Monday, February 28, 2005

Seven ate Nine

On the weekends I try to donate a lot of my time, especially to children. I have been very lucky in this life and it just makes sense to give back.

This weekend I was asked by the local children's medical hospital to come and read to a small group of sick children. I was touched at being asked because I love children, I picked out a few books that I really enjoyed as a young boy and drove right over.

I got there and it was the saddest sight. Seven little bald kids were sitting around on the floor waiting for me to come in and read. I must tell you I was nervous, I almost threw up.

I sat down and gave a bright smile to try and shake off my nervousness at being around these poor sick children. I decided to break the tension with a joke.

"Why was six afraid of seven?" I asked.

One boy with a scar on his head yelled out, "Because seven eight nine!"

I smiled and said, "Yes, but on Bizarro world, it's nine eight seven."

Nothing. Not even a titter of a laugh. I coughed and said louder, "Nine, eight, seven."

Still nothing. I started shouting it, "NINE, EIGHT, SEVEN, NINE, EIGHT, SEVEN, NINE, EIGHT, SEVEN. They told me you had cancer, not that you were a bunch of fucking retards!"

I threw the three books at the boy who stole the first joke from me, my joke. Little thief. He sneered at me when he answered, too.

I jumped up and left really fast. I might have kicked one of them on the way out.

I got home and was full of regret. I wish I would have thrown the books at the glarer and then yelled...just to him...

"Joke stealing will give you cancer."

Those other kids didn't deserve that, but brain tumor boy did.


I was laying in bed, this morning and the blasting wind through cracks in the window chilled my imagination and poked out my tiny nips...or would have poked them out had I not removed them to support my motto--ONE EROGONOUS ZONE (there can be only one).

Ohhhmahaaa. What does it mean? It must be an Indian word. I can picture an Indian in a teepee a thousand years ago laying in animal skins and freezing his ass off in the rich, cold plains.

Then I know. It hits me, I have a moment of emotional blending with this long dead brave. Omaha must surely mean, what the fuck are we doing here--or it could mean wind-swept plain. Sometimes those cosmic messages get blurred with time.

Saturday, February 26, 2005

Daily Constitutional

I thought I was one step ahead of the game. Before pooping I noticed that there were just a few threads left of paper and that I would need another roll. Someone had craftily ninja'd their last few wipes so that they wouldn't have to change out the roll. I'd have been pissed, but it's just karma because I have so often done the same thing...being a very lazy man.

So with some glee at being well prepared, I ducked into the supply cabinet and grabbed a full roll of TP, sat down, put the roll at my feet for when I would need it and started pooping. I was reading A Tale of Two Cities, just sitting there, reading and pooping in an empty house when it happened. My newest dog snuck in and grabbed the roll from between my legs and ran out with it.

My ass was covered in feces and I knew that to stand up would be to smear that awful shit all over. I called to her, "Come here, sweetie." In my chipperest voice. I'll be damned but she came! But she didn't have the roll I needed. Fuck.

"Go get the paper!"


"Go get the paper, sweetie!"


"God damn it! Go get the paper you stupid cunt."

Then a strange thing happened. She replied.

"Who's the stupid cunt, me standing here looking at you, or you with shit smeared all over his ass?"

That little bitch had me. Again.

"Fine. I'm the stupid cunt. Now will you please go get me the paper? Pretty please?"

"No." she said. And she walked away.

Friday, February 25, 2005

Fantasy Adventure

So just the other night, as I lay masturbating to MTV I realized that MTV has really turned to shit. It used to be that you could get at least one video an hour that focused primarily on giant boobs.

Hip hop was on and it would shift from big boobs to young men in white t-shirts and gold chains, and it really fucked up my concentration. I would stroke, pause, stroke, pause, etc. It took me a good...two minutes to finally finish. When I climaxed it was to a sweaty black dude with one gold.

What happened next can only be described as a sick moment of zen. My ejaculation was huge and a drop flew RIGHT INTO MY MOUTH. My own semen in my mouth. Then it happened, I could feel my final one percent of heterosexuality fading away with the melting drop of cum on my gum.

I shot straight up and spit right onto the carpet. I quickly ran into the kitchen, boxers around my knees, stomach wet with man goo, and into the kitchen. I cracked open a beer and rinsed my mouth out. I chased the beer with fried chicken and passed over the cheesecake for a day-old donut.

It passed.

I slumped to the floor covered in fried chicken crumbs and semen, the last tattered percent frayed a bit but still with me. I cursed MTV and reached for a rag before bed.

