Gay marriage, stem cells, and other topics

I think I mentioned this before when commenting on other blogs, but it bears repeating. In 2004 Nevada voters passed an amendment called "The Sanctity of Marriage Act" banning all same-sex unions. There are really, for all practical purposes, only two areas in Nevada that are inhabited with people. They are Reno and the Vegas valley. Both are places where drunken strangers are married twenty-four hours a day, every day. So you see, nobody in Nevada gives a squirt of piss about the sanctity of marriage. They just want to discriminate.

In my opinion, gays are the new blacks. Allow me to explain: Some people always have to have someone to hate, and since it isn't socially acceptable to be a racist these days, the gays are a convenient scapegoat. Take Reverend Jerry Falwell, for example. In the 1950s he was a segregationist. He used passages from the Bible to justify his belief that black and white America should be two seperate entities. This is funny to me, because there aren't any white people in the Bible. Nothing in the Bible happened in Europe. Your favorite Bible-type folk were all brown, all the time. This inconvenient fact never stopped Reverend Falwell from preaching from his pulpit that it was a sin for whites and blacks to live amongst one another.

Years later, when societal views shifted, Falwell realized it would be hard for a racist to swindle the elderly and the ignorant out of their money, which is what all televangelists do, so he renounced his hatred of blacks and turned his God-fearing ignorance toward them pesky sodomites. A legion of the narrow-minded soon followed his lead.

Reverend Falwell has every right as a "minister" to deny same-sex marriage in his church. Since his "ministry" is funded not by U.S. taxpayers but by the pensions and disability checks of the people from which he steals, it's his choice. And if the Catholic church wants to budget time from its busy schedule of protecting priests who've raped children to "take the moral high ground" regarding marriage, that's fine by me.

But there is no reason why two consenting adult taxpayers, regardless of gender, can't go to City Hall and get married (or call it a civil union). These people are U.S. citizens, so any moral qualms anyone has about homosexuality is irrelevant. It doesn't matter if Uncle Jedjack from Alabama finds it distasteful. I find it distasteful that Britney Spears and K-Fed are married, but I wouldn't deny them their rights.

***On another subject, why in God's good name doesn't Crystal from boobsinjuriesanddrpepper.blogspot.com have a book deal? A few nice people have suggested I deserve a book deal because of this tripe, but I have to admit I'm not worthy. Not even close.

Crystal, on the other hand, writes the funniest blog I've read, and she's book deal-less! Unsigned, people! I'm guessing the powers-that-be had one book deal left to give to a female blogger, so they handed it over to yet another smug, overdressed, self-obsessed, stuffy, pseudo-intellectual, Manhattan Sex in the City ripoff chick. God, I've read some of those blogs and every word is PAINFUL to me. None of these women will ever be satisfied until science invents a pill that makes their excrement smell like the inside of a Prada purse. Fuck off and die!!

***I almost cried when I saw my first paycheck. Retards who sell newspapers on expressway exit ramps make more money than I do. Immigrants selling roadside produce are like Donald Trump to me. I don't mind working, I just hate looking for work. But I have to find something else, and soon.

***Well, "President" Bush vetoed the stem-cell research bill, despite its support by a vast majority of Americans. Three people with a lot of money are against stem-cell research, so by all means let's shitcan the whole operation. "They might use aborted fetuses," one of them said before he slipped on the snail-trail left by the other two. YES, BY ALL MEANS SAVE THE FUCKING PRECIOUS UNBORN FETUSES. NEVER DO ANYTHING TO HELP ANYONE WHO'S ALREADY ALIVE, BUT KEEP YOUR HANDS OUT OF GOD'S COOKIE JAR!!! Fact: When Bill Clinton ran in '92, pro-life protesters threw fetuses at him, on more than one occasion. If they had used just one of those fetuses for stem-cell research, maybe Ronald Reagan wouldn't have spent the last twelve years of his life drooling into a bucket hanging from his chin. I'm kind of glad Reagan went out like that, but I'm a vindictive asshole. I guess President Bush and I do have something in common.

