(Note: I have nothing against people from Wales, so simmer down, Aunt Bea).
(Note: I have nothing against people from Wales, so simmer down, Aunt Bea).
Why the picture of O'LIEly and the Cunt? They both relieved themselves on the graves of innocent victims.
Thanks to Sysm for bringing Ann Coulter's latest travesty to my attention.
John Edwards' wife, Elizabeth, made an on-air call to Hardball with Chris Matthews and confronted Ann for personal attacks she's made against the Edwards family.
At first, I was thinking that Elizabeth was off-base, because by entering the public arena you invite criticism, even unfair attacks from evil cunt-for-brains. But then the subject of the Edwards' late son came up, and with it this Ann Coulter quote: "If you want points for not using your son's death politically, don't you have to take down all those 'Ask me about my son's death in a horrific car accident' bumper stickers?"
Yeah, for some reason, that quote didn't sit well with Elizabeth Edwards. But I'd take it a step further. If I had the financial resources of the Edwards family, and Ann Coulter made comments about my dead son, that bitch would be in the ground. Those of you with children, imagine if you lost a child and a vile bag of garbage like Ann Coulter made sport of his death to make a cheap political point.
Honestly, I don't like John Edwards as a candidate. I don't want him to be the Dem candidate in 2008. But to bring his dead child into the mix? Inexcusable.
Okay, after writing that I'm not as mad at O'Reilly. He basically blamed the wife of pro wrestler Chris Benoit for getting murdered, but at least he didn't make jokes about her son.
O'Reilly's still a world class douchebag, though.
chick: "So where are you from originally?"
me: "Louisville, Kentucky."
chick: "Did you have indoor plumbing growing up?" (She went there immediately).
me: "Nope. Thank god the sophisticated state of Nevada saved me from the outhouse."
chick: "God, that must have been terrible."
me: "Yeah. Wooden toilet seats are awful. I've had more splinters in my butt than Howdy Dooody's longtime companion."
chick: "Who the fuck is Howdy Doody?"
Tune in again next time for another installment of Dumb Conversations I've Had.
Another big difference is MAJOR LEAGUE BASEBALL. On Saturday I went to Miller Park to see the Brewers play. The Brewers' old ballpark, the imaginatively named County Stadium, was known for a mascot sliding into a giant mug of beer for every Brewer home run. They don't have that at Miller Park. I guess kids were trying it at home and drowning; I don't know.
The new stadium features, in my humble opinion, the greatest baseball attraction since Harry Caray used to sing at Wrigley Field. That attraction is The Racing Sausages.
For those who thought the Sausage Race was the frantic scramble to pick up skanky bar whores right before closing time, you're only half right. The Milwaukee Brewers Sausage Race is all about grownups dressed as tubular meat ethnic stereotypes, racing around the field at the top of the seventh inning.
They are, from left to right, the Polish Sausage; the German Bratwurst; the Mexican Chorizo; the Italian Sausage; and the All-American Hot Dog. My only complaint from an authenticity standpoint are the clearly visible Old Navy cargo shorts they're all wearing.
I think the minor league team in Louisville should do something similar, but replace the sausages with representatives of common Kentucky vices. Every game a bottle of bourbon, a cigarette, a bag of crystal meth, a jaded Seventh Street stripper, and a pitcher of Bud Light would race to the finish line. That's fun for the whole family.
Okay, like most middle-aged curmudgeons who never had children, little kids get on my nerves a bit. Quite frankly, I don't know how to handle them.
Having said that, nothing pisses me off more than a parent who abuses their child. It's usually some insecure bully who would do the child and the world a huge favor by committing suicide.
I would change the way we punish child abusers. I wouldn't imprison them. No, read the rest of this. First, I would take the child away from this monster; but instead of sending him or her to jail, I'd sentence the abuser to a Future Beatdown.
A Future Beatdown is just as it sounds. One day, in the near or distant future, the abuser will become the abused, and it won't be pretty. It could happen two days later, as the abuser is watching a Nascar race. Suddenly ten pipe-hittin' motherfuckers break down the door and go Old Testament on his ass.
