SCUZZYMONEY

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

2010-11-30T10:12:00.000-08:00

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!

I'm writing til my face explodes!

2010-11-09T09:11:00.000-08:00

*UPDATE*

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!

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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.

*CROWD GOES WILD*

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!

Rob 'Diesel' Kroese and the MFng BlogTour

2010-10-26T08:36:00.000-07:00

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.

http://www.amazon.com/Mercury-Falls-Robert-Kroese/dp/1935597159/.

http://robertkroese.com/

http://mattresspolice.com/.

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

2010-10-20T19:58:00.000-07:00

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?

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

2010-10-19T13:47:00.000-07:00

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.

Fuckers!

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.


DISREGARD LEG HAIR...TO BE FAIR, SHE WAS LAID UP AWHILE!

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!

Anything?

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!

GOTS ME A NEW HEAD(ER)

2010-10-12T22:19:00.000-07:00

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.

THE NEW SCUZZYMONEY LOGO

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.)

Superfreaks: The Haggis Award!

2010-10-11T22:33:00.000-07:00

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

'Superfreak'

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!

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

2010-10-06T10:47:00.000-07:00

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?"

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

2010-10-01T09:21:00.000-07:00

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

Trainspotting

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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.

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

2010-09-26T16:28:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-09-22T07:56:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-09-17T17:52:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-09-14T21:42:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-09-12T11:00:00.000-07:00

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!

Hypermetropic Slutmonkey

2010-08-31T05:35:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-25T00:43:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-08-23T23:47:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-17T07:11:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-15T21:24:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-08-10T23:13:00.000-07:00

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...

2010-08-09T07:17:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-08-04T15:14:00.000-07:00

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.

Overtly Gay Chris

2010-07-28T08:39:00.000-07:00

I'm a little grouchy right now. It's 4:13 AM and I'm wide awake, as is the cat, or what I presume to be a cat, bellowing in a field across the way. I presume it's in heat or it's been run down by the asshole in the two ton 4x4 that's been chasing up and down the block, blaring Toby Keith.

But this isn't why I'm wanting to take a three iron to the back window of the Escalade that is life. Not overtly anyway. Take a look at my distraction.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Overtly

adverb
open; publicly.

___________________________________________________________________________________

That's my problem, the word overtly. Just a simple, run of the mill word, that, while common, is also very complex apparently. I can say that maybe a dozen times or so, in the real world, I've heard it used. But recently in my life, this three syllable word is ingraining itself so deep into my skull that I apparently am dreaming about it. Which in and of itself is pissing me off, because the only thing I like to dream of is my Zags winning the national championship one day, the Kool Aid Man crashing through the kitchen wall on a hot day, and Salma Hayek in a black teddy.

The word keeps popping up in unsuspecting fashions at work, by an individual (that I won't name) that has a degree from a respectable college here in Spokane (the college I won't name as well, to protect their reputation) in communications.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love the word too. What other word has that fantastic sound 'ert' in it? Well, if you're a fan of medical procedure, as I am, you will know 'ert' is the sound a pig tailed catheter makes when being yanked out. Cool huh?

Know what else is cool? Urban Dictionary. In my opinion, UB will in the near future replace Webster's as the most sought out reference guide when in need of looking up the meaning of a word. Such words that haven't been used before, but should have a long time ago. To this, I thank you George W. and whacked out of your mind Palin for bringing Urban Dictionary to the forefront of Englishismistic excellentism.

That being said, I wasn't exactly happy with the results for my Urban Dictionary search of the word 'overtly' but here are my findings anyway.

__________________________________________________________________________________

overtly gay- (nothing for overtly, without gay being attached like two butch dikes at a motorcycle rally)

A person who is homosexual beyond the standards of society. Such person usually does things gay or"overtly" gay to earn him the title. Someone who does something stupid earns the nickname too.

Example;

*Chris enters the room; everyone is whispering*

Overtly Gay Chris - Hey are you guys telling secrets? Oooh ooooh, my turn. okay, so when I was attending Whitworth College, during my freshman year, I ate a Saltine cracker out of the butt cheeks of my roomie.

The others who are telling secrets about Overtly Gay Chris - Eeeewwwwhhhhhh! You're overtly gay. Now run along and play elsewhere or were going to stuff you deep inside that cavernous porta-potty over there at that construction site.

Anyway, I understand that this is my problem. The fact that my co-worker ~~Chris~~ over uses and, more times than not, uses this word incorrectly and out of context isn't my problem. I don't feel it's my place to point it out to him, and I really shouldn't be losing sleep over this.

The expressions on the faces of his customers that he helps is good enough for me. Kind of priceless, really, because there's nothing like seeing the look in these people eyes, knowing that they're thinking what I already know about him.

Which is this guy is overtly gay and if he keeps it up, someone's going to end up giving him a porta-potty swirly.

What The Dooce!@?

2010-07-18T19:48:00.000-07:00

A few months back I started a new job, and for all intents and purposes, what I'm finding is that this is taking up way too much of my time. My time is too valuable, they don't understand that, and I'm feeling that my talents aren't being appreciated.

<<<<<<For God sake, this is what has become of my artistic abilities and creative genius.

I find it quite sad and pathetic that I not only felt the need to snap this photo while ordering a doughy pretzel from a very confused looking Oriental lady, but that I was laughing hysterically while the poor non-speaking woman began to shake nervously.

Though, now each time I go purchase a pretzel delight from Mrs. Wong I give her a smirk, knowing exactly what she's thinking.

Now, this new job is probably a good thing. After all, I have some bills that need paying to get those bastard bill collectors off my back. They're relentless. Take for instance, the last collector that called (or at least the last one I picked up the phone). This is how that conversation went.

Me - Hello

Pakistani Bill Collector - Mr. Wells, you I'd like to give you the opportunity to catch up on...

Me - Me no speaky English...so sorry...

*Click*

Besides, what's the point, right? We all know the world is going to be engulfed in a fiery hell due to BP having every body of water covered in thick, greasy oil by December 22, 2012 and their won't be any way to extinguish imminent armegeddon. Either that or I'll be fighting off zombies, which is fine with me because zombies are a whole lot less scary than bill collectors.

Worst of all, my layoff from work produced a nasty glue sniffing habit where I was no longer able to afford the good stuff, like cyanoacrylates. I was beginning to turn to Elmer's, and we all know the only good thing that Elmer's glue is good for is making those tiny glue boogers and flicking them at the pig tailed girl with birth control glasses sitting in front of you in Art class.

Alright, that's a joke. I don't really have a glue sniffing habit, but it is true about the glue booger thing.

The problem is it's taking me away from what I like to do. My writing. At a time when I was not only consistent with my blog (consistently bad, but consistent none the less), but other projects in progress as well, I had to go and find a job after a successful five months of being unemployment. I have to say I don't know what all these Republicans that are bitching about. Tells me that they haven't experienced rolling out of bed no earlier than 10:00 AM and eaten Capt. Crunch Berries out of the same bowl four days in a row. Those schmucks need to lighten up and look at things a little more positively.

Anyway, my other projects that are being jeopardized are the fictional account of the son of Scottish immigrants who, subsequently commit a mutually agreed upon murder-suicide. This in turn, forces young Dylan to find out not only about responsibility, perseverance and humility on his own, but the burden of taking over the family business, that being the discovering of an environmentally friendly haggis loaf.

And second, my memoir. Yup, I said it. A memoir, based on mostly why I'm so fucked up. Nothing you will want to read, but a form a therapy that's a whole lot cheaper than laying on the faux leather sofa belonging to a scholarly type in a worn, beige corduroy blazer charging $100 an hour.

It's the blog that keeps me sharp, in order to continue with my other projects. So...when I'm not updating Scuzzymoney, it seems I'm a slug on the couch watching the The Real Housewives of Tuscaloosa or wherever those sluts are coming from this season.

Of course, I have an idea. It came about while reading about a Heather Armstrong, author of dooce.com. Heather was fired her for making small talk or jabs or what have you at her boss, on her blog, because he was groping her in an improper manner. Which was a problem because not only was he blind and has no olfactory senses (don't dis the disabled on your blog) but also when he grabbed on her junk he really believed he was grabbing on 'his' junk.

Of course, since then there have been several other cases such as Dan Leone, a former employee of the Philadelphia Eagles. Dan got upset over the fact that one of his favorite players signed with another team. So Dan posted this to Facebook.

Dan is [expletive] devastated about Dawkins signing with Denver ... Dam Eagles R Retarted!!

I assume the [expletive] that Dan was mentioning was [Hey, who stole my [expletive] Cheese Steak?]. Anyway, shortly after this horrific posting by Dan, he was fired. Though this didn't deter Dan. He found a new job looking over the Liberty Bell, watching out for defects, scratches and cracks.

Now, back to my idea. If the narrow minded [expletive] wont give me the [expletive] respect and [expletive] time to pursue my [expletive] dream than they can all go [expletive] themselves!

The only reason Ann Coulter deserves a reprieve....

2010-07-17T17:01:00.000-07:00

Browsing and bored and mostly because I find this so damn'd funny!

Makes you want to run out and get your very own spawn of satan, huh?

Pamela Gorman - gun packin', tea baggin', bunny killin', crazy ass whack job!

2010-07-01T22:00:00.000-07:00

I was reminded of Quentin Tarantino recently.

I'm a fan, and maybe one of the most cutting edge directors of our times. 'Pulp Fiction' is probably my favorite of all time, not just Tarantinos films, but of all films. So many great scenes and a completely perfectly laid out plot line.

Plus...Uma. Here, let me just show you.

Need I say more?

Not enough praise can be doused on this first attempt at commercial movie making, that being 'Reservoir Dogs'. Steve Buschemi as Mr. Pink and his speech on why he doesn't 'tip' was classic and should have been the first Oscar associated with a Quentin Tarantino film.

Ah and the fourty-seven total and combined minutes of 'Kill Bill 1and 2' were worthy of my complete attention (the other three days of film footage could have been trimmed down). Of course, it's best that Q left the Uma parts edited in.

Again...take a looksy, just to your left. Don't know about you, but I can't get enough.

But let's not forget his most recent, 'Inglourious Basterds'. Wins an Oscar for Best Pic and reinforces that only Tarantino could make a WWII flick that's thought provoking and funny while wanting to make you want to upchuck the popcorn sitting in your lap. Take scene where Brad Pitts character Lt. Aldo Raine is giving Sgt. Werner Rachtman of Nazi forces two choices...give up the location of his fellow German troops or meet the Bear Jew, a club carrying, Nazi skull bashing member of the Basterds. Great stuff. By far his best since 'Pulp Fiction'.

Love QT.

But the guy doesn't always make a great movie. Take his Grindhouse films, 'Planet Terror' and 'Death Proof'. Entertaining, but hardly for the weak of stomach nor most of half the Earths population. You definitely had to be a fan to appreciate.

But, my opinion is that his most average film and the reason I was reminded of Quentin Tarantino, is 'Jackie Brown'. Got a lot of attention at the time, but it did follow 'Pulp Fiction', so there was quite a bit of anticipation. Now, don't get me wrong. I really liked this film. It was based on a novel of a favorite author of mine, Elmore Leonard. It moved along quickly, had violence, humor, Bridget Fonda looking as hippie as a Fonda can, and once again Q reinvented another lost actor, actually two, that being Robert Forster and Pam Grier. But, to the rest of the world it didn't stack up as great, just average.

Okay, so recently I was skipping news channels during the most partisan part of the day, and ran across a television ad for a congressional candidate from Arizona that I couldn't get enough of. Made me laugh til I almost shat myself, but more importantly, I had to dig through my DVD's to find my copy of 'Jackie Brown' because the similarities were eerily similar between cinematic fiction and political fiction.

Remember the scene where Ordell Robbie (Samuel Jackson), a gun runner high on the take down list of the ATF, is showing his former cellmate and all around dim witted criminal buddy Louie Gara (Robert De Niro) an ad for fully automatic guns. The 'ratatatatatata tat' sound of the gun fire was nearly as cool as the bikini clad ladies shooting em off. These beauties, every time they squeezed off a clip - ratatatatatatat tat! - they would jiggle and shake, little beads of sexy sweat dripping from their flaming muzzles.

Woooooo boy!

And just like Pamela Gorman, but....well not really. I mean really, I did think of those bouncing NRA card carrying sluts but truly, the only thing jiggling on Pam is her mouth.

For God sake! Is it an commercial ad for candidate Pamela Gorman blasting away at (imaginary?) Jihadists that are nonchalantly walking across the border and using her own personal swimming pool for a refreshing dip while collecting their evil thoughts?! Or possibly Pamela's blasting a bunny nibbling on her lettuce garden? Just imagine if Thumper goes all rabid and starts having terrorist ideas of blowing up some dry patch of cactus and putting anthrax in the water supply. Who would you want there by your side taking down these heathen furry scumbag terrorists?

Pam 'Rambo' Gorman, that's who.

What a woman! Just the kind of representative I'd want making law for me if I were an Arizonian.

Just think. If Quentin had accepted her audition tape for the part as automatic weapon carrying, stipped to her A cups, Arizona may not have this November to look forward to laugh her right back to her vegetable garden.

'ratatatatatatata tat'

WTF?!

2010-06-29T18:16:00.000-07:00

Not really a blog post per se, but I just wanted to inform you all that I've recently been dickering with my blog. I changed the template, background and colors of my blog, because I've been feeling lately that I need to grow some, maybe mature a little and then... Actually, truth is, my eyes are going to shit and I'm having a hard time differentiating text, contrasts, Bubbleicious from Hubba Bubba and the damn'd background color was too dark and moody, in turn giving me a throbbing migraine.

Now with that out of the way, I'll try moving forward with the zeal, zest, immoral and hopefully, highly offensive content that is SCUZZYMONEY, just a whole lot more legible.

Oh, one other thing. I was going through my unpublished posts and ran across this....

------ ------ ------

As a small child, being of delusional mind, hieroglyphic bowel movements and the sanctimonious burden I carried, I moved across the sweeping expanse of self-involvement and sheer ineptitude.

I was a lost soul.

It took me finally growing bleary eyed, and tortured by both rabid squirrels and Tabernacle re-mixes of You Got What I Need by Biz Markie, and not even peanut butter and celery sticks sculptures, creating the most abstract and disturbing image, not of the Virgin Mary, but of Donald Trumps rug, could I find my meaning.

------ ------ ------

If anyone can please explain what the fuck I was on while writing this it'd be much appreciated.

The World Cup Sucks and Blows!

2010-06-20T22:40:00.000-07:00

The World Cup sucks! And I know how to fix it. Hear me out and thank me later, preferably in small bills, maybe $20's and $50's.

First off, it's irritating and not for the normal reasons, namely, that it's an international soccer tournament, and...really, need I say more? Okay, for those not following the little bouncing ball, maybe me spelling it out will help.

S O C C E R !

S...

Then we have the U, but looks like an O...

In Chile, one of most fanatical followers of soccer, the C actually looks a double C to those crazy Latin Americans...

Followed by the K and S, which to the rest of the world appears to be an E and a giant R...

Then ending with a big fat !, or if you like, several !!!'s...

Spelling out SUCKS!!!

Oh, and don't go getting all high and mighty and start throwing the bullshit argument at me that soccer is the most popular sport around the world, that more people participate, view and play 'soccer' then any other physical activity including sex. Using this line of thinking and under those guidelines, the way I have it figured is that, up till the turn of the 20th century, the abacus was the preferred tool for doing one's taxes. See, doesn't make sense, huh?

Then, take viewership. Who's watching? I'll tell you who. People in parts of world that don't have access to internet porn, or Tupperware, or even two acres of nasty ragweed to mow down. Because if they did, why in the FUCK would they be watching soccer? Holy shit people, soccer sucks!

Okay, okay...it doesn't suck completely. I've said it before, but only to my closest of friends before now, soccer is a great kids sport. Think of all the youngsters running around getting much needed rest and relaxation away from their Xbox's. It's keeping our kids free from blocked arteries and giving us hysterical footage of amateur videographer's taking nardy shots while taping on the sideline. This is what YouTube was created for, afterall.

Which leads me to the real reason soccer sucks....

The lack of scoring and incessantly boring ties! Have you watched any of this World Cup? A large percentage of the games end in ties, some of them ending in no score what-so-ever! The experts are saying the teams are being conservative to get the one point that comes with a tie rather than the forced naked donkey kick and big pink L that's slapped on your forehead of the losers. What??? How is this fun, for anyone? A bunch of so called athletes running around, kicking the ball back and forth, one guy screaming to another "Hey Bob, kick it to me....over here...Bob? Damn it, Bob, would you share the ball? I promise I'll kick it right back!"

And on, and on, and on....

Could you imagine spending half a paycheck to get into one of these games, in anticipation of rioting after the game if your team won, and especially if it lost, to find out that in the end, the game just ends...in a tie?

Sucks!

Which leads to the other reason it sucks...er....more appropriately....blows.

Vuvuzela's. The vuvuzela is a large, phallic shaped horn, that tens of rabid fans in the stands blow non-stop through out the games. The original intention was to blow 'em off in celebration of score, or when a fantastic show of defense from a goalie prevents the go ahead score...but, since none of these things happen in soccer, the vuvuzela wielding idiots in the stands constantly blow them for three continuous hours...just because.

At least the Irish have found a way of converting theirs to beer bongs so they can continue drinking while blowing!

But I have the solution to de-sucking soccer.

Here goes. At the end of the game, when the score is all locked up (hell, the way I think the game should be played, we'll just start all the games at the end since we all know they'll end up tied anyway), each team will get five balls, lined up, but not at the goalie in a traditional penalty shot manner, but instead at the stands. Now pay attention, because this is where it almost becomes a bearable reason to watch soccer. Once the balls are lined up, the teams will take turns kicking the balls, at the fans. More specifically, the fans that won't stop blowing those god damn horns. After the five balls are punched into the crowd, the team with the most vuvuzela's violently lodge into the throats of said 'fans' wins the game.

Whoo hoo, now that's a game I'd watch!

The NEW Golden Rule

2010-06-08T21:06:00.000-07:00

My buddy Jim, Jimmy, James or that Vietnamese guy that is trying to figure out a way to break into the porn industry, came to me with an idea. Or better yet a rule. A rule, for life. It made a whole lot of sense to me, probably more than it should but I have a sneaking suspicion that it will indeed make sense to the rest of you as well. And if not, I suspect you haven’t spent enough time stewing over the ignorance and fatness of Glenn Beck.

The NEW Golden Rule

CHOOSE CAREFULLY,

AND WHEN YOU HAVE,

AND YOU WILL KNOW IT,

GO AHEAD AND

KILL

THAT ONE PERSON

THAT, DURING YOUR LIFE

HAS BEEN A ROYAL PAIN

IN YOUR ASS...

