on.

I saw 10,000 Maniacs twice, both times in Cincinnati, Ohio; in 1989 and on their last tour with Natalie, in 1993 at the Riverbend Amphitheatre (the world's largest mosquito breeding ground. I think I got malaria from that show).

When she went solo, Ms. Merchant finally graced Louisville with a performance at the amazingly cool Palace. It was a good performance, but I noticed something at that show: I was surrounded by dirty, smelly hippies. The body odor and patchulli stench was so strong it was like I got a Dirty Sanchez from Jerry Garcia. There's a fine line between folky chantuse and dirty, smelly hippie, and at that point I had a feeling Natalie was trading in her flowered dresses for hairy armpits.

I died a little that night, because I was IN LOVE with Natalie Merchant when she was still with the Maniacs. Some of my friends vehemently disagreed, but I thought she was damn sexy. Her olive skin, dark eyes, full lips and curves sent me over the edge. There are pictures of her wearing more makeup and looking glamorous, but I purposefully picked this one because I never thought she needed a team of stylists to look good. I also loved her politics and her charitable endeavors.

Before anyone thinks I'm going all sensitive on them, tomorrow's post will be about strip clubs. I'm sure Ms. Merchant will NOT approve.

When Natalie left 10,000 Maniacs, the band soldiered on without her, putting out a few releases no one even thought about buying. They have since lost their recording contract and their founding guitarist, Rob Buck, died of liver failure at the age of 42 (he's the one on the far left of the photo, looking at Natalie as if he's thinking "Damn bitch is gonna leave and plunge us into obscurity"). They are now on their third lead vocalist and tour to disinterested crowds at dog tracks and county fairs across the country.

Natalie Merchant may not be as popular as she once was, but unlike her former bandmates, people actually pay money to see her concerts. If there's ever a 10,000 Maniacs reunion, I'll be there.

Exhibit A:

Sure, I could say that ads also make men look stupid, but why take my word for it when you can see it for yourself?

Chrysler is having a contest in which you, a member of the North American buying public, can appear in an ad with "The Hemi Guy".

For those unfamiliar with this character, he appears in Dodge car commercials and about shits his pants whenever he sees a Dodge car or truck with a "Hemi" engine, whatever the fuck that is.

I hereby declare The Hemi Guy to be a negative male image. Imagine young impressionable boys thinking this is what they should aspire to be. What if women see this commercial and think all men are more interested in cars than sex or personal hygiene? What if male teenagers start wearing their hair unkempt and filthy, and wear sleeveless shirts when they don't have the physique for it? Damn, some of them already do that. It may be too late.

Also, Happy Birthday, Pants!!! No, not the garment; the blogger. My blog friend Melliferous Pants is having a birthday. If you haven't already, stop by her site and wish her birthday tidings. Oh, just do it...she has chronic back pain, you selfish bastard. Her link is posted to your left.

Does This Woman Look Stupid to You?

She may in fact be stupid, but can you tell by looking at this picture? To me she looks like someone who wants her boobs pushed up.

I bring this up because I stumbled upon a page entitled Women as Stupid.
http://www.ltcconline.net/lukas/gender/pages/stupid.htm

Hey, some of the ads they show may make women look stupid. But ads make men look stupid, too. Have you ever seen a beer commercial? A bunch of guys acting like Bud Light is a legitimate adult beverage? Please.

Most of the ads you'll see are simply using sex appeal to sell their products; a practice, as unseemly as it may be, as old as advertising itself. And why, I have to ask, are sexy and stupid synonymous to these people?

I think people who nitpick about stupid shit like this ultimately do a disservice to women. Women have real problems, the least of which is some horny college student jacking off to a picture of a millionaire supermodel in a Wonderbra ad. Wage inequality, domestic violence, and a laser-focused effort by the powers that be to bring back the era of coathanger abortions are but three more pressing concerns of the female gender, in my humble male opinion. If getting rid of images unsettling to certain leisure class sensibilities made these legitimate issues disappear, I'd be all over the cause like Michael Jackson on a pre-pube wee-wee. As it is, it's just pseudo-intellectuals pissing in the wind.

Jesus in a wheelbarrell, in Saudi Arabia women can't SHOW THEIR FACES. I think of Mardi Gras in Saudi Arabia and the phrase "Beads for chin" comes to mind. Luckily, in the modern world a woman has the right to be seen, to be heard, and to make decisions; even if she ultimately chooses to be a humorless, petty twit.

There's early, and there's heavy early

I was getting ready for work this morning at the un-cunting-godly time of 2:50 am when I put toothpaste in my hair instead of gel. I had to get back in the shower and wash it out, but at least I didn't brush my toofises with L.A. Looks mega-hold.

People who finished college don't have to be at their job at 4 in the morning.

Make the Movies My Way for Once

I hate most of the movies I see because they're always so predictable and unbelievable. I'd like for movies to be more like real life.

