The Last Two Weeks

On Tuesday, June 13th, I'll board an overcrowded, understaffed Southwest Airlines direct flight from Las Vegas to Louisville, Ky. Approximate time in the air: 3 hours, 5o minutes. Approximate time sitting next to an old lady who smells like mothballs dipped in urine, flying back to Kentucky after blowing her life savings on slot machines and rancid buffets: 3 hours, 34 minutes (I assume she'll get up once to empty her colostomy bag).

In the meantime, I've never been more emotionally removed from life; and I'm doing it on purpose. I have this irrational yet extremely real fear of meeting the love of my life right before I move away. Why? Because that's my fucking luck, that's why. I'm not talking to any local strangers or distant acquaintances before I leave. I'm going out Saturday night and I'll only address tourists, because that's what I feel like right now. I'm a tourist who has to go to work every day (lousy travel agent). If by chance some plump Midwesterner grinds her ass into my crotch to the strained beats of some insipid Black Eyed Peas song, I'll say "I'm here for the weekend, too. Where ya stayin'?" Then I'll buy her an overpriced FruityTooty martini and she'll ditch me moments later. I can't wait. I might even drink slushy cheap-tequila margaritas from a novelty-sized plastic replica of the Sphinx.

Why do people who barely know me act like they're so sad to see me leave? A cashier at Home Depot practically begged me to stay and she never said more than "Good morning" to me in the months I've been aware of her existence. Does she secretly like me? I'll never know, because I don't plan on speaking to her again. Can't take the chance.

I shouldn't have mentioned the Black Eyed Peas. Just typing their name angers up my blood. They may be the worst musical group ever. The old gray mare who just won 'Idol' should join the Black Eyed Peas, creating a shitheap sound mosaic that could very well lead to the end of civilization as we know it. And on the last day in the history of Earth, as rivers boiled, mountains crumbled, and the undead roamed the contaminated soil feasting on the brains of the living, I'd finally meet the love of my life. Son of a bitch!

Bachelor Party Buca di Beppo style

The other day my blog idol Ubermilf mentioned Buca di Beppo, a crazy chain restaurant which serves huge family-style portions of delicious Italian comfort food. The idea is to share, taste a little of everything, and eat like Aretha Franklin with a tapeworm.

A lot of hipsters immediately scoff at the notion of a chain restaurant but there are good chains (Outback Steakhouse, Cheesecake Factory, P.F. Chang's) and bad chains (Applebee's, Olive Garden, Red Lobster). Buca is one of the good ones.

Anyway, when my friend Joe (not his real name; changed to protect the innocent) was getting married, he decided the evening would start with a massive feast at Buca di Beppo, then move on to a strip club for some serious debauchery.

That night I made it my mission to get the debauchery started early. I brought in a bottle of single-barrel bourbon and told the server "Hey, I know bringing your own liquor isn't allowed, but we're going to order big, tip well, and let you have as many shots as you like." In about five seconds, we all had shot glasses in front of us and our waitress was downing a shot. "A few more of these and you guys will be seeing the puppies," she said, shaking her massive jugs at us to emphasize her point.

Luckily for us and any children who happened to be dining out that night, we were in the coveted Pope Room, complete with a majestic Pope lazy susan in the middle of our table, removed from the general populace like a group of prisoners with Hepatitis C. I handed out shots like Charlie Sheen hands out venereal diseases. I gave a few shots to our waitress, then a shot to the woman who comes to every table singing Opera. One of the food runners was extremely hot but very young looking, so after I carded her and found out she was over twenty-one, she did a shot with us. Then, when the chef came over and brought us a free large pizza, you guessed it...shot.

By the end of the evening, our waitress had indeed showed us her huge tits. As did the Opera singer. And a woman we hadn't seen before ran into our room, flashed us for about a second, and ran out screaming. We couldn't get the young girl I carded to come back, but it still was a fairly good evening, tit-tay wise.

Yes, our waitress and the singer really put on a show, even at one point mashing their boobies together in a way that made me want to be the meat in their mammary sandwich. They did all of this in front of four walls full of Pope pictures. Of course the Popes wouldn't have been interested since these were the breasts of full-grown women and not the shriveled, bald wieners of quivering alter boys.