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

My Teaching Days

Back before I was a programmer I used to be a world class teacher. I taught advanced comp and also calculus at the local community college to supplement my income.

I used to have very cool ways to make my class interested in the subject, with comp it was easy because everyone was interested in both their own writing and the writing of the rest of the class, but calculus was a bitch to get people involved.

I found that if you encouraged students that it really helped their ability to be involved and also to ask questions when they didn't understand.

"Mr. Ho, I have a question about derivatives, is it the power that becomes the main number or the number that becomes the power?"

"Tami, that's a good question..." then I would answer the question because I knew what a derivative was.

"Who can answer this question? Tami?"

"No, Tami, that was a very good guess, though. Well done, you were so close."

"Mr. Ho, can you go over that thing with Sin and Cos again...where you square them and then assign them the coefficient of Tan?"

"That's a very good question, Tami. Let me answer your question by asking you a question. When did they start letting retards take Calculus?"

Then Tami started crying and I started to feel a little bad.

"Stop crying, retard, I'll answer your question."

Sadly, this carried into my comp classes as well. Someone took to calling Tami "Little Miss Retard."

She took it to the administration, but you can't fire an instructor. Even a bad one. Because they're all witches and the administration is their coven.

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Shadowed Triangle

When a woman wears a skirt and crosses her legs, there is a moment when I am sure I can see the world, and God knows I look. The legs cross on any skirted woman and my eyes dart to that black triangle made of shadow--looking for something, for anything.

It seems as though women go to school to master this leg crossing trickery because I've stared many, many times and have never seen even a peep of panty. Not one peep. Not even a pip. Always shadow. Except on Paris Hilton and that doesn't really count.

You probably noticed I said any woman and you probably say to yourself, even your mom, HO? I have to laugh when you say that, though. My mom doesn't have legs anymore.

Sometimes I push her over, she falls over pretty easy. "Help me up, Ho," she croaks.

Ah, it makes me giggle.

Sometimes I help her up and say, "You should be more careful, mom."

It's pretty sad, but I think she really likes it.

The Little Prince

Last night I was reading The Little Prince to my oldest son and when The Little Prince died I started crying.

"Why are you crying, dad?"

"I think you know. Don't you?"

"Because of the story?"

"Yes. What do you think it means?"

"You can't rely on anyone."

"That's right," I said.

I was so proud of him that I took him out for ice cream. Then I got drunk while he was eating his ice cream and I made him drive home.

But I can't drive a stick, he kept saying. Just shut up and drive, sweetie, this is your big day.

Monday, February 21, 2005


If I had a vagina it would be the prettiest vagina ever. I would polish it every day and keep it well shaven into a pointy V, which would stand for...Valerie. The name of my Vagina. Valerie Vagina.

On weekends I would take Valerie for a drive to get ice cream and when we got home I would shave Valerie into 2-D topiary animals. First a giraffe, then a shark, and perhaps an elephant, perhaps a gazelle.

I would show Valerie to everyone and I would probably get a reputation for being too effete, but I don't generally care what people think.

Sunday, February 20, 2005


If I was around during Galileo's trial you'd recognize me by looking for the guy yelling, "BURN THE CUNT" the loudest of all. It would be in Italian, though...and I'm not sure how to say burn, or the, or...cunt in Italian. It's probably cunto. Probably "Burne El Cunto."

I'd bring popcorn, probably. So you'd look for the guy shouting carrying a bag of popcorn with blond hair and specks of popcorn and spit flying out of his mouth when shouting.

The earth seems kinda flat to me, still. Round is nice for breasts, but certainly not nice for earths, that's just stupid.

Saturday, February 19, 2005

Look at the sharp teeth

If I was a vampire I would be the kind of vampire that embraced hip-hop. All of the other vampires would be ... ah, Vamp Ho, it's just noise, just thumping and booming bass and bad rhymes about alcohol and women.

I would hear them out because I'm the kind of vampire that respects the individual argument, I'm all about peace and love even though I embrace hip hop.

Then I would present my argument that hip hop is a living force created out of poverty and need, of struggle to be heard in a culture of viagra and marginalization, of validation of life where before there was none.

Then probably a vampire would call me a wigger. Then it would be GO TIME--vampire style. I'd bring out the vamp teeth and probably bite his head off--that's what vampires do when they fight, in case you didn't know. I get kinda cranky at name calling.

Thursday, February 17, 2005

Dog Grooming

Well, I've decided to change jobs. Yep. Gonna open up a dog groomer shop somewhere in Omaha. I've been told that all good businesses need a niche. Mine? I'll only take girl dogs.

