Lie About Your Age If Your A Lesbian

"I'm really not too good at these types of things."

That's my usual response when someone asks me for advice. It's simple, and airtight. It allows me to wiggle out of having to help people with their dumb problems, and it keeps me from accidentally giving the "wrong" advice and having the person track me down to tell me I gave them "horrible advice." It also helps me evade the single toughest question known to man..."What kind of a friend are you?" Uhhh, I don't know. The kind of friend that hopes the next time you think about asking me for advice, you'll just decide to ingest dynamite instead.

But for some reason I was at a cross roads last night when my muff-diving roomate asked me if she should tell her muff-diving girlfriend her real age (20), or keep the lie (25) going longer. I promptly replied "Who gives a fuck", to which she came back with "What the hell kind of a roomate are you?"...Shit. So I decided to get my hands dirty.

I told her to just come clean. Tell her the truth. Lesbians don't care how old other lesbians really are. They can't have kids together. They probably aren't considering marriage. Maybe they wanna move in together and possibly get a cat and name it after their favorite cheese "Vul-veet-a". But all they're really doing is scanning around the room to figure out which foreign objects would feel good in their clam shacks.

[Thinks to herself] "Hmmm...That water bottle is intriguing but plastic might cause an infection. That cactus is...no that's a bad idea...That roll of masking tape kinda fascinates me but the sticky residue is less than appealing...but so are men, am I right? Ha, I crack myself up...Well looky-here, that swingline stapler is lookin' mighty dandy."

SHE IS NOT GONNA CARE if you are five years younger than you originally told her. That just means your vagina's newer. In my book that counts as a pleasant-fucking-surprise. Has anyone ever gone to pick up a blender they found on craigslist and said "Ummm, I'm sorry to be a pain here, but the ad clearly stated that the blender was 5 years old, and suffered severe wear and tear. This one you are giving me looks brand spanking new. There's no crack in the top, and the bottom edges are no where near as frayed as the pictures showed them to be. I'm sorry but the deal is OFF."

It's the same goddamn thing. People love new shit...And this includes va-jay's. SO WHAT if you lied by five years. That's just five years where instead of getting a pool net and a half a barbie doll body jammed in your hoo-hah by some other dame, you...Simply...Were...Not...Which is definitely better if you ask me...

And if she gets pissed then you'll only have on simple thing to say to her:

"What the hell kind of a dyke are you?"

No, You Can't....

"Don’t ever let somebody tell you…you can’t do something"...

Hmmm...It seems as though these days its pretty fucking "cool" of people to chase their dream and overcome adversity. I agree with this notion...It certainly is very, very cool when it all goes to plan. I just really dislike the cheese balls who say their sole motivation is "When someone tells me I can't do something...then you better fucking consider it done. If they say it can't be done, that's when I dare to dream and say: Oh yes it can...And it will."

Maybe I'm just a lazy-ass bastard or maybe I'm just a really good listener, but when someone tells me I can't do something...they're probably right, and I go to great lengths to heed their advice. The bigger the dream, the more absurd the success rate...And the less people are surprised when I don't act on it at all.

"I'm gonna be the first man ever to mate with a South American cave bat and have my warm blooded, beady-eyed spouse bear a child that sleeps upside down with his arms crossed like he's standing around a bunch of jet engine mechanics just trying to fit in." (If you ever catch yourself feeling stupid around a bunch of airplane mechanics just fold your arms, and every so often ask a question like you know what you're talkin' about: "So is that turbine one or turbine two?" Because ALL you really know is that there are two turbines...But that's gotta count for somethin'.)

"No way man, there's no way you can fuck a bat. It simply can't be done. It's impossible!"

"Yea, you're probably right...I guess I'll just sit on my ass and do nothing then and dream up other absurd ideas for people to shoot down instantly."

This is great because you KNOW that the next time two people are talking about you, it's gonna go a little something like this:

"Yea man, Matt was talking about knockin' up a bat the other day...Little cock-turnal action, ya hear?"

"Yea man, he's always got something up his sleeve, but he'll never fucking act on any of his crazy plans."

"You gotta hand it to him though, the kid can dream."

I'm gonna start using my big dream/no action plan on valentine's day.

"Honey, I want this year to be special. I'm gonna get the president to change the U.S. flag's stars to hearts instead. Fifty stars? Nope. Fifty big beautiful hearts for my little pookie-wookie."

"But baby, you know you can't do that. It just can't be done. But I love you for thinking it up."

Then her and her friends are sitting around talking about their V-days:

"Did he do anything special for you Jill."

"He took me to El Torito for the 5 Cheese Please buffet. But plan A was to take me to the white house to propose his business model of a new American Flag with hearts on it..."

"AWWWW. Oh my God Jill, he's so dreamy..."

EXACTLY.

Dried Fruit could make God an Atheist

Dried fruit is arguably the most disgusting snack on planet earth. Last time I checked, sucking the life outta something usually didn't end up making it appetizing. A bag of this fucking orchard abortion looks like 100 super-glued vagina's that all toppled onto each other after a failed cheerleader pyramid. The apples look like shriveled diaphragm's, and the cranberries look like the rotting teeth on a dentally challenged inbred cornhusker. I don't get the appeal at all.

The guy who gets hired to sit out in the sun and watch this stuff coil up within an inch of rotten-ness must be fucking confused as hell.

"Now Tommy (by the way, fuck someone starting off instructions they are giving you with "now" followed by your name) We're payin' you good money to sit out here and make sure this fruit dries up beyond recognition. That's your only job. Just make sure the fruit looks like it's going bad, but doesn't really go bad. Just make sure the apricots look like they were trampled by geese, and thrown into a public pool on a warm day with a heavy piss volume."

He's probably sitting out there like "What the fuck am I doing with myself? I'm pretty sure when my life-coach told me to get out there and ENJOY THE FRUITS!, he wasn't talking about this rubbish. Ah fuck, the tops of my feet are burned. How long have I even been out here for? How long does it take for this shit to shrivel, because it's become a battle of wits. One of us has gotta outlast the other. Either my body is gonna prune up and shut down, or this fruit is gonna do the same. I'm changing my favorite fucking Beatles song, because Strawberry Feilds Forever hits too close to home now. Great, I'm outta moisturizer, and that apple is still as plump and juicy as it was 6 hours ago. I know! I'll sit on the blueberries like chicken eggs and the extra warmth will speed up the process. Bingo!"

Talk about a God awful way to lose your job.

"What did Tommy get canned for?"

"We caught him "keeping the berries warm"...If you know what I mean."

Then someone will have to be a tool and say "Oooo, graphic..." like some kind of asshole.

I just don't understand how people can eat something that looks like it should have dentures in it. The apricots remind me of replacement knee-cap cartilage. I could definitely see a doctor getting the real thing mixed up with the fruit during the operation. Then grandpa can't even put his new joints to use because everytime he sits down 36 neighborhood dogs come jostling for space in his lap.

"What the fuck Margie. I told you that doctor was a goddamn joke. I knew I shouldn't have used the same one who did your stupid augmentation. All I wanted to do was run the mile one last time before I die. That's the only reason I had the operation in the first place. And now I'm the goddamn dog whisperer. I'm running a fucking Kennel over here."

"You think that's bad Ted, I got all these fruit flies landing on my new tits."

Hang It Up

There's alot of things that we, as guys, can't and shouldn't, for that matter, get away with. We can't ride tandem bicycles, share umbrellas, wear an apron whilst baking, bake anything at all, talk about what your gonna bake and bring to a party, tell everyone at the party how much easier it was to bake after you realized that "half-ing" the recipe made for less mess. (By the way half-ing the recipe is fucking hardest thing ever. It's hard enough to have to measure in cups, ounces, and tablespoons. How the hell am I supposed to confidently divide up amounts of these units of measurements properly.

"These brownies are so doughy. Who made these this doughy? All I taste is pure dough. Can you believe this. Some party, huh? Doughy brownies. What a day I'm having. First my wife leaves me 'cuz I'm a dipshit complainer, and now I got a mouthful of doughy fucking bake sale treats."

Well that's 'cuz I don't know what half of 2/3 of a quarter of a cup of a half teaspoon of fucking flour is, you goddamn anal bead.

Of all these things that we can't do, there is one that sticks out in my mind as an automatic man-status killer.

CLOSET SPACE....

We should NOT discuss current closet space, inquire about future closet space, or imply through a complaint that the closet space we used to have was our main reason for moving to another house. ('Cuz everyone has a "main" reason for moving. "Well we hated the kitchen, and the bathrooms were too small, but honestly Sherryl, our main reason for moving was the neighbors building a hovercraft in their backyard. They'd be out there until 5AM just hammering, and bulletproofing, and talking about how much fun they would have once they were able to hydroplane in the water at breakneck speeds and then cruise up onto the beach without even skipping a beat." You're main reason should NEVER be closet space.

Even if you're thinking about it, keep it to yourself. We all know that most closets are too fucking small for all our superfluous shit, but you can NEVER verbalize this complaint. Imagine the damage it could do. Sitting aroung with your buddies.

"Jimmy, man you seem a little distant today. You've haven't touched your beer, and you're white as a ghost. Are you alright dude?"

"No guys, I'm fine."

