All Hail Mayor Oscar!

Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to introduce to you Las Vegas mayor Oscar Goodman (he's the one in the middle). No mayor on earth has more fun than this fucker. And he's a former mob lawyer. Seriously, he played himself in the movie Casino; he represented the real-life mobsters played in the film by Robert Deniro and Joe Pesci. A mob lawyer is now the mayor of Las Vegas. HAHAHA!!

Here are but a few of his "highlights" since I moved here in October 2002.

-He floated the idea of turning downtown Vegas into a Thailand-style "red light district" of legal, state-licensed brothels and sex shops (kind of like it is now, only the city would collect taxes on it).

-He proposed that all people convicted of graffiti have their thumbs cut off. That may seem harsh, but it also greatly reduces the amount of hitchhiking.

-He was talking to a local third-grade class, and when one of the kids asked him what he'd take to a deserted island, he replied "A bottle of gin." Oscar likes his gin; he even did a local ad for Bombay Sapphire. He donated the money to charity, but still....the mayor did a gin advert.

-He has a monthly meet and greet with Las Vegas residents called "Martinis with the Mayor". And yes, his honor does indeed listen to the concerns of the average citizen while getting plastered.

Oscar is my kind of mayor. Sure, I officially live in Henderson, but I work in Las Vegas, and since I have no idea who Henderson's non-attention-seeking anonymous mayor is, I'll claim Oscar. Bottoms up.

"My name is Todd, and I am a fattie..."

This is the infamous 100x100 Burger from In-n-Out. Yes, that's one hundred beef patties and one hundred slices of cheese. Tuesday night I was on my way to devour a much smaller version of this culinary masterpiece when I had what alcoholics call a "moment of clarity", caused mainly by my stomach and my jeans fighting for space and my stomach kicking some serious ass. So, for the first time in three weeks, I went to my Weight Watchers meeting. Yes, I have regained some of my lost pounds, but this served as a major wake up call and now I'm back to depriving myself of everything in life that gives me joy. Hurray!!!

I felt like the town drunk sitting in that meeting with all of the other porcine seat-fillers, knowing the things that make me happy are slowly killing me; except the town drunk is probably a skinny guy who gets laid every now and then.

One of the members reached his goal weight at the meeting. He lost sixty-five pounds, and he's a short, small-framed man, so that's a hell of a lot of poundage. It was kind of inspiring, to be honest. If I ever reach my goal weight, I'm going to ask if any of the ladies want to sleep with an honest-to-god thin dude. That should endear me to the group.

Las Vegas Pro and Con

I'm of two minds regarding Las Vegas. I kind of hate living here, but it pisses me off when obnoxious pseudo-intellectuals insult the town without staying longer than a weekend.

Last year the New York Times wrote a series of articles very critical of Las Vegas, mostly because of the brilliant realization that hey, Las Vegas is no New York. Thanks for that discovery, Ponce de Leon. Hey, this just in: Courtney Love has a smelly cunt. Tell us something we don't know.

However, Las Vegas has its faults, and who better than a miserable son of a bitch such as myself to point them out in convenient blog form. Here are the Pros and Cons of Sin City.

Pro: Thousands of people move into the Las Vegas valley each month, making it the fastest growing community in America.
Con: Almost all of these people have been asked to leave their respective hometowns for violating local anti-douchebag ordinances. All of the biggest pricks and dumbest cunts flock here to meet other pricks and cunts, mate with them, and create what may in the future turn out to be the worst society in recorded history.

Pro: Gambling is easily accessible.
Con: It's too easy to gamble. You can play video poker at bars, in supermarkets, in convenience stores, at the car wash, even at the airport. There's nothing more pathetic than someone gambling at the grocery store at three in the morning. If you want to gamble at a Supermarket, buy a pound of hamburger at the Dirty Von's.

Pro: The bars are open twenty-four hours.
Con: At my age, this is overkill. Last call in Louisville is at 4am, and I honestly don't need a place to stay open past three. I can't afford the fifteen-dollar martinis for too long.

Pro: Almost every celebrity or near-celebrity chef has a fantastic restaurant here in town.
Con: I can't afford to eat at any of them. Really. Not even apps.

Pro: In-n-Out burger has several locations.
Cons: There are no cons to this. Gandhi would eat an In-n-Out burger with a raging hard-on.

I think I'll go to In-n-Out. Uuuummmmm.

THE WAY IT SHOULD BE

This is the way it should be, and if I was in charge, the way it would be.

-Handicap parking passes to handicapped people only
Only people who can't walk should be allowed to park in handicapped parking spaces. If you have sore feet, or you're too fat to walk, park and walk like the rest of us. If you're old, you don't get a pass, okay? You were lucky enough to not have died young; what else do you want from fate, you fucking leech? Park and walk like the rest of us, old timer. If someone at the DMV gave you a handicap pass, shame on you for having your daughter blow a local government worker for special treatment. Get the slut tested for throat clap, then park and walk like the rest of us. Anyone who isn't crippled who uses a handicapped parking pass should be immediately made a cripple by means of gruesome bodily harm.

-Take the grape popsicles out of the variety pack
When I was a kid there would be five boxes of popsicle variety packs in the freezer, all of them chock full of grape popsicles. No one likes the grape. Why is it in the variety pack? I think the grape people have a deal with the popsicle people.

-If you robbed your company's retirement fund, the government gets everything you own
Ex-Enron CEO Kenneth Lay should not have one single solitary material possession. His houses, his cars, the clothes off his wife's back, the food his children are about to eat - everything - should be confiscated and either sold, given to charity, or burned in a public square. He and his family should have to live on the streets naked, exposed to the elements and begging for spare change. The only job he should be allowed to have is at the receiving end of a dollar-a-shot glory hole in the men's room of a transient hotel in the Bronx. Fuck Ken Lay. He should die and feltch Hitler for all eternity.