Next stop, "The Vast Waistline"

Remember the classic Simpsons episode where Homer gains a lot of weight so he can go on disability? That's how I feel right now. I'm about a biscuit away from wearing a muumuu and a "fat guy hat".

I have the opposite problem of Nicole Richie: She can't start eating, and I can't stop.

Last night I was thinking that I probably wouldn't like it if Nicole Richie put a picture of me on her blog and lectured me about losing weight (Not that she would bother; her bony ass has a social life). But really, that post was less a personal attack on her and more a condemnation of a culture that makes women think they should look like that. No guy looks at me and thinks "I need to be that fat."

I may go back to Weight Watchers, but I'm not going to blog about it. I think I jinxed myself the last time.

Can we get this chick a sammich?

I know what you're thinking: "Damn, the Crypt Keeper looks great in a bikini." Sadly, that's Nicole Richie, the once-cute pseudo celeb. Holy Karen Carpenter, Batman; I'm surprised flies aren't buzzing around her.

Remember the first season of The Simple Life? Nicole carried a little extra weight and was attractive. Oh, she was annoying and stupid, but she looked good. But she had a tiny amount of belly fat, so some four hundred pound male TV critic probably called her a porker, resulting in a chain of events which led to her looking like a ten-year-old boy.

Why are so many women in Hollywood so unappealingly thin? I realize a lot of Americans, myself included, are fat, but there has to be a healthy medium. And if you're a celebrity, and part of your "job" is to look good, why make yourself look disgusting to everyone but necrophiliacs? Someone is telling these women this looks good.

I think that "someone" is the fashion industry. Designers think their clothes look better draped over a bag of bones than clinging to hips and tits. Hey, maybe they do, but speaking as a man, when I take off the gift-wrapping I'd like the present to have a nice round ass.

Lindsay Lohan has actually regained a few pounds (probably after seeing Nicole in that bikini). Yeah, she' up to a B-cup now; when she gets to C, someone let me know and I'll reinstate her as an object of my legal-yet-inappropriate old man lust.

Customers Suck

Just a few observations from working at the ol' party store:

-Smokers are god damn pains in the ass. AND THEY SMELL BAD. I know smokers who don't smell like Joan of Arc's twat, but none of them come into our store. There are two different types of smokers; the overly picky and the impoverished desperate.

Overly picky: "I need a pack of Merit Ultra Light Long Menthol 120s in the soft pack. (pause) No, those are Merit Ultra Light Long Menthol 100s." Soon the doctor will be saying, "Looks like you have Ultra Light Long lung cancer."

Impoverished desperate: "Give me whatever cigarettes are the cheapest." Not ONCE has this person smelled pleasant.

And ENOUGH about smoker's rights. Their fucking rights end where my lungs begin. Why is this even a debate? SMOKING IS THE ONLY HABIT, IN AND OF ITSELF, THAT HARMS OTHER PEOPLE. If drunks don't drive, they only hurt themselves. From now on, every time I eat something unhealthy, I'm going to shove part of it, already chewed, down the throat of the person who has the misfortune of sitting closest to me. Why not? That's what smokers do when they light up in public! What if heroin addicts went around town sticking people with needles? Society wouldn't stand for it, of course, but "smokers have rights."

-I like alcohol, but I'd rather never drink again than drink cheap swill. People come in and buy gallons of cheap liquor in plastic bottles. If your drink of choice comes in a plastic bottle, go to rehab immediately. I can't imagine the hangovers these people have. Simply put, I'd rather have a six pack of good beer than a twelve pack of shit. And when I'm out, I'd rather have two top shelf drinks than four well drinks made with lousy booze. I guess hopeless alcoholics just want a quick buzz.