"Seriously pal, what's eatin' ya?"

"You really wanna know"

"Sure do."

(sniffles, and tears up) "My closet is the size of a middle school locker! There isn't even enough room for my winter garments. I didn't realize how important closet space was to me until just now. I desperately need your guys' support here. Do you think I could keep some of my patterned flannels over at your place Bobby?"

Sad, just sad. Keep the closet convos to yourself, and you'll be just fine in this world.

AND I SWEARRR...

I've always been a huge Three Muskateers fan. Their master swordplay and unprecedented solidarity are pretty fucking inspiring. I'd feel pretty goddamn safe having these crazy bastards on my side in a fight. "Oh you bullies think you're pretty fucking cool today, huh? Real bunch of tough guys. Well, before you go shovin' me in a locker, how 'bout you take a look inside first, and make sure there's plenty of room. Go ahead, take a peek. Don't be shy".

I couldn't think of a cooler situation than a school yard bully opening a locker and getting sliced to bits by three wielding daggers. Followed by a whisper from the inside "and one for all...ya cunt".

I just don't understand why they have to wear so many fucking clothes. They literally have 86 layers on. Cloaks, hats, galoshes, heavy belt buckles, etc. Must be an absolute bitch to get ready in the morning. If you had a duel at 7am, you'd have to lay out your outfit the night before and wake up at 4:30 just to get dressed and give yourself a chance to be on time.

"Listen man, I'm gonna have to push that duel back to 8:30am."

"What do you mean, we've had this bloodbath on the books for weeks now. By the way, you're my sworn enemy, how the hell did you get this number."

"That's not important. What is important is that I can't find my 9th layer chemise that I usually wear under my 10th layer cloak. I've been getting ready for 6 hours now. Gimme a break, and cut me some slack, will ya."

"Death waits for no man."

"Ya, ya, ya. That was pretty cool, the way you said that, and everything. But I gotta air out my knee high leather boots, they absolutely stink after I wore them with no socks two weeks ago."

Just wayyyy to many clothes on their backs. They look like 4 year old's who somehow got into their mother's closet, and PUT EVERYTHING on at once. They stumble into the living room and any adult in there sprints for their camera. Then that's the picture you show them at their intervention, when they are 16 year old, smack addicted freaks, and you wanna remind them of how much of a "joy" they were when they were younger. Just a game of dress-up gone wrong.

Who the hell could sword fight with a blanket on. I can't even SLEEP with a blanket on when it's hot, nevermind wave a 3 foot blade around skillfully while the sun beats down on my creepy French mustache. It kind of makes me wonder just how selfless they really fucking were.

"All for one, and one for all!" Yea they really must have had a strong brotherhood.

"Athos, you know I love you like my next akin. I would give you the shirt off my back."

"That's 'cuz you have 7 more on underneath it. You're not fooling anyone man. You're tryin' to make room in your closet. I don't want anymore of your hand-me-downs. I saw you in Niketown the other day looking a sweatsuits. You really think you're gonna get away with quitting Muskateer-ing, and pursuing track and field. We've all seen you throw a javelin...YAWN."

Then all of a sudden an R&B group comes along and decides to name themselves "All 4 One". What a croc of shit that was. They basically fell off the face of the planet, most likely due to a breakup. Some brotherhood, huh. What the fuck are a bunch of flimsy R&B singers doing naming their group after an old Muskateer adage anyways. Especially if they aren't even gonna live up to the title.

"Hey Donny, you like the 3 Muskateers?

"Playa, please. I like the candy bar if that's what you mean."

"No, man, the dudes...You know from da book? They say that All for One rigamarole."

"That's it yo...Dat right dair should be the name of our group. All 4 One! I fuckin' love it. Now let's go make one hit song and then break-up 'cuz one of us is hogging the limelight, and the other just can't take living in the shadows anymore."

You Really Wanna Know?

DEETS? DEETS? DEETS? DETAIIILSS PLEASE?

Fucking people wanna know everything, right? If you're not a nosy person, then you seriously must be doing an excellent job at supressing the urges to become one. Everyone is a junior detective and must GET TO THE BOTTOM of everything. Everytime you get back from a date, bang a girl, try a new restaurant, return from a trip: People need to know.

And you think its just girls that sit around and chit chat. "Ok Jill, so spill it. What was he like? Did he pick you up? What kinda car? Did he smell nice? Could you see his bulge through his slacks? Did it look like a handful of playground pebbles? Did you figure out if that roadkill on his dome is a rug, or his real hair that he coiffed to look like a flattened water possum?

But then you get alone with your buddies the morning after you've concealed your weapon in a random vagina you met at a bar and they NEED TO KNOW it all. But it's not simple nice questions like the girls ask. You're not getting "So Donna, was he a real gentleman like we all thought he would be?" No, No, No. What you're getting bombarded with is some of the dirtiest, filthiest, most outrageous questions known to man.

You return home, and walk into the room. SILENCE. You act as if. You sit down to a bowl of fruity pebbles, golden grahams, and cinnamon Life, and chew. Then outta nowhere.

"Alright dude! Enough is enough. Fucking out with it!"

"Did you bang her doggie? Did you wrap your tool? Did her floppy sweater kittens hit you in the eye while you were motor boating because your left peeper is definitely irritated. Did you guys use any toys? Weapons? Hats? Wiring? Natural Resources? Did you dial 911 and then shove the telephone in her cooch? (The most quiet place on earth, serene really. So much so that the operator would obviously assume something is definitely wrong due to the suspiciously quiet other line). Did you find anything useful in her ass? A pocket knife? Stamps? Spare keys? 3 Feet of rope? A soapdish filled with Public Storage passcodes? Did she treat your dick like a fighter pilot in flight simulation and pull up hard right as you were about to crash?

And what does every guy fucking do when these questions are being hucked at him left and right? HE CLAMS UP. Completely puts his shy boy face on and seals his lips with superglue. "Come on guys, gimme a break. We hooked up, what else do you need to know?"

This is the worst idea ever because you will take shit for eternity. "Well look who is all high and mighty now. Kid gets a small piece of pussy and suddenly he's in touch with his feelings. He can't tell his good buddies. Buddies he's been friends with for YEARS now, if he came in her ears, and then sang a Trisha Yearwood verse, hoping the jizz would block the sound".

The question I have is: Do people really always wanna know? Because, if you tell them something they really don't wanna know, then it's - "AWWW, come on man, I'm eating here. Did you really have to tell me that? Why would you tell me that."

From now on I'm only giving people bad details about everything I do. No more good details. No more details where my pals will say "Oh mannn that's awesome bro. That's so fucking awesome. That's like fucking insanely awesome. Tell us more, tell us more!"
Nope just the shitttttty ass deeeets that will bring the goddamn story to a screeching halt right then and there. And I suggest everyone follows suit.

"So Dude how was you're date. She give you a goodnight "present"?

"Yea she did give me a present actually. But it sure as shit wasn't a blowjob. She handed me a hand grenade coated in maximum strength epoxy. It gelled to my palm. She said she would only give me the liquid removal solution if I helped her behead and scalp her mother and fork over the the skull to an "important person" that she owed a skull to. So what happened, you ask? Well I still have my hand, don't I?

"Jesus dude, I wish I never asked".

Exactly.

Guh-Guh-Guh-Guh

Popeye is fucked. He puts spinach in a pipe, smokes it, and apparently it makes him strong to the finish. The last time I put "spinach" in a pipe and smoked it I wasn't even strong enough to get off the couch. I just lied there weak and confused, while I gave biblical names to each of my fingers and drooled on my sleeves.

He seems to be pretty delighted after a good spinach smoke and ususally throws out a hearty "Guh, guh, guh, guh" - son of a bitch cackle. The only thing I could muster was looking over to the other person in the room and screaming at them - "Is that you who keeps spinning this place? STOP IT...Make it stop, please make it stop. What right do you have?...I wanna get off. (Whisper) What's your name? You look like a Dandy. Is your name Dandy? Huh? Is it? Dandy. It's okay if it isn't. It's okay. Have I told you lately...that it's okay." (Isn't that what people do when they get high? Jumble Rod Stewart songs and hope their peers find it endearing. No one wants to hear the shitty lyrics you substitute for the actual ones in random songs.You can't start singing Soul II Soul - "Back to Life...Back to my strategy". It's reality, not you're strategy.)

Popeye is a wreck. He's a shitfaced sailor with anchor tats and one good eye. Spinach isn't gonna help this motherfucker in the slightest. He needs to dock the boats, hang up the sails, and get his tired ass to an infirmary because it looks like he's been sailing the seven C's: Coke, coffee, crank, crack, crystal meth, oxy Contin's and creatine.

Would anyone ever wanna be on a boat with this mess. He's rummaging through your things at five AM looking for leafy greens to ingest so that he can impress some onshore cutie pies with his beefy arms and garden hose veins.

"Guh-guh,guh, where's the spinach mate".

"Popeye get your filthy paws outta my carry on bag. I'm on fucking vacation I didn't pack any spinach. What do I look like Wolfgang Puck? Now go back to sleep before I call the coast guard. You wouldn't want them to board this rickety vessel and "accidentally take a peek" in your medicine cabinet, now would you?"

