I'll bet William Faulkner never had a conversation like this

Yesterday I had the following conversation with a coworker. My dialogue is in blue; my thoughts are in bold italics. Keep in mind that we're in the upstairs warehouse, away from customers.

"Son of a bitch, it's rainin'. I was gonna cut the fuckin' grass when I got home."

Shit, I have to think of something small-talky to say or I'll blow my facade as someone who isn't embarrassed to work here and associate with some of these people. Oh, he's going to keep talking. Good.

"There's two girls at my house all damn day, but they're too busy eatin' each other's pussy to cut the grass."

I have no idea what he's talking about, but I can't let that comment go.

"Well no wonder the grass doesn't get cut. I wouldn't stop eating pussy to do yard work."

"My eighteen-year-old step-daughter and her lesbian girlfriend live with us."

Damn, it's like Cinemax After Dark at his house.

"Damn, it's like Cinemax After Dark at your house."

"I don't want that sort of thing goin' on under my roof, but it's my old lady's kid, and she acts like she don't care."

This conversation couldn't possibly get any weirder.

"I don't think either of 'em has ever had a dick inside 'em. (Yells in the direction of two male employees) Either one of you guys wanna throw some cock at my step-daughter or her girlfriend?"

Okay, I was wrong.

"Yeah, my old lady just lets it happen. If my son turns out gay I'll still love him...he's my son...but I'll be damned if he's going to fuck some guy up the ass in my own house."

For this guy, that's a tolerant position. Still, it's funny how everyone's gay son is the pitcher rather than the catcher. And thanks for clouding my thoughts of hot girl on girl action with visions of hypothetical hairy man-love.

"Are you going to watch the game Sunday night?"

I'm determined to change the subject.

"Her girlfriend's got real lopsided titties."

Don't say it. Don't say it. Don't say it.

"Did she get them at Marshall's?"

You fucking idiot. You're prolonging the conversation.

"She walks around the house with no bra on. You'd think since she's eighteen she'd have, you know...firm titties. But they hang down to her bellybutton."

(IT WAS AT THIS POINT THAT I DOUSED MYSELF WITH GASOLINE, SET MYSELF ON FIRE, AND JUMPED FROM THE SECOND FLOOR OVERLOOK TO MY DEATH)

Beating a dead horse...

Lately I feel like this blog is nothing more than an ill-conceived, watered-down spinoff of viva las vegASS. I think I'll rename it AftervegASS, or vegASS 2: Cruise Control.

Or I could just remove all doubt regarding its inferiority and call it Joey.

It was a schweaty weekend

Remember the old Alec Baldwin SNL skit where he played Pete Schweaty, a man who appeared on a National Public Radio show to sell his candy, Schweaty Balls?

Well, sometimes when it's hot and humid the weather goes past sweaty right into schweaty. Las Vegas was hot and miserable in a "thrown into a large convection oven" sort of way, but it was never schweaty. It just didn't have the schweatyesque humidity necessary for such a designation.

Louisville, on the other hand, is quite capable of bringing the schweaty, and it brought it big time this weekend. It actually started a day early, when I went to the Kentucky State Fair. Perhaps some of you have been to a state fair and thought "Wow, there's a lot of rednecks and hillbilly types here." Well, imagine if that state fair was held in Kentucky. Yeah.

To be honest, since I went during the day, the crowd mostly consisted of farm families from throughout the state making their only visit of the year to Louisville, their hated "big city" neighbor. As long as you didn't ask them about religion, politics, or race relations everything was cool. Well, not the weather: It was schweaty. I schweated like R. Kelly sneaking into a dressing room at limited, too.

On Friday night I saw indie rock gods Shellac. Their guitarist and frontman, Steve Albini, produced Nirvana's In Utero and The Pixies' Surfer Rosa, and has been playing music for over twenty years in various bands. I think the band insists on playing all-ages shows, so the concert was in a church recreational room. Second floor. NO AIR CONDITIONING. Five hundred people jammed into a rather small place. This may have been the schweatiest experience of my life. I didn't think I was capable of being that uncomfortable after riding around in Vegas for a month without car a/c; I was wrong. I schweated like a microphallic meth addict trying to fuck Aretha Franklin.

