A lonely evening or how i spammed my own blog

Sometimes I get so god damned mad at the people who make the words. Why douchebag? Why not douche bag? Two words, see? Not one. Like they make us do.

Fish Story for Thursday

Whales are so funny and nice, I like to watch them swim in the ocean. Whales are so cute and sweet and I love the way they frolic. Whales are so generous and friendly and their blowhole is a horn of Hepheastus sounding the gong of glory!

Whales are the best.



Except when they die. Then ... not as fun.

Fuck you

This is the post that's filled with anger to prove I don't have the gays. I fucked your mom last night and I left her begging for more. I would have given it to her but my dick was sore from the go I had with your dad.

Thanks, Paul. I'm feeling a lot better. You were right. Pent up feelings really do make you extra love vaginas. That's science, right there. And magic.

This looks bad for me

This just in!

My bum hole is red and sore and my perineum is all itchy.

I suspect the homos have been making love to me at night.

They must have developed some kind of advanced sleep ray that would make a man sleep through an abomination to God.

I hope they wore condoms or now I have the aids. or the hiv. or the gays.

shit.

dear God,

please bless that I don't have the gays

amen.

p.s. if I do have the gays then send me a hot man w/ a tight ass who hates to poke.

Check + Mate = joy

When playing chess with a zombie make sure that you realize that you're playing for nothing less than brains. Zombies take chess very seriously and they don't play for beers. If the zombie wins you can be sure you'll be zombie fucking pudding, my friend.

A tip: Look for the zombie to open up with the Benko Gambit or Nimzo-Larsen Attack.

These can be easily countered with the Alekhine's Defense or Chigorin Defense ... eschew the French Defense as that is tantamount to surrender.

As for me ... I just shoot their fucking heads off with a shotgun. You can't play chess with a zombie, silly. They're killers. They eat people. It's all they do!

Except the black ones. They run filling stations and teach other zombies what it is to love the night and the relative value of fireworks. The black one...he is clever.

Vaginas notwithstanding...the rest

Upon reading the comments I realized I left out giant gaps of the country and I cried. I broke down and literally cried. Then I sobered and resolved to make strong amends, strong, strong amends--amends without ends.

First of all, yes, Binsk, Canada is rabbit ears on a classy lady, a fine dame who is perhaps tottering from an excess of alcohol. It's a beaver's cap with the long tail of clubbed baby seal. It's one of those hats that holds two beers, but one beer is empty, always empty. It's the eternal quest to be half full, and not half empty, Canada--be not half empty. It's...a toque, eh?

The rest of the world is like the voice of the woman...it is out there and I know it exists but I cannot fathom or understand it. It is the whisper of war and peace and salvation and satisfaction and strife but it is unheard by me because I really don't have much of a grasp for words or talking. For me it's alcohol and video games. That is the sum of the game.

The middle of the country is like so much skin on a woman, it's necessary but it's not an erogenous zone so it goes unnoticed. You cannot live without it but it's nothing special. That is Omaha, just so much back skin, but hairless. Hairless backskin like a bleating hairless goat. Embrace me, Omaha, you young goatling, you bleating temptress, you frail, fickle pickle.

Texas is PMS in a woman. Texas is that moment when you've said that you're going out with your friends...that rare moment that you realize you've fucked something terrible and you're not sure how you're going to get your dick back. That is Texas. The state of shooters.

Finally...California. California is the part of a woman that you look at and say...yes, I'll live there. Then you try and move there and it's surrounded by Mexicans and Asians and teaming whites and you try to buy a house and you realize...wtf? I cannot afford a house here, so you get a shitty apartment twenty miles inland and you bake in the hot summer's heat and you commute 3 hours a day to afford your shanty hovel. Perhaps California is the ring finger.

The rest is the land of lesbians which are entirely unnoticed except by other lesbians. The rest is invisible and inconsequential...unless you dig the ladies that don't dig the dick, then it's for you.

America has a nice rack, yo

I think that what a lot of people don't recognize is that the east coast of the United States is much like a woman.