-When a group of teenagers approaches another group of teenagers and does an elaborate, choreographed dance routine punctuated by the line "You got served!", I'd like a spokesman for the "served" group to say "What the hell kind of fruity shit is that? I don't have time for this."

-When an Asian crime syndicate wants to kill a do-gooder martial arts master, instead of sending a hundred guys with swords to get individually snapped in half, why not hire a sharpshooter and give him a nice rifle with a laser scope? What, these guys are ruthless criminals but it's dishonorable to shoot a motherfucker?

-Have the girl pick the handsome, rich jerk instead of the nice, affable everyman. It happens quite frequently in real life. The last scene of the movie should show the rich jerk, in a fit of drunken rage, pushing the woman down a marble stairwell.

-Have the lovable team of misfit overachievers get absolutely crushed by the bigger, stronger, faster team. Bonus points if the kid who overcame the most adversity gets paralyzed from the forehead down on the last play of the already hopelessly out of reach game.

-A veteran cop's misgivings about his new partner - a hot-headed, impulsive, out of control rookie - are proven to be well-founded when the rookie makes a critical mistake and gets them both killed.

-No one listens to the eccentric scientist when he warns them about an approaching meteor. Of course they don't listen; there is no meteor. The guy's insane.

-A popular high school jock bets his friend he can turn any girl in the school into the prom queen; and instead of picking a beautiful model-type who wears thick glasses and dresses unfashionably, the friend chooses a girl who has horrible acne, weighs about four hundred pounds, and is missing her nose. The jock is so humiliated he commits suicide.

-A group of young adults are staying at a cabin in the woods when one of them is mysteriously murdered. Instead of wandering around the dark forrest waiting to be butchered, the survivors get in their car and ride the fuck off. As the credits roll, one of them says, "Yeah, Jennie was a nice girl and all, but us getting slaughtered isn't going to bring her back."

I ask for so little. Get started, Hollywood.

I've Wanted to Settle Down

I went out on Saturday night and spent most of Sunday recovering from a hangover that I'm sure was the result not of drinking too much but from a purposeful poisoning which my body survived Rasputin-style. I think I was slipped some of the drain cleaner that killed Heather Chandler.

We saw a friend of ours do stand-up comedy and then went to Margaritaville, where an incredibly short girl "freaked" me (I'm sure "freaked" is an outdated term, but I don't know the latest word for when someone grinds into your crotch uninvited; I'm old, help me out here). She was so short she was grinding me with her face. I finally had to tell her, "That's enough honey, unless you want your eye poked out." The band was horrible but apparently knew who to blow to get a Saturday night gig on the Las Vegas Strip. I guess middle-aged white guys in bands think it's okay to rap Eminem songs since he's white too, but it doesn't look or sound any less pathetic. Really, just stop it. And the next time I hear any band butcher "Hey Ya" that fucking brutally I'm rushing the stage with a blunt instrument. The ladies in the crowd did, however, shake it like a Polaroid picture like it was still 2oo4.

I had a good time, really I did, but it's times like this I wish I would have found my special woman-friend a long time ago. A couple of my posts last week were crass even by my low standards; but I certainly didn't write about the stripper/blowjob incident to brag. If anything, it was a sad commentary on the lives of myself and the girl involved. I wish I had been married or cohabitating during the summer of 2002, but I wasn't and I played the cards I was dealt. Also, I have to admit I thought it was funny because that sort of thing NEVER happens to me.

All of the drunken memories I have I'd have given up for real happiness. I didn't have it then, I don't have it now, and maybe it will elude me forever. In that case, is the white guy wearing the sans-a-belt slacks really rapping "Baby Got Back"? I'm late for the dance floor.

My Date With Pants

As some of you may know, the first blogger I met was Bay Area resident and all around fine slice of womanhood Melliferous Pants. In early August we met for what was supposed to be one drink but turned into a damn fine evening if I may say so myself. She has finally, through extensive therapy, gotten past the embarrassment of being seen with me in public, so with her permission I'd like to share a few photos and memories of that fateful evening.

This is Pants herself in her hotel room. I thought she was a little overdressed for an August evening in Las Vegas, but she was already stinking drunk, so I liked my chances.


I decided to take her away from the fake glitz and glamour of the Strip to one of my favorite hangouts at the time, the old Pyramid Roller Rink on Boulder Highway in Henderson. Pants took this photo; she thought black and white would really capture the moment. She was right.

Once inside, we spent a good hour at their bitchin' arcade. Pants is great at Skee-Ball. She won enough tickets to get a faux-rabbit's fur keychain, which she unselfishly gave to me. And to think, it only cost forty dollars of my own money. She's so swell.

We met some really nice people at the rink. These guys gave us a few skating pointers. The one in the middle took quite a liking to Pants. In this photo he's covering up a noticeable erection.

These girls, on the other hand, were like, total bitches. They were all saying to Pants "You could do better, lady" and I was all "Whatever."

