Tuesday, November 30, 2010

They checked my junk and all I got was a gravy stain on this stupid t-shirt!

Over the past weekend I traveled to Mountain Home, Idaho for a Thanksgiving/70th birthday party for my pops.  My dad, through seventy years of living on this earth, claims to never have had a birthday party for him.  I for one can remember buying him gifts through out the years, but truth is, I don't remember having a party for him, so his claim is probably truth and not just a bunch of whining and crying.  Love ya pop!

The trip started and ended going through the lines of trepidation and mystery.  That being airport security, where I was really ready to impress TSA officials with my massive glutes and hung like a horse attributes.

Unfortunately, no one got a gander at my favorite Speedos with my strategically placed love button.  Take that TSA, bitches!

The better part of my trip was spent eating way too much and as much as I'd like to show you pictures of the seventeen times that the table was stocked with enough food to have prevented the Great Depression three times over, and had leftovers for the entire country of Ethiopia, but I failed to remember to pick up the camera in between diabetic comas.  Rest assured though, the three trips to the outdoor plumbing facilities to vomit caused from eating 8.3 times the weight of Jerrod the Subway guy, pre diet, multiplied by 4.7387 Kirstie Alley's body mass on Jupiter's surface, is an ingrained memory that I'd be willing to share with you at any time.  Just send me an IM and I'll get an e-mail out to you detailing my gut wrenching experiences. 

That's how awesome I am!

PSA - During the making of this Thanksgiving there were no living creature harmed in any way, what so ever...except for three turkeys, two hams, Bambi, what I think was platypus, an acre of Idaho spuds, some green goulash stuff that I'm pretty sure once breathed, and my brothers leather loafers after I upchucked on them.

We played card games, but beings it was my Mormon family, there wasn't a lick of alcohol nor bras being tossed, but what was learned was that is that my step mother can toss out a swear word that would make a truck driver question whether he was man enough to drive cross country or better suited driving around the neighborhood in an ice cream truck.

BCS Selection Committee Choosing Device
I spent much of Friday watching, but mostly discussing why the Boise State Brokeback Broncos should (or shouldn't) get a shot at the national championship.  The people I hung out with, after all, live in southern Idaho, and really are traumatized by the fact that they really have nothing, and I mean NOTHING what so ever to do in southern Idaho, so long, heated discussions on percentage points are very important to them.  Anyway, what they didn't figure on was the kicker had way too much rum and turkey the day before, and was hallucinating that the goal post were giant, coffee stained incisors connected to a giant fire breathing monster from the island Zarter Zauce, that was desperately trying to protect the indigo colored people with unicorn horns on their ass's.  That being said, the kickers attempts to lodge crystal-meth laced nuclear warheads in the mouth of the beast were swatted aside, and the the island Zarter Zauce was safe once again, from those trying to devastate their ruby inlaid jumpsuits.

Needless to say, those sort of actions the guy fuckin' choked don't call for death threats, which I for one don't think that is ever called for when under a rum and turkey hallucination.  I know, I've been there people, so don't judge!

The final day there a snow storm rolled in.  Brilliant!  Since the next day the son and I had to make the long trek across the desert from Mtn. Home to Boise to hop a flight what better way to do it than with my uncle who is an ex-USAF fighter pilot.  The guy, during his stint with the military could shoot down enemy MIG's, land on an aircraft carrier off the coast of Paraguay and fly through the eye of a hurricane over Bermuda, all before his morning paper arrived.  What I found out that he couldn't do while driving on an icy I-84 was carry on a conversation while drinking his coffee, putting on his poloroid shades, picking his teeth, and pointing out herds of elk that had come down out of the hills and probably were going to be road kill by the time he came back around, which he'd discreetly toss in the back of his pick-up and cook up over an open flame later that evening.

The guy scared the crap out of me, which after the ninety-three pounds of food consumed over the four days, was not exactly the prettiest of sights!

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

I'm writing til my face explodes!


Due to the fact that apparently it's a copyright no-no as of now, but not at the time, Conanco, Mr. Obrien and his lawyers have asked that the video of him and Jack White shredding on national television be taken down and discarded from my blog.  So I have complied because at my meager wages, it would have been the year 2196 before I would have been able to pay the fine that was to be imposed.  That wasn't even counting that they were writing into the legal paper work that I would be responsible for catering in all Vienna sausages whenever Kirstie Alley was a guest on the show.

Thank you all for your continued support in my absence, but when I return you can expect I'll be doing a killer rendition of 'Video Killed the Radio Star' with Jack White on lead guitar!


Hey, in all my awesomeness I've been away awhile but I haven't forgot about all of you, and my fans either.  In truth, I've been off a little, but have tried to keep up with you all in my absence by checking in on Facebook, beaten up by my favorite new bullies over at Blog This, found funny in others blogs and oh, I've taken it upon myself to write a complete novel in the month of November.

Thanks, NaNoWriMo...5:30 in the morning thinks you suck ass through a straw.

But truth is so far it's been good to me.  I don't know how other aspiring authors do it, but I tend to sidetracked by stuff like the intensely intriguing way that cobwebs grow in the corner of our apartment over a course of several weeks.  When I do lose my focus I walk away sometimes as long as the entire last decade of the last millennium.  NaNoWriMo, if nothing else has got me to write consistently for about nine days, some 21,000+ words, just over a hundred pages and a lot of crap, a toilet bowl consisting of last night vomit after one two many shots of character development and a colostomy bag full of shitty plot ideas.  It's taken me from sanity (an objective state that some would argue with me about) to bat shit crazy!

But, while it hasn't all been great, some good writing has come from it, but that wasn't my objective.  The goal, for me, wasn't to write the best novel I could, but to get what I consider a extensive outline, a first rough draft and most of all, a finish.  I'm well on my way.


Before working in conjunction with NaNoWriMo, I'd actually spent the better part of six months working on this crazy, satirical political thriller that may or may not start on one side of the country and more than likely will ending somewhere else, the main character might have some sort of droopy lisp or a pompadour...who knows?  What I do know for sure is that at this point it is basically a hodge-podge of me not knowing what the fuck I'm writing about.

Last night, though, the world evened it's plain out just a little, the wobbly axis straightened itself out some.  A reprieve for me, much needed and a long time a comin'.  So, finally, after a very long wait, a mammoth size tour, a Twitter push unequal to anything ever seen before!

So without further ado, and as if the man needs anymore publicity, here he is, Conan O'Brien, the funniest looking man on television, tearing it up with Mr. Jack White!

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Rob 'Diesel' Kroese and the MFng BlogTour

Hey all, I've jumped on the MFing Blog Tour bus in support of a great new author, Rob 'Diesel' Kroese and his book Mercury Falls.  I've read this book and you should too.   If you like a funny, smart read with quirky characters and a twisting plot line involving linoleum, angels and the Apocalypse, you'll love Mercury Falls.

Mercury Falls has now been picked up by AmazonEncore for publishing, this after Rob had taken it into his own hands last year, self-publishing Mercury Falls himself.  Perseverance, self promotion and a quality written novel has finally paid off.

So, how about you all join me on the MFing Blog Tour. Go to Amazon and order up your copy and help support Rob and his book Mercury Falls.

To find Rob Kroese and his book, Mercury Falls, here are a few links.




Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Going on a beer run with Todd. Can I get you anything?

Have you all noticed that I'm wordy?  I've been known to go on and on and on, and then no one tells me to shut the hell up!  I count on you people to let me know these things because fact is, I can go on and on, and I don't have the time to be so wordy.