Or, and I like this better, Lady Justice waits YEARS to exact her revenge. The abuser grows old and feeble, but not a day goes by when he doesn't wonder if he's about to receive his punishment. Finally, as the elderly former abuser sits alone at a nursing home during bingo night, a licensed Future Beatdown professional just starts wailing. The entire room is filled with the horrible sound of brittle bones snapping and the cries for mercy that will go unanswered. And if child sexual abuse is being avenged, add to the scenario a strap-on cock the size of a fire hydrant.
Sorry about the rant there. To make things all better, here's a picture of a Robot with a foot fetish.
I was standing by a table sipping on a bourbon when I was approached by an older, visibly drunk black man. We proceeded to have a strange, but thought-provoking, conversation.
man: "I haven't seen this many white people since the Civil War." (He wasn't the only black person there, but the crowd was probably 80% white)
me, surprised by this greeting: "Uh, it's a nice night out."
He tells me he's from Mississippi, then drops this bomb on me: "So, does this place always let black folks in?"
I replied, "WHAT?! Of course it does."
He acted like he didn't believe me. "So I can come here with my wife, and have food and drinks?"
"Yes sir," I said. "They're here to make money."
He continued: "And nobody will bother us?"
"No. If ANYONE gets hassled, they have security to take care of it."
I guess that knowledge emboldened him to risk a trip to the men's room, because that's where he went.
Did this odd conversation have deep social meaning? Or was I merely being my usual freak magnet? I think the truth lies somewhere in between.
Yesterday she came into the store reeking of garlic-infused martinis, then proceeded to DEMAND that we sell her an $11.49 24-pack of Milwaukee's Best for ten dollars.
A number of employees, myself included, tried as delicately as possible to remind this woman that she wasn't at a quaint village swap-meet in the old country (nor was she at a swap-MEAT, so we all protected our franks-n-beans). She kept interrupting us with childhood tales of fighting her eleven brothers for scraps of bread. Understandably, she was quiet about her days as a flopper at an Officer's Club at Auschwitz. Okay, that last bit is just a guess on my part.
Despite her tales of euro-woe, we don't haggle with customers over prices. This is a retail store, after all, so an assistant manager told her she'd have to pay the posted price. She then became quite irate, yelling in fractured English that we wouldn't want to lose her as a customer.
When she didn't get her way, she hit the "expensive" case of beer with her cane and stormed out, promising to never return.
The entire staff then began to celebrate. NO ONE WANTS HER BACK! Do you know what it's like when a hated customer says she's not coming back? It's like a schoolyard bully telling you he's never going to take your lunch money again. Or the government saying "We don't like you, so we aren't taking taxes from you anymore." It's a reason for celebration, bitches.
The other day at work I saw two older women who were dressed like they were reenacting a scene from the movie What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? A woman wearing an oversized babydoll dress and too much makeup was pushing her wheelchair-bound, matronly-dressed sister all through the liquor store.
I wanted to know more about their circumstances. Was the woman in the babydoll dress a former child star turned alcoholic has-been? Was she cruel and oppressive to the woman in the wheelchair? I'll never know.
WHEN BLOG STORIES COLLIDE
Recently two subjects of past DWAFM blog posts met in a most horrifying manner. The subjects: The perverted old German woman in this post, and the skinny stoner coworker illustrated in this story.
Most of us literally RUN when we see the perverted old German woman. The only person who makes employees scramble more than her is the old lady who wears boxer shorts as an outer garment and smells like a cat pissed on a dirty shoe. Well, my coworker, "Shaggy", didn't see her coming. As I peered around a corner, she trapped him against a vodka display and asked, in her thick accent, "Why do you wear your pants so loose?"
This guy is six feet tall and weighs about 120 lbs. "Loose" is his only option.
He replied, nervously, "Because they're comfortable I guess."
"Do you have large testicles?" she asked as she reached down and fondled his junk.
Well, my cover was blown when I actually fell to the ground laughing. Shaggy walked away as the crazy nut-kneader yelled after him, "Hasn't anyone ever felt your testicles before?"
Not someone old enough to be his grandmother, I'm fairly sure.
