This guy's throwin' more than his voice...

This album cover, from 1975, is a classic that I think has stood the test of time.

There is so much wrong on this cover I don't know where to begin.

Okay, the title contains racial slurs and the ventriloquist is getting his cock sucked; those are a few good starting points. Also:

-The woman is holding a small American flag in her right hand.

-The white doll looks like a bald John Waters.

-The black doll looks stoned.

-The background has been used in several snuff films.

I like the fact that executives approved this cover:

"Well, we have the horribly stereotypical puppets and the obscene title. What could make this more offensive?"

"How 'bout we show him getting a blowjob."

"That's sound thinking."

How was your Halloween weekend?

I dressed as a Las Vegas tourist on Friday night, complete with Hawaiian shirt, socks with sandals, and a water bottle worn as a necklace. My brother will be happy to know I even dusted off the infamous "Todd" hat for the occasion. The "Todd" hat is either the best or the worst hat ever, depending on your perspective and/or level of drunkenness.

A few other observations as I wandered about the town this weekend:

-A lot of women decided to dress up as "slut" this year. "Slut" was a popular outfit with the ladies. The awe-inspiring amount of low-cut tops combined with the cool autumn temperatures meant a pervert's ransom of diamond-cutting hard nips. Hey, it's all fun and games until someone loses an eye.

-Favorite costumes with guys were "fratty douchebag", "redneck", and "jaded hipster", depending on which particular bar we were patronizing.

-I was gang-attacked when I stated my opinion that Guns N Roses was a pile of shit band. Axl Rose sounded like Beavis when he screamed. I stand by my statements.

-I'm sticking with my opposition to a smoking ban in bars, even though I always smell like Joan of Arc's puss at the end of the night.

-My friend Erin had her birthday party Saturday night. If she didn't read this blog I'd tell you all that her sister is hot. Oh, uh...disregard that last comment. I meant "nice". Her sister is nice.

-I hate setting the clocks back an hour. Now it gets dark at five-thirty. Yippie.

The Dumbest Story Ever Told

A man named David Stewart is on trial for making a prank call to a McDonald's in Mount Washington, Kentucky, that led to an eighteen-year-old employee taking off her clothes and performing oral sex on a complete stranger.

Yes, you read that correctly. No, seriously.

Mr. Stewart was bored one night a few years ago, so he called the McDonald's and asked to speak with a manager. He then told the manager that one of the restaurant's employees, a then-eighteen-year-old girl, was under suspicion of theft and needed to be detained.

So, the manager did what any complete fucking moron would do: She, with instructions from the phony police officer, strip-searched the young employee and kept her against her will for three and a half hours.

But wait, it gets better. The manager didn't know what else to do, so she called her boyfriend. Keep in mind that the manager and her boyfriend are both middle-aged and should really know better. The boyfriend came by and started talking to the prank caller, who told him that the alleged thief needed to give him a blowjob! And the boyfriend told her to! AND SHE DID IT!!

For those of you playing along at home, David Stewart convinced two adults to kidnap and sodomize a teenager by telling them he was a police officer. Sure, it was an assish thing to do, but he probably didn't realize he was calling the HOLY TRINITY OF STUPID PEOPLE. Yes, the eighteen-year-old deserves some of the blame, too. She sucked a random dick to keep her job at McDonald's, because a guy on the other end of a phone told her to. That's stupid on my planet.

Really, that would be my defense if I was David Stewart. "Your honor, I didn't realize these people would be so fucking stupid. In fact, when they said they were going through with it, I just assumed they were fucking with me."

I made prank calls when I was a kid, but I don't think anyone ever tried to let Prince Albert out of the can, despite my best efforts. And when I asked the guy at the bowling alley how he walked with sixteen pound balls, he'd chuckle and hang up. I guess I shouldn't have limited my childish hijinks to the Louisville area; I should have called Mount Washington.

Okay, obviously what the guy did was wrong, just like it's wrong to send an email telling people they've won the Russian Lottery but need to send thirty thousand dollars to collect the big payoff. But it doesn't make the victim any less moronic.