I work and that take away from my blog time, my Facebook, doodling, a political humor novel I'm working on and my t.v. watching time.  Oh, it impedes my ability to sit at the bar and waste time while getting hammered.  Of course, I'm getting older (already in my late twenties) and getting drunk isn't on top of my list of things of things that are going to create a successful professional that might prove to Oprah I'd be a great candidate to replace Gayle.  (that slutmonkey has it made!)

Not only am I wordy, but in the words of the great Todd Snider, "I can go into a bar, tell one story, and the next time I go back, I'll tell a completely different story."  Now I'm not saying that I lie, but truthfully, I like to push the envelope on the whole truth thing.  Seems silly, all this honesty shit.  Besides it's all for the sake of entertainment and doesn't hurt anyone.  No one gets pushed in front of an oncoming Waste Management truck.  (Well, one time, but because of being placed in Witness Protection, I don't speak of it.)

So, from now on, I'm going to only tell little, short white lies.  Unless of course I get wasted while bellied up to the bar where the creative juices are flowing, then I might go on and on, telling lies and exaggerating the truth, until one one of you push me under the axle of a great big green truck that smells like it hasn't had a deep cleaning in several months, and may or may not have the rotting corpse of a seventeen pound marmot juice, the same marmot juice I was discussing on Facebook with...good lord, who was it, anyway, doesn't matter, point is the truck didn't smell all that great, and then there was this one time at band camp and... 

Alright, enough!  What I want to say is that I'm going to try and show up here as often as possible.

You've been warned! 

That being said, hey Todd, time for a B double E double R U N, beer run?

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Playing car games, and other ways to end up in the hospital.

Growing up I played 'slug bug' with my older brothers in the back seat of dads 1972 Chevy Impala.  The way this worked out was, they would see a Volkswagen and, I sitting in the middle, and being about sixty-two pounds lighter and two and half feet shorter than my two brothers, would not see it.  Rules being rules, it was at this time I would get slammed, from both sides, from each of my siblings, one Tyson kidney punching me, the other giving me a shot to the fleshy part of my upper leg.  This was always done with as much malice and complete disregard for my feelings and extreme pain I'd experience while playing this family fun car game.


Anyway, 'slug bug' is both timeless and universal, right?  Everyone plays.  Take for instance, the first time I played with my lovely girlfriend, on our first date.  I thought 'cool'.  She plays, and not only does she play, she started it.  What I didn't know, is that there are levels in which people play.  She, unlike me and my brothers and every other person I had played with in the past, didn't punch me in the arm hard.  More like a flirtatious swat, followed by a cute little giggle and smile.  I smiled back, and jokingly proclaimed "It's on, biatch!"

So, after a nice dinner and a couple drinks we jumped in my vehicle, wrapping up the date, me taking her home.  My plan, being the gentleman that I am, figured I'd throw myself at her in complete desperation, offered to stay the night with her.  After all, it was late and dark and you just never know who could be lurking in this nasty world we live in.  Before I propositioned her with an offer she couldn't refuse, a rusted out, light blue Volkwagen pulled up side of us at a red light.  Seeing this, and seeing that she was oblivious to this fact, I turned to her, smiled all sexy like and proceeded to scream 'slug bug!' and then punched her in the leg.


This was the first time I'd heard her use any sort of vulgarity, and hasn't been the last.  Actually, for the next week she pretty much used every profane word ever conjured, conceived and made up by people on Urbandictionary every time that I called her.  And you might be thinking that because I did indeed call her, all one hundred and twenty eight times, that would be considered stalking, but it's not.  Why?  Because I'm with her now, and, at the last minute she decided to drop the restraining order when I promised to never play 'slug bug' with her again.  And the kicker that kept her coming back for more Ron lovin', I was to purchase her a day spa treatment of her choice.  She claimed it would help the bruises go away.

Since then we don't play 'slug bug' much anymore, mostly because I've learned my lesson.  Spa treatments are way too expensive.

We do have a new game we play when we're traveling though.  It's competitive, challenging and best of all, it involves nasty sex!!!

We call it 'porno plates'.

This is how it works so you and your loved ones can get to gettin' it on.

Rule one...you need to be in a car of some sort, preferably one with air bags and roll bars in case the fun gets out of hand and attention begins to wain.  Next rule...with complete attention turned to license plates of other cars (therefore the need for rule number one) you pick out the letters and number and then with each letter complete a sentence that spells out something nasty, demeaning, sexual, gross, masochistic or something Jenna Jameson might scream out while on set.

Here, you give it a try...

What'd you come up with? See, the way I read this plate and put my 'porno plate' spin on it was this.

Nasty Little Whore (069 is self-explanatory)

Ain't that fun, huh?

Here, try another!


Don't know about you but the only thing  I could come up with was mustache toting, viperous piehole who more than likely is compensating for something, or possibly hooker strangling douchebag.

Yeah, okay, it has nothing to do with the game but it's my game so I can change the rules whenever I'd like, thank you very much.

Happy travelings!

Tuesday, October 12, 2010


Hey gang!  I was off work today, and with all the time I had on my hands, I spent a lot of it napping.  Oh, and I created a new header for my blog  http://scuzzymoney.blogspot.com 

If a little diddy about Jack and Diane can be based on three chords and the truth, then think of my new header as having nothing to do with music and is most the time built completely on lies.

Anyway, point is I was in the mood to change things up, add a little paprika and cumin while doing Patron shots to my blog that better represents who I am.  Hope you enjoy.

(And if you do enjoy my new header and especially my blog http://scuzzymoney.blogspot.com, feel free to tell your friends and family and even that creepy lady that sits on the corner spewing insults while throwing Crisco boogers at you.)

Monday, October 11, 2010

Superfreaks: The Haggis Award!

I enjoy my lunch.  I love a good sammich and maybe some Cheezy Poofs or sometimes I like to roam out and get a half slab of ribs, slathered in barbque sauce, washed down with two or three pints of...uh....ice tea.  Ya, that's right, ice tea.

But most of all, I like my quiet time.

What I don't like is being interrupted!  It's my lunch and you can't have it.

I work with a group of fucknuggets that feel this is their right though.  It seems that as soon as I duck out and head toward the break room, someone feels the need to follow me in.

Why?   How the fuck should I know.  But they do.

That isn't entirely true.  Sorry.  No, what usually happens is as soon I get my can of chili rotating in the microwave or have pulled my PB&J unwrapped and then pull my book or laptop from my bag and have settled in for a few minutes of 'my fucking' time, this is the point in which they come storming in.

"What ya reading?" Overtly Gay Chris asks.

"Well, you bag of rhino snot, I'm not sure yet, 'cause I just started reading it but I bet if I overtly shoved it up your ass you might have a better understanding, in order to let me know, because you know what?  I can't fricken read because you feel the need to bug the shit out of me each time I sit in this particular chair!"

Or this.  I sit down, pull out my laptop, my left over spaghetti with meatballs warming up and sure as Toyota has faulty brakes, here comes Jovial Lab Manager Guy.  "Hey, is that one of those fandangled doohickys that you can get the Interwebs on?"

"No, you asshamper, it's a box of deathrays, and if you don't move along right now, I'm going to fry that slug shaped brain of yours!"

"Uh...really?  It can do that?"