After working on Saturday, I, like a crazy man, went to THE SAME HOTBOX CONCERT VENUE to see Shipping News, not as indie rock goddish as Shellac but a better band in my opinion. All of the guys are from Louisville, and the drummer used to date a friend of mine, so it was good to see them again. It wasn't quite as schweaty since the crowd wasn't as large and they were selling water for fifty cents a bottle, but it was still pretty fucking uncomfortable. I schweated like Alanis Morrisette getting her teeth cleaned.

On Sunday I was off work but was obligated to go to a family picnic. Despite my pleas, the get-together was not held in the conference center of a nice hotel but at a state park. There was a lot of good fattening food there (I made my famous not-Derby Pie), but it was humid like a crotch. I schweated like Mel Gibson at a Bar Mitzvah.

Here's hoping the week ahead is less schweaty.

Is this Spam supposed to fool me? Okay then.

I realize that email spam is an internet inevitability, but I've had a few examples lately that have gone too far down the Insult My Intelligence highway. I've decided "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em" so I'm going to act as stupid as they think I am.

For instance, I received the following email the other day:
***************************
Hey there hot stuff....

I heard you were the life of the party lastnight. LOL Hungover much?

I know you are on the market and one of the girls that did some part time work
with me is really attractive and looking for a no-strings type of relationship.

She has an ad on http://www.newwildlove.com/?746F6464766567617340636F782E6E6574

She is the cutie on the top left. Her name is Isabella, "Izzy" and she is well
focused, a hard worker and seems to have sex on the brain all the time. lol
(just your type). Let me know if you are interested. She's coming over Friday to
do some copywriting for me, so we'll have time to have a chat about it. You
could always drop by for lunch Friday too, if you can break free from the
office. She writes erotic stories for Penthouse, so she is very open minded, I
really think you too could hit it off.

Let me know,

xoxo--Kate

PS. If this works out, you owe me big. (A date with Jeromy? hehe)

***************************************************************

Wow, I can't believe I went to a party and got so shitbomb drunk I don't remember meeting Kate. And apparently I now have not only an office job but a good friend named Jeromy. Cool. I think tomorrow when I leave my nice new high-paying office job I'll go have expensive cocktails with Jeromy and ask him why his parents can't spell "Jeremy". Then I'll go over to Izzy's place and give her a sound rogering. My life is so swell, and I owe it all to a near-fatal drinking binge.

Also, I checked my myspace mailbox recently and three different hot chicks who look exactly alike all want to be my friend. What are the odds of that? Man, at first I thought they were triplets but two of them are twenty-one and the other is only twenty. Hey, maybe they are triplets, but two of them have really kick-ass fake IDs so they go around saying they're twenty-one. They should hook their sister up with a fake ID and we can all go to a club. Check these hot chicks out. There's Sara from Albuquerque,http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=103025483 Bambina from Tulsa, http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=103083415 and
DitzyHun from Austin.
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=103068746

Damn, I'm lucky to have such hot friends.

And the winner is...

Remember several years ago when Britney and Christina fought each other capped tooth and press-on nail for Teen Pop supremacy? I think Britney just threw in the proverbial towel, in the form of a stained grey top from the discount bin at Wal-Mart.

I'm assuming someone invested Britney's money wisely, because that picture's telling me "I know I'll never earn another penny for as long as I live, and I'm cool with it." Yes, I know she's pregnant. BUT LOOK AT HER! I never want Starbucks again, she looks so bad. Catherine Zeta Jones never looked like that when she was knocked up with Oldie McOlderson's spawn, and she's got at least ten years on Brit.

Britney Spears is a singer who can't sing. Her only job, one that up until recently paid her millions of dollars, was to look damn good. And now she can't even do that. Her shirt has a fucking stain on it, for the love of The Captain and Tenelle!