Yep, you understood me correctly. We, as human beings, should be able to kill one person in our lives.

Alright, I know what you’re saying. “Holy crap, Ron. Under The New Golden Rule we get to shiv, shoot, run down with our ‘63 Chevy pick-ups, electrocute, decapitate, push off an extremely high cliff, or pack only one person tightly into a running wood chipper?“

And to that I respond, hey, let’s not be greedy with are distaste, distrust and pure yet evil hatred for much of the human race, even if they are complete idiots most of the time and couldn’t find there own balls if they were force fed to them by that crazy Hell’s Kitchen guy.

But, before you fly off the handle and call your local authorities, reporting me as a domestic terrorist or a modern day Attila the Hun, let me explain. Works like this. You get one kill, one hit, one chance, one opportunity to take out someone that you think needs to be exterminated, so…and this is a big so, you better choose wisely.

Now, if you know me at all, or have followed my Facebook rantings, and especially if you’ve read my blog on more than one occasion than you know that are some people I take considerable offense to. I’ve already mentioned Glenn Beck. Good choice but the comedy that ensues every time he opens his fat mouth would need to be replaced if one were to stuff him with an apple and rotisserie him, and I for one, don’t know if I could take the break in training period of another over sized, hypocritical, self-indulgent asshole that is on the top rung of the douche-ness hierarchy.

There are several others such as Paris Hilton and Lindsey Lohan, just for the simple fact that they are often considered to be a part of a human race, and frankly, I beg to differ.

Then let’s not forget the Evil Narcissistic Triplets and Crusaders For the FOX Network and All Things Despicable; oh and off spring of Satan...that being Rush Limbaugh, Ann Coulter and Karl Rove. These three should die, but they won’t be on my list. I figure Karma will kill them first, either an overdose of Oxycontin, a Dick Cheney shotgun blast to the face accident or the inevitable alien that is going to bursts from the innards of Miss Coulter. Something will do away with these crusaders before I have to consider it as my one 'offing'.

No, this group of people are too obvious and I’d feel like my ‘one’ take down would be wasted.

So...let's consider who might be on my list if The New Golden Rule goes into affect.

How about this gem? The 'smoking baby'. He's been known to throw tantrums when he doesn't get his two packs a day. HA, HA, HA...HOLY SHIT, HA!!! You should see the YouTube video where he comes down off heroin, watching Ewing Mcgregor crawling on the ceiling, his head wildly spinning 360's. What a hoot! This father, who started the pudgy little box of emphysema on cigarettes is a great candidate.

METHOD OF DEATH - A pack of unfiltered M-80's shoved up daddy's ass and lit with the hot end of a Camel Red. Woooot woooot!

Oh, if you haven't heard, BP is in the news. Yes, of course because of the giant oil slick in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, wreaking havoc on the environment and more than likely the wallets of every American in need of getting to work, but for something more offensive and worthy of a horrific death. That being that BP gave Jimmy Fallon a reason to be funny, and as we all know, Jimmy Fallon is not funny.

Here, take a gander.

"The BP president said yesterday that the company would survive. That’s like someone running over your dog and saying, ‘Don’t worry, my car is fine.’”

—	Jimmy Fallon

Now see, this is humorous and catastrophic, all at the same time. We can't have Jimmy Fallon being all funny and stuff, so this is why the executives of BP need to die, long, slow, deaths.

METHOD OF DEATH - We could take one of those large oil drills they use out in the gulf, slick it up real good and tap their ass's, hoping everything is up to regulation, and praying there is no explosion. Oh, and don't worry boys, I know just where to find plenty of lubricant.

See, this is fun, huh? And reasonable. After all, we all know there are plenty of people that deserve a strategically planned out and completely deserved death. Who would yours be? Would it be someone that cut you off in traffic, slept with your boyfriend...or would you save that one good 'offing' for someone more in need of leaving the planet such as pill popping actress or an evil, toe tapping under the stall of an airport bathroom stall politician?

Oh, one last thing. If you're at all offended by this latest blog, this idea for a new rule that may seem to involve much violence, blood shed and general desecration of humanity, one idiot at a time, please remember, this was the idea of my good buddy, Jim (aka - Jimmy Hung).

SCUZZYMONEY : DIRTIER THAN EVER

2010-03-04T22:16:00.000-08:00

I've changed the working title of my blog. Don't worry, I didn't change the URL, so the three faithful followers I have (kidding, actually think I might have five now) won't have trouble finding me. It used to be 'Life, love, death..."

Blah...blah...blah...For the love of god, I can't even remember what the name used to be, so how the hell were you all going to remember it.

Now, it's just SCUZZYMONEY. Everything that's ever been attached to my blog, my posts, my captions, my dirty Superman UnderRoos, and recently, my identity, has been SCUZZYMONEY. If you Google SCUZZYMONEY, you find me.

So, I've done away with the other title to clean up my life, while at the same time making it that much more scuzzy.

Thanks all, for your support and hope you keep coming back.

Ann Coulter Must Get Off The Cover of Playboy then DIE!

2010-03-01T22:19:00.000-08:00

Imagine my surprise when I climbed the stairs and into the dark, dusty confines of my past posts and found that I had never, not ever written about Ann Coulter. I mean I've always had a deep seeded passion for her, though, it's the kind of passion that the Jefferey Dahmer had for little boys and frozen dinners, but a real passion none the less.

Who couldn't love this ~~serpent~~ woman? First off, she's strong ~~smells like Rocky Mountain goat balls~~ and educated ~~trained by Satan himself~~ and if all that isn't enough, she's extremely attractive ~~the way two dogs sniffing each other ass is attractive.~~

Oh, and by the way, Ann Coulter is the reason that word processor programs include the little ~~'line through the word'~~ feature.

Hey, before I continue, have you all seen her cover of Playboy? Whewewyaowza....that woman gets my motor revving! And classy! Like all Playboy models reminds me of smart, intelligent, witty, charmingly funny, beautiful...good Lord, is that a tumor?!

And I understand she is indeed a smart woman that, if she can't win an argument, she sure can talk over you until you want to scoop your eyeballs out with a rusty spoon. So, in that sense, she's just prospering the way the Constitution intended and gave us the right to. Freedom of Speech, baby! Got to love America!

Although, at the same time, they probably never intended for women to vote, let alone 'express' an opinion, so what did they know?

Then this.

Ann Coulter Email Alerts

Get the latest emails alerts from Ann Coulter. It's Free!

This was an ad that popped up on the side of Facebook. You know, where the advertise subjects such as Glenn Beck, Mitt Romney, Bill O'Reilly and Extenz penis enlarging pills.

Which leads me to a quiz, kind of like that Sesame Street game, where you have to guess which one doesn't belong.

Trick question people. They all congregate at the same happy hour if you know what I mean?

*sound of the buzzards zeroing in*

Anyway, back to Ann Coulter, but if I do say so myself, wouldn't surprise me if she shouldn't have been included in my little game above.

So, here she is in an ad, on Facebook. Ann Coulter is willing to give you her Email alerts, for free. Yup, that's right, FREE. Isn't she swell? Make's me want to click on it and find out what I've been missing all these years, but truth be told, I won't. I have this sneaking suspicion that if clicked on it, it'll turn out to be a portal straight to the depths of hell and continual, nonstop opinion whore yammerings by Ann. And I'm sure this eternal torture will be handed out FREE with no strings attached.

Camera Conceit and Other Health Care Reform Concerns.

2010-02-24T21:05:00.000-08:00

I'm no doctor but I have to believe there's going to be an onslaught of tendinitis, bursitis, inpingement syndrome and Canon-Kodak cameraitis of the elbow and shoulder in the near future.

In this day of digital 'look at me' and 'hey, be my FB friend!', I began noticing something. A person has to look very closely, mostly because it's become so normal that the brain doesn't register this phenomenon but it's is indeed there.

I call it camera conceit.

Camera conceit is 98% of the pictures posted on the internet, the shot of a person holding the camera, pointed at themselves, taking posed photos to make themselves look 'cute' or 'action like', holding up peace signs or open mouth shots of Oreo's overflowing like chocolate lava. More than likely, if you look really close, they're just plain annoying.

This is where injuries are going to start happening. Mark my words. Two years, ten...heck, maybe thirteen years from now, it'll happen. There will be a run on emergency rooms around the world. People coming in with locked elbows, or tears in delts and serratus anterior muscles and even inflamed levatar scapulae that can only be repaired with long treatments of anit-inflammatorys and ice packs. The only way these are going to be prevented is a person employing their own personal cameraman or, simply using a tripod. Easy precautionary measured but surely the only way to overcome any future problems.
Take a look at a couple examples of camera conceit..

Oh, and before you get upset that I'm going to post unsolicited photos of strangers that I got off the internet, don't. These are my family members that happened to download their photos on my computer so I consider them public domain.

Though, no doubt about it, these people are extremely strange.

Here's a shot my son taking a shot of himself. Notice how he isn't taking a proper photo 'stance' and how his arm is crooked at a funny angle. Suggests to me large, future medical bills.

I sure hope his mother has insurance.

This is my niece. I had to listen to her whine and cry for hours one evening when she was a baby and she wouldn't let me change her crappy diaper.

But that's beside the point.

In this photo we're witnessing bad shoulder posture. She has her arm flexed straight out, but her clavicle is at a less than 45 degree angle, spelling rhomboid major muscle deterioration.

Scary...and yes, I am talking about that picture.

This kid...hmmm...I truly have no idea who he is.

Fact is, we're a nation of narcissists.

And before you say, "HEY! I've seen you do it. I've seen pics of you that I damn'd well know you took yourself!", let me just respond by saying, duh! Just look at me. If you looked this good, wouldn't you?

Stonie: My Personal Urbandictionary

2010-02-23T21:27:00.000-08:00

A while back I brought up my incarceration and that I walked away from it craving a cigarette something fierce and, more importantly, a whole bunch of stories. Coincidentally, the same week I got out, Facebook was doing a thing where people looked up the 'urban' meaning of their name on Urbandictionary.

Mine goes like this...

Triumph; desimates all in its path; very strong.

or

Strong, Protector, Lover, Fighter, Warrior. Stay on thier good side! If your a man he can be your best friend or your worst nightmare. If your a woman, wrap your arms and legs around him and hold on tight! If he is ambivilent towards you, embrace the fact that you are probably a loser.

and my favorite

Random Orgasmic Noise - Made usually after hearing some good news, a happy time in a woman's life and more than likely heard several time during an evening with the handsome author of scuzzymoney.blogspot.com. Example : "Ooooohhhhh Ron!" *orgasmic noise*

Urbandictionary...pshaaaw!

Let me tell you about 'urban'.

Here's one for you, to help you understand 'urban'.

Stonie was an inmate I met in County, but first a little back story. The first day I walked in to jail and threw my mat on the floor, I pretty much didn't have what you might call an appetite, especially after taking my first whiff of the gruel that the justice system likes to call food but I found it to be more of an abstract form of inedible nutrition The guards just liked to laugh when tossing it our direction, as if we were filthy swine. (Truthfully, that isn't so far from the truth, but that's for another day.) Anyway, Stonie was a fellow law breaker (although he was in on heroine possession and gun charges, and happened to be number 2 on Spokane's most wanted list) who had absolutely no problem eating what I didn't and I had no problem giving it to him, especially after the two hundred and forty pound, heavily tattooed man...well, let's just say, he wanted it. Who was I to argue? After some time, and the fact that I 'voluntarily' gave up my chow, Stonie and me got to be fast friends.

This is when Stonie began to let the stories begin, and his lessons in proper street talk began, like shootin' a vein with good ol' fashion 'brown'.

The second day in I learned a couple things. First, and before he began, he had to light up a cigarette. He said it calmed him, that in order to get the proper inflections and tones and make sure the subject matter fit just right, he had to have a smoke.

"Stonie, how you gonna light that up?" I asked. He smiled, and proceeded to take down an overhead halogen light bulb, smash it to bits and use the end pieces, connecting this little thingy majig to this other whatchamacalit, then stuck it back into the little hole in the wall where it came from and Paachowy!!! Cigarette lit.

The only thing I could say was, "You really smuggled that in, huh? Really? Up your ass?"

Stonie smiled. (Always smiling, he was. The happiest felon I'd ever met) "They don't call me the Keister Bunny for nothin'."

Then, and as much pain as it still causes me just thinking about, he told me that when all veins collapse from shooting up since the ripe old age of fourteen, a decent substitute is the penis! YES! I said PENIS! Truly, when I went in, my intention was to look at this experience as positive, maybe actually 'research' it for my writing and just get through it unscathed. PENIS!

Okay, physically I'm fine, psychologically...scarred for life.

Oh, you're welcome.

The next thing he taught me was about love. And not the soap-on-a-rope kind of love, you sick bastards! No, about 'poundin' guts'. Poundin' guts, bustin' guts, slammiin' guts. All the same thing. Sex. It's when you have sex with you're significant other, or your wife or the way Stonie liked to put it, "When I get out of here, first thing I'm gonna do is get me some dope and then slam some guts with my bitch."

Sincerely and with the complete zeal and naive way I have about me, I asked, "Isn't bitch kind of...uh...demeaning?" The way he told it, 'bitch' was properly used, not only as a derogatory slam on a person of female persuasion, but also when referring to the bitch that you're going to spend the rest of your life with, or until she stopped dealing your 'skag' in fear of being busted by 'jakes'.

The guy's a real romantic, and besides, who am I to argue?

Gene Shalit - I love you man!

2010-02-20T09:01:00.000-08:00

Watching the Tiger Woods apology, plans for the future and the death threats he put on the table if anyone got up in his families grill ever again got me to thinking about something much more important.

(Disclaimer : It wasn't a press conference, because the golfer didn't take questions, and therefore didn't give us the answer to the question we all want to know, that being, "Mr. Woods, is is true that you did indeed bump fuglys with all of Ray J's leftover sloppy seconds?")

My thoughts turned to relationships. When trying to make a relationship work, striving to achieve that perfect state of understanding and bliss, where a couple would compromise and sacrifice anything in order to make their lives everlasting together.

And more specifically, can a man and woman live in harmony if they don't agree that Gene Shalit's mustache isn't the coolest friggin' entity ever.

EVER!!!

Really, take a look at that thing. Sure, it doesn't appear to be all that subtle, and isn't, but the way in which it swoops down, reaching from ear to ear, almost as thick as an Amazonian rainforest. That is AWESOME! Then, as if that isn't enough, it receives high regards and critical acclaim from his hair, all gnarly and bush like, which is in a league all it's own, and maybe the makings of another story someday.

Don't stop looking now, because just when you think the heightened ecstasy of admiring the mans mustache is more than enough, here comes his tie, skidding into the picture like an out of control Lamborghini Gallardo, here to pick up the mustache for a crazy night out on the town, club hoppin', snortin' blow and watching over things like the uptight producer of a Neil Young documentary.

What the fuc...?

Anyway, that mustache is true. It's alive and I just bet Gene Shalit, because of his integrity and stick-to-it-dedication to that bad boy, he's probably carried on a long lasting, happy and extremely fulfilling relationship with a devoted and beautiful woman. (This isn't something I know for sure though, because I didn't really want to do the research, because of what I thought might in truth find, and not for one moment do I believe that anything I'm saying carries any weight.)

But, what I do know is that guys like a certain amount of facial hair that says somethin-somethin about us, and that the girls, do in fact admire that about us.

They dig it.

It's sexy.

Well, okay, maybe not, but I swore to my nearly hairless girl that someday, some way, I was going to find a way to get this picture posted on the world wide internets.

So, Gene Shalit, and your mustache, I thank you!

Shout Out to the Blog Gods

2010-02-17T10:33:00.000-08:00

This has been a trying past year or so for me. Lots of ups and probably a whole lot more downs then I'd like to admit. But, I like to think that I've come out of it a stronger man, with more direction than I've had in many years. A clarity of sorts.

Through this long year I've had a whole bunch of support that help from friends and family in that strong armed me into pulling up my boot straps. My beautiful girlfriend even slapped me silly a time, with a couple wedgies during 'conversations' thrown in, I suspect just because she thought it would be funny. Ha Ha and HA!

The one group of people I'd like to give special mention to is my family of bloggers. This group of people brought me out of a funk at times, and gave me the inspiration to start up my writing that I'd been 'saying' I wanted to do for a long, long time, but I had always made excuses not to, whether consciously or while in a semi-comatose state. More times than not that was where I found myself. Regardless, I find myself in a 'new' place, punching out my blog and writing a novel that I'd been 'writing' for years.

Oh, and Woody, I steal from you when I now use "Nut up or shut up!" as my new motto.

That being said, I'd like to do some 'advertising' for some of the blogs that have given me some laughs and inspiration. I know there are plenty of people missing out if they're not reading them.

I know I will have missed some, and in advance I apologize. Feel free to let me know and beat me down with a wet noodle if you like. Also if you have any suggestions or would like to be added to my list of reads, please leave a message. My secretary only bites when she hasn't had herFunyuns.

Hope you all enjoy.

http://www.unfinishedrambler.com
http://offendedblogger.com
http://speedcathollydale.blogspot.com
http://www.ryangarns.com
http://theredneckmommy.com/http://www.fathermuskrat.com
http://www.tiggyblog.com
http://www.cabbagesnkings.net
http://nonamedufus.blogspot.com/
http://www.nannygoatsinpanties.com/
http://www.lordlikely.com
http://www.midgetmanofsteel.com
http://blogs.reuters.com/oddly-enough/
http://www.jennyonthespot.com http://laughing-stalk.blogspot.com
http://pinkmonkeychatter.com http://www.thehussyhousewife.com/
http://www.momscrazylife.com
http://beetle-blog.com
http://deadrooster.com
http://adnoxious.blogspot.com
http://livitluvit.com
http://beesmusings.blogspot.com
http://olgathetravelingbra.blogspot.com/
http://www.outofthemouthofdave.com/

International Olympic Snob Committee

2010-02-16T08:29:00.000-08:00

I don't care about the Winter Olympics. I'd rather spend my time plucking ear hair or thrusting myself in front of a large vehicle, maybe a runaway snow plow or a Zamboni with spinning spikes protruding from the wheels and flame throwers mounted where their should be headlights. Of course, if they made that an Olympic event, you know I'd be the first one lining up for tickets. Kind of like Mad Max on ice.

My disdain of the Olympics could be that I'm not a winter person. I was born in Spokane, raised in Spokane, and since I, sarcastically put, love this place so much, I'm sure I'm gonna die in this god forsaken town. And since we 'experience' the four seasons, including the one where my annoyance of skin piercing wind is followed shortly by huge amounts of frozen precipitation accompanied by thirty-two car pile ups on I-90, I have to ask, what's not to like about the long, cold months that make up winter?

Lo and behold, there is something to ~~bitch about~~ discuss about the Winter Olympics.