Not the most tech savvy guy out there.  There isn't much I can do about that, other than fuck with the computer in his lab.  Every once in a while I'll change the screensaver to read 


or I might turn the power button to off on his printer.  Fun stuff and keeps him reeling for hours, until, finally, I like to suggest to him that it "must be home office changing the configuration on your computer and you might want to give IT a call."  This always brings outrageous laughter and mean spirited criticism over the line from IT guys somewhere in Texas, which in turns, makes my day just that much more satisfying.

And while this is a shit load of fun, messing with Jovial Lab Manager Guy, it still doesn't answer the question of how to get him and Overtly Gay Chris to step away from my lunch break before I have to burn out there retinas with flaming, over nuked meatballs.

You are probably saying, "Ron, why don't you just tell them that this bugs you, that you appreciate your break time and unless you have something important to say, can you please let me enjoy your lunch, alone."

Well, I have, and thank you so much for trying to imply that you're a whole lot smarter than myself and that I don't have the cajewels to tell them to stab themselves with a large rusty pitchfork to their kneecaps. Well, I have, and in truth, I was a whole lot more graphic.

But, this only seemed to make them understand my need for privacy LESS! Since I told them I want to be left alone, they've become a hornets nest of aggravation in my life. Using that analogy as reality, I even brought a can of homicidal pest killer in to work, but that only pissed them off.

I'm at wits end people!?

Any help would be much appreciated in figuring out how to make them stop disturbing my lunch, or flat out killing them (if and only if their horribly ugly deaths can't be traced back to me because I can't spend another night any time in jail!)

But in the meantime, and since I have no idea how to finish up this post effectively, I'm giving Jovial Lab Manager Guy and Overtly Gay Chris The Haggis Award!

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Obion County...bring you're lawn chair and we'll supply the smores...at a cost of course!

Seems old Gene Cranicks' home in Obion County, Tennessee burst into flames on Sept 29th, and when he made the call to the fire department, he was put on hold while the dispatcher skimmed up and down the list of 'Paid Their $75 Fire Fee So This Person Is Eligible To Be Treated As If They Are Living, Breathing Somebodies.'  
Problem is, Gene wasn't on the 'PT$75FFSTPIETBTAITAL,BS' list.  After being told of his not being on said list for fire service, he was once again put on hold.  After returning, the dispatcher promptly went on to explain more in depth.

The actual conversation went like this...

DISPATCHER - "Yup...sorry Gene.  I gave the Chief a call, which, by the way, he was pissed because he was golfing, but anyway, when I said it was kinda important, he told me that you the only list you are on is the 'YASBYDPY$75FSF,BSYHIBLABKBF,WSOTFTCUSS' list.

GENE - "Uh...wha...?"

DISPATCHER - "Duh, Gene.  If you'd read your renewal to the 'PT$75FFSTPIETBTAITAL,BS' policy, you'd know that what you're getting is the 'YASBYDPY$75FSF,BSYHIBLABKBF,WSOTFTCUSS' policy."

GENE - "What?

DISPATCHER - "Jesus, Gene, you going to make me spell it out for you?  If I do, you know that it would fall under the 'YWMTBMMSIOFYSIHTCY$15TDS' policy. 

GENE - "Ummm..."

DISPATCHER - "It's the 'You're Wasting My Time By Making Me Spell It Out For You So I Have To Charge You $15 To Do So' policy.  Anyway, Gene, point is you're a mooch.  Because you didn't by into the PT$75FFSTPIETB..."

GENE - "The fuck you talkin' about?"

DISPATCHER - "Sheesh Gene, you know.  The 'PT$75FFSTPIETBTAITAL,BS' policy.  You didn't pay it.  So you're now on the 'YASBYDPY$75FSF,BSYHIBLABKBF,WSOTFTCUSS' list.  You know, the 'You Are Scum Because You Didn't Pay Your $75 Fire Service Fee, But Since Your Home Is Burning Like A Beer Keg Bon Fire, We'll Send Out The Firefighters To Cook Up Some Smores' list."

GENE - "Ummm yeah....so what do I do?"

DISPATCHER - "Good God, Gene, you are some sort of dense.  Everyone knows this falls under the 'BYAFATOTYCDIMMUS'CYSSCBFTMHATFLIBBIDPM$75BTCMUSFSP' life style policy change."

GENE - "What the hell...?"

DISPATCHER - "Gene, Gene, Gene...It's the 'Basically You Are Fucked And The Only Thing You Can Do Is Maybe Make Up Some 'Can You Spare Some Change Because Fire Took My Home And The Firemen Let It Burn Because I Didn't Pay My $75 But They Cooked Me Up Some Fantastic Smores' Placards.

GENE - "Uhhh..."

DISPATCHER - "You want I give the Chief a call and see what it cost for some cardboard boxes and Sharpies?"

Friday, October 1, 2010

Mad Max going all Braveheart on ye arse and other Scot talk.

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed- interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing sprit- crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing you last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future. Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that?
                                                                                       Mark 'Rent-boy' Renton


No mas, no mas!  That's what I found crazy Mrs. Sphincter (can't remember her name, but damn the woman needed to relax a bit) screaming while going toe to toe with Sugar Ray Leonard signing off of my passing (barely) grade.  I remember it like it was yesterday.  Her sitting at her desk, sobbing uncontrollably, making me sign a contract guaranteeing I wouldn't retake her class, nor would I wander anywhere near her part of the school. In return, she'd give me a D.

Picture that sat on Ms. Sphincters desk
I tried.  I really did.  But I just didn't get it.  From where I sat, in the back row, I didn't understand at the time why I needed to learn another language.  Why?  Well, let me break it down for you.  Topping the list was that I would have rather been sitting in my '76 Vega in the parking lot of Dick's Hamburgers, washing a Whammy down with Jack Daniels during fourth period.  Secondly, it was a lot of studying, and I really wasn't interested in learning how to order a meal in Spanish.  After all, the Taco Bell menu is pretty self explanatory.  And lastly, I live in Spokane.  In some circles, were called Spokompton, but let me tell you, there is nothing gangsta about where I grew up.  I didn't meet a Mexican until I'd traveled to Yakima one weekend and had to ask directions to the nearest Taco Bell (see?) from a family of apple pickers.

Alright, that's a lie but truth is, Spokane hardly has a problem with illegals flooding across the border, beings we're a mere 70 miles from the Canadian border, where they only talk in hockey jibberish washed down with Kokanee, so unless you follow hockey, you won't know what the fuck those whacky, toothless bastards are slurring on about.

So, I didn't feel the need to learn a 2nd language.

Now I do.  I'm not going back to school, nor am I going to listen to a monotonous voice drone on through my headphones the proper way to conjugate a taco (again, Taco Bell people!) or whatever senor narrator might be saying. (How the fuck do you make those little squirrelly things over letters?  Another reason I wouldn't make a good Mexican.)

No, this time I'm going about it in a way that will be fun in order to keep my attention.  I'm going to learn a language that I want to learn, not one that is required to move on to the 11th grade.  And, in all actuality, I'm not going to learn a language what-so-ever!

Ha!  Gotcha, ya wee tatties!

What I plan on learning isn't a language at all but an accent.  You see, this makes more sense.  I've alreadies learned how to talks good, so whyn't i just add to what what I allready knows?

Now, I've considered an accent from the south.  That wouldn't be too hard.  I have family from southern Georgia, dad having been raised in little old Ludiwici. Problem with a southern accent, though, is that it seems everyone is doing it.  I refuse to conform.

