SCUSE ME MISS, ARE THOSE NEW?

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!
 

Criminal Intent: One Quarter at a Time

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

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

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?

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!

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?!

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'.