After our floor show, the kitchen manager came out, did a shot of bourbon, and gave us free shots from a bottle of tequila she had just brought back from Mexico. The tequila was so good I forgave her for keeping her top on.

Then we went to the strip club. Yes, we saw boobs, but you're supposed to see boobs at a strip club. It was a lot more fun to see them at Buca di Beppo while chowing on fried calamari and lasagne.

The girl with the tattooed titties

A few days ago I saw a woman who really caught my eye. She had a pretty face and gorgeous curves, and she wore an extremely low-cut top. There was a lot of cleavage on display, almost down to nip-land, and a large tattoo covered all of it.

At first I thought it was a bizarre fashion statement, like she decided to wear a loudly patterned bra that her top didn't quite cover. It was only after closer inspection (oh, how I suffer for this blog) that I realized it was ink. It was a permanent tattoo bra.

Why? What possessed this otherwise fine creature to disfigure herself in such a way? Did she lose a bet? Was this the result of a femme-gang initiation? Sorority hazing gone too far? Did she fall asleep at the tattoo parlor?

I wish I had seen her at a bar instead of a retail store, because if I'd had a few drinks in me I would have asked what I was dying to know: Are the nips themselves tattooed? And if so, holy fuck how much did that hurt?

At a bar several years ago I saw a woman with tiger-paw prints tattooed on her midrift, making a trail right down to the big cat itself. Classy, huh? I asked her if the ink indeed reached the promised land, so she pulled her pants down and showed me that yes, it did. That was the night I learned to not ask a question if I wasn't prepared for the answer.

Welcome to My Nightmare

On Thursday I had to deal with...

...getting up so early I actually woke up ten minutes before I went to sleep.

...heat. It had to be over ninety degrees by 9am. You see, we live in a desert.

...hearing a local radio station playing an excerpt from the guy who won American Idol. Fuck me in a cheap hotel, that shit is awful. His voice is TERRIBLE. Was that the best they could do? I've heard vagrants drunk on racing fuel who sing better than that.

...seeing the ass-crack of a woman who had no business showing ass-crack. I'm pretty sure Fatty McPorker's Plus-Size Emporium sells belts.

...a woman trying to pull off the dreaded terricloth shirt/shorts combo. It's never wise to choose your clothes for their absorbency.

...people who smell like Frankenstein's cock invading my personal space.

...the waitress at the Mexican restaurant where I ate lunch. Although I ordered a "burrito", she must have thought I asked for "Rosie O'Donnel's tampon", based on the horror she placed in front of me.

...the drive home from work. Stop-and-go traffic is bad enough; now add one-hundred degree weather and no a/c in the rolling deathtrap I drive. I was sweating like Clay Aiken eating a tall stack of johnnycakes.

I was almost home when something happened that made me smile. A teenage girl rear-ended a guy at a red light.

It made me smile because the guy was an old man in a sports car. God, what a cliche. No one was hurt and there wasn't any damage to either of the vehicles, but Mr. Desperately Holding On to His Youth acted like it was a head-on collision.

I was on his side until he got out of the car and shouted "What are you, stoopid or somethin'?" in a thick New England chowderhead accent. He was wearing a black turtleneck and had his hair slicked back via Michael Douglas as Gordon Gecko, circa 1987. He was such a stereotype I had the sudden urge to don a straw hat and a corncob pipe and play My Old Kentucky Home by beating a mason jar with a banned book.

It was suddenly funny to me. The girl was totally at fault; she wasn't paying attention to the road and bumped into him. But sometimes douchebags need to suffer. And sometimes they need to suffer for my amusement.

Google AdSense Can Suck My Penoose

People have asked why I don't sell ad space on this blog. Well, now I have an answer for them. This blog was rejected by Google AdSense. The reason? Inappropriate language.

Profane language? Yes. Obscene language? Sure. Offensive language? Okay, if you're an old school marm from the Ozarks. But I object to the word "inappropriate". I say the language is APPROPRIATE for this blog, because it's my blog and I write what I want. I even warn easily offended pussy-ass bitchfucks to stay away, because I'm a sweetheart of a guy.

Despite my outreach to oversensitive nancycunts, Google AdSense chose to reject my blog, finding it too offensive to feature the ads for penile enlargement, mail-order fuckmates, and hard-on pills I see regularly on other sites. Let's not offend the delicate sensibilities of some hampster-hung doucheneck looking to introduce a kidnapped Asian minor to the joys of indentured servitude and hours of pharmaceutically-enhanced forced sex. Heaven for-cunting-bid.