I thought Rastafarian would be cool, but dope makes me paranoid and voodoo dolls scare the shit out of me.

Pirate talk?  Nah.  Pirates just look like they smell bad, and I for one, like to shower at least once every third day or so. Hey, Johnny Depp, dude, really?  Soap even comes in a bottle now, buddy!

*Editors note - This Johnny Depp comment was tossed in nonchalantly, knowing this will get the biggest reaction and bring the most comments and hate mail.  Ron, may or may not be smarter than he thinks.

So...I pick Scottish slur.  And this is how I plan on going about learning to talk like a Scott.  First off I'm running out to the pub, having eight or nine pints, before getting into a knock down brawl with a gang of Manchester United hooligans. (fuckin snaggle toothed Brits!)  After that, I'm going to tune into the Craig Ferguson show every  night until I figure out why in the hell he thinks that it's funny to open his show using a sock for his opening monologues.  Once I figure that out, I'm sure I'll change my mind about learning my new accent, but I promise, at this time, to keep trying.  Next, I'll check out every Irvine Welsh book I can find at the library, and when I can't translate anything Irvine has written I'll dig out my copy of Trainspotting and have a week long marathon, studying the intricacies of diving into a shitty Scottish toilet, swimming after heroine nuggets in order to have baby head-spinnin' sweat trip.

Okay, I know what you're saying.  Ron, you've forgotten the most important aspect of Scot talk. The way a real man from the homeland would communicate with their loved ones.  The gentle, sweet and considerate way he might send flowers or slip a love note into their sweethearts Braveheart lunch box.

Well, no, ya doss cunts, I haven't.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

Stats don't lie...and how to stay warm in Russia. (Excuse me Miss, are those real? Pt. 2)

I was checking out Blogger stats this morning, which would be a first.  Really.  I have never been to this part of the island, and in truth, before this morning I did not know that Blogger kept track of stats.

There are stats that show who is checking you out, where they come from, what operating system they are using to stalk you and even stats letting you know if they secretly hope you die a painfully slow, chilly death on the summit of K2.

I know that, just today, I've had 11 views from Russia alone.  And I found out  my blog post 'Excuse me Miss, are those new?' is my all time, most checked out post.  Ever.

Got me to wondering why. Pouring over this blog post I think it might have something to do with the cold of Siberia and woolly boobs but I'll let you take a look once again at 'Excuse me Miss, are those new?' and decide for yourselves.

Once again.



It's almost Christmas time! Snow on the ground, lights going up, Walmart fully decked out in purple spandex and Bing singing jolly good tunes in every elevator across the world!

Time for giving, so let's see 'em girls.  Bring out the silicone pleasure domes!

Even in these dire times, when people are losing their jobs, the cost of gas, bread, eggs and hair gel is at all time highs, some choose to flaunt their booby implants.

Feel the spirit people?  I sure do!

I like breasts. Big, small, C-cups, DD's, winnebagos, ta-ta's, melons,........... Heck, I like breast bar-b-que'd over an open flame or sliced up thin and wok'd into a spicy, stir fry.

To me breasts are great!

The basic function here is to supply nutrition to infants, sustaining a healthy early childhood, so breast fed men can grow up to slobber uncontrollably while watching Desperate Housewives. Right? They serve their purpose. Going about there business, pointing women in the right direction, leading them up the corporate ladder one cup size at a time.

HA HA HA!!! Just joking ladies!

Anyway and once again, don't get me wrong, they are nice to look at. The woman's body is a miracle of nature. Perfect, no matter the shape, size or Victoria Secrets naughty coverings she might be wearing. Even women like looking at other women, because women are, simply put, nice to look at, where guys are...well, they're guys.  'Nough said about that.

But, do woman need to show them off to just anyone?  Alright, that's generalizing, isn't it?  Not all women do this, but it does seem to be a habit of the ones that have had boob jobs.  Just need to show 'em off, like trophies behind glass.

Texting, another thing. Must they MMS text them the before and after pictures of their newly acquired 'girls'?  They do, and I have proof so don't try denying it (you know who you are!).

Still, going into the bathroom after having such a delicate surgery and exposing themselves to their friends, and complete strangers, at the local dance club after a few drinks seems somewhat strange to my way of thinking?

This is precisely what happened to a girlfriend of mine, by a co-worker woman friend of mine, several weeks after they had healed and she was pleasantly drunk.  After my girlfriend saw them, she described them to me.

"What do you mean, there kinda fuzzy?"

"Fuzzy and I will never talk of them again," she muttered.

I could never look at my co-worker again the same...meaning I always fixated on her eyes, rather than...well...

This whole 'sharing' thing is just odd to me.  Men don't do this. 

"Hey Joe, take a gander at this bad boy," Ted says, leaning out of the stall in the bathroom of the Bigfoot Tavern, swinging his junk like a Burmese python.

Course, maybe we would if there was a procedure that put us at a Dirk Diggler level of endowment!

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Caffeine made me do it!

I have woken this morning to find no coffee in the shelves and now I must murder someone.  And I'm not making an excuse, I'm just setting up my defense.

Today, waking, was like no other day...other than the lack of ground up Colombian coffee crystals.  I need my morning jolt, and this need of mine isn't any different from any other living souls, except maybe Mormons, so I'm not special that way.  But the fact is, if I don't have my coffee I could easily be persuaded into joining a cult group.  My lovely girlfriend is in the same boat, with her caffeine disability.  She's recently joined the sister cult of the Manson family, the Traveling Marilyn Sisters, where snuffing out snooty bitches with their own faux Louis Vuitton bags is their choice of early morning mass killings.  But only if they don't get their cappuccinos and soy frappuccinos.

And another thing, but off the subject, kind of, but not really.  Why are all Colombian exports uppers?  Coffee beans, cocaine, and Colombian actress boobs!  Don't know what your thinking on the subject is, but it's enough to set off a massive myocardial infarction.

Anyway, back to murder.  Without coffee I'm both worthless and an asshamper, all within the same sentence and moment.  People don't like me when I don't have my four shots of mocha joy and then, usually sometime during the day, another trip to Starbucks for another four shots of caffeinated love.  It's bad.  Real bad.  I've had people tell me that I oughta just hook up an IV directly to the vein in my arm. Ha ha ha!!! Real funny scumsuckers!  Truth is, I'm working on a contraption that would tap directly into my aorta, bypassing veins altogether, kind of like an insulin pump, but for caffeine addicts and not diabetics.  Veins are for pussies!

Needless to say, I needs me my coffee.  Okay?  And I know that I'm not the only one that needs that shot of liquid life in the morning.  Not by a long shot.  A lot of people do, otherwise coffee wouldn't be one of the largest imports/exports internationally.

Right?  Right.

So, after not finding any coffee this morning, and having to make an emergency trip to the local grocery store for a jug of the ground up goods, I got back to the office where I found an article on my mahogany desk that my assistant, Ms. Periwinkle placed on my desk.

Goes like this.

Seems a Woody Will Smith (not making up the Woody part, nor the Will Smith part) is being tried for murdering his wife.

With me so far?  Because this is where is gets weird.  This is where murder and 'defense' come in to play.  Seems one morning Woody got all hopped up on caffeine, hopped up to the point where he apparently became insane, temporarily crazy and, in the words of his defense lawyer "intoxicated on caffeine" causing "brief psychosis".