******************************************************************
Props to Kendra for designing my new template. She's the goat (greatest of all time). I realize a lot of you know what goat means, but I didn't want someone who didn't to think I repay a nice person who did me a favor by calling her a goat.

It's a picture of me/Lebowski Fest Revisited

This is the first photo of myself I've ever posted on this blog (at least the first where I'm not wearing a donkey mask). I chose this picture for a few reasons.

1. I'm surrounding by the fabulous Derby City Roller Girls. They're cute and they'll kick your fuckin' ass.

2. The photo isn't a close-up. I'm way in the background and part of my fatness is hidden by the girls.

3. Seriously, don't even look at me. Look at the hot little blonde in front of me. Better, huh?

4. The white tent in the background makes me look less pale than I actually am.

5. When this picture was taken, on Saturday afternoon at Lebowski Fest, I wasn't drunk yet.

6. I'm the tall male in the picture, in case you're wondering.

7. How does David Letterman's writers keep coming up with those Top Ten lists? This is all I have.


















Here's the guy who won Best Overall Costume at Lebowski Fest. He's "The Pope shitting in the woods." Yes, he brought "the woods" into the bowling alley with him. Yes, the fine folks at Executive Strike and Spare are extremely understanding.

One other quick Lebowski Fest fact...The three main "groups" at the hotel that weekend: Lebowski Fest participants; a gospel quartet convention; and a reunion of the surviving members of the World War Two 390 Bomber Squadron. In other words, well-dressed people who take delight in singing praises to the Lord and old men who were once shot at by anti-aircraft weaponry were both subjected to the sights, sounds, and yes, smells of grown adults acting like fools. God Bless America.

Things on what's left of my mind

-The political process in this country is a mess. I'm so sick of campaign ads. Apparently every Democrat wants to hand over the country to Osama Bin Laden and every Republican wants to fondle your child in front of a masturbating Mark Foley. Also, if someone voted against a bill that lowered taxes for small businesses AND sentenced all handicapped people to death, he will be portrayed as an enemy of the independent business community.

-I have two anti-Ann Coulter books on my Christmas list. Both are answers to her latest hate-filled pile of dung, Godless. The books are called Clueless and Brainless. I want them both, even though I'm still working on my own masterwork, Ann Coulter is a Gestapocunt.

-I've made the decision to only date women who want to go out with me. In other words, I've given up dating.

-I hate the food at Taco Bell. I'm a fat guy who likes to eat, but Taco Bell just sucks. Their lettuce tastes tainted. And by tainted, I mean it tastes like taint.

- Speaking of shitty food, why will people wait an hour for a table at Olive Garden? I'd rather lick the side of a dumpster than eat their bastardized approximation of Italian cuisine.

-Fact: Residents of Alaska receive almost two dollars worth of services for every dollar they pay in taxes. It's time to hand these freeloaders over to Canada.

-I found out my favorite brewpub features $2.75 pints all day Sunday. That's not gonna help me lose weight, that's for sure.

-The next time someone makes some "clever" comment about my height, I'm going to respond with a superior comment about their lack of intelligence and/or offensive body odor.

Songs that are slowly but surely driving me insane

We listen to a satellite music station at work; the same station every day. The same songs over and over and over.

Most of the songs, of course, suck root. A handful of them, however, are so annoying that I took the time to google key lyric phrases so I could find out the "artists" who are ruining my life. I'd like to share the results with you.

Billy S. - Skye Sweetnam
This song contains the nauseating lyric "I don't need to read Billy Shakespeare". Actually, yes you do, you sub-literate pig vulva. You also might want to check out the works of Al Einstein, Siggy Freud, and Ernie Hemingway. Son of a bitch, I want to hire a teenage girl to punch Skye Sweetnam in her face.

Oh, if you look at the lyrics a little closer, she strongly implies that teachers are only in it for the money. As opposed to moronic pop singers, who suffer for their art.