Christina Aguilera looks good now. She went through her stripper phase and her ill-advised clown/whore phase, but she came out of them relatively unscathed. She's also married, to a trollish little man who's barely five-feet tall. But at least he's not Federcunt. Really, all Christina had to do to win the "Best Husband" category was marry a human being over the age of eighteen. Mission accomplished.

There really isn't a point to this post, other than stating the universally accepted fact that Britney Spears is now a horrid she-beast. I'd also like to add that Christina Aguilera has a great ass. Check out the "stripper phase" again. You know you want to.

Oh so offensive.

Once again, I happened upon a website that pretends to speak for every woman in America. I'm not providing a link, because from now on I'm the only crazy person who gets free publicity from this blog, but apparently this Maker's Mark bourbon ad is "OFFENSIVE TO WOMEN".

But is it? Is it really? Does every woman on earth live such an otherwise perfect life that this would cause her distress?

Maker's Mark uses excerpts from "fan" letters in their ads. This guy compared his girlfriend unfavorably to a bottle of bourbon-style whisky. Let's just assume he is equally as immoral and misshapen as his paramour and get on with our lives, shall we?

Am I wrong about this? Please let me know. I have female readers, or at least I did before this blog hit the shitheap, so please tell me if this offends you or not. If it does, please explain why. I'll try to keep the gratuitous ridicule of your opinions to a bare minimum.

Did they register at Bed, Bath and Beyond?

Some women really like their boys "bad".

For those of you unfamiliar with Richard Ramirez, he's the infamous L.A. "Nightstalker". In 1985 he murdered thirteen people because Satan told him to.

What Prince Charming would do was break into a home in the middle of the night, immediately take out the male of the house with a bullet to the head, and then proceed to repeatedly rape and brutally torture the female. Amazingly, a few of these women survived to testify against him at his trial.

Despite the fact that Richard Ramirez is a gutless murderer and a raper and torturer of women, he became quite popular with the ladies during his trial. Throngs of young women gathered outside the courthouse, screaming when they caught a glimpse of him like he was Elvis Presley circa 1957. He eventually married the most persistent of his followers, a woman who has an IQ of 152.

The conversation every father fears:

"What did you do today, sweetheart?"

"Well, daddy, I hung out at the courthouse hoping to get a good look at Richard Ramirez."

"The murderer and rapist?"

"Yeah, but he's so...mysterious."

AAAAAAARGGGGH!!! Some of these bad boy lovers just had to up the ante, I suppose. "Oh sure, your bad boy might never call and cheat on you with your sister, but mine could very well slit my throat, rip my eyeballs out, and skull-fuck me under a full moon. That is so hot."

It's not only women who are fucked up, though. Some men find Ann Coulter attractive.

What I'm thinking of when I should be sleeping

-Face it, interest in this blog has dropped since I moved from Las Vegas. Maybe I chose the wrong name or perhaps people just aren't that interested in Louisville. Why should blog readers be any different than the rest of the world?

-I just don't have any ambition. I don't know what I want to do. All I really want is to be able to make enough money to live, and now that doesn't even seem possible. On Wednesday I interviewed for a job very much like the one I had in Vegas. It would have paid me more than I make at the party store and I would have had weekends off. It seemed to be going well until I asked the guy which two Home Depots I'd be assigned to. The first one was about two miles from where I live. Fine. The second one? It was in Frankfort, our state capital and about fifty miles from Louisville.

YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME. Drive to Frankfort every other day for a god damn monkey job? Isn't the low pay and unchallenging work enough soul-emptying degradation? Now I have to commute for the priviledge? Someone just needs to find out the exact amount I need to BARELY scrape by every month, and pay me that plus a dollar to wander around town wearing a satin fez and a giant diaper. If my work life is going to suck, it might as well suck with gusto.

-Hezbollah or Israel? I'm pulling for the guys who don't want us dead. God, I'm selfish.

-I haven't really tried to date since I moved back. Over a month ago I arranged a date over the internets but the night before the main event she called me on the phone and bored my soul away with the prattle of the damned. I cancelled the date after hearing about everyone she's ever met, every place she's ever been and every thought she's ever had since the beginning of time. Sweet merciful heyzeus she wouldn't shut her hush-puppy-hole. She actually asked me "Why aren't you saying anything?"