Huh?  So because Woody couldn't control himself when he drove by Starbucks, he got himself so 'black drip drunk', that he just had to run out, purchase some extension cords (didn't want to unplug the HDTV) and strangle his wife.  This was on the heels of her threatening to take the kids and leave him.  So, once again, he killed her dead, because he had TOO much coffee!

Sounds to me that "brief psychosis" over came at him at all the wrong time, all the while holding a "Worlds Greatest Dad" mug in his hands.

I have a problem with this defense.  First off...Woody, lay off the fucking coffee, you dickwipe.  Don't you, after your eleventh or twelve cup of the day get that acidic feeling in your guts that makes you feel as if poisonous eels are eating you from the inside out? 

Secondly, if you were drunk on caffeine, or say, pure grain alcohol, or hopped up on, let's just throw out as an example...oh, I got it, psilocybin mushrooms, and you were to strangle your wife, or run down a group of kids coming from the mall, or even drop an anvil off your home on a young man selling magazines door to door trying to find his way to Cabo for his senior class trip, well, if all this were to happen, because you were 'drunk' or experiencing 'brief psychosis' you'd find your sorry ass locked up!


Because being outta your fucking mind is not an excuse.  Not because of over consumption, not because you had one two many, not because you're 'ignorant' of your situation and certainly not because your irate that your boss fired because he video taped you pissing in the community coffee pot.  Drunk on coffee is as much of an excuse as being a fucking moron, you moron!

Now excuse me, before I have to murder someone.  I need a java refill, and as you all know, lack of coffee IS an excuse to kill.

Friday, September 17, 2010

Karl Rove is a changed man...and I have the evidence to prove it!

I haven't done a political post lately so I thought I'd do one now, coming off this weeks primaries.  I've tried to back off somewhat recently, because, to some of my readers (thanks to the Faithful Four), these political rants and bitch and moan sessions might seem a bit tedious, obnoxious and repetitive.  Me going on and on about the Dick Cheney's of this war torn world, or the Bush's of some other worlds where The Special Olympics show more courage and less falling down, and the Rush's of the Weight Watchers World.

But this week something so heinous, so unexpected happened in the world of politics that I have to say something.  I have to communicate the horror that is abound, that in fact, at least where I come from, in my world, the apocalypse is upon us.


Let me explain, for those who were watching Americas Got Talent rather than election coverage on CNN. (Truth is I was watching Family Guy re-runs, but I know how to Google results (and porn).).

On, Tuesday, in Delaware, the primaries for the senate seat, previously held by potty mouth VP Joe Biden were held. The Republicans had Mike Castle and Christine O'Donnell going head to head, with Mike being the clear favorite due to him being a former governor and having held a long term position in the Delawares House of Representatives, and who is considered well liked. *note from editor - The author is making this up. He really doesn't know if Mike is well liked, and the author is choosing to be lazy, deciding not to do any research, saying, and I quote, "Who the fuck cares if the asshamper is well liked. Doesn't move my story along if he does or doesn't pick daisies and places 'em on his dead grandmama's grave. Jesus, are you an idiot? Now go get me my Jack Daniels!"*  Oh, and another thing, Mike has a head that could be a 4H first prize winner for largest pumpkin at the state fair.  That's always a cool trait in my book!

On the other hand, Christine O'Donnell, who does indeed have a birth certificate proving that she is actually older than thirteen, is a certifiable whack job.  First off, she is against masturbation, saying the Bible equates it to adultery.  Hey Christine, you need to get laid!  Okay?  Then come to me and tell me finger wanking on yourself is the same as screwing the neighborhood grocery store bagger back in the loading dock area while your husband is at the magazine rack checking out the latest issue of Maxim.  She lied about a hanging diploma on her wall when in truth an Anne Geddes print hung there because she hadn't paid accrued college bills.

She reminds me of Jack coming through the bathroom door in the Shining.

So, of course, Christine O'Donnell won.  God bless politics in America.  Makes you wonder why the Iraqis don't want us helping them set up a democratic nation, huh?

Anyway, this isn't why the end is near.

This is why!


See, Karl Rove, the most despicable man in America, just behind Osama Bin Laden on the international level, and who ranks higher than Nick Nolte and Justin Bieber, deplores Christine O'Donnell.  He came out on Sean Hannity's show on the  Fox network  (who couldn't make the list of  most despicable people because they're a television station, and not a person, but I added them to my bar graph just to help you understand just how despicable these people really are) and said this.... 

"I'm for the Republican, but I'd still eat their babies.


Then he went on to say this... 

"I mean, there were a lot of nutty things she has been saying that just simply don't add up like not putting mayonnaise on scrumptious baby sandwiches..."

Uh, ya...Karl.  Remember this old commercial jingle..."Mound Almonds got nuts, Mounds don't..."  Nuts or no nuts, Karl, it's all the same in your case, buddy.

And this gem... 

"...but look, she attacked him by saying he had a homosexual relationship with a young aide with not a bit of evidence to prove it.  Besides, what kind of crazy bitch doesn't like a good old fashioned tater tot casserole, made with the leg of baby?"

Karl, wanting evidence?!  Hmmm...weird.  Hey, Karl, remember when you sat in on meetings with Bush and all your his cronies and decided that Iraq had weapons of mass destruction, even the U.N. was saying other wise?

And my favorite... 

"...do not event the characteristics of rectitude, truthfulness and sincerity and character that the voters are looking for...especially if the viporous piehole can't sit down with me to discuss bombing the bejesus out of Haiti over a steaming bowl of baby clam chowder!"
Rectitude?  Truthfulness?  Sincerity?  Character?  This is the same Karl Rove who was the right hand controller of the puppet that was the Bush Administration?

Now do you all see where I'm going here?  This is not the 'same' Karl Rove we've come to loathe.  This Karl Rove is disagreeing with Sean Hannity!  This Karl Rove is acting like a real person but I know better.  A ploy!  Keeps us confused, keeping our guards down, so he can finally morph into what I've been fearing the most.  The undead Karl Rove, with plans of world domination and destruction, where the only thing that will live will be cockroaches and the crazy, baby eating minion followers of this lunatic.

Run people!  Run for the hills, for the bunkers, to the tops of mountains...where ever you might have a chance against this baby brain eating monster, and when you get there, just know this.  He'll still probably find you!

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Locker Room Harassment - Grab a towel, baby and we'll play some ass snap!

I know I'll probably get in trouble with many out there in Equal Rights World but I have a beef with Lady Gaga.  (HA HA HA!!!  Just kidding.  Truth be told I don't give a rats ass about that crazy bitch, and, actually, I wish a pack of hungry zombies would eat her T-bone flavored face off!)

No, really, my problem is this whole controversy with Ines Sainz.  Unless you get your news out of Siberia than you've probably heard of Ines.  You see, Ines Sainz is a sports reporter, she is from Latin America somewhere, and she covers the New York Jets.  Or was, the day she walked into the locker room wearing this ensemble.


What a dog!  Want more proof?  How about this outfit that Ines has been known to wear to work, but don't go saying I didn't warn you, because I did.


Don't know about you, but it personally gives me that nasty, nauseating upchuck feeling that comes from eating three day old tuna that's been sitting out on the counter in mid August.

Anyway, the controversy comes on the tight jeans and exploding cleavage coattails of an incident that took place over this last weekend after a New York Jets practice.  Seems Ms. Sainz was waiting for Mark Sanchez in the locker room to do an interview, when (wearing outfit shown above) she began to grow uncomfortable when fifty-two grown men, having come off a strenuous practice began to grow uncomfortable in their jock straps.