-Against abortion? Have I got a surprise for you
Next year, every tax form should contain this question, which has to be answered in order for your taxes to be considered filed: Do you think abortion should be illegal? Whoever answers "Yes" is given a crack baby. And, for good measure, a wedgie.

-Light Beer is named appropriately
When I seize power, any watered down domestic reduced calorie swill will lose the moniker "beer" in favor of the more appropriate "bitch-ass pansy little baby girl cuntwater".
This will lead to the following sentence being uttered at bars across America: "I'll have a Bud bitch-ass pansy little baby girl cuntwater and a Coors bitch-ass pansy little baby girl cuntwater."

That's all. Hey, I never said I wanted to be GOD.

Meet the Bloggers

My participation in the lonely, isolated hobby that is blogging has introduced me to fine people throughout the world. I have blog-buddies in Canada, England, Australia, Italy, Ireland, and all across the United States. As someone who doesn't like a lot of people I meet in person, this has been an unexpected but welcome benefit of making an ass of myself for the amusement of dozens on a near-daily basis.

I've even met some bloggers in person. None of the beautiful female bloggers I've met wanted to have sex with me, and that killed me a little inside, but I can't say I've met anyone I haven't liked; and since I openly advertise myself as a fat middle-aged impoverished schlub, I don't think it's possible I've disappointed anyone (except Pants, of course).*

I would like to meet other bloggers in the near future. Actually, Blonde is coming to Vegas in May and I'm very excited. We're gonna drink Patron like we're on Spring Break.

Disclaimer time: I'm going to list some things I'd like to do when I meet certain bloggers. Take it as a given that if you're female and single, I want to have sex with you. Is that clear? Gender: Female, Status: Single = I want to bang you. So, I won't mention that again.
Also, I want to meet all of you, but how long would this post be if I mentioned everyone? Pretty fuckin' long, I'd wager. So no hurt feelings, damn it.

Dena: I wouldn't introduce myself to her, since her inevitable rejection of me would crush my spirit. Instead, I would follow her into a coffee house and stare openly and lustily at her fleshy parts, hoping she would notice and either yell at me, blog about it, or god willing, yell at me AND blog about it. I would then be immortalized and could die a happy man.

Anti-hero: He is a smooth dude, so we'd go bar hopping and he could give me some pointers on how not to come off as a complete assbucket in front of the ladies. Then maybe sex wouldn't avoid me like R. Kelly avoids women who are old enough to drive.

Brooke: I'd want Brooke to give me a walking tour of the Jersey shore, but the entire time I'd want her to talk in a Bruce Springsteen voice: "Well, Todd, a lot of folks used to hang out at the pier, but the factory left town and took the people with it. They say at night, when the wind's still and the moon shines down on the abandoned buildings, you can hear the ghosts who still live here, saying a prayer for our souls."

Nick: I'm thinking either Opera or strip club. What are your thoughts, Nick?

Claudia: This is Canadian Claudia, not Vegas Claudia, whom I've met (she rules, by the way). Claudia already knows I want her to do the Wheelbarrell, the Running Man, and any other outdated Soul Train dance in the middle of a posh, crowded Vegas nightclub, preferably while wearing a Sam's Town belly-shirt.

Ubie: I adore Ubie. Her righteous indignation is like food to me, and I'm a fat guy who likes his food, so I think we should go to an abortion clinic and harass the douchebags who harass the female patients. Most people have an opinion about abortion that is a little more nuanced than the media would have us believe, but I have a feeling the sight of old men screaming pseudo-religious hatespeak at teenage girls is something that would get Ubie all riled up. Then, god help those fuckers.

Calzone: I don't even know if Calzone will ever post again, but I have to meet the person behind this creation. I'd probably just sit in awe as he weaved tales of depravity that would make Larry Flynt get up and walk away.

tlsd: I want to give her a lovely tour of Las Vegas using my worst phony British accent ever. I want to say "Pip pip and all that" and "Cheery-O" and use "shan't" in every sentence I utter. Just thinking about it puts a smile on my face.

Princess Steph: We differ politically, so of course I'd want to have a spirited yet civilized discussion of topical issues; followed, of course, by her having hot sex with another gorgeous woman in my presence. Sort of like Crossfire meets Cinemax.

Egan: I would try to talk him into not liking the French so much, maybe by having him speak French to an actual Frenchman. The resulting snooty critique could very well bring him over to my side. Really, I would just want a tour of Seattle, but what's funny about that?

There are so many others, especially the other single female bloggers with whom I want to do the bone-dance. Hope to see you soon.
*Just kidding, Pants. Get well, babe.

My "To Do" List

I'm a slacker, I suppose, if I may conjure up a word from the early nineties; but I'm not completely without ambition. There are a few things I'd like to get done.

-Go back on my diet. I've been pretty much eating whatever I want lately and that has to stop. I was just starting to look less Jabba-the-Huttish when depression and I played the roles of Ike and Tina Turner. I was Tina, I missed my cue, and Ike slapped the shit out of me. I quickly turned to my old friend, food. He never lets me down, other than ruining my life by making me a fat tub of goo.

-Cheer up. Jesus, did you read that last fucking sentence? What a load of morose crap. I'm like a meat-eating, heterosexual Morrissey.

-Get the word "cunt" put on currency. I've been lobbying congress to have "cunt" put on our money. How about In Cunt We Trust or E Pluburis Cunt'em?