"I don't know, maybe I'm shy, OR MAYBE YOU DOMINATE THE CONVERSATION LIKE TERI HATCHER DOMINATES THE WRINKLE CREAM ON THE SET OF DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES."

Seriously, I may never date again. Right now, I cannot subject myself to the brutal personal interrogation and crushing disappointment. Dating in Vegas was like a glancing blow to the nutsack: You don't know how bad it hurts until you try to walk away.

See you on Monday or Tuesday

I stole this from Erin

Foes of the Feathered Mullet, YOU'RE ON NOTICE

Make your own "You're on notice" list at www.shipbrook.com/onnotice/

Thanks again, Erin. You can find her at www.sensilla.com/eek

So Many Smells...

Here is a partial list of what some of our customers smell like.

-a cage full of dead rats.

-Rose O'Donnell's girdle.

-the business end of a glory hole.

-vodka strained through Mike Tyson's jock strap.

-rotten eggs hard boiled and shoved up the ass of a flatulent gypsy.

-a reusable douche that's been washed out by Martian piss and filled with gorgonzola cheese.

-the set of a beastiality film.

-wet cardboard.

-a skunk on fire.

-the portal to the very gates of Hell.

-the contents of a dirty ashtray emptied into a colostomy bag.

-an old condom stuck in Courtney Love's hair.

-Wilford Brimley's ballbag.

-the dumpster outside an abortion clinic.

Pink Taco

This is the outside of the fabulous Pink Taco restaurant, located at the Hard Rock Hotel in vegASS. The food is delicious, the margaritas are top notch, and the service staff is hot. Also, it's named Pink Taco. One of their slogans is "Our taco tastes better than yours."

The fine folks behind Pink Taco recently opened a second location in conservative yupscale shitbox Scottsdale, Arizona. The stuffy SUV moms who flock to that town like maggots to roadkill were not amused by such a suggestive name. I guess my proposed restaurant chain, Auntie Souse-Curtain's Cunteria, won't be franchising in Scottsdale anytime soon.

Undetered by the community-wide lack of a sense of humor, the Pink Taco's owners currently have the high bid for the naming rights to a new football stadium in Phoenix. Yes, that's right, they want to call it PINK TACO STADIUM.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! Please, God, let it happen.

"The players are complaining of a slippery surface here at the Pink Taco."

This is an EXACT quote from the Sports section of the Louisville Courier-Journal, explaining why residents are so up in arms: "The restaurant is named after a slang term for vagina."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! I couldn't breathe, I was laughing so hard. I wonder if they'll answer my question in print if I write a letter to the editor asking for the definition of "blumpkin"?

*********
In other news, a coalition of 13 conservative activist groups have united to move toward one common goal: The elimination of hotel room pay-for porn. Holy shit on a pornstar's freakishly huge cock, Batman! Porn that adults pay outrageous rates to watch in the privacy of their own rooms is actually a problem? This is the huge threat to America's well-being that united a fucking baker's dozen right-wing fringe groups? I'm convinced we are very near the end of days.
Why, oh why, does ANYONE care if a business traveler beats off to some porn in his hotel room? Really, the only injured party is the maid who has to soak up the jizz trail from the bed to the bathroom. Other than that, no one is effected. No one. This is the biggest non-issue EVER.

Well, it's a big issue to Tony Perkins. I forget the name of his group...I think it's Citizens Who Secretly Want Separate Drinking Fountains for Black People but that's not important. Tony said "These are places that you take your family - these are respectable institutions."

Well, that explains everything. I'm convinced now. This makes my head hurt, it really does.

Side thought: I wonder if Tony thinks a waitress has never been after-hours-fucked by a closing manager on the toilet his little girl uses at TGI Friday's?

The corporate response? Kathy Shepard of Hilton said "In their zest to have their personal morals prevail, they're eliminating choice for others." I think Ms. Shepard just rebutted every opinion Tony Perkins has ever held.

