Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Guess What I Just Learned

If my daughter stands at the top of the stairs and announces that she's going to be sick, then tries to stop herself from throwing up, unsuccessfully, when it does shoot out with a force roughly equivalent to that of Mt. St. Helens, she can hit the floor at the bottom of the stairs.

I also learend that she didn't do such a hot job chewing her pizza tonight. Hey, if I have to know this, YOU have to know this.

And She Wore White?

What with all the controversy over whether or not same-sex couples should be able to get married, (I'm dead set against it. My own marriage is so shallow as to be irretrievably damaged by the marriages of people I've never met and never will meet. I know this becuase Xenu told me.), I would just like to point out the following: Pam Anderson has married Kid Rock and Tommy Lee approximately 6 times combined, maybe more, and is currently single, having started divorce proceedings against poor Kid after hanging tough for four whole months. Also, she claims one of them, I forget which one, gave her Hepatitis from sharing a tattoo needle. I'm not sure what that has to do with anything, but I felt like throwing that in there.

Really people, how much more damage can the gays do to the institution of marriage?

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

And They Say Chivalry is Dead

A woman met a man in a bar. They talked; they connected ; and they ended up leaving together. When they get back to his place, he showed her around his apartment, and she noticed that one entire wall of his bedroom has three shelves with hundreds and hundreds of cute, cuddly teddy bears, carefully placed in rows.

It was obvious that he had taken quite some time to arranged them and she was immediately touched. The small bears were all along the bottom shelf, the medium-sized bears were the length of the middle shelf, and huge, enormous bears ran all the way across the top shelf.

She found it a bit odd for such a masculine guy to have such a large a collection of Teddy Bears, but she didn't mention this to him, because she didn't want to break the mood. They shared a bottle of wine and continued talking and, after a while, she found herself thinking, "Oh my God! Maybe this guy could be the one! Maybe he could be the future father my children?"

She turned to him and kissed him lightly on the lips. He responded by rubbing her neck. They continued to kiss, and the passion built. He lifted her into his arms and carried her into his bedroom where he ripped
off her clothes and made hot, steamy love. She was so overwhelmed that she responded with more passion, more creativity, more heat than ever before.

After an intense, explosive night of hot sex with this sensitive guy, the woman rolled over, gently stroked his chest and purred coyly, "Well, how was it for you ?"

The guy smiled at her, stroked her cheek, and looked deeply into her eyes, and said...

"Help yourself to any prize from the middle shelf."

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

She Only Said That Because She Sucks Like One

I must admit to having a new MTV show that I've been watching. Found it clicking through the channels late the other night, so I'm not sure if it has a regular time or if so, when it is. It's called "Beauty and The Geek", and the premise is that they take a bunch of geeks and pair them off with some hot women who wear velcro tie shoes for a reason. The goal is for each partner to improve the other the most. The girls, for instance, teach the geeks that it's generally not a good idea to approach a group of women and say "Hey LAAAAADIIIIIEEEEES!!" in a nasally voice, and the guys teach the girls how to tie their own shoes, thereby moving them away from a lifetime of velcro dependency.

Now, putting aside my horror in realizing that at least three of the geeks look a lot like me, my favorite moment so far is when one of the girls is answering questions about our past Presidents. The question is "Who was president during the Civil War?" That's easy, right? Everyone knows it was Zachary Taylor.

OK, it wasn't Zachary Taylor, but I feel bad for the guy. No one ever talks about him.

So the braintrust chews on her lip and it's painfully apparent that she has no clue who won the Civil War, let alone who the president was. Eventually, she blurts out her guess.


Herbert Hoover. 31st President of the United States. Born in Iowa in 1874, nine years after the Civil War ended. President from 1928-1932. Widely reviled for his lack of response to the Great Depression. An excellent administrator, he returned to public service under Truman. He died in New York in 1964. He was also known as "The Hermit Author of Palo Alto", a fact that I didn't know until after giving the worng answer cost me a second victory on Jeopardy! But if they'd asked me who the president was during the Civil War, I would have looked up at once and said:

"Abraham Lincoln; Jesus Alex, that was easy" to which Alex would have replied, "Just wait eight years when they ask the same question of a retarded chick on an MTV show" and we all would have had a good laugh.

Monday, November 20, 2006

Things That Go Bump In The Night

My wife loves haunted things. For Christmas this year she's requested that I get her a "Ghost Hunter Starter Kit", which to me looks like a garage-door opener with some blinking lights. I've been to the web-site, (which I won't plug here), and I'm a little afraid to order from them since it doesn't look like the most professional organization. I may just get an old TV remote control and rig something up. Pretty much the same difference in my book.