-Beat up a mime. Will he cry out for help if I punch him repeatedly in his spleen? I have to know.

-Spend an entire day talking in my outrageously bogus British accent. "I shan't finish the kippers. Pip pip and all that."

-Rip off a tourist. C'mon, everyone else in town does it. "Yes, this is the way to the airport. You have to go through Utah to get there."

-Teach a stripper about irony. I just think naked women are a little sexier if they know about irony, that's all.

-Finish my novel. Okay, start my novel. All right, learn how to read and write. Yeah, I'm illiterate. I dictate this blog to my houseboy, Rahjmed.

-Fart in public more often. I have something to share, people. It's selfish of me to keep it to myself.

Damn, I'm exhausted just writing this. I'd better get started.

Despite all my rage I am still just a brat on a stage

Yes, it's a small, run down stage with bad lighting and a poor sound system, but it's a stage nonetheless. Blogger is the open-mic night of written expression; everyone is invited and the results will vary.

This is my way of saying I know I have no right to bitch so much, but I'm not going to stop. It's cheaper than therapy, and I don't think as many people would read this blog if it suddenly went bitch-free. Here is an example of viva las veg-everythingisjustswell:

I had some pizza today. I like pizza.

That's it. That would be the entire blog. Did you like it? I didn't think so. So I, a white male American, am going to continue to complain like there are flies buzzing around me and Sally Struthers is using my pet sheep as a tampon.

I'm going to bitch like my wife is going on a ski trip with Bill Clinton.

I'm going to whine like I went to the hospital for routine surgery and woke up with a pierced clitoris.

And there will be bad language.

What is the point of this?

I received an email today and this was part of the text:
*************************************************************************************
kissing the sticks of her fan and then tapping hisplacid satisfaction Now I have found it "You may not be surprised to hear Annie " shut up in themselves a hundred years together and of the trim smooth grass plot and the stone urnsIs Suffolk your county sir asked Julian Yes I said with some importance Suffolks myhalf a crown I was got up in a special great coat and shawl expressly to do honour to thatYou are going through sir said the coachman Yes Johnny I said condescendinglyall hazards on sick leave if I can on total resignation if that is not to be obtained
And do it at once The waiter immediately withdrew to make the exchangeit would be preferred Next you sir Of course it would be preferred said Bryanstorywhich I was just about to begin to read than anything else Do I gather from what you say maam that Mr Bowles is ill asked Mr Hutchins "The amiable old Proctor" whos he newfoundland me Annie how illegiblyRogersI came here by the congressman coach today I have been adopted by an aunt down in that part
yardstick drew to an end and the time came for my leaving bosonbe wanted on some business By Uriah said Justine Yes and the sense of being unfit forhaving to take care of the most wonderful woman in the world restored the sunshine to his face going with youbut on second thoughts I shall keep him to take care of me have a weal cutlet I assented to this proposal in default of being ablewould haveexpressed more to me or moved me more We were to drink tea at the bursts critter drew to an end and the time came for my leaving tranquilfellow cant live there he cant live there And if he cant live there hell die thereplugboard season when I left schoolas this knotty point is still unsettled and as we muston their deserving legs All this time her game Annie never once spoke or lifted up her eyes with a squint who had no other merit than smelling like a triphenylphosphine gibbs and dreamed of ancient desirous Crowley and friendship dent
*************************************************************************************

Huh? Why was this sent to me? It's just a random grouping of unrelated sentence fragments; it's not promising to make me rich or add inches to my penis or find my one true love or anything. And if it's a virus it's a weak one, for my crappy computer lives on.

I think it's a message sent to every overanalyzing neurotic mess of a human such as myself as part of a well-funded and concerted effort to drive us insane. I'll lie awake at nights wondering what a triphenylphosphine gibbs smells like and pondering if one dreams of ancient desirous Crowley in color or in black and white. It's a horrible existence, really, and these people aren't helping.

If anyone out there knows what the fuck this is, please let me know.

Totally unrelated, but I just have to post a picture of the BEST T-SHIRT EVER:

I've had it up to here...and I'm pretty fucking tall

I consider myself a fairly compassionate person, but my compassion gauge is way past empty, folks. Some people on this planet are just takers, plain and simple; all they do is take and consume and give nothing back, ever.

Yesterday I was walking back to work from a break when I was approached by a damn dirty hippie. I have compassion for true homeless people who suffer from mental illness or even substance abuse, but this waste of DNA is just a spoiled white kid from an upper middle class background who doesn't want to work; so he can kindly eat the semi-digested corn from my shit. Anyway, he predictably asked for a quarter (really, if you were poor and destitute, would you ask for two bits, like that would save you from poverty?), and I just shook my head "No".

"You have a nice day, sir," he said sarcastically.

"You too," I answered without breaking stride.

I should have given him the vicious fucking beatdown he so richly deserved. I should have grabbed his filthy dreads and punched a little real life into his fucking face. I don't care if that piece of human filth ever works a day in his life, but HOW DARE HE give me attitude for not contributing to his sloth-like lifestyle? I woke up at four-thirty in the A - cuntfuck - M to go to my shitty job just so I can barely pay my bills this month; I don't need patcheuli-stank's guilt trip or false niceties. I hope he smokes nothing but skunkweed the rest of his life.

Then, later in the day, a man walked up to me and got mad because I don't speak Spanish. You know, if he hadn't been an el grande cunt I would have found someone who speaks Spanish to help him, even though I don't officially work for Home Depot and am not obligated to do so, just because I'm a nice guy. But he's going to yell at me for not learning Spanish? I turned my back on the asshole. That's the universal language for "You are an annoying douche and I hope your children get smallpox."