Worst Post Ever

At last, everything bland and uninspiring about blogs, all in one convenient post!

Lousy meme

1. Name a word that has "e" in it.
kite
2. Think of a number.
382
3. Are you of the human race?
yes
4. Tag seventy-two people.

Crappy daily activity log

This morning I got up and had breakfast. Then I went to work. I came home and started blogging. I think I'll order a pizza.

Bad poem

oh darkness
why do you
engulf me?

Unnecessary personal revelation

I'm not fond of the way my nutsack looks.

Tasteless musical recommendation

You know who I've been listening to lately? Phil Collins.

Tired political commentary

Well, at least President Bush isn't getting blowjobs.

Reminder of superfluous weekly event

Don't forget, tomorrow is Show Your Taint Tuesday.

Confusing blogger jargon

She pwned rawfle lol:)

Gratuitous flattery

My readers are the best!

And finally...
A picture of a kitten

I had to take the kitten picture down. It was fucking driving me insane.

Customers who annoy me (an incomplete list)

-Smelly people.

-People who act surprised that they actually have to pay for their purchase and spend fifteen minutes digging for exact change.

-Non-cootered-hat-wearin' K-Fed wannabe motherfuckers.

-This chick who comes in early every Monday morning who has a lip fungus.

-Check-writing wastes of air.

-Rude assholes who talk on the phone while checking out.

-Twenty-two-year-olds who bitch about being asked for ID.

-Thirty-nine-year-olds who bitch about not being asked for ID.

-People who take money out of their shoe.

-Old women in tube tops.

-This guy with a severe speech impediment who asks me long, involved questions and gets mad when I can't understand what he's saying.

-Anyone who complains to me, a lowly hourly employee, about store policies set by our owner, a wealthy miser.

-The old woman who smells like cat piss and human shit who talks to herself and makes me carry her ONE BOTTLE to her car, which smells like cat piss, gasoline, and human shit.

-Damn dirty hippies.

-Foreigners who don't know our monetary system and hand me a dollar at a time until I tell them to stop. (They're lucky I'm honest)

-Snowboarder types who REFUSE to believe that Fat Tire beer is unavailable in the state of Kentucky.

-Smokers who smell like Richard Pryor's hair after his freebase accident.

-The same smokers who ask for a carton of cigarettes and AFTER YOU RING THEM UP say "Oh, that's too expensive" and leave.

-People who hang around in line after the transaction is complete, looking through their purse or fumbling around in their pockets.

-Those "I'm my kid's best friend" parents who buy liquor for their barely teenage children.

-Everyone who tells me I'm tall, or asks "How tall are you?" with the obvious exception of hot chicks.

-Snotty bastards who don't acknowledge your presence.

-Homeless guys who hang out in our parking lot begging for change so they can come in and buy a half-pint of swill, drink it, and start begging for change again.

-The four frat guys who come in to get a keg of beer and ask for assistance getting it up on a flat cart.

-Milwaukee's Best-drinking mouthbreathers.

-Parents who buy a hundred dollars worth of booze and cigarettes when their children are wearing tattered, ill-fitting clothes.

-Old people who complain because the 3-liter jug of table wine went up a quarter in price.


Happy shopping!

Five Weird Things About Me

My real life friend Mshellion tagged me to do some meme, so I'm going to do it; but I'm going to bitch about it like she did when I tagged her about a year ago. I don't forget these slights, no I don't.

The meme is "Name Five Weird Things About Yourself".

5. I'm a grown man, yet I'm spending time answering these questions on a blog. I also have a myspace account and don't lie about my age to lure in the teenage girls. These days, that's fucking weird.

4. I hate driving and have no interest in cars. When people start talking about what kind of engine is under the hood of their car my eyes glaze over with boredom. I grew up in a very blue collar neighborhood, and when the inevitable Ford v. Chevy debate would start, I'd immediately go home and volunteer to mow the lawn. If I was a billionaire, I'd own a nice new sedan and that would be it. The desire to own Ferraris and Lamborginis seems silly to me.