-When grown man buys wine coolers and fruity cocktail drinks, I think an employee dressed as a giant tampon should leap out from behind the register and pinch the guy's nipples.

-Why do women clearly over thirty complain when I don't ask for their ID? One lady said "But you carded the girl in front of me." Yeah, because I didn't recognize her from high school. I'm an old fuck, lady; and so are you.

-A guy wrote a check the other day, and when I asked to see his driver's license he pulled out a "permission to carry a deadly weapon" card. I literally laughed in his face (which probably wasn't a good idea since this guy is an acknowledged weapons expert) and said, "This is worthless to us. Your address isn't on it." He then argued with the store manager for awhile and finally had to resort to using a stolen credit card instead of writing a bad check. We should have denied the sale and thrown him out, but I don't run the place.

-Old people who have enough money to buy CASES of liquor should have their social security benefits cut. We're all paying for gramps to drink a jug of lousy wine while watching Matlock.

-I want to give the booze away to hot chicks, but management frowns upon that sort of thing. I may have to go to bartending school.

-Get off the cell phone while checking out, you inconsiderate fuck! You're buying a half pint of Kentucky Gentleman whiskey in the middle of the day....YOU AREN'T IMPORTANT. Unless you're a world-renowned heart surgeon or the President, put the cell phone away for thirty seconds. You'll have plenty of time later to tell your baby's mama you'll pick her up in front of the free clinic.

None of the calories, some of the taste

Thank the sweet merciful maker of heaven and earth for Coke Zero. Without it, I would weigh six hundred pounds. Really. I have no will power and if there wasn't something that didn't taste like liquid foot I'd be swilling Coca-Cola like Lindsay Lohan downs Red Bull and vodka at a trendy LA nightspot.

Most diet drinks taste like Satan's smegma, but Coke Zero is D-licious.

Oh, added bonus: Coke Zero is the world's best mixer, even better than regular Coke. I drink it with bourbon.

"Coke Zero and Bourbon: Part of a sensible diet."

Not a fan...

Who is this guy?

Is he a contestant on Rockstar: Backstreet Boys? No.

Is he a gay porn actor? No.

He's Dane Cook, the most popular comedian on the planet.

Dane has used myspace (he has over a million "friends"), his good looks, and an admittedly engaging personality (in small doses) to become a comedic rock star.

Is Dane Cook the most talented comedian out there? Not even close. He gets by more on delivery than material, and in my humble opinion isn't in the same league as comics such as Andy Kindler and Patton Oswalt.

Unfortunately, those guys aren't going to reach the popularity of Dane Cook. Why? Because they're unattractive. That shouldn't matter in comedy, but in myspace America, it does. Patton Oswalt doesn't make teenage and college-aged girls wet their low-rise jeans. (Another path to comedic superstardom is to appeal to the lowest common denominator, ala Larry the Cable Guy).

I saw one of Dane Cook's performances on HBO. It was like an N'Sync crowd from seven years ago. He was occasionally funny, frequently annoying, and completely undeserving of such slavish devotion. I don't know, maybe if he spent less time at the gym and more time writing actual jokes he'd be somewhat deserving of his elevated status.

His HBO show, Dane Cook's Boregasm, shows Dane and three other assholes touring America in a bus. They argue, they make up, Dane acts like a pouty bitch when he loses at something, they tell shit jokes, etc. The crowd, composed of hot young chicks and guys who like the Dave Matthews Band, GOES CRAZY when Dane Cook takes the stage. Frat boy hijinks ensue. Cut to standing ovation. Roll credits. Punch me in the scrote for wasting thirty minutes of my life.

I think from now on people should chose their doctors based on looks. Hell, why not? If looks matter in comedy, of all things, why shouldn't the shallow RISK THEIR LIVES to ensure they are only examined by exquisite physical specimens?

"My new doctor is so hot."

"Hasn't his incompetence killed scores of patients?"

"Well...yeah, but look at his abs!"