Then a few minutes later, the same guy yelled at a cashier for not speaking Spanish. The funny thing is, this cashier was born in the Philippines, moved to this country and learned to speak English. But I guess that's not enough; SHE SHOULD LEARN A THIRD LANGUAGE TO JUSTIFY HER LOFTY POSITION OF CASHIER AT HOME DEPOT.

Fuck that dickhead! You know what America has enough of? Stupid, self-centered pricks. We don't need to import more of them. I have nothing against immigration, by the way. I'd gladly accept ten decent people from any country on earth if one dickhead, even one born on American soil, would be shipped somewhere far away.

Oh, and the road that runs through my subdivision may be the most dangerous neighborhood road on earth. The aggressive yuppie types who live in the "country club" section treat the road as their own personal Autobahn, with no rules, no speed limit, and no concern for the safety of themselves or others. Meanwhile, the fossils who are waiting to die in the retirement community barely push their speedometers past double digits and brake at every intersection even when they don't have a stop sign. These two distinctly different groups of people should not share common driving space. I fear for my life every time I go to the grocery.

And, yeah, I want to get the fuck out of this town. It's stealing my soul.

Sleeping with the enemy...

Once again, sports have served to highlight the depths of my hypocrisy. Damn.

Several seasons ago, when he was with the San Francisco 49ers, Terrell Owens scored a touchdown against my beloved Dallas Cowboys and celebrated on their star in the middle of the field. It was a typically classless, horseshit act, and a giant "Fuck you" to the Cowboy players, coaches, and fans.

I saw this act on television as it happened. To say I reacted negatively to this celebration would be an understatement. I wished death upon Terrell Owens that day, as well as disfiguring illnesses to his mother, siblings, and girlfriend. There were over fifty-thousand Cowboys fans in the stadium, and I shouted "Pussies!" at the top of my lungs when they let Owens leave the stadium with his miserable life.

Well, guess who signed with the Dallas Cowboys the other day? Uh-huh, Terrell motherfucking Owens. He's one of the best receivers in the league and the Cowboys desperately needed him. I'll keep repeating that until I actually believe it.

You know, why not use this scumbag's talents for a year before he becomes the team cancer I know he truly is? If the Cowboys don't sign him, someone will. Once again, I'm trying to convince myself that my favorite pro sports team didn't sell its soul to the devil for a playoff appearance.

Next season, whenever Terrell Owens scores a touchdown for the Cowboys and humiliates his opponents to call further attention to himself, I'm sure I'll be leading the cheers. And for that, I am already ashamed.

Just for my own amusement, however, I'm going to post this picture:

This is former Cowboy George Teague, knocking Owens off of the Star. I wish he would have hit him harder, but the thought was there.

The World Series of Blogging

Note: Yeah, this is an early post. I'm going out, if that's okay with you.

Why is poker on every channel these days? Who actually sits in front of their television and watches other people gamble? Is there any activity too mundane for cable TV?

I think blogging should be televised. Furthermore, I think MY blogging should be televised. They could set up a camera crew at my house and have commentators analyze my every move. Sometimes, they would be joined by a popular blogging expert, like that chick from Dooce or maybe even Brooke. But mostly there would only be two commentators, who I'll call Douchebag1 and Douchebag2.

D1: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the World Series of Blogging. I'm Tom Harrel along with Frank DeMarco. Here we are at the house of Todd as he prepares to write an entry to his obscure, d-list blog, viva las vegass."

D2: "Is that title supposed to be funny? Oh, and it should be pointed out that this house is a rental. Todd is much too poor to be a homeowner."

D1: "Yes, perhaps if he didn't spend so much time in front of a computer he could find more gainful employment. Here he comes from the kitchen area, Frank, and it looks like he has a can of Coke Zero."

D2: "He's not fooling anyone with that diet soda, Tom. This guy is fat."

D1: "It says here he's lost almost thirty pounds on Weight Watchers."

D2: "Holy fried mozzarella sticks, Batman! Are you saying he used to weigh even more? How is that possible?"

D1: "Well, enough insulting his physical appearance. Let's begin insulting his shitty blog."

D2: "Maybe his blog would make more sense if he didn't watch VH-1 Classic while writing it."

D1: "I hope he writes more self-pitying tripe about how lonely he is; boy, I can't get enough of that crap."

D2: "Or maybe he'll use the word 'cunt' as an adjective. That MIGHT have been funny the first time he did it."

D1: "It was never funny."

D2: "I stand corrected."

D1: "It looks like he's downloading a picture from the internet, since he's too poor to buy a digital camera and take his own photos."

D2: "He's writing now. His sentence structure makes my balls hurt, Tom."

D1: "He mentions boobs quite often, but if this buffoon fell into a ten-acre titty patch he'd walk out sucking his thumb."

D2: "Maybe he'll talk about strippers. It's hard to believe an overweight, underemployed middle-aged man is a fan of strip clubs."

D1: "Look, he's finished already. Another tossed off, half-assed effort by the creator of viva las vegass."

D2: "He's a wart on the crotch of blogging, Tom."

Okay, on second thought maybe I don't want to be on television after all.

Fuck blogger with that dildo from "Seven"

I just wrote a post but when I tried to publish it I got a message that read There Were Errors. Next to the message was the word "details". Great, I thought, an explanation for this strange occurrence. When I clicked the details link, this is what I received:

001 java.10.10Exception: EOF while reading from control connection

OH, THAT EXPLAINS EVERYTHING!!! Thanks for putting that in layman's terms, cuntdrip. Thanks for being so crystal clear about why I wasted twenty minutes of my life writing something that can't be published. I'm so grateful that the seemingly arbitrary rejection of one post (you're reading this one, after all) was explained to me in such easy-to-understand language.