"Well, Blow...Me...Down. I stands what I can stands and I can't stands no more".

"Okay buddy, that all sounds good. (What the fuck is this hack talking about?). Get some sleep, huh? We got a big day tomorrow. I'm gonna feed you some baby spinach and we're gonna go down to the car dealership that sold me a lemon so you can smash holes in hoods...how's that for zesty?"

He's gettin' up there too, and if there's one thing I know it's that people get fucking picky in their old age when it comes to food. If anyone thinks for one second that he's still stuffing plain spinach in his gullet then they got another thing comin'.

"Popeye, Popeye, the bad guys are after us! Help!"

"Sorry kid, no strength today. Not until I go food shopping."

"What do you mean just eat some spinach, you have plenty in your cabinets."

"Listen kid, you ever heard of something called a fucking salad? You want me to save your life? Then get your ass to the grocer and pick me up some dried cranberries, candied walnuts, and a light, tangy vinaigrette. You expect me to eat these green leaves dry? Guh-Guh-Guh-Get the fuck outta my face."

Rob Pattinson: Proof That The Dead Walk Among Us

If I ever meet Rob Pattison, the first question outta my mouth will be "What's Moses like? I bet he's a real sauce hound? Am I right? Am I right?"

This kid looks like he's been dead since '87. He looks like he spent his childhood in the trunk of his Uncle's car bending metal, and making feverishly fancy, hand made knockers for people with large castle like wooden doors, that his uncle could sell and turn a profit. Hey it's not a big deal, I wish for 1 second that someone would recognize a skill I had, kidnap me, make me their slave with unbearable living conditions, and use me to make some SERIOUS dough.

I just don't understand what the big selling point with this son of a bitch is. What the hell is his speech gonna be if he ever wins an oscar?

"Thanks everyone for supporting me. Thank you to my fans. And Big ups to the big guy upstairs for letting me carry on living as a ghoul even after I drowned in my own fish tank after a gnnnnarly hot pocket and cookie food coma. If anyone wants to congratulate me just come up to me after the show...I'll be the guy walking through walls..."

When Billy Boy Shakespeare came up with the term "dead as a door nail" people must of thought he was crazy. Well folks he doesn't look like such a nut job now, does he? Too bad he never saw his genius realized because it took 2 more centuries for this ghastly apparition to come along. Rob Pattinson is dead as a motherfucking door nail, and whoever put the last nail in his coffin door obviously doesn't know how to use a hammer.

I went to his gravesite the other day to drop off some flowers. There was a sign on the headstone. "Out and about, running errands. Be back around 4:30".

Imagine being the Cemetary Keeper on watch at that point. Its safe so say that you should hit up the classified ads, because if you can't do the simplest job on earth...Keeping dead bodies from walking the streets, then you belong over at Pep Boys. Not changing oil, but standing in front of the garage, handing out 10% discount cards, while people take one, wait 'til they round the corner and fling it on the sidewalk.

I Can't Hear A Word You're Saying

My hearing is fucked...And at the ripe old age of 25...ain't that a bitch (I'm trying to bring that phrase back, because when you use any slang in a sentence along with bitch you should pat yourself on the back as many times as you want. "Where's my cheddar bitch" - referring to money, "You seen my 9-milli anywhere, 'cuz I'm about the go spray lead at these bitches. Or my favorite, the variation of the original "Ain't that about a bitch." All you gotta do it change one word and it ups the quality ten-fold.) I digress per usual.

I cannot hear shit. I have been warned countless times. I've actually had my mom tell me she was warning me while I was being warned by someone else simultaneously. I had my music plugs shoved deep into my ear cavities, like pretty fucking deep, when I pulled them out they were doused in wax and a piece of dark blue glob, which I assume is a piece of my brain. I can't be sure which piece, but since I yanked it I've forgotten how to tie my shoes, dress myself, operate spray cans, and how old I am. I pretty much just walk around town naked with free flying laces, shaking and scolding a lysol bottle while I ask people to guesstimate my age.

My mother said "I'm warning you, take those earbuds out, or you'll go deaf." But of course I wasn't listening because blaring from those headphones was an Ice Cube song where was was telling me "Take these headphone shits off son, I'm 'bout to blow ya muuuhfuckin' brain up playboy." Now, I don't usually listen to my mom, but Cube is basically the Law for me, and I still ignored him. And now I am suffering the consequences.

I deal with people everyday getting increasingly P.O'd when I sound like a fucking bully who knows that the kid I'm picking on isn't gonna do shit but sit there and take his beating quietly. "What? What? What? What are you gonna do about it?". People hate repeating themselves. It's gotta be the number one pet peeve on the planet. If you don't think it bothers you give it a try and see if you don't turn into an absolute blood thirsty BEAST on your last go-round of trying to make the person hear you.

"Excuse me, do you have the time?"
"It's two thirty".
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that".
"I said, It's two thirty".
"So sorry, but I still can't hear you".
"It's TWO THIRTY YOU FUCKING DEAF RINGWORM"
"I understand you want to keep your ring warm, no one wants a frigid wedding band wrapped around their finger. But I really need to know the time".

I mean my ears are getting to the point now where even enormous BOOMS just sound like faint scratches miles off in the distance. I'm worried that I'm going to sitting in my room fiddling with the settings on my new hearing aid and then "Ding". "My re-heated applesauce must be done. Damn that microwave is good and fast". I walk outta the room for my sauce BUT there is nothing there. I'm standing in a vast, empty desert while people run in terror, scream bloody murder, and explosions pop like bubbles as far as the eye can see. "Did I just mistake my microwave for armageddon.?" Then I'd be on the news like a retard.

"Yea so I just thought my applesauce was done. I couldn't have seen this coming".
"So what will you do now that you're the last man on the planet."
"Janet? No she's not around anymore. I don't know if you heard. I'm the last man on the planet."

Ain't that aabbbouuuttt a bitch.

"Take Out the Papers and the Trash" --How 'bout you kiss my shit...

Every goddamn household, office, or organization runs itself with the help of the daily duties of individuals. We call these duties chores. I hate chores. Fuck bedmaking, trash disposing, plant watering, and dog walking. What would you say if I told you I was never going to do any of these things again. I'm not quite sure if its the chores themselves that I hate or the assholes who take them so motherfucking seriously.

There is ALWAYS a list maker. Someone starts delegating responsibilities and there is always a pointdexter (he says) in the crowd who interrupts everything and says "Hold on, I'm gonna grab some scrap paper and write these down." (You just wanna knock them out for the nerdy way they say "scrap paper.") Then they have to tell you their "plan of attack" (Which by the way, when people say -plan of attack- in terms of office tasks and mundane administrative projects -fuck that. They aren't actually attacking anything but their own likability.) - "I'm gonna jot these down on scrap paper, then transfer them to a very big bulletin board and hang it where everyone can see."

What a joke.

I tend to completely ignore these obnoxious lists and carry on with my day in the normal, lazy, task free fashion that I've grown fond of. But it's still difficult to get some peace and quiet because the "jotter downer" will follow you around saying "But it's your day. It's your day to refill the soap dispenser. It's your day. I checked the list, it's your day."

That's when I wanna turn around, look that square square in the eye and say "No, my friend. I'm afraid it's YOUR day...(5 - 7 second pause)...to die." Then start laughing to myself. Not all evil as a real bad guy, but like a giddy school girl. Just high pitched giggles, to get him thinking that I can barely contain the excitement I have from the thought of cutting him up.

"Oh, who am I kidding, man. You're right it is my day. Here is your soap dispenser. It's full. I took care of it."

"Well thank you for obeying the list. I was just trying to make everyone's life a little easier. You'll understand one day. I actually have to use some soap right now because I just took out the trash, since it's MY DAY to do so." (Dollops some soap into his palms). AHHHHHHH. My hands, my hands are burning. You sick bastard...The skin the melting. My knuckle bones are dissolving. What the helllll have youuuu done!!!"

"Well, I filled that little guy with Hyper-hydro-cloridium-nitrate-disulfur-oxide. Highly volitile and fast acting (Cuz you always have to give at least two adjectives to describe the potion you've concocted, as a rule of thumb.) I can't kill ya, but I can sure as shit make sure you won't be making any dumb-ass lists anytime soon. Now go regenerate your skin cells, and re-learn to use your hands from scratch."

If that isn't a chore then I don't know what is.

DADDY RULEZZZ

Every Chick in this universe thinks that their dad is a BADASS. They will literally sit around in a pow-wow circle and take turns interrupting one another's "daddy" stories to strike up a convo about their own. Usually it has to do with some random creep stick they dated and how he tried to take over her life until big bad papa had to step in and set the boy straight with some hard nosed old-man (probably uncool) action. Because most dads lose their coolness around 45, unless you're like me and plan on supplying endless amounts of hard sauce, experimental drugs, broads, and safety-less firearms to all of your unique youngins.

"Now you listen up you little shit, you WILL leave my daughter alone! And I know you will. You wanna know how I know? Because if you so much as touch another hair on her head EVER-fucking-again, I swear on my mother's wind blown ashes that I will harm you in ways that will baffle scientists, and re-inspire deranged psychopaths. I will boil your teeth in a soup bowl, pour the hot enamel over my croc cock (a crocodile shaped cock, and when you finish your not done...you're dundee) and fuck your empty gums unabashedly. Am I making myself clear?" (Of course he wouldn't be a dad if he didn't ruin a perfectly good speech with the ever uncool "Am I making myself clear?")