Who knew Pants was such an accomplished breakdancer? Or that she owned such a horrid sweat suit?
This is the live band that played "hits of the disco era and beyond". Pants and I couples-skated to their haunting rendition of Jim Croce's "Time in a Bottle". I had to think about baseball statistics so I wouldn't sport wood. At the end of the evening, I didn't have to drive Pants back to the Strip, as these two gentlemen offered to "take care of her for the evening." As I walked away, I thought I heard one of them say something about "gettin' freaky" but I could have been mistaken.

Sadly, less than a month after our date, the Pyramid caught on fire, totally destroying the old roller rink and disrupting an antique car show they were having in the parking lot. Oh, but we'll always have our memories, won't we Pants?

myspace myass

I set up a myspace account last night to promote my blog. I have my URL all over my profile, which I made as offensive as possible without getting banned, but I'm going to delete the whole thing. How do I get people to even look at my profile? By going to theirs? I'm not much of a self-promoter, and roaming around asking people I'd probably hate to be my friend is kind of pathetic. So far my only myspace "friend" is that fucking dolt who created it. I hate his picture; it IMMEDIATELY fills me with rage and I don't know how to delete it.

I was in the myspace chatroom for about ten seconds before I was overwhelmed by the same level of mass stupidity that once made Vanilla Ice a millionaire.
It went something like this:

yoyowhutzup: Any bitches wanna roll wit me?
cuntastrophy: I'm fifteen. Any takers?
douchebagless: BRIAN DAWSON OF CROWN POINTE, INDIANA IS GAY!!!
desperate: Who watched Idol this week?
yoyowhutzup: I watched that shit. Wanna git wit me?
desperate: Dude, I'm a dude.
douchebagless: DO YOU KNOW WHO LIKES TO GET WITH DUDES? BRIAN DAWSON OF CROWN POINTE, INDIANA, BECAUSE HE IS A HOMOSEXUAL.
cuntastrophy: I'm still like a virgin and everything.
brian d-dawg: I'm not gay. Is that you Joey? I'll kick your fuckin' ass.

Surely our best and brightest. Why is our culture becoming a sick parody of an actual society (says the man who blogs about dumpster head)? At least I try not to be completely witless in my vulgarity. Stupid people should be sterilized. What good is this fascist government of ours if they can't sew a few vaginas shut? Or give douchebags a shot that shrivels their nads to the size of raisins; useless, non-reproductive raisins. A man came dream, can't he?

Everyone have a great weekend.
The Forgotten Celebrity of the Week:
Pseudo-grunge superstar and lead singer of Candlebox, Kevin Martin.

Hypocrisy is a stern taskmaster

I am, above all else, a hypocrite. Most people are, but that's fodder for another post. I know I've blogged before about believing that sexually active single women are unfairly criticized in our society. I truly believe this. I've also stated, for the record, that I enjoy reading of their exploits on their various blogs, even if the chick turns out to really be Calzone.

But all of that would change if I had a daughter. Seriously, I'd want my daughter to remain a virgin until marriage, and even then I'd want her husband to have the smallest penis in the world. I can't imagine being a father and just knowing that someone was doing to your daughter what you did to girls when you were younger; the lies she was being told, the ludicrous amounts of alcohol she was being given, the hamfisted "sexual" dialogue she was being subjected to while on the receiving end of nothing more than a means to some schmuck's nut.

And what about accidentally stumbling upon your daughter's blog? Christ on a jet ski, I shudder to think of the horror. "Hey, great...my little girl has a blog called The Cock Chronicles, and apparently her last partner had a tool like a baby's arm holding a big red apple. I'm going to kill myself now." And if my daughter was twenty-two and some guy my age was flirting with her via the internet, I'd make it my life's mission to find that man and make him suffer.

I think a problem is that I didn't have a sister. I think accepting the fact that your sister has been entered by friends of yours goes a long way to coming to grips with your daughter's sexuality. If you can forgive Bobby the neighborhood kid for decorating your sister's prom dress with his premature ejaculate, maybe you can accept the fact that your daughter likes it up the ass.

I wasn't afforded that luxury, so if I ever have a daughter I'm putting that 'giner on lockdown. I'll hire the school bully to pulverize anyone who even tries to talk to her; and if the bully tries to get some, I'll take out a mafia hit on the fucker.

Also, I really like strippers; and they don't have to blow me. They had me at taking their clothes off. But if my daughter became a stripper, I'd burn down the club where she worked and poke out the eyes of each and every patron who ever saw her in a state of undress; then I'd castrate any pervert who ever got a lapdance from her. After that, I'd start getting revenge.

Sometimes I think the hypocrisy coursing through my veins is what keeps me alive.

I Like Stories Where I Get a Blowjob

Note: This story is filthy and fucking disgusting. If you are squeamish or are at all dainty, please go to the next blog. Thank you. Do not comment that the story grossed you out, for you have been warned. I wouldn't even read this post. Seriously.