In the north you have the boobs and the brains and the lobster traps and the blue, blinking eyes and the yip, yap, yap of the talking cars filling the night air. The north is like an excited soul with the swarm of ideas and the cool, frigid winters that make me so shudder and cry.

The south is pretty much devoid of soul but it does have a sweaty vagina and the small stumpy leg of Florida. We could do without the stumpy leg--because, really...who needs a crippled leg on a hot babe with a nice soul and big tits and a sweaty vagina?

But you take what you can get.

As much as the American civil war was about the abolition of slavery, it was also about keeping the sweet eastern vagina in one piece.

In fact, a small bit of knowledge...at the 2nd battle of bull run the northerners were heard to shout, "For liberty and vaginal unification!"

Remember Sweet Friday? I do too.

If I had a vagina I would wear it on my shoe as the prettiest ruby slipper but only when menstruating because that's when it's red.

The people would come up and say, "That's the prettiest red slipper, may I touch it?" And I would smile at their shock as they pulled away bloody fingertips.

"Heavy flow." I would say to explain the confusion and then we would laff laff laff, and sometimes we would laff out loud on the floor laughing and rolling, rolling and laughing.

I would name her Martha Quinn and she would be the prettiest VJ and she would ask me cute but pointed questions, but I wouldn't answer because I'm the most difficult rock star of all.

Ho's Fashion sHoW

Several things I've been needing to tell you but I just haven't had the time and I'm sorry because it might be too late for some of you.

The first thing is that back hair and really...body hair in general is coming back big time. BIG TIME. All of the fashion houses have been calling me...Ho! Tell the people about the back hair. Tell them about the long, course strands that will be so popular in next Spring's fashion mags--the long black course strands that let you know you're alive.

Tell them about the hairy backs and ass acne. Tell them that big, red zits on a pale white ass are all the rage! Tell them that the chicks will dig this soon. Next Spring at the latest. Tell them before they wax backs and wash bums too thoroughly.

Tell them about the Benzene Rings that can form on the inside of your ass crack if you don't wash your fruit. That's not fashion, that's just good sense.

Finally, tell them that on a Jedi scale of one to ten that you're an eleven. Tell them that your midi chlorine rate is through the roof--much higher than that cunt Vader. Over the top. That back hair and midi chlorines are related and that being an eleven on the Jedi scale means that you could have any woman but you're a good Jedi so you only take the ones that really need taking.

Tell them that and give them a poem just for free. For free, Ho, don't try and charge for it, though your better nature suggests you should. Then draw them a picture of the dancing zombies.

It was there that I drew the line. Zombies terrify me and I certainly won't draw them.

This is the poem
about the zombies that dance
better than other zombies
in syncopated grooves
who didn't eat the michael jackson
at the end of the night
because he's a werewolf

Smurfing Terrible

If I were a smurf I'd be the kind with a tent pole in the pants all day and all night. I'd say to the girl smurfs, "Sup, baby-smurf! Where's all the parties at?"

If they were slow to answer I'd say, "The parties right here in my smurfy tent! All are welcome, come inside...etc."

If I were in prison I'd be all, "I can smell your cunt, Starling-Smurf and it smells smurfy, come on over and let me lick it a bit." Then I'd flash my blue smurf tongue in the sweetest way that would make all the smurfs in prison lonely for companionship.

I'd also have a cool goatee. And a nose ring. I'd be Nose-Ring Smurf with Tent Pole action!

If that old dude and his cat came after me I'd be all, "Yo, Gilgamesh, you haven't met me before but I'm ninja smurf and you're name is now Gargleflesh."

Then I'd pretend like I was walking away and I'd quickly pull a ninja-strike, SUCKERHOOK!

Ok. I'm going to level with you. I don't know the smurf lore like others. In fact... I've never seen an episode of smurfs.

If that's what you want, go to Indy Girl. She seems to have a smurf tattooed on her uterus. I'm a fraud. A smurfing fraud.

I'm going back to my bottle of alcohol and my selfish lies and I'm sorry for muddling up the smurf timeline. I really am.

Musk, musk, turn to dust

I was proofreading the internet for adjectives or adverbs and I was all, "Yes, yes...yes. Am is are, was were..."