A couple different things really, but both concerning the same groups of people, and I am not talking about the top two seeded women lingerie hockey teams slap shottin' a tightly rolled up brasserie and wrestling around, throwing girl punches in the middle of the ice (although I'd be lying if I was to say I wouldn't pay good money to see that as well).

No, what I'm talking about is the jerks that 'run' the Olympics. All politics and complete buffoonery, god love their high falutin ass's!

First off, did you know that women can't participate in ski jumping? It's true. And the reason, you're asking? Well, the International Olympic Committee declared that "Women's Ski Jumping does not reach the necessary technical criteria and as such does not yet warrant a place alongside other Olympic events." Course my favorite reasoning is by Gian Franco Kasper, FIS president and a member of the IOC. In 2005 said that he didn't think women should ski jump because the sport "seems not to be appropriate for ladies from a medical point of view."

Har!!! Are you kidding me? Have you seen those women athletes flipping, jiggling, bouncing and jouncing down the moguls? If a woman doesn't rattle her uterus loose after that, then I have to believe ski jumping is pretty safe.Then, as if you need to be reminded, Nodar Kumaritashvili, the Georgian luger who was tragically killed. Horrible. Though he knew the risks, there has to be regulations and safety 'nets' in place so this doesn't happen again. So, that being said, and in the most bloated, pretenious and down right fucked-up grandiloquent speech they could muster, the IOC and the International Luge Federation declared there were "errors" on the luger's part and “The technical officials of the FIL were able to retrace the path of the athlete and concluded there was no indication that the accident was caused by deficiencies in the track.”

Strange since the very next day they re-shaped the track and placed the participants lower to slow it down and added a wood 'wall' where Nodar Kumaritashvili was violently killed.

Okay, I understand my attitude isn't in the 'spirit' of the Olympics but I just don't get it. Probably never will, and maybe it has to do with sports taking place in high altitudes and inside rinks where the men wear sequin costumes. Maybe it depresses me, the weather, the cold, all the pot holes and oily slush.

Or maybe it's the daft assholes who, with Cuban cigars puckered up to their fat jowls and sipping their Bladnoch single malt scotch, make all the decisions for these athletes that train all their lives for these few fleeting moments.

Snow bound and gagged...

2010-02-12T11:23:00.000-08:00

Let's face it people, you're all a blizzard of whiners, blowing in nor'eastern winds. What is it with all the crying and whimpering and carrying on and naming a little snow things such as Snowpocalypse and Snowmaggedon? Kind of overkill don't you think?

Here's a picture of what your going through.

Ah....a snowball fight. You easterners are sure cute.

A penguin? Is this a ploy to the receive extra funding from the federal government? Really, it's just plain creepy. You oughta be ashamed and embarrassed.

Speaking of the federal government. Now the Secret Service on skis? Haven't you all heard of all seasons or studs? Pathetic!

Fact is you haven't seen snow until you've seen snow like we had last year in the Pacific Northwest. Nearly 90 inches all told, fell on us in the span of only a couple of weeks in December and January.

We had snow that crushed house roofs, caused little old ladies to fall down in the parking lots of Petsmart and forced us to sled to work on the roofs of our vehicles.

But did the government shut down? Did President Bush declare a state of emergency, calling our environmental problem Snowmaggedon? (Not that he could pronounce such a big, made up word.) Hell no. We moved on. Made the best of it and tried to enjoy it, knowing it would just a melted memory soon enough. Although, in all fairness, it did put a damper on the Aryan Nation compound for several days. Rumor was their bedsheets made them nearly invisible tromping through the forests, playing their silly 'Brotherhood of the Righteous White Man' games.

But damn'd if we'd let a little accumulated snow disrupt our lives.

Here, take a look at a Polaroid that I snapped of my 12 year old son on the roof shoveling off 13,000 cubic tons of the white stuff just before the house collapsed.

What a trooper he was.

I just don't get the the upheaval this has caused. Really. It's just a little snow that will be gone in a couple weeks and then you can go about whining about how humid it is.

One good thing that has come from your 'blizzard' is this YouTube video. This guy is the funniest weatherman I've ever seen. Had Letterman been even half as funny, he'd probably be as rich as Oprah, rather than scraping by on a measly $40 million a year.

Electronic Mayhem

2010-02-10T22:11:00.000-08:00

There are times that I can't live without my electronics. And there are a slew of 'em.

First and foremost, my BLackberry, or as I call it, my Crackberry. The damn thing is more addictive than crack after all. Weirdly enough, I can't tell you the exact moment it happened, but it's become a permanent fixture to my body. Like the prawn hand on that guy that got goo'd on in the movie District 9. If I'm not texting, then you can find me Googling strange south African musical instruments or the reason monkeys throw poop.

My Blackberry is awful handy when I'm wanting to send off a smartass Facebook post or find out who is following me, which that leads me to an idea that I have for an application on FB. I call it Why in the hell would you wanna follow Ron???

I also Twitter. Ugh...I said it. Swore I'd never Tweet, but in all actuality there are three things I swore that I would never do.

1. Get a perm, check.
2. Watch the Twilight gayfest, check.
3. And Twitter.

Two out of three ain't bad I guess.

And when it comes to my Blackberry, do not even get me started on Brickbreaker!

Then I have my laptop that I'm constantly writing this or that on, whether it's my blog or stories or the novel I've been working on since the Clinton administration. Back then there was no such thing as dual Pentium processor, just my trusty Intel i486 with a background on the monitor of Uma Thurman, pre-Pulp Fiction. (Oooh...how I would love to give that woman a shot of adrenaline!)

I have a Creative Arts Zen mp3 player. I've had my 30 gigs of musical storage box heaven for about five years. I refuse to buy into the Ipod phenomenon. Not that I have a problem with the Apple product. I just think Zen sounds cooler than Ipod.

Ayooooo....Zzzzennnnnn....Ayoooo....Zzzzennnnnn....Kinda relaxing when listening to the White Stripes, even at ear bleeding decibel levels.

Don't forget the t.v., dvd player, surround sound stereo, robotic vacuum cleaner, mixing bowl and my girlfriends ~~pleasure toys~~ err...curling iron. Lots and lots of gadgets.

Right now, one of my other favorite devices is my Sony Reader, a birthday gift I was pleasantly surprised to receive. It's a book with buttons rather than pages. It consists of electrodes, pixels, liquid levels and other friggin cool stuff rather than ink. I'm constantly reading and with my Reader I have stored some twenty-five or thirty books that I've downloaded and am either reading, about to read or have read. There are a lot of 'Libraries' to download off of....Barnes and Noble, Reader Library, Smashword, etc., with millions of books, newspapers and other publications that are easily accessible. The only down side to the Reader is that if you were to opt to censor a book for being trash and not appropriate for the kids, like Going Rogue by Sarah Palin's ghost writer, then it wouldn't be financially sound idea to toss the Reader into the large burning bonfire. Other than that it's very cool!

The funny thing about electronics is that this all came about today when I experienced a surreal moment. I had been writing on my laptop when I realized not only was the computer humming, but I had ESPN on the tube, I was listening to Bob Dylan through my headphones, was texting my girlfriend who was at work dealing with bratty kids and I had been trying to think up a clever post I could put up on Twitter about how much easier life was as a kid when I thought all things could be made better just by a giant pitcher of grape Kool-Aid crashing through the walls of my kitchen.

Seems like overkill, but at this point in my life I'm pretty dependent on all things of the electronic persuasion, and not so sure I could give up my electronic fix without some sort of support group.

Anyway, I got to run, people. My phone's vibrating.

CID #342051

2010-02-09T09:06:00.000-08:00

Confession I had an opportunity to spend some time time in jail recently. Twenty four days and three hours to be exact. All for the sake of researching why God hangs out with inmates.

Actually, I'm just messing with ya. Actually, dumb, dumb, dumb...but a life experience, a learned lesson and something that I plan on never doing again.

For my sake, and yours, since I brought it up, let me explain.

Drinking and driving. Don't do it, kids! Ain't worth it. During the time in my life that I was was caught with a BAC of somewhere between a 0.13 and thinking I could fly, if only I could remember what the hell I was doing. High. Way too high to realize that a cab would have been a wiser choice, yet not high enough to have decided that dancing on a barstool wearing only my boxer shorts. And thank God for that because I think I was wearing my lucky Homer Simpson drawers. I would have had to rethink luck.

Anyway.

Way! Too! High!

That being said, I hope, and like to think that I've learned from it. I haven't had a drink in nearly nine months. Now, I don't want anyone telling me "Wow, that's fantastic!" or "I'm proud of you." or even and especially "Shit dude, let's go knock back several shots of 5150 Tequila Blanco, washed down with eight or nine pints of Hefeweizen!" It is what it is and I know what I need to do to not do it again. That's all.

So I've taken a whole lot from this experience, both good but mostly bad. I am trying to put a positive spin on it it, but it can be trying. Believe me, the embarrassment, financial ruin, shame and the time I had to spend in tight quarters with smelly guys where personal hygiene comes no where near to topping their list of priorities has made me a time or two get down on myself.

Actually, truth be told, I've spent mucho time beating myself up over this.

But...here comes the positive Wait for it...wait....wait...a little bit longer...okay. Here goes.

Through all this I found family. Good lord, if they can stand by me through all the shit I put 'em through, they would stand by me through just about anything. Love ya, guys!

Then, Christel. The most beautiful woman that a man could ask for that, I, through all this, dragged through the mud, muck, anguish, turmoil and worst of all, into the visiting room at the Spokane County Jail. You, my love, I thank from the bottom of my heart. I can hardly put my trousers on in the morning without you, let alone have got through this debacle.

Another angle on the positive is that I've compiled a whole bunch of crazy stories. Stories that I plan on implementing in my writing. Let me tell you all, fact is absolutely stranger than fiction. So, now that Cool Hand Luke is a free man, having gagged down his last pickled egg, you'll be seeing more and more from me, parlaying stories of Stonie, toilet paper soccer (which I might add, is whole lot more exciting than the real thing), the Keister bunny, spades and Shit on a Stick.

So, be patient people, if you choose...because I'm back, with an even more twisted perspective on life and a focused knowledge that God does indeed hang out in jail, reading Harlequin romances and whittling chess pieces out of soap.

Chewy Toy

2009-12-27T20:31:00.000-08:00

Christmas has come and gone, ushering us toward a new year, with lots to look forward to and much we can look back on in total frick'n dismay. A year that I for one, am damn'd glad it's coming to an end, with a hint of sci-fi animal stench that can only seen, but never described.

Tell me this isn't the most hideous piece of future 're-gifting' you've ever seen in your life!

And this is just how it ended. I hope yours concluded more brilliantly and a whole lot less bright than mine did.

God bless ya, mom!

Anyways, the year wasn't particularly a good one. So many misfortunes and upheaval, like the death of Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett, all on the same day. The King of Pop, the gloved wonder, mysteriously moon walked off into a distant strange after-life suite, full of spiderman mask wearing angels sipping Jesus juice and serving his every need, how heinous it might be. Freak!

More tragic is Farrah. She was always my favorite personal Charlies Angel. Struck with the cancer and my childhood wank poster has long been misplaced. What's a forty-one year old man to do?

We started the new year with a new President. Yeeyowsa, people! Gonna miss Bush, ain't we, with all his seven week vacations and Iraqi shoe tossing games he got himself involved in? I mean when they cut those marionette strings that Cheney and Karl Rove were controlling, well, we lost the perfect politician to make fun of. You know how the world tried to fix the lack of 'funny' now that 'W' left office? NBC gave us Jay Leno in prime time. Kind of makes you want the little fucker back, huh?

Edna Parker 114 years, 115 days old of Indiana held the title of the oldest living human for all of three months and some odd days, til she died 'unexpectedly' when she found out David Letterman, native to her state, and love of her life, had cheated on her with his wife. In Letterman's defense, Edna became confused during her 112th year on the the planet.

Speaking of cheating, who could forget Tiger. Probably no one, but good gawd, let's try!

There were other sports figures in the news, though. Take Tour de France winner, Alberto Contador, which the best I can tell is the Spanish way of saying 'gift' because Lance Armstrong decided to just take third place.

But I'd rather get away from the glitter of death and the sad state of the nation, and onto my crazy, bungee jump sort of year. Lots of ups and downs, but from my perspective on the year is that I can only come out of it a stronger man. That being said and on a side note, I am taking donations of the soap-on-a-rope kind. Long story, don't ask, but has nothing to do with a short stint in county lock-up due my defending the honor of a tie-dye wearing, flat chested young lady fresh off the bus from somewhere near the Tetons.

Hey, I said don't ask.

Before the incident I was the proud manager of a relentlessly horrible optical retail outlet. Where doesn't matter - ~~EyeGlass World~~ - but the 'why?' that I despised this place with such a passion that was so deep and dark that I considered taking my own life by thrusting an extremely sharp, polycarbonate, hyperopic lens blank through my sclera...that, my friends, is the point I'm trying to make. I did opt out at the last moment when I was thankfully fired by my boss, the CHEST. First thing she'd done right the whole time I was employed there.

I took up writing, once again. My blog, scuzzymoney, was started back in late 2008 and then soon there after, sat, collecting dust, until, once again, I rebooted the old laptop and have yet to look back. Through these tirades and print-directly-to-the-internet(s) episodes of diarrhea, I've been doing what I love. And even if you aren't laughing, I am. And what I've found is that if I can only make myself laugh, at least someone is laughing, and in my tiny world, that's good enough. But thanks anyway!

I've met a beautiful woman who makes me happy. A sincerely genuine person, gorgeous, smart and funny, and more importantly, is more than willing to sucker punch me in the groin if I make stupid decisions, based on lapses in better judgement, which, in the past have been the trademark for my life.

Got one thing to say to you, sweety........

All in all not a good year, not really a bad year either, but by God, it was a year. I'm betting there isn't a single person out there that can argue with me on that.

And because I know that some people have had as self-incriminating, more downtrodden, a livelier itch in their nether regions, or flat out had a 'more' eventful year than myself, than I'm ready to help a hand. By proving, anything or anyway or anyhow, that might make yourself more pitiful than myself, then I'll consider sending my fine piece of Walmart, 100% cotton t-shirt, inflamed with Chewbacca, right on the front, to you to help bring some cheer back into your life. It's the least I can do for someone so despondent to take me up on such an offer. Good luck!

SANTA MUST DIE!!!

2009-12-22T23:17:00.000-08:00

HA! Now that I've got your attention, I'll let you know that I don't really believe old St. Nick should die. He didn't do nothing that constitute such actions. It was just a ploy to get you to check out my blog, so close to Christmas and all.

Don't go thinking the guy doesn't have a problem though. Check it!

See, that's what I'm talking about. Poor guy has a problem too, and you know why?

Hard. Economic. Times.

Santa is feeling the crunch as well as millions of people across the country, including yours truly. It's tough people, but you know what? I've decided not to let it get me down. Quite the contrary really.

You see, I'm unemployed, not much income what so ever, with some loving family members that surround me that won't allow myself nor my kids to go without. But, and I mean but, they won't see the kind of Christmas they've seen in the past. Strange but true, I'm grateful for this.

See, the kids won't get everything on their list, and may not get anything on the list, but they will 'get'. They're older, in their teens, so that's some what of a double edged sword. They aren't so young that I can fake it. I can't go to the back yard and whittle a pine tree branch down, engrave 'Louisville Slugger' on the side and call it a bat. On the other hand, they are old enough to know that when they do receive a shiny new piece of wood, they'll know it's not an Iphone.

I want them to know that I'm not the only one struggling, that a life lesson comes from this years Christmas, that they see that there are people on the street, cold and hungry, without family and friends they can turn to. I want them to know things could be a whole lot worse.

Hopefully they'll see this year that Christmas is about giving rather than receiving.

Besides, I have insider information that is telling me that Santa may be cashing in what's left of his 401K and taking a vacation.

Cheers
and
Merry Christmas All!

RWWells

Rita Must Die...uh....

2009-12-18T22:54:00.000-08:00

SPOILER ALERT

If you're at all a fan of the t.v. series DEXTER, and haven't seen the latest season and don't want to know what happens, don't read this. If you're a fan of my blog or just me in particular, I do take donations. Small bills, tens and twenties will suffice. Thanks!

_____________________________________________________________________

I’m real disturbed by Dexter. Not that he tenderized Trinity (John Lithgow - cast perfectly) with a framing hammer because we all knew this was coming. This is the structure of Dexter after all. For a whole season he chases the bad guy while chiseling, sawing, mincing, snuffing and power tooling the other bad people of Florida, although, I can only hope that Katherine Harris is of special interest to him in upcoming seasons.
No, what has me on alert is that he’s left himself in especially bad situations that I really cannot see how he’s going to explain. Not with much ease nor certainty.

Let’s cut this up and toss ’er in the Gulf Stream.

Deborah is on him like maggots on a corpse. And if she isn’t then the only thing I see positive about her character is her beautifully foul mouth. I’ve never been more turned on by a woman that can tell a person to ‘fuck off’ yet make it sound like a compliment. She now knows that the Ice Truck Killer was Dexter’s brother and that evil lurks around every palmetto that is her family. She was somewhat suspicious of him before, and if she isn’t now then I have to believe the writers were hired straight off the set of According To Jim. I suspect, Deborah will be officially let in on Dexter’s secrets, in one capacity or another. So, will she embrace this new information or will she get a bad case of diarrhea and amnesia caused by a bad breakfast burrito. What? This is where I see the writing going!

Trinity singled out Rita. For no reason other then, well…what? Okay, I know what most are saying, Rita bleeding out in a bathtub, how is this a bad thing, right? She was annoying, couldn’t put the baby to sleep or determine he had a fever without calling Dexter, and from what I could tell, she couldn’t brush her wax the kitchen floor without consulting Dexter. She’s leeched on, was dependant and was more or less a boil on my ass. Imagine how Dexter must’ve felt. You are also saying, the whiny bitch got what was coming to her. I concur. But how does Dexter explain all this? Rita sliced and soaking in her own DNA? What kind of excuse will he have for Harrison rolling around, finger painting in pretty reds? How does our favorite blood spatter specialist get out of this, with any sort of realistic chance of no one knowing he was connected to Trinity, which leads me to…that there is plenty of evidence linking Dexter with the Trinity Killer.

First off, the video that there’s sure to be at Dexter‘s place of work and sanctuary. Trinity shows up, having followed Dexter and wanders around the place like he owns it, like he’s scouting out his next bludgeoning. Then the handshake, physical proof that the two killers knew each other. Then, we’ll find out that Batista will suddenly and miraculously remember seeing the serial killer in the station. Connect the dots, from one video feed to the next, people.