We used to go to a restaurant that was rumored to be haunted. Now it's just out of business. One night my wife and one of her girlfriend's were in the bar area and went up to the dark, closed restaurant part to look for ghosts. Sadly, that's not a euphemism; they were really looking for ghosts. My wife was taking random pictures with a digital camera, and when she down-loaded them there was the unmistakeable image of a partial face near the window. She was adamant that it was supernatural. I passed the shot on to the girlfriend who started laughing her ass off. Turns out that the week before she and my wife had been at the same bar and had been pushing their faces up against the glass and making faces at the owner. They were the ghosts. I still haven't told my wife that.

I tell you all that to tell you this. Last night I'm on the couch with my wife and dog. We're watching some show called "Celebrity Paranormal Project", where they stick four or five clebrities, (in the loosest sense of the word), in a spooky place and have them look for ghosts. The celebrities in this case were David Carradine, Coolio, the guy from the first Bachelor show, a Playboy model, and a female boxer. They were in a ruined mill hunting for a ghost who supposedly set fires in the old place. I'm not sure if they ever found him or not, but I want to do this. You get all this neat looking gear and you get to run around in the dark and play Cops 'n Robbers with the undead.

The best part of the show, other than watching Carradine try to look like he was anything other than bored out of his mind, (You think the guy that played Bill gives a shit about the undead? Spooky please.), was when the Bachelor and Coolio are supposed to recreate one of the fires to draw the ghost out. So they set a fire in a trash barrel, (a first for Bachelor-boy I'm sure, not so much for Coolio), and then start aiming their temperature wands around. The Bachelor is calling out the readings and going "70, 71, 74, WHOA!! It's 114 here!", then realizes he's aiming at the trash fire.

I think that it was at that point that they heard a ghostly sigh "What a fucking moron!"

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Charity Begins In The Remainder Bins

It's that time of year again when my Supervisor, (I can't call him "boss" since I haven't really listened to him in about two years), does his annual charity drive. "Bill" is a very nice guy, and very much into the whole God thing. Relatively harmless about it, as I beleive I've mentioned before.

At any rate, round about Christmas time, which I'm told has something to do with Jesus being born and all the merchandise in the area surrounding Bethlehem immediately being marked down 40%, his sect, (church, temple, cult, whatever), does a drive for African kids who otherwise wouldn't get any presents. The fact that they wouldn't get any presents because they're not Christian seems to have escaped them, but let's not let the little details in the way of charity.

The drive functions by distributing shoeboxes. He brings in a bunch and anyone who wants to can take as many as they like and fill 'em up with appropriate gifts. In the past I've suggested that cigarettes and bullets would be the most appropriate thing to send to these kids, but I'm told we can't do that. Seems a shame, as those items have largely taken over as hard currency in the areas these boxes are ostensibly going.

As always, I've taken my two boxes and headed off to the usual locale to fill them up. Family Dollar Store. There's nothing to get you in the Christmas spirit quite as effectively as spending a few minutes in a store where the entire staff can't wait to go home, get the car in the garage, shut the door, and then sit there for a few hours with the engine running until the sweet release of death allows them to never go into the Family Dollar Store world ever again. I've seen happier people at wakes. At the center of the room.

I wander about the store, looking for the kind of items an African kid between 5-9 would like. Unfortunately, they seem to be out of immunization shots, stable democracy and clean running water, but they do have soap, paint brushes, and shitloads of gum. And now little Ngoni' will have that too. Along with a lot of hard candy, since we can't send any chocolate, because it will melt all over the notepads we sent for his school work. I bet that kid fucking hates us. "Hey great, the Americans sent soap and lollipops again. Terrific. Can't wait to show my friends what I got."

This year I crammed an umbrella in there too. I really hope this stuff is going to a rainforest region and not a drought area, or else I'm really going to look like an asshole.

There were two women in front of me at the cash register. The first was holidng up the line while she paid by check. AT THE DOLLAR STORE!! It was all I could do not to throw five dollars at her and scream "JUST LEAVE". The one directly in front of me was even better. Sort of cute in a methedrine addict kind of way. Picture Evangeline Lilly if she's been on a two-week tweaking binge, rolled down a hill covered with rocks and thorns, and then stumbled into the dollar store where she's buying one bag of lollipops so the sugar rush keeps her going. Now make her hop from one foot to the next while she waits for the genius at the front to finsih balancing her check book after writing a check for $4. Now picture me behind her thinking about the best way to write this for your Thursday reading pleasure.

Now just picture Evangeline Lilly naked. It's got nothing to do with the story, but it's a better image than me stuck behind a speed freak in a dollar store.