I know what you're thinking. Ho, you're cutting out 50% of your clientelle by only accepting the ladies. Well, this time it's not just arbitrary. This time there's a reason. No, just kidding, it is arbitrary.

When my clients come in with their dogs I will greet them at the door and look at their dog and say, "You are the stinkiest bitch I have seen all day."

If they aren't stinky, I'll say, "You are one sexy bitch."

When the dog is sick, I'll say, "You have one sick bitch on your hands."

When she bites me...and she will bite me, chicks always do, "Get a muzzle on that bitch!"

If my client is hispanic I'll say, "Que hondas, puta!"

If French, "Ca va bien, chien?" (Note to self: Learn how to say bitch in French)

I will not deviate from this script. At all. When people ask me to stop calling their dogs bitches I'll jump on them from behind and "latch on" with my teeth on their ears until they see it my way.

All I need is a little ... seed money. Anyone?


Sorry for the serious post. I try to lie, I try to eschew honesty etc, but I'm irritated.

Now then. The day.

On such a fine day, the sun out for the first time in weeks and I drive my battered car downtown where the homeless people live and the outlanders commute, downtown which empties every night except for the people who cannot leave.

The people in the courtroom were tattered like old books, the covers ripped and worn from being too often dropped and stuffed into bags, but never read. These people had the singular trait that no one was interested in them except the court, and only then passively so; the court players go about their game only as disinterested parties.

There are hundreds of people in the small court room, most of them black and hispanic. The handful of white people there are men and look tired and used, unwashed like old addicts dragging themselves from the shack to the court to be judged for something...dui, weapon possesion, who knows. Omaha is bright white, but most offenders are brown.

So, fines are handed out to the people who can afford it the least as they try to explain to the judge why they were drunk or speeding or why they had a gun in their car. He listens and fines.

As for me, I have a return trip after meeting with a Public Defender...who I'm sure will be as interested in the process as I am...then a trial.

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

I think The Wizard of Oz would have been a better movie if the Mayor of Munchkin City...instead of singing his welcome of Dorothy would have said, "Sieze her! We'll grind her bones to make our bread!"

Then Dorothy, nonplussed, started kicking munchkin ass. Blue checked dress flying up to reveal clean white panties which slowly turn red from Munchkin blood.

At one point, eight Munchkins get her down and are bashing in her face with a yellow brick when out of the shadows jumps Toto, an eighty-pound pit bull and just starts eating Munchkins.

Over the fray you can hear Dorothy shout, "Eat ruby slipper, Munchkin."

The rest of the day, she is challenged by various sundry creatures which she defeats and becomes the true Wizard of Oz.

A slice of truth from my life: Court, today. Drinking heavily to ensure my best foot is put forward.

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

Screenplay idea #11

Episode 1 - Full Glottal Stop

A gay Asian man (a "gasian"), Dr. Dipthong, travels back in time to remove the L sound from the English language and also to increase the amount of the gay population from 10% to 20% because he can't get a date, these days. Dr. Dipthong refers to this plan as Operation Cunning Ringuist.

His trip takes him to France circa 1100 AD where he goes for it "big time" with the French royalty who kinda dig on the little guy.

He is followed through time by Jean Claude Van Damme whose German demeanor does not help his chances stopping the nefarious Dr. Dipthong. The key moment comes when Jean is surrounded by angry villagers and shouts in his tattered accent, "Why won't you little people help me, can't any of you speak English?" We realize something might be going wrong when English comes out...Engrish.

Fade out.

Jean sits up in bed in a full sweat, chest muscles bulging, tight, torn, ripped torso bulging out from a small muscle T-shirt. He wipes his brow and says, "What a nightmare." He looks over at his sleeping partner and says, "I rove you, baby."

Dr. Dipthong sits up and asks with an evil sneer followed by a wicked laugh, "Rong time?"

Monday, February 14, 2005

If you meet Buddah on the road, Kill him

Well, Ho had a busy weekend as you all may have guessed. I've been working on a project for the last several years, that of counting to infinity. It's a task that I've come close to reaching, but I just never had a full weekend to dedicate to it. This weekend I met that goal and can resume my next one, that of walking to France.

Probably you're wondering how I counted so high. I'll tell you but you must keep it a secret because I'll probably publish it in some journal somewhere and I want to be the first to reveal it to the "scientific community."

Now then, you need a calculator...any will do. You need to press the number 2 then the times button twice then two again. It's important that you press times twice, I'm not sure what that does...technically...but it is part of the magic. Then press another two and the equal button.