I saw a blog today (one of my favorites) that featured Google AdSense, and the latest post contained the words "fuck" and "piss". In all fairness, that blog isn't as profane as mine, but everyone better watch out before the jackbooted thugs of AdSense decide all curse words (or all "dangerous" ideas, or all political thoughts) are forbidden.

Jesus on a trampoline, all I wanted to do was make a fucking nickel from this god damn albatross I call a blog. It doesn't matter anyway. Once I move I'll no longer have access to this borrowed computer, so my internet access will be sporadic at best.

Would someone do me a huge favor and email Adsense at adsense-support@google.com and tell them to fuck right off?

Themes are for suckers

Just some things I've had on my mind recently:

-People ask "Why do you hate American Idol so much? It's only a TV show." Wrong! It doesn't stay confined to my TV. I have to hear their shitty music when I shop, and the other day I turned on the computer and what do I see on my homepage? An image of Paula Abdul CRYING because some talentless karaoke hack cocksucker was low man in a contest in which MORE VOTES WERE CAST THAN IN EVERY PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION IN U.S. HISTORY. I was also "treated" to photos of the last two "singers" involved. Their names escape me, but one was a hot chick and the other looked like the guy at Circuit City who tries to sell you an extended warranty even if all you buy are blank CDs. I think the chick should win, but only after she dresses as Jackie Kennedy circa 1961 and licks Kelly Clarkson's coot until the pill-box hat looks like a glazed doughnut.

-My brother is very upset I didn't name him Right-Wing Douchebag of the Month. *SIGH*

-I had a date Friday night. She was nice, but thought she was funny and really wasn't; and thought getting a tattoo was SO dangerous. This is the last date I'm going on in Vegas, by the way. What if we had liked each other? What kind of a mess would that have been? "Yeah, you're the woman I've always dreamed of. Too bad I'll be in Louisville next month, getting drunk on bourbon and cursing my unfortunate timing." She didn't like me at all. Big surprise.

-When I was in fifth grade I was sent to the principal's office for singing this song:
"Spiderman, Spiderman,
Does whatever a spider can/
There he is, climbing walls,
He's got radioactive balls..."

-You know what DOESN'T work? Walking up to a woman at a bar, and saying, in an exaggerated yokel accent, "How'd you like a little South in your mouth?"

-I think anyone who pays to see the new Fast and Furious sequel should be immediately put to death, right there in the theatre. You can learn all about the aftermath in my planned documentary A Day Without Douchebags.

-Judging from the low comment count on my last post, there's a lot of Ted Kennedy supporters out there.

-I went to a strip club last week with the lovely Princess Steph of Princess Steph fame. Damn, what a collection of low-rent hose hounds. Steph's boobs were by far the best pair I saw that night. No, I just viewed them; I didn't experience them. After we left the Stretch Mark Festival otherwise known as Club Paradise, we went next door to the Rainbow, modeled after the famous Los Angeles club, and saw the most stunning collection of bar staff and patrons ever assembled in one place. Nice.

-FYI, Steph mentions the boob flash on her blog, so I'm not telling a secret here.

-

Equal Time?

In all fairness, I should note that Ted Kennedy once killed a woman, which puts him one up on gangsta rap pioneer and noted misogynist Easy E.

Right-Wing Douchebag of the Month

Don't look at this image of Pure Evil for too long, or you'll turn into a pillar of salt. This piece of human filth is Eugene Scalia, son of Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia. He is the inaugural winner of the not-at-all-coveted vivalasvegASS Right-Wing Douchebag of the Month Award.

How did he do it? How did he beat out such stalwart right-wing douchebags as Karl Rove, Rush Limbaugh, and our own "president"? Well, it should be noted that Dick Cheney, as Douchebag Emeritus, is ineligible for the award; but that still left a stellar field to be vanquished by the son of Antonin Scalia (who's no sloutch in the douchebag department himself).

Eugene Scalia is a lawyer with one specialized focus: He represents large companies against workers in cases involving repetitive stress disorder.

Repetitive stress disorder is what happens to a human being when she, let's say, guts fish for eight hours a day, using the same motion over and over again. When these workers become crippled, Eugene Scalia swoops up from his home directly under Satan's nutsack and tries to get a refusal of any sort of worker's comp or benefits.