Geek in the Pink - Jason Mraz
I was fairly certain this song was by putzy troubadour Jason Mraz when I first heard it. Usually, a faux-ghetto slang minstrel show clumsily performed by a geeky white guy is either Mraz or Justin Timberlake, but Timberlake's crappy music at least has production values.

Who Says You Can't Go Home - Bon Jovi
Jon Bon Jovi has never met a cliche he hasn't fully embraced the way Whitney Houston clutches a crack pipe. On this song, he uses them all. If that wasn't enough to make me douse myself with grain alcohol, set myself on fire, and run screaming into the night, this ditty ends with Bon Jovi singing "It's alright...It's alright...It's alright" about a million times.

Every Shitty Song by Those Wimpy Mascara Wearing Bands -Various Artists
Every time I get a supposed reprieve from vapid pop and tuneless R and B ballads, the "rock" song turns out to be from the whiny fuckers in Fall Out Boy and their many clones. They should all get together for a benefit concert so I can pray to God that the stadium collapses. Honorable Mention goes to Every Shitty Song by Someone Who Was Born in the United States Singing in a Fake Jamaican Accent.

Crazy - Simple Plan
Okay, they might fall into the mascara band category, but this song is so horrid and whiny and hamfisted and fucking stupid it deserves to be singled out. One of the "deep" lyrical moments occurs when the singer shrieks "No one cares/no one wants to share/I guess life's unfair". Hey, you're a millionaire who isn't old enough to legally drink; why don't you share, motherfucker! And nice "poetry" there, Walt Whitman.

Are there any songs you hear constantly that drive you crazy? Share them with the rest of the class.

"...And you will know her by the trail of funk"

I was at work on Thursday morning when I heard a voice that was both grating and eerily familiar: "Can you help me, please?"

I looked to my right and instantly wanted to burrow through the concrete floor to safety. It was her, the smelly lady, scourge of everyone in the local retail field.

This woman stands about 5'5", has long gray hair pulled into a ponytail, and wears -regardless of the outside temperature - men's boxer underwear as short pants. Oh, one more thing: SHE SMELLS LIKE THE DEVIL'S BEER FARTS!!! Oh, sweet merciful jack o'lantern, she reeks of the funk of the eternally damned. She smells like someone gutted a skunk and filled its rotting carcass with tainted poultry brine. Her stink could knock Mark Foley off a seventeen-year-old's cock.

She asked me to get something off of a high shelf for her. I obliged, but I openly held my breath the entire time. I made no effort to hide the fact that I didn't want to breathe in her hellish odor. She didn't deserve my discretion. Fuck her for leaving the house smelling like a fetid rag used to wipe the top layer of grit from Kevin Federline's foreskin. A dirty sanchez from Screech would have been less a shock to my olfactory senses than her stank ass.

I handed her a bottle of some rotgut shit and abruptly made my exit. I went upstairs and watched from the overlook as the putrid woman proceeded to make our hapless cashier supervisor sorry he didn't die in his sleep the night before. It's funny when it happens to someone else.

Before anyone thinks I'm picking on the less fortunate, let me make it perfectly clear that this woman drives to and from our store in a brand new car. By god, if she can afford a new car, she can afford to introduce her pits and ass to a bar of fucking soap. Or maybe she could fill her bathtub with water instead of urine from the Hounds of Hell. That's just a thought.

Last week the Louisville Metro City Council voted to ban smoking in all public buildings, including bars; effective July 1, 2007.

Oh, did I say all buildings? I meant 'All buildings except Churchill Downs.' Yes, the racetrack has an exemption. The only exemption.

I'm no lawyer, but in my opinion that exemption will ensure that this city ordinance will NEVER go into effect. If you own a bar in Louisville and you think this ban will hurt your business, you're going to sue to get it repealed. I don't see how this ban can hold up in court if Churchill Downs doesn't have to play by the same rules as a neighborhood bar.

