Thursday, February 28, 2008

One of us has had way too much coffee and it's you

Sometimes people who drive black cars get aids and die.  Sometimes they don't.  But sometimes they do so if you drive a black car maybe you should take the subway or stop being a whore for a minute.

I'm just saying that not to hurt your feelings but to protect you.  From yourself.

Plus you shouldn't brag so much about your new black car.  It's making everyone livid.  We're all talking about how smug you look pipping about as if you were the only one to ever have a new black car. (You sure are NOT the only one).

If you find it keyed don't come crying to me, please.  If you find the keyed phrase to read Your a Looser!!@! then don't come crying to me about vandals and grammar, please.

Another thing is at what point in history did sugar become an explosive?  Is this something we have to worry about from the al Queidas?  Blowing us up with lolly pops and gum drops?  Is there science to support the idea of explosive sugar dust?  Is there a magic spell someone can cast which will reveal the science of the explosive dust? 

I was watching the news and there it was.  That sugar blew up a bunch of people (but they were only factory workers so don't worry) and I'll be honest with you, I tossed out my sugar.  Both the regular granular and also the powdered.  I was going to throw out the raw sugar but then I remembered that I'm not a hippie liberal who's afraid that the government is trying to poison me with bleached sugar.  I want the pretty white sugar.  The unexplosive kind, as well, if that can be arranged.  (I also tossed my wife's Splenda, please don't tell her).

Another thing is that there were a lot of posts in the message boards about why the devil wants my poops in hell and I admit I did a bad job, yesterday on that one.  I'll be the first one to admit that because it's true.  I've grafted monkey paws on my hands in lieu of the hooks and that has made a fine mess of things.  I also got a lot of text messages and emails on the innernet asking about the same question so I guess I want to clear the air between us.

The thing that most people don't understand about hell is that they use my poop there as currency.  Not exclusively but the market value for the poops is like a fifty dollar bill or back when Canadian dollar jokes were good...about a hundred loonies.  And when I said the devil (with his rich brown hands and cracked and dirty nails (the devil don't clip his nails)) grabs the poops I didn't mean to say it was the actual devil because he needs no currency in hell.  He's a sort of Fidel Castro.  He wants a cigar?  He gets a cigar.

Anyway, it was a sort of demon, perhaps.  To be honest I'm not sure, all I see are the fingers pulling them down.

Some of the demons carry some of the poops around in giant metal bowls and silver hip flasks and some of the dumber ones cram the formed currency and fill their fancy pockets, and when they go to pay, (every time they do this!!) they look sheepish and hand out the dull wads as best they can and I'll tell you I'm sorry for them.

The demons wear pants in hell to hold their money.

That's what most people don't understand.

The posh demons carry the currency around in the cigar cases from the old movies and when they pay they lightly tap them out and offer them as one would a cigarette to an elegant woman.

But someone said they liked my hair, today.  I think she really did like it, too and I said the same thing back.  I like your hair, too, I said.  And I made eye contact which is something I don't usually do because that's when lust starts.

But I didn't really mean what I said.  About her hair and all.  Her hair was tattered and wan.  She had split ends but I wanted to say something nice back (and saying your hair is nice but for the split ends isn't nice) and I guess that's a sin what I done because it's a lie.

I will use that lie as my confession tonight because I don't want to tell the young man about the devil in my toilet for he won't understand.

He'll want to bring in a Damian Carras to get rid of it and then where will I take the massives?  Left with the heavenly toilet?  Will he pump the heavenly toilet?

He will not.

Does the day go on forever?

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Be warned or you'll miss Valentine's day!

Apparently when you say to someone how's it hangin that's sexual harassment and if Steve is behind you with folded arms grinning (grinning folded arms) then it's doubly so.

I seen it in a training and it's true.  And it's really Steve who makes it pervasively-so which is one of the main points of the training if you were paying attention you'd know that.  But you were sleeping because it was boring.  That's why I note this.

And you can't go on with things when someone says, did you want me? (you called for her) and you specifically can't say, I've wanted you since I could first form an erection and last week made a shrine of your pictures on my sex walls and hung them with my dried love and shellacked them with my tears of not having you because you're probably a lesbian.  That's harassment even if it's true.  And it is true.  Fucking lesbian.

Another bit of news, if I may loiter while my query is gathering all of the data in the universe and filling it into a comma delimited file is that I had to poop in the man can today--the one with a direct line into hell (when I saw the devil's claws pulling down the giant clogs that's when I knew that it had a direct line).

The upstairs one is more heavenly.  I fill it and it says, well, all of this? with a smile on the face and an embarrassed grin which says, I may have to send this back to your tile floor but you won't know that until it's too late.

I knew it was going to be a stunner so I sat on the uncomfy hell sender and it was a sight to see, let me assure you.  I'd draw you a picture but I'm out of my brown and red and black and jaundice color crayons and even dry erase markers for my whiteboard.  The beagle ate them and she eats so much more than that.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

My beagle has brittle fur and it breaks when I pet her and she cries but love cries

This is a true story and it happened to me yesterday or Sunday.  The days bleed, I'm afraid, and there's nothing anyone can do to staunch the wound.

One thing is that I saw Todd Snider which you should probably try to see.  He's similar to me but hookless and not as handsome.

Anyway I was in the store as is my fashion and at the checkout was Cointreau and I said to the man checking me out I said, "Cointreau?  What is this?"

"Some liquer, I guess.  I hear it's strong but I've never tasted it."

He did say liquer, in fact, not liquor.  That is the idiom of Nebraska.