Then the woman calmly finished her shopping, tried to get our store manager to give her free samples, and paid for her purchases. She definitely benefited from the ol' double standard. Imagine if a lecherous old man had walked into our store and grabbed a pair of tits. I doubt "Hasn't anyone ever felt your boobies before?" would have gone over very well.
Sarah Silverman hosted. I'm sorry I missed her say horrible things about Paris Hilton while Paris was sitting in the audience.
Sarah can be really funny, even though she plays the "I'm a cute little girl who talks naughty" card A LOT. That's okay, as I play the "Oops I forgot my wallet; can you pay for dinner" card on a regular basis. I also find the "I promise I won't get any on you" card a tad irresistible.
Seth Rogan presented an award with Eva Mendes. If I was Seth, I would have used the premise of my hit comedy Knocked Up as an opening to ask Eva Mendes for some steamy backstage sex. That's why God has conspired to keep me poor and unknown.
Are these the three winners of MTV's "Dress Like a Choad and Get Your Picture Taken With Jessica Alba" contest? No, sadly it's the cast of the new Fantastic Four movie.
The guy on the far left is wearing an outfit that a meth-addicted hillbilly would wear to his junior prom, and the young guy is wearing a fucking Cosby sweater. Unbelievable.
I'm old, so I had to research the identities of these future True Hollywood Stories victims. The blond on the left is Ashley Tisdale. I swear until this day I thought Ashley Tisdale was a power forward for the Milwaukee Bucks. The guy in the middle is named-are you ready for this- Corbin Bleu. It's kind of a cross between a chicken dish and the title of a gay French porno. The girl on the right is wearing a maternity dress that barely covers her underage hoohah, so I didn't research her for fear I'd soon receive a visit from Chris Hanson and the Dateline NBC crew.
"Comedian" Dane Cook didn't actually appear on the show, but it didn't stop him from getting his picture taken in front of an MTV backdrop while wearing a faux-hipster version of a Canadian Tuxedo. It's also not going to stop me from mentioning that Dane Cook is an annoying unfunny douchebag who probably has syphilis.
Is John Travolta trying to convert these impressionable young people to Scientology? Or does he just want to have sex with the boy in the Knack suit? You decide.
Finally, Jessica Biel proves she's underrated as an actress by pretending to think Kevin James is funny. Also, I'll bet Adam Sandler either said something in a "zany" accent, pretended to be shy and unassuming, or said something in a "zany" accent while pretending to be shy and unassuming. He's a true renaissance man.
So there you have it. It was just like not being there, wasn't it?
So I decided to ask Third World residents how they feel about Restless Leg Syndrome, the Malaria of the overprivileged. The respondents shall remain anonymous, sort of to protect their identities but mainly because their names are really hard to spell.
A twenty-four-year-old man from Bosnia said "My legs were blown off by a land mine. I would sell my soul to have restless legs."
A young lady from Somalia replied "My legs are strong from running away from those who would ritually circumcise my clitoris. And the rapists, of which there are many."
"My bones are brittle from a lack of calcium," an Ethiopian man, age unknown, stated. "Do you have any milk that hasn't been poisoned?"
Those are the only unique answers. All other responses were a variant of "What the fuck are you talking about? What is this restless leg shit?" Nearly half added "Death to America, pig."
This is the first in a series. In the future I'll be asking the questions:
How Do the Morbidly Obese Feel About People Who "Can't Seem to Lose Those Last Five Pounds"?
How Do Soldiers on Their Fourth Tour of Duty in Iraq Feel About "Staying the Course"?
How Does Edward James Olmos Feel About Kids Who Get a Pimple on Prom Night?
I only hope these future investigations are as informative as this one.
This past Sunday, in the parking lot of the Stonybrook Kroger Shopping Center, just a mile or so away from where I'm writing this, two vehicles arrived at a 4-way stop at approximately the same time. Hey, it happens every day. Sometimes, as was the case in this instance, both cars will attempt to go at the same time. Usually one or both will stop, and depending on the disposition of the drivers, either apologetic waves or obscene gestures will be exchanged. In the end, however, both will continue on to their scheduled destination.