3. I'm way middle-aged and I don't think I've ever been in love ( Or maybe I talked myself out of being in love with women who weren't in love with me). Oh, I thought I was in love a few times, but would I have given up so easily if it was anything more than lust or infatuation? I don't think so.

2. On a related subject, I refuse to treat relationships like job interviews. If you have more than one candidate for the job of your boyfriend, I won't be polishing up my resume to impress you. Make your choice and be done with it. I don't think my stance is at all weird, but a lot of women do. Some think that my unwillingness to jump through hoops indicates a lack of interest.

1. I still have no idea what I want to do with my life, and given my habits, it's more than halfway over. I now know that the laziness of my teens and early twenties was actually depression, because I've always worked hard at every lousy job I've ever held, especially once I started going out in public more often. Writing interests me, but I don't think I'm good enough to make a living at it.

Well, that's that.

Don't Look Back in Anger (part 2)

Part 1 was hardly a runaway blockbuster, but the sequel had already been greenlighted and budgeted, so here are more of my memories in convenient picture form.

This is Suzy, my friend's girlfriend's cousin, also known as my prom date.

There's nothing better for a teenage boy's self-esteem than to be rejected by someone like this. It doesn't matter; with her dull personality and garish style of dress, it would have been like fucking Cyndi Lauper's corpse. And check out her belt. I think she may have been a newly crowned professional wrestling champion.

















Let's just say my first strip club experience was a regrettable one, and leave it at that.



















This is Ralph-Fred McGraw. I shared an apartment with him during college. He's wearing his trademark Mark Martin Viagra shirt. No, he's never kissed a girl.

One Halloween he went to a party as the Grim Reaper, an event which inspired the name of this very blog.













Continuing the Nascar theme, my Uncle Cleofus was so devastated by the death of racing legend Dale Ernhardt that he shaved Ernhardt's car number into his grotesquely hairy back. That's but one of the many reasons he was named White Trash Magazine's 2001 Hilljack of the Year.












I decided to leave Louisville when this man, Vernon "Toofisis" Clark, was overwhelming elected Mayor.

He died of a crank overdose three days into his term, but by then I was already in Las Vegas.






Apparently blogger is imposing a five picture limit, even though I've downloaded more than that in the past. If anyone knows how I can get around this, please let me know. Otherwise, this is the end. If you haven't looked at part 1, by all means do so.

Don't Look Back in Anger (part 1)

I've decided to post a pictorial tour of my favorite memories, from childhood on. Please enjoy.


I don't remember my first Christmas, but thanks to this photo of my paint-sniffing cousin Lonnie, I can relive it every day.

Also, I still have the scar from where he shot me.










This is my first grade teacher, Mister Lanson. I cried the day they found all of those missing teenage boys in his septic tank.




The Kenwood Drive-In Theater in the South End of Louisville still operates to this day. I remember as a child spending many Saturday nights at this place. My beloved babysitter, Becky, took me there all the time. She'd buy me a large coke and a tub of buttered popcorn; and I'd have to sit outside in the gravel while she'd be in the car having sex with two or three guys at the same time. The guys were usually black, which taught me to appreciate diversity.


I spent a lot of time at the since-demolished Footstench Bowling Lanes. I wasn't bowling, though. I was eating hot dogs, hamburgers and pizza from the snack bar. Oh, the joys of childhood obesity.







I don't remember the name of this band, but dude, the Southern Middle School seventh grade dance fuckin' ROCKED!!!




Note: This wasn't going to be a two-parter, but blogger suddenly decided not to let me download any more of my precious memories. I hate blogger. It's so incompetent it almost has to be run by the government.

I'm completely unfair

When it comes to political discussions, I never give President George W. Bush a break, and I never will. I hate him, and always have.

The first time I remember seeing Dubya was in the nineties when he was running for governor of Texas. He had an annoying priviledged smirk on his fucking face and he spoke like the village half-wit getting boned up the ass with a mop handle. Of course, he won; but I just shrugged it off as a bunch of crazy Texans acting all Texasy and voting for an Ivy League fop who had the nerve to wear a cowboy hat.