Yes, yes. Seems ok, .. so far.

Then I came across was were has have had -- and I said to myself, "Check. Check on that. That's solid, Asians, well done."

Then I was all, may might must -- and I said to myself, "Stop right there. No, no, NO!!!"

Must? It's musk.

Damnit Asians why musk I tell you every time? I won't tell you again.

Dear Jews, please tell the Asians that it's musk. Again.

I could kick Godzilla's ass...if I felt like it ... and I don't

Somehow the flight didn't crash. At first I thought it was science but then I spotted a wizard casting spells on all the planes. So it turns out it wasn't science but magic that makes planes fly.

I think it was Ron Weasly that was casting all the spells on my plane but then I remembered that he died in the last book (very sad. He died of the aids.) and I was all, "Well, it wasn't Ron, he died of the aids."

So anyway, that's all blah blah blah, the important thing was that I didn't die.

The point of all of this is this: The flight attendant was all...blah blah blah, this and that...then she got to the important part. She was all, "blah blah blah, pull mask to your face, blah blah blah."

I hit the call button and I said very loudly, "How could one put on a mask if one had hook hands?"

That bitch did not even answer. She went on as if I hadn't even said one word.

So I got angry. I lost my patience I guess you could say. Lost my... usual jocularity, usual... bon vivant.

I started rubbing the hooks together like the monsters in the Godzilla movies do. Especially, Megalon. Or Gigan. Either one of those.

Didn't go down like you'd think. Lots of giggling and odd stares. I need to carry around a boom box so that the sounds of the grinding hooks are amplified, I guess.

So...have a nice day. I know I will.

I'm pretty tall

The first thing I would forget when I got famous would be the little people. The booze and the whores and the drugs and the sycophants would surely make me say to myself and to the world around me, "Fuck the little people."

I would live like this ... buying fancy cars, going to kick-ass book signings, getting gold dust manicures, sleeping in the arms of virgins in the day, sleeping in the arms of priests at night ... until the money ran out.

Then I would fall into a deep depression and wonder what went wrong.

Then I would realize it was a big mistake to say that one thing about how the little people are all fucked up or something like that.

The point is, I'd regret that whole incident. All of it. Except the virgins, that's nice.

Anyway, then I'd beg the little people to come back and make me big again, but they would definitely not come back.

Little people have long memories and no amount of finger wagging will bring them back.

Believe me, I'd know.

Also, if you find this blog more objectionable than ... well, than other blogs ... there seems to be a new button so we can tell the people that it's very objectionable.

I've been turning in all the crazy xtian sites, they love that sort of thing.

If my plane crashes tonight, please stroke the hand of someone you love for me.

Estelle, my eye is on you big time

I heard a term that was new to me the other day and I was like...YES! Yes, yes, yes. That's totally a new term and one I immediately adore. The term? MILF.

Any 21 year old girl is terribly fuckable. Believe me, I'd know. But to be a mother and still be hot-hot-hot! That's something.

Then it struck me. I could go one step further. You with me? I think you are. GMILF. Yes!

Come on, Estelle Getty, come on down to Ho!

One thing...the G is silent (like in the word gnu or gnutella or dagnabit) so in conversation when you say MILF but mean GMILF you have to say it with a certain fire in your eye as if your very life depended on it.

Your very life.

Open up and say arff

I think it's time for a career change. Programming is cool and all but I figured out a way to make sweet ass cash without all the pesky work. Yep. Dog psychiatry.

Oh, sure I'd shrink other pets, man cannot live on dog alone, but I think that my meat and potatoes would be with the dogs.

I imagine an hour session with a dog...really getting to know him. Gaining his trust, shaking his paw, getting him to bare his very soul by using clever and subtle tricks of the shrink trade.

At the end of the hour I'd go out and meet his owners.

"Well, this is a tough case," I'd say with a grimace.

"Will he be ok, doctor?" the people would say.

I'd stifle a small tear. "This is the worst thing I've ever seen. His mom...his ... mom..." I'd break off and cover my face with my entire forearm.

"Oh, God, no." the people would say.

"Yes. His mom...was a real bitch." I'd announce with mock solemnity.