I just don't understand how every girl can have a badass dad, when not every dad is a badass. I'm nothing even close to resembling a badass and I plan on having daughters of mine own one day (not by choice of course...Karma is a motherfucker). What the fuck kind of badass tales are my daughters going to tell around their friends.

Friend: "My dad fought in Iraq, and wears an eyepatch, and has a tattoo of the globe on his chest where the red inked continents are the ones he's already single handedly invaded, and the blue ones are the ones where he deemed the women un-fuckable and thus the country un-invadable. Like he strolled into India dressed like a Viking while everyone cringed and bowed before him.

"You're people have no need to worry. I will not be taking over this country violently...Because you're women are not slammin'."

My Daughters: "Well our dad, mowed the lawn the other day with goggles on. He was afraid of the new blade kicking up any golf ball sized rocks and hitting his cornea's. He's a very cautious man and still fucks our mom...with his t-shirt on. My boyfriend Jonas slept over the other night, and my dad doesn't very much care for him, so in the morning he cranked the toaster to full blast and burnt the shit out of Jonas's pumpernickel. 'Cuz....that's...just...the type of dad he is...bitches."

The funniest thing ever is seeing two dad's of college girl roomates interact for the first time on parent's weekend or move in day. One dad shows up with bifocals, a tucked in John Ashford, and pleats in his Docker's so sharp and pronounced like he irons them with a Blu-Ray player. Then you have the other dad walk in with flaming skulls on his leather jacket. A texaco shortsleeve name tagged "Ned". Fingerless biker gloves, a fresh gunshot wound, and a scar down the side of his face that he got in a knife fight with an Iron Chef turned Green Beret.

"Hello my name is Theodore. Have you heard about Docker's new spring line.?"

and the Beret just tugs his balls and hocks one on ted's eyeglasses. And says something ridiculously badass that I could never pull off..."Fuck you, I hate the spring."

Gettin' Your Tubes Tied Is Cool...Knot

I would strongly advise females not to get their tubes tied, for one reason and one reason only: Alot of Doctors are whack jobs who will do fucked up shit to keep things interesting while you're sucking down sleeping gas.

If, every day, you had a series of ropes at your disposal and you had to tie them together the same way every single time, you'd probably get a little bored. You'd probably start experimenting with different ties, knots, lengths, tightnesses. Have you ever seen someone try to tie a new knot that has no fucking clue what they are doing? It immediately falls apart and un-knots itself within seconds of finishing. You go to pull it tight for a grand finale, and TAHHDAAAH, its a straight piece of rope again.

What do you think a deranged M.D. would do if presented with the opportunity to either play by the book or tie your tubes in a fucking "cat's paw" for the first time. You better believe he's goin' whiskers baby. The nurse can't say shit. She can only sit there as he pulls more strings than a Yale board member. And if you think he's double checking those knots, you're dead wrong. He gonna stitch you back up real quick and act like nothing ever happened. He'll probly turn to his nurse and say "This never happened. If a word of this gets out, the next thing I'm tying up is you." She might even make a smart ass remark (one she's been waiting for her whole life. One all nurses want to use on the doctor's they slave for) "Go ahead, if it's anything like that last knot, I'll probably get loose in 30 seconds. No wonder why you wear those damn slip on penny loafers everyday, you can't tie a knot to save your life." Then she will smile and say "Damn, that felt good."

All I'm saying is just stick to condoms. Getting your tubes tied is dangerous. You think a poorly tied Lark's Head knot is gonna keep a toddler from getting through. Baby's get outta their cribs and playpens all the time. They aren't smart but sometimes they get lucky, push the right button, hit the right lever, flick the right switch and escape their holding cells. All they would have to do is tamper with that thing for 20 seconds and boom they come sliding down Vagina Drive like a spazzed out ice road trucker, with rope burn to boot. But at least he'll have a cool birth story. "Yea Jimmy when you were little, you tore through your moms slippery ropes and swung outta her snickerdoodle like a fucking baby Tarzan. That's why you're so determined to this day. You did what it takes to get yourself into this world, and goddamn it you're gonna do what it takes to make sure you're always successful in everything you do."

Better than mine: DAD - "Matty boy, let me tell you, we were at the abortion clinic 6 minutes too late. 6 goddamn minutes! Who knew they changed their hours from 8pm - 5pm to 9pm to 4pm. 6 measly minutes! That's why every 6 minutes you should count your lucky stars that you're old man isn't punctual."

Itsy Bitsy Piece of Shitsy

If we could all just take a moment to enjoy a quick read of this bogus, false, misleading, piece of crap lullaby:

The itsy-bitsy spider
Climbed up the water spout
Down came the rain
And washed the spider out
Out came the sun
And dried up all the rain
And the itsy-bitsy spider
Climbed up the spout again

WOW. I'm speechless. I have no idea how this has passed as a lullaby and helped put kids to sleep for so many years. Spiders? The scariest creatures (next to lumberjacks, and swordsmen) on the planet. There is nothing cute about a spider, even if it IS itsy bitsy. Some of the deadliest spiders in the world are fucking miniscule and leave destruction in their path the second they sink they fangs into ignorant flesh. How 'bout this for a song: "The itsy bitsy spider gave me a flesh eating bacteria. Now my friends think I'm a freak and my skin is eating itself because I picked up a small spider because a fucking bullshit lullaby lead me to believe they were harmless and made great pets. (By the way, I'm always skeptical of wahoo's who say "and the best part about them is they make great pets", when they are trying to pawn off a muskrat on you 'cuz it ate their child's left hand, and carries 54 forms of rabies.)

This song is also sending mixed signals. Everyone knows that once an insect gets doused with water, it's as good as dead. You drown the fucking critters out. Besides a tissue, and the bottom of your shoe, this is your next line of defense. You don't want a kid's first encounter with an eight legged freak to end poorly because he thought of the song: "The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the spout again" , and concluded that water has no effect on insects, it will only make them stronger and more determined.

And WHO THE FUCK CLIMBS UP A WATER SPOUT?? Seriously? A water spout? You expect us to all believe that a spider is hanging 10, or 8, on a water spout. "This spout is so gnarly braaah. These swells are epppiiicc. Oh, here comes a a giant, it's a Spidal wave. I'm gonna Blue Crush these bitches and when the fucking sun dries up the rain I'm gonna ride this spout again."

Fuck lullaby's, if my kids aren't going to sleep I'm gonna tell them they got two choices. 1. Get some goddamn shut eye PRONTO or 2. Go outside, build a water spout, climb to the top of it, and don't bother coming back in the house 'til you do. Hit the pillow or build a water spout from scratch?...That's what I thought. Goodnight children.

Hang it Up

If you're working in any blue collar industry then you probably have a locker where you go everyday to drop off/pick up personal belongings. It's probably 50 years old, rusted, and has a broken hinge that you have to hit real swiftly to get it to open...Which is something that you usually do in high school when the new girl gets the "locker that you had last year" and she is struggling to open it on the first day. A lame, cocksucker move, but highly impressive nevertheless.

Once you get this locker open, the inside of the door is littered with pictures of hot babes cut out of old porno mags and swimsuit issues. How come these old timer grease monkeys have the most outdated fucking pictures of ex-hot girls. They pretty much have gross yellow tinted newspaper clippings of Sears underwear models, where the panties come up over their belly button like their stomach is a blow up mattress and they are trying to plug the air hole before they let a teeency bit slip out. (The scariest thing ever is the swift motion you have to make after pumping something up to cover the hole before even the smallest bit of airs seeps, negating all the work you just did.) The girls they have pinned up in there have big hair and aerobic socks on, with neon scrunchies and eyebrows thicker than humidity.

Unfortunately, alot of these dudes also have pictures of their kids in there as well, which is pretty fucking disturbing. You can't accidentally position you're son's soccer portrait underneath Miss February 1986's wrecking ball clit. It's ridiculously awkward. I think you gotta wait to have kids if you own a locker of any kind. It's gotta be one or the other. You either hang your kids or you hang your hoes. Can't do both, sorry.

When your wife comes outta the delivery room with your baby girl, the first thing you gotta think of is who you are gonna hand down your nudie pics too. It sucks but you gotta make room for the baby photos, cuz if you don't your just a horny asshole and a bad dad. You gotta go into work, slowly open up that rusty tin box, take those pics down one by one, as you bid each one goodbye individually "Sorry, Mary Anne Schwartz, you always gave me something to look forward to in the morning. But I have a baby girl now, I hope you understand. You'll always be my number 1 cut out, and don't you forget it."

Give the photo a kiss and hand it over to the young apprentice who has the locker next to you. "Here you go pal, hopefully she brings you as much joy as she's brought me."-- "Um, thanks but no thanks Joe. I'm gonna put up some fucking Megan Fox pictures, you old hack. Who the fuck is Belinda Reed anyways? How 'bout you get a clue and pin up some up to date hotties."

Old or not, going from a saucy lady in a bright orange bikini to a newborn is the worst downgrade ever. Hold off on the kids if you have a locker.