I'm going in tomorrow for lipo and extensive plastic surgery.

I HAD A THREE-WAY LAST NIGHT...

...at Skyline Chili.

No, I didn't bang two waitresses in the men's room; I ate one of their famous 3-way chili platters.

A 3-way consists of spaghetti, chili, and cheese. Add onion for a 4-way, which is a culinary orgy I can't handle late at night.

Did any of you read the title and actually think I had a threesome? Please. Don't you read this blog?

The results of the experiment are in, and guess what? People suck.

I've spent the past day having my worst suspicions about the human race confirmed to me with extreme prejudice. It wasn't as much fun as I thought it would be.

I created a false myspace account of a superficially pretty, emotionally vapid young lady (see previous post for full details) and she was quite the popular gal with both the stupid young douchebag set and the older vulture-like exploiter set.

Why did a slightly anti-social middle-aged man with an already negative view of human nature set himself up for such a bitch-slap? I don't know....I had a day off work, okay?

Oh, the loathsome cast of characters my creation unearthed from the ooze. Two "gentlemen" wanted to "photograph" her, which is Vegas-speak for "rape repeatedly and leave for dead in the middle of the desert"; a rich European gadabout requested her for a long weekend of shopping and, I presume, flaccid-cock blowjobs; and several twentyish morons wanted to "kick it with her". *SIGH*

My favorite, and by "favorite" I mean "person I hated the most", was Jimmy, a twenty-one-year-old Vegas resident who described himself as a "Cool Motha Fucka". Really. No shit. Without a trace of irony.

Jimmy wore a backwards hat tilted oh-so-slightly askew, flashed a gang sign, and had a look of entitlement and self-satisfaction on his insipid face that made me want to punch him in his mancunt. He messaged "Kelli", and the correspondence went as follows (the lack of grammar, punctuation, sentence structure, etc. are all his):

JIMMY: "whats goin on with you, i tryin to meet some new peoples to kick it with out here i have been here for bout 1 year from georgia, and like ur self i like to get my drink on. where do you usually go to chill out"

KELLI: "Yeah, I usually go to Jet on Mondays, Pure on Tuesdays, Cherry on Fridays, Tryst on Saturdays. You'll have to take off your hat to get in those places."

JIMMY: "we should hit up one of ur spots sometime if you want i think a couple of my friends are goin to the local joint tonight at sierra gold on jones and 215 if you wanna go more than welcome"

What a complete TOOL. "She" insulted him and it went right over his K-Fed head. And really, even if she was a cool person, she wouldn't be caught dead at the fucking Sierra Gold on Jones and the 215.

If you haven't seen her profile yet, it's too late. I deleted it. The messages from Jimmy and his ilk were starting to get on my nerves.

But who knows...I think Kelli needs to start a blog.

Fun with Myspace

Who is this "fetching" creature? Well, it's me. Uh...let me explain. As part of a social experiment, and because I'm a prick, I created Kelli, a Las Vegas native and Myspace newbie.

I chose someone who is attractive, but in a cheesy, plastic way. I also wrote the most obnoxious profile on earth, purposefully making Kelli a terrible human being.

Not surprisingly, some men don't care about Kelli's toxic personality; they just want to get hold of those giant fake funbags. I'm almost sure most of them didn't even read the text. One guy, who of course may also be fake, wants to meet Kelli and "take her shopping". Priceless.

But don't take my word for it. Go to myspace.com/hottyvegas and view Kelli's profile. Be sure to click on her profile song. The effect isn't complete without it.

Once you read about her, you'll be amazed that anyone wants to talk to my creation. But they do, my blogitches. Yes they do.

Note: As an added bonus, I'm getting messages from vapid women. Good times.

Take me out to the ballgame...

Last night I went to Louisville Slugger Field to see a Triple-A baseball game between our Louisville Bats and those douchebag Bisons from Buffalo.

