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.

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.

GOOGLE MASTURBATION BLOCK WATCH

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!

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.

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.

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.

Mmmmmmm....

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.

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.

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.

And the Haggis Goes to...

My favorite segments on Countdown with Keith Olbermann are his 'Worst Person in the World' where he dishes out the 'worse', 'worser' and 'worst' person of the day, more than likely the 'worst' person award going to Bill O'Reilly or Glenn Beck.  Deservedly so.

Recently, I discovered a blog goddess, none other than Midwesternmamah at http://midwesternmamah.blogspot.com/.  Her blog Are You Serious is funny, smart, witty, gives reasons for loving Monkey Butt Powder and makes bold statements about cornholes and peengles.  If you have no idea what the hell I'm talking about, just find her at her blog http://midwesternmamah.blogspot.com/ and catch up.  She's great, in a sordid and usually demented way, but I'm in love. 

That being said, I am a little disappointed.  Not at Midwesternmamah, but the fact that she came up with Suck A Fart Wednesday and not me.  Now truth be told, I would have placed it on Tuesday, because I find most the dirt is stirred on that day, but none the less, Suck A Fart Wednesday is the most humorous weekly blog segment I've read in a long time.  You can almost smell the funny.

This got me thinking. What better way to upstart Midwesternmamah, while at the same time presenting my own special award to the ones that I feel the most disdain, dislike and/or the person that makes me want to drink curdled milk just to get rid of the nasty taste they have given me at that particular moment.

My plan is to hand out a weekly (maybe not weekly)(maybe more often because there are a lot of fucking stupid people in this world) award to the person, place, thing or sculpture made out of margarine, green beans and cigarette ash that stirs up that nauseous feeling in my innards.  It will be prestigious and powerful and it will be a badge of honor embarrassment for those who receive it. 

'Nough fooling around already.  Nough talk, let's get to it.  Here it comes, wait for it, wait...and...

The Haggis Award!

 a) *crowd goes wild*

b) *tree falls in the woods and there isn't anyone around to hear it*

c) *both A and B*

Okay, The Haggis Award! will consider many variables in determining if one is eligible.  Be a douche, asshat, or a celebrity caught taking it in the pooper on the dance floor at the trendiest Vegas nightclub, and you automatically qualify.  Or, maybe and often times a hypocritical Oxycontin poppin' politician is caught hiking the Andes with his nanny, that would get a nod.   Or you could be the regular joe schmo in line at Taco Bell that can't make up his mind whether he wants three chalupas, six hard shell tacos, four bean and cheese burritos and twelve potato nugget thingys that Ore-Ida probably distributes, or...he wants six chalupas, only two hard shell tacos, five bean and cheese burritos and three potato nugget thingys that Ore-Ida probably distributes, while all you want is a large Diet Coke.  That will always bump you to the top of the list, you slothful gob of gerkin. (Gerkin - my favorite Palininsm.)

Hell, The Haggis Award! could go to Mel Gibson, better yet I could have named it in his honor, but it won't because it's gotta go to someone not only deserving, but also someone who won't call my distinguished award a "cunt" and leave rage filled, anti-Semitic voice mails, all the while hoping The Haggis Award! are "raped" by a band of rogue Scots. Or whatever.  But, most importantly, The Haggis Award! should go to someone who won't appreciate it.   And we all know that the fucker likes haggis, whether freshly boiled or twice regurgitated.

Basically, you, and you will soon know who you are, must offend me at the highest level of ineptitude, arrogance and suckitbitchism.

So, without further ado, I present to you the first annual weekly The Haggis Award!

Yup, that's right, haggis is the first recipient of The Haggis Award!  I figure for you to all understand the magnitude of what this award is, and what better than to point out the reason this Scottish delicacy is the offender and the trophy.

Let me start by saying that I am of Scottish ancestry.  Someone can be found climbing around a family tree rooted deep in the soil of Scotland, but, and this is big, I wouldn't feed that to my worst enemies.  So if I offend anyone, I say to you "Grow balls, you pussy!" 

Back to business.  Haggis is a delicacy containing sheep's pluck (in English, means sheep's guts, the entrails of the family dog, the last weeks leftovers and whatever can be scraped off the bottom of the ice chest), then is minced up and stuffed inside of the stomach of whatever animal has crawled up and died on the front lawn.  And, if it's been a particularly good week at the coal mines, a dash of salt and suet is sprinkled over this chef's nightmare.

Now some people might enjoy this, but you've had a chance to get that sick feeling while imagining what this shit must taste like while looking at the pictures, so to those who are inclined to defend haggis, I say knock it!  Or you'll be next weeks The Haggis Award! recipient. 

Oh, one last thing, don't forget to checkout http://midwesternmamah.blogspot.com/.  It'll change your life, I tell you.

NOODLING WITH SNOOKIE!

Que the banjo and pass the grits because I gots me a hankering for some noodling.  Whoooooeeeee!

You're asking, "Hey Ron, what ya doing noodling while you could be doing something a whole lot more productive and a lot less red-necky?  Well, since you've asked with an heir of southern hospitality and a hint of indifference I'll let you know.

Truth is, before the last nights news broadcast, national that is, I had never heard of noodling.  And if someone would have asked me if I'd ever done some noodling before seeing this report then I would have responded "Dern ya, I have.  Once noodled this red headed cherry bomb in the back of my '76 Chevy Vega."

Back to noodling.  While watching this fluff story I found out what noodling was, and more than that I found out if I'm ever caught noodling, make sure I go directly to the vet to pick up my worm medication.  Anyway, noodling is a very calculated form of fishing, for flathead catfish, most cases the size of the Lock Ness Monster.  Now the way to go about noodling is find a real muddy watering hole, where you know these monsters hang, most times in the southern United States, but often times in the New York sewer system.  When a good hole is found, the noodler submerges down, and sticks his hand (yes, I said hand) into the hole and hopes (yes, I said hopes?!) the flathead catfish grabs ahold.  Once the scaly beast has latched on, usually, the noodler screams hysterically, thus drowning from taking too much swamp water into his lungs.

If, the noodler survives, reaching the surface of the water, he has his prize, which can weigh as much as 50 or 60 pounds.  If you're having a hard time understanding how big a catfish of this size is, think of that scene in Jersey Shore: Season One where Snooky and the Situation are flopping around in the hot tub.  Okay?  Now get rid of the Situation, leaving a wet, horny and always inebrebiated Snooky alone in the tub.  With me still?  Now take her weight, subtract half and divide by three and *presto chango*....that's what you're dealing with when you snag yourself a nasty swamp monster

A GOOD DAY OF NOODLING DESERVES A DOUBLE FIST PUMP!

Noodling, a sport  in it's own right, and may I say fun for some but not my thing.  Too much muck, grime and slimy Snookie's creatures for my taste.