Oh and let’s not forget Trinity’s family. For God sake, Dexter was a part of the family for weeks leading up to Rita being drained, which by the way, was the same time my celebration started. Not only did he go to Four Walls builds, but he had continuous close contact with the three remaining members of the Trinity family clan. Befriending the son, sexual favors offered up by the daughter, and the mom, well, I had hoped she would have been the next victim in the cycle, throwing herself off a large building, to no avail though. And not only did Dex have contact, but he was there the moment SWAT came rappelling through the front windows. How will Dexter explain all that?

And while were talking about family, what about his. The kids. How the hell does Dexter take care of three kids while doing his job working for the police, while Saran wrapping and miter sawing victims and, most importantly, while trying to redirect any and all suspicion. They were a handful with Rita, but now that she’s gone, how does he keep up the hectic pace of his now? I suspect he’ll ship the step kids off to the goofy grandparents while he takes Harrison under his wing and begins the long and inevitable teachings, that are THE CODE.

However it all goes down next year, I’m sure the Dark Passenger talks him through all the bloody messes that Dexter has got himself into but what I suspect, and fear most of all, is that the writers are going to massacre the next season, leaving us watchers dying for another favorite serial killer to root for...

I hear Manson some spare time on his hands. Maybe we can let him go, train some cameras on him and call it reality. That kind of fun filled carnage writes itself. Uh...ya, maybe not.

TIGER WOODS MUST DIE!

2009-12-13T14:15:00.000-08:00

Okay this is a weird one for me. I find that in my continuing 'Must Die' series, the people that are in the news, on 'Extra' for ungodly days in a row, being manhandled by Chelsea Handler or simply being ridiculed by their political adversaries. And that makes me happy because most of all, I believe most, okay all, politicians must die. They set themselves up for it, as if it pumps through the veins of these cretins.

But today I want to talk about Tiger 'Chasing Tail' Woods.

Now I know what you're saying.

"Damn you, haven't we already played four, eighteen hole rounds too many with this guy?"

Or "Do we really care if this low life, wife cheatin', bottom feeding carp ever steps on the green ever again?"

And finally, "Who the fuck cares? Jesus, I'm going to find another blog out there that isn't discussing this peckerheads infidelities?"

But before you leave, bear with me.

I don't condone the guy, don't understand his thinking, and for that matter, I believe he only thinks with his penis. But by God man, how much thinking is 'Lil Tiger' doing jumping from cheat to cheat. Barely has time to come 'out' for air.

As for his family, my observation is that it's just that, between him and the family.

Remember when ol' Slick Willy left his DNA stained mark on Monica Lewinskys dress. What business was it of ours? Because he was our Commander in Chief? Huh?

Couldn't get him on anything but him living out a fantasy of Cuban cigar coital shenanigans. Couldn't get him on the Whitewater scandal, Trooper Gate tailgate party, and there was no Iran-Contra type allegations, although he was accused of illegally sending sex toys to the middle east, better known as the Iran-Condom debacle. So, the guy was impeached by the House, using our wasted dollar and sent on his way two years later with a 66% approval rating. Gotta love our Democratic process!

During this, I had a friend tell me that President Clintons 'ways' were a national security issue. Huh?! Why? Because there was a good chance Hillary would go nuclear, disintegrating most of the eastern seaboard?

Had nothing to do with national security. It had everything to with the fact that the guy loves to wet his wiener.

Same goes for Tiger. Who does it harm, his chasing restaurant waitresses around high end, luxury hotel suites other than his family?

It certainly isn't going to affect the PGA. Sure, he's taking a break but we all know that won't last long. He'll be back. They will make sure of that, because if they aren't making money, the players aren't making money, and if this happens, John Daly will more than likely lose his ~~contract~~ contacts with Harrah's and Jack Daniels. And that isn't going to happen.

Speaking of endorsements, more specifically Eldrick's endorsements? Pshaah! We all know that Gillette will pick him up once again once he 'returns' in January, maybe February. As for the others-Nike, GatorAid, General Mills, Cadillac etc. etc. etc., they won't leave him stranded, not for long anyway. They can't afford it, especially knowing that someone else will pick him up quicker than Tiger can pick up a showgirl in Vegas. He's a cash cow.

Hell, he'll probably get a few directly linked to this controversy. Trojan maybe? KY Jelly? Or the Deja Vu strip club franchise?

No, the reason I'm thinking Tiger Woods must go away, must die, is that with all the money in the world, the skill to control a tiny white ball like no one in the history of golf...with all that going for him, he is a ridiculous idiot. Doesn't take a rocket scientist, or even a professional golfer, to know that if you slice your balls into the water too many times, the groundskeeper is going to figure you out and chase you out of the country club. An absolute 'tard that has no business taking up air space on television any more then he has the right to lead the Abstinence Clearinghouse or Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

And because he's a complete moron, we the general public have to hear about it day in and day out? Knowing full well, that this too will pass as the Clinton controversy did, just as Kobe Bryant walked away unscathed after raping and the way Nick Nolte is still an icon, even after that mugshot? We should be tortured because he's a hypothetical, narcissistic man-stain on our hypothetically speaking Monica Lewinsky cocktail dress?

His lifestyle is of no concern, doesn't affect my families decisions, and honestly, doesn't have any say in what kind of sneakers I find myself shopping for.

He is everywhere, all the time, and I'm damn'd tired of him. Simply, that is the only reason, the most important reason I believe the world would be a better place if he were to get run down, gruesomely, by a retired, half blind dentist behind the wheel of a souped up golf cart.

So DIE Tiger! I want my television viewing habits back, uninterrupted by another 'breaking news story' of your discretion's!

Wii All Need a Little Religion

2009-12-07T14:03:00.000-08:00

The other night my son, my lovely girlfriend and myself were six hours into a Dexter marathon when an interesting topic of discussion came up. Interesting because how or why it came up during Dexter is still a bone of contention, considering he was putting a 12 inch carving knife through the heart of a Saran wrapped victim.

Wouldn't it be cool to design a game that mixed the aerobic energy needed to burn some calories while at the same time, saving your soul?

"HA!!! That would be friggin' cool," I said responding to my thirteen year old boy.

Truth be told, my son and myself did a whole lot more laughing than my beloved girlfriend did. Funny. Some people take offense when conversation turns to ~~video games~~ religion.

So, goes like this. We got to thinking how spiritually uplifting, cardio building and generally ass laughing fun it would it be to combine computer video game playing with religion.

Let me explain, starting with video games.

Bowling. Everyone loves it, especially that geeky, pock face high school kid that constantly got beat up on the football field. Now make it interactive. The Nintendo Wii has done just that. You stand in front of the T.V., aim at ten pins down the lane then with a wildly retarded looking swing of your arm that holds the controller, thus magically sending your ball rolling down the screen, the lane, until the ball goes in the gutter. That's how I roll, baby! Okay, so not only have you got a mildly small workout, burning say, 22 calories, but you also wake the next morning with a severe case of bowling elbow, controller arthritis and laughter directed at you by your youngest son for being an old fart.

Now here is how the religion would meet gaming.

The tutorial starts out the game. You enter the ROTC (Recruiting Offenders Training Center) where you learn to knock on doors trying to convert sinners, pedal your Schwinn, going from one tainted community to next, accepting free meals to keep your energy high, slinging pamphlets at interested soul searchers and, in case you might end up in Indonesia you learn another language. These people would be on expert level, having already conquered and spread the word through all of Texas and Florida.

Before you leave the ROTC, you get to choose your religion. You can be Jewish, Southern Babtist, Hindu, Catholic, Mormon or a Korean shaman. But choose wisely because by picking the 'wrong' religion your, and depending on the faith you put your stock in, your energy, faith, belief spiritual guidance points can deteriorate quicker.

Once you leave the ROTC you practice your skills in your new home that takes you away from your family, your friends and your girlfriend that is probably already moved on with the high school quarterback, which if you can withstand the humiliation of this and move on yourself you receive 'humble' points, thus bringing you closer to God. Plus, you gain the inside knowledge that Karma is a bitch, and she'll be struck down by Lucifer with a nasty case of herpes.

Biking from place to place you would use the technologically advanced controller that supplied. Strapped to your legs, arms, your temples (Ha ha ha!) and a hand held one that would be used to swing the Bible or the Koran at rabid pitbulls. This new technology would give you a realistic duplication of movement so precise that it's almost scary. Ringing doorbells or running from an angry mob of atheists would be acted out just as you would in real life. Even the handshake, if done properly, with the proper grip, you would convey strength, empathy, tolerance and love all in one firm meeting of the hands. This is a perfect way to gain points.

By entering the homes of unknowing converts, you now have the opportunity to show off your faith skills. By getting them to sit through the first lesson, then the next and the next, you slowly build your way up the 'religious hierarchy' chain and closer to eternal bliss.

Paying your 10% tithing, though at the time decreases your monetary wealth, down the golden road to righteousness, gains you more and more paisley ties, giving you obedience points.

Don't be fooled though. The 'evil' one, Satan, won't be beaten back so easily though.

Along your journeys you'll encounter temptation lurking behind every dark crevice. There will be strangers offering you coffee when you enter their home, and while it will give you a temporary boost, in the long run, it will knock off deity points. You will run across those crazy followers of Darwin and the Evolutionaries, the local rock band, with their chart topping hit 'Rockin' You with Science.'

Worst of all, the nasty tree huggin' Liberal. When meeting up with these people, if you're strong enough at the time, your can dissuade these horrible people by claiming Obama, though not cowering in a school room full of six year olds, was the reason for the war in Afghanistan.

Or if you can convince the leftist leaning Democrat pigs that the increasing debt incurred over the past eight years actually began after Bush left office, then a seat in heaven next to the Almighty will be yours.

So...if there are any video game designers out there, if, and when you make this idea come to life, I'd sure appreciate a little Hail Mary sent my way. My cut would only be 10%

Can I get a big old amen brother?!

Mike Huckabee Must DIe!

2009-12-01T22:33:00.000-08:00

NOTE - My ongoing 'Must Die' series is a massive success, drawing rave reviews from not only my readers, but critics, personalities and Judge Judy as well. So...that being said, if you would like to contribute by giving me a person of interest, someone that 'Must Die', I would be happy to take suggestions.

Thank you to all my beloved fans, RWWells.

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Huck huck, bo buck, banana fana fo fuck!!! Mike Huckabee, you pompous ass, you must die!

First off, let me just say, Maurice Clemmons got what was coming to him. Shot dead by a police officer, fearing that the suspected killer of four Lakewood, Washington police officers was going for his gun. The police officer reacted viligantly, with purpose and without hesitation knowing that the man confronting him was indeed the man that with the utmost of cowardice, executed not only four innocent cops, but four innocent people. This guy deserved to die.

But what irritatingly scratches at my craw is that Mike Huckabee, in the same breath that he was saying "If I could have known nine years ago this guy was capable of something of this magnitude, obviously I would never have granted a commutation" he was blaming the Pierce County court system for allowing Clemmons bond out on charges of 3rd degree assault, malicious mishchief and later, second degree child rape.

Again, I'm agreement, what with Clemmons criminal record, I believe the bastard shouldn't have had the chance to walk on a $150,000 bail. The guy should be rotting in prison, slurping slurry soup and bunking up with Bubba, but they did let him walk and that will have to be looked into.

But the point is, after he was released from the Arkansas prison system, he continued committing heinous crimes until he found his way to the state of Washington.

Oh, but Maurice wasn't the only one with the long record, was he? For instance, Mike during his ten plus years as governor of Arkansas, didn't just commute Clemmons, but...give me a moment...counting....sorry, long list....oops, gotta get a new battery for the calculator...okay...just one more second...YES!!!! Final tally of commuted criminals...1,033!

1,033! One thousand and thirty-three! One more than a thousand and thirty-two yet one less than one thousand thirty-four, thank God! By my estimation (and the quality research time my assistant put in) that is more pardons than the surrounding six states combined - Mississippi, Louisiana, Oklahoma, Tennessee, Missouri and Texas. To be fair though, Texas doesn't commute anyone, but instead electrocutes you for spitting on the sidewalk, so they don't count.

Not only that, Maurice Clemmons wasn't the only violent criminal to have his conviction commuted by the good governor that ultimately went on to re-offend. In 1997, he helped in getting Wayne DuMond, a convicted rapist release and back on the streets so he could rape and kill another woman.

Mike you are a fuck wad, a scum sucking pig and a boil on my ass! Please go away! I'm sure there is a iron barred cell in hell with Maurice Clemmons awaiting your arrival.

A spill of Biblical proportions!

2009-11-20T21:09:00.000-08:00

I'm not a religious man, maybe thankful that I haven't been run down or pistol whipped by a jealous boyfriend, but not religious. Maybe I should be but I'm just not.

Don't get me wrong. I feel as if I'm a spiritual person, in the sense that I find myself lost in thought, wondering, considering if there is a higher power. But life is busy and gets in the way sometimes, like, say a re-run of Scrubs is about to begin, which in turn takes me onto that line of deep thinking.

I do dig religion though. Great entertainment, and if nothing else, it gives convicted felons the perfect excuse for early release while sitting in front of the parole board.

My basic outlook is this. Do good by others, good will be done upon thee, and if that doesn't work, well...pour sugar in their gas tank. Just joking, but you know what I'm saying. It just plain makes sense, right? You treat others with respect and you'll see returns.

Course, it goes both ways. If you choose to rape, pillage, murder or hunt for moose with a bow and arrow in the off season, well, an eye for eye, or death, whichever comes first!

Religion is out there, whether you like it or not. It's everywhere...television, the newspaper, sometimes knocking at your front door or screaming fire and brimstone from atop a pulpit. And why not? That is the fundamental make-up of our great country. That's why our forefathers traveled across the ocean and why they had to fight for their independence and why they had to eventually evict those snarky Brits, sending the snaggle toothed bastards back to where they belong! Freedom of religion, the right to worship whomever or whatever one chooses.

Most worshipers throw on their finest Sunday duds, clip on the paisley tie, shine up there loafers and find their way to the local Presbyterian, Lutheran, LDS, or Jewish house of worship. In the case of Scientologists they congregate at L. Ron Hubbard Peak in Colorado or someplace mountainous, strap on Nike's and drink purple Kool-Aid while mocking how short Tom Cruise is. Okay, again, just kidding. I'm probably getting my ~~cults~~ - ~~science fiction~~ religions mixed up and probably pushing my luck, but hey, I never claimed to be a theologist.

My biggest problem with religion is that some choose to prey on the pocketbooks of misguided and people of lost faith.

"Send us the title to your Airstream, Mr. Jenkins, and the promise of eternal life is yours!"

"Edith, the good Lord above is waiting for you, with a place at his dinner table, if only you write that check for $5,000!"

Makes me sick!

Well, it did, that is until this morning when it dawned on me what was really going on. It wasn't about preying on the weak but about giving hope and opening the eyes of those without faith and belief.

This became apparent to me when I got home from my daily, early morning run...to Starbucks for my Venti quad shot mocha. What happened next tested my faith in religion, college basketball and the all mighty Super Big Gulp.

Getting out of the car, I bumped my head, lost a handle on the java and it tumbled to the ground. Cursing, cussing and taking the lords name in vain, followed by hurtling insults at the young missionaries walking past, a glorious vision captured my eye. From the point of the java explosion.

This is what I saw! And if you look close enough, I promise not only will you see it, you'll also feel the power!

So, as of tomorrow, I'm taking tickets, $5 a piece, selling t-shirts and soda pop and with an additional donation to the First Church of Wells, you can have your picture taken with the Virgin Mary Mocha stain.

But get here early. A bus load of pilgrims are scheduled at 11:00 A.M.

SARAH PALIN MUST DIE!

2009-11-17T12:13:00.000-08:00

My ongoing series on people who must die flies north for the winter. Then south into Texas, to East Philly, taking I-80 into Chicago for Oprah, back to GMA and then...well, from there, I can only hope it crashes in a Nebraska cornfield!

Today is the day that Sarah Palins book, "Going Rogue", comes out. Her calling of sorts. She having told Barbara Walters in an interview about her future in television, "I'd probably rather write than talk." Really? Mrs. Palin, when are you going to start this new found career of yours, writing that is? On your next book? Are you going to fire your ghost writer, or keep her around to breast feed your baby and keep a look out for Russians?

Am I the only one that is sick and tired of this woman? It's become so bad that I'm considering putting myself down like Barbaro after the Preakness so I don't have to see her smug little face any longer! I'm afraid that's going to be what has to happen though, because she isn't going anywhere.

Did this country not learn their lesson when she ran as John McCain's little bitch? He brought her on to boost his impossible chance at continuing the route that ~~Karl Rove and Dick Cheney~~ Bush engineered, but instead she hurt what little chance he had.

The woman has no credible thought process. This, the McCain camp knew, thus their resignation about letting her do unrehearsed interviews. And when she did try this out, talking with real life people, she embarrassed the campaign, the cause, her husband, and the entire frozen state of Alaska. Even the Alaskan short-tailed weasels cringed when she tried to 'take on' Katie Couric. What a mess that was!

Newspaper?

"By gum, what's a newpaper, Katie?"

Now she's claiming she was being 'badgered' with a 'partisan agenda'. First off, let me just say, GROW SOME BALLS, SARAH!!!! We all know you got 'em hiding up there somewhere!

Badgering?

"We have them critters in Alaska, Katie. Should see 'em. Big as, well, big as badgers, they are!"

Partisan?

"Well, Miss Couric, we love ourselves a good ol' humdinger of a party up where I hang my hat, we do!"

Thank the good partisan lord above that the voters figured out and understood she was an idiot before it was too late. My thinking was it was inevitable that McCain would have ended up braking his skull wide open falling down the West Wing steps due to a geriatric hip, leaving Palin as our Commander in Chief.

Whew!!!!

Okay, that was the past, but what about the future?

This is how I see this playing out and what I truly fear the most. Sarah Palin is going to run in the next presidential election, and that she will win on November 6, 2012. Good new is that it will be short lived, knowing the world is scheduled to end December 21, 2012.

Gotta love Armageddon huh!

Mysterious reads, but why cats?

2009-11-16T17:20:00.000-08:00

The Avett Brothers said it best when they sang, 'Ten thousand words swarm round my head, ten million more in books I've read, ten 'neath my bed...'

I like to read. Magazines, books, blogs, cereal boxes with puzzles on the back. Doesn't matter where I'm at, what I'm doing, I find myself reading.

I tend to hearken back to the Beat Generation of writers; Kerouac, Burroughs and Ginsberg. Bukowski, I will forever and always go back to because....well, I like to live out the drunken, womanizing world through his words. I've taken on classic authors such as Vonnegut, Hemingway, Poe, Sir Arthur Conan 'OBrien' Doyle and of course, Dr. Suess. Even Stephan King, John Grisham, Elmore Leonard and Michael Crichton have found their way to my shelves.