This may seem like a shock to some of you, but I used to frequent a strip club when I lived in Louisville. By frequent, I mean I'd go there about two times a month. That was all I could afford.

Being the nice, unthreatening sort, I got to know a stripper who would sit and talk to me and occasionally tell me her problems. She was a beautiful young thing and she never tried to hustle me. Of course, she hustled so many others it wasn't much of a sacrifice on her part. Also, she was under twenty-one, so when she sat at my table I wasn't buying drinks for her the entire time.

One night I was in the club and she ran up to me and said, "Hey, I'm finally twenty-one." To celebrate, I bought her two drinks as we talked while she was waiting for her turn to go onstage. She came back a little later and said she had to go hustle a table of rich guys and she'd "make it up to me" the next time she saw me. At the time I thought it was an empty promise.

About three weeks later my friend Wu and I were at a bar called The Phoenix Hill Tavern for their Rewind Wednesdays. They'd play seventies and eighties music in the main room and Coors Light cans were only seventy-five cents. I hate Coors Light but come on, SEVENTY-FIVE CENTS. That night, however, we were drinking cranberry juice and vodka.

I walked up to the bar to get a drink when who did I see but My Favorite Stripper. Lo and behold, she walked right up to me and grabbed my crotch. I know when to keep my hands to myself, but since the only things between her hand and my cock was a pair of boxers and some Old Navy jeans, I reached around and grabbed a few handsfull of her hot ass. I ordered drinks for us, we talked for a minute, and then we started making out in a dimly lit corner.

Just when I thought it couldn't possibly get any better, it got way better. Without saying a word, she lead me to the back exit, we got our hands stamped for re-entry, and the next thing I knew, I was leaning up against a dumpster and she's on her knees with my cock in her mouth.

Okay, at this point I need to give you, the reader, a bit of a backstory. I had already had plans to move to Vegas in the fall, but my lease had expired and they wouldn't renew it for less than a year. So, since I needed a place to live before I moved, I lived with my mom that summer. You'll know why I'm telling you this in a minute, but I CANNOT masturbate while my mom is in the same house. I had my own bathroom, but that wasn't good enough. It always seemed like any time she left the house I was at work. I went weeks without a good rub out.

As the off-duty stripper proved her mastery of the fellatic arts, she had no idea of the ticking time bomb she was about to set off. When the moment of truth was about to arrive, I gave her the tap out but she waved it off. She was in this to the bitter end, content to take in a heapin' helpin' of throat yogurt. Little did she know I'd had no release of any kind for the past month.

When I finally reached orgasm, I was the Energizer Bunny in reverse: I kept coming...and coming...and coming...and coming. I dropped about a half-gallon of liquid love down her gullet. At one point I think some of it came out of her ears. She damn near drowned in it. That would have been a tough thing to explain to the cops. "Actually, officer, she drowned in my spunk. No I'm not kidding."

The next time I saw the stripper she very politely introduced me to the guy she was going to marry. I never saw her again.

What the fuck happened to Britney Spears?

Remember when Britney Spears was attractive? And popular? Sure, she was never talented, but that's not the point. The entire world was hers before she was old enough to legally drink, and she pissed it all away for...Kevin Federline.

Britney Spears was the best-selling female pop star ON EARTH, and had the kind of ass that nations go to war over. I think it's fair to say that she could have had her pick of gentleman suitors, yet she decided to let K-Fed take a poke at her multi-million dollar cootch.

I have a cousin who works at a rendering plant in Lietchfield, Ky, and she wouldn't fuck Kevin Federline. To confirm my suspicions, I called her.



me: Hey Nadine, it's Todd.
she: Whuuut? I don't know me no Todd.
me: Your cousin. I met you at grandpa's funeral.
she: The tall fella?
me: Yeah. Anyway, let me ask you a question: Would you fuck Kevin Federline?
she: Is he that boy what works at the Dairy Queen? I already did him. He gives me free blizzards 'n shit.
me (mockingly): Naw, he's the boy what knocked up Britney Spears.
she: Ah, hell naw, he's nasty.

But Britney Spears has no problem with it. I guess she wanted to find someone less intelligent than herself. If so, mission accomplished, Brit.

"Roughriders! Wooooo!"

I sometimes hate Vegas, but for the first six months I lived here, I loathed it every second of my existence and with every fiber of my being. I think it had something to do with an incident that occurred my first full day in town. It's an incident that will go down in history as "The Roughriders Affair".

No, despite the name, I wasn't gang-assed by a roving band of gypsies, at least not physically. Emotionally, however, it was as if I was the new bitch of the cell block. I was leaving the Dirty Von's supermarket, already in shock that as a resident of a developed nation I had to endure such shody grocering, when I saw something that made me want to don a big-and-tall sized bunny suit and hop back to Louisville.