I hope those kids like gum.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

This Has To Be A Sign Of The Apocalypse

Either that or its a finalist for Worst Idea Ever.

You can, right now, toddle off to Amazon and purchase a copy of "Rockaye Baby!: Lullaby Renditions of Nirvana". Apparently, they re-did Nrivana compositions with chimes and a bunc of other pussyass, New Age instruments, then hired someone else to croon the lyrics, (Gee, I wonder if "Rape Me" is on there), in a soothing tone, guaranteed to rock your little angel off to sleep. Of course, I doubt anyone's studied the subliminal effects of putting toddlers to sleep with lyrcs written by a suicidal heroin addict with startlingly bad taste in women, but hey, what's the worst that could happen?

Monday, November 13, 2006

The War At Home

I know I'm ripping off the title to a TV show, but since I'm pretty sure no one watches it, I don't care.

Today was the day our kids were scheduled to get flu shots. While my wife has many admirable qualities, (No Syd, I am not putting up another picture), not being a hypochondriac is not one of them. Consequently, our kids are immunized against any conceivable thing and their immune systems will probably never learn to fight on their own. I recognize that my wife and her kin are probably chiefly responsible for the emergence of super-bacteria that are resisitant to most strains on medicine, but as long as she keeps letting me see her naked, science is going to have to fight this battle on its own.

I just called home to see how things went. Apparently the little woman was on the phone with someone talking about the impending shots. My daughter apparently overheard this and went to draw up a note. Said note was then presented to Mom. It said "I don't want a flu shot", but there was also a crossed out portion. It said "I hete you Mommy" Mom asks, "Hey, does this say I hate you Mommy"?, to which our sweet little innocent replies, "yeah, but I crossed it out because I really love you. But I really don't want a shot."

They got their shots and we saved the note.

Friday, November 10, 2006

Someone Needs Their Tiny Little Head Examined

So I'm late(er) for work this morning because I had to go to the pharmacy to pick-up a prescription. It's not easy forging prescription tabs for more Oxycontin, (just ask Rush Limbaugh), so when I can get a signature down pat, you better believe I'm going to ride that into the ground. Naturally, when I get there the prescripton isn't ready, so rather than stand there in front of the cash register shaking, twitching and crying uncontrollably, I sit down and look for something to read.

Unfortunately, all they have in that area are a bunch of Jesus books, including some that have something to do with a Jesus inspired "diet-for-life". Tempted as I was to see how loaves and fishes could improve my life, I instead picked up some celebrity rag called "InTouch".

I hadn't seen this magazine before, and it appears to be mostly pictures of various celebrites with snarky captions, (although I would have gone in an entirely different direction for the photo of Julia Roberts with a monkey on her head), and some remarkably poorly written articles. And when I think something's poorly written, that's saying something.

One of the articles was about Reese Witherspoon getting divorced. I know nothing about her husband. I liked her in "Walk The Line", which is a good movie that I highly recommend. According to this magazine, her husband is an actor, and one fo the problems in their marriage is that he gets "only" a few million per picture, and she's in the $15 million to $20 million range.

This may or may not be true, (although I'll give InTouch this; in the same issue they predicted Britney would divorce K-Fed! Now THAT'S reporting!), but let's assume it is for the moment. As a guy, I like to think I'm filling the traditional hunter-gatherer role fairly effectively. The kids are fed, the house is heated, and just yesterday I fought off a sabre-tooth tiger that was getting too close to the house for my liking. By which I mean I emptied a mouse trap. But if my wife suddenly felt like coming home with a salary triple mine, I'd be OK with that. And if I were making only $2-$3 million a picture, I'd probably just shut the fuck up in general.

You hear that honey? If you want to make $15 million, I'm OK with that. I'll even empty the dishwasher.

So the moral of this story is two-fold. First, if you're a guy and feel the need to get out of your marriage because your wife makes $15 million a year or so and therefore you're feeling emasculated, please keep your tiny-dick problems to yourself. And two, if you're trying to get your Oxycontin fix, plan ahead and bring some better reading material to the pharmacy than I did.

Must go here comes the rucsh!!!! jdfjwdtrhrtgnfgnqrjgna

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

News You Can Use

So last night I'm watching the news shows for the election results, and having a hard time not jacking off in my living room at the results, and I'm sort of flicking back and forth between Fox and MSNBC and CNN. Because busy hands are happy hands.

At any rate, the gang at Fox looks like their going to start drinking tainted Kool-Aid and then break out the seppuku swords. Keith Olbermann at MSNBC is having a hard time not pointing at the camera and laughing at Bush. And what's CNN doing? Well, they're running a crawl at the bottomg with some election results.

