Tuesday, October 31, 2006

come to my house dressed as a ninja at your own risk, bitches

I'll bet that when AM and PM and FM and AM all show up at the same party it's very confusing for them.

I can imagine someone saying, "So AM, how's that new job coming along?"

Then predictably AM says, "Oh, you mean daylight savings?  Except for Arizona it's been wildly wonderful.  Daylight savings time is very complicated--a lot of changes to consider, of course all of the computers have to be reset at Midnight and all of the small details that are so easy to forget.  Lots of people miss planes, etc.  In fact..."

Then the guy would say, "Not you, Anti-Meridian, I was asking AM radio."

Then Anti-Meridian would say, "Oh.  Yes, I'm sorry, I see now."  Then she would promptly sit down and look at PM for support and PM would hold her hand and such and stare great rays of understanding and beams of encouraging force.

When AM got home she'd be all, "That fucking anachronistic AM radio thinks she's so cool.  Who cares about AM radio, anyway?  The only one who cares is that crazy white midwesterner who does spare jobs for his mom for pocket change.  The same sad white fella who tunes in to see what Dr. Laura hates.  Her days are near done but Anti-Meridian will go on forever!"

PM will nod gravely.  "When you're right, you're right," he'll say.

Then I guess AM would probably take some pain killers and lay in bed and really try to relax for once.  That's what I'd do, anyway.

Monday, October 30, 2006

My favorite position is you and me and your checkbook crunching numbers like crazy

Hello, Innernet, I have a few things to say (to and about you).

That binary blouse is very pretty-pretty on you.  Normally I wouldn't say that peach is your color but you made it work.  Probably it works because of the dark blue eyeshadow that I would behind-your-back-say makes you look like a whore (a classy one) but it totally works with the peach.  

The other thing is that no matter how many times you assure yourself that "going as the Axis of Evil for Halloween is gonna get big laughs" you'll be wrong.  I know, confusing.

Apparently people aren't terribly aware of what Mahmoud Ahmadinejad looks like (or even who he is (even when you wave your arms around and shout out mujahadeen, mujahadeen, it's you and me and my mujahadeen (or even remember what the axis of evil referred to))).  

Much (MUCH) easier to get laughs from dressing up as a redneck chick with fake toofs and stuffing big balloons up your shirt and wearing your wife's old denim mini and daring the boys to give em a good feel.

These are the things we learn and they're painful lessons, but what would Halloween be without a bit of pain and another bad costume that only you get?

Thursday, October 26, 2006

Pleasure before pleasure

Here's a picture of me selling bibles to the baptists. I'm a professional telemarketer and I don't mean to gloat but I'm one of the best. I sell a bible a day, easy. Sharon lives with me and drew the picture. Thanks, Sharon.

Here's a touch of advice in lieu of another picture. No matter what you've heard about Farrah Fawcette's anal cancer, don't go to google images and type anal cancer. Just don't do it. Instead do butterflies or candy corn or fuzzy pumpkins. Anything.

Also, don't hate me for being childish but I am and I'll prove it. This was in the paper and I'm not sure how the story merits as news since I don't really read the paper--I take it so my neighbors think I'm well cultured--which I'm clearly not--but I do look at the pictures and read the captions because often a picture (thinking anal cancer here) can really do a lot to enhance your notion of a noun or a war in the Middle East.

Apparently this is news in Omaha:

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

Hey, crackah, look what's crackin!

Wonderful news!  Oh, my such a wonderful wonderful news.

As you know, I've been away getting my fluids majora measured at the Kelvin institute of Greater Milwaukee and let me be the first to deliver the good news... I was a sell-out show.

All of the scientists wanted in to measure the sheer vulcanic volcano that lives inside my smoky groin seething for a quick, hot release.

How does this deep burn pertain to you, you ask.

Good question, innernet.  The thing is, if you now have vaginal hemmoraging when I'm near, I can cauterize it like this:  snap!

Well, ok, not quite like snap.  Faster than that.  Pre-second snap.  But hot?  Dear God only Satan knows such a burn eruption.

You too, boys, I can cure you but it's nothing sexual about it.  I'll bill your HMOs.  But you get an old anal fizzure, needs staunching?  I'll staunch it with a fertile fire that I don't guarantee won't make you prego.  That's a negative negative and requires a bit more thought.

But the boy staunch will require a condom if you're an IV drug user or from Africa--unless it's South Africa, then there's room for negotiation.

Anyway, I just thought you'd like to know.

Thursday, October 19, 2006

tickle your ass for a quarter

I think it's sad when people look down on other people.  Like there was this guy who drank himself to death and everyone was all, "tsk, tsk. That's a real bad shame."

You know, if some old bastard was out fly fishing and he had a heart attack or slipped on a slippery rock and bashed in his fragile skull everyone would say, "Well, old Paul went out doing what he loved best, killing fish."  Then they'd eat the finger snacks at the funeral, the white toast snacks and punch.