Try This at Home if You Want, Who Gives a Shit.

If you've ever looked into a camera before you were about to do a remedial stunt of any kind, and said "Don't try this at home", then you are a certified tool box douche of the highest degree. You've achieved a black belt in douchebaggery, and on that note if you're actually a black belt, and not a real ninja, crime fighter, or jujitsu sense´, then you are also a d-bag. Karate should not be a hobby. It is a means of killing suckers, impressing girls, perfecting flying jump kicks, and holding a defensive pose wayyy too long after you've delivered the finishing blow to your opponent, as if they are going to leap up in one motion and re-attack...

"Don't try this at home." What a cocksucker phrase. The only solace I find in that saying is that they cannot be serious. Even though they are probably joking it still sounds pretty fucking gay. Especially when they are doing something not even remotely amusing to anyone but the stoned-out-of-their-tits crowd they are hanging with. Like, if the dude is attempting to drop 22 chips into a bowl of french onion dip at once, then shove them in his mouth without spilling a single crumb. "Don't try this at home, folks." (Laughter.)

Oh really?? Where the fuck do you want me to try it. Do you want me to eat my chips on a ferris wheel? Should I be scarfing Tostitos on my fucking hanglider? Should I be calling my buddy Jimmy: "Hey Jimbo, get the chips and salsa and meet me at George's Gorge between the highway sign and Paula's Pancake Parlor." --"But can't I just grab the snack and meet you at your house?"--"Absolutely NOT, James!"

It's no better if you say the phrase, and are actually doing something that we REALLY shouldn't try at home. Like skydiving, or uni-cycling down a set of stairs. If your about to jump out of a plane, don't think for one second that I'm planning on throwing on a tablecloth-parachute, climbing to my roof and plummeting downward. It's a no-brainer. You don't have to remind me not to try death defying stunts at my house. I don't plan on emptying out a potato sack of venomous snakes and making a grand speech before I attempt to wrangle them: "Well there 60 of you and only one of me. You have speed, poison, numbers, your asses rattle and your jaws unhinge. Pretty impressive stuff. But there's one thing you don't have...The human brain". Then I dive into the pack and have at it.

I guess what I really want is for the assholes who use this lame phrase to specify a little bit. Maybe they could at least say "Don't try this at YOUR home, kids." Parents might appreciate it a little more. Mom's gonna kill you if you attempt to back flip off the lit grill into a pool of gasoline...But if you take those shenanigans over to the neighbor's house, it's no longer her problem. Now, it's Timmy's mother's fault. She should have been keeping a closer eye on you. I smell lawsuit.

Call the cops, plead your case, have her arrested, press charges...Just whatever you do "Don't try her at home"...take her to a courtroom.

555-FUCK YOU

Do girls really still give out fake phone numbers these days. If they do, then they can seriously go fuck themselves. Getting digits is a craft, an art form, a skill that needs to be honed over time, nurtured and cared for. Girls need to be really careful not to ruin too many men's spirits because pretty soon it's going to come back to haunt them and I will explain why, shortly.

First of all is there any worse feeling in the fucking history of feelings than dialing up what you think is a legit smokeshow's number, only to be greeted with a fucking "Cocky Bagels, we let our spreads go to our heads. This is Jim how can I help you?" FUUUUCK. You've just been duped and now instead of asking sweet Alyssa from the club on a date, you're left with two options:

1) You can just say fuck it and give Jim you're bagel order "Yea I'll take a plain bagel with plain cream cheese for my plain life with a plain flat out zero chance of ever getting a hot chick." - "Would you like that toasted sir?" - "Only if it's gonna ease the pain (tears, sniffles)...You know what, cancel that order, I don't think I can eat right now..."

or

2) You can pour your heart out to Jim over the phone and actually go through with the explanation of what happened and how depressing your sex-free life is. Jim doesn't even know you from Adam but will probably either end up calling you a plain bagel eating pussy, or saying something ridiculous like "It's her loss man, she doesn't know what she's missing out on (then make some lame bagel-related joke) There's plenty of poppy's in the field...and there's two halves to every whole" (whatever the dick that means).

I mean everytime you ask for someone's number and they act like they don't know what you're even talking about - "What? my number? Oh you mean my phone number? The one where the area code is sometimes written down in parentheses depending on personal preference?" They are just buying themselves fucking time to think of which actual number they are going to change when they give you an answer. You have to buy time because if you don't, and decide to wing it as it's coming outta your mouth, you're gonna end up saying something like 676-856-984curl20 because you'll have a brain fart and sound like an everlasting retard. Curl20? Bitch, what the fuck does that mean?

All I'm saying through this whole thing is that girls need to be careful because there is something they are not thinking of. EVERY SINGLE phone number combination pretty much already exists and belongs to someone. It's not like when you drop a fake on a guy he is just calling outer fucking space and he is going to hear silence and sonar beeps. NO, he's gonna reach someone. And since serial killers, rapists, deranged body-experimenting scientists, finger licking cannibals, ill-temepered non-union lumberjacks, and spacey glass dildo distributors have phone numbers, there is a serious chance they could pick up.

One of these days you are gonna give out a fake number that belongs to one of these psychos, I'm gonna call it, and they are answer with the oldest line in the book "How did you get this number?" You say "Oh it was this tramp Jill at TriCity Pub." He will flip out, find you, rip your limbs off, make a fort out of them, and hang out inside of it while he feeds what's left of you poison pasta.

How You Sayyyy?

If you've got premature ejaculation issues then I highly recommend hooking up with a Brazilian girl. Now don't get me wrong it's not gonna change anything about your existing medical condition, you're still gonna be using Quicken as your personal finance software...But the language barrier between English and Portugese is so strong and sturdy that NO fucking words overlap!

Alot of languages like Spanish and French sound similar and have alot of overlapping words and phrases. English and Portugese have fucking nothing in common. So Last night when I "jumped the gun" and she asked what happened, I looked at her and said "Bricken?" with a boyish look on my face...Which is a combination of brick and broken I guess. She had no idea what that was (neither did I but that's not the goddamn point.) She looked back at me and said "Bricken?" And I looked right back at her and frowned "Bricken"...

The best part about it was that she wanted me to think she knew what I meant so she goes "ohhhhh okay, Bricken...I see"...No you don't, but that's perfectly alright. I didn't want to say the words "too fast" when she asked me what happened, because her english is good enough (but still piss poor) to understand that so I made up a word and she accepted it completely. She had no idea that I "fled the scene" wayyyy to early. For all she knows Bricken could mean I gotta get outta bed and walk to the kitchen because I smell something burning (and while I'm there I'll throw away my used condom and take a nap on the living room couch.)

These are just the luxuries you don't have with American sweethearts...Imagine taking down a filthy Jersey Shore prize, being a two pump chump, and looking at her dough eyed while "Bricken" spilled from your lips...She'd be like "Bricken? What the fuck you tawkin' about, bricken. Whatta ya fuckin' speakin' Portugese, we're in America you shithead. I know what you did, and pretty fuckin' soon awlll my fuckin' friends ahhh gonna know too!"

I vote for Brazil.

Blowing My Fuse

How the hell do people rascal up all sorts of candles, wick saucers, and matches whenever their fucking lights go out? I don't get it. Everytime the fuse box is on the fritz people start pullin' wax up the ying yang outta the woodwork. WHO THE FUCK even knows where all their powerful candles are in the house? That shit is probably packed away in the attic somewhere behind your mom's black wedding dress, and dad's clarinet from 5th grade band practice...Fucking pack rat...

But for some strange reason instead of sitting there quietly in the dark while the electric company does everything humanly possible to fix the black out, people choose to walk around a pitch black house with a burning candle bumping into things and demanding that their loved ones "stay close"...My dad used to say "stay close Matt, stay close" whenever he was lurking around the house with a candle during an outage. I remember thinking to myself "Go fuck yourself pops, I don't trust you with that thing...You're walking around with handheld fire in a pitch black fucking house tripping over everything in sight and bumping into me...I don't want the lights to come on all of a sudden and have everyone staring at the base of my forehead...Where my eyebrows USED TO BE...

And the next day this question comes about like fucking clock work: "Did you guys lose power last night?" It's the only thing that anyone is goddamn interested in. Kids at school, parents at work, junkies in a dumpster...Everyone is asking this question. It's almost as if it's a competition...Like if your family didn't lose power then you guys have no idea just how much of a bitch life can be...And then if everyone seems to have lost it, it comes down to a straight up pissing contest: "How long was yours out for?...only 4 hours? Oh man, ours was out for about 9...Beat that!

"Hey Matt, did your family lose power?"..."Yea we sure did"..."Well you sure don't seem that mad about it...But then again maybe you are. It's hard to tell with no eyebrows"...

Fuck all ya'll muh'fuckas...

My Thumb Guilt Trips The Shit Out Of Me

Ever been beatin' it and you look down at your hand only to see your fingers and palm wrapped around your junk, doin' their job, but your thumb is pointing right back at you, making you feel stricken with guilt? It's just literally thumbing around looking for a ride outta friction town. It sure looks like one fucking rebellious digit motioning for a revolution, while all the other fingers are "brain"washed slaves to my shlong. He just sits up there watching everyone else do the work, like those a-hole steel mill managers who sit 70 feet above everyone else and oversee their fellow miners, but their only real job is to ring the lunch bell, and say things like "What's everybody lookin' at? Get back to work!".