The fifty-third member of the team, the place kicker, was in the corner of the locker room, arguing by text with his boyfriend Juavier about where the hippest place to meet for drinks and listen to techno music was.  Miss Ines was the least of his concern.

Ines claims, although uncomfortable about remarks, leers, a impromptu booby grabs, she had in no way reported it to the Jets franchise, the NFL, nor Vivid Adult Entertainment where she's also employed.  She insists it was another fellow, female reporter that broke the story.

Thank God for The Association of Women in Sports Media though, to help sort out this mess.

"AWSM continues to monitor issues regarding locker-room access and is committed to helping create and maintain a work environment that is free of harassment and hostility," the statement said.

Hmmmm...and double fucking hmmmm...

I have an idea AWSA.  Just going out  on a limb of course.  I mean, I really don't have any expertise on the issue.  I'm only a guy, so what do I know?  Anyway, why not keep women, the kind with vaginas and large mammary glands out of the locker room of over paid, over sexed, highly immature and complete moronic and overgrown children that happened to be professional athletes?

Just saying.

Anyway, I'll leave you with one last disgusting picture to prove my confusion over the Ines Sainz controversy.  I'm sorry if this leaves you with a bad taste in your intestinal tract, but the fact that I, being the moral, upstanding person that I am, have a duty to bring you the full story, regardless of any compromising positions I might find myself in.


Sunday, September 12, 2010

Britt - 40oz of Schitzo liquid...once again.

This is a post from earlier, one that I did some revisions on, and one that is close to my heart.  I was reminded by it recently by the on going craziness and what most would consider just plain ol' whacked out on crack, washed down with a diet of 40oz schitzo liquids that Hollywood seems to be in love with.

For me, although some of my older posts I'd like to burn like a falsely accused witch of Salem, I won't, and some others I'd like to re-share, and...because there are times I haven't anything else to say, this is what you'll get.  

If there are any concerns or complaints about this post or any others, feel free to take it up with human resources at www.quityourbitchin'youwhinyassslutmonkeys.xxx

That being said, enjoy!


I have a confession to make, and I figure I can let it be known here, since I know the secret won't get out since nobody reads my damn'd blog anyway.

Here goes. Deep breath...I have a secret obsession for Britney Spears.

Ms. Spears making an ass of herself.
So considering my age, my taste in music, my disdain for A-listers that have everything handed to them on the hood of golden plated Maserati, and then bitch and moan like spoiled rotten shits that they are, this revelation can only be summed up by quoting from one of the all time great movies, '"That makes as much sense as a poopy flavored popsicle."

But let me explain.

First off, she is beautiful. And sweet. I'm not saying that isn't the connection, because what real man doesn't love that hard body, the perfectly whitened teeth, the big boobs...heck, even the twangy southern drawl. All great reasons to want this woman. She has fame, she has a butt load of money, and she needs a driver (I could be that guy!). Brit seems like she needs a confident man that, sure, may not to the most financially sound guy, like myself, but could tell daddy to go shove it where the sun, the moon and the stars don't shine. Not someone who already has the fame and the fortune. Not a needy, skinny, dancing jerk-off like K-Fed (although, ladies, you absolutely need to see my moves).

No, those aren't the reasons that I have this on-the-edge of wanting to stalk her obsession, but you have to believe me when I say I never will, though. And for several good reasons, mostly that being that it's way too much trouble, what with the travel costs, tedius and tiresome hours hiding in the ficus trees, oh, and the small little detail of it being against the law. (Damn you lawmakers and your stalking laws!)

The real reason I have this fanatical pull toward her isn't that she's beautiful, talented and wealthy, but because she's crazy. Nutso! Whacked out of her skull! Let's have a lobotomy done up on her, kind of crazy!

And I love that!!! Any woman that would shave her head, I'm guessing to just show off exactly how much she is in need of Provac and rubber walls, is alright in my book. When she did this, I thought, 'My God, she reminds me of Ripley from Aliens! When is the drooling, big fanged monster gonna pop out out from her bosomy chest?

That kind of insanity could only bring excitement and fun to a mans life, right? The nights of being woken up from sound sleep with Britney hovering over you, with a soul jarring, demented look in her eyes, with a large shiny cleaver in her hand. Or the times when she takes just one too many Valium and then wants to 'go for a little drive.'
Get's me going just thinkin' about it.

Anyway, all that being said, and in closing, I have a little story I need to tell you. So one day, I decide I'd send her a shout out, just to say 'hi' and ask her just a tiny little favor. It seemed so outrageous at the time that I asked of her, I thought even I was crazy (I am, by the way) to bring it up. But being the trooper she is and probably the fact that she must like herself a real badboy like myself, she did it! Take a look. Find yourself the new Rolling Stone mag and take a good hard gander at the front cover. Right there, on the left side of her tight abs and just on the northern side of her taught little jeans was the tattoo! She must really love me!

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Hypermetropic Slutmonkey

I work in an optical shop where we not only sale eye glasses but produce them on site as well.  Usually our customers walk out with said glasses on that same day.  Of course sometimes it takes as many as ten days, and sometimes, our patients actually walk out being able to discern the pushy neighborhood Jehovah Witnesses that live at the corner house.  At this point, it's out of my hands whether they choose to use their vehicles as weapons of mass destruction.

It all sounds like it should be of the utmost professional environment, huh?  That I have an important job, making sure people leave our store not only able to see properly but aren't  cross eyed and falling down elevator shafts (in my defense it was only once, and it was only one floor).

So yeah, it is important, what I do, or so I think it is, but the problem is I'm of the thinking that people shouldn't have to see on Saturday, or at least bother me with their visual complaints on Saturdays.  Jesus, people, can't it wait til Monday?  Plus Saturdays, in my opinion are always the best day of the week to do something more productive, like....well shit, most anything would be better than squabbling with hypermetropic individuals with little white "sperm" swimming around in their eye sockets, who, overzealously  go on and on and on about having  macular dengeneration.

Whawhawha!  Quit your whining, you Nancy boys!

My disdain for working on Saturdays always has me wondering how I can  get through the day a lot easier, having more fun, and without having to hide out in the bathroom with a Rolling Stone magazine, pretending that I have a stomach ailment. 

So, on this last Saturday, I woke up and got into a deep, intellectual conversation with my lovely girlfriend about the magnitude of the word I may or may not have made up, that being  'slutmonkey'.  Don't ask, this blog carries an R rating. (But if you pervs need to know, there wasn't a swing and grand piano involved.  Alright?  It was a $73 Casio keyboard;)~ 

The gist of the conversation is neither here nor over there, the point is, the word is just plain fuckin' awesome!

I was still mulling over and laughing about the word when I arrived at work and proceed to discuss this (the word, not the Casio) with my buddy, Jimmy the Greek.  You might remember the original Jimmy the Greek.  He was a NFL commentator back in the day when linebackers wore leather helmets and made predictions on the games, at an astonishing success rate of about 19.4%.  While my buddy, Jimmy the Greek, who doesn't have ounce of Mediterranean blood in him, predicts I'll be fired within six months.  He actually has money riding on it.  Jimmy can be dick, but he's probably right, thus the stolen nickname.

Anyway, Jimmy the Greek and I, while discussing my word 'slutmonkey', thought it would be incredibly funny to insert the word into a sentence, quietly, discreetly, somewhat in passing, and directed at Jovial Lab Manager Guy.

