The Real Thing?

I was at yet another outdoor festival this past weekend, and I was introduced to a culinary horror so outrageous it boggles the mind: Deep Fried Coke. Please don't poke your own eyes out with a dry toothpick; that's REALLY a picture of Coca Cola, Atlanta Holy Water, in convenient fried form.

Apparently it's funnel cake batter mixed with Coke syrup and fried to an
artery-clogging golden brown. It was invented by a guy named Abel Gonzales, Jr, the Chef Boyardee of carny cuisine, at last summer's Texas State Fair.

So now it's official...Everything on Earth can be deep fried and sold to folks of questionable taste at carnivals, fairs, and festivals.

"Honey, theys out th' fried rat twat."

"Well git me sum'a them fried aardvark nutsacks."

I eagerly anticipate this summer's State Fair season to see what new travesties Abel Gonzales, Jr and his team of culinary assassins have in store for us.

Notes from the Hooters Bikini Contest

In July, America's finest Hooters Girls will gather at the newly renovated Planet Hollywood Casino in Las Vegas, where the one who best fills out a bikini will be given the coveted title of Miss Hooters International.

But first, the Hooters Girls from Indiana, Kentucky, Ohio, and Tennessee had to show their goods to a crowd of drunken idiots under a giant tent in a parking lot in Louisville.

I, although not drunk, was in that tent. Only in the name of research, of course. Here are some observations.

-The photo was taken off the internets. It's from last year's event, but not a lot has changed. The skimpy bikinis, fake boobs, and bleach-blond hair were in full effect yet again. Thank god.

-The bikini contest was judged by a number of "celebrities" I had never heard of before. The one exception was Hall of Fame basketball coach Denny Crum. I don't know how I feel about a Hall of Famer of any kind judging a bikini contest. It's kind of like Cal Ripken at a seedy Baltimore Asian Spa paying for a rub-n-tug; or Joe Montana walking bow-legged out of a Bay Area bathhouse. It just seems wrong.

-Why wasn't I drunk? I had two quick Blue Moon beers inside the restaurant, but outside the event was sponsored by Budweiser, so I had a choice between Swill, Swill Light, and Swill Select. I chose the Swill Select, which must have been "selected" from Satan's diverticulitic colon. In the true American spirit of drinking while watching hot chicks in bikinis, I did manage to down a few of those fermented abortions, but it wasn't easy.

-Who could almost ruin a Hooters Bikini Contest? The local butt-rock radio station, that's who. First they hired a hair-metal tribute band to play before the flesh parade began. These guys were horrible, and had the three ugliest groupies I've ever seen. In fact, I think the groupies were asked to disperse by local authorities, as their combined repulsiveness broke several civic ordinances.
Also, they brought along the two obnoxious, unfunny morning DJs. Why do these morons insist on screaming into a microphone? The microphone was invented for the expressed purpose of amplifying the human voice. Speak normally into it and it is your friend. Since Sam Kinison is dead, no non-singer needs to scream into a fucking microphone.

There will be two regional representatives in Vegas. The second will be chosen on June 1st. I have until then to steal the hair metal band's equipment, rip out the voice boxes of the DJs, and think of a way to sneak in some drinkable beer.

I missed my blog's anniversary

My blog's 2-year anniversary was April 22, and I completely forgot about it.

Boy, is my blog pissed off about this.

I'm so sorry, blog. I know you've been down lately, what with your fast-declining readership and lower comment count. It probably would have meant a lot to you if I'd remembered.

But, uh... I was really busy on April 22nd. Yeah, that's it. It was a Sunday, so I went to the brewpub for two pints and a Bison burger, then I bought tickets to this summer's Lebowski Fest. That's a full day! I'm exhausted just thinking about it.

I promise it will never happen again, blog. Please accept my sincere apologies and this lovely picture of a bouquet of roses. I know your best days are behind you, blog; but you're mine, and I shouldn't take you for granted.

What a tra-la-la-GOON-dee-ay

In an obvious attempt to win Moron of the Century honors, a twenty-year-old University of Louisville student called in a bomb threat to the school. I guess he was trying to scare people in the wake of the Virginia Tech shootings, which would make him a mean-spirited spunk stain and a world class fuckforall.

According to the Louisville Courier Journal online:

James Armond Huber of Clarksville, Indiana, was arrested on suspicion of telephoning false information about an alleged attempt to bomb U of L, according to a statement from the FBI.

No bomb was found.

Agents said Huber called the U of L police last week to say he had received an e-
mail that said: “There is a bomb at our university, hope you find it.”

But agents said they determined the e-mail was from an account that Huber had opened 10 minutes before the e-mail was sent.