The screen should now read 4. Now you have to press the equal button very fast -- the number should double and double, there's a math term for this, but math people are nerds.

Now then, just before the calculator gives you a backwards E, which stands for...I know the answer but I won't tell you, you have to divide by zero, which fools it. Then you have to divide by zero again, but all of this has to be very, very fast because you have to keep the calculator off guard.

When the calculator is reeling from your deft calculations you have to subvert the space-time continuum by looking into a mirror with a mirror behind you and looking for that last guy in there.

That last guy in there is someone, maybe God, but watch out, he doesn't seem to like hippies.

Sunday, February 13, 2005

Old Friends

Last night, my oldest had a sleepover with a friend and my youngest was lonely so I lay down with him to try to wait him out in sleep, but he won and I fell asleep first. My wife told me that one of my old friends, Fellatio, called last night while I was asleep and she didn't have the heart to wake me.

I was sad to hear I missed his call, I haven't heard from Fellatio for a long time...maybe years. Last I heard from him, he had moved back to Italy and was popular as ever, he had such a knack for making friends. Everyone loved him, but I always felt like we had a special bond. Who can say, time has put so much distance between us, time and circumstance.

I think that my wife secretly never really cared for my old friend, you know that old cliche, that you don't like any of your girlfriend's friends and she doesn't like any of yours. Well her friends were certainly a pack of cunts, and some of mine were disdain worthy, but not Fellatio.

It seemed for awhile that she liked him, I'm not sure what happened. Fellatio used to come over on the weekends to an apartment we shared and we'd all sit around and drink cheap wine and laugh. Sometimes he'd come over several times in a weekend. Ah, those were the days that I remember with such fondness. Reminiscence will eat you if you're not careful.

Anyway, I wish she would have woken me, but I understand that she didn't. I hope he calls me back tonight.

Saturday, February 12, 2005


Thursday, February 10, 2005

Call me Warren

Well, good news. Turns out I was once the President of the United States. It came to me in a dream, last night. First I had a dream that my wife pulled a vibrator out of her pocket and winked at me...then that went nowhere, which is kinda typical, then I had this dream.

Turns out I was Benjamin Harrison. Most people don't remember this president, but there's a reason for that. He was the ninja president. He was there, but behind the scenes. He liked to kick a little ass.

In 1891 he started the Boer War. The Boers were taunting him and he -- I mean I -- got real pissed and called England. I was like, "Hello, England? This is Benjamin Harrison, President of the U S of A. Yes, I'll hold..." England wasn't too keen at first, but when they found out I'd be fighting with them, they invaded right away. I went down and we kicked some major African ass (sorry So. Africa).

I married myself (see pic). In public I would change my molecules to make my scale larger and also cast a spell of duplicity to make my other self normal sized but in a dress with a narrow waist and ugly head.

I also invented cunnilingus (pics to follow).

Wednesday, February 09, 2005


If I was a whale, I'd probly be a sperm whale. I'd swim around the ocean blowing air through my blow hole, but I'd rename it blow ho.

I'd be the kind of whale that protected the other fish from sharks. I'd probly shoot the sharks with my sperm ray, which all sperm whales have. It's a thick ray that shoots out of the whales' eyes.

All the fish would love me, but not the sharks. But who cares about sharks. All the people in the world would love me too. Except the Japanese, because they'll eat anything.

I made a picture to go with the words, sometimes that helps.

Tuesday, February 08, 2005


True story. My brother's name? Gung...Gung Ho. I can't stand him.

"Kids, will one of you let the dog in?"

"I will," says Gung. That cunt.

Monday, February 07, 2005

Yet...another card

I'm sorry, I'm just fucking stuck on cards. Please forgive me.

More Cards

So I was thinking that there aren't a lot of detailed get well cards, and that's just sad. So I made a few for my friends...and acquaintances and I thought I'd share them here. No pics, this time. I had too many cards and I also had a hard time thinking of pics for them. Ideas welcome. Also, I have an assload of new ... stuff at work, so... it interferes w/ the blogging, damn it.

Happy Bday, cunt.
I'm glad you got that mole removed.
It was disgusting.
I hope you don't have cancer.
If you do, I will marry again, don't worry.

to my friend recovering from ingrown toenail surgery
remember when the doctor took the scissors
and cut into your toe to cut a big hunk
of nail off? that looked like it really hurt.

to my buddy recovering from a vasectomy
I will now have to wear a condom
when I fuck your wife.
Thanks, asshole.