Then I'd recommend years of therapy at 80 bucks an hour...and no fucking HMOs to cut into my rate!

Ah...easy street here I come.

Drink no water at my wake

I sometimes wish I had a device that detected terrible things. I worry so much that I am sick, usually cancer. Just a small scanning device that assured me every day that I didn't have cancer would be priceless.

"You don't have cancer, today."

"Woot!"

Recently I've worried about Hydrophobia. My animals are vaccinated for it but you just never know. Bats can be very sneaky.

As many of you may or may not know Hydro is water and phobia is fear...so Hydrophobia is another way of saying fear of water which is a symptom of rabies.

Last night I worked out vigorously for like...ten, fifteen minutes and when I was done I was exhausted and so damn thirsty. I went to the fridge and instead of getting a nice, cool glass of water...I got vodka.

This is not an uncommon occurrence. I seem to prefer vodka to water as if I actually feared water.

I'm pretty sure I have it.

Lazy + Hungry = Begging

If I were a zombie I would be the kind that sat at off-ramps with a sign that said, "Will work for brains."

When the people stopped they would say, "Do you mow lawns?"

I would say...urrruunngghhhgh, which is usually Yes for zombies.

The people would let me into the back seat and I would get in and put on my seat belt for optimum safety.

After we went a few blocks I would pop off the seat belt and quickly eat the brains of everyone in the car. After the quick meal I would laugh silently to myself because I hate work, you know? But I love brains.

Probably people would start referring to me as The Sneaky Zombie or The Laziest Zombie or...The Zombie Who Says He'll Mow Your Lawn but Really Only Wants Your Brain, but I wouldn't care, I'd be full of brains and that's what really matters.

This just in!

This weekend only! SUNDAY, SUNDAY, SUNDAY! Free prostate exams for the ladies!

That's right, all Sunday and all free. Pop into Omaha and I'll make sure your prostate gland is in working order, ladies.

Take that HMOs!

And for the men? Nothing. Sorry. I only have two hands/hooks.

Rain on my parade, will you?

I get so god damned mad at evaporation some days.

Here I am, watering my lawn and not all of it goes into my soil. My lawn. A lot of it gets sucked up by this fucking evaporation.

Who pays for that water to go right up into the air? I do. Who benefits from my water going into the air? Fucking Iowa or Indiana or Kentucky. Pretty much everyone but Ho.

You know what's worse than Iowa getting my water? When England gets it. They're always crying about how much rain they get but you know they're just sitting around smugly reeping in the Ho's water! Oh, boo hoo, I think I'll go for a swim in the Thames, which we should rename Ho's river...but we won't because we're selfish England.

Before the despair begins, I have a plan.

I want everyone to send me ten dollars. If you live in England 10 pounds--or more. If you live elsewhere...figure out the exchange rate.

Now I want it to be fair, so if you live in the desert...you only have to send 3 or 5 dollars, I don't want to be greedy, I just want what's mine. If you live in England or a rainforest, though...you really should reach deep in your pockets you thieving scoundrals!

Now then. I'm off to bathe in my daily bath of tears and drink my daily cup of rage. Please enjoy the Friday.

Warriors, come out to play

Well, last night was similar to most Wednesday nights for old, Ho. I was out wandering the neighborhoods with my wife, looking for gangs.

I take my wife because she has a good eye for what the gangs look like. I'm not as hip to the gangs but I'm willing and ready to fight them and protect my neighborhood.

I always imagine my Wednesday's to be like when The Warriors tried to get home...dogged every step by the gangs. So far, not one damn gang.

I ask the people, "Have you been bothered by the gang?"

So far they have all lied and said no. I suspect they are covering up for the gangs. The little people have such fear of bodily harm. Not hook hand Ho, though. Not him.

So last night I was looking for the gang and it started to rain like a demon rain from demontopia. I nearly died of rain poison from all the rain going right into my mouth without first going through a water treatment plant.

I took off my sandals, which is the best shoes to fight the gang members in, and my wife said, "Ho! Put the sandals back on! If we're struck by lightning you'll want that rubber!"