Oh, the hilarity! His breadcrumb trail of stupidity led the feds right back to his dumb ass. Personally, I think they should strap him to a real bomb and throw him in the middle of the Ohio River. We could all gather on the riverfront and drink overpriced beer and eat fried dough and watch him explode. Anyone who catches a body part gets a hat or something.

To sum it all up, I give you the priceless words of an anonymous commenter on the Courier Journal's online forum: "Now he gets to spend some time making Indiana's ugly ass license plate."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! That's funny without any mention of the brutal prison sex he'll be subjected to.

Under the bridge downtown...

This past Saturday I spent the entire day on the riverfront for THUNDER OVER LOUISVILLE, North America's largest air show and fireworks display. It was also the largest display of people wearing tank tops who really, really shouldn't have been. At times it was as painful as watching OJ Simpson do a karaoke version of "I Used to Love Her (But I Had to Kill Her)".

My friend Matt took this picture of Miss Thunder, next to a tree she was getting ready to shit upon. Later in the afternoon she donned her ceremonial crown of Bud Light bottle caps and a spiffy fried-dough scepter.

The afternoon and early evening included an air show, complete with more Armed Forces propaganda than you could shake the military-industrial complex at.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," a booming, disembodied voice bellows, "please direct your attention to the east, where our Z28 Bomber is entering downtown air space. The Z28 was used extensively in Operation Kill Brown People, and can blow the taint off a fleeing civilian from over two miles away."

Okay, I'll admit that some of the planes were cool looking, but once one jet has buzzed overhead, they all pretty much have, so I decided to walk around. With an estimated crowd of over 800,000, I had a lot of humanity to wade through, so naturally I saw a lot of women who looked good in the meager garb they were wearing. However, I really only like ogling girls at over-21 events; it weeds out the jailbait.

Eventually, I went to a nearby brewpub and had a good beer instead of the watery swill they were selling for a thousand dollars a cup at the riverfront. Then I headed back to our spot near the Kennedy Bridge to watch the fireworks.

My cynicism ends here. It's fucking impressive to be that close to North America's largest fireworks display. Even so, I'll probably never go again, because on the way home I got caught in North America's largest traffic jam. Worst of all, I had to poop. Getting stuck in traffic is bad enough, but when you have to shit so bad you have a dark brown taste in your mouth, it's god damn intolerable.

Waving the white flag of surrender

This past Friday I walked into the men's room at work and saw floating in the toilet a turd the size of a canned ham; and one square of toilet paper.

The plumbing in that building is abysmal. Sometimes extra thick urine can cause a major clog. There was no way this bowel brick was going down without a fight, and I was in no mood to wade through dookie stew when the toilet overflowed.

So I did what any disinterested employee would do on a Friday afternoon: I hung an Out of Order sign on the door and quickly slipped away.

Don't give him the satisfaction

I'm not going to mention the name of the Virgina Tech shooter on this blog; nor will I show his picture. He doesn't deserve any publicity, not even posthumously; and not even on a small-time blog.

It pisses me off that news organizations aired his "explanation". I fear this will encourage other cesspool-minded parasites who resent their station in life to do something drastic in order to achieve "fame" upon death.

I didn't watch his video, but the headlines of the local paper implied that he was bullied as a teenager. BooFUCKINGhoo! "Hey, everyone who ever got a melvin or a purple nurple from some schoolyard meathead, feel free to shoot up your school or place of business. You've been victimized." Come on, who hasn't been bullied? Even among bullies there's a pecking order, so the lesser bullies are terrorized by the alpha bully. And where there's an alpha bully, there's usually a parent who uses said alpha bully's ass as an ashtray.

And yes, I realize the gunman was mentally disturbed. If he had killed ONLY himself, even if he did it Jeremy-style in front of a crowd, I'd feel sorry for the guy.

However, this is how it is in a civilized society:

-If you die for a noble cause, you're a martyr.

-If you sacrifice your life so that others may live, you're a hero.

-If you kill yourself, you're a tragic figure.

But if you go around ending the lives of innocent people and then blow your own face off to avoid the consequences, you're a cowardly piece of human filth.

Sorry, those are the rules. If you don't want to abide by them, at least have the courtesy to not involve us when you decide to stop living.

Booze and Debauchery

On Friday, April 13th the lovely and dangerous Derby City Roller Girls held a fundraiser that may go down in the annals of history as the most funnest event ever. It was so much fun it made me use the word "funnest" like I'm some sort of god damn teenage half-wit.

Anyway, there was the obligatory DJ (but he was pretty good, and wasn't fucking Nicole Ritchie); as well as lots of booze and a little thing they like to call Full-Contact Musical Chairs.

If you don't think watching hot, tatted up chicks on skates play a very physical game of musical chairs sounds like a lot of fun, well...you're dead to me. Really. I think the Casual Friday guy still blogs. He'll even meet you for lunch at Olive Garden.