And, yes, I read Playboy for the articles. *wink* *wink* *nudge* *nudge*

My literary likings of late, though, lean toward mystery in the fictitious way, and mostly the Florida mystery. Intrigues me. Carl Hiassen, Dave Barry, Tim Dorsey and Jeb Bush. The latter isn't a writer of sorts, but by God, he's a mystery to me. Plus, I just like saying Jeb.

Jeb, Jeb, Jeb!!!

The question of why Florida makes for such a good background for a novel is hardly difficult to understand. Simply put, the state is a clusterfuck of dissention, discord, criminal behavior, strife and contamination. Walt's world was bulldozed by Goofy, chomping a cigar with a soundtrack of flatulent outbursts, all with a smile on his face, all in the name of more pollution and environmental atrocities!

This is funny stuff, man! And this is why Florida is fun to read and incredibly hard to write about, because the old saying 'fact is stranger than fiction' is three times truer in Florida.

Character. Geography is important, but character is what makes these books, these visionaries great, though. For me anyway.

Take for instance, Tim Dorseys, Serge A. Storms. A perfectly lovable Florida historian/serial killer that roams the byways and islands of said state. Mess with Florida in anyway, you'll find yourself on the wrong side of a history lesson and booby trap consisting of a sawed off shotgun and the rumble of the Space Shuttle Atlantis.

Another favorite character of mine is one of Carl Hiaasen's ongoing cameos, his name being Skink. Skink, is a former governor of Florida that tires of the corruption of politics and decides to leave office early to live off of roadkill, targeting molesters of the land and tying himself to large bridges in order to 'ride the storm out' of Category 4 hurricanes.

As you may well know, living through a hurricane is a goal of mine, though, just not duct taped to a metal beam of any kind.

Mystery is an easy read, not too much thought, a distraction really. And for whatever reason, late onset ADD or early onset Alzheimer's, I've found the less confusion I can steer away from, the better.

What I don't get, but admit never delved into, is the whole 'cat' mystery. I certainly hope not to offend anyone, but, isn't it enough that this world is full of those crazy, blue hair'd cat ladies? You just know their grandkids are bitching because they have to shovel up two and a half tons of cat shit out of the living room before they have a shot at collecting any part of granny's estate. And this is just every other Sunday, while the old codger is still breathing. Just imagine what they'll find when the crazy, old...er...never mind.

Anyway, maybe I don't understand the cat premise. Do these cats have soothsayer powers that help them solve crimes, at the same time completely ignoring their owners? Do they purr up against the bad guy when they detect a mischievous plot? Do they play 'good' kitty, 'bad' kitty when questioning their suspect?

Regardless, to each his own, right? If you like it, read it, because one day the written word just might go the way of the dodo bird, or the typewriter (remember those?) and all we'll be left with is kids that know how to splice a sentence together using only a keypad of a cellphone.

God help us all!

SCUSE ME MISS, ARE THOSE NEW?

2009-11-14T11:12:00.000-08:00

Criminal Intent: One Quarter at a Time

2009-11-11T13:16:00.000-08:00

By no means am I an economist, nor a mathematical genius like Matt Damon in 'Good Will Hunting' but I want to tell you my theory on how to fix the economic upheaval, at least in my part of the world, but I'm betting it would work in your part of world also.

Crime baby! Good old fashioned criminal behavior.

Wait, wait, wait! Let me offer my reasoning.

I spent the better part of Monday in court, but before you start condemning me to the hanging gallows let me explain that I wasn't tried for rape, arson or the pillaging of any village. And while murder wasn't the charge either there were certain voices in my head telling me that wouldn't have be such a bad idea somewhere around the time the second hour ticked by on the clock that hung from the wall of the courtroom.

There were two intermissions. The first intermission was expected but the 'second' was due to a fire alarm. When the alarm went off, everyone safely and diligently filed out of the building, as adults have been trained since childhood to do, but what caught my attention was that not one judge, probation officer, prosecutor or copper seemed or looked surprised.

This didn't arouse suspicion til later on, about three hours after I had arrived for court, and about an hour after my parking meter must have expired. It really began looking like a crime when I opened my parking ticket and found a $15 'bonus' for spending the day in court.

Yee fucking haw!

With no one looking surprised by an unplanned 'fire', makes me believe that this, due to economic hardships by the city, is a way of making a buck off dumbass's such as myself. During either intermission, I could have ran down and plugged the meter, but not knowing how long each break would take, I chanced it and unfortunately for my unemployed ass, got nailed.

This is why I believe it was an 'officially unofficial planned intermission' and unless you're in the loop, well, it's just plain 'unplanned'.

Funny isn't it? How the city can't fill the damn'd potholes around town that become large enough to sail good size oil tankers across, but they can hire more and more parking meter officers.

So, having way, way, way too much time on my hands, and in the name of research, I traveled back downtown yesterday and what I saw was motorcycle meter men buzzing around, pissed off like a swarm of hornets. They were everywhere, slapping $15 tickets on cars parked minutes over the time limit. And if I saw them nab one car, then it may as well have been seven or thirty-three. Too many to count, couldn't keep up!

Thus, my economic relief theory, proven! Crime really does pay.

How 'bout them apples?

Hurricane Trudi

2009-11-06T12:53:00.001-08:00

Day 46 and I still don't have a job.

I'm bored but right now it's better than being tormented by the Optic Nazi and spitting up my spleen.

So that's good right?

I have done things to keep myself busy though.

Take for instance, I've perfected the art of picking up the house and washing the dishes in just two minutes and thirty seven seconds, knowing my lovely girlfriend will be home in three minutes and eleven second. HA!!! Thirty-four seconds to spare.

Though, I think she's picking up on my devious ploy by the way she oddly looks me up and down with those suspicious eyes, as if wondering why the hell I'm profusely sweating when she walks through the front door.

I've been spending a lot of time writing, mostly what you're reading right now, and whatever you might want to call it...writing, blogging or meaningless pablum and grotesque diarrhea of the brain, it is a hobby that I enjoy.

I'm hoping one day to expand it past a hobby and into a career of sorts.

I'm writing a book.

Ya, you're asking?

Well, yup. And thanks for asking!

It's a science fiction piece, loosely based on fiction with no a shred of science involved what so ever.

No, just kidding. Truthfully, it is fiction, it does have a humorous tone, and someone is sure to die a horrible death by porcupine, but at this time, that is all I can give disclose at this time.

One thing I can tell you is that I have been doing a lot of research. Been reading a lot of humorous pieces recently, people like Carl Hiaasen, Patrick McManus, Douglas Adams, Tim Sandlin, Tim Dorsey and my favorite of late, Sean Hannity's 'Deliver Us from Evil: Defeating my Soul and Sending it Straight to Hell!'

Writing a book has always been a goal of mine but never felt attainable until recently. It isn't that I'm anywhere near to finishing a truly readable manuscript. Not even close, but I do know that I'm in a better place to do so. I ask myself why and the only thing I can figure is age. The older I've grown, the more secure I am in myself and that translates into my writing. It's a confidence that plainly put, is that I don't give a crap what people think of me.

If only I would have had this attitude when I was younger. Man o' man, think of the possibilities! Wouldn't have been served divorce papers because I wouldn't have been married. I wouldn't have gone into the world of optical manufacturing therefore wouldn't have put myself in a position where I'm diagnosed with those nasty ulcers and the desire to poke out a certain optician's sclera.

And, I would have settled in a Key West hammock some twenty years ago, maybe been a hobo, jumping a train or hitching a ride or two into Mexico, recreating Kerouc's journeys, and finishing my travels with a Hemingway like stay on the beach; breathing in the salty air, getting inspiration from the majestic sunsets, and growing grouchier by the minute.

Awww...

But, being older, with more wisdom and a wealth of confidence, if I ever get to the furthest southern point of America, I'll do it the more conventional, less romanticized route. Out of Spokompton I'll buy a one way ticket to Boise, with the hopes that the pilots fall asleep and don't regain consciousness til it's too late to turn around and we'll have to refuel in Atlanta. From there I'll either hitch it or steal me a moped, the perfect means of transportation on the islands.

And just to gay down the 'ped, and being in the south, I'll paint her black and slap a big #3 on the side. Boogity, boogity, boogity...gentlemen, start your engines!

By the way, you might have already heard, but living through a Category 4 hurricane that I have already named Trudi is a dream of mine. Trudi was a gal that I once knew that could uproot a palm with one windy gust of her personality, and made people run for their lives.

But woulda, coulda, shoulda! Right? Can't live in the past so instead of looking backward, I'll take a look at the future and set my sights on a beach where written word and inspiration must flow like rum if you have sun, surf and bikini clad co-eds prancing around playing volleyball and pondering big questions like, "I hear Trudi is heading this way. Think we should head inland or go hang with the locals at the Hogs Breath Saloon?"

I'm opting for the saloon, taking in the spirit of Hemingway, Jimmy Buffet serenading us from the jukebox, and a cervaza in each hand waiting for the bitch to show her nasty face.

One day, baby!

Dr. Limbaugh

2009-11-02T18:51:00.001-08:00

Mike Freeman of CBS Sportsline.com was once quoted as saying, "Please, Rush Limbaugh, do not let any discussion of sports ever leave your lips again. Each time you do, you sound like a moron."

This quote came after Rush was quoted saying, "Look, let me put it to you this way: the NFL all too often looks like a game between the Bloods and the Crips without any weapons. There, I said it."

I have a problem with what Mr. Freeman believes. Rush doesn't sound like a moron, he is one!

There, I said it.

I've always believed this but recently my feelings toward him have got bad enough to write about. Don't get me wrong, I would like to believe that every man should be given a pass for his shear lack of humility, but good lord, this man borders on retardation.

Whoa, whoa, whoa there!

Sorry. Didn't mean that. By saying that I'd be implying that he has any sort of intelligence bouncing around in that fat head of his, and it wouldn't be giving enough credit to those with impaired cognitive function. Let's face it, he brought this on, and has no excuse for his behavior other than just being Rush!

My disdain grew this weekend when I witnessed him say to George Stephanopoulos "if I wanted my ego to be as big as Obamas....".

Really?

Let's dissect this.

Before Limbaugh turned himself in for shopping around docs to feed his prescription drug use, he had condemned and all but sent convicted drug users away to Sing Sing for the rest of their lives. Of course he was never convicted, so this doesn't apply to him. He paid $30,000 to pay for the cost of the prosecutors investigation and provided the party 'favors' at the first annual 'Rush is a Free Man Because He Wasn't Convicted' golf tournament in Palm Beach.

Oh, and he's taken random drug tests since 2003. Doesn't sound like a drug abuser to me. Sounds like a man with little or no ego, huh?.

Then, his attack of Michael J. Fox.

Said of Mr. Fox, he is "exaggerating the effects of the disease. He's moving all around and shaking and it's purely an act ... This is really shameless of Michael J. Fox. Either he didn't take his medication or he's acting."

As we all know Michael has Parkinson's Disease and with all the meds he has to take, there is sure to be side effect besides the actual disease, but problem is he wasn't picking up his drugs at the 'Limbaugh Pharmacy' so those drugs don't get the Rush stamp of approval.

Now, if Michael were in need of Oxycontin or Viagra, Rush could hook him up and he wouldn't actually have to go to a 'real' doctor.

Lovely guy, huh?

Then their is what he calls the 'phony soldier'.

Let's pretend your taking heavy fire from Al Qaeda in the mountains of Afghanistan or a six year old boy blows apart your buddies guts from the inside out on the streets of Baghdad. Then, from being on the ground, at the front line, you decide you really don't like it, that this may not be the proper approach to solving this conflict, that maybe, just maybe, George W. was an arrogant, greedy bastard that was only trying to get back at Saddam Hussein for bitch slapping daddy in 1991, well, this attitude about the war(s) would make you a 'phony soldier'.

Because anyone that didn't agree, must surely be falsely trying to claim veteran benefits.

What I think is that is that these unruly, wanna be soldiers are just trying to pilfer fatheads stash of pain killers!

Plus, this is all coming from a man that was never drafted for military duty in Vietnam because his card number was 152 when they only drafted up to 125. Later his status was changed to 1-Y, an exempt card because he was diagnosed with Pilonidal disease, a cyst that can grow navel, armpits, buttocks or even on a mans penis. It was diagnose but never pinpointed though, due to the fact that doctors couldn't find Rush's penis.

Sports again.

Recently, Rush was asked on a Sunday morning talk show why he thought his buying into the St. Louis Rams was squashed by the NFL.

His response pinned the tail on the donkey's ass.

"He really has no experience running anything. He's very young. I think he's got an out-of-this-world ego. He's very narcissistic. And he's able to focus all attention on him all the time. That description is simply a way to cut through the noise and say he's immature, inexperienced, in over his head."

Realizing his mistake, Rush's head began shaking violently, his ears turned red and venomous snakes shot out of his eyes when it dawned on him that he was reading from the insult card that was to be used any time anyone asked his opinion of Barack Obama.

So, what I've conclude is that there are three levels of like for Rush.

You either love him, hate him or his level of ignorance and lack of ego, is completely lost on you.

Actually, that sounds like only two levels, doesn't it?

Can ya spare a crawlspace, friend?

2009-10-29T19:27:00.000-07:00

I'm on a world wide hunt for friends. Every corner of the world. I won't stop looking til I have a friend in every country, continent, county, time zone and attic crawl space. And I won't stop looking til I've done just that!

Easiest way...Facebook.

Facebook and the addiction that comes with it when you sign up. It's worse than heroine withdrawls. I've seen babies crawl upside down on the ceiling!

There are, of course, other social networking sites but Facebook is my choice.

I have a MySpace account although it's not active. I've stopped using it for several reasons but the biggest reason is that my ex-girlfriend set it up, designed it, and poisoned it with all her 'little touches'. Seeing this site doesn't make me miss her. It makes me want to key her car and have a 'worm' slither into her computer.

Twitter...well, I refuse to 'tweet'.

So I'll just stick with good old Facebook to find me some friends.

Facebook starts innocentlu enough, and actually it might be good for the soul, if only moderation were the reality, but it's not.

Facebook began as a tool to communicate with friends that I've been close with, with or without URL skills. Soon, though, I reacquainted myself with some friends from grade school, which led to a sixth grade kickball class reunion that never materialized. From there, I met up with high school buddies, girlfriends, and even some from my junior high days, two years spent in Mountain Home, Idaho.

RA...RA...RA, GOOOOO PATRIOTS!!!

Then, my girlfriend, and I'm not talking about Medusa, and myself started playing a game. It lasted only three or four nights, but none the less, it was on. Each night we 'chose' a complete stranger in another part of the world to 'friend'. She always picked a man, me a woman. Only rule was that if 'friended', a conversation would have to take place between that 'friend' and ones self.

Something like this.

"Hey, Dave, how the heck are ya?"

"Uh...do I know you?"

"LMAO!!! WTF man, how the eff could you forget? Don't tell me you've forgot that night we finished off that fifth of Bacardi, stole the neighbors three legged cat and that bottle rocket blew up in your Bermudas!?"

Neither of us won, and no one lost, because are 'picks' never responded. And we decided to quit because it felt somewhere between harassment and stalking.

By the way, I'm not friends with the Greek belly dancer anymore. Promise, sweety!

But then I got to thinking, hey, maybe there's a need to 'friend' others within other geographic regions of the world. A need in case I needed a place to stay.

Came to me in the middle of the night. I was awoken by a creepy dream that I'd had, which in turn led me to the kitchen with a killer craving for a peanut butter and Frito sandwich. Please, do not ask about the correlation between Skippys and my inner most subconscience. I promise you don't want to hear about it. Anyway, the dream nor the delectable treat was where the idea came from, but it was the time chowing down, sitting at my laptop with Facebook up and trolling at 3:16 AM. that drew me to the idea. I couldn't believe that not only were my normal 'riding the Insomnia Bus friends' online, but there were others from the other side of the world, during my night time hours that were, during their day time hours, online as well. Who woulda thought?

Then, that revelation led me to start wondering, hypothetically of course, what if I really needed a place to stay. Not because I wanted to vacation in Mozambique or snorkel through the Great Barrier Reef, but because Johnny Law wanted to put me away, pretending they had a case against me, that they might think they had a legitimate case to lock me up, for a crime I didn't commit?

I wondered, what if I needed a tropical get away, under an assumed name? Under these preposterous conditions, and having real 'friends' in Brazil, Berlin, Belize or even Bozeman, could I not find a home elsewhere?

Would my 'friends' give me a hand?

I'm easy to live with, friends, really I am. Hardly any trouble at all. Promise!

SUCK!

2009-10-28T08:00:00.001-07:00

My son Ethan and myself like to play a game called SUCK!. The game consists of, out of the blue, for no reason what so ever, he'll say something like "Hey dad," and I'll say "Ya?" and he'll say "Suck!".

Good times!

This is a game that started with, I'm guessing him and his friends and soon caught on with myself. Every chance I get, I'll play.

Standing at the counter at the grocery store, the guy ringing us up.

"Ethan?"

He has his headphones on, Satan Kills the Dali Lama screaming in his ear, assuring me I'll have a astronomical medical bill for his hearing loss. I pull a audio-plug from his ear.

"What, dad?!"

"Suck!" Ha, ha, ha!

Ethan rolls his eye, plugs his ear once again and walks away to stare at the Lotto scratch ticket machine. I'm sure he's thinking how good he has it with me as his dad.

Truth be told, though, he doesn't like playing it much anymore. Not with me anyway. I think it ran it's course with me and isn't all that much fun with his old man. A game that was meant to be played with teenage, pimple poppin' punks and, by throwing me into the mix, it's lost some of it's 'cool'.

I don't care. The fact is I am cool, he just doesn't know it right now. It may take him years, he may sixty-three, but I know a tsunami of realization will wash over him and it'll click at how damn'd cool I really was while raising him.

At least I don't make him listen to 'country' music in the car as my dad did. Wouldn't let us kids change the channel, even when The Knacks 'My Sharona' was all the rave.

"That crap will rot your brains!"

My dad wouldn't let us watch the 'After School Special' because there was chickens to be fed, the lawn to be mowed or his car needed a washing. He liked to call them 'After School Chores'. That was my dad's sense of humor.

My dad certainly would never have played Grand Theft Auto with me, or as I like to call it, Find A Super Fast Motorcycle, Run Over as Many Innocents and Then Hit a Wall at Seventy-Nine MPH Hour Crushing Every Virtual Bone in My Body.

See kid, I am cool! HA!

Of course, when I play GTA, this is the only time Ethan likes to play SUCK!, but I have my suspicions he's saying it less like a proper noun and more like an adjective describing my game play.

Deadly HALLOWEEN Deadline?!

2009-10-26T20:04:00.000-07:00

This feels like school all over again. The mere mention of a 'subject', something quits working and my mind starts grinding to halt like a body in a wood chipper. Actually, not even like that, as proven by the Coen brother's in FARGO.

Full blown brain freeze is what it is though. Writer's block!