"As long as it's strong," I said and I gave the laugh that  you give to people you don't know the boisterous Har Har Do You Get My Meaning Har Har.

Lo he laughed and he said a queer thing, he said, "I'll get you the number to my sponsor."

And I looked upon this man and he was near my age but well rested and clean.  Clean shaven, clothes neatly pressed, bright smile, bright eye, calm and refreshed.  He had the look of a man who has checked a rapid course and is now on the right course.  The right job, the right wife, no doubt, the right way of having sex, face down in the dark, eyes firmly shut and stemming the dreams of the neighbor's daughter in 3 years.

All the right things he seemed to me to be and for just his sponsor's number so I cut his throat and his blood ran over my fingers and onto my crumpled cargo pants and I got the hell out of there grabbing the bottle of Cointreau (which is not to my taste).

I got home and resisted the temptation to regret and ran to the liquor cabinet and washed that young man's blood off my fingers with 1/5 a bottle of Absolut and I'll tell you if you listen that I have a dead man's sponsor in my mind and a dead man's blood on my mostly clean hands.

And Cointreau.

Friday, February 15, 2008

Sometimes I spit when I say my asses (this is very long feel free to not read it (metaphore is confusingly spelled metaphor))

I wish i knew more metaphors.  I think that's what they are.  What is it when you say you're happy as a clam?  That as a part is a special part in English I once heard on the innernet.  I think not a metaphor, I don't think.  But it parades like one.  Similie maybe?  It gets so jealous of you.  Let's call it a metaphor.

I wish I knew more metaphors.

It has been so cold in Omaha.  It was three degrees, this morning.  That's Fahrenheits to all you weaker nations.  Yes, I'm pointing at you, Canada.  Three degrees in Celsius would be like negative a thousand.  In Fahrenheit we don't go negative until our nuts are great frozen glaciers carving river beds in the thighs of our corpulence.  That's how we do things in the US.  Big.  Positive.

Remember when it was funny to laugh about the Canadian dollar?  Well that joke isn't funny, anymore.  It has been put back in the dryer for another 18 minutes.  We'll get back to it being funny again after we talk George Bush into running for another four years.  Who else could do it?  He knows the job.  He's done it for 8 years.  More than that Obama.

I always tell people that it's cold here.  As cold as shit. 

How cold is it, they ask.  (They don't really ask I just pretend they ask so that I can impress them with three degrees.)

It's as cold as shit, here.

I'm just not satisfied with that one.  I know there's the witches tit one but that is so vulgar.  And I abhor vulgarity in most forms.

I'm looking out my window and there's a tree upside down with a long loping penis defying the gravity.  The legs are in the air falling forward like a forward front flip and the penis is going backward like when an indoor plant shoots off a shoot toward the sun.  Reverse gravity.  It's a true trunk of gravity defiance.

I'd take a picture of it for you but I'm lazy. 

So I say cold as shit and shit really isn't that cold, typically.  Maybe if it's frozen shit.  Like in the backyard that my dogs do.  It's been so I can't get the poops off the ground, I must tell you.  I go out there w/ my shovel and they are enmeshed into the earth and there are times when it looks like the killing fields back there.  But with frozen poo, not corpses.

It would be sad if poops came out frozen.  Can you imagine the feeling of that on the old cake hole?  A sliding rod of stinky freezes?  Like a popcicle no one ever wanted.  And can you think on the awkward visits to the doctor for when you had frostbite?

But I'll bet it would slide right out.  Probly wouldn't even have to wipe more than once.  Not that I do anyway.  Unless you were wet down there from gay sex.  Then it would stick like a tongue on a pole.

And guess what else.

I hope that my cat doesn't find me in heaven.  I know that's a mean thing to say but she annoys me.  She walks on my keyboard and it makes me so furious with her.  It's not like I'm going to kill her for it (I already did), but it sure does make me so furious.

I think all animals go to heaven except whales and elephants.  Those two are just so ... I don't know, you know?  Walking around with their big fat asses puffed out in the air.  Singing with their giant blow holes.  N.  Those two don't go to heaven but swim in the lakes of hell.

With the Mormons.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

I want to live in an esurance commercial and make it with that pink eyed girl

I wish I had a fancy way to start my car something so sneaky like in the movies you push a button or some fancy and then the ignition and then it starts.

That's what keeps the car jackers away.

But I don't so if you want to get my car it's a matter of killing me and getting my keys or just hotwires and it's yours.

But it's an old car and be careful when you rev the engine because it sounds like a belt is loose so you'll want to get that looked at.

Plus I hate the words loose and lose.  I always get that wrong and then people judge me.  Based on a silly o.

What else is that why are there congressional hearings on steroid use in baseball?  Who gives a fuck, ya know?  Go tax something or start a war or do something like find out if Barak obama is a Muslim like I heard at a web site.  Something good.  I don't care if this guy shot roids.  They all shoot roids.  Don't even need to do nothing but run around in a fucking circle and they shoot roids for that.  I could play baseball without shooting roids and I have a metal leg.

So anyway.

It's been a long time and there's a reason.

I've been counting all the Mormons in hell and there sure are a lot of them!  (All of them).

It took me a very long time because Jesus wanted an official count and I just finished today.  They baptize for the dead and that drags people from heaven actually into hell.  It's sad but Jesus insists.

Jesus loves for me to read him their book of Mormon.  He giggles all the time through every page giggling as I go.  He always says, "Read to me the part where I get resurrected again and come to South America."

"Not resurrected, Jesus, beamed," I always correct.

"Resurrected, beamed, what's the difference."

That's the bad thing with Jesus, good at magic but very bad at science.

Happy Valentine's day, Jew.