In the event of a tie and/or to settle any disputes, two girls would square off according to the arbitrary whim of the Wheel of Justice. To decide their fates, they'd have to compete in one of several competitions, including arm wrestling; a hula hoop-off; a pillow fight (hello, every fantasy I've ever fucking had ever); and even a Starsky and Hutch-style dance off. Except instead of two polyester-clad dorks there were hot chicks in tank tops.

I met a really nice girl, but she lives in Kansas, thereby proving my theory that I was Joseph Stalin in a former life and will forever pay for past sins. But despite fate punting me savagely in the groins, I had a great time. The Roller Girls raised some much needed cash, and the bar sold so much liquor that they overlooked the three chairs that were broken during the main event.

Why isn't Rush in jail? And other matters

Despite this glorious image of Scumbag Emeritus Rush Limbaugh behind bars, silently preparing himself for a brutal prison rape, the drug abusing hypocrite remains free.

If Rush Limbaugh had an ounce of the personal integrity he so piously demands of others he would have REQUESTED a jail sentence instead of jumping through legal hoops to avoid doing time. By the way, Rush seemed to lose his hatred of trial lawyers when he needed one to save his ass.

Why am I bringing up this rather old news event? Well, Google just agreed to buy a huge amount of advertising on Clear Channel radio stations. Clear Channel is an ultra-conservative corporate juggernaut that doesn't look kindly to criticism of the GOP, so I've decided to get my shots in at right wing douchebags before Google sends their jack-booted thugs to the "door" of my little blog.

Oh, and I also like to remind people that Rush Limbaugh is a pill-poppin' piece of human excrement.

So while I still can, allow me to take my shot at two other prominent conservatives.

-Sean Hannity is such a shameless shill for the Bush administration, I honestly think he would approve of his own execution if President Bush signed the death warrant. "Today our courageous Commander-in-Chief decided that I must die by firing squad. I wholeheartedly support this decision and look forward to my impending death at the hands of this great man."

-And speaking of President Bush, the White House issued a statement following the tragic shootings at Virginia Tech. The statement ended with "The President believes there is a right for people to bear arms, but that all laws must be followed."

Could the President please take his lips off the NRA's cock just long enough for the next of kin to be notified? Send your hollow condolences and be done with it! Don't suck up to the gun lobby when the bodies are still warm, you unconscionable bastard.

Job Interviews Suck

The reason I still have my crappy job is because of my utter disdain for the job hunting process. It's so degrading and soul-draining; kind of like my current job, but without the familiarity.

I hate job interviews the most. There's nothing like being interrogated by a middle-management scumbag who expects you to jump through hoops for a fucking trained seal job. I'd like to be able to tell the truth during an interview; to really speak my mind.

Middle-Management Scumbag: "So, would you describe yourself as a 'motivated self-starter'?"

Me: "First of all, anyone who calls himself a 'motivated self-starter' is the kind of ass-kiss douchebag who'll never be invited to Happy Hour on Friday afternoon because he tells on coworkers for stealing pens. And obviously I'm not motivated. Otherwise I wouldn't be sitting here going through the Spanish Inquisition just to get a job making less than the kid who sells off-brand chocolate bars door-to-door."

MMS: "Are you ok with a flexible schedule?"

Me: "By 'flexible' you mean flexible on my part, right? As in close one night and turn around and open in the morning like a twelve-year-old in an overseas sweat shop? Yeah, that sounds great."

MMS: "What are your salary requirements?"

ME: "Look, I know this job pays for shit. Don't insult my intelligence by pretending I'm going to get 75 grand a year and a company car. My requirements? That guy I saw out front whose eyes were too close together and had a gravy stain on his work shirt.... I'd like a quarter an hour more than him, please; just for the sake of my dignity."

MMS: "We require any time-off requests be made two weeks in advance."

ME: "That's perfectly reasonable, because nothing in life EVER happens spur of the moment. 'Hey, let's go out to dinner two weeks from now.' Of course, I'm sure you'll post the next week's schedule at the last minute possible. That's only fair."

MMS: "We encourage a positive outlook on the job."

ME: "Don't worry; I'll eat my daily shit sandwich with a plastered-on smile."

MMS: "We're customer oriented."

ME: "Every business is customer oriented until a customer causes someone to work harder than usual. Then it's a clusterscrog of buck-passing and excuse-making. But I'll drink your corporate Kool-Aid if it makes you happy."

MMS: "I give my employees respect, and I demand respect in return."

ME: "Yes, Your Majesty."

Well, at least my current job is close to where I live. And I get weekends off.