Jovial Lab Manager Guy is an older gentleman and just that, jovial, smiling non-stop.  I personally think he spends eight hours a day hidden behind closed door letting off old man fart bombs.  Other adjectives to describe Jovial Lab Manager Guy would be Republican, hard of hearing, church goer, ex-military, has all sorts of pills for all sorts of pain relief, a Pittsburg Steeler fan (reason enough for harassment) and has a sense of humor dryer than my frigid ex-wife's vagina.  Likable guy, but an easy target.

Okay, so half way through the day Jovial Lab Manager Guy, thinking it would be hysterical to model a pair of very old glasses normally worn by even older women, I found the time right and jumped into action.

"Har....funny stuff Jovial Lab Manager Guy," I said.  "I bet your wife loves when you slip her the 'slutmonkey'!"

At the time I said this, not only was the Jovial Lab Manager Guy standing there, but also Jimmy the Greek who chortled like a man that was pushing to win $5 due to my force, early retirement and Overtly Gay Chris who didn't get it but continued talking to himself about how the glasses he had just sold were "overtly tasty...with a hint of cinnamon."  Huh?

SIDE NOTE - If you don't understand, you can learn all about Overtly Gay Chris from a previous blog post, more specifically at   http://scuzzymoney.blogspot.com/2010/07/overtly-gay-chris.html.

Finally, lab manager guy said, "Slutmonkey?"

I cocked my head looking confused.  "Whaa...?  Slut...what?  Sheesh Jovial Lab Manager Guy, I was just wondering if you had some Pepto?"

After a moment of deep thought Jovial Lab Manager Guy who is borderline deaf, bobbed his head, smiled and said "You betcha!"

With nary a grin, knowing 'slutmonkey' had been used on the unsuspecting, with my job still intact, I grabbed the bottle of pink, stomach easing medicine, my latest edition of Rolling Stone and went off to spend the last hour of my day in the bathroom. A pretty productive Saturday after all.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Google Earth is Watching

Google Earth is at it again.  Doesn't matter where you are, they're watching and in the know about what you and you're loved ones and even what my racist dog Dum Dum is up to.  They can see you.  What you're wearing, what you're not wearing and even the if you washed the blood off the back patio.

Okay, so these pictures or what I consider them to be, intrusions, are taken maybe a year ago, or just six months ago, but they were taken, without your knowledge.  But they were!

It's a tracking tool to assist you in finding your way to a doctors appointment or directions to the local Cinemaplex or help you find your way  back from a really long night on the town in which you find yourself coming out of a blackout and you feel all icky and are now in Wichita home.

But...now the authorities are using Google Earth to watch you!

Case #1 - In New York, on Long Island, the city has used Google Earth satellite imagery to track swimming pools that have been dug, filled with chlorinated water, and have been used for wild orgies, with obnoxious big hair bands from the 80's blaring from large woofers.  Okay, I made up the orgy part but I have to bet 'Wanted Dead or Alive' was kickin' it old school.  Point is, the authorities nabbed over 250 home owners that were in violation of building swimming pools, without proper permits, all by using Google Earth.

Case #2 - In 2006, in Racine, Wisconsin, coppers busted a marijuana operation by using the eye in the sky.  Turns out, hidden within a field of corn or hemp or something that farmers farm, cops discovered hippies growing the whacky weed using Google Earth.  When the bust went down, one of the growers was wearing a GPS devise around his neck, which lead them to not only another pot field, but also the nearest White Castle.

So, in this day and age, when there is a camera on every street corner, ATM machine, Circle K and inside and outside of
Deja Vu strip club, do we really have any privacy to speak of?  Are our rights being slowly taken away or are we being forced into a secure mentality where we know that, if we are held up by a one armed man wielding a long knife, we'll be protected because there is certain to be a grainy photo of an indistinguishable, hoody wearing punk/grandma/iguana?

I'm not sure but I think this debate is just beginning.  I think it'll get much worse before this question of our privacy is answered.

Google Earth is not going anywhere so what I suggest is that we all keep our shirts on, covering our pasty white skin that should only be on display when in the privacy of your own home.  Nanny cams can't be blamed on Google though, so if there happens to be a teddy bear leering at you while your humping on your sixteen year old babysitter, that's your cross to bear.

Finally this.  Google Earth, rumors abound, are working in conjunction with the Catholic church, and have developed new software to keep an eye on sinners the world over.

So watch your step, you sleazy perverts!

Monday, August 23, 2010

Racist biaaatch!

So you've all heard Dr. Laura went off on her radio show, ranting and raving, flapping her hairy, demon like wings, saying the unmentionable N word.  Due to the nature of the word, N, I won't repeat it, because I don't want my sponsors going nuts and the press crucifying me to the point where I have to step down from my position as the Man Who Is The Guy in All the Penthouse Forum Stories Especially The Ones About The Hot Lonely Mom Who Isn't Getting Enough Attention and Has Never Taken Her Brand New Maytag For A Proper Spin Cycle Until She Met Me.
Ya...I'm that guy.

Anyway, back to my story (and reality).

Seems Dr. Laura went on and on, telling a caller that she was hyper-sensitive and demonstrating the proper use of the offensive word in question.  This I don't give a rats ass about.  As long as Dr. Laura is eaten slowly and painfully to death by a mound of fist size fire ants, it's none of my concern.

What truly bothers me is that the family dog and a replication of a mangy hemorrhoid on four paws is racist. My girlfriend calls her Saige, I call her a pain in my lily white ass, or Dum Dum, for short.  Anyway, Dum Dum is basically and fundamentally the nastiest kind of racist.  Not this Dr. Laura fluff story that's all over the YouTubes and the counter talk at the local Fu Wongs Nail and Bunion Service Center are discussing.

No, our dog is racist and has no qualms about expressing her opinion anytime a person of color walks past the apartments we live in.  Nor does she feel bad, in the least, as she goes all nuclear shih tzu, barking and doing crazy, out of control flips when the young Chinese man, working his way through college, delivers our Egg Foo Young, Chicken Subgum Chow Mein and fortune cookies.

*Side note - my last fortune read - "Me love you long  time...in bed."  Didn't even have to play the 'in bed' game.*

Racist Saige
Dum Dum Saige
When I questioned the furry Ku Klux Klan member, she claims she's just protecting her domain. Classic denial by a bigoted racist scum.

Then while watching the Masters this year, any time Tiger Woods would pull out his seven iron, she'd circle in front of the television, squat and take a long steamy poo on the carpet.  After a good nose rub, I'd get a misguided and completely lame exclamation that she had IBS and couldn't help it.  First off, that's crap and secondly, can dogs have IBS?

I don't know what to do about it.  It's beginning to get out of control.  I've never had animals before, and quite frankly, I've always thought that they have a demented and long seeded desire to make us humans seems like demeaning and full of hatred.  And while there may be some truth to this, I personally try to turn the other cheek whenever possible and think on the whole, most people are good.

Dum Dum, on the other hand, proves that, while we humans are less than perfect creatures, turning to war and persecutions of things we do not fully understand, animals are no better than we primitive, hatred filled, oil spilling, upright standing, animals on two feet.

Regardless, I do walk upright.  I'm bigger. faster and stronger and I have apposing thumbs.  So, if she keeps up the shit, I'm going to pick up the phone, give the young Chinese student a call and see if he wants to come over and watch the next major golf tournament.  I'll even serve up a delectable stir fry platter I've been conjuring up for some time now.

