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

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


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

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

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

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

You've been warned! 

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

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

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

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

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

That being said, enjoy!


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

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

Ms. Spears making an ass of herself.

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

But let me explain.

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


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

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

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

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

Get's me going just thinkin' about it.

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

Hypermetropic Slutmonkey

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

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

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

Whawhawha!  Quit your whining, you Nancy boys!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, lab manager guy said, "Slutmonkey?"

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

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

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