The Wal-Mart of the Future

In my nightmares I have seen the Wal-Mart of the future. It isn't a pretty sight, my friends.

A lot of Super Wal-Marts have a McDonald's located inside, but the new, "improved" Mega Wal-Marts will also house Olive Garden restaurants for non-picky customers who like their uninspired cuisine served up with silverware and table service.

Ah, Wal-Mart and Olive Garden; a match made in the mediocre depths of purgatory. As you walk through the store you'll see groups of culinary Philistines prattling on about those fucking Olive Garden breadsticks. "Oh, the breadsticks are so good."

No they aren't. The breadsticks at Impellizeri's pizza, dripping with garlic butter, are good. The breadsticks at Olive Garden are tasteless lumps of dough. If you like OG breadsticks save yourself the time and money and sprinkle some garlic powder on a piece of styrofoam. Or better yet, rip out your tongue and feed it to a mongrel dog.

But that's not all for fans of absolute shit! The latest in robotic technology, the Danebot, will roam around the store repeating the frantic, unfunny musings of alleged comedian and Myspace friends champion Dane Cook. "He's right. What IS the deal with high school lunchroom food?" a random douchebag will ask aloud as he follows the Danebot from Automotive to Sporting Goods.

As you look frantically for the nearest exit, a voice booms over the PA: "Ladies and gentlemen, Mega Wal-Mart is proud to present, live in our in-store amphitheater, Nickelback."

Now you start to panic. You only have ten minutes to get out of the store before the scheduled public execution of a Wal-Mart employee who asked for health insurance. You run in a full sprint toward the front of the store, dodging displays of Shaun and Marlon Wayans' films and Sam's Choice brand salted snacks. "Hey, look at the fast running guy" the Danebot insipidly mocks as you breeze past him. You knock down a group of people in line for Olive Garden and finally reach the exit.

If you think you'll escape the haunting specter of Mega Wal-Mart, think again. One opens next Thursday in Indianapolis.

Career advancement

Someone at work isn't too fond of our resident "wine expert".

The store manager walked up to me the other day and said "Someone wrote 'Melinda sucks one' on an empty wine box and left it on her desk."

I replied, "It wasn't me. I would have written 'Melinda sucks donkey dicks'."

Ask me anything, Again.

I'll admit it, I have nothing. Can't you tell from the past three posts that I have absolutely nothing to write about?

So, ask me a question. All of you, even you lurkers. What do want to know about me or the universe in general? I've done this before and it was a lot of fun. I don't have as many readers now, but this still could be interesting.

I'll answer your questions in the comments.

Thanks in advance for your begrudging participation.

Worst First Pitch Ever

Take a look at Cincinnati's Mayor throwing out the first pitch on Opening Day of the baseball season.

This is the worst thing I've ever seen. An armless guy could have shoved a baseball up his ass and farted it toward home plate with more authority than that palsied effort.

I love how the umpire ceremoniously throws the mayor out of the game. But the reaction of former Reds great Eric Davis, the attended recipient of the throw, is all-time priceless. He's embarrassed at the mayor's pathetic lack of basic motor skills and at the same time angry that he's part of such a travesty.

The DWaFM Meme

If you're like me and you can't think of anything to write about on your blog, answer these questions I just made up.

Have you ever kicked a guy squaw in the nuts?
Not intentionally. Everyone has accidentally hit some random dude in the scrote with a football or whatever, but it's kind of a guy code not to run around tagging sacks. Of course, if I was ever viciously attacked without provocation the code would go right down the toilet. I'd kick some bag like Adam Veniteri trying to win the Super Bowl.

What is your favorite swear word when you're angry?
No, it isn't "cunt". I hardly ever say that in real life. When I'm really pissed I like to shout "godfuckingdamnit" because it's both obscene and blasphemous.

Would you rather your date have bad gas or incontinence?
Face it, farts are funny; and there's nothing funny about pants wetting, unless grandma wizzes on the kitchen floor and then your idiot cousin, the one with the full collection of Song of the South commemorative plates, slips in the puddle and bruises her tailbone.

My friend, who is of the male gender, threw a Steel Magnolias party. Is he gay?
Actually having intercourse with another man isn't as gay as throwing a Steel Magnolias party.

Have you ever dated a "Ten"?
No, but one semester in college I dated five "twos". (I stole this joke from George Carlin)

What's better, pizza or oral sex?
Well, it comes down to who's making the pizza versus who's sucking my cock. I will say that it's easier to get a pizza.

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
My soul.

If you could feed Simon Cowell through a woodchipper in front of his parents, what kind of pants would you wear?
Standard blue jeans.

Can you reveal any little-known celebrity facts?
Mr. T is actually an Asian woman.

Is there anything more lame than making up your own meme questions?
Uh, no.