If that isn't enough to justify his lofty position in the Douchebag Rogue's Gallery, he is also an outspoken opponent of ergonomics, the study of how the human body reacts to work-related physical stress. He called it "junk science" in front of a joint session of Congress, despite the fact that he isn't a scientist, ignoring the views of every real scientist on the planet Earth. Eugene Scalia, well-educated and by all accounts highly intelligent, contends that repetitive motion doesn't cause stress-related injuries, so there's no need at all to adopt safety measures to prevent them.

In short, this sharp-minded man could have chosen any area of law and would have inevitably been rewarded handsomely. As the educated son of a Supreme Court justice, he could have named his price at any law firm in the country. Instead, Eugene Scalia has devoted his professional life to make damn sure impoverished, poorly-educated workers, the vast majority of whom are women, are held down and force-fucked by the sweat shop industries. For that, he is our Right-Wing Douchebag of the Month.

Oh, here's the punchline: From 2001 till 2003, Eugene Scalia was Chief Solicitor (Head Lawyer in Charge) for...yep, the Department of Labor. In other words, if your company fucked with you in those two years, you stayed fucked. Rumor has it if you filed a claim against a company when Labor's Worst Enemy was in charge of defending Labor, you got a letter in the mail which read "Claim denied. Welcome to Dick Cheney's America, motherfucker."

Puke Depot (or Rage Against the Texfinish Machine)

This is the Magnum Graco Texfinish machine. It is used to apply texture to drywall and retails for around $650 at your neighborhood Home Depot.

As a vendor, it is my job to make sure this machine is displayed properly and always stocked with informative brochures. I also clean it when it gets dusty, which is every time I'm in the store.

Wednesday I was cleaning it when I smelled something quite foul. What was the source of this odor, you might ask? Very simply, SOMEONE HAD THROWN UP IN THE MACHINE!

Not on the machine, IN the machine. Someone had used this expensive piece of equipment as their own personal Roman trough. What the cunting fuck?!? Who is evil enough to think of something so disgusting when they're getting ready to vomit? What kind of a human dungheap doesn't just hurl on the floor like everyone else? The utter depravity of mankind never fucking ceases to amaze me.

I resisted the urge to run out the door, get into my vehicle, and ride through the desert until I ran out of gas. Instead, I found an assistant store manager, or asm.

me: "I have some rather disturbing news to report."

asm: "What is it?"

me: "Someone threw up in the Graco machine."

asm: "Oh, I know. Apparently it happened last night." (Way to ignore the problem, Home Depot)

me: "Yeah....uhm, that really shouldn't be on the sales floor like that."

asm: "Well, it probably needs to be taken to the janitorial room and hosed down."

me: "I'll be happy to wheel it to the back of the store, but that's where my obligation ends."

So I wheeled it to the back, holding my breath the entire time, and a few minutes later the asm cleaned the stranger sick out of it. I would have thrown the thing in the garbage.

What is it about Home Depot that brings out the worst in people? About once or twice a month I'll open a bathroom stall door and there'll be a shit-filled pair of tighty-whities on the floor by the toilet. Who are these people who can't control their bowels? If you're too sick to NOT shit your pants, you're too sick to be wandering around Home Depot. And if you, a grown man, poop your britches like an infant, try to regain a shred of human dignity by disposing of the evidence. Is it, at long last, asking too much to expect a person to exhibit behavior above that of a wild animal?

Leaving Las Vegas...

In about a month, I'll be moving back to Louisville. To do what? To live where? I don't know yet, but the time has come to put Las Vegas in the rearview mirror and go back home.

And you know what? Despite the frequent rants I don't always hate Las Vegas. First and foremost, I'll miss my brother and sister-in-law. More superficially, even though I rarely gamble I'll miss the local's casinos, where I could see a movie, eat a nice meal, have an after-dinner drink, and go to a club without leaving the building. Also, my job is boring but EASY and my boss is a good friend of mine. That probably won't be the case from now on.

In fact, for the next few months my life will probably be worse than it is now, but this is a move I feel I have to make. Ultimately, this isn't about hating Las Vegas, it's about loving my hometown, despite its many faults and shortcomings. I can almost taste the Nitro Porter at Cumberland Brewpub (and visions of feathered mullets are dancing in my head).