I love minor league baseball. It's cheap (actually, our tickets were free), the concession food is good, the beer is cold, and Slugger Field has been touted as the best minor league ballpark in the country.

There wasn't a capacity crowd at the ol' stadium last night, mainly because of the ungodly weather, described by more than one local as "Hotter than horse pussy." The night was so thick with humidity (also known as 'air that you wear') that Barry Bonds fresh off a three day steroid binge couldn't have hit a home run.

And yet, despite the humidity and temperatures in the nineties even after the sun went down, I was never terribly uncomfortable. I think not getting the air conditioning fixed in my Vegas automobile was a wise decision, because riding around in a rolling oven for the last month and a half before I moved has given me heat immunity.

I was sitting in my seat along the third base line, having a beer and a brat, and the weather didn't bother me. I was sweating, because that's what humidity makes us do, but it sure beat sitting in traffic with no a/c. I'm sure by next summer my immunity will have faded, and I'll once again never venture outside during July and August; but for now I'm going to take advantage of my tolerance. After all, Thursday is $1 beer night at the park.

Since being unemployed sucks, I am currently working at the mega party store that employed me before I moved to Vegas. I can deal with the smelly alcoholics, the K-Fedites who buy cheap cognac, the gigantic women in tube tops, and even the morons who ask me "How's the weather up there?"

What I can't stand are people who, in the year of our lord 2006, still write checks.

That is a picture of a debit card, also known as a check card because it acts as a check, taking money from your checking account.

ATTENTION OLD PEOPLE: THESE CARDS ARE AVAILABLE FOR NO CHARGE AT YOUR BANK. THE ONE PICTURED IS FROM THE CREDIT UNION AT THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO, BUT THEY HAVE THEM AT YOUR BANK AS WELL. ONCE AGAIN, THESE ARE FREE FOR THE ASKING IF YOU HAVE A CHECKING ACCOUNT. YOU WILL NOT BE CHARGED INTEREST ON THE MONEY YOU WITHDRAW. YOU WILL NOT RECEIVE A BILL AT THE END OF THE MONTH, YOU WITHERED OLD SACK OF WRINKLES.

THERE ARE PEOPLE BEHIND YOU IN LINE WHO HAVE LIVES TO LIVE. UNLIKE YOU, THEIR LIVES AREN'T OVER AND THEY DON'T PRAY FOR DEATH ON A NIGHTLY BASIS. WHEN YOU WRITE A CHECK AT A PUBLIC BUSINESS, IT'S A GIGANTIC PAIN IN THE ASS FOR ALL INVOLVED. SWIPE THE DEBIT CARD, YOU OLD FUCK. SWIPE IT!!!!!!

Today some guy who used to bang Betsy Ross wrote a check for three dollars and change. I asked for his ID so I could confirm his name and address and write his driver's license number on the check. While this man was reaching for his wallet, I left my register, went outside, and received a blowjob from a cracked-out parking lot Betty. When I came back, he still hadn't fished out his ID and the people behind him were dead of natural causes. You see, since checks have long been the preferred method of payment for EVERY CRIMINAL ON EARTH, all checks have to be electronically authorized before I can finish the transaction. This involves a lot of writing on the check, scanning the check, punching numbers into various machines, etc. And I wouldn't mind doing it IF THE CHECK CARD DIDN'T EXIST. But it does. Use it.

Of course, most of the blame goes to retail stores for still accepting checks. Federal law prohibits use of a horse and buggy on interstate highways. Why? Because the use of them slows shit down. If that reason's good enough for our nation's obsolete interstate system, it's good enough for a liquor store.

Why, Sweet Merciful God? Why?

People will see this movie. It won't make "Pirates" money, but people will see it and line the pockets of the unfunny hacks responsible for it.