The writer's worst nightmare, even worse than waking up in a nightmare on Elm...oh forget it.

So, when the call went out by my fellow humorbloggers.com folk, to blog specifically about HALLOWEEN, making sure to use the word HALLOWEEN then I had big plans, even larger ideas and full blown optimism. Sounded like good fun.

After all, it is HALLOWEEN.

I was going to ramble on about Tuscaloosa, an old dummy that some friends and myself constructed. Built with Levi's 501's and Eddie Veddar flannel, old pair of Air Jordans and an elastic hydrocarbon polymer recreation of an old man's face. Completely stuffed with 219 days worth of newspaper, and designed to be no less than six feet two inches tall, weighing no less than Oprah on the top end of the yearly weight fluctuation.

HALLOWEEN tradition was to string Tuscaloosa from the roof of the house, and when unsuspecting teenage punks who had no business trick or treating in the first place stepped up to the door, Tuscaloosa was tossed violently from said roof, left hanging by the noosed rope. Screams of horror, burn out marks left in the grass and on occasion, puddles of pee! HA HA HA!!!

That HALLOWEEN fun ended the year we decided to go out cruisin' and lost our dummy to some large men in an even larger 4x4, and what appeared to be a five or six point buck tied down to the hood of their truck. The size of Bambi is debated to this day by my buddies. Regardless, they were rather pissed off when we threw Tuscaloosa out the window of the car, into oncoming traffic, directly in front of their monster truck. After these redneck sonzabitches ran it over, stopped, and backed back over Tuscaloosa, they began ominously gunning the engine and flashing their brights. It was at this point where we unanimously voted to sacrifice Tuscaloosa to the HALLOWEEN demons!

At the time, my buddies and me, in our early twenties, felt like this was the mature way of celebrating the scariest night of the year, HALLOWEEN. Of course, our thought process was always a little cloudy due to Smirnoff injected Florida oranges, painted with Jack-o-lantern faces.

So, back to the subject of HALLOWEEN and my assignment. Honestly, I'm at a loss. Do not know what to write about. I've been pitching ideas around in my skull for several days and can't dig up anything. This is a problem.

I tossed around the idea of reviewing a movie, say the midnight showing of the Exorcist, but this idea was debunked because I am not, and know I will not be in the mood anytime soon to have the holy living, HALLOWEEN, bejeezer shit scared out of me! Did that once, not again!

Alright then. What to write about?

HALLOWEEN candy?

Funny HALLOWEEN costumes?

Demonic and haunted HALLOWEEN heads that spin a full 360 degrees and starts stuttering "REDRUM, REDRUM!" when seriously pissed off?

Got nothing, really. Writers block is all I got and whatever it is that I could come up with would only be obnoxious drivel, attempting to say something that no one really wants to hear. It would no better than a C grade assignment, a piece of work that fails for the sake of writing a preassigned idea, with a preassigned word, that being HALLOWEEN.

And you all know I have higher standards than that, right?

Right!?!

By the way, if anyone sees Tuscaloosa this HALLOWEEN, tell him I say 'hi'.

Richard Heene Must Die!!!

2009-10-19T17:45:00.000-07:00

DISCLAIMER - IF YOU OPT TO KILL THESE PEOPLE, IT LIES IN YOUR LAP SOLELY!

I have a growing list of 'people who must die!'

Not in a literal sense and not at my hands. I have a rough enough time staying out of trouble without killing idiots. But where I'm going with this is that there are just some people out there, walking free, taking up precious space that I don't believe truly are deserving.

Now I understand that we all have rights. The Constitution makes sure of that. I get it. I do. The right to bear arms, the freedom of speech and religion, the right to due process, a speedy trial. It was once amended that we had the right to not drink liquor, before we again had the right to drink liquor. We have many rights that are protected by the Constitution but let me make it real clear. No where in the Constitution, not since our Founding Father or any time since, has an amendment being written making it a right to be a complete and utter idiot if wanted.

People push the envelope and must DIE!

There has to be a limit to the level of dumbdom that one man can, shall I say, achieve!

But, the fact is, I appreciate these people. They make me feel good about myself, that the little things that I get down on myself about aren't that bad after all. Life could be worse.

And they give me reason to spew obscenities at the t.v., making my girlfriend wonder if I need medication. This humors me a great deal.

And most importantly, they give me much material to write about.

For example, Richard Heene.

It's fresh in our minds, and appears won't go away anytime soon.

This guy must die!

Top of the list, at least at this time. Sure, he has a family...a wife, kids, maybe a dog, but this guy doesn't deserve to keep on sucking up refreshing, high altitude, Colorado oxygen any more than Lindsey Lohan is deserving of a drivers license.

All the guy wants is publicity, a reality show and cash to go with it. Well guess what doughhead?! You got the publicity, you 'created' your own show, and there will be plenty o' cash flow, but in the wrong direction. Two out of three ain't bad, bitch!

There are lots of examples though, mostly criminal.

Take for instance the two burglars in North Carolina who broke into a school, found a camera and began taking pics of their crimes. All is good so far, right? But, not being able to get the 'film' out of the camera, they figured that it was empty of film and decided to leave the camera behind.

What? They've never heard of digital?

When they were arrested they told the police officer that "we thought it was one of them new fandangled Polarwhatchacallits. Didn't know why the dern'd picture didn't print out the front of the camera".

Okay, so I made up that last part, but I have to believe that's what the three shared brain cells between the two men were thinking at the time.

DIE!!!

Nother one. Man in Daytona Beach, Florida, walked into a shop, pointed his index finger, cocked his thumb (yes, cocked it) and proceeded to 'rob' the store. When the clerk realized he wasn't going to be seriously harmed if shot, he proceeded to chase him off. The suspect was later arrested and charged with 'armed' robbery!

Fingerprinting proved that it was indeed the weapon. HA!!!

DIE, you goofy bastard!

Then, in Hawaii, a man was questioned, suspected of robbing four banks. He proudly and arrogantly said, "I didn't rob no four banks, copper! Only three!"

DIE, gravy sucking pig!

This example of brilliant stupidity hits close to home.

I had a nearly-ex-but-never-happened-thank-GOD-brother-in-law. We'll call him Tony. He was once pulled over...for what...well, not sure, don't care, won't move the story along any quicker. What matters is that Tony knew he had a warrant out for his arrest, and really didn't want to spend the night in county lock-up. So in his quick thinking way that Tony is known for, he exquisitely said he didn't have his ID, and instead of fessing up his true identity, he gave the officer the name of his brother, my other nearly-ex-never-happened-thank-GOD-brother-in-law. We'll call him Nick. Turns out that not only did Tony have a warrant out for his arrest, but so did Nick.

Tony ended up getting a three consecutive sentences...serving his, Nicks and the court decided to throw in an extra one, just because...well, just because of dumbdom, I'm guessing.

DIE!!!!

So you see, there a lot of extremely dim witted and shall we say, idiotic people in this world that need to be taken off the streets before more innocent people are harmed! Be on my side, help me out, and let me know of any of these morons so I can add them to my growing list.

Speaking of dumb, I gotta run, people. Been thinking of a $5 Starbucks!

DIE, DIE, DIE!!!

CONAN THE ANNIHILATOR

2009-10-17T23:20:00.000-07:00

I'm not working right now, so I basically have a lot of time on my hands. That is after I wake up, ranging anywhere from 7:30 in the morning all the way up til the time Conan O'Brien ends sometime after midnight.

Speaking of which, I'm diggin' Conan O'Brien these days.

Funny guy.

But it's the hair that gets me more than anything. I could watch that hair anytime, anywhere. Funniest living thing ever, and when I say living, I mean living!

Take a look, but be warned. I took his face out of the pic because the hair is what I want to concentrate on here.

AWESOME!

How can you not think that isn't the coolest thing since the creature crawled from the black lagoon. Actually, kinda looks like it might have crawled out of a swamp, but with a sense of humor.

Be honest. Have you ever seen it up close? Really looked at it?

At time it seems to laughs along with Conan. In even rarer times, and I do mean rare, for obvious reasons, it appears to snicker at an Andy Richter comment.

It lives!

And dang if it isn't a protective device as well. This was proven after his near death experience after falling on his head while racing Teri Hatcher. Since then Honda is looking into the engineering of his hair to see if there is something there that could improve their airbag deployment technology. Riddell, maker of football helmets, have already pushed a prototype to the front of their research department so to have them in mass production and rolling off the assembly line by next years fall college football season.

They're calling it the Annihilator!

That is a helmet I can't wait to see the Detroit Lions wearing. It isn't like they could possibly get beat up any worse than they do every Sunday.

Alright, the whole Conan thing does run deeper than just the comedians hair with me though. I really do think he's funny, in a 'red headed stepchild way' but funny none the less. Goofy, funny faces, his quick wit, the way he can play with the camera and do lousy imitations that are recognizable regardless of how terrible they are.

Hysterical!

I've been a fan for many years, long before the late night talk shows. Dating back to the Simpsons, where he was a writer in the early years. Oh, and a little known fact. During his stint with Matt Groening and pals, Conan's hair had it's first shot at stardom, and the first time anyone can find in the archive that they were used as a prop for a skit. It came on the Treehouse of Horrors IV. The episode didn't actually make the cut but recently the unused, illustrated storyboard have surfaced on the internet. The story goes that his red rug mutates, grows spider like legs and goes about tormenting, slaughtering and sucking the blood from the residents of Springfield!

He was also pegged to be an ongoing cameo character, but the creators didn't see that working either.

TAKE MINE A LITTLE PINK, PLEASE!

2009-10-17T23:17:00.000-07:00

I am enthralled with tasers! You might all have noticed I've referenced this wonderful weapon of mass electric destruction more than once before. So I don't know why but ain't they cool?! And I live in just the place where I can enjoy my insatiable thirst for 'em!

Spokane! The taser capital of the world. This part of the country used to be known for the Aryans but no longer. What we really like in the Pacific Northwest is to see a helpless thug, bankrobber, disabled person or Red Angus frying from the inside out!

Which leads to my favorite story. I'm going to dissect this one porter steak at a time so as to illustrate what down for you all.

Seems a poor cow wandered out on to I-90 and instead of listening the cops to "Get down on, get down on the ground NOW!!!"

This just confused the bovine, so he continued chomping on his cud and swatting flies off his ass.

"Don't make me say it again! GET DOWN, NOW!!!"

When the cow resisted, the police officers pulled out their tasers, aimed, and with the training they received over a six or seven week course, proceed to jolt the unassuming cow. Not once, not twice, not even three times, but 'again and again' til the animal died.

Yowza!!! Good fun, baby!

This is just the first time I can remember, this tasering epidemic, but I'll be damn'd if I want it to go away anytime soon.

Don't get me wrong. This would be extremely scary, that is if anyone...man, woman or child were runnin' around with 50,000 Volts of packaged electricity in their back pocket. But, this isn't the case. Truth is, it's the faithful, protectors of the peace, the men and women in blue, the coppers, fuzz and our very own Spokompton Police Department.

Love those guys!

Now we don't have a trademark on tasers here. We don't, but at the last city council meeting there was a vote and the chance to put a sign entering Spokane proclaiming:

Spokane
Heck Ya, We'll Tase You if You'll Just Sit Still Long 'Nough!

The vote missed passing by one vote because Council Member Al French was on a ride along with the SPD, casing out Doug Clark's home. He was doing so in hopes that he'd get the chance to use his newly learned 'taser skills' on the Spokesman-Reviews columnist and most boisterous proponent of the cops and the council.

Got to love Al's desire to learn a new craft and hand down the long arm of the law himself.

Now, don't be thinkin' that Spokane is only known for the taser. We have other notable attributes. We have Bloomsday, John Stockton and a rusty old metal, garbage eating goat.

Oh, and the world's largest Radio Flyer!!!

But we do love the taser. And yes, maybe it's used elsewhere to keep the peace like the crotchety old grandma in Texas that got herself zapped because she wouldn't sign her speeding ticket. But you know what? We aren't gonna take a 72 year old grandma's in Texas trying to take the attention away from our great city up here, away from her sweltering heat. We have all the heat we can handled, supplied by our faithful men in badges!

KC-135 and the Sunshine Balloon Band

2009-10-16T10:45:00.000-07:00

I wasn't going to do this, but I have to. Pisses me off!

Everyone, myself included, is consumed with this 'balloon boy', the one that supposedly floated 7000 feet in the sky, over Colorado, while the cameras rolled and the whole country followed in horror. The boy 'lands' in the cellar, narrowly misses puking up on Barbara Walters, and announces it was 'for the show'.

Hmmm...

So, now there is a question of whether or not the boys father has narcissistic personality disorder. If this guy wants the publicity, if this guy wants to fly, then let's give it to him. And we won't call it punishment. Remember, he's just chasing a dream, this is America after all. That being said, I say one end of a long rope should be tied to his testicles and the other end to a KC-135. WHOO HOO! We have take off!!!

But that isn't what angers me.

Where my ire bubbles over is that we, as a society, built this. This guy thinks he can run around acting like an orangutans ass. He knows that while I'm trying to watch Judge Judy, I'll be interrupted by his stupid, silver UFO, and my afternoon will be ruined.

Let me reiterate, he knows this!

For this, he should be punished!

So, in closing I say we stand him up in front of the Honorable Judge herself and see how long he lasts with her. He'll be praying for the a long rope and a cargo tanker.

Siskel Turns Over in His Grave...From Hell!

2009-10-13T22:19:00.000-07:00

I have always wanted to be a film critic. Not any kind of film critic though. I'm talking the film critic that reviews Dick Tracy with Warren Beatty and Madonna and has the nuts to express in bold print and proudly proclaim, "That was a fine piece of cinematography!"

Really?

Or how about the guy that put his stamp of approval on Brittany Spears' incurable disease that was Crossroads? Does this man still have a job?

I assume he does, and why? Because they get paid to review movies that are made of detergent and crap-pie.

That being said, why can't I?

So...I'm gonna give it a shot, and hope that because I'm so convincing that in these harsh economically trying times you'll go out and spend your hard earned cash on a complete waste of celluloid and the catered in deli trays.

Okay, so on my first attempt I don't want to spend to much money researching my endeavor so I'll go downstairs to cable t.v. where I know just the place to find a perfectly good load of intolerable cinematography puke.

LIFETIME!

There has to be a pooper with Meridith Baxter-Birney or Valerie Bertinelli-Van Halen. Always is. Oh...ya!!! Here we go, a real doozy! Let me watch this, take some notes, write this bad boy up and I'll be off and runnin', publishing my first ever movie review. Give me a few hours and I'll be right back at ya with a critique of a stimulating film.

Two minutes later...

Not even I could put a decent spin on that garbage!

Plan B.

Blockbuster!

I'll grab a newly released DVD, something not many have seen. Maybe a western, or zombie flick or a western/zombie flick. That will be a challenge in proving that I could falsify details enough that you want to not only run, but break laws in order to get this movie.

Back with something good, in a tobacco stained spittoon kind of way.

So this is older but a real suck-ass through a straw kind of film. A horror spectacle with pasty characters, unbearable plot, a stuttering lead and the worst dialogue ever keyed and wasted on perfectly good paper before recycling was popular.

Here goes!!!

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Little Nicky - Hell Hath No Fury and Not Nearly the Fun!

The first time I saw Little Nicky I hadn't planned to. A date and myself walked into the wrong theater. Twenty-seven minutes later, after upcoming movie previews, several ads for Diet Coke and Twizzlers, the credits began rolling. It was then that we realized we were in the wrong screening room. My date laid down an ultimatum. Leave this movie or leave her. Years later, I've found that the movie was better than the relationship and I should have taken her up on her offer.

The next time I took it in, I not only got past the credits, but through the entire thing. And what a hellacious treat.

Written by Adam Sandler, he also stars in it as the lead character, Little Nicky, the son of Beelzebub. He's sent back to the surface to 'flask' his even more evil brothers that are pissed that they aren't being handed the throne of Satan. He's supposed to bring them back to Hell. Hilarity ensues.

First, he meets Mr. Beefy, a talking bulldog that claims to be an old friend of the satanic daddy of all daddies. Mr. Beefy points, or paws, Little Nicky in all the right directions trying with all his puppy might to keep him out of trouble. Check out the marijuana cake scene...nothing is funnier than a possessed Adam Sandler and a chubby bulldog higher than Heaven itself.

Then, for the women out there that don't want to believe they've spent their evening wasted watching a horribly produced, over-acted Adam Sandler dud, there is the complimentary love story. Ingenious. Patricia Arquette plays Little Nicky's love interest. A bland, unattractive woman, which by the way, she excels at magnificently. She falls for him, he divulges his evil and heinous background to her and everyone lives happily ever after, blah, blah, blah....

The movie is full of great actors such as Rodney Dangerfield, Harvey Keitel, Kevin Nealon, Dana Carvey, Henry Winkler and Quentin Tarantino as the blind deacon, which we all know, if Tarantino is gonna act, he definitely needs a character prop such as Leber's congenital amaurosis as an excuse.

The only excruciatingly painful part in the movie is the sadistic Rob Schnieder cameo. "You can do it!" All I can say is I just hope some earthly being kills him and he lands an eternal sentence of burning at the stakes of the Dark Lord!

So going into this movie expecting the Exorcist, a person will be disappointed but all and all a great late night waste of time. Just don't bring a date!

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Convincing? You bet it was! So from now on, maybe once a week or until the hate filled e-mails start flowing in, insisting I stop, I'll keep 'em coming.

Rambling Man

2009-10-13T09:49:00.000-07:00

Working off my most recent blog activity, only a day later, I will continue to the next, so as to keep my fingers moving, my brain churning and hopefully the ideas a flowing like the ice cream fountain at Old Country Buffet. Fast, fast, fast...that is what I want on this post. The sole purpose is to just quickly and at times, effectively, write whatever comes to mind before you all get cantankerous with me or it truly sounds like rubbish. Hopefully neither happens but I suspect it will be a photo finish.

It will be like a journal of jumbled thoughts, ideas, my where abouts during the day. Whatever comes to mind. No matter how small, uneventful, treacherous, ugly or boring to the follower, but a practice in conditioning my brain to keep moving, so as not to get lost in the fog of listlessness.

Let me start.

Talked to the remote control guy, on the phone, from Phillips today. Bought a universal remote a week ago but couldn't get it to work then, and still can't. Now, when I say that I talked to him, what I really mean is that I ended the conversation by yelling, screaming, pounding my head against the wall like a toddler and came damn near close to tossing myself off the the nine and half foot deck of the house. All because I don't fricken speak Istanbulese, Pakastanese, or Jibberishese. I may not always have proper pronunciation but I don't confuse and replace the word 'AND' with 'COW'!