There is already a ban on smoking in restaurants, and I totally support it. However, I think smoking should be allowed in bars and bowling alleys. Smoking and eating don't go together; smoking and drinking do. Some whiny citizens have been quoted in the newspaper saying "We can't go to bars because of the smoke." Come on, in most bars on a Saturday night at 3am, smoke is the least of your worries.

This city is notorious for passing ordinances that are quickly overturned by judges who *gasp* actually know the law. Every few years they try to shut down all of the strip clubs by passing some crazy ass new "rules", like the dancers have to wear arctic expedition parkas or they can only serve fifty dollar diet Shasta or any patron who gets an erection is subject to the death penalty; stuff that is so asinine it usually earns the city's lawyer a public lecture from a jaded judge.

Of course, it's all horseshit. These ordinances aren't passed to actually change anything. They're passed so city councilmen can say "Hey, we tried to ban smoking and titty bars, but those wacky judges threw it out." They'll always vote for a titty bar ban, because who wants to run for reelection as a champion of adult entertainment?

I'm glad these dog and pony shows and empty posturing are fully funded by the taxpayers. That makes me feel a lot better.

That's it...I'm running for Congress

After seeing the crooks, morons, stiffs, losers, ne'er-do-wells, strumpets, rapscallions, bad actors, nincompoops, dorks, effete latte-sippers, fear mongers, bigots, sportos, motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, waistoids, dweebies, dickheads, and semi-literate yokels who are running for public office this time around, I've decided to run for Congress in 2008. I don't see how I'm any worse than these people.

The two years will give me time to lose weight and find a wife. You can't be a Congressperson without a spouse, not in this highly charged post-Foley political landscape. I think it will be easy to find a wife once the pounds melt away and the Todd-for-Congress juggernaut starts rolling along. Who doesn't want to be married to a less-fat member of the United States House of Representatives?

But Todd, one of you may or may not be asking, what are your positions on the issues? I'll be running on a pro-recreational lesbian, anti-douchebag platform, naturally. Some of my other big ideas include:

Nepotism: I'm going to fix it so my brother doesn't have to pay any taxes. This way he won't openly campaign against me.

Let's Execute Karl Rove on Pay-Per-View: The revenue generated will more than compensate for the taxes my brother won't be paying.

Move the U.S. Capitol to Las Vegas: Yeah, I know I just moved away from there, but think of the VIP treatment I'd get as a member of Congress. Fucks yeah! And when I got sick of the place after a few days I could take my taxpayer-funded jet back to my home district in Louisville.

Easy government jobs for blogger friends: Those of you who've read this crap for over a year deserve to make a hundred grand for licking stamps.

I'm going to let Bill Clinton give campaign speeches for me while he's getting blown: "My fellow Americans, I know two things: Todd will make a heckuva Congressman, and I'm balls deep in this bitch's mouff." Man, will that piss off Fox News!

Let's put "Fuck Tom Cruise" on the new dollar bill: And maybe replace George Washington's mug with an image of Cruise sucking off a donkey. What's he gonna do, sue the United States government?

Louisville needs an In-n-Out Burger franchise: There aren't any In-n-Outs east of Arizona, but I plan on being the most powerful freshman Congressman in our nation's history, so I think they'll see things my way.

No check writing in retail stores: If I get this passed, I'll be popular with everyone but old people and crooks who write bad checks.

Make Baby Got Back our National Anthem: I was going to suggest Prince's Pussy Control, but I'm the last person who wants to offend any delicate sensibilities.

CORPORATIONS ARE EVIL AND PEOPLE SUCK

One of the things I like best about my job, aside from the low pay, is the opportunity to work alongside shiftless wastes of space. It's a god damn human buffet of loserdom. And hey, I throw myself in that mix as well; I do work there, after all.

But at least I try to do my job, and at least I know my cock from a can of Spam. That can't be said of some people who work there. So, because some people can't perform tasks a trained seal would do in exchange for a fish, we had to have individual meetings with the store manager. Yipp-cunting-eee!