Thank God I did put them back on because I'm pretty sure I was struck once or twice and the rubber soles protected me. Thank you, Korea. Thank you for the rubber soles. And the Korean chicks with the hot asses. Especially that.

It's better to be skinny than rich

I sure hope that cancer starts kicking in soon, I have a high school reunion coming up.

I need to lose 15 pounds by September and the only way that's going to happen is if these tumors start really eating the rest of my body. Go tumors, go!

You see, it's a well known fact that it's better to be skinny than rich. Right now I'm neither skinny enough nor rich enough to impress anyone. This can all be proven by Science. And religion.

Instead of every conversation asking how I've been and what I drive I need them all to start out with how good I look.

"Ho, you look very good! Very skinny! What's your secret?" (Dumb laugh while vodka is spilling from little plastic cup)

"Well, Bob, I have cancer!"

"Laugh, laugh, laugh, oh, Ho, you smoked so much in High School it's no wonder you have the cancer!"

"Laugh Out Loud! Yes! But this is anal cancer! I got it from all the gay sex! With your dad! Laugh Out Loud!"

"At least not with my mom! Laugh, laugh, laugh!"

Oh, I love reunions.

Let them hug my legs and let them be as gold

I get so damn jealous of the Ghost of Christmas Present with his two little kids strapped on his two legs and he's all, "This one is Poverty and this one is Ignorance and beware them both blah blah blah."

Hey, Ghost of Xmas Present (if that's your real name) if I want a fucking lessons on names and name dangers I'll take a fucking class on name and ... name dangers, not just sit around and listen to you talk about poverty and bullshit like that.

Well I got to thinkin and let me tell you that if I had two kids strapped to my legs I would name one of them Almondroca -- named after my favorite toffee treat in the world -- and the other would surely be Cocochanel (named after my favorite gorilla and also a damn fine fashion house).

On the hottest of days I would say, Cocochanel...please refill my iced tea, I grow parched. He would bring back the perfect glass of iced tea with the tea not bruised from excessive stirring, no. Perfectly iced and perfectly stirred.

He would also be a ninja.

In street brawls I would unleash him and say, Cocochanel--kill these young Mexicans.

Then I would say to Almondroca, "Go fetch the proper authorities! We'll need bandaids and taco dinners to soothe these hurt feelings."

At night they would warm me and all would be peace in my world.

Sadly, I don't have them. I am bereft. I am stricken. I am alone.

We're puting the band back together

Best idea ever. I'm putting a band together. It will not be called The Douche Sacks, however. You guys were right, that doesn't roll off the tongue like I thought it would. But it is very funny. VERY funny. Maybe the band will be called The Douche Sacks. Or maybe just The Sacks and the people will think I'm referring to the scrote when I'm really thinking about douche sacks.

Anyway, that doesn't matter. It's just a big sack of bullshit, frankly. The thing that matters is that I'm onto something big. A band. Those guys get all the pussy and their wives don't even care! I'm so excited.

I don't play the guitar very well, I'll admit, and with the hook hands it's even more challenging, but i kinda have it down where I kinda press on a fret and then just hammer down the other strings w/ the other hook. I go through a lot of damn strings but the sound is somewhat pleasing in a thrash kind of way.

I don't have any other band members but I'm thinking that one armed guy from Def Lep would be good. I'd make him wear a hook, of course, out of his little nub of an arm. He'd be renamed to Hookey Nub McNub Hook and he'd have to say "Rabble, Rabble" like the Hamburglar. My name will be still Blog Ho (ok).

Maybe we'll just be called the Hooks instead of The Sacks...

I have a lot to get done, as you can see but I'm so damn excited.

Now I just need a hook handed pianist and a hook handed bass and rythm guitar and horn section.

Our first song will be Hook Hand Sally! Weeeeeeee! I'm psyched!

Eureka!

Guys! I just had the best idea! Instead of douche bag...get this: douche...sack! Douche sack! With extra douching power!

I'm off to the patent store!

The Branch of Art

If I were in Pompeii in that one time I would be the statue standing with a wide grin, legs akimbo, hands balled and at my waist, erect penis jabbing out into the sunny air.