These two teenage boys, and I mean much closer to nineteen than thirteen, were each riding one of those ridiculous motorized scooters, the kind that are like a skateboard with handlebars. They sported mullets that would have curled Billy Ray Cyrus' toes, and they were weaving in between parked cars shouting "Roughriders!! Woooooooooooo!!"

I don't know how it happened, but my left shoe fell off when I saw this shit. I was putting it back on when they decided it would be fun to drive in front of moving vehicles. When a lady in a mini-van honked at them to get the fuck away from oncoming traffic before they were killed, they flipped her off and called her "Cunt". Come on, cunt is hilarious when I say it, here on my blog among friends; but screaming it at a woman in front of her small children? Only mildly amusing.

No, not funny at all, actually, and I wanted to go over there, but I know I would have killed them. I was so filled with rage that once I got a taste of their inbred blood I wouldn't have stopped until they were both dead.

I grew up in a blue collar neighborhood in a semi-Southern city, and THAT was the most white trash thing I'd ever seen. Not wanting to spend the rest of my life being non-metaphorically gang-assed, I starting walking in the opposite direction, their insipid cries of "Roughriders!! Woooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!" bouncing around in my skull.

Some nights it still haunts my dreams.

Ask Me Anything, Volume Two

A few months back, I asked the readers of this blog, regular commenters and lurkers alike, to ask me a question, any question. I then answered them as honestly as I felt like.

Well, I've driven away many readers and at least for now have a few new ones, so let's do this again.

Ask me a question, about any subject, and I will answer it.

The Rules:

-One question per person, please; although it can be a multi-parter.

-Teachers, don't ask me academic questions. Stick to personal stuff and opinions.

-That's about it.

I'll answer the questions in the comment section of the post. Last time I did a separate post; but this time I'll answer in the comments so it looks like people actually like this blog.

Thanks a lot for your enthusiastic participation.

Part Two: The Abc's of vegASS

Remember yesterday's post? This would be the second part.

N is for "narcolepsy"..Dating a narcoleptic saves you a ton of money on alcohol and roofies.

O is for "orifice".."I'd like to probe your womanly orifice" is a bad opening line. Trust me on this one.

P is for "pussy"..A guy walks up to a girl at a nightclub and says, "I'd like a little pussy."
The woman replies, "So would I. Mine's as big as a house."

Q is for "Quentin"..Tarrantino, that is. Watch both Kill Bill movies when someone's done ya wrong.

R is for "recreational lesbianism"..It's still the new straight; and it just may be man's best friend.

S is for "sarcasm"..Brooke says, "I shall not rest until I read part two of this outstanding piece of literature."

T is for "toilet"..How come everytime I try to take a piss at a public restroom the urinal is always wearing piss-soaked pubes as its own fur? How violently are these fuckers shaking off when they're done to coat the toilet in curlies? I hardly ever find strays at home.

U is for "ugly"..But I have a great personality. Okay, "great" is stretching it a bit.

V is for "visitor"..Over three years and I still don't feel like I belong in this town.

W is for "winter"..It was seventy-five degrees here today. It gets a bit chilly at night, though.
X is for "x-rated"..I don't watch a lot of porn because I don't like it when the guy jizzes in the woman's face. It disgusts me. When he wipes it off in her hair, though...that's hilarious.

Y is for "Yucca Mountain"..It's in Nevada and the feds want to store nuclear waste there. Yeah, I can't see anything bad happening. Stellar idea.

Z is for "Zed".."Zed's dead, baby. Zed's dead."

Oh yeah...
The Forgotten Celebrity of the Week:
This week it's celebrities, '80s glam-rock also-rans Enuff ZNuff.

The Abc's of vegASS (Part One)

I know what you're thinking: "There has to be more to this blog than the quasi-sane ramblings of a lonely, bitter, overweight, transplanted lower midwest/upper southerner." No, that's about it, cats and kittens. I will, however, give you an A to Z glossary of words that mean a lot in the world of vegASS. I'll break it up into two parts, as you and I both have short attention spans.

A is for "asinine".. I love this word. It so perfectly describes just about every person I've ever come into contact with since I started remembering things.

B is for "bootylicious"..'Cause I'll always make passes at girls with big asses.

C is for "cunt"..Didn't see this one coming, did you?

D is for "dickwad"..Webster's Dictionary defines "dickwad" as That which possesses the characteristics of a wad of dick. So true. So true.

E is for "empty"..My life, my soul, her promises...

F is for "Federline"..The new gold standard for douchebags; he is to white trash what Frank Sinatra was to crooners.

G is for "gawd-awful"..Yeah, I watched the Grammys last night. It was so boring it didn't even inspire an "I watch it so you don't have to" post.

H is for "hubris"..This goes out to me for thinking anyone really gives a fuck about the Abc's of this insignificant blog.

I is for "I Met Pants"..My much-anticipated forthcoming blog, dedicated to the glorious evening when I met noted blog celebrity and all-around fine slice of femalehood Melliferous Pants. Funny, Egan's name never came up. Not even in passing.