Please, reduce my pay; there's a seventeen-year-old on work-release from Juvee lockup who mans the mop at a peak show who makes less than I do, and I think there's a dignity in being the lowest-paid human in any developed country. Make me wear a neon Sombrero or a velvet gimp suit. Kick me in the groin, unannounced, once a day. JUST DON'T MAKE ME LISTEN TO CORPORATESPEAK FOR THIRTY MINUTES!! I can't stand rah-rah company bullshit and I can't stand arbitrary rules and regulations that lump me in with mouth-breathers who need to be issued industrial-strength drool cups.

For example, because some people do NOTHING all day, I have to put all of my daily "accomplishments" in writing. Because some people eat sloppy joes or meatballs and spaghetti in front of customers, I can no longer have a soft drink when I'm stocking. Well, fuck that shit; they can fire me if they want. If I'm thirsty I will be drinking something. I'm sure management keeps hydrated to facilitate their arduous schedule of sitting on their asses all day, so I'll be dipped in fuck-juice if they think I'm going to work while parched.

This seems to be the standard corporate manifesto: "We are going to pay you as low a wage as is humanly possible. We will tease you with hopes of a miniscule raise. You can't work overtime as a rule, but if someone calls in sick we'll be happy to let you work his shift, and then cut your hours later in the week. We'll post Sunday's schedule on Friday, but if you want a specific day off we'll need two weeks notice." Oh, it goes on, but if I continue my heart will implode from pure hatred.

And god forbid if you don't have a smile plastered on your face while eating their turd sandwich. Take this corporate cock up your bleeding ass and ask for more, peon!

There are bigger scum than the people who run my company, though. For example, Tower Records recently went bankrupt and was put up for auction. It was bought by a liquidating company who will sell all of Tower's stock and close their doors for good. Holy shit, you have to be a horrid soulless motherfucker to make your living as a cocksucking liquidator. Imagine profiteering as a scavenger of human failure; as a bone-picking vulture in a blue suit. Please God, let these people die penniless in the gutter, face down in a puddle of vagrant piss. And if you'd like to smite their family and friends, knock Yourself out.

Hey, everyone have a great day. And do yourself a favor: Take an extra long coffee break today. The people you work for most likely don't care if you live or die.

Kendra Illustrates my coworker's strip club story

A coworker of mine told a semi-amusing strip club story, so I thought illustrations by the
talented and outrageously hot Kendra would make it wholly amusing.

My not-to-be-named coworker recently went to a strip club called Crazy Coconuts. Yes, that is the real name of an actual low-rent strip club in Louisville; and yes, this is how my coworker looks and dresses, complete with the long shorts and damn-near knee high socks.




After he paid the cover and ordered an overpriced drink, my coworker was shocked to see the "entertainers" wearing two piece bikinis. He enquired as to why the strippers weren't actually stripping, and was informed that they were forbidden by local authorities to take off their clothes because the establishment was recently sited for operating a whorehouse in the back room. No, it wasn't one rogue stripper trying to make a little extra cash by offering her cootch to drunken patrons; this was sanctioned-by-management brotheling.

And did anyone consider shutting this place down for selling sex on the premises? Oh, heavens no, just don't let the dancers show their nips, because it's impossible for a woman to give a blowjob while wearing a skimpy bikini top.

Oh, one of the strippers was wearing a tracking ankle bracelet because she was under house arrest and could only leave her residence to go to work. It makes my head hurt too.

By the way, anyone who wants to know what exactly constitutes "sloppy third" will have to ask Kendra. You can find her at www.golden-state.blogspot.com

Thanks again, Kendra, for the great illustrations.

I meet the Republican Medusa; the Bedazzler revisited

This is a picture of U.S. Representative Anne Northup standing next to President Bush back when she wasn't avoiding him like the plaque. She's running for reelection and doesn't even mention in her ads that she's a Republican. She is a Republican, though; she's the Republican Medusa, and this past Sunday she momentarily turned me to stone.