But no, not this time. This was when the irresistible force of assosity met the immovable object of douchebaggery. Apparently words and threats were exchanged and one of the drivers, a retired police officer, fired seven shots at his antagonist. The victim is in critical condition at a local hospital.
That's right. A guy was shot over WHO GOES FIRST AT A 4-WAY STOP! Both parties had semi-automatic pistols; the debate is whether the human target pointed or waved his gun at the ex-cop. If he did, well....bad idea. One source, however, says the gun was still in its holster.
Either way, I'm of the opinion that firing seven shots in a CROWDED parking lot shows a lack of sound judgment from someone who should know better. Two of the bullets struck a nearby bank. No one was hit, but that's nothing more than dumb luck. I don't know police protocol in this case, but isn't the safety of bystanders taken into account?
But my main concern is how such a mundane occurrence escalates so quickly into extreme violence. A "You go ahead," even a fucking begrudging "You go ahead," would have prevented a damn shootout, but these guys weren't going to back down. They also found it necessary to be heavily armed while shopping for groceries in the suburbs during the light of day. Why? "'Cause it's my right as an Amurikan." Increasingly, this is how we handle minor disputes in our crumbling society. Honestly, I think our civilization is near the end. We're five years away from Roman-style troughs in Las Vegas buffets, so we can keep coming back for more.
Don't believe me? Want more proof? In Miami, a Wendy's manager was shot several times in the arm for some extra packets of chili sauce. Apparently, it's company policy to limit each customer to three chili sauces. Fuck that noise. "Take all the chili sauce you want, gun-waving lunatic."
The Wendy's manager was quoted as saying, "I got shot over chili sauce. I was trying to figure while in the hospital why someone would shoot me over some chili sauce."
I can answer that: Because you live at the endtime, sir. Society is in its bloated, white jumpsuit-wearing Elvis stage, and it won't be long before one of its man-servants finds it dead on the toilet.
First, an admission: I don't go to church on a regular basis. But I once did, so I know that church services have a lot of room for improvement. I'd like to offer some helpful suggestions...
Note: These are not theological suggestions. I believe in freedom of religion, so if you want to believe every word of the Bible is literal, even the parts that contradict each other, that's your business.
Hey, Choir Soloist...Take a Break Every Now and Then
Okay, you're the soloist, good for you. Yes, we know you have the loudest voice in the congregation. But hey, when the entire church is singing a song could you kindly lower your voice? You aren't having a sing-off with Pavarotti at Carnegie Hall. There's no need to drown out the weak-voiced old ladies and former chain smokers with your air horn aria.
Forgive the Hangovered
If Sunday morning is for church, Saturday night is for going out and getting waste-ED. All churches should come equipped with a semi-soundproof booth for the hangover sufferers. The sounds of the worship service will be piped in at a reasonable decibel level. Usually, with the bombastic preaching, the pipe organ, the crying babies, and the gnashing of teeth, a church service is the sworn enemy of the hangover. With the semi-soundproof booth both can live in harmony, like Jesus wanted.
And there isn't anything sinful about getting drunk. Taking a shit on Lindsay Lohan as she lays unconscious in a Hollywood gutter? Now that's a sin.
Chicks in Bikinis
Kind of like the ring girls in boxing, except instead of holding up a sign that reads "Round Four" these signs will say "John 3:16" or "Psalm 23." Yes, naysayers, "lust" is one of the Seven Deadly Sins. But the Seven Deadly Sins aren't in the Bible. They were concocted by some puritanical fop who wanted everyone to live a joyless existence of back-breaking indentured servitude while he rubbed gold doubloons hard across his nipples.
Enough of this "The evil will be punished in the afterlife." I want results now!
I demand concrete evidence that God isn't letting the douchebags get away with anything. "And on the fifth day of Toddvent, the Lord did fill Ann Coulter's twat with cement, let it harden, and hit it with a sledgehammer."
The church potluck dinner is a tradition in the South and Midwest, often with gastronomically disastrous results. With potluck accountability, you'll know exactly who brought the prune and cabbage casserole covered in cat fur. And if your church votes to excommunicate the offender, then it must be God's will.