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.

Enjoy.

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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!

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.

THIRD LEADING COLOMBIAN EXPORT

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!

Why?

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.

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.

WE ARE ALL GOING TO FUCKIN' DIE!!

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!

BAR GRAPH OF DESPICABILITY

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.

Duh?!

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!

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.

RUFF RUFF RUFF!!!

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.

"HERE ROVER! PUPPY WANT A TREAT?"

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.

WHO LET THE DOGS OUT?! WOOF, WOOF!

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!


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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!