J is for "Jessica"..Alba, that is.

K is for "kiss the fattest part of my ass"..That'll learn ya.

L is for "left of center"..I don't have a bumper sticker depicting President Bush in a circle jerk with John Wayne, Abe Lincoln, and Jesus.

M is for "man-whore"..A status to which I've always aspired but will never attain.

I'll post the rest some other time.

Really, I ask so little...

I suppose I ask too much of strangers. Up until now I actually had the audacity to demand that people not pull out in front of me and slam on their fucking brakes; I expected parents to actually watch their god damn children while out in public; and I wanted the person in front of me at Von's to not smell like a used condom filled with demon spawn. Well, I've abandoned all of those demands because TIME AND TIME AGAIN the god of inconsiderate bastards has conspired to ass-rape me back to the Stone Age, going in so deep I have his glans imprint on my pancreas.

All I ask now-ALL I CUNTING ASK-is for people to wash their hair. I was at my Weight Watchers meeting Tuesday night when I noticed how many of my fellow fatties had filthy, tangled, matted hair. Wash that shit, do you hear me? If you're from the South, warsh it; if you hail from Boston, wawsh it. Either way, introduce your scalp to some shampoo and warm water.

There I was, content with the fact that I lost weight last week despite attending a Super Bowl party where I ate like an ancient Roman with a tapeworm, when an entire family of dirty haired squatters entered the meeting. I wanted to say, "Yeah, nothing compliments morbid obesity like sporting a used mop on top of your head," but I sat and silently repressed my gag reflex.

Since then I've looked for dirty hair like a horny priest trolling for alter boys; and I've seen plenty, baby, plenty. Why would someone leave the house with greasy hair plastered to their dome? Why?!? And if you just have to go out in public with dirty hair, wear a hat. Oh, and while I'm ranting here, if you wear a hat IT BETTER be cootered (the process of bending the bill until it curves downward on both sides). Holy crap, I hate an uncootered hat. If you can set a drink on the bill of your hat, you're a douchebag. End. of. discussion. Kevin Federline wears an uncootered hat. I rest my case.

Have a great day, wash your hair, and cooter that fucking hat.

Director Kevin Smith Killed By Christian Extremists

Group Upset By Buddy Christ Image

by David Cleason, Associated Press
Director Kevin Smith, best known for his films Clerks and Chasing Amy, was fatally shot outside of a Los Angeles restaurant early Tuesday morning, allegedly by a member of an extremist Christian group that calls themselves CHRISTIANS AGAINST DEFAMATION.

Police arrested Martin Swendle, 43, of West Van Nuys, California, at the scene of the crime and have charged him with first-degree murder and violation of the city's noise ordinance.

Witnesses say Swendle approached Smith and angrily began chastising the director for the Buddy Christ image (left) used in the film Dogma. When Smith reportedly told Swendle to "eat a cock, fuckface," the suspect pulled a gun from his front pocket and shot Smith several times in the face and head. Swendle then threw the gun down and attempted to flee on foot, but was tackled by two of the restaurant's valets, who detained him until police arrived on the scene.

Witnesses also say Swendle made repeated references to CHRISTIANS AGAINST DEFAMATION, or CAD. CAD spokesman Clint Monroe, contacted by phone from the group's headquarters in Lexington, Kentucky, said "While we do not officially condone murder, it is our belief that Kevin Smith has now reaped what he hath sowed."

Outrage at Smith's murder has united the Hollywood community. Actor Gary Busey released a statement in which he both condemned the murder as an act of cowardice and complained of bugs eating away at his flesh. Director Quentin Terrantino, interviewed by CNN, said, "What kind of a fucking lunatic takes a human life over such a cartoonish image?"
Photo copyrighted by View Askew Productions

I had a good time, but...

My friend had his bachelor party Saturday night. I had a good time, but I was hoping for a little more debauchery. I'm actually getting too old for out of control shenanigans, but I wanted things to get out of hand for one reason: An easy blog post.

Seriously, if someone does coke off a whore's taint or we catch an underground donkey show, that's a post that practically writes itself. Instead, we ate and drank at Margaritaville, I won some money playing video poker, we saw a comedy show at the Improv, we drank a little more at a karaoke bar and we went home.

I had a great time, but reading about it didn't do anything for you, did it? Replace Margaritaville with "Jose's Cantina" and the Improv with "Jolly's Chuckle Barn" and we could have been in any city in America. When you mention bachelor party and Vegas in the same breath, people expect craziness. They want to hear about impossibly attractive women engaged in the kind of behavior that would make Charlie Sheen blush; they demand tales of drunken riots and casual bloodbaths; they expect you to tell in excruciating detail a story you swore on a hotel Bible you'd take to the grave. They think you've dined with Emeril Lagasse, drank with Nick Nolte, traded jokes with Jerry Seinfeld and banged J Lo up the ass while calmly explaining why you find her talentless.