Bernie Madoff is likely to be the biggest seller of the Halloween season. A mask that is. Two things. First, I bet the scum sucking pig wishes he'd had one of these at the time he ripped off the thousands of people of billions of dollars. He might have Made Off (get it?) with all the loot before being sent up the river for the next 150 years or so, before anyone realize he was the one actually under that piece of rubber. Don't worry Bernie, you should be out to see your great grandkids graduate. Not! Secondly, what kid is gonna know who the hell Bernie Madoff is anyway? Good riddance, Bernie, you little f@$k weasel.

Must have coffee! Be right back.

I'm back from Starbucks. Sorry! My plan was to write for a constant hour then send this off to the editor but my quad shot stood in the way.

I concluded three things on the way to get coffee though. Let me divulge. First, it's colder than the Swiss Alps and people are still wearing cargo shorts! Stop it, ok? I believe this is how, and I'm probably wrong, Swine flu is spread. Next, the lights on the South Hill here in good old Spokane are synch'd and actually stay green so it's easy to get from place to place without much delay. This leads me to my last observation. I'm thinking that this is the reason the crime rate is so low up here, and not because of the money associated or the altitude. Think about it. If you don't stop for a red light every four or five blocks as you have to in north Spokane then don't the chances of being carjacked go down. I'm onto something here. I just may run for County Commissioner. I've been meaning to square off with Al French anyway.

What else?

Music. Monsters of Folk, super cool! Can't get enough of Mr. Conar Oberst. Why the hell have I been missing out on My Morning Jacket and the Avett Brothers? And the Beatles! Ok, every media outlet is covering these guys, whether radio, re-mixed and re-mastered CD's or video games, but let's face it. The coolest!!! Been a fan forever and don't see that changing any time soon.

A joke. What would it take to reunite the Beatles? Well, used to be three more bullets but...well anyway, I'll stop.

I had my girlfriend recently tell me that because of her bad back that she hurt in a car accident years ago, she can forecast snow. Well, I have news for you sister. I have this big toe that I busted last year that twitches when the the Family Guy is ready to begin. Ya, I have no idea either, so please don't ask.

It's October and that can mean only one thing. Baseball. The big news about our American pastime is that both L.A. teams have moved on to the the Championship Series. Who gives a crap!

Help me figure this out. Two cars stop in the middle of a busy intersection in Spokane, all the men jump out of their cars and fisticuffs ensue. One man, I'll call him Mr. Dipshit because I don't see any other name that would be as fitting, is promptly run over by a passing car. First off I have to say to Mr. Dipshit, HA HA HA HA!!!! I still can't stop laughing since reading that on Sunday. But what really chaps my ass is that no charges, arrests, tickets or tasering took place. A cow roams onto the freeway and our finest, the Spokane County Sheriffs Department taser that sucker till it's medium rare, and nothing happens to these idiots. Hell, if they ALL got run over I can see that justice was served, but only the one? Come on coppers, you can do better than that!

Okay, I'm now pushing two hours and seventeen minutes and I wanted to finish up much quicker than that so I'm going to shove off, but if I offended anyone in the least bit, please submit comments, concerns, or complaints to my local HR and I'll be sure to get back to as soon as possible.

Lastly, before I go, just a heads up. My big toe is twitching.

WASTED DAYZZZZZZZ

2009-10-12T15:50:00.000-07:00

I've lost my job. And in these economically tough times it sucks, sure, but it's certainly a better alternative to what I was doing, which was my job. My days and weeks consisted of going into a place of business where there wasn't much professionalism and sound ethics. I was managed by a woman, THE CHEST, that didn't know her ass from a missile silo sixty seven feet below ground. She was demanding of me when she didn't know what she was demanding of me. I have twenty years experience in the optical industry, while she has less than five. I have ground more pairs of eye glasses than she has worked minutes in the biz. I have faceted and drilled as many lens as she has sold. Hell, I've intentionally, hucked more CR-39 lens at my poster/target of a super-model for Luxottica eyewear that was pinned to the wall then she's changed out nasty, head cheese infested nose pads.

She is a big, fat dummy.

That being said, I'm the one that is still unemployed.

And truth be told, I was fired from this place, a place I won't divulge the name of, but, without uttering the name, I will say there isn't the words Eye and Glass and World on the front of the leased building at 6029 N. Division in Spokane, Washington. For some, being fired sounds like the worst thing ever, the end of the world. A stigma of sorts follows when you tell someone that you were 'fired' but for me it's different. It's not the end of the world but the beginning of a new chapter. A life experience to grow from. A challenge to move forward with and conquer. A mountain to climb in order to jump off and fly gravityless like the Birdmen of Oslo. An unwanted but needed vacation from a place I despise worse than any Lindsey Lohan movie ever produced.

And, for me it's a first. I had never been fired. Not in twenty-four years of working. Not when I was a kid with nary a responsibility. Never. Hadn't. And now have.

But, like I said, it's move on time. No worries, one day at time, and, now I'm beginning to find, sheer and utter days of long, cold boredom.

Ughh...

So, I find myself trying to stay busy. Filling out applications, pasting resumes, being placed on hold for thirty minutes by Joy, the unemployment lady to have a seventy-three second conversation to determine that I am indeed have the same phone number and e-mail address as what I put on my application.

That isn't all I do though. Afterall, there are something like four hours in a day, right? After the late morning and mid-afternoon naps, of course.

And then there is Facebook.

It would be a lie to say I don't Facebook, but it isn't like I spend the better part of the day on it. Okay, that is a lie. Maybe I do spend a little too much time on Facebook. As a matter of fact, I was recently told that I'm "seriously on this thing WAY too much." Facebook, that is. True, but dang Leahlyn, how do you suppose I'll be able to rule New York and Russia if I'm not? I mean, Mafia Wars won't be fought by themselves, now will they? Geesh! Anyway, I'm not on WAY too much. Really. The time spent FB'ing could be spent in worse ways like watching soap operas or God forbid, Ellen. I haven't got to that point in my life yet, so until I do I'll just keep telling myself that I'm going about my day at least somewhat productive.

It has other purposes other than Mafia Wars. It's a networking, socializing and creative waste of time but hardly ham fisted. No sir. Heck, I've met up with friends from grade school, reacquainted myself with high school buddies and most importantly made friends with dozens of others, including leggy, brunette, complete strangers from Moscow! Point is, there is a perfectly good reason that Facebook isn't a waste of time, and more of a productive time passer until my next nap.

Wow! Is it noon already? Gotta run all, but after my nap...

The World Is A Better Place!!!

2009-08-31T15:36:00.000-07:00

I took some time away from my blog, a kind of hiatus. It was not necessarily forced on me, but because of my incompetence and mostly, but, not absolute ignorance of computers, it's been a while.

For a period, I lost my blog. It vanished into thin air, went dark, vamoosed into oblivion. When I would go to the site, scuzzymoney.blogspot.com, it was there but not there. Just black, and not just black, but a spooky black. with a greenish hue to it, kind of like a bad Paris Hilton porn. This was only on my laptop though. Others could see on their computers but I could not.

To this day, I don't know where the hell it went but it did go and has since returned. So have I.

That being said, I have some catching up to do. Let's get started.

We have a new President.

"Woo hoo, thank the good lord, praise all that is gracious and great, and man o' man, it has been a way to long in coming!!!" Okay, now that I got my personal opinion off my chest, I promise you'll never hear an outburst like that from me ever again. Ya, sure, and if you believe that, well I don't want to belittle my audience so I'll just tell you that, yes, I was lying and there will plenty of my opinions expressed if you choose to continue reading.

And my boy Barack is badass!!! Just check this out.

So, anyway, we have a new president and this means we no longer have W to blame for the troubles that might take place around our great country or over seas for that matter, since January 20th 2009, but, well dang it if it isn't more fun. After all, George is a great target. Let's delve into this. Ted Kennedy passed away recently and Daddy was the only living president, past or present, who didn't bother attending the services and the reason given was that Jr. was representing the Bush family. Really? I mean really? Truth be told, Senior was overheard by Secret Service telling a fishing buddy, "That kid embarrasses me to no end. I just know the lil shit is gonna choke on a shrimp and one them Kennedy's will huck their loafer at him!"

Another piece of news pertaining to our past administration happened two days after the inauguration of Barack Obama. On said day our new president signed an order to close Guantanemo Bay within the year, with much GOP disdain. The next day, former VP Dick Cheney suspiciously 'accidentally' shots his daughters girlfriend with buckshot while they lounge in his hot tub at his Wyoming estate. Cheney claims it was an accident, that "The gun just went off while I was cleaning it. She shouldn't have been reachin' for that floaty while I had a loaded shotgun min my hand. Damn fool!"

On to the entertainment world.

Farrah Fawcett died. On the day of her funeral, Kanye West jumped up to the pulpit, grabbed the mic from Ryan O'Neil and proclaimed, "She's was a pretty good death, and Imma let you finish...but Michaels has to be one of the greatest deaths of all time!"

Which leads me to...the King of Pop, Michael Jackson, died as well.

Okay, I could go on with the normal jokes about Michael Jackson but that wouldn't be nice. A lot of people, for months and years to come will be making their snide and outright rude jokes about him without me jumping into the mix.

They will talk about his detachable nose, bleached skin and his flaming hair (which just proved that Pepsi can't be trusted with many hair products).

Some will go on about Mr. Jackson's arranged marriage to Lisa Marie, presumably to snatch up the Elvis catalogue so he could finish his 'extremely expensive music collection fort' in the middle of Neverland, next to the Elephant Man bones.

Or these mean people might continue to relive the strange way he dangled his kids from balconies, giggling, and saying, "Look, they have Spider Man powers!"

Then, as cruel as people are, I'm sure these folks will continue accusations of him loving on, and sharing his can of Jesus Juice with Webster, McCauley and his monkey Bubbles.

But I'm above all that posthumous cruelty so I'll just leave it at RIP Michael, we'll not soon forget you and the way you can molest yourself on stage and call it a dance move!

On a personal note, I am now unemployed.

On the most obvious level, it sucks because, I, like everyone else, have bills to pay, have family to care for, medical needs and what not but most of all who the hell am I going to make fun of now that I don't have my boss, The Chest to heave aspersions at? (By the way, The Chest is not what you're thinking people! FREEZER! Chest freezer! Geez, get you're minds outta the gutter, you pervs!)

Now, while I am most definitely worrying about this road bump in my life, I am looking at it as an opportunity. A chance to do something different, more satisfying and in the meantime, not have to spend fifty-five hours a week at a place I despise, detest and abhor each time I walk in the front door and type in my password (7399).

So, because I have made the decision to look at this as positive, I have now decided to dig ditches or become CEO of Victoria's Secret or possibly start my own colony of Nike wearing, alien worshiping, Kool Aid drinking, pot smoking vagabonds. Either way, or whatever, and no matter what, I damn well know things are takin' a turn for best and this world is certainly a better place!

Friends

2009-01-17T21:16:00.000-08:00

I lost a bet recently that got me to thinkin'. Simple bet, a beer, something we share frequently anyway, so it wasn't as if I lost the pink slip to the '57 Chevy or anything.

The bet.

She loves the t.v. show 'Friend'. I like it, but I'm not fanatical about it. So were talking about it, laughing about the 'peeing on the leg after being stung by a jellyfish' episode and I brought up the 'fact' that we had gone together to watch the final episode at the Onion, a local bar and grill.

"No we didn't," she said.

"Yes we did, duh," I so intelligently responded.

She went on to say that "no, we didn't, you must have gone with another blonde girlfriend" and I replied that I "didn't have another 'blonde' girlfriend",
and so on and so forth until I layed the bet on the table.

"You wanna bet a beer on it?"

And sure as Dick Cheney would shotgun shoot any liberal in the face if situation presented itself, the big giant Gong Show bong crashes in my head, and I know she's right. About almost everything. She was right about not seeing the finale with me, about when the final episode aired, etc, etc, etc, and now I owe her a beer.

She was wrong about the other 'blonde' although. A redhead, just to set the record straight.

So, fine, cool, I love hanging with her, sharing a beer with her, and am more than happy to pay up, but that really has nothing to do with why I'm writing this blog at this time.

What it's really about is 'friends'. Not the show, but real life.

I have the greatest friends ever, the best a man could ask for really. I may not let them know as much as I should, but they are.

There is my brother and sister-in-law that have taken me in like a lost puppy, knowing how screwed up I am, allowing me to act like a child in a grown up world. I am no idiot, I know how lucky I am to have them. Mo's cooking is the best by the way!

I have a couple dozen friends that I've met up on the internet, caught up with really. Some are from high school, got me a new crush! There are some that date back as far back as my days as a Madison Mustang, where a kickball tournament, boys against girls, has been scheduled for this summmer. Crazy kids@!

I met my newest friend. Her name is Elike Kalikele. I had a really shitty week at work, but no matter, she was always there to listen to my rants and cool me down when the boss lady was being a bitch.

That same night, I spent the evening drinking, laughing, and taxiing back home safely with a great group that I cherish dearly.

I had coffee with my 'locker partner', catching up and realizing I do not want to own a goat but we should be closer to self sufficent and less reliant on foreign oil. Love ya, Flash!

Biofeedback...Marc...see ya Wednsday!

Watched the Zags thump Santa Clara at the Doors with Nick o' the North and fam...

I discovered I have a new favorite 'song', in one word!!! God, I wish the world could hear it, but not now. Needs to be taken in, discovered and cherished before it can be revealed, but I have a new found faith because of it, so I know in time I'll be able to share it with it you all. Has nothin' to do with oranges and navels, by the way;)

Best of all, I have, not so recently, not just this week, but recently, realized that I have the greatest friend in the world. She listens to my work tirades, my life battles and my anguish over crazy exe's. She has a life of her own, her own troubles, and her own problems, but she is always there to listen. Sometimes she gives words of wisdom, but mostly she listens.

So although, I may have lost a 'Friends' bet, but it was a small price to pay in finding out that I have so many other friends that are there for me.

Love ya all!

Why Won't You Just Let Me Hear It, Already???

2008-12-17T17:06:00.000-08:00

What the hell is with the 'hidden song'? Is it necessary, really?

I got to thinking about it while I was listening to the Kings on Leon the other day in my Jeep. The end of the CD came up, I was in traffic, paying attention like I'm supposed to be doing (in actuality, I was lighting up a cigarette, updatine my FaceBook status on my Blackberry and checking out the brunette in Acura next to me. All during a red light, I might add. I'm quite the multitasker).

So, the light changes and I continue on my to wherever it was I going and several minutes go by before I realize that there is no sound, no music and all I can hear is the sound of the snow crunching underneath the tread of my vehicle. I look to the CD player and see the track seconds ticking by, so I decide to check to see if this is indeed a case of the 'hidden song'.

I begin fast forwarding and sure 'nough. Another song starts, still on the eleventh track, some four and a half minutes after the four minute original song ended. The song was a little country diddy, purdy good but the name I couldn't tell you because the god damn thing isn't listed in the jacket.

Now this got me to thinking. Is there a reason for it, who does it and has anyone been sucker punched in their lip for doing it? All good questions.

I got some answers. Not all of them, but some.

The Beatles are credited with being the first to do it. They did it on Abbey Road. 'Her Majesty' was the thirteenth track and was never listed on the UK version but did indeed show up on the U.S. version. This decision was based on the fact that people just didn't get the whole 'Paul is dead' message, heard played backwards on 'Revolution #9 and their popularity started to wain, so they had to do something creative like place a song on an album that no one could find. This tactic proved to save their careers (except of course Ringos.) Funny sidenote to this whole story, Paul happens to be the only one alive, whether in life or career. Ha ha ha!!!

Other reason that artists do it is as simple as just to surprise the fans with a hidden 'gem', just to be sneaky, I guess. Or scare the bejeezus out them. Wierd Al Yankovic tried this after his song 'Bite Me' ended. A ten minute pause ensued before the new song came on, thus scaring the shit out of the listener because they had gone into a kneeling position, thanking God that the CD was finally over when all of a sudden a new one came on.

The Ramones, the Clash, Lauryn Hill have all done it and the Counting Crows and Marilyn Manson have done it countless times. The Blur did it, calling the song effectively enough 'Me, White Noise'. Cold Play did it a couple times on their latest album, 'Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends'. I have to presume they did this because they didn't have any money left to actually put the names of the 'hidden songs' anywhere on the jacket because the whole budget for the album art went to just the name of the album itself.

So as you can tell, I put a lot of research into figuring this out and I still don't get it. It confuses and frustrates me, which I think might be a 'hidden' reason for the artist doing it.

Let me put into another sort of perspective. A demonstration of how I see a 'hidden song', a comparison to what hiding a song might be if an author did the same thing. Here goes.

After writing in a normal font, now I've changed to the smallest possible one I could come up with. It probably has you pissed off, because you're desperately straining to see it, and if your like me, your vision isn't so good any more so it makes it a major pain in the ass. You're probably having to get right up close to your monitor, maybe rubbing your eyes trying to focus on a type set that's way to fuckin' small, and if I was writing in a normal font, you wouldn't want to walk away, maybe never reading my blog again. Right?

Okay, back to normal. So you see, the product may be there but why in the hell should we have to strain to find it? Sucks!!! Please don't do it.

Which leads me to the fact that the next time I'm checking out the hotty in the car over from me and I suddenly find myself in a state of musical void, you can count on that I'll be cussing those hippy sons of bitches and not so secretly hoping there is someone that has taken me up on my proposition of punching these punkass' in their face.

David Caruso must die!!!

2008-12-01T22:08:00.000-08:00

I watch way too much CSI-Miami.

For one thing, it's on all the damn time, doesn't matter if it's prime time or three in the morning. It's on. And since I'm an imsomniac (and pyro, but thats a different story) I can't help flipping channels, always finding my way to the South Beach. For obvious reasons, I like the show, though, just as everyone else must, due to the constant and steady high ratings. The scenery, the bikinis, the detail to rotting corpses and flights of slugs intercepting beating aortas, the bikinis (said that already, didn't I?), the cool Hummers that speed across the long ocean bridges, and especially the hot little blonde investigator played by Emily Procter with her tight little butt and southern accent. These are the main reasons that bring me back, time and time again.

But there are things that drive me nuts, to the point where I would like to pick up the t.v. and drop it on the remote, crushing it into tiny plastic pieces, putting me out of my misery.

The black Chief Medical Examiner, Alexx Woods. Why the fuck does she have to talk to the bodies that have sawed open chests or the front lobe of there brain blown to mush? Not just that she talks to them but she talks to them as if they were past sex partners. Yick!!!

Goes like this, in screenplay format.

Int-Morgue

A beautiful hispanic thirty year old woman lays on the cold, metal examiners table. CHIEF MEDICAL EXAMINER, ALEXX WOODS strokes the woman temple, slowly moving down her cheek, her neck...

ALEXX WOODS

Oh, sweety, why? Why does this always happen to the beautiful ones?

A tear begins welling up in her eye.