I'm just real tired of the guilt trip I'm gettin', even though I treat him so well. After every jerk I make sure to crack the thumb knuckle. Everyone knows that's the best feeling in the world. For a good 5 minutes your thumbs been stiff as a fucking board and that crack is just about the greatest thing ever.

Call me fucking bananas, but I can't take it anymore. I gotta start angling my hand when I crank my bird so that my thumb is pointing away from me to my right as if I'm tellin someone to "Hit the road, Jack".

Mel Glib-son

My heart currently bleeds for Mel Gibson. The son of a bitch lost 450 million goddamn dollars to his hoe bag wife...approx. half of his 900 million dollar fortune. First of all who the hell fucking knew that Mel had almost a billion dollar fortune. That's absolutely absurd to think about. The asshole who did "What Women Want" (which is a guilty pleasure of mine, I openly admit) is a real life billionaire? No wonder his wife couldn't take his bullshit anymore. When you're a billionaire, that should be you're answer to fucking everything. "Mel, do the goddamn dishes", "Fuck yourself honey, I'll piss on your piece of shit dishes. Haven't you heard...I'm a fucking billionaire." "Mel, titty fuck me please?" "Fuck yourself honey, I'll piss on your piece of shit tits. You can rub a doughy rolling pin between those mosquito bites for all I care, because Mel Gibson doesn't have to stick his dick anywhere. Haven't you heard...I'm a fucking billionaire."

Even though he may be the biggest douchebag ever, it still blows that he has to part ways with half of his hard earned money. Plus, she shit out a boat load of kids for him to support. Her vagina was walked out of more than Apocalypto. Her snatch lips look like an old fashioned 7 - 10 split...And coincidentally probably need to be sprayed with bowling shoe antiseptic each time before penile penetration. I feel like everytime you go to bang her, an old grumpy bastard in a scally cap pulls her vagina from a cubby and hands it to you over a dirty counter, with the size 12 labeled on the clit and wishes you "good luck" with a clever "set 'em up and knock, 'em down kid..."

Bullshit!

Why do ex-fat fucks insist on putting their pool cover sized pants back on immediately after shedding the pounds. I don't understand. They lose all this fucking weight, and their first inclination is to go swimming in their old jeans, put one hand in, and use it to stretch them out to the front while posing for a queer camera shot. If I all of a sudden lost 197 pounds of terribly tubby tissue, the last thing I would do is throw on the slacks that housed my Stone Henge ass for the past decade. I would burn those fuckers along with the twinkies and french bread pizzas that prohibited my penis from coming within cum/ear shot of a vagina.

The sad thing is that I think they actually keep them around as a memento of some sort, to remind them of their heavier days. I actually think the real reason is that they keep them around because they know that 1) It's impossible to keep the weight off (FACT) - you reach you're goal weight, then KABLOOIE!! You think you're livin' on easy street but you forget that you're body has zero fucking metabolism, which is why you were bleeding cream cheese and gravy to begin with, so you eat whatever the dick you feel like and balloon back up to the tractor you once were. And 2) When that happens, you're gonna need some pants (old faithfuls) to walk around in while you stomp on city phone booths and pedestrians and peer inside 19th story windows looking for a girl to clench in you're palm (cuz that's what monsters do when they find a girl), and just when she thinks he's going to crush her in his hand, she looks in his big dopey eyes and sees a fat, lazy, tub of toad turd who just wants to be loved for the freak he is.

From All Angles

Gianna Michaels is the most whorish porn star on the planet. She's filthy, nasty, repulsive, and unbelievably charming all rolled into one. Alot of porn stars talk the talk but Gianna takes the cock for a walk...I've actually seen her play frisbee with one...and she trained Peter North's to fetch the morning paper...

She is an absolute pin cushion...Everyone has that grandmother that leaves her little tuft that's jammed with 6 gazillion pins out by the sewing machine, and when you are younger this object looks like a fucking phenomenon because it's unlike the toys and crayons that you're used to seeing - This is Gianna Michaels. I just wish she would use an ACTUAL sewing kit and take the time necessary to mend her hockey goalie's mask-vagina...and not the freddie crougar ones but the BIG, lavish ones that they started painted cool designs on around the mid 90's...

She is freak of nature who will choke down every penis she sees, regardless of who's it's attached to. The sound she makes when she's regurgitating a shlong is reminiscent of my 'bout with squash back in the day. Everytime I ate that vegetable, canned or pureed, I hacked and choked like a drowning swimmer. I had forgotten about it all these years until the sound of Gianna swallowing a 45 inch man sword and spitting it up like a collicky baby, jogged my memory...

Bottom line is...My penis is afraid of her...her techniques scare the shit out of me and that's not something that's easy to do...Too bad I'll never know what it's like to plow her, because I'm pretty sure that one day soon she will be overheard addressing a crowd: "And for my next stunt, I will be airlifted and hover above the Eiffel Tower, I will then release my harness, sending me, vadge-first, towards the apex spire, where I will land, with the greatest monument ever constructed, in my snatch..."

This will obviously kill her, but she's willing to die for the cause and it's downright respectable... I mean come on, what are the other French porn stars doing? Using Baguettes? That's child's play for G.M.

A REAL NEWSSANCE

I hope I'm not the only one who gets an absolute fucking KICK out of watching a man and woman news anchor team interact with each other. It's about as pleasant as trying to get some privacy in Octo-mom's womb. They have a deeeep hatred for one another that is overly exploited the more they try to joke around with each other in between stories. All they really want to do is find new ways to hold and tap their ballpoint pen on the news desk, or stack and shuffle their papers so they form a unified, perfect square and return to their rightful order. Instead, they feel the need to grind out a hideous conversation with one another ending in some of the worst jokes ever told.

Woman Anchor: Well folks, who would have thought it up, but a grocery store actually saved a civilian's life this afternoon...A robbery was in place and as the crook had his pistol locked, loaded and aimed at Ms. Madeline Jennings, a substantial box of Kashi whole grain cereal fell loose from the top shelf, landing on the man's trigger hand and knocking the firearm to the floor. A jar of jelly then toppled and plummeted from the top row, smashing into the man's forehead and rendering him unconscious. Amazing. You heard it here first - the store is a hero.

Man Anchor: Talk about a Super-Market, Diane...

Woman Anchor: I know Bill. I just wonder what flavor that jelly was. Apri-caught, or Apri-hended?

Dear God these two losers have a strong dislike for each other. They force smiles and overall goodwill between one another for the entire hour. And then, when the Camera's stop rolling YOU KNOW one of them has got to instantly fucking LOSE IT! "I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE JIM (the network executive) SHE HAS GOT TO FUCKING GO...IT'S EITHER ME OR HER!!

That's when the weather man mediator steps in as the third party who diffuses some of the awkwardness. The anchors are so overly happy to see him though that they go out of their way with their welcoming, as if its a bigger relief than crapping out an absolute perm of backed up shit...

Man Anchor: And NOW FOR THE WEATHER, ITS OUR FAVORITE MAN OF THE HOUR, METEOROLOGIST TIMMY "TEN DAY OUTLOOK" THOMAS...

Woman Anchor: THE ONE, THE ONLY, THE RAIN OR SHINE RASCAL, TIM TIM TIMMMMY TIM

Like they are introducing a fucking circus act....they are just so goddamn happy that he's there to take the focus of their heinous banter....

I Kissed a Frog and I Liked it

Um, did Katy Perry just get hot overnight? It seems as though two months ago she looked like a dirty fish tank, jumpin around on stage with no remorse for the pain she was causing the rest of us. Now she is an absolute fox. Someone fucking snapped their fingers and this chick became a true smoke show. It's good to see wizards and magicians are using their powers for good these days instead of pissin' in their dunce caps and making lightning with their hands... the grandest trick of all was turning Katy Perry from a walking catastrophe to a girl for whom I would deep fry my ball bag if it meant she'd graze my chick stick...

It's pretty much a reverse version of the old toad/prince fairy tale. She must have smooched that lilly jumper and instead of him turnin' into prince charming, she turned into a girl with a head that people no longer want to throw a bag over...You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince...or before guys would consider doing you...Katy Perry, I love you my dear, but maybe go smooch that pond dwelling amphibian one last time...Frogs don't have much to live for besides flies, and strumming their 17 inch tongues to see what sound it makes (much like we all fucking do when we're bored with the gum in our mouths...clench one end in your front teeth, stretch that son bitch out with your right hand and pluck her once or twice with the left)...It just sucks that the last chick that the little pond hopper frenched was hideous...and now she's an absolute twelve after the fact...

It's like when your wife uses the divorce settlement money to get a tit job...that you'll never get to enjoy.