I was at a street festival on Sunday afternoon, enjoying the unseasonably warm temperature and looking at chicks, when a voice said to me, "Hey, how are you doing?" It was said with a familiarity which made me think it was a long-lost friend, or at least an acquaintance. No, it was Congresswoman Anne Northup.

Damn my tall stature! In a crowd I stand out like a turd in a punchbowl, leaving me an easy target for change-hawking hippies and vote-seeking political twits. I looked on in horror as Anne Northup smiled at me, a frightening smile like the one in that picture. President Bush has a look on his face like he just smelled one of her pussy-farts, but that's for another post.

She said something, but fuck if I can tell you what it was. I just stared at her, motionless, speechless, without a thought in my head. She gave me a sticker. I turned and immediately started laughing to myself. I guess it's good that she Medusa'd my brain and vocal chords. It really isn't a good idea to verbally abuse a sitting member of Congress in front of a large group of people.





I found this picture on the Bedazzler website. I'm a believer in the power of Bedazzling and this photo does a lot to reinforce my faith in this fine product.

Obviously the Bedazzler folks know their demographic. Most companies use professional models to sell their product, but the Bedazzleites know better. They know we aren't believing some nubile young lass decked out in Bedazzlewear; so they chose a young lady wearing shiny gold pants and glasses so thick she can see through buildings. She also has a look of total disinterest on her face and a haircut I'VE NEVER SEEN BEFORE IN MY LIFE. It looks like she's wearing a toupee to cover a bald spot on the very top of her head.

I'm seriously thinking of becoming a member of the Bedazzle Nation. I have an old jean jacket that could really use "Chick Magnet" written on it in shiny rhinestones. And nothing says "Classy" like using the Bedazzler to spell out "Home of the Whopper" on a pair of boxer shorts.

Two Hot Profile Pics

I use a picture of Stewie as my profile picture because I don't want to scare people away from this blog with a photo of myself. I'd much rather scare them away with my inane ramblings and paranoia-induced inner-shenanigans. I'd like to take time, however, to pay tribute to a few of my favorite profile pictures. FYI, I emailed both of these ladies and received their expressed written consent to use their likenesses in this forum.


This is Spinning Girl eating a spicy tuna roll. How hot is this photo? First of all, you gotta love a Caucasian girl who rocks the chopsticks. This photo does one of two things, depending on my mood: It makes me hungry for sushi, or it makes me want to wrap my cock in seaweed and rice and try to find Spinning Girl.

The tongue. Oh, the tongue.

www.elevenpointfive.blogspot.com



This is the outrageously shapely Monalicious. I would date her silhouette. I'm fucking serious. My friends would all be envious if I did.

"Todd, who was that I saw you with Saturday night?"

"It was my new girlfriend, Mona's Silhouette."

"Dude, she is fuckin' hot. I couldn't help but stare at the outline of her boobs."

"Yeah, she noticed. You totally made her uncomfortable."

"Well if she doesn't want anyone to notice, she shouldn't stand at that angle."

www.lamonalicious.blogspot.com

In the future I will comment on more female blogger's profile pics that make me horny. Yes, it has come to that.

It's been a long time since I last posted about stupid people at Starbucks

You'd think that by now everyone in America has been inside a Starbucks. Yes, I know some people still insist on living in small towns, and that's very Norman Rockwell of you, but if you aren't a farmer it's time to move to where the people are. Damn, I'm already "off point".

Okay, so I'm in my medium-sized American city on Saturday morning and I'm behind someone who has never been in a coffee house of any kind ever in her life. No, she wasn't Amish or iron lung-addled, but she was cunt-all stupid; and she almost made me late for work.