In 2000, George Bush couldn't answer one question in the first presidential debate, NOT ONE QUESTION, but he was declared the winner because Al Gore rolled his eyes and sighed. OF COURSE HE DID. He was reacting the way an intelligent person reacts to blatant stupidity. I would have ran across the stage and slapped Bush down like I was the prison enforcer and he was the sniveling bitch who shorted me a carton of smokes. I might have even urinated on him to drive my point across.

Remember after 9/11, when President Bush enjoyed a ninety-one percent approval rating? I was proudly one of the dissenting nine percent. I hated his guts as much on 9/12 as I did on 9/10, maybe more so because so many people were kissing his ass. When the first tower went down, my primary thought, seriously, was with the victims and their families. My second thought was "Fuck that fucking cocksucker George Bush."

Is any of this fair, or even rational? I don't care. I know two or three of my readers support President Bush, and you can defend him if you like; it isn't going to change my mind. George W. himself could drag me from a burning building tomorrow and I'd say to him, "Thanks for saving my life, you simple-minded failure of historical proportions."

In closing, you can count on any political content on this blog to be partisan and ham-fisted. At least I don't claim to be "fair and balanced" like Fox News. I wish the bird flu on the lot of those fuckers.

Random thoughts wear a feathered mullet

-This is going to make me sound racist, but I don't care. Plain and simple, Eskimos are lousy at Jai-Alai. I've said it; let the chips fall where they may.

-Whenever a shirtless drunk drives his Camaro into a Shriner's parade, I smile and think about my childhood.

-There's nothing better than fresh produce. Okay, random sex with a drunken bar slut is a little better...

-I knew Mel Gibson was anti-Semitic the day I caught him masturbating to my DVD copy of Schindler's List.

-If there are any retarded people reading this, well good for you. *condescending pat on head*

-When I'm in hell, and Satan disembowels me and lowers my carcass into a lake of fire, it won't even seem like torture; because I sat through Star Wars: Phantom Menace.

-Customers don't like it when you sniff loudly and ask them if they just shit their pants.

-When Kate Bosworth goes to a buffet, she's eligible for a forty percent bulemia discount. Oh, the perks of celebrity.

-In hindsight, Abortion on Demand was a terrible name for that children's book I wrote.

-My last night in Vegas I got so drunk I paid a midget to "go up" on me.

-Worst country-western bar ever? Buck's Incest Nest.

-Is it okay to jump around even if one didn't come to get down?

-Fact: George Bush refers to the Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Michael G. Mullen, as "That fella what dresses up like Cap'n Crunch."

Rollin'

To add to my reputation as a real hep cat, I'm now toolin' around down in a 1991 Acura Legend. "Acura", for your information, is Japanese for "a Honda with leather seats".

Unfortunately, the car didn't come with the acid-trip background scene or the Golden Girl-ish driver.

I think next year I'll throw my car a big party, ala My Super Sweet Sixteen. But instead of having Chamillionaire play the bash, I'll get the Pixies.

I'll buy her dinner, but...

I am now 1oo% convinced that internet dating is a fool's paradise.

Several months ago, when I still lived in Vegas, I created a profile on true.com. When I moved back home, I amended the profile to reflect my change of address.

Yesterday I received an "I'm interested" message from this woman. Her name is Jacklyn, and as you can see from her profile photo, she has been arrested for prostitution. She uses this as an apparent selling point.

Yes, today's profile pic is yesterday's mug shot. Her actual profile photo is just her head, but when you click "photos" this is what you get.

Okay, I'm curious. Is she a woman with a great sense of humor who's making this up; someone who is honest and willing to confess to her past mistakes; or is she a prostitute using true.com to drum up some additional business? Another SLIGHT possibility is that she's the victim of a cruel practical joke, which is why I obscured her face and last name for this post.