Cougars Take Notice: You're Old As Fuck

Two "cougars" (hot older bitches) sued the pants off Chapter 8 nightclub in Agoura, CA. The bar is a notorious cougar hangout and was featured as the location for a video called "The Great Cougar Hunt of '08." The ladies were apparently insulted beyond repair and found it fit to take legal action. I just fucking learned about this the other day (although it's a year later) and I am absolutely disgusted...Who do these weathered, wrinkly, old rags think they are? They should be thrilled as fuck that they are even being labeled as cougars in the first place. Because let me tell you, JUST BECAUSE YOU'RE OLD DOES NOT MEAN YOU ARE A COUGAR. Let's use a fun anecdote here shall we?

6 sabertooth tigers are traversing a ravine and come across a group of tasty, meaty wildabeasts. The W.B.'s are obviously no match for the ferocious felines and are getting devoured one by one. There is a serious skirmish and amidst the tussle the dust begins to form rendering all the animals visually handicapped. Moments later the cloud of dirt settles to reveal 20 dead wildabeasts but only 5 living sabertooths. The tigers pan around and begin to wonder how they lost one of their peers. Surely, this must be a mistake. There's no way in shit that one of the wildebeasts could have taken down a majestic saber. Sure enough the truth is soon uncovered. Turns out the "funny looking " one in their pack wasn't a sabertooth after all, but instead an ugly ass, meager, ant eater in tiger attire who got trampled and eaten while his strong companions munched down the spoils.

Ugly older ladies, are you still with me? The lesson here is that just because you roll to the fucking bar with a pack of hot 50 year olds, DOESN'T MEAN THAT YOU ARE ONE! Most of you really are not attractive at all. The only thing that makes you intriguing is your age... You pony up to the bar with your one attractive friend and suddenly you think you're a looker yourself. Your face looks like its been asleep on a car battery for 6 years, and your eyeliner actually isn't lining anything, except my stomach with a semi-thick coat of bile that will soon exit my yapper in the form of throw up if you come any closer.

I'd probably rather mess around with an actual cougar than you wannabe pieces of washed up wreckage. Mountain lions are attractive animala, and at least they are consistently good looking.

Cougar older ladies apparently got the name because they prey and pounce on young guys. Well first of all, actual cougar cats don't prey or pounce on anything, it seems like. People are always so afraid of them, but from what I've seen, there's never been a calmer creature. They just observe from high altitudes and then pur ever so lightly when they get close to you. They walk slowly, get face to face and just when you think they are going to rip your fucking skull off, they lick like a lover...and lick and lick some more.

Yea I know that's not true...But I'm pretty sure if a mountain lion was hungry he/she would fucking pounce on anyone, not just a young boy...If you really want to get some accuracy for that nickname then ditch "cougar" and refer to these older bags of bones as priests.

"Dude, I gotta get laid. So, we're all goin' Father huntin' tonight at Chapter 8...but bring you're [pet] cougar incase we strike out."

This could quite possibly be the most misunderstood sentence ever created...I don't recommend blurting it out any time soon...

Im Writing This In The Waiting Room Of a Free Clinic

I went slumming last night, and ended up with an absolute pig in my bed. She reeked of garlic and sins. I'm 57% sure that she was a full fledged whore, and I accidentally put my pee pee in her pooper with no rubber on...That is why I'm sitting in a Free Clinic getting tested for EVERYTHING...I'm a little worried, considering her vagina looked like a Jeep Wrangler's profile shot...No door at all. Just an open aired hazard accident waiting to happen...and my shlong was the ever popular "roll bar"...But don't get me wrong this was no day at the beach...She was loose as a goose.

I'm pretty sure she was truly disgusting, and may or may not have been born at a strip club...while her mother was in the middle of a dance...

And as long as we're talking theories...I also think that she was potentially the first baby ever to be birthed out of an asshole instead of a vagina...At least we know she doesn't always look to take the easy way out...

DEAR GOD

Honestly, Megan Fox is the hottest girl I've ever seen in my goddamn life. She is the best looking human being on the planet and every other even remotely good looking girl resembles smeared, puke covered, green, shit turds in comparison. She could have volcanic herpes, an earthworm taking up residence in her damp, soil packed, snatch, while farting smog and drooling acid rain and I'd still bang her in a heart beat. She makes my dank piece harder than dry-wall...I have aspirations of mounting her on a newly painted park bench...We wouldn't find out that the white paint hadn't dried yet and then giggle in the middle of a kiss when we both realized we were covered in it.

It's the only way to flog Megan Fox, because who the fuck is going to believe you when you say you two just did the deed. You go to your buddies "Dude, I just fucked Megan Fox"..."Haha yea right you dipshit liar, you probably just misread the Wet Paint sign on a park bench and sat down like an idiot."

But when you go find Foxy and she is covered in off-white Benjamin Moore, YOU PROOF IS RIGHT THERE....and everyone will believe you. FACT....Because there is no chance that both of you sat on the same wet park bench....and DIDNT hook up....not possible....

Paid Under The Table

Melissa Theuriau is hottest fucking news anchor of all time...the only problem is that she broadcasts from France.

Her sultry looks are every man's goddamn dream, but would it kill her to smile every once in a while? I'm suspicious as fuck as to what's behind those lips. A nice set of teeth? Jagged chicklets? Pearly whites? Discolored sugar cubes? Razor-like chompers? or maybe just a row of those fucking pointy teeth that are shaped like the center of a seesaw.

I think that news channel should hire yours truly to come and munch her yoohoo under that desk while she delivers the news. While she's on air, I'm on hair. I take pride in my tickle dive, and could probably get her to at least smirk a little, which would be a serious improvement. I could even whisper her lines if she stumbles while reading the prompter. It would be the greatest job of all time. Sometimes men in porn need fluffer's, so that they "get their facts straight". Think of me as a fluffer for an anchor...a flanchor (pronounced- flanker.)

My duties as a flanchor would be simple and direct: Keep Slurping, No Burping. Who doesn't love getting their news by word of mouth...

I'd love to see the look on her male anchor co-host's face as he's pointing out the locations of California wildfires on a map while Melissa bites her lip and clenches her fist blurting out - "Right there. Yes!. Right there!." He gives her a confused-as-fuck-but-the-show-must-go-on-look..."Yes, Melissa, you're right. (Pointing to the map) They are right there, and right here as well, in Encino, and right there in Sherman Oaks too...So tragic." "The Best! (Panting) Yes! The Best!" He looks like he could kill her..."Yes Melissa that's right. You can rest assured the BEST firefighters will be put to the test tonight."

"I've even had a couple close encounters with these fires myself, as I'm sure you have as well. Isn't that right Melissa"

"Oh yes, Multiple....Multiple (sigh...sigh...sigh...)

Then I sprout up and I'm supposed to yell "That's a wrap!"...but I change my line at the last second and opt for the more lovable "That's a flap" (a pussy flap, of course.)...Everyone loves the joke and erupts in laughter...Except the male anchor, who knocks me the fuck out because he's "sick of this shit" and is wondering "when it's gonna end!"...but we are still rolling...the cameraman films the punch, the douchebag newscaster gets fired, and I take Melissa home and show her my "top story".

Nappy Holidays

I know I should have come out and said this a long time ago, but I think J. Holiday's song, "Put You To Bed", may be about slipping a honey, trick, bitch, shawty, rump shaakah, etc., some non-street legal form of anesthesia and initiating penetration. Thereby making the alleged "boo" the final piece to a J. Holiday/Sandman threesome. Big J may be the one who needs the pillow and a warm glass of milk the most. He looks arguably burnt out, most likely after staying up for nights on end after releasing the "joke" version of the song (that was only meant for his friends) onto public Top 40 radio. What an unfortunate snafu. Someone fucked up bad, and forgot to replace the statutory assault version with the much cleaner, non-forceful coma induced, anal punishment version into the envelope that was sitting in J's "outgoing" mail bin. I hope J's human resources team took action and fired that intern with just cause, because the girl in that song is having an unconscious epiphany: That you CAN be in two places at once - dreamland and creamland. Here's a sample...

And love you till your eyes roll back
I'm tryin to put you to bed, bed, bed
I'mma put you to bed, bed, bed
Then I'ma rock your body
Turn you over
Love is war
I'm your soldier
Touching you like it's our first time
I'mma put you to bed, bed, bed
I'ma put you to bed, bed, bed

[Verse 2:]
I'm staring at you while your sleep
You replaced it for beauty
Put my face up in your neck and breathe (aww, breathe)
Take you into my senses
Wake up, it's time to finish
Round two, It's round two
Matter of fact it's closer to three

She like, "how long I been sleep?"
Shorty, kisses turn into the sweetest dreams
Like give it to me
And I can feel her tell me
My angel this is wonderful
Thanks, for letting me bless ya
Come down, fly, right, drift back into heaven
Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh

Love you til' your eyes roll back? Really J? Most people don't actually fall asleep willfully like that. I've actually never watched someone doze off (which makes me humungously less creepy than you), but I'm also certain that the only time someone's eyes roll in back of their head is when they are being pumped full of hardcore drugs that are frying their brain and turning their retina's into rolodex's. You're a creep dude...And you're extremely tired...Maybe you need a little taste of your own medicine...A Midnight raping/beating from Chris Brown might be just what the doctor ordered. You'll be a little out of sorts the next day, I'm sure...

"What's wrong with you this morning J...What did you wake up on the dong side of the bed again?"