Of course, now I'll have to change the name of my fucking blog. I'm thinking Loserville or Kuntucky. Or perhaps Loserville, Kuntucky. If anyone has any better suggestions, please offer them and allow me to shoot them down.

There will probably be a hiatus or period of infrequent blogging when I move, since I borrow this laptop from one of my roommates, but I'm still here for another month. And when the blog changes titles, the URL will stay the same to provide a smooth transition.

That is all. More posts containing the word "cunt" coming soon.

A little teaser...

I have big news, but I'm not going to blog about it until all concerned "real life" parties have been notified.

Why is it a selling point that Paris Hilton is at a particular nightclub? Jessica Alba? Selling point. Scar Jo? Selling point. But people flock to clubs when Paris Hilton is scheduled to stumble in front of them for a minute, and I just don't get it. Half of the patrons and ALL of the staff are hotter than her, for one thing; plus, she may be our second dumbest celebrity. Britney Spears is number one. I saw her on Letterman the other night and she's so dumb it made my cock itch. He made her read the Top Ten List and it was obvious she didn't get any of the jokes. There were a few words she couldn't even read. Dave asked her one question (if she was pregnant), humiliated her by forcing her to read, and that was it.

KFed must be the Johnny Appleseed of white trash spunk. This will be his fourth child. Think of all the unlucky couples who can't conceive while Federslime knocks a bitch up by waving his cock in the approximate direction of her catcher's mitt. Life is a misery and despair horn-of-plenty.

Oh, and fuck American Idol. In the immortal words of the White Stripes, "I've said it all before but it bears repeating."

"Where you from?"

THE VARIOUS WAYS DIFFERENT TYPES OF PEOPLE REACT WHEN THEY HEAR I LIVE IN LAS VEGAS:

Perpetually stoned So Cal party guy: "Dude, Vegas is a non-stop party, bro. Seriously, bro, non-stop."

Impossibly pretty So Cal glamour girl: "My cousin flies there every weekend to work at a strip club."

World-weary poseur from back East: "Vegas...(exaggerated sigh)...what a cultural wasteland. Is it true they build casinos on top of graveyards?"

Socially conservative family man: "Branson, Missouri is just fine with me, thank you very much."

Perky girl who learned all she knows about Las Vegas from reality tv: "Aren't you too unattractive to live there?"

Fucking know-it-all douchebag: "Las Vegas should have depleted its water supply by the year 2012."

Midget: "Can you get me a job at Circus Circus?"

Mild-mannered Midwestern guy who kind of wants to visit Las Vegas but is a little apprehensive: "Is it true that bands of gypsies roam The Strip and steal babies right out of their strollers?"

Smarmy businessman who isn't nearly as clever as he thinks: "Whoa, 'What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas'; am I right?"

Woman who meets me, is swayed by my many charms, and decides to relocate to pursue a life with me:

Back for more abuse...

I just returned from my trip to Irvine, California, where I stayed at the Atrium Hotel. If Irvine is the anus of Orange County, the Atrium is the pus-emitting sore on that anus. Oh, don't get me wrong, the Atrium was a fine hotel... in 1978! In fact, I think some scenes from the Linda Blair film Roller Boogie were filmed there. I also think it was where actor Bob Crane was bludgeoned to death, so it has that going for it. However, the word "remodel" clearly isn't in the vocab of the owners of the ol' dump, and there was a musky smell in my room that reminded me of the time I got drunk and went down on Rue McClanahan.

The work aspect of the trip was as dismal as I predicted. For eight excruciating hours a day I had to sit in back-twisting chairs and listen to vendors talk about their products. The ones who weren't brain-cell-destroyingly boring were hostile to the point of wanting us dead. One guy had the nerve to say "When you do your job and make my product look good, that means more money for me." Oh, really? That truly motivates me to do a good job. Maybe if I bust my ass he'll finally be able to dip his balls in liquid gold and buy a full length coat made from Queen Elizabeth's pubes. I'll never touch his fucking product again. I hope he's ruined financially and has to eat his children for sustenance.