But even for a mild-mannered groom-to-be and his four unhip friends, it's still Vegas. I still saw more beautiful women in one night than a lot of people see in a year. Hula dancers practiced their art, bikini-clad women dove into vats of margarita mix, guys on stilts fashioned "r"-rated balloon hats for wasted bachelorettes, hot girls kissed JUST TO BE NOTICED, drunks sang karaoke both incompetently and hilariously, and I somehow ended up walking down the Strip drinking from a 24-ounce "ghetto can" of MGD. I hate MGD.

So the post didn't write itself. Maybe the next time someone I know gets married we'll have a proper orgy complete with human sacrifice.

Things I've Learned From Reading Blogs

I've read a lot of blogs, my friends, and they've all taught me something. Most of the time, the lesson is "Stupid people aren't quite as annoying when you can't hear their voice". And of course, I'm not talking about any of the lovely souls on my VIP lists and/or the charitable commenters who say such nice things about me. Well, I'm talking about ONE of you, but that's not the point. I'm just kidding. Or am I? Yes, I am.

Back to the planet Earth, here is a list of things I've learned from reading blogs:

Egan is the only person on the web who supported the Seahawks
And he's from Seattle, so he almost had to. Everyone else seemed to love the Steelers. Even here on the left coast, all the stores sold were Pittsburgh jerseys. I wish the game would have been more entertaining, but at least the hot female Steelers fans I know are happy.

I've come to admire anyone who keeps an "alter ego" going for more than a week
I've had my share of second blogs and alter egos, but they didn't have staying power for me. I just lost interest. My first was called "Strategery", written by "President Bush", but I stopped it when I realized I was making that dumb fuck way too charming and entertaining. Then I started "Take the Dress to the Cleaners" by Bill "Willie Jeff" Clinton. I love the Willie Jeff character as far as leaving comments but the blog got old fast for me. I was also Mary Worth's Smug Sense of Self-Satisfaction, but I'm the only person on earth who thought that was funny, so I shitcanned it.

The word "fucktard" is very popular these days
Really, I think Oprah used it to describe that writer who "lied". By the way, who gives a fuck about that? I'm glad he lied to anyone stupid enough to buy a book based soley on the recommendation of Oprah.

Apparently, guys with average-sized cocks aren't getting laid
It seems that every time a woman writes in her blog about having sex, she was either ran-through with a man-spear or prodded with a baby carrot. No one seems to get fucked by a penis that doesn't either shift her organs and cause eternal bleeding or make her think she's being pinky-screwed. I'm sure a lot of guys fall somewhere in between having a third leg and being able to use a thimble as a codpiece, but their sex partners must not have blogs. This is a sweeping generalization, by the way, so don't take it literally.

Don't get me wrong, I love the stories; at least someone's having sex. I'd love to have a lousy lay at this point, or receive a tentative, not-so-enthusiastic blowjob. It's better than nothing.

I tend to skip any blog that openly supports President Bush
Notice I said "openly". A lot of blog are apolitical, so I don't know how they feel; but once I start seeing pro-Bush sentiment, I'm out of there. That really isn't fair, is it? I know conservatives who read this blog. Okay, I know of one, whom I love, but she reads despite my liberal musings. Why can't I look the other way on occasion? Oh yeah, because I'm petty. And because conservatives tend to think Rush Limbaugh is funny. And they think Ann Coulter, the cunt, has a reasoned world view.

I've learned some other things, but apparently not when to keep my stupid opinions to myself.

A little about Sam's Town and a BRAND NEW FEATURE!

This is Sam's Town, a local's casino on the far east side of Las Vegas. You won't see this place on the Travel Channel or featured in that crappy magazine they give you when you fly Southwest Airlines. This is a place where old, hardened, bitter residents of Las Vegas come to breathe-in smoke, eat a really bad buffet, drink swill, and breathe- in still more smoke. There are some tourists here, though: Sam's Town also has an RV Park, so old, hardened, bitter travelers can park their homes and gamble away their life's savings. The theme for this dump should be "All of the addictions, none of the amenities".

I mention Sam's Town because in my three-plus years of living in the Las Vegas area, every single person I've EVER encountered who wore a Sam's Town article of clothing has been a nasty, mean-spirited piece of white trash. NOT ONE of them has been even mildly pleasant. And some of them have been stupid to the point of being a walking parody of an advanced life-form. How can this be? There are good people everywhere, even in a town like Vegas. All of the Sam's Town patrons can't be dolts and peckerwoods, can they?

On the way home from work yesterday, a four-hundred pound man on a scooter pulled out in front of me doing around ten miles-per-hour. I had just made a right turn on a green light, so there was NO ONE behind me. He couldn't wait the extra two seconds to let me pass, but that didn't even bother me, it happens so often. As I switched lanes to pass him I noticed he was wearing the dreaded Sam's Town jacket, but as I went by I saw what REALLY pissed me off. On the front of the scooter, between the handlebars and this giveaway-jacket-wearin' motherfucker, was a child who couldn't have been older than four. The child WASN'T WEARING A HELMET! This guy pulled out in front of a car with his kid barely hanging on to the handlebars and there was nothing but air between the child's skull and asphalt. Why do some people even have children?