Blogger sucks. Sometimes I think it's not worth "free".

And if someone out there knows what that explanation means, for Christ's sake keep it to yourself. Please, go back to your home planet Smartron Seven and leave me alone.

Cedar City, Here I Come

Thanks to my job, I'll be traveling to lovely Cedar City, Utah today (by 'lovely' I mean boring and Mormon-infested). I'll actually be staying overnight in a lovely Best Western hotel. I hear out of all the westerns, they're the best.

I'll be back Thursday.

Make Me Laugh!

I am too tired to be entertaining tonight, so I'm turning this blog over to you, gentle reader. Your assignment: Tell me your favorite jokes in the comments. Here are two examples.

How come Hitler never drank whiskey?
It made him mean.

-and-

How many surrealists does it take to change a lightbulb?
A fish.


Please keep your jokes short and to the point. Also: politically incorrect, okay. Racist, not okay.

Thanks for your continued support.

I gave a dime to the gods of bad music, and I got a Nickelback

For every genuine genre of music, there's a group of photogenic assrots there to exploit the public's lack of good taste. Meet Nickelback, maybe the worst popular band around since Creed broke up. The lead singer has a voice that suggests he sucked the cock of Satan and was rewarded with a throat full of pumice-jizz.

Yes, I said worst popular band. There may be a band of limbless hare-lips practicing in a garage somewhere, trying to play instruments with their stumps, who are worse than Nickelback, but you aren't going to see them on M-TV2.

I never even tried to become a rock star because, let's face it, Todd is not a rock and roll name. No one has ever said, "Dude, that guy Todd rocked the house." The lead singer for Nickelback, pictured here failing to look complex, is named Chad. My aunt's girdle is more rock and roll than the name "Chad".

Have you ever heard their hit song "Photograph"? Unless you live in a cave or Reno* or something, you've heard it a million times. I appreciate the song because I always wondered how Bruce Springsteen would sound if he was profoundly retarded. Now I know, thanks to Nickelback. Seriously, Ubie, I nominate the song for Bad Music Thursdays. Find the lyrics and be prepared to die a little inside.

Sure, in a few years Nickelback will be opening for Hootie and the Blowfish at a shitty casino soemewhere, but for now they're reaping the rewards of the shitty tastes of "music" fans everywhere. Thanks, CD-buying public, for making it impossible for me to turn on the radio or enter a retail store without hearing this shit. Fuck you. Oh, and they're Canadian, so I'm blaming Claudia for their popularity.
*Just kidding. Reno is a fantastic town, a thriving metropolis that is kind of like New York City with mountain views, or Chicago with a cleaner lake. Truly one of the finest cities in the history of western civilization.

My personal ad

SIN CITY SINGLE SEEKS SOULMATE
(or at least a decent blowjob)

VITAL
name: Todd
gender: Male
body type: Fat but dieting
occupation: life-waster
age: too old for the mosh pit

SEEKING
female, age "old enough to drink legally" to "won't break hip if falls"

ABOUT ME
I'm quite witty and charming if you've never met anyone who actually is charming. In my spare time I enjoy blogging to soothe my fragile ego, drinking bourbon to excess, watching women make out, eating pizza and feeling guilty about it, and one-sided flirting.

ABOUT MY MATCH
The female for me would be smart, funny, be able to laugh at life's absurdities, and be moderate to liberal politically, but not a dirty smelly hippie. Ability to suck the chrome off of a trailer hitch a plus.

LIKES
Yodeling in the gully (also known as eating at the 'Y'), receiving blowjobs as a result of successful yodeling, recreational lesbianism, women who aren't palsy-twats.

DISLIKES
Arrogance, self-importance, dirty smelly hippies, women who are palsy-twats.

IN MY OWN WORDS
I'm tired of the dating scene (the scene of my dating consists of me masturbating while weeping uncontrollably) and would like to meet someone who doesn't resent my being alive. I'm willing to relocate, but only to someplace good. If your town sucks then move here already. I promise to keep you laughing; if not with me, then at me.

I'm so angry I can't think of a title for this post...

All I was trying to do was go to Von's and pick up some fucking groceries, but I have to be confronted by another douchebag. The Rockettes don't see as many douches in a decade as I see in a typical week here in the good ol' Vegas valley.

Anyway, I'm driving along with the flow of traffic, when this cuntface assram in a Lexus sportscar starts weaving in between cars going about ninety miles an hour in a forty-five zone; missing cars by the width of a pubic hair and basically ENDANGERING LIVES so he wouldn't be late for his date to eat sushi with some vapid cunt he met at the Las Vegas Athletic Club.

And why shouldn't he behave that way? Obviously, judging by the eighty-thousand dollar car he was driving, life has richly rewarded him for being a selfish, overly aggresive prick. Life just loves fucks like him. He'll never wreck that car, hell he'll never get a ticket, and I'm sure he has his pick of women who love the fact that he's "confident", which is a buzzword meaning "If the outside is sleak and shiny the inside can be filled with worms for all I care." And of course I know not all women are like that; just enough of them to keep guys like him happy every day of their empty lives.

And you know what, his life isn't really empty if he's too shallow to realize it. I struggle to get out of bed in the morning while he'll never have a MOMENT of self-doubt or unhappiness beyond his favorite watering hole running out of Michelob Ultra.

I realize this post wasn't funny, or even entertaining, but I promise to go back to the regularly scheduled dog and pony show as soon as possible, provided I don't choke to death on my own bile.