But the poor drunk bastards, they only get looked down upon.  I feel that anyone who has such a passion that they do it until dead should be appreciated at least as well as the fish killers and the ones who perish riding the velvet fire-truck into eternity.

Plus, I wish I could astral project.  

Do you know how many boobs I'd see?  Well, probably yours at a minimum if I knew where you lived and could astral project better.

It's hard to astral when you're drunk, though.  Too easy to fall asleep right when you should be projecting.

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

this is a toaster, this is a froaster, with one you make froast w/ the other toast

I hate to exaggerate the notion that I am a man to whom great things happen but I am and that's no exaggeration.

Take pooping, for instance, just this morning, there I was...pooping...when all of a sudden a particularly large one passed through and I'll swear to you that I hear flapping and fluttering.

I quickly rose (unwiped) and stared down into the stool expecting to see the rat which normally sneaks in from the pipes but there was a fluttering poop fairy hovering exactly one inch above the vile water.

She could see my mind and said, "Don't flush me down for I have come from your bum to offer you three wishes."

So then I got to thinking...three wishes, eh...probably no wishing for more wishes, and probably the Aladin rules apply but then I really started thinking...do I want wishes from a shit fairy?  Probably they won't be as bad as the ones from the monkey's paw...fucking monkeys.  You know a monkey paw is going to grant bad wishes.  In fact, if monkeys ruled the earth I'll bet you a million diamond dollars that they would wear pants without bums and swing above the streets and poop on the ground just so we would have to walk through their filthy dung.  Just for that very purpose.

Anyway, probably if I wished for a million dollars, she'd give me a million doll hairs and say, "LOL!  Doll Hairs!  Lolll!"

So in the end I pushed her in the water and flushed.

It was the only thing to do, really.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

My real name is Simon.

I find it confusing that this link returns so few hits (probably people type your next (people are real dum)):


In this picture, guess which one is you and which one is me:


Nope.  Lol.  Try again.  As if.

A lot of people have been writing me and wondering how it is that I know which of two children on a teeter totter is the Muslim.

Sure, the Jew has the little hat but how to decide about the Muslim, that's always the question.

I've decided to post the answer on the innernet for all the world to know how it is you know one is the Muslim.

He has the box cutter, silly.

Monday, October 16, 2006


Work work and work, they say that's all I do and God forbid, God forbid, God forbid if it ain't true.

So I wrote a little program, today to predict if you'll ever become a famous author (you won't).  It's written in pseudo-code but I'm pretty sure you can translate it to the language of your choice.

Do you ever wonder if your work takes all of your good ideas and leaves you with just the little nuggets?  I mean like the thoughts, did I leave my lights on or did I forget to get my laundry?  Those thoughts stay but the really big, good ones get macerated.  Not like the work uses them for anything good, it's just a collector.  Like when Indiana Jones found the ark and still it sits in govt. custody.

Well, I wonder.  Anyway, here's the program.

const DAN_BROWN="LOLdouchebagLOL";

While ! Dead {

    success = try();


if (DeadFromSuicide==true && poet==true) {
  success = true;
  stillUnread = true;

boolean try(){

    if ( (good&&lucky) || DAN_BROWN)  return true ;
    else return false;

Friday, October 13, 2006

CRACK CRACK AND how busy am I

I feel bad for Canada, everyone's all, aboooot, aboot, aboot, abooooot, tee hee.  Well, everyone, Canadians have feelings too, albeit tiny and insignificant ones, we should not make fun of their speech impediments except behind their backs like we do with all the other groups of people that are doing everything wrong but just because of the place they were born or the religion they chose.

Speaking of which, it'd be funny if Isreal renamed themselves Hezbollah, then that carzy Iranian guy would be reading his daily messages and say, "We refuse to recognize the Jewish state of...what a minute...Hezbollah?  LOL.  You crazy Jews.  That was a good one, but we still won't recognize you."

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

The salacious salute from me to you and/or your wife

At what point in my life did it happen that I was covered in a perpetual ass smell?

Why is it that I always smell like ass?  Is the ass smell phenomenon a virtue of aging?  I've read all of the documentation and there's nothing that refers specifically to perpetual ass stank or even signifcant ass-rot.  No mention of ass at all except in the sense of, "You'll be getting less and less ass as you age."

I don't remember the ass smell when I lived "out west."  In the west I smelled always of the dry desert and faint hope.  Now I step out of the shower and I have ass stink and even my armpits waft pit-ass.

I begin to think that the farther east you move from the ideal west the more stink your body is forced to endure and exude such that everyone on the east coast *stare directly at Florida* is a walking ass ball.

But I could be wrong.

But I never have been in the past.

Monday, October 09, 2006

I can almost reach you from here but my pretty hair obscures you

It will come as no surprise to many of you that I have decided to change the name of my penis from Mr. Happy to Dragontooth.

Please note, however, that I'm not referring to the sharp frontal fang that causes the stabbing plunge-wonder and the glaze of eye and a mysterious loss of thought-and-place just before the wonderful death, but rather named after the back 2nd or 3rd molar or maybe the 4th one, the mighty wisdom molar which is of no general use and often simply gets in the way.