"FROM THE GUYS WHO BROUGHT YOU WHITE CHICKS"

That should be a warning to stay away, not a fucking selling point! White Chicks is the movie where Shawn and Marlon Wayans pretended to be "rich hotel heiresses" and got away with it. Yes, imagine two black men in bad wigs and makeup pretending to be Nicky and Paris Hilton. No one would notice, not even their parents or their numerous male suitors. "Hey, Paris, I've fucked you about a million times and I never noticed your ten-inch cock until today. Oh well, let's take the private jet to Vegas."

So now one of these guys is playing a midget criminal pretending to be a baby. I'm laughing already, and by "laughing" I mean "sneering in contempt at the stupidity of the movie-going public".

Hey, I enjoy a stupid comedy as much as the next guy, but Shawn and Marlon Wayans don't even try. This is the equivalent of those Ernest Goes to... movies from several years ago: Low budget, hastily filmed comedies aimed at people who laugh at everything they see.

I openly campaigned for all theatres showing Fast and Furious: Tokyo Drift to be turned into makeshift gas chambers, killing anyone who paid money to view that shit. I only recommend a good boot to the ass to those who see Little Man because this film won't inspire drunken white trash teenagers to drag race on public streets. Still, I'm amazed at what passes as entertainment. Just seeing the trailer for this film made me a little dumber.

What drugs should I take?

I think I've discovered the root of most of my problems: I don't take enough drugs. I'm not talking about crack or heroin, the kind of drugs that make people blow strangers at rest stops throughout the South and Midwest; or pot, which if it goes unchecked can lead to dirty smelly hippieitis.

I'm talking about drugs prescribed to me by a health care professional. I need some of those. Apparently there are drugs available that could help me lose weight without diet or exercise. Holy shit, are you kidding me? That's the ultimate dream of fat America. "I'll have the large pizza with everything, double the processed meats, and a pitcher of good non-light beer to wash down this skinny pill."

I'm not like that stroke Tom Cruise; I realize there are drugs that help people with depression. Why can't I use these medical breakthroughs to ensure I never again have to experience a negative emotion? I want to be happy all day, every day. Hey, Doctor, give me a glass of glee juice, motherfucker. I want to SICKEN people with my happiness. I want my joy to cause medical science to invent a pill to combat the nausea created by my bliss. Choke to death on my jubilation, world!

Of course, my new skinny happy self would undoubtedly suffer side effects. These side effects may include: dry mouth; upset stomach; poopy butt; hangnails; rickets; loss of the ability to appreciate irony; trench-foot; more eye boogers than usual; retardation; the weird disease that killed the little girl from Poltergeist; bitchiness; dizziness; itchy taint; swollen nads; tennis elbow; runny nose; total failure of all organs; cancer of the soul; and the belief that Larry the Cable Guy is funny.

My favorite ACTUAL disclaimer comes from Flomax, a drug for men who pee too much or pee too little or pee their pants or whatever. "A sudden decrease in blood pressure may occur upon standing, rarely resulting in fainting. So when starting Flomax, avoid situations where injuries could result." In other words, only take this drug where you'll land somewhere soft after you faint, like at a mattress store or while standing triumphantly over the lifeless body of Rosie O'Donnell. Yeah, guys, you'll be able to piss, but you'll have to do it sitting down like a little girl.

It's time for a

SEXY PARTY!!!

Raising a mini-generation of worthless pieces of crap

I had heard a lot about the M-TV series My Super Sweet Sixteen, which chronicles the planning of outrageously elaborate birthday parties for spoiled little cunts, but I hadn't witnessed the horror until this past weekend. I may never recover. Why the hell do I purposely engage in activities that anger up my blood? I couldn't look away; I watched four episodes before I thought I was going to have a stroke. It won't happen again.