Let me give you a written transcript of the gut-knotting conversation between the saintly patient Starbucks employee and the fucking reflict customer (A reflict is someone who is both retarded and afflicted).

fucking reflict: "Do you have tea?"
patient employee: "Yes. We..."
fucking reflict (interrupting): "I just want a tea. What kind of tea do you have?"
patient employee: "We have black tea, green tea, and passion tea."
fucking reflict: "Which one is the regular tea?"
patient employee: "The black tea."
fucking reflict: "That's just a plain tea, the black tea?"
patient employee: "Yes."
fucking reflict: "There's no lemon in that?"
patient employee: "No."

It went on for several minutes. When the reflict asked what the sizes were, I think I audibly sighed.

Yes, I know it is strange that Starbucks says tall, grande and venti instead of small, medium and large. I realize this. Yes, it is out of the ordinary and they don't do that at McDonald's. I'm aware. But this particular Starbucks tries to quell any confusion by placing, right next to the cash register, a display that shows the three cup sizes. This is almost reflict-proof. Almost.

The miracle moron points to the cup in the middle and asks "What size is this?"

Hmmmm, let's see. There are three cups and you just pointed at the one in the middle. The first cup is smaller than the middle cup; the third cup, larger. IT'S A MEDIUM, YOU SLURRY-BRAINED OAF!!! When there are three sizes, the one in the middle is always medium. It doesn't matter what the marketing department chooses to call it. If the sizes are called fuck, twat, and blumpkin, and twat is in the middle, then twat is a god damned medium. At this point I was too blinded by rage to really notice, but I think she paid for her tea with farthings.

And I promised my grandfather, on his deathbed, that I'd never be photographed wearing a donkey mask..

...but here is further proof that I'm a filthy liar. That's my associates and me at Lebowski Fest, the annual festival based on the movie The Big Lebowski. We won Best Group Costume! (The nice ladies dressed as Kahlua bottles aren't with us). We were "gold brickin' asses" from the line "Get your gold brickin' ass out of my beach community."

I'm the tall one on the far left, by the way. And is it really necessary to give the "bunny ears" to someone already wearing a donkey mask?








I'm glad we won, but these girls, the White Russians, got my vote.

I started drinking at about four p.m. and didn't stop for twelve hours. I drank beer at the pre-fest concert, bourbon in our hotel room, more beer and white russians (not the chicks, sadly) at the main event, and more bourbon at the after party. There's also a picture of me surrounded by hot Roller Derby girls. I was going to include it in this post, but my friend Alisha hasn't sent it to me yet and if I don't write about it now my old ass might forget it ever happened.

I don't have pictures of the afterparty, but suffice to say that is where my liver sustained the most damage. I danced, for the love of all that is rhythmless. When I dance I look like a quadruple amputee with an inner-ear infection.




After a night of drinking like Lindsay Lohan on New Year's Eve, we needed relief. Luckily for us, the Official Lebowski Fest Day After Party was held at the best place on earth to get breakfast, Lynn's Paradise Cafe. I had biscuits and gravy. It was so good Nicole Richie would have eaten it. Well, maybe not, but the food there is really good.


I had a great time and when I get more pictures maybe I'll post them.

Does alcohol cause perversion?

Former Congressional Representative Mark Foley, who is accused of sending sexually suggestive emails to teenage boys, checked himself into a clinic for "alcohol addiction". Hmmm. Is this guy suggesting that liquor made him like young males? I've been drunk more than a few times in my life, and my intoxication has never triggered any interest in teenage boys. Thank God I never drank whatever Mark Foley was drinking. That must have been some strong shit.

I hope no one falls for this desperate ploy. At the very most, alcohol would have given this pervert a pair of pederist beer goggles and he would have sent explicit emails to less attractive teenage boys. It's like Mel Gibson blaming alcohol for his anti-Semitism. I know America is fucking stupid, but I can't believe it's stupid enough to buy this bill of goods.

But wait, there's more! Now it seems that Foley was molested by a clergyman when he was fifteen. So he was betrayed by a trusted authority figure, huh? At least he can empathize with his victims.

If I was a lawyer working for Mark Foley, I'd be one low-life son of a bitch...but that's not the point. If I was his lawyer I'd be working on other excuses:

"His dog ate his homework." It worked for me in elementary school.