I'm of the opinion that she's a whore, using our beloved internets as her cyberpimp. For example, she says she's looking for men aged 18-42. For an attractive 26-year-old, that's casting a rather large net. But if she's a cumpster, why stop at 42? Is she saying she won't fuck a 43-year-old with cash? What kind of a hooker is that? She's single-handedly setting back the art of strumpetry a hundred years.

Uh, if I go on a "date" with her, does anyone have five-hundred dollars I can borrow?

Celebrity Corner

It's been a bad week for a few of my least-favorite celebrities. Let's take a look, shall we?



THE PASSION OF THE NAZI

This past weekend, Mel Gibson was hauled to jail for driving while shitfaced, and proceeded to shout anti-Semitic remarks at the arresting officer. That's Mel's mug shot, and apparently he was still drunk when the picture was taken. He looks like the uncle who's never allowed to be around his teenage nieces.

One of the many things Mel allegedly said was "The Jews are the cause of all of the wars in the world." I wonder if he learned that from his father, a noted Holocaust denier and Nazi memorabilia collector? In this case, it seems the rotted-to-its-core-with-hatred apple didn't fall too far from the tree.

I think it's great when all of the worst things you've ever heard about a celebrity turn out to be 100% true. It's like if Richard Gere farted on the red carpet and a shit-stained gerbil slid down his leg.

Mel's publicist, Liar McLiarson, said it was the alcohol talking. Of course it was, because drunk people say what they mean, regardless of the consequences. Mel hates Jews, got a little pickled, and said what was on his mind. End of story.



SMELLS LIKE TEEN ALCOHOLISM

In a private letter that somehow managed to be leaked to the press, a powerful movie exec scolded Lindsay Lohan for going out and getting drunk instead of concentrating on her latest film. I could reprint his entire letter, but allow me to paraphrase: "We're paying you millions of dollars to be egregiously untalented and increasingly less attractive, so the fucking least you could do is not be a god damn boozing stumblecunt."

That's a picture of Lindsay drunk in public, even though she's underage. Don't worry, she never gets in trouble, nor do the establishments that openly serve alcohol to a minor.

Okay, the guy didn't call Lindsay a "stumblecunt", but he did call her a spoiled brat. No shit, huh? Since she was ten years old, fawning sycophants have been telling this girl her pussy-farts smell like an April shower. It's hard to believe she isn't well-adjusted and humble. Someone needs to take it all away from her. Does the world need another Lindsay Lohan film? I say "No, thank you, it does not." Hollywood, stop giving her work and make her get a job at Starbucks. Then maybe she'll live to see thirty.

"...I'm gonna set it straight, this Watergate..."

As some of you know, I'm temporarily (I hope) working at the party store which employed me before I moved to Las Vegas. Back then, we had a regular customer known to all as "Sabotage" because he looked like a cross between the characters "Cochise" and "The Rookie" from the popular Beastie Boys video. Same haircut, same moustache, and sometimes the same wardrobe, although on the weekends he'd sport an old basketball shirt, gym shorts, and knee-high socks with the three randomly-colored stripes at the top. He even drove an old car straight from the set of a '70s cop drama.

Well, four years later, he's still a regular customer and he looks exactly the same. Nothing has changed with this guy. He found a look he liked, and by god he's sticking with it. Three times a week he comes in and buys a twelve-pack of Stroh's. Stroh's. Even his beer is from the '70s.

I'll take a hundred Sabotages over this guy who came through my line on Saturday. He had B.O. something fierce. I'm talking malignant B.O. What Pam Anderson is to fake tits, this guy is to putrid body odor. He bought supplies to brew his own beer at home, and none of the homebrewing supplies will scan, so I had to type in all of the UPCs while my eyes literally watered. He bought about fifty tiny items and I kept mis-typing because my funk-induced tears made it hard to read the numbers. If I could have, I would have shit my own pants; anything to cover up the smell of this man's deadly pits. I wanted to scream out "Will someone vomit in a paper bag and place it over my head? This guy smells like a Frenchman's foreskin."

The moral of the story is: If you have time to brew your own beer, you have time to take a shower.



Here's what Sabotage's socks look like.