Calf-a-teary-a

Everytime I look down at my legs I want to cry. Not because I don't admire them of course, but because no one else will ever come close to owning two limbs so exquisite, and it disheartens me. They are the epitome of perfection and if you're body really is a temple, as they say, then my calves are two fucking ample, pulsing bags of kosher salt. They are perfect in every facet. They intimidate, antagonize, bewilder, and amaze. I realize that many people may not agree with me, and therefore I may stand alone...On the most glorious pair of stems this hemisphere has ever known.

There was a craze back in the day known as Livestrong bracelets. There is no need to explore the nature of these wristbands, because everyone knows what they are and what they stand for. I am in full support, and actually wear one myself. But I was considering starting another brand. One that is worn on your calf as a WalkStrong movement. Walkstrong is for all those people out there with chicken, bow, scrawny, stumpy, or just fucking ugly legs. Everytime you buy a pair of shorts, you will have the option of donating a dollar to Walkstrong and receiving a rubber bracelet that will be worn around your calf muscle, or lack thereof in comparison to mine. All proceeds will go towards calf implants for the people who are afraid to throw on a pair of swim trunks because their legs look like two fluorescent office lightbulbs on motion sensors (you almost want to wrap them both in that clear, but textured, and slightly opaque plastic box that envelopes the bulbs as they hang overhead and shine down upon miserable employees who are dreaming up ways to burn the motherfucking building down.)

My calves are the only thing that give me confidence. I am devoid of self-esteem in every other aspect of life. You may be saying to yourselves "Well gee, why can't you just find God? He'll help you get back on track?". It's ironic, because my legs are the sole reason I can't even go to church anymore. Kneeling down for prayer, and denying the rest of the population visual access to my sleek beauties is more of an unholy act than not praying at all (there's sinning, and then there's shin-ning, and there is no difference.) So everyone hop on board and WalkStrong bitches. We'll have a grandiose party to kick this worldwide fundraiser off....And we'll all get fucking legless..

Don't even think of trying to get in if you're not on the fucking list...Cuz I'll be at the door bouncing...on the balls of my feet, waiting to sick one of my stack-of-ashtray-sized calves on you like a beaten, bastard, bloodhound with a hatred for douchebags that'll literally make you weak in the knees.

The Penis Brothers

I'd like to "teenie" bop these three freakishly adorable assholes over their overpaid heads with a brand new sledgehammer. Everything about them screams "anal experimentation. I realize that there are several sex "rules" out there in the world today. Steve Stiffler once told us of the zip code rule (how cheating on your girlfriend doesn't count if you are in a different postal code location.) And ladies, If you wake up and can't remember the hardcore hammering you took the night before because of the 15 oatmeal cookie shots you tossed down your throat instead of dinner, then it never actually happened. BUT NO WHERE is the rule stated that having sex with your brother is OKAY, because you're in the same band. Sibling rivalry should be starting over a Nintendo controller or the last slice of bavarian cream pie...NOT over your twin's throbbing dank piece...But seriously guys, congratulations on being the first band in history who would rather play each other's instruments than your own...

Type A-Pathetic

Setting: A popular, skanky, awesomely trashy Hollywood strip joint.

Main Characters: Me and Wire (the hottest stripper of all time, but for some reason has a fucking American Gladiator stage name...I'm pretty sure that if your fucking name is Wire you should be going toe to toe with Venom, Siren, and Wolf in the Eliminator....Whatever happened to the classics like Caramel, Candy, Trixie, Daphne, Dahlia, Angel, Roxanne, Ivy, and Nougat?

Scenario: Wire sidles me, and barely gets through asking me if I would enjoy a dance before I hastily blurt out "What is-meet you in the back room", in true Jeopardy fashion (that's my schtick, get over it, everyone has one, so get off me.) Strippers don't watch TV because it's hard to work the remote while hanging upside down from a semi-sturdy gold pole, so my reference goes flying over her head. One thing leads to another, we start chatting, and she tells me she is a Type A personality. I say "Yea, no shit", apparently like a true bastard, because she gets up and leaves me there reciting the pledge of allegiance to my confused, half masted flagpole. Her exact words, "Fuck you, I'm outta here!"...

Conclusion: Never call yourself a Type A personality if you don't want other people to agree with you...You stupid, rump shaking, sensitive, biiiiatch.

I Never understood the whole Type A thing. People seem to take pride in having these personality traits. Last time I checked, people who were impatient, over eager, highly motivated, self indulgent, aggressive and highly competitive were just a fucking pain the neck (you might be curious as to why I opted for neck instead of ass...try getting hit in both spots and see which one is more of a pain, you dicks.)

"So tell me a little bit about yourself, John"..."Well sir, I am a real go getter, one of those Type A Personalities...you know"..."John?"..."Yes, sir?"..."Get the fuck out of my sight because you disgust me." That is exactly how every conversation should end after someone reveals this about themselves. But for some fucking reason they love to describe themselves as Type A, and hate the shit out of it when you agree with them. Just like Wire...

They get all hot and bothered when you say "Yea, I can see that." If you don't want me to agree then don't put it out there on the fucking table. I don't go start shitting out phrases like "I'm a real Type B personality, I just sit on my fucking carcass all day and pull my pud until it's sore. Then I fix myself a daunting bowl of apple jacks, and verbally beg my clock to fast forward itself to 5:30 because I can't wait another nano-second for Fresh Prince to start. BECAUSE I don't want people to agree with the fact that I'm a lazy piece of dogshit with less drive than a slashed tire. (I actually don't even know what personality type I really am. You really can't classify yourself one way or the other because sometimes people are A and sometimes people are B.)

In Wire's case, she has to be Type A at work. If you're a stripper and you sit there with your hands under your ass, picking your nose and scratching your baby door through your baggy sweatpants, you're gonna make shit for money. But I can't imagine her going home and continuing to play the part. I don't think she gets in the bath tub and makes her kids come in and slip her singles under her shower cap while she Sham Wow's her snatch with a Louffa (the single greatest word/sponge of all time...fact...If you wash up with a Louffa, then you should hop out of the shower, dry your hands off, throw on your slippers, and light up a smoke, because CONGRATULATIONS, you just had sex with yourself...fact.) My point is that you can't be one way or the other all the time. I'm lazy as shit but if a shark is swimming after me, I'm not going to half heartedly tread water, throw a thumb in my ass, and amuse myself by throwing a patch of seaweed over my head and quipping "Look everybody, I'm Bon Fucking Jovi!"...

I didn't say anything wrong, Wire...You just got all heated under the g-string and stormed off...just like a Type A bitchcunt would. Lucky for you, I'm so Type B that I couldn't give five fucks...I should've have made you take a shower with me...and had you scrub me down with my favorite sponge, while I pretended to care less...a stripper's worst nightmare - an uninterested, indifferent, Type B piece of shit, a.k.a. ME.

Wire: You don't even seem excited...Do you want me to change the water setting to Stream instead of Jet? Woops, I just dropped the soapy sponge.

Me: I don't really care...Now that's "aloof huh?"...

Wire: Real cute.

Me: Fuck I just cut myself with the razor by accident, I'm losing blood at an alarming rate. I might need a transfusion. You're Type A right?

Wire: Fuck you, I'm outta here!...

You can't win...

Flying V...

Who likes girls dancing in cages?

Cops don't like them because it reminds of them of the midnight cornhole rapists and pistol wielding sidewalk scum that they are trying to scrape off the streets and throw behind bars.

Lion tamers don't like them because it reminds them of their four legged, feline co-star being chained up on a big old sea vessel and transported from Africa to the circus, where Barnum and Bailey could make sure he's up to their standards by sticking their heads in his mouth and then forcing him into a ferocious threeway. (B and B are so gay...that they should open up a B and B)

Wrestlers don't like them because it brings them back to that no holds barred, career ending cage match that left them penniless, loveless, and without a spleen. Cage matches are notoriously the harshest forums for professional grapplers, and afterwards the loser is...never...quite...the...same...

I'll tell you who loves these pent up queef dealers...THIS GUY...as in, ME. They have the nerve to get in a caged confinement and start shaking their goodies for the betterment and sheer entertainment of the dirtbags who are actually watching. The reason, I think, that I'm so enamored is because I did not have a bird when I was younger. All my friends had birds in elaborate cages and lined the floors with newspapers. They filled little Petey's goblet with the freshest water and saltiest crackers. I was jealous...and angry. I've heard of people not being dog or cat people...but who the fuck flute is allergic to birds? I've never seen any one have to break out an epi-pen while feeding the ducks. You want what you can't have in life, and a BIRDCAGE was my desire. Instead of owning an actual one, I ended up watching the movie, which almost turned me queer. Dodged a bullet...and a couple ballsacks...

A black girl was in a cage last night at the bar I was at, and in a playful, sexual tone yelled "Paulie want a cracker!", right in my direction. Being of fair skinned Irish soda bread complexion I naturally assumed she wanted me to hop in the cage and ruffle her feathers. Mixed signals. I was immediately thrown out. FUCK! You see mom! I had no experience with this. If I had had a bird when I was younger I would've known better and simply fed her what she wanted all along: a buttery tollhouse right out of my palm...But instead I pissed the poor cockatoo right the fuck off, got tossed to the curb, and went back to my lust nest solo, with bird* in hand.

*one's own penis