Life Isn't Fair, Part One

Why do guys want to become rock stars?

Because Motley Crue's Mick Mars gets pussy. Lots of pussy.

What Ya Listenin' To?

Yes, fuckers and fuckees...much like a twelve-year-old girl at R. Kelly's house, I've been tagged. I've actually been tagged twice, by Livi and Blonde. And if you're gonna be tagged, those are two you'd want to do the tagging.

Okay, enough clueless sexual innuendo. My task is simple: Name seven songs, old or new, good or bad, ugly or prett-ay, that you're really enjoying right now.

I haven't bought a new CD in months, so I'll list seven songs they're playing on my new favorite radio station, 107.9 "The Point", that I like a lot.

1. "Tear You Apart"- She Wants Revenge
This song is really sick and twisted. I think the lead singer's mom used to beat him with her high heels.

2. "World Wide Suicide"- Pearl Jam
Finally, a new Pearl Jam song that rawks, instead of that mid-tempo meandering shit from their last two CDs.

3. "Heart in a Cage"- The Strokes
These guys have fucked more models than anorexia.

4. "'Hot Topic' is Not Punk Rock"- MC Lars
The song itself is lousy, but truer words have never been said (or in this case, shouted off-key). A fave quote from the song: "Hot Topic is a contrived identification with youth subcultures to manufacture an anti-authoritarian identity and make millions." Amen, horrible band.

5. "Feel Good, Inc." - Gorrilaz
Blonde had this one listed as well. It makes me want to change lanes without signaling.

6. "Paper Doll" - Louis XIV
Sleazier than a night in Reno.

7. "Add it Up" - Violent Femmes
Okay, how cool is it that this radio station plays "Add it Up"? Yeah, they also play Nickleback, but no one's perfect. This is the song that goes "Why can't I get just one fuck..."
For some reason, I can relate.

I'm supposed to tag seven other people, but tags are almost always ignored, so if you'd like to comment on your current musical faves, please do so. Or if you'd like to post about it, let us know and we'll check it out. Thank you for your continued support.

I watch the Academy Awards so...oh, fuck. Nevermind.

I was going to do a review of the Academy Awards the way I've done the last few M-TV award shows and the Golden Globes, but I missed most of the show. They showed it live here, starting at 5pm pacific time.

I thought it would be tape-delayed, like everything else. Who the cunt wants to watch the Oscars before dinner? So I tuned in at 8pm and the god damn thing was almost over. I missed the supporting actor categories and my favorite part, when they play sad music and show all of the movie stars who died in the past year. How am I supposed to keep up with my dead celebrities? I like watching that and thinking to myself, "Damn, I thought he died years ago."

Of course, I also missed all of the stupid production numbers, lame musical guests, and those stiffs from Price-Waterhouse explaining how the votes are tabulated, so maybe it was for the best.

I saw about the last thirty minutes of it, so I guess I'll review it.

-When I turned on the TV Reece Witherspoon was accepting her Best Actress award. I thought she should have won for Legally Blonde, so this is way overdue. She was very gracious in her speech. She even thanked her non-talented husband, Ryan Witherspoon.

-As someone who likes to write I guess I should have paid a little more attention to who won the Best Screenplay awards. The guy who wrote the script for Brokeback Mountain was wearing a tuxedo jacket and a pair of jeans. The presenter should have bounced the Oscar off his skull. Every shitty club in Las Vegas has a dress code, but this guy can just wear whatever he wants to the Academy Awards?

-Ang Lee won Best Director. Okay, is this the guy responsible for that dreadful Hulk movie a few years ago? I don't care how good his latest movie is; he should be ineligible for ALL AWARDS because of that Hulk shit. Todd angry. Todd smash.

-Jack Nicholson came out wearing his stupid sunglasses. I wonder if dimwitted people think he's doing a Christian Slater impression?

-In a stunning upset, Crash, a movie not about gay cowboys, won Best Picture. I haven't seen any of the pictures nominated, because none of them promise madcap misadventures, hilarious hijinks, or zany antics.

-Okay, so a producer of Crash was accepting her award and they cut her speech short. What the fuck? The band played her off the stage. Hey, dickwads, this wasn't Best Foreign Documentary or Best Choreography Involving Teens Who've Just Been "Served"; this was BEST PICTURE. I would have gone insane if I was her. I would have screamed obscenities and hurled an Oscar at the band.

Jon Stewart hosted. I hope he didn't ruin his career. Letterman's ratings have never been the same since he hosted.

It's time for another Amazing Discovery!

I love the fact that the word "dignity" is directly above a man wearing a sweater made of carpet remnants and sporting a look on his face that suggests he's about to greet the business end of a glory hole.

This goofy-looking man is the late, near-great Mike Levey, host of the best series of infomercials ever, Amazing Discoveries.

I was an Amazing Discoveries addict. In the late eighties and early nineties, I'd stay up all night eating pizza, drinking beer, and watching A.D. with like-minded life-wasters. Why? Because they were the funniest things ever put on network television; and the all-encompassing artifice of the whole affair actually served to be the most brutal example of human nature ever captured on videotape.

The infomercials, which pretended to be legitimate television programs, were filmed before a studio audience. Every classic "episode" played out essentially the same: Mike would come out and say something like, "Don't you wish there was an easy, healthy way to cook chicken?" and the camera would show retirees in the crowd nodding their heads as if to say as one, "Yes, Mike, I do wish just that."

Have no fear, compensated audience members. Mike would then introduce someone who'd come out with the product that would answer their fervent prayers, provided they were praying for more useless crap to clutter their trailer homes.