ALEXX WOODS

God, baby, we could have had it all.

As she lays her head between the hispanic womans ample cleavage, the door opens and in walks DET. HORATIO CAINE.

HORATIO CAINE

Uh...uh. You, you aren't molesting the vic again are you?

Speaking of David Caruso. God! Why!? What made the producers decide this guy should be cast as the lead character? Am I the only one that thinks this guy should quietly slink away into the Florida Everglades and be swallowed up whole by a hungry alligator?

What the hell is with the idiotic one liners? Makes me want to be the victim of a drive by shooting in southern Florida, where I would be the guy lying on the table with the black coroner touching me in indecent locations. Okay, I understand the cheezy one liners began with the likes of Stallone's Rambo character or Bruce Willis in the Die Hard movies, but good god damn, this is David Caruso. The tilting of his head, whipping off his Silhouette sunglasses and proclaiming to the smug, yuppie sailboat owner, that he knows raped and killed the 18 year old college student on spring break, "Oh, the DNA will put you there. Count on it." Then he gives that 'make-you-wanna-rip-my-spleen-out-with-a-spoon' grin before he stiffly walks away.

And I understand that there are writers that make this shit up, but even Stallone pulled it off better then David Caruson. At least you walked out of the theater enjoying the blood shed and the cool slo-mo shots of his overly built up biceps leading to a 22 inch knife that you knew was going to slice some Vietnamese throat. The point is, even with the written in one liners, David Caruso isn't a pimple on Stallones ass.

And, as far as I'm concerned, Clint was the only guy that could pull off the one liners. Spaghetti westerns, Dirty Harry. Now that guy was a stud in his day, and even now he could still pistol whip Caruoso into oblivion with a good, "Go ahead, make my day!"

So Caruso, go away, and let someone that can actually act, that can step into the role and pull off the one liners, be the guy for a while. Then at least I'll know that when I'm lying awake, not able to sleep and watching the fake scientific study of the maimed and murdered beautiful people of South Beach, knowing I'll be exhausted in morning, I won't have completly wasted my time.

Not completely.

Pizza Delivery Guy

2008-11-24T20:22:00.000-08:00

I was having a smoke on the back porch the other day, minding my own business, when a sort of epiphany came to me.

Two actually.

First off, I am bored. A comatose type of boredom. Work is boring the snot out of me. I barely have an ounce of social life to speak of, and recently I'm finding that Joe Camel is becoming my best friend. This is the kind of boredom that make you think and do things that you might not normally think. The kind of boredom that isn't coralled by just sitting in front of the television and subconsciously flipping from station to station and chowing on a whole bag of Buffalo flavored Doritos, until sleep deprivation takes over.

Secondly, probably because I'm bored but, I was thinking I should do something different with my life, professionally that is and the it struck me that I want to be a pizza delivery person!

Whaaa...???

Sounds weird right but bare with me. I don't want to be a delivery guy for the obvious reasons like the countless hours driving around in the dark looking for addresses on houses that have burnt out front porch lights, or the great money, or the expense of paying huge gas prices on a vehicle that gets 12mpg. Not even for the fringe benefit of a free meal each self-satisfying night on the job.

Nope. None of those more than rewarding reasons have anything to do with it.

No, the reason I want to be a pizza delivery guy is I am sure I would be that would be that one delivery dude that would get all the hot chicks.

You can see it, right?-------------------------------------------->

You might wonder why a man of my age, would be saying such things and you probably are saying that I'm being absurd, but...this is my blog and this is my story so if you don't like it, well...keep reading, 'cause it gets better.

I wouldn't only be a pizza delivery guy that gets all the horny women that show at the front door wearing pink nighties and sexy Santa teddies, although that all sounds nice but my story is a whole lot better than that.

I would be the pizza delivery guy from...Penthouse Forum. Yep, the guy you always see in the movies and you comment that never happens in real life, but damn, you sure would enjoy it if it did. The kind of job that could only be made up in the insides of smut mag.

I figure I would show up at the front door and there would be the local college cheerleading squad having a slumber party, wearing only panties and watching slasher flicks. I would stroll on in, cool as ice, three of them would hop up off their sleeping bags, run over to me, giggling and would offer up a joint. After a few minutes I would be as high as they were. The large breasted, head cheerleader would grab me by my hand, leading me toward the couch where the other two had stripped down to their birthday suits and they would start yanking at my belt, pulling my....

Then the other scenario involving the horny MILFS (two of them) drinking a brilliantly dark red wine, one recently divorced, the other consoling her. I would drop the box on the kitchen counter, turn to leave when I would notice the divorcee would have big puppy dog tears rolling down the cheek of the divorcee and I'd ask "Why the long face, sweetheart?" She would slip up real close, shove a twenty in my front pocket, and say "Hey big boy, that's not what appears to be long..."

Good Lord, I really must be bored. Where the hell is the Doritos and remote control?

WTF ;)~

2008-11-23T03:23:00.000-08:00

What ever happened to conversation? Just two people sitting in front of each other and saying whats on their minds. It seems we've become a society of retards that can't do this simple task any longer, but have to rely on other means to get our thoughts across.

Now, as a guy, I'm not saying I necessarily want this to go on while I'm trying to read the Sunday paper. Not while I'm getting my morning absorption of useless sports information and choking down a bowl of Cookie Crisp and gulping at my quad shot mocha. Not for this talking thing to take place. I don't want to be asked questions, whined at, made face at, and I sure as shit don't want to hear that you want me to put up the interior molding of your asshole fathers house that we rent from!

So, please, for the love of God, don't bother me during that time.

What I'm really talking about here is, when something is important and when the time is right, how 'bout just saying, "Hey, what ya want for dinner?" or "You want to go to the lake this weekend?" or "Go fuck yourself!" See how easy that is? When put in those terms there is no deciphering, no question of what is meant. I don't need to try and figure out what the hell is really trying to be said. After all, I am a guy and can only take so much blathering.

Then, even more than all that, let's all stop with the conversational texting. K? For a couple of reasons. First off, my fingers and brain do not, on any level, think alike. They don't work together and I suspect there has been an ongoing quarrel between them since just after Dick Cheney lost his conscience (no, that is not at all true. He lost that around the turn of the twentieth century, long before I was a twinkle). And then there is the problem of trying to communicate by way of texting; it comes out jumbled and full of all kinds of symbols that only the ancient Egyptians would understand. They'd be walking through a dark, cavernous hallway, somewhere inside a pyramid, and King Tut would say, "Hey what the hell is that?! All of his followers would look to see what the young king was looking at and they'd see a crude drawing of a young pharaoh getting it on with a goat. General laughter amongst them all would ensue, and then in order for their imminent deaths not to take place they would have to grab him, wrap him and stuff him in a large, gold casket, that eerily kinda looked like him.

It's all the symbols and shortened words that suck! LOL, ;), TTYL, fyi, Ur, gtg, ;(, LMAO!, thx, etc, etc. WTF!!!! (interpretation-What The Fuck!!!!)

And don't even get me started on the late night 'drunk texting'. BITCH!!!! (interpretation-BITCH!!!!)

It isn't so much that text is a bad thing. By no means is it evil, or the end of the world. It's just been mismanaged thus far. It's a tool, and a useful one in communicating with another person, if you keep it short, folks.

Example:

My text to a buddy - 'meet me at the Doors to watch the Zags'.

My buddies text back - 'K, cool;)~'. See how he ended it with that fuckin' stupid symbol?

My text back - 'Your a fag!'

Now, notice the symbol I sent back? Mine had a lot more meaning, right? A good old fashioned exclamation point to emphasize that I think he's a fag. Regardless, in the end, it was short, to the point and highly effective exchange of messages that led us to the Swinging Doors, drinking a pitcher, chowing on wings and watching the Zags stomp North Carolina for the national championship;)

Guilty Primates

2008-11-16T09:19:00.000-08:00

I found a gorilla suit recently, the day after Halloween actually. It was dangling outside of the cardboard recycling dumpster out back of my work. At the time I saw the arm of the this fake primate hanging out I worried that, perhaps, just maybe there might have been an actual person inside the suit, maybe passed out drunk or seriously wounded. I cautiously opened the top of the dumpster, and sure enough, staring at me was the face of a mean looking gorilla, all fangs and nappy fur. So I did what any sane, concerned and cautious person would do. I found a rotted, three foot, 2x4 laying in the alley and stepped back toward the dumpster, took a deep breath and proceeded to beat the wholly living shit out it, first in the torso, then when I got no reaction, I began banging it over the head as hard as I could.

Still nothing.

So, then, I did the second thing that any person in my situation would do. I pulled it out of the recycling bin and threw it in the back of my Jeep.

But after several days of this ugly, hairy beast, staring back at me through my rear view mirror, it's large claw hanging over the back seat, it got me to thinking. Why would this suit be just tossed aside like an ugly stepchild? Thrown away like last months left over Chinese take-out? Hidden away in a back alley trash can as if it...

Then it came to me! This monkey suit must have committed some heinous crime against society like only a monkey suit could. Made sense. No one, in there right mind throws away a perfectly good costume that probably cost a Brinks truckload of cash. But what kind of crime? I'm no CSI, but with closer inspection I detected no blood spatter, no gun powder residue, and no stab wounds. Not even DNA under the finger nails to suggest a struggle ever took place. Nothing evident that should make me suspicious, but I wasn't convinced.

At this time I started checking the local paper looking for some sort of clue that this gorilla should be deported back to the Congo. This went on for several days but nothing to implicate this mangy beast in any crime turned up, but other interesting things did. I've known this for a long time, but my research turned up other tidbits of fact that I might have known in the past but had forgotten.

I found proof that people truly are idiots.

For instance, Scott Bennett, 48, from Sioux City, Iowa not only lost an eye in a barfight in July at his local watering hole, but several months later he decided to go back, get in another fight where he ended up losing his other eye. Hey Scott!!! Yooo hooo...we only have two eyes and they're our primary source of vision. Dumbass!

Then there were the two 18 yr old idiots from Salina, Kansas, that panicked when police showed up at there trailer park (need I continue) and instead of flushing their drugs down the toilet or hiding it in that ceiling vent that all trailers have, they decided to toss them out the window. Cops saw this and arrested them. Ha ha!!! Thing is the authorities were there to serve a warrant on the neighbors in the tornado target next door.

But, my favorite is this story, but not necessarily because he's the biggest idiot that exists, although he would be a close runner-up, but because what he did was so cool (don't try this at home, kids). Michael Mills of Chesapeake, Virginy, decided rather than be caught by the cops on whatever charges (doesn't matter really), he would try at all cost to evade them. So, in his speeding car, when he approached a drawbridge that was lowering, but needless to say, was not all the way down, he decided to try to jump from one side of the bridge to the other. Michael didn't make it, but dang if he wasn't heard giving a good ole Bo and Luke Duke holler as he reached the pinnacle of his stunt, before, plunging into the river. He survived but can you imagine the story he'll have to tell while he's awaiting trial in county lock-up?

So maybe, just maybe, I'm over analyzing what might have gone on that Halloween, what my fake monkey might have done. Probably didn't rape, pillage, plunder or terrorize a village of natives, and by God, if he did, he surly didn't caught, but if anyone asks me, he did all that, and then some.

The reality is...

2008-11-12T11:19:00.000-08:00

It's my day off! I have my quad shot mocha in front of me...ahhh! Cheerio spill cleaned up...damn it!! I have my favorite grungy flannel shirt on that I don't believe has been washed since Kurt Cobain lived. Remote control in hand...yes! Life couldn't get better.

After catching up on the ESPN highlight reels and meaniless opinions and checking in to see how bad the Dow is tankin', I go on to other seventeen thousand channels. Just moving around, looking for something, anything, to watch, but jeez, there just doesn't seem that there is anything of value on the tube anymore. Nothing.

Not that there was a whole lot to choose from back in the day. Hell, there was only three channels to choose from, and PBS, but that doesn't count. And kids don't have dad screaming "Get up you lazy shit and change the channel. Christ, you know 'All in the Family' is on, same time, everyweek! And while your up get me an 'Oly!" So you change the 'knob' and slink into the kitchen toward the fridge, you hear him laughing, saying, "Damn'd if that Archie Bunker don't have the world figger'd out."

Okay...I understand that it is Wednesday afternoon. And Regis was off the air before I ever woke up, but I'm bored and I want to watch something. Maybe I'm not looking hard enough. So I continue.

What I find is disturbing. There's the normal crap. Soaps for instance. They've been on the air since the invent of the televison arguably by Philo Taylor Farmsworth (arguably because there was this guy named Vladimir Kosma Zworykin who might have invented it...but his name is too hard to prounounce). Farmsworth was a privately funded Utah farmboy who first transmitted television signals in 1927 in order for the Republican National Convention to go off without a hitch so all the NRA and pro-lifers could watch from the comfort of their high horses. Then there are the news channels that broadcast the same stories over and over til, finally, an Amtrak derails in Toledo, or a three legged cat named Tripod gets stuck in a tree somewhere other than a place where I'm at, so why the hell should I care?

I flip on, but I am finding that I shouldn't have because what happens next is beyond frightening...the realization that the world is doomed, Armageddon (without Ben Affleck), the second coming of Christ is apon us.

Reality Television!!!!

Did you know that not only does reality t.v. rule the airwaves during primetime, but it is king during the day as well? MTV, Bravo, VH1, CMT and Paris Hilton TV. Celebrity Chef, The Pick-Up Artist, Top Model, 20 Greatest Celebrity Fights, Made, Celebrity Rehab, Brett Michaels Creates a New Strain of VD (OK...I made that one up, but do you really think we'll have to wait too much longer before it is reality?). Why can't there be more sitcoms on like Scrubs or Family Guy re-runs or Dane Cook stand-up broadcasts or a good movie on, even one I've seen a dozen times. Heck, even more Judge Judy during the day would be better than the faux reality that litters the airwaves.

Entertainment on television. Rembember what that meant? Don't know about you but sometimes I find myself beginning to forget.

It' all too much. I think I'll grab myself a can of 'Oly and take a nap.

Black T-shirt

2008-11-09T01:21:00.000-08:00

I'd like to start my latest diatribe by quoting Ben Folds, one of the greatest philosophers of our time.

"Fuck you too. Give me my money back, Give me my money back, you bitch. And don't forget to give me back my black t-shirt."

Now, that being said and out of the way, I will forewarn you that this posting was to be all about me pissing and moaning, griping, slinging monkey shit, and basically tearing my ex-fiance a new one, but....I decided that was boring and I just might chase away my viewers (all three of them). Sure, I haven't got my t.v. or my tools back from her, nor my coffee pot, and bamboo plant. I won't bitch about the restraining order or the 3 a.m. phone calls asking for help because her Victoria Secrets are walking away from her in the hands of a man she's never met before, after waking up in a Sex on the Beach haze, in the middle of the Tomato Street parking lot. That is all so trite, juvenile and lazy of me to continue on that path.

So instead, I thought I'd discuss a strange desire I have. No, you sickos, it doesn't involve Crisco and Saran Wrap. That's for a another day.

No...what I'm talking about is living through a hurricane. I got the idea from a Carl Hiassen book. See there was a character by the name of Skink, an ex Florida governor that goes rogue/hermit on the hanging chad state. Skink, now he plays a recurring part in Carl Hiassen books, doing all kinds of crazy acts, avenging the mangroves that people so easily desecrate and roasting up all kinds of road kill morsels along the way. But it was at the moment that he ties himself to the girders of a bridge before a Category 3 hits that made me start thinking about that hurricane thingy.

Okay, my plan isn't exactly to duct tape myself to an immovable object and take the full brunt of the Gods devastating destruction, but more like live through it by hanging with several other dozen crazy SOB's in a bar in Key West. You know the people I'm talking about. You see them every time a bad ass storm rolls through the Caribbean. They hang out drinking cheap beer and taking shots, laughing, and taking interviews with the news media any chance they can get.

"So, why are you not heeding the advice of the Monroe County authorities and the Key West police department and evacuating the island?" Katy, the pretty blond reporter from channel 4 news asks, obviously nervous about the sixty mile an hour gusts.

A drunken man wearing plaid shorts, a Dale Jr. ball cap, a t-shirt that reads REDRUM Drinking Team and double fisting two bottles of Corona responds, "Cuz, dude, don't you see this?"

"What?" Katy innocently asks.

"This," wildly flailing his arms at nothing in paticular, twirling his body like a tornado produced from the current natural disaster, nearly braining the pretty reporter. "The wind, the waves, man. Frickin' sweet!"

"Now back to you Charlie," the beautiful but very frazzled Katy says, quickly ending her interview, the drunk man seen in the background running out of the picture with surf board in one hand, still clutching one of his cerzesas in the other.

Now you have to see what I'm talking about, right? To be in the middle of insanity, palm trees being shredded, mailboxs moving parallel to the ground, the stray cow mooing its way upwardly and out of the picture (wait, that was Twister), holding on to the brass bar rail for dear life, and having a ball at the same time. My God, think of the pictures and stories (the hangover) that would come from that night of celebrating. What could constitute a better time?

One day maybe I'll find out but I do know it won't be the same without my black t-shirt.

The State of the Union

2008-11-05T14:47:00.000-08:00

This is my first of many spewings and you may or may not like it but here I am, so lets get on with it already.
We have a new president! We could talk about that, and on Nov. 5th that is what is expected, isn't it? The economy, the wars, global warming, healthcare, education and same sex marriage. All that is on the minds of Americans. Hell...Fox, MSNBC, John Stewart, Yahoo and every other outlet is talking about us making history, USA first black president, so why shouldn't I?
'Cause I don't wanna! That's why.
Not that it isn't important, because it is and I know there are many that might stone me for expressing this out loud, but I think there are others that are sick and dang'd tired of it. Besides, ain't there other issues that are just as important?
Take for instance, Coors Light new 'vent' can. Brilliant!?
Or the word spatula. Now I know what it does and the reason for it and why it is important. I do, really. How are we flippin' our flapjacks on Sunday mornings without one, but instead of thinking of the purpose, let's just think of the name itself. Where the hell did that come from? I have to think it was a dying mans last words, but I don't know.
Why does Nomar Garciaparra do that weird adjusting thing with his batting glove before he steps up to the plate, before each and every pitch? Annoying!
That little scruffy dog in the backyard. Why does she eat everything (and I do mean everything) that moves, crawls or just looks edible?
Why is a cigarette great after sex?
Is a motorcycle just not large enough to activate the green light at one in the morning?
Or, does the toilet bowl water really flow the opposite direction in the other hemisphere?
So, are you starting to see what I mean? There are just as many important things to think about in these harsh times, when people are losing there 401k's, our sick are paying way too much for good healthcare, the earth is warming up (or isn't), our kids aren't getting the education they deserve and we're losing soldiers lives on a daily basis.
Ya...maybe not.