When I got home it finally dawned on me. That guy had never been to Sam's Town. It's closer to the Strip from where I live and if you don't want to deal with tourists there are at least three nice local's casinos nearby. Obviously, and I can't believe it took me this long to figure it out, Sam's Town garments serve as a sort of modern day Scarlet Letter. A t-shirt, hat or jacket emblazoned with the fabulous Sam's Town logo is a warning to all Las Vegas and Henderson citizens that the wearer of said clothing is mean and dumb. Also, you might not want to get too close, because they inevitably smell of stale cigarette smoke, cat piss, and potted meats.

Everyone have a great weekend.

Note: New vivalasvegASS feature: Forgotten Celebrity of the Week
This week's forgotten celebrity is 1970's child actor Meeno Peluce.

Holy Fuck, Did I Just See "Man-el Toe"?

Why do I go out in public? Nothing good ever comes of it. I'm never showered with riches or attacked by young women like a guy in an Axe commercial; I'm just, time after time, the witness to life's little curiosities and/or atrocities.

Thursday, for example, I saw a grown man wearing Daisy Duke cut-off shorts. These shorts ended right at scrote level, where a decent guy's shorts would begin. He had his son with him, who thank god was wearing jeans, and his ass cheeks were prepared to bust them some seams.

I slowed the pace of my walking so I wouldn't be killed by a wayward button in case his jeans exploded from the pressure, when it happened. His kid dropped something, and instead of just bending over and picking it up, he did a half turn. That's when I got a brief but harrowing look at "man-el toe". Man-el toe occurs when a man wears pants so tight they flatten and divide his junk until it looks like he has an especially puffy vagina. I immediately threw my glasses to the ground and stomped on them, then I poked out my eyes with a heroin needle I took off the grave of Layne Staley.

I should be as good as new in no time.

My "Sex Partner" Requirements

Yesterday I listed my eight requirements for a loving life partner. For the sake of equal time to purient interests, I'd like to list my requirements for a consenting adult to have sex with me.

1. Pussy (original issue)

2. Pulse

That is all. Thank you for your time.

My Eight "Perfect Partner" Requirements

Can beggars really be choosers? I guess so, because there are some things I look for in a member of the opposite sex. This list has been going around, but the last place I saw it was at Trix's blog.

Keep in mind I am a very desperate man as far as the whole "wanting to have sex again before the earth spins off its axis and heads toward the sun" thing. I'm a little more selective when it comes to a real relationship.

1. Intelligence
She doesn't have to be in Mensa or anything, but the ability to hold a conversation is fairly important to me. I'm also not one of those assholes who doesn't want to date anyone who's smarter. Please, be smarter than me and teach me things.

2. Sense of Humor
When a woman really makes me laugh I love her right away. It also helps when someone "gets" me. I can be sort of strange sometimes.

3. Integrity
When she goes out with the girls I know flirting will occur. That's good; that's healthy. Blowing a guy in the men's room? Not so healthy. I'd much rather be dumped than cheated on.

4. Appreciates her own space and gives me mine
I am not overtly macho. I won't be running with the bulls anytime soon. But I do like watching selected sporting events at a bar screaming obscenities like a buffoon. If that isn't something she enjoys, fine, but let me have my fun and I promise I won't bitch and moan when she pursues her interests.

5. Puts up with some of my shit
Everyone has annoying traits and habits. I have them in abundance and with a fuckin' vengeance. My ideal partner would be able to see beyond my faults and appreciate my better qualities. I would in turn show her the same courtesy.

6. Doesn't put up with all of my shit
I want, no I need, someone to call my bullshit. Everyone needs this. The person who doesn't have their bullshit called on a regular basis eventually becomes a fucking prick.

7. Kindness (believe it or not)
I swear to god I wouldn't date Jessica Alba if we went out to dinner and she was rude to the server. Yeah, I'd still fuck her but I totally wouldn't call her again. God damn, nothing pisses me off more than that shit. Despite what you think you might know about me from reading this blog, I try to treat people the way I'd like to be treated.

8. My penis should spend a lot of time in her mouth
Sorry, this is the superficial one, so give me a break. I want blowjobs, damn it. First of all, I love going south o' the border on a woman and I'm not half bad at it, either; so how about stepping up to the mic every now and then?

A few that didn't make the list:
Must know all of the words to "New York Groove" by Ace Frehley.
Must have a big ass I can go all "Bad Santa" on.
Must set me up with two threesomes a year.
Can't think Gallager is funny.

That is all.

Note: The "few that didn't make the list" were a joke, comic relief if you will. I don't expect any threesomes. It's damn near impossible for me to find ONE woman.