Let it be so named after those flat grinding molars whose broad surface is crunch crack, crunch crack, chrunch crack until the job is done, three times crunch, three times crack, no more, no less.

Also, to the crazy bastards who keep killing kids in schools?  Depression and low self-esteem is not a free pass to act out suicidal death-sex fantasies.  Get on prozac like the rest of us, you sad-sick fuckers.

Love, Ho.

Friday, October 06, 2006

i wrote this in snot

I bet the KKK would be really upset if Santa Clause was a black fella.

I bet they'd be so upset that the south would cancel Christmas.

Then Santa would have to send the elves down to rescue it like he did when he made it snow in that hot town.  Remember?

But it would be a sociological solution rather than a weather solution.  He'd send the elves who can work out the issues of xenophobia and racism.  Like Hermie the Dentist but a different misfit elf who preferred shrinking heads to building toys.

Guess what, southern USA, he is black.  Now who's gonna bring you your American flag stickers for your big trucks for Xmas?  Not me.

Guess where he gets his toys?  He steals them from Wal Mart.

BAM!  Take that political correct!

Ok, I made that up.  He still has elves.  They make toys, it's like you heard growing up except Santa is black.

And Rudolph is a homosexual.  That's different than you heard.  You assumed he was getting it on with Clarise but she's a fag hag.

Fag hag is gay terminology for what Clarise was.  Look it up on the wiki.  She's listed there as a famous fag hag.

Anything else you wanted to know?

Thursday, October 05, 2006

don't ever sneak up behind me again

I feel so bad for girls, how do they pee with their panties not having the proper fly?  I mean I saw a pair once and it clearly had no slit in it.  You know the pair, the one your mom has.  ZING!  Oh, that was a rich mommer.

Just the other day I apparently put my undies on backwards and I was at the urinal trying to open the stable doors and let loose the kraken and I'll tell you I couldn't find the latch.  I was in quite a panic to be seen by my fellas and then they surely think, that boy is either a:  playing patty cakes with his principal partner or b: has such a small weiner that he can't even find it in the fly flap.

Let me tell you it was neither.  My undies were in a state of full reverse and the technical portions could not be found on account of they were strapped to the bomb doors.

So I'll tell you what I had to do was to drop the trousers and the undies to the knees like in ancient times and just let it drain.

If you find yourself in such a situation I'm sorry for you but know that you won't be the first.

Wednesday, October 04, 2006

zip zip and here i rip

When you have stared death in the very maw, as I have done recently from my pus incident ... that sort of event will make most men evaluate their lives, come to new decisions, accept God, etc.

I am no different a man than the one I have prior described and I say to you that my plans for the vagina themed theme-park will commence this very day.

First things, first, right?  A name:  poontang park.  I know it's vulgar but I cannot be but pleased as punch at the two p's pushing against each other in that phrase:  poontang park.

The first ride will be a labial bobsled that explores the soft lippy portions of the glorious theme, but not into the scary, briny, deep (that will be a later ride).  Just a car running along flesh colored tracks at high speed with only fleshy colored scenery and a tangy scent wafting in the air.

Of course the cars will be cunt cars.  I cannot help that.  That is the way it must be.  Jesus would have wanted it that way, as well.  The two c's smashing against one another like the above p's is something I cannot resist.

As a final consideration I need models upon which to base my designs.

Forward your resume to my agent.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

2nd best average idea

Good news, everyone.  Pus problem was a false alarm.  The truth be told is God created a pus farm on the back of my leg for the sole purpose of creating puscicles!

They're on sale at the innernet bake sale for the low, low price fiddy cent (a rare bargain if you asked me) and the proceeds to go support the pus eaters that also live on the pus farm.  For, you see, the pus eaters were forced into labor as there are no free rides on a farm.  One of the lil' buggers wanted to be named George Bush.  Who am I to stop that sort of adoration and political interest in lower creatures?

The job of the pus eaters is to wait around until there's enough pus, then to carefully fling the pus into pus buckets, then to mold and for the pus substance into the correct cicle format.

So, to recap.  

1.)  Me dying was an ugly innernet rumor.

2.)  Puscicles on sale in the lobby!

Monday, October 02, 2006

It's a heavy responsobility, the spelling

A bad power would be lazer beams shooting out from your eyes every time you sneezed.

I mean, laser beams are pretty nice but the eyes being closed represents a problem.  Plus it's hard to sneeze on command.  Plus how can you hit things when your eyes are closed.  I wish I never even thought of such a bad power.  I blame you.

Plus?  I'm dying.

I have this thing on my leg that is fountaning giant gobs of pus.  The pus eaters have moved in and they have their spoons and such and they're getting fat from the pus of my wounds.  They say it's chocolate flavored and a bit effervescent but I remain dubious.  Ok, I did taste it and it was nasty!  

Anyway, if I'm not here tomorrow, probly I'm dead or called in sick.  And that's fine.  But I'll really miss the times we have shared.  Especially when it was focused on me and I was talking.