Oh, and kind of on the subject, but not really, Jennifer Aniston was slammed by the Special Olympics for her use of the word 'retard' while discussing her new movie with Regis Philbin.  I don't know the context in which she used it,  because I didn't actually watch the show, but I have my suspicions.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Heavenly Haggis

Ah...it's that time again.  The day that you've all grown to love, anticipate and feel so passionately about that you run out and organize Million Men marches.  I do love you all so!

Anyway and yup, today is the day I hand out The Haggis Award!

Before I do, let me tell you that this is harder than I would have ever imagined.  As I found out this week, there are a lot of buttnuggets out there that deserve this, some more than others, some that should already be in the Haggis Hall of Fame.

But, I need to feed the frenzy, so here goes.

Yes sir, this is what I saw as I was on my way to work the other day.  Couldn't help it.  It was so close to my front windshield that I'm sure I could have licked the uncaffeinated bug goop off his spare tire.  The heathenly one flew past me, pulled in front of my vehicle, nearly clipping my front end and continued swerving in and out of traffic like a bat out of hell.  This all took place after running a red light, from behind, in my rearview mirror.

Oh, did I mention he was driving one of these?

Yes, that's correct.  Twenty-four tons of steel and rubber and hi def TV on wheels of leisure fury.  The bastard had somewhere to go, in a real big hurry, that seemed to be of more importance than where I was heading.

And, yes, I'm going out on a limb in my belief that this guy was probably on vacation, driving toward the beach/camp sight/summer vacation home/boat slip/or quite possibly he was late for his two year mission to Lake Couer d' Alene.  Regardless, I was not amused.

Downright pissed really.  Had I been able to catch this Mormon road rager, I would have given him a piece of my mind.  Shoot...I might have told him the one about Joseph Smith walking into a bar...

But...maybe not.  Considering that the probability of me making it into heaven is about as likely as winning the Utah state lottery, quite possibly I would have taken the high road and found it my heart to forgive him.  Who knows.  Maybe he would let me stow away, hidden in his cramped traveling toilet, allowing me to slip right past old St. Peter at the pearly gates.

Uh, ya...not likely, so The Haggis Award! goes out to this high speed holy roller.  If I could only catch him.

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Defibrillating at Denny's - Bring Your Appetite

Check out this monstrosity of heart failure.  Denny's calls it their new Fried Cheese Melt sandwich.

I call it fuckin' awesome!

Inside this heavenly delight is deep fried mozzarella cheese sticks, smothered in cheese, probably deep fried, then covered in some sort of bread, toasted in lipo-fat, then finally deep fried in a vat of more fat.  And don't forget the dip, that seems to be a marinara sauce, but more than likely the contents of a sow's spleen, finely puree'd in a bowl.


Just looking at the picture doesn't give enough information to understand the magnitude of its Thorism, its gargantuanistic flavorings or its ability to withstand a direct hit from a Bible belt tornado.  This shit is huge!

Not wanting to sit around with a hunger burning in my belly, and certainly not wanting to  be the last on the block to run out and smother my nakedness order up one of these bad boys, I made a beelline for Denny's.

But then as I entered the local Denny's I was taken back by the color and I'm not talking about the art deco stylings that is Denny's.  Nor the trademarked recognizable, familiar and absolutely filthy hue that could only be a Denny's, but the color of mad.  Reason...the line of obese and senior citizen types, angry that the humongous meal, aka, the lead weight, and better known as the Fried Cheese sandwich, wasn't being offered for another couple of weeks.  If you've never seen a riot of super large people, pissed that the newest cardiac arrest, congealed together to look like food, wasn't available yet...well, just think Rodney King times six hundred pounds, minus police brutality.  Ugly!!!

No fears though...I will get my grubby little fingers on this desirable coronary artery disease some day.  I'll keep you posted.  Maybe I'll invite you all along to experience it with me.  We can get a table at the back, shmooze up old Flo, smoke us a cigarette and eat us some heart disease.

Hell, you bring the defibrillator and I'll pick up the bill.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

The phenomenon that celebrities die in threes is intriguing to me.   It seems they happen more often than not.  They seem to always relate somehow; actors, singers, politicians, outbreaks of the black plague in the Hollywood estate of the Baldwin brothers.  (Okay, fine.  In reality, a plague never ate away at the Baldwin household, but really, let's be honest.  It wouldn't hurt your feelings if it did, would it?)

Let's take a look at death, times three.

What's considered to be the first of famous 'trifecta's' of death took place in 1959 when Buddy Holly, Ritchie 'Van' Valens and the "Big Bopper" died tragically in a plane crash.  This could have been prevented if the "Big Bopper" would have just moved his fat ass to the right side of the small aircraft for better weight distribution.  To this day, there is impending lawsuits by Holly's family, most notably, Elvis Costello.

A decade later, within a few weeks of each other Janice Joplin, Jimmy Hendrix and Jim Morrison died.  This was also considered to be the first attempt at an organized mass suicide.  There were no notes but due to the fact that all three were wearing black high top Chuck Connors and a punch bowl of peyote and hashish laced Kool-Aid was found within feet of the puddle of vomit.  Their timing was off, though, due to conflicting tour schedules and Jim Morrison was frolicking in France with Meg Ryan.

Most recently, all within what would seemed to be only a few hours of each other, Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett and Ed McMahon bit the big one. This is particularly disturbing because not only are most asking "Really? Ed McMahon died?" but also "Who the frugnugget is Ed McMahon?"  Well, duh!  He was the quarterback and Super Bowl MVP of the Chicago Bears in 1985!

I really got to thinking about tri-glyceride death recently when two major players in the New York Yankee's organization past on to the giant dugout in the sky that Ruth built.

First came Bob Sheppard. the long time Hall-Of-Fame broadcaster that will forever live on in the hearts of Yankee fans, and his voice will always ring down from above, unless of course the recording, announcing Derek Jeter's next at bat is burned up in a good old fashioned New York City riot.  Bob Sheppard was 99 years old and had only retired in the last couple years but his death was still met with mournful tears and monotone sighs throughout the Bronx.  I'm sure he's up in heaven, as we speak, getting a giant noogy from Harry Carry.

Two days later, the owner of the Yankee's, George Steinbrenner died.   He was a vibrant and spry gentleman of only eighty years, full of piss and vinegar, with a love of his children and grandchildren, racing horses, but most of all, his mostly unsuccessful attempts at buying major league championships.  He was loved by most that worked, played and....uh, well a lot of people and....uh, actually he was a pain in the ass for most but Reggie liked him, and that's something right?  And while I was never a real fan of the guy, I have to feel for him, because I know that Billy Martin is standing at Heaven Gates waiting for the old man, holding a big can of whoop ass!

So, within the next few days, I sat in front of my television, waiting in anticipation and pure joy that A-Rod would be next (Seattle still thinks you're a money grubbing, no good, choking when the pressure is on asshole), but no such luck.  Nothing.  Not a beer vendor, not a relief pitcher choking on sunflower seeds, not even a skull being cracked wide open in the parking lot on 'Bat Give Away' night.  It seemed that the Yankee's had slipped past the Grim Reaper.

But, then I realized, with more research I had made a huge mistake.  A mistake, but one that connected the dots, solved the mystery and figured into why I couldn't find another death closely related to the Yankee's.  What I'd overlooked was that there was actually four Baldwin brothers, the forgotten one being William aka 'Billy'.

But you can't blame me.  We all know his career was dead long before it even started.