Christ, where to begin? I have nothing against rich people buying shit for their kids. If I would have received a BMW for my sixteenth birthday, I could have shifted gears with my erection-of-absolute-joy. But these fucking parties are just "Hey, everyone look at me"-fests for teenagers so shallow and brainless they shouldn't be allowed to remain alive. I would like to see one episode where the father rents a nightclub, invites all of his daughter's friends, has the event catered by Wolfgang Puck, buys her a Rolls Royce, hires Usher to sing to her dressed as a platinum dollar sign, and then shoots her in the back of the head with a 9mm. The world would instantly become a better place.

One chick had been adopted by well-meaning rich folks when she was thirteen; they literally saved her from abject poverty. You'd think someone who came from hardship would have an ounce of humility, but in less than three years her adoptive parents had spoiled her until she was actually the least-likeable girl I saw, and that's saying something. For her own good, they should send her back to the dirty hovel from which she came.

My least favorite person was male. He's the son of record executive L.A. Reid, and he walked around with a false sense of accomplishment unprecedented in the annals of spoiled brat history. You'd think this fucking douche ran the record company. In a way, it was refreshing to see a rich black kid act as cringe-inducingly self-important as his white contemporaries; I'm sure this was the reason Dr. King gave his life.

Also, this stupid, arrogant fucking stain taught me a valuable lesson: Fat teenagers can be popular if they're rich. Yeah, not only did this punk have Donald Trump's inflated ego, he was also a big fat lump of dough. I was a fat teenager and I didn't have hundreds of hot girls begging to be invited to my sixteenth birthday party. I wonder why? Oh, that's right, my dad's not a multi-millionaire. I had to be a fat kid with all the normal social repricutions it entails. Not that I'm bitter...

I hope this makes my brother feel better...

My brother, who still lives in Vegas with his lovely wife, has had a rough couple of months. He blew out his knee again several weeks after having it surgically repaired. He had the surgery again last Friday and has had complications that are too numerous and unpleasant to mention here.

So, what can I do to ease my brother's pain, to let him know that, despite the distance between us, I'm still here for him no matter what? Well, I'm going to name him JULY'S RIGHT WING DOUCHEBAG OF THE MONTH!!!

"How could you?" some of you are thinking. What kind of a man would publicly disgrace his own brother during his time of healing? Well, he's been begging for this "honor" for months! Seriously, he was insulted when he didn't win it before. He hounded me constantly: "I'm much more of a douchebag than Clarence Thomas," he would say. I don't think that's true, but who am I to argue with him?

Yes, my brother is a staunch Conservative. We agreed several years ago to never discuss politics, and he isn't allowed to express his political beliefs on my blog. Yes, I censor him, because I don't want to have public arguments with my only sibling. It's distasteful, in my opinion.

Also, I didn't post his picture because he actually has a career and I don't want to ruin it by having it associated with this written train wreck.

Finally, comment all you want, but blood is thicker than blogger, and I will delete any personal attacks against my brother. He'd do the same for me.

Oh, for the sake of my own sanity, I have to post this:

It's a photo of Ken Lay.

An evil monkey lives in my heart

I like the purple tie, though. I'm glad the evil monkey who lives in my heart isn't afraid to take a fashion risk.

I don't take a lot of fashion risks. I'm 6'6", for the love of pizza and beer, and not exactly svelte. I don't need to draw attention to myself.

I think the evil monkey is the reason I haven't and probably never will find love. Yeah, I'm fat and poor, but fat and poor people find love every damn day. If you don't believe me, shop at Wal-Mart for five seconds; bootayloads of fat and poor people who are so in love they felt the need to reproduce like rabbits on fertility drugs. Yes, I give 'em shit here, but at least they've conned themselves into thinking they're happy.

I truly believe that every time I'm close to finding love, the evil monkey who lives in my heart makes me do something stupid, like profess my love for recreational lesbianism or eat that entire pizza in one setting or tell her about my blog.

Yeah, this blog scared a few of them off several months ago. Silly me, I thought they had senses of humor. I had some 'splainin' to do:

"No, I don't REALLY want to ritually murder Dakota Fanning. That was hyperbole."