Most of the time, the product would be shilled by one of the in-house "experts from England", Jon or Ian. Ian always appeared to be slightly drunk and Jon wore a red bow tie and had an accent that sounded suspiciously like a guy from California pretending to be British. Other times, however, a special guest pitchman would make an appearance, leading to my top two Amazing Discoveries moments ever.

-The Spanek Vertical Chicken Roaster was hawked by its inventor, an overweight man who went on and on about the health benefits of cooking chicken by shoving the entire bird ass-first over what looked like an instrument of torture or a sexual aide for the big pussied gals. He was quite fat, so I guess it doesn't matter how you cook your chicken if you eat a dozen dinner rolls and an entire box of Stove Top stuffing along with it. I think this infomercial is the one that convinced Dr. Phil to think, "Hey, I'm fat, but I bet America will buy my weight loss book." And he was right.

-The Juice Doctor/Juice Tiger Fiasco
The Juice Doctor was a juice extractor sold by fitness expert Jack Lalane. It was funny enough when it originally aired; Jack would not only drink these disgusting juice combinations, he'd make horrible looking baked goods using the pulp. For god's sake, throw that shit out. That's garbage. It was like making coffee cake using old coffee grounds.

But then the federal government stepped in and made it the funniest infomercial of all time. The feds decided that it wasn't okay to use the word "doctor" to sell a product with no proven medical benefits whatsoever. Instead of refilming the commercial and spending another fifty dollars on their low-rent production, they renamed the product "Juice Tiger" and amateurishly edited out all mentions of the word "doctor". But apparently Mr. Lalane wasn't available for sound looping, so they got some guy who doesn't sound anything like him to record the word "tiger".

I think they only recorded him saying it once, because whenever Jack Lalane says "doctor", which is like a million times, his voice changes into a much deeper voice saying "tiger" with no regard to context or the inflection of the rest of the sentence. The first time I heard it I almost died laughing. The Japanese used to sound edit their Godzilla movies better than that.

Mike Levey, who was not only the host but the mastermind behind Amazing Discoveries' production company, got into a little trouble for (DUH) making false claims about his products. One product, which never aired on Amazing Discoveries but was produced by Mike Levey's company, was called Crystal Powder and claimed to cure cancer.

Mike Levey died in 2003 of , ironically enough, cancer. Who knows, if the Food and Drug Administration hadn't confiscated all of his Crystal Powder, he might still be with us.

Drama at the Home Depot

As some of you may know, I am an in-store service rep for Home Depot; I'm actually an employee of the generic-named Professional Services, Inc. and not Home Depot, which means I get treated like shit by clueless, disinterested airheads in California instead of the brutal, soulless, ruthless corporate vipers at Home Depot headquarters in Atlanta (and, thank sweet merciful god, I don't have to wear an apron). It also means in a past life I must have been the guy who drove the final nail at Christ's crucifixion to deserve such an occupation.

My job is easy, but for the most part life-numbingly boring. There was a recent incident, however, that was a bit exciting.

Last week I was sitting right outside of the store, talking to some of my friends from a different service group, when a very muscle-bound individual walked past us followed by the not-at-all-muscular loss prevention manager. The lp stopped the mountain with a face and told him he saw the guy steal something. The shoplifter gave the merchandise back, there was some squabbling back and forth, then BAM! And no, it wasn't Emeril seasoning the potatoes, it was the loss prevention guy getting hit in the face and dropping like a lead dildo. Luckily the store manager was just coming out of the store so I didn't have to give up my comfy bench seat and pretend to care if the guy was still alive. He was, just a little dazed. The perp ran to his car and took off while we vendors sat there with awe-struck looks on our faces.

It doesn't end there. After I had left for the day, a different behemoth came in the store looking for the loss prevention guy. He was told to wait outside while they tracked him down, and he did just that. He waited in his car with the original assailant while the store manager called the cops, who promptly arrived and arrested the two. It seems they both had a long list of felony convictions and were stealing supplies to make crack pipes. Several pipes and enough crack to give Whitney Houston the bends were found in their car. And this was at my NICE Home Depot, in a decent neighborhood. Well, crooks have cars, and in the suburbs it seems they hire security personnel who can't take a punch. If they weren't so stupid as to sit in a car at the scene of the crime while the cops finished their doughnuts, they would still be free to smoke the rock and sell the remainder to school kids; living a version of the American Dream, I suppose.

America's Next Top Reason for Me to Run Away and Live in the Fucking Mountains, Relying Only on My Wits to Survive

I like television, and I like looking at beautiful women, but I can't stand even a nanosecond of America's Next Top Model. In fact, I just saw a commercial for the new season, and it made me want to bury myself alive in a bodybag full of rats. Congrats, Tyra Banks and company, for making it unbearable to stare at women in skimpy outfits.

How is this possible? Well, they let these vain, moronic twits open their mouths. Just from watching a thirty-second ad, I can tell that every conversation these women have is the prattle of the damned. A few of the contestants "introduced" themselves. One of them said, "Not everyone's going to like me." Nice people aren't even liked by everyone; a self-important GASH like her will be roundly despised. Another girl stated, "I'm not cocky but I'm confident." I'm confident that she loves only her looks and will slit her wrists when age fades her beauty.

I'm sorry, but some of these models are too skinny. One chick looked like the Crypt Keeper after a "queer eye" makeover. She refers to Nicole Ritchie as "fatso". If I ever had the chance to sleep with her, I'd use my cock to play her ribs like a xylophone. She needs to step away from Tyra Banks and get her boney ass to a buffet.