The highlight of my trip was meeting my blogger friend Monkey Mc. She is as funny, charming, intelligent, and lovely as I thought she'd be. When she picked me up at my disco hotel, she apologized for being late, as she lived FIFTY MILES away. Holy shit! Then we went into a place called Hamburger Mary's that turned out to be a gay version of Red Robin. When the guy up front said, "There's a five dollar cover for the all-male review" we decided to take our thirsty livers elsewhere. As Monkey Mc said, "You don't need some guy teabagging you while you're trying to eat a hamburger." Truer words have never been spoken.

We ended up at a rather dismal sports bar, but the drinks were strong and the company was good, so all was well. Unfortunately, she got a ticket for making an illegal u-turn on the way back to my hotel. In case any California state officials are reading this, she was completely innocent and the police officer who pulled her over was obviously insane and maybe even high on oxycotin and blueberry ripple.

Oh, and the next evening some coworkers and I found a Chick-fil-A and ate there. There are no Chick-fil-A's in Vegas, so this was quite a treat. Yes, I live a sad life. Shut up.

I also discovered that a lot of annoying people work for my company, and a lot of them are in upper management. Our Human Resources person and the Vice President of Operations are both so attractive yet vapid they're living, breathing examples of the old saying "Looks aren't everything." As for my fellow service reps, for every one person who asks too many fucking questions because of a misguided but well-meaning thirst for knowledge, there's five who ask too many fucking questions because the sound of their own voice fascinates them.

I'd better end this because I have to be in the stores at 6am.

Going Back to Cali

In the past my work has taken me to such exotic locales as Tempe, Arizona, Cedar City, Utah, and North Las Vegas. This week they strike again: I'm going to the O.C. Orange County, bitches.

But I won't be partying with rich young Death Cab for Cutie fans, as seen on TV; no, I'll be imprisoned in a hotel across the road from the John Wayne Airport, listening to almost illegally dull vendors go on and on about why their concrete spackle is the best concrete spackle money can buy.

The John Wayne Airport? Really? So I'm going to be stuck in the only conservative area of the most liberal state in America? I guess it could be worse. I could be flying into the G. Gordon Liddy Airport in Wyoming or Alabama's John Wilkes Booth Airport.

On the plus side, I'll be meeting my bloggy friend Monkey Mc. She's neato.

On the minus side, I'll have to spend two hours in the airport for a thirty minute flight. We have assigned seats, which means I'll be seated next to a either a guy wearing an "America: Love it or Leave it" sleeveless t-shirt who smells like old shoe and limberger cheese; or an i-pod addicted teenage girl who sings every word of the latest Fall Out Boy song loud and off-key (like they do) but it's worse because her breath smells like someone's cock.

So I won't be posting again until Thursday or Friday. I know, I know...what will you do without me? How about a topic of discussion? What, in your humble or not-so-humble opinion, should be done about the growing number of illegal aliens in the United States? If you think nothing should be done, that's an opinion too. I'll post my opinions on the subject when I return. I might even use some of your comments in my post to prove that I'm right and you're wrong. You've been warned.

Later.

Thoughts that keep me from sleeping

I don't claim to be all that smart, but I do think a lot, mostly about insignificant trifles. That's probably why I get about three or four hours of sleep a night. Maybe it will help if I write them down.

-Unlike most Democrats, I take no pleasure in George Bush's record-low approval ratings. Why? BECAUSE HE'S STILL PRESIDENT. Our time for action was in the months leading up to November 2004, and we failed miserably.

-Home Depot managers have to be the most useless spunk-sacks on this planet. I have more respect for people who swindle the elderly for a living; at least they have to use their brains.

-There's a Pet Cemetery in Las Vegas that also buries humans who don't want to be away from their pets. I'm sorry, but their corpses need to be violated. We need to have a necrophyllia fund raiser and sell their rotting asses to the highest bidders. "I want to be next to Pookie for all eternity." FUCK YOU!!! Larry the unemployed carnie is going to desecrate your dead body to the repulsion/amusement of on-lookers and an audience of several hundred thousand on basic cable. We might even rough up your survivors, dickface.

-You know what needs to happen to Moussaoui? Well, he needs to be killed, but more importantly, he needs to be buried improperly. Send him to eternity wrapped head to toe in bloody pigskin, with a Matisyahu CD shoved up his bung for good measure. Bury terrorists in a way that, according to their beliefs, prevents them from entering paradise.