A slow trickle of spring water would dribble out of the end of the tip of my stone branch and it would be said that the women who drink from the well are soon after pregnant and the men who drink are filled with a vitality that lives only in the body of the wild humping monkeys of Borneo.

The children would swing on the branch and the mothers would say, "Don't, darling, you'll break it!"

The fathers will just smile and say, "Dear, you worry too much! You cannot break art."

The men will be right in their own way and certainly they will be wrong in their own way, too.

The mothers will insist, though, which is really for the best because even art can be something from which you do not hang.

A tree grows in Homaha

There is a tree by me that is lovely beyond human measure. It is the first to bloom in the Spring and when I see its small green buds I know that the bitter winds will soon fade and sweet sun will be back soon.

It is also the first to turn golden and start the process of winter's death.

It's August 4th as I write this and today I noticed that the tree has started the early turning of fall.

All the other trees are still green and spitting specks of pollen into the air. All but this golden tree who promises the blasting heat of summer will soon be replaced by cooler, gentler winds from the north.

I want to pour gasoline on this tree and kill it. It is an abomination against nature and against God.

If it can't follow the laws of nature it should surely be dead and if someone else doesn't do it then I suppose it's up to me.

Does it think it's better than all the other trees that it has to do its own thing? Why can't it just follow along? It seems asking to be killed. Begging for it.

Well I'm the man for it. I won't have that tree laughing at us...flaunting its perversions at us and at God. No, no. I'm a man of action. Of eye pokes and handgrenades, of rum and of sin, but always good sin, honest sin, never perversion.

A ray a day keeps the doctor away

Well, good news. Yep, I've invented a new device that should save the people lots of time in the hygiene department. It's true. A Douche Bag ray.

So many of the people don't douche as much because of the time that it takes, and I'll be honest with you, I don't blame them one bit.

This new ray is just point and click. Away goes all the bad vaginal particles to be replaced by...well, nothing. Replaced by nothing. I was going to do ice cream, but the cost of installing a small ice cream maker in the ray became cost prohibitive. Maybe on the douche bag ray II.

I see that you're not very impressed by this. I know, I know, so it's just a douche bag ray, big deal. Well here's the big deal, my friends. What the people don't know is that it's not just one ray but two. It's also a Cunt Juice Ray with Long Range Firing action!

Imagine you're walking around with your Cunt Juice ray and there's your friend Charlie sharply dressed for an important business meeting...ZAP! Cunt juice heaven!

Oh, Charlie would be upset, at first, but then he would roll with laughter. Can't you see it? I sure can. "Oh, Ho! Being covered in cunt juice will add just the thing to my important business meeting!"

"I know, Charlie, I know."

I just don't know what to call it...Douche Bag/Cunt Juice ray just doesn't have the pinache that I think would really bring out the soccer moms into the Wal-Marts. No, no. It will never do.

Hooking with Ho

Well, I'm back and boy what a weekend. I finally did it. Yep. Got the hook hand replacement surgery. I've long had my eye on a set of hook hands and I finally said to myself, screw the cost it's hook hand time, baby!

As soon as I got the hook hands I ran home to my wife and said, "Wife! Let's make love, the hook hands are here and they shine with a glory that almost rivals my lust!"

Much to my surprise, she was nonplussed. Chagrined. She suggested the hook hands were ugly and dangerous.

I said to her, "These hook hands are chrome! Very clean and very surgical. Highly polished chrome! You can see the shine of your love cavern in the sweet shine of the chrome."

"I'll not have you skewer my genitalia with these hook hands," she said.

"But that was the point! I did it for us! For our relationship! For the family!" I cried.

Alas...hook hands did not turn out like I hoped. Now I'm sick with semen poisoning. The levels are so high that I have semen at the back of my throat. My own, this time.

And I can't masturbate. The whole hook hands thing kind of makes that a tricky endeavor. I can still get it up. Oh, sure. Always that. I just can't...get it back down.

So all in all it was a good vacation except for the hook hands. I might have to go back to regular old gay hands if things keep up like this.

It also took three days to type this because the home row is unknown in hook hand land.