Oh, and about every three entries they would run a crawl saying that Britny Spears has filed for divorce from K-Fed. Because that's what we all need to know on election night: For God's sake, how are things going in the trailer park?

Does this mean I'm not going to be able to ghost write that biography?

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

Random Thoughts

First, if you haven't voted today, go vote. Unless you don't live in the US, in which case don't bother. If you want to make me happy, vote for a Democrat. If you want to make Syd happy, vote the other way. Syd has 50 guns. I have 0. Your choice.

I'm driving to court today and saw this sign: "Donkey. $500" If any of you have a pressing need for a donkey, and $500, let me know. I could probably get it put on hold for you.

I'm listening to Pandora and they're playing a Sheryl Crow song. Since they play songs based on other songs I admit to liking, I start to wonder if I'm gay, (and if so where I can get some crystal meth and a male hooker), and then a friend calls me. Wants to know if I know anyone who can get him tickets for a Nick Lachey show, because his "wife really likes him." Uh-huh. I feel much better about myself now, because I have never uttered the words "Hey, do you know anyone who could get me tickets to the Nick Lachey show?"

If I ever run for political office, my main campaign platform will be to promise that everyone of my goddamn lawn signs will be taken down by the weekend after election day. Even if I have to do it myself. Of course, if I ever ran for office, I wouldn't be worried about the skeletons in my closet so much as the live hookers and runaways.

Metaphorically speaking of course.

Monday, November 06, 2006

More "File Under 'No Shit'"

I saw an article today in which it is disclosed, (hold your breath now), Kevin Federline is going to write an autobiography in which he will tell us all what his life was like before he met Britny Spears and started her (back) on the road to the trailer park. Because there is a tremendous demand by the public to know what the life of a back-up dancer is like. I'm thinking there will be several chapters devoted to the best laundromats around the country for getting pit stains out, as well as helpful hints as to the best stretching exercises to engage in before vigorously shaking one's ass around the stage in an effort to distract the idiots who've paid good money to get into the concert from the fact that the artist isn't actually singing. I would think it very important to properly loosen the groin before engaging in such activity, as well as putting aside all possible moral compunctions about getting paid for it.

Another reason I prefer concerts with tickets less than $50. Those bands generally sing. And they can't afford dancers.

But the real "no shit" factor in the story is this. Federline won't be writing the book himself. "You know", he says, "I'll get a ghostwriter in there."

I'm going to apply for the job. I'm already trying to think up synonyms for "no-talent douchebag" So far I have "Federline"

Friday, November 03, 2006

Seems Like A Bargain

An Asian spa in my area of the state, (where I've never, ever gone. No, really), was busted yesterday. Shockingly, it turns out that this "spa" was basically a hand-job brothel. The newspaper helpfully recites the price list. Apparently for $50 you get a shower, sauna and massage, and then for a $20-$40 tip, "could be masturbated."

Take away the massage, and the money, and the Asians, and it sounds like Friday night at my house.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

These People Get to Vote

So I'm on again, looking for reasons to beleive that this election might change things, and also trying to find out if anyone else in Alabama has raped their mother lately, (they haven't), when that same guy who told me about Nicole Ritchie going to "Eating Camp" (update: Nicole's been at our house for three days now and has put on 15 lb. Only one vomiting incident so far, and we think that was because we made her taste test the kids' candy), calls up and tells me I have to look at some video story about a woman who had a baby, full-term, without knowing she was pregnant. Sounds like areal idiot, but when you actually watch the story it seems like she just had a lot of other medical issues and somehow a growing fetus got lost in the shuffle.

But as I was watching this and mulling over why my friend thinks bleeding ovaries are funny, (if anyone knows any good jokes on the subject, feel free. I'm at a loss), I was drawn to another story below. "Police say duct tape no substitute for babysitter" Now this is true. For one thing, duct tape doesn't cave in to whining and crying, unlike babysitters, who are almost guranteed to let your kids watch crappy TV after the 4th or 5th whiny request. And duct tape doesn't say "OK, fine, you can have more chocolate frosted sugar bombs, (tip of the hat to Bill Watterson), just please stop kicking me in the shins" Nope, good old duct tape just stays with the job until you get home. And it doesn't ask for $7 an hour plus a tip plus additional charges for less than 24 hours notice either.

No indeed, duct tape is no substitute for babysitters. It's far, far better.

If you read the story, you will ntoice that the mother who taped her two kids together, (helpful tip: tape them separately to inanimate and heavy, well-grounded objects. That way they can't work together to roll out the door), denied that she had left the kids alone all day. All kidding aside, if the police come to your house and find your two kids taped together on the floor and covered in filth, just admit it. You're not kidding anyone.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to rush home.

Left something(s) on the floor.