"He was merely trying to see which of the teenagers were overly gullible so he could warn their parents." What an invaluable public servant.

"Well, Bill Clinton blah blah blah blah." When you're addressing a hardcore conservative it really doesn't matter what you say after "Bill Clinton".

"His soul was momentarily possessed by Satan." He could sell his story to Weekly World News. And maybe get it on with Bat Boy while he's at it.

Oh, and it seems like the Republican leaders of Congress have known about this for a long time. I suppose loyalty is a "family value", but loyalty to a predator for political convenience is just sick. And if the Democrats knew about this and waited till election time to drop the bomb, well fuck them too.

Finally, I leave you with a quote from Mark Foley himself, who crafted legislation to protect children from online predators: "If you even contemplate using the internet to solicit children, your life will be ruined." Bingo, motherfucker.

The Tale of the Racist Retard

On the surface, this story I'm about to tell is politically incorrect. But it's a true story. IT REALLY HAPPENED. How can the truth be un-p.c.? Since it is a true story, all of the names have been changed.

Several years ago, my friend Steve and I ventured to the other side of Louisville to visit our friend Kathy. It was a nice day, so we stood outside talking to Kathy, her younger brother Rob, and Rob's friend Dave, who is black. You'll know in a minute why I mention his race.

As we stood around shooting the shit, I noticed something odd out of the corner of my eye. A young man was walking toward us. He wore a child's cowboy hat with matching (and ill-fitting)vest and holsters with toy cap guns in them.

"That's our next door neighbor, Corky," Kathy said in a hushed tone. "He's retarded."

"No shit? " I whispered. "I thought he just had an adventurous sense of fashion."

I don't remember his real name, but his family called him "Corky". Why? Is that the default name for retarded boys? "Oh, let's name him Josh...unless he's retarded, of course. Then it's Corky all the way."

Corky walked up to our group and presented each of us with a toy badge shaped like a star.

"You're a sheriff," he said to me while handing me a badge.

"You're a sheriff," he said to Steve while handing him a badge.

This scenario repeated itself until Corky got to Dave, the black kid.

Corky looked him up and down and said rather dismissively, "You're a deputy."

Holy shit!! I knew racism was retarded but I didn't know retards could be racist! Needless to say, I shook with spasms of laughter. I didn't want to guffaw in the face of the mentally handicapped so I turned my back to them and ran full speed the other way. I could hear Dave, who was a good kid, say with mock indignation, "What? A black man can't be a sheriff in this town?" For years after that I called him "Deputy Dave."

Blue Collar Pussy Eating Tour?

The other day at work I answered a few bourbon question for a couple who sported matching his-and-her mullets. These mullets were spectacular, folks. They made Billy Ray Cyrus look like he rocks a buzz cut.

After work I was walking to my car when I saw the same couple climb into a giant pickup truck with a Git-r-Done sticker covering a majority of the back window. Classic.

The next day I told a co-worker about my adventures in Mulletland and he told me that people were using "Git-r-Done" in reference to performing oral sex on a woman.

Huh? This can't be. I would like to go on record in complete favor of eating pussy. I LOVE dining at the Y, yodeling in the gulley, gettin' a slice of hair pie, attending the clambake, spelunking in Poon Caverns, whistling in the wetlands, and taking a tongue tour of Clitty City. I go down there and stay there till the job is done. I'm not satisfied until my face looks like a glazed doughnut.

I don't want Larry the Cable Guy to be associated in any way with my favorite bedroom activity. The next time I have a facefull of coot I don't want visions of sleeveless flannel shirts dancing in my head. And really, ladies of Blogdom, if you were about to offer your snatch to some lucky male and he shouted out "Time to git-r-done" wouldn't your legs slam shut like a bear trap? Is there anything short of a sandpaper dental dam that would make you want this guy lapping at the holiest of holies any less than a Larry the Cable Guy quote?

However, I do like a woman to shout "Shazam!" right before she blows me.