"No, I didn't perform cunnilingus on Rue McClannahan."

"Yes, I did deposit about a gallon of spunk down a stripper's throat, but I didn't pay for it."

"I've never been on angel dust, swear to God."

I could go on.

As I tried to explain myself to these ladies, literally swaying in the winds created by Hurricane Celibacy, I could faintly hear the evil monkey's chuckle. The fury little fuck was once again ruining my life.

Oh, and every six months or so I'll eat like ten pounds of bananas all at once. Talk about an upset stomach.

I Have Questions

I have questions, people. Are these questions important? Probably not.

Is the Space Shuttle really necessary?
Is anyone still impressed by this? I, for one, am RELIEVED when the Space Shuttle doesn't explode minutes after liftoff. How about using some of that money so little American children don't have to eat their own shit for dinner? And don't give me any bullshit about finding the cure for diseases out in space. We won't even fund stem-cell research in this backwoods-ass country-fuck of a nation because Billy Graham and the Pope don't approve of it. The one thing they agree on, and it fucks us right up the ass...

Why do some women insist on rockin' the Muffin Top?
The Muffin Top, for those unaware of this phenomenon, is when a too-tight shirt and low-rider jeans creates on a woman a visible layer of flesh that resembles the top of a muffin. I didn't name it, I'm just a mandated reporter. Please keep in mind, I'm not making fun of their bodies (a lot of these ladies have cute faces and nice tits, which is more than enough for me), I'm simply questioning their fashion decisions. Very few people on earth can pull this look off. I, for one, have a fat stomach and skinny arms, a winning combination to be sure, so I DON'T WEAR TANK TOPS. Ever. It is my gift to you, society. You're welcome.

Why do people who claim to love beer drink beer that tastes like piss?
If you say you love beer and then order a Miller Lite, you don't really love beer. Really, you have a taste for watered-down vaguely beeresque liquids; and that's okay. But you don't love beer.

Does the right woman for me even exist?
I'm of the belief that there is someone for everyone, but there's no guarantee on finding that someone. Maybe I walked right past her a million times in college, and since I never asked her out she was inside the crackhouse when it burned down instead of on a date with me. But for the whims of fate, I could have saved her from her addiction, or she would have turned me into a crackhead and my weight problems would be non-existent. This is all speculation on my part, but every year on Valentine's Day I pour out a 40 for my dead crackwhore soulmate, just in case.

Join Me at Lebowski Fest

I met a few bloggers living in Vegas. Sure, none of them were there specifically to see me, but they did fit me in to their busy schedules of drinking alcoholic beverages out of plastic replicas of the Eiffel Tower and dodging illegal smut peddlers.

That sound you hear in the background is my meeting other bloggers coming to a screetching halt. I live in Louisville now, and unless someone out there is in Future Farmers of America or is working a booth at the Farm Machinery Show, business won't be bringing them here any time soon.
Unless......you come to Louisville for The Fifth Annual Lebowski Fest!!!

What is Lebowski Fest? Simply a two-day celebration of the 1998 Coen brother's film The Big Lebowski, that's all. Every year, thousands of people from all over the world attend this festival to bowl, listen to kick ass rock music, drink A LOT, and drink some more.

No, I'm not making this up. Go to www.lebowskifest.com for proof and more details.

This year's festival will be held September 29-30, with a concert on Friday night and the Lebowski Fest itself on Saturday. But that's just the start of it. The good folks at the Executive West Hotel are apparently cool with drunks running around their property at all hours of the night, so every year they graciously agree to be the official hotel of Lebowskifest. My friends have already reserved two rooms and there will be plenty of floor space available for anyone who wants a place to pass out. If you'd prefer your own room, the Lebowski website will give you details about reserving one.

According to reliable sources, the after-parties at the hotel are a sight to behold. If any of my blogger friends out there would like to experience this, let me know. Tickets to the actual event will be available late this month.

Let us all gather together and party!!!