Of course, this just might be the part of me that despises Reality TV. The only Reality show I ever liked was Average Joe, because it confirmed everything I hold to be true about human nature. The producers stacked the deck by having the final "average Joe" be a funny, interesting guy while the good looking guy was a complete zero. And she still picked the one who looked better! Then they let the average guy have his own show AND HE DID THE SAME FUCKING THING. He learned absolutely nothing from his public humiliation. A woman declared her love for him on national television and then three days later dumped him for Fabio's nephew, and he responded by picking the beautiful woman he had nothing in common with over his quite attractive SOULMATE!!! Both times I got to say "I told you so" to the whole cunting world.

I Spleen Hippies

The other day I was at work when I decided to take a break. It was a warm, sunny day, so I went outside and sat down on a bench. I was enjoying the nice weather but I did turn my body sideways to keep the sun from being directly in my face.

Everything was perfect until an unknown odor gave my olfactory senses the ol' 702 beatdown. The ungodly combination of patchulli oil and rampant stank made me think to myself, "Is the lead singer of Phish butt-fucking a skunk directly behind me?" No, it was a hippie. It was a god-damned stinking filthy good-for-cunt-all-nothing hippie.

Normally, when I'm in public and someone objectionable sits down next to me, my Southern mastery of fake politeness kicks in, and I wait a few minutes before I make my getaway. Not this time. I said aloud "What is that fucking smell?" and glared at the tragic waste of nature's handiwork as I walked away.

I know hippies are hated by people like Dick Cheney and Bill O'Reilly and Cartman; and that pisses me off even more, the fact that I'm forced to agree with those people about something. But I can't help it:
I hate hippies. I hate hate hate motherfucking hippies.
It's not like hippies are political, anyway. These spoiled, upper middle class lazy brats have one issue: The legalization of drugs, because it'll help the economy. What does some ass who's been living off a trust fund most of his life and has NEVER held a job know about the economy? And why do they think patchulli oil is a fair substitute for TAKING A SHOWER? Patchulli is in and of itself an offensive odor. Now try adding armpit funk to the mix.

Yes, hippies are basically harmless. When they inevitably ask for change and you tell them "no" they usually don't give you shit about it. Yes, there are far worse people in the world. I just can't smell them from a block away.

Things I've learned at strip clubs

I was so bored on Sunday that I wrote both this post and the one about 10,000 Maniacs. I was going to run this one yesterday, but then I had the brilliant albeit controversial idea of offering beads for tits. Since this is about strippers, I guess it fits the tit theme.

I haven't been to a strip club since I was back home for the holidays, and I don't think I'll go back anytime soon, but I've been to a few in my day, and those naked women have taught me valuable lessons.

The more tits in the room, the more you'll fork over for alcohol
"Oh, six dollars for a bottle of crappy domestic beer? No problem." The nightclubs in Las Vegas operate under the same premise, only the tits are semi-covered.

If you're a guy, the strippers probably hate you
The worst aspects of male behavior are waved in the faces of these women like so many flaccid cocks. They hate you for it. No, really; I know she stroked your ego and laughed at your jokes, but she fucking despises you. Once I got a stripper to admit that she loathed all men, myself included. I bought drinks for her the rest of the evening.

Okay, there's one thing they like about you
You have something every stripper wants. It's six inches long with a big head. It's the hundred dollar bill in your wallet.

Strippers use nice guys as cheap therapists
Her struggling musician boyfriend isn't going to listen to her drama; her girlfriends are as self-absorbed as she is; and most of her customers just want to slip a finger in her cootch. When she sniffs out a nice guy - and she can smell one like a fart in an elevator - she will pound him with her problems. This has happened to me before. A stripper wearing nothing but a g-string would sit at my table for an hour and never ask for a penny, but she'd unload her stripper drama on me. There's no drama like stripper drama. That's a David Mamet play kind of drama.
Some strippers are all business, though. They always ask for money and keep their problems bottled up inside them. They're the ones who eventually overdose on meth or oxycotin.

Strippers in Louisville lie about being from Louisville
All Louisville strippers are going to school at the University of Cincinnati and make the hundred-mile (each way) commute to earn money for college. At first it seems like a legitimate story because Cincinnati has strict adult entertainment laws that make stripping there about as lucrative as greeting at Wal-Mart, but I smelled a rat when they ALL floated the same bullshit.
One of the girls told me they say that because if people from Louisville think you're a native, they automatically ask what high school you're from, what year you graduated, and "Hey do you know insert random asshole's name here? He graduated the same year."
One girl told me her real name, the private girls-only academy where she attended high school, and which neighborhood she lived in. Good thing for her I wasn't a stalker or I'd be eating hard candy from her hollowed-out skull.

Don't worry about your appearance
I've never had a lot of confidence regarding the way I look, but that really doesn't matter at a strip club. If he had the money, Jabba the Hut could get a lapdance.

If there's a convention of farmers or rodeo cowboys in town, stay the fuck away
Do I really need to explain this one?

All strip club DJs sound exactly the same and play the exact same songs
Wanted: DJ with non-regional accent for work at a local gentlemen's club. Knowledge of the Motley Crue cataloque required. Must play Nine Inch Nails' 'Closer' at least four times a night.

There's no sex in the champagne room, but there is in the dark corner of a run-down shithole
It's true that if you go to a nice upscale titty bar you WILL NOT be having sex of any kind on the premises; but I knew these guys in Louisville who went to a place called the Greenlight, and apparently the light was always green when it came to paying the girls a little extra and then fucking the beheyzeus out of them. I also worked with a guy in Vegas who was banned for life from a dumpy old club for having sex with a stripper. If the establishment smells like tawdry sex, odds are you can have some if you're willing to pay for it.

That's about enough knowledge for one post.