-If gas prices were frozen at $1.50 a gallon, the oil companies would still make an enormous profit. Not only that, but the economy would thrive because more people would travel over the summer. It's never going to happen, of course.

-Are Fall Out Boy, Hawthorne Heights, Yellow Card, and Taking Back Sunday the same fucking band? Are whiny-voiced lead singers being manufactured by a wholly-owned subsidiary of Dow Chemical?

-I have tickets to see Pearl Jam on July 6th at the MGM Grand Garden Arena. Anyone going to be in town that day that wants to see Pearl Jam?

-I want a new job, a different car, a better life somewhere other than Las Vegas. I've tried to like it here; I even gamble occasionally even though I can't afford to lose a penny. Every single day I regret with all of my heart ever moving away from my hometown. And if I move back, I'll regret that. I'm a miserable bastard, and always will be.

Lying ad exec scumbags

I'll have you know I used Axe body spray recently and I wasn't attacked by hordes of nubile young women.

I was, however, stung by several flying insects.


ALSO: Two fantastic bloggers have birthdays today. Hailing from Canada, Claudia is no doubt enjoying a state-sponsored Canadian seven-course meal: a slice of back-bacon and a six pack. And from Las Vegas (or maybe Henderson, I don't know), Bawlz is probably kickin' it VIP at a club that wouldn't let me in if I bought the place. They're both twenty-five and are too kind to me, as they were taught to respect their elders. Best wishes, ladies.

The Most Offensive Post of All Time

NOTE: This is extremely offensive. If you read it and are horribly offended, you have no one to blame but yourself.

A little joke for you:

A man walks into a talent agent's office and says "I have a great act for you. They're a family; a father and mother and their son and daughter. They all walk out on stage stark naked. The dad starts fucking the mom and fingering his daughter. The mom blows her son, who has his asshole licked clean by the family dog. The dog, a Great Dane, takes a huge steaming shit on the stage and the dad, right after jizzing in his daughter's face, sticks his finger in the pile of dog shit and fashions a Hitler shitstache right under his nose. He then spouts horrible anti-Semitic rhetoric while fucking a midget dressed as Anne Frank. Then a group of post-op trannys come out dressed as Jesus, Mohammed, Ghandi and Buddha. They all jack each other off while reading in unison from the Satanic Bible, while the father pisses in their faces and the son buttfucks a hamster until it splits in half. Then the mom and dad savagely butcher the trannys with a dull hatchet, allowing the son and daughter to chew hungrily at the newly-carved flesh. And finally, the entire family rolls around in a putrid stew of blood, piss, cum, shit, and vomit; then they lick it off of each other."

The agent looks terrified. "What do you call this act?"

"The Aristocrats."

EXPLANATION FOR THIS: I recently saw a documentary about the above joke. The joke itself has been around since Vaudeville days. It's been passed down from comedian to comedian because the only constant is the beginning and ending; allowing the individual to describe any and all horrific things that this "family act" does. Some of the versions I heard in the film were actually more offensive than this one. For more information: www.thearistocrats.com

Inspiration comes from the most unlikely sources...

Recently, I did a google search to check out some non-commenters who have linked me, and I found an interesting one. Some guy who described himself in his profile as "old fashioned and conservative" (oh, this isn't going to be good) apparently liked a point I made, but then warned his gentle, fragile readers that my blog was pure, unadulterated evil.

I'd like, at this point, to reply to a few of his comments.

"...almost entirely about sex."
I wish. It would be great if I could regale my readers with fanciful tales of poon-bangin'. In fact, this blog is mostly about a lack of sex. To begin with, if I was having as much sex as I'd like I'd be posting a hell of a lot less. And when I did post, this blog would indeed be almost entirely about sex.

"...completely crude and offensive..."
It amuses me when adults are offended by the insignificant. Even if you don't get the joke, move on to real injustices in the world.

"This guy is doing society no favors."
Fuck society; it does me no favors! For one thing, people like you are in charge.

There were other complaints mostly in the same vein. I'm not going to publish this man's URL, mostly because I don't remember it and don't feel like trying to find it again. Also, he wrote this months ago, so the statute of limitations has long passed as far as I'm concerned.

In fact, I'm not mad at all. He inspires me to keep going. I'm glad I offend the easily offended; they're mush-minded pus-sacks. I wonder if he talks about me over dinner at Applebee's after the squaredance.