Now, just general cards:

Happy Bday, Candian
Too bad you guys picked the
far north of north america
to live. that was real stupid.

And finally...a card with dual purposes.

Untitled mind is dull
Happy Birthday
I don't love you anymore.

Sunday, February 06, 2005


I'll bet when fish fart it's so obvious.

Saturday, February 05, 2005

Wedding Card Number One

Birthday Card Number One

Two short poems

An Ode to a boy on his Fifteenth Birthday
With summer's glee I climbed the tree
The tall one near your room
I climbed to get a childish peek
at childish breasts
and missus panties

Your shriek broke my firm grip
and now I lay dying
of shame
and me no breasts
and me no panties
and a new title
Sex Offender

I have always hated you for that.

To my Wife on the Third Week of the Month
Roses are red
My blue balls sigh ouch
You’re on the rag
I’m on the couch.

Friday, February 04, 2005

The answer is A

I think that between raping and plundering probably the raping is the funnest. Unless you're the one being invaded, then it would be plundering.

Problem Solved

Ok. The NBA used to be cool, back when the giant egos were not so giant, the concept of team sports still a concept that was understood by at least 2 of the 5 on the court and...Micheal Jordon, and Bird and Johnson before him. I used to be a fan, but no more...until now. I have discovered the cure to the NBA in three easy steps.

1.) Get rid of that silly "blood on the court rule." One overpaid player gets one tiny scratch to drop one drop of blood and play stops and all those giant walking cunts recoil while medics rush the bleeding player to the latex laden doctor on the bench for a fucking band-aid. In pro football I once saw a man take a streaming bloody shit into the mouth of an oposing player. He pulled his pants down...and this was a 350 lb (you kilo people please translate, I'm an American) lineman. He pulled his pants down and streamed a bloody shit...fecal shit, mind you. The other guy drank every fucking drop, stood up and said, Is that all you got? THAT, my friends, is blood sport.

2.) Make those pansies finish the fights they start. Everyone's always jumping in to stop the fights of these oestric vagi-muffins. Let them fight, it would make the game so much better and also make them less likely to start the fights. Problem solved. In fact, let it be a team battle, give them weapons, it would shorten the fucking season.

3.) No timeouts in the last five minutes of the game. Jesus. I got on the treadmill, turned on the game--four minutes until it was over--ran for an hour and still didn't catch the end of the game because of all of the timeouts.

That is all. I love you.

Thursday, February 03, 2005


Like painted jackal did I pace the sullen graveyard of emptied cubeyard snatching and pilfering small trinkets: bits of office equipment, abandoned books, and ergo keyboards to add to my cache.

Nervous glances from small groups came to see if I was coming for them. When they saw me carrying staplers and scissors and old donut boxes they went back to their quiet, anxious jittery-tittering.

New Items:

3 black-handled scissors. One very sharp.
6 opened packets of standard sized staples.
1 box of Krispy Kreme donuts (throw away as they suck)
1 old radio alarm, tuner busted and tuned to country.

Will head back out later as the sun starts to go down for more.


Rubics cube for dummies.

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

Oh, god, I'm Metero

This is worse than I thought. Remember when I went to the doctor and she said I was 99% gay? Well she called with terrible news. Yep. I'm a metrosexual.

WTF is a metrosexual, I said.

I don't know, but it's very bad, she said. It's in all the news shows and it seems to affect only men. Some of the symptoms seem to be that men really like gay things but aren't, in fact, gay. Also, I think I'm prego and I think it's yours.

Yes, yes, yes, fine, but how do I fix it, I asked.

She started blabbering about child support, etc, so I slammed down the phone and hit the net. Hard. Legs...akimbo.

Turns out metrosexuality was a spell of splitting, or some such bullshit. Some "wizard of high level...perhaps even a demi-mage" cast this spell of division to turn regular man's mans into whiney latte sippers. Shit, I said as I sipped my latte. I've got it bad.

Before you worry, though, there's a cure... *sip* ... apparently a fusion of sorts will fix it, but it's tricky. We must gather the Fab Five and combine their souls with the souls of Rush Limbaugh (assuming he has one, may have to dive into hell for that one), that sneaky guy from Crossfire (may that show rest in peace), Chief's brother-in-law, Colin Powell (he'll be paired up with Jai) and my father.

Then we need a powerful witch or wizard. I could do it, as you well know, but I've been infected and my sofa is so comfy. So I think we should get Willow from Buffy. She's the most powerful witch I know.